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.