Wander; Lust

I have narrowed the choice of destination to two general directions; West or South. While I am no Sailor, far from it, I would see Thassa again - even if it is from the beach. While Brundisium has little or no influence on my decision, Port Kar makes a westward trek worth consideration. My time in that city was brief, but memorable. There is an excitement in the salted air, a sense of danger and adventure around every corner. Traveling South, however, is tempting as well. I have long wanted to visit the desert city of Tor, and something about the anonymity one assumes in such an environment is undeniably appealing, particularly after a year of public scrutiny. It can be, I am told, unspeakably hot, but my curiosity remains piqued.
Or I could simply stay put, remain in this rented room overlooking the markets of Torcadino. Until I left the city of my birth behind, along with the responsibilities of public office, I had not realized how tired I was. As a Poet, I have been constantly at odds with the ambitious, self-sufficient path I am on. The men of my caste rarely amass wealth, let alone power. There are, of course, men such as Pentilicus Tallux, but he is an exception - perhaps an ideal? - not the rule. I do not aspire to have a theater bearing my name, nor do I mind if my plays or poetry are not remembered a hundred years from now. That is the rub. We are not goal-oriented fellows, generally. We are journeymen, seekers. What is the perfect poem? Is there a perfect turn of phrase? A sublime sound? What is the song of the heart? When you read my words, are you moved? Do you recognize yourself?
I can walk from the foot of the Voltai to the top of the Ta-Thassan Mountains or deep into the Tahari. I could scale the summits of Torvaldsland or plumb the depths of the sea. I could lose myself in the Barrens where white men fear to tread or venture into the Northern Forests, into the lair of Panthers. Or I could stay here. That thing men of my ilk are compelled to search after could be a lifetime quest or be granted by abrupt epiphany. There is no telling. One must wander for the sake of wandering from time to time.

The girl, Noemi, too, is on a journey - whether she is cognizant or not. She has accepted her place, collared and at my feet, but is convinced that she is resigned to that fate. She submits enthusiastically to the rape, holding nothing back from my predation - but when the haze of lust clears, she smiles placidly with a decided lack of spirit. A less demanding man would neither notice nor care. She is, on the surface, obedient to a fault. "Is that not enough?" she asks with her cobalt gaze. I can have obedience out of any woman, however. With some, a mere smile puts them on their knees. Others need the slightest coercion, a slap across the ass with a broad belt is usually evidence enough. Through her early tenure in my collar, I have given her the unusual indulgence of time. Time to adjust. Time to understand. Time to learn. She has adjusted. She understands well enough. She has learned that I have every intention of keeping her throat in steel and her ass in girl silk. Is it enough? No, slave girl. It is not nearly enough. 

Convergence

I know two fellows from Torcadino, Timeus the Banker and Turianus the Actor. They are different sorts of men. One seems reserved, the other quite lively. It is easy to attribute these differences to caste and social standing, but I believe it has more to do with the city in which they share a common origin. Torcadino is at the convergence of five major highways, a center for trade much like Lara on the Vosk, Port Kar in the Tamber Gulf and Brundisium on the Genesian Coast. Torcadino, however, unlike its trade center brethren, resides inland. The Silk Road brings goods from southern places such as Kasra, Tor and even Turia to the Northern Cities. Connecting East to West is the Eastern Way, sometimes called Treasure Road or the Genesian Road. The Northern Salt Line passes Corcyrus, Argentum and, crossing the Vosk, reaches as far as Rovere in the vicinity of the Koroban Mountains. Pilgrim's Road is a popular path to the Sardar Mountains. Finally, there is the road to Ar. All of these roads, as previously mentioned, meet at Torcadino. As a result, the citizens of this city are as varied and colorful - worldly - as those of my own city, the finest city, Glorious Ar. In the City of Ar, one wants for almost nothing. There is little we cannot procure and much of it passes through Torcadino before reaching the markets of Ar. I make it a point to stop there as an initial destination on many of my wanderings, both for logistical considerations and for the fondness I have for the place. It is a place rich with history and culture.
One reason many of my journeys start on the path to Torcadino is my ambivalence toward drafting a detailed itinerary before leaving home. From Torcadino, any place on Gor can be reached. That is to say, there is a road traveling in nearly every direction - it is a true hub. I have considered a pilgrimage to the Southern Plains, a place I have not visited in several years, a place that probably has not changed as much in the interim as I have. Tor, the gateway to the Tahari, is another option, a place I have never seen. I could also go North, return to Thentis and the hospitality of the House of Clark. Port Kar, the gleaming Jewel of Thassa, would also prove to be an adventure worth pursuing. I have even considered a stop at Ko-ro-ba, en route to northern destinations such as Lydius, Kassau, or even Torvaldsland. It is too early to decide such things. Wanderlust can be a difficult bitch to tame, and even more difficult to sate, but it is a thirst that demands slaking.
I purchased sandals for the slave, Noemi. She would prefer silken slippers, beaded and embroidered, I am certain. Or, if resigned to sandals, something stylish - perhaps gold or silver burnished leather. They are, however, functional footwear. If she pouts for something prettier initially, no matter. I am pleased by the aesthetic, the laces that cross about her calves to tie near the back of each knee. Moreover, I am pleased by the sturdiness of the sole, which is far better equipped to handle a variety of terrain than the slippers she once wore as a Free Woman, lovely as they are. There are analogies to be made between the fittingness of her footwear and the rightness of her recently acquired status, both changes in which I have played an active role. In a way, I am her Torcadino. I did not engineer the roads of her realities. I am merely at the convergence of them all, both a terminus and an origin - the place where facades end and truths begin.
She keeps a close watch on her heart, and her eyes are open wide all of the time. She keeps the ends out for the ties that bind. And now she is mine. She'll walk the line. *


*paraphrased - Johnny Cash 'Walk the Line'

Reflection; Turning the Page

It started with the death of the girl, Jen.

It had taken months for the sleen, Mathor holding the leash, to find her. She was in Port Kar at one point, Besnit (or was it Harfax?) at another. The intrigue involved in having to put the sleen on that girl's heels is a little fantastic, and better served as a story for another time. The important component of that thread is the sleen, tenacious bitch that she was (and still is), found her and conducted her home. Then, something like a Passage Hand later, she was dead. The circumstances are not important. She was only a slave, so no investigation was conducted. I cremated her in the cul-de-sac in which my Anbar District domicile is now the sole residence. A few wondered at what I was thinking for taking the time to give the girl any sort of send off at all, but it was what it was - a turning point. I am not ashamed to admit I mourned the loss. Both the girl and my ability to see to her safety. I dedicated myself to work after that, allowing the hired men, Mathor and Darwin, to tend the business of taverns and whores.

Asked to be a voice of the people, I accepted. I have always been that, just never in an 'official capacity.' Magistrates are generally Scribes, but how could a Scribe, one of the five high, represent the people of the lower castes? I have every confidence that there are impartial and right-minded fellows in the Blue ranks, but this is an age of elitism and class separation. Such decency these days is difficult to find. I swallowed my pride and stepped into public life and politics. I think I did some good, and very nearly became a martyr for the cause - but I knew the risks going into it. I love my City. My City. Spilling my blood at the Founder's Feet, however, was another turning point - another unexpected twist.

I did not anticipate selling so many of them off or, indeed, any of them. Women are truly inspiring things. I won't go deeply into snowflake metaphors, but there is truth to it. We expect much the same thing out of the slaves we own and out of slaves in general, absolute obedience & exquisite beauty, but each strives for those twin maxims in her own fashion. Some are soft, sensitive, and eager-to-please, like Sana. Others are vibrant, audacious, and hungry to be dominated, like Portia. Still others are like Elise - serene, thoughtful, and deeper than Thassa. Sana, I assume, thrives in the Pool of the Northern Forests at the Capacian Baths. Portia, I am told, did not stay long in the Municipal Pens, having been selected for purchase by a private owner. Elise, as of this morning, wears the collar of the first girl at the Braided Whip Tavern in the Teiban Sul District. I sold most of my investment in that establishment to my business partners, retaining a minority stake.

Another turning point.

Later this afternoon, I will purchase the girl, Tupita, who serves as slave-scribe to the Magistrate of the People. After that, I will see to her manumission and pay for her passage to the city of her birth - wherever that might be. If it turns out she was born of Cos, I will do my best not to beat her and immediately re-enslave her - rather I will see that she is returned safely and given enough money to start her life anew. She is a lovely girl with incredible potentiality, but her true love lies in the theories of accountancy and mathematics. She may decide in years to come that she longs for the collar. I will afford her the opportunity to come to such a conclusion on her own. After she is safely sent on her way, I will turn in my keys and resign my post as Magistrate of the People. I will still be a voice for the people, as my Caste dictates I must, but politics have left me too jaded to continue in that capacity.

I need to see the world again, feel the grass of the fields beneath my feet; share the kettle of a peasant off a lonely stretch of highway; interact with the men of different cities. The traveling a citizen does outside the wide, white walls of Glorious Ar cannot help but reaffirm for him that he resides in the world's finest city. Perhaps I will walk for a Passage Hand, or maybe a year. One thing is certain. I will always return.