A conversation about discipline

"Why did you beat me?" she asked.

It was a fair question. She was not due an answer, of course, as she is only a slave. One may beat slaves as one pleases. It is best not to impede on another man's discipline of his property, but most are grateful when one takes the time to keep his chattel in line. If I strode through a field, and noticed one verr grazing apart from the rest of the herd, for example, few shepherds would take issue with me slapping a wayward verr about the flank to get it going in the right direction.

"You are a woman," I answered, stating the obvious.

"It hurts," she said to me. Over the last few hands, she has refrained from challenging my right to discipline her, or use her, or put her to menial purposes. She has, however, attempted to charm me, or otherwise dissuade me from such things with a pout, or tears, or a forlorn expression.

"Discipline is not intended to be a perfunctory exercise," I answered.

"Do I hesitate to obey, or fail to give my very best effort in whatever you ask of me?" she asked.

"I ask nothing of you, slave girl," I answered.

"Forgive me, Master," she said. "Do I hesitate to obey, or fail to give my very best effort in whatever you command?"

"You are not a stupid girl," I said.

"No, Master," she said. "Mina is not a stupid girl."

"I am beaten," she said, confirming, "because I am a woman."

I nodded, adding, "Also, I enjoy it."

"Why do you enjoy beating me, Master?" she asked.

"Because you are a woman," I said.

I am aware that the logic is circular, but that is how things often are. The truest things, are often the simplest things. There does not need to be a grand, convoluted theorem for the nature of men and women. Doubtless, there is a Scribe or Physician that will have a deeper, physiological or anthropological reason that ends up at exactly the same explanation. Scribes and Physicians are known to study all things obvious and elusive, for the joy of learning and the advancement of civilization. So I am told. Someone has to do that, I suppose.

"All women are not beaten, Master," she reasoned.

"All true women, women who have successfully embraced their nature, who have been permitted by men to do so, are beaten," I countered.

"I am a true woman," she said.

"You have been permitted to be a true woman," I granted.

"Thank you, Master," she answered. "Master?"

"Speak."

"Purchase me," she begged. "I know the Tavern Master will..."

She did not finish her sentence. She stopped speaking when the back of my hand connected with her cheek, sending her sprawling to the floor.

"The business of men is not a slave girl's concern," I said to her.

Song for Mina

For the Twenty-Fifth, came a gift
From the Morning Towers to

The Salt of the Gleaming Sea

*

Just five hands too late

Did havoc create, for poor Mina

No Dina, not she

*

A sweet, autumn flower

Effusive, a tower of unrequited

Potential, in reserve

*

In shuttered moonlight

In my rented room, a delight
Each night, eager Mina does serve

Further explorations with the truth

"What is happening to me, Master?" she asked, laid beneath me, her heels crossed at the back of my legs.

"It is nothing, really," I said to her, regarding her from above.

"I did not know it could be like this," she said, shaking.

"There is much you did not know," I said, pushing into her more deeply, the curves of her bare body jarred with the force.

"Oh!" she cried, biting her bottom lip. I felt her fingers digging into my back desperately.

"And much more you have yet to learn," I said, leaning in closer, breathing into her ear.

"There cannot be more!" she said, eagerly raising her hips to me.

"You have only begun to understand what it is to be a woman," I said to her, my breath catching.

"Finish in me, Master," she moaned, biting at my shoulder, wrapping her arms around me tightly as she shook. "Please!"

How beautiful women are. How maddeningly beautiful. The rape, for that is what I was doing to her, became less patient after that. Less gentle. I threw Mina's legs apart, denying her the possessive grip of her thighs about me. Her wrists grasped in my hands, I drew her arms above her head, stretching her out beneath me. I forced her to yield, demanding more each time, dizzy with the scent of sweat and copulation rising around us.

"I cannot!" she protested.

"You will," I commanded.

And she did. Every time. She was not given a choice. Eventually, I did finish in her, causing her to blush furiously. The simplicity of it, the way men and women are built, how natural it is for her to submit to the use of a man, no longer confounds her. It does, however, shame her. She will have to get over it, and in time she will. She cannot afford the pretense of dignity that she enjoyed as a free woman. Men will not allow it. Besides, it would be hypocritical to cling to dignity after being raped on the floor of a rented room. Wouldn't it?

"There is truly more, Master?" she asked, still shy about being completely naked, supine on the floor beside my couch, where I lay. I threw the rag I had torn from her hips across her belly, as I regarded her from the comfort of the couch. It did not cover her, really, but I was fond of the aesthetic.

"There is more," I said.

"I cannot move my legs," she said. "I am still shaking."

"There is more," I assured her. "Much more."

"I could not bear more," she said.

"In time, you will beg for more," I said. "In time, if you are not raped regularly, you will whine and whimper for it."

"Am I permitted no dignity, Master?"

"None," I said.

I was just about to fall asleep, perhaps half an ahn later, when she spoke again.

"Was I any good, Master?" she asked.

"Go to sleep," I said. "Slut."

"Thank you, Master," she said.

I speak with the Tavern Master

"What did you do to Mina?" the Tavern Master asked me as he ran a damp towel over the surface of his bar. I didn't have much of a response for the Tavern Master, other than a curious tilt of my head.
"She interrupted my sleep, little of it that I get, with all of her whimpering and crying," he added.
"Oh," I said. I fear it wasn't a very helpful reply.
"She is nearly useless," he said.
I nodded. "I have conveyed that very sentiment to her myself."
"Is she any good, at least?" he inquired, wringing the damp towel over a basin.
"She is..." I thought for a moment, and then found the right word, "...enthusiastic."
"That is something, at least," he said.
"I think so," I agreed.
"Perhaps you will consider purchasing her," the Tavern Master suggested as he eyed a nearly clean mug aided by the light coming through a dusty window.
"Enthusiasm is not an uncommon trait in slave girls," I said.
"I would give you a fair price," he said to me.
"I do not doubt your business ethics, my friend," I smiled.
"I think I will have her collared," he said. "And branded."
"Common Kef?" I inquired?
"Of course," he scoffed. "You wouldn't see a 'Dina' working along the canals. At least not in my joint."
"It would be unusual," I agreed.
"I have a request," he said then, shelving a cup that had been dry long before he stopped rubbing it with the bar towel. "If you are going to be staying on a bit, I would like to have the sleen take Mina's scent."
"That seems prudent," I nodded.
"I would compensate you, of course," he said, "by discounting your rent."
I did not expect the payment to be coins, and the arrangement made sense. "Whatever you deem equitable, my friend," I said.
"How long do you plan to stay on?" he asked then. He knew I was not of Port Kar, and he was polite enough not to ask what city I was from. Merchants, Landlords, and other business owners tended to be pragmatic. If a man's money was good, and a man was an affable enouogh sort, no good came of it to ask where he was from. What if he was of no city? What if he was, perhaps worse, of a city hostile to one's own? Also, if he had not offered the information on his own, perhaps he does not wish it to be known. A vagabond enjoys his anonymity. His question cut me, however unintentional it was on his part. I have been away so long. Twice, I have missed celebrating the new year at home. With En'Kara approaching, I could miss it a third time.
"I do not know," I answered him finally. Truthfully.

Mina faces the truth

"I do not know your name," Mina said to me.

She keeps my rented room clean. Spotless, actually. I think she is probably useless as a serving slave in a rough tavern situated on a nameless canal in Port Kar. It would explain why the Tavern Master sends her to my room as often as he does. I suppose it could be recompense for the use of Tasta on the tavern floor. More than once she has quelled the notion of violence with little more than a twitch of her tail and the deep tones of her impatient growl. Of course, my room is already discounted to take into account the use of the sleen. I am not offended by the girl's constant presence, and she is learning to row the small, green boat well enough to avoid my belt across her ass on most days. Why should I pull an oar when there is a perfectly apt beast called Mina to do so for me?

"Would Mina like the privilege of addressing me by my name?" I asked.

She paused, on the alert for a misstep, but answered truthfully, "I would like the privilege of knowing my Master's name and, if he deemed it acceptable, the privilege of addressing him by name. Yes," she said.

Huh.

"I am not your Master," I answered her. "At least in legal terms."

"But..." she said.

"But, I have used you. I have put you to my pleasure. Beaten you as I found it necessary, or enjoyable to do so," I said, anticipating her objection.

"Yes," she said, her chin down, flaming with a genuine embarrassment. Silly girl.

"You are not branded," I pointed out. "You do not wear my collar. Or any collar," I said.

"I am kept here, put to work," she argued.

"There is little doubt you are a slave," I shrugged. "You belong to the Tavern Master. You do not belong to me."

"I do not want to be a slave," she said.

"It did not occur to me to ask your preference in the matter," I answered. "I do not think it occurred to the Tavern Master to find out what the Lady Philomena wanted when she was sold to him."

"I was sold," she said. It was a confirmation of what I said more than a question or a denial. Her curious tone was due to the fact that she had never said the words aloud to herself.

"That is true," I nodded.

"I am property," she said.

"A thing that may be bought, sold, put to the purposes of another," I added.

"Why do you say it like that?" she asked. "'Put to the purposes of another,'" she said, brows knitting.

"Be pleased you have a purpose," I said. "Be pleased that you are not entirely useless."

"Have I pleased you?" she asked.

"Slut," I said. "That is the query of a slave. Mina does not want to be a slave."

"She has no choice," Mina answered, her voice lowered to a whisper.

"You wished to know if I am pleased with your service?" I asked.

"Yes," she stammered.

"My room is cleaned each day," I answered. "If I leave clothing on the floor, it is laundered and folded before I return. This pleases me."

"Oh," she said.

"Mina wishes to know if she pleases me in other, more physical ways?" I asked.

"Yes, Master," she said, tugging at the hem of her skirt shyly. It was little more than a bar rag. It might have actually been a bar rag.

"Yes," I answered. "You have learned to row the small, green boat well enough not to be whipped every day."

"Master!" she exclaimed. "Do not tease me. Please!"

"What do you wish to know, Mina?" I asked.

"Am I any good?" she said.

"You are good enough," I answered truthfully.

"Good enough?" she asked. "But you...you...you exert yourself well, and at length with me. You...you...you finish in me!?" she added, her blush furious from the apple of her cheeks to the cradle of her bosom. "You make me feel things. Shameful things. Unspeakable things!"

"You juice well. And you are an eager, little lay," I said to her. These things were true.

"Please do not say such things, Master," she begged.

"You are juicing right now, Mina," I said.

"Master!" she cried.

"You are hoping I throw you to your belly," I said. "You are hoping I rape you."

"Yes!" she said angrily. "Yes! I am hoping you rape me! I am hoping you put me to your purposes! I am hoping you exert yourself well and at length with me! I am hoping you finish in me!"

"Slut," I laughed.

"Master!" she cried again. "I have admitted all to you! Everything! I am an eager, little lay. I am juicing! I am hoping you rape me! What more do you want from me?!"

"Beg," I said.

Pride & Potential

"For pride," I answered her as her fingers traced lightly over the scar bisecting my abdomen. "A man wanted something of mine that I was unwilling to part with."

From her knees, she turned her gaze upward to meet my eyes. Her idle hand grasped me intimately, stroking lightly. "A girl?" she asked.

"In fact, yes," I answered, combing my fingers through her hair. I stared at her bare ass over her shoulders, the way it settled on her heels, in an objectifying manner as we spoke. Mina's backside was not without interest. It was, truthfully, very interesting to me.

"You must have cared deeply for her, Master," she said. She took a breath, trying to calm her nerves. She then closed her eyes and tentatively kissed my aroused flesh.

"She was only a girl," I answered. "Petty, manipulative. A slut. Perhaps if the fellow asked for her politely, I would have given him a good price."

"You would have sold..." she started, her tone incredulous. Her sentence was cut short as I pulled her forward by the back of the head, her forehead pressed firm to my abdomen. She moaned, forgetting her question. I admit it made my knees buckle. It had been months since the last time I used a woman.

___

Several ahns later, I was at the basin of my rented room washing my face. Mina was curled up beside my couch, shackled and chained at her left ankle. Nude, with the tunic I wore the day prior draped over her hip, her arms were crossed before her, and her knees were drawn together modestly.

"You used me," she said, her breath shallow. It was very nearly an accusation.

"That is true," I answered, turning to face her as I patted my face dry with a towel.

"You did not ask my permission," she said. "You simply put me to your pleasure."

"That, too, pretty Mina, is true," I said.

"I suppose you will tell me that is what a woman is good for," she said ruefully.

"Actually," I said, "you were not very good at all."

"Master?" she asked, not sure she understood. Was her use not a prize, a treasure that I helped myself to?

"You possess certain potentialities," I granted. "All women, by their nature, have potential."

"Potential for what, precisely, Master?" she asked.

I took my tunic from her hip and slipped it on. I unchained her from the floor.

"Clean my room, Mina," I said, and then left for the day.

Mina goes to market

"You look uncomfortable, pretty Mina," I said

"Master knows well how to beat a girl," she answered, tugging the single oar through the murky water with a decided lack of grace.

I shrugged, indicating she should do her best to navigate into a side canal on her right. She was speaking with proper deference to me today, but her tone still had an edge of insolence. I found it charming, provided she did not push it too far. She was rowing in the stern of my small, green boat. I was in the bow, relaxing and enjoying the view. That view, by the way, was enhanced by the fact that Mina found it difficult to keep her curvy backside still on the bench. She squirmed and attempted to sit on one side of it, then the other. Two days ago, I whipped her. Partly for her attitude, but mostly to satisfy my curiosity. I was beginning to think Mina was not entirely without interest. Staring at a nice ass can be enough to accomplish some days, and consider oneself productive. Not every day, but now and again. Still, I thought it prudent to offer the girl constructive criticism.

"You are not very good at navigating a small boat," I offered. Alright, it was not entirely constructive.

"I am not meant for this sort of thing!" she answered as she dunked the oar and it yanked her sideways. She nearly fell backward off of the bench, but I was feeling charitable, and thoughtfully lifted my sandaled foot between her shoulders.

"In the future, if you would prefer, I can leave you back at the Tavern to empty piss pots and wash dishes," I offered. You see. Charitable.

"No!" she said quickly, and then composed herself. She even tried to smile a bit.

"Your rowing will have to improve, of course," I amended. "Have I mentioned that you are not very good?"

"Yes, Master," she nodded, bringing the oar from the left side of the boat to the right, doing her best to push us through the water.

"If we are not at the market soon," I mentioned, "the best peaches will have been sold."

Lady Philomena

"I am sent to clean your room," the girl's voice came from the doorway of my rented room.

I had just awoken moments ago, washed my face in the basin. I was watching the last of the Tavern Master's patrons stumble out onto the dock, grimacing at the rising sun's reflection of the canal's murky waters. The noise of the establishment below does not bother me, nor interfere with my ability to sleep. Not much, at any rate.

"Pardon me," the girl said, trying to get my attention. "I am sent to clean your room."

I was watching a man rubbing the side of his head, trying to remember where he might have tied his boat as he cast his gaze left and right. He waved cheerfully at me, forgetting his dilemma for the moment.

"You do not seem overjoyed with the prospect of cleaning my room," I pointed out to the girl, turning from the window to regard her.

She seemed comely enough, if a bit lax in her calisthenic regimen. Her hair was brownish, tied up in a rag. Her garment was a slip, the hem rudely cut so it laid high on her thighs. She blushed as I considered her thighs, trying her best to hold them tightly together.

"Of course I am not overjoyed with the prospect of cleaning your room!" she bellowed.

I glanced up, fairly surprised that she would take that tone with me. Her eyes were brown, a similar shade to her hair, and they were wide with anger and, I thought, trepidation at her lapse in discipline.

"Is such a thing below your station?" I asked, rather generously not pointing out the beating she now richly deserved. "Are you not a slave girl?"

"Slave girl?!" she exclaimed. "Slave girl?! No I am not a slave girl!"

I nodded, pointing out a fact. "You are not wearing a collar," I said. "And the hem of your tastefully altered garment is high enough that I am able to discern the lack of a brand."

As I glanced to her bare thigh, and her muchly exposed hip, she made an effort to tug the frayed hem down. Of course, this only exposed her lovely cleavage further. My expression must have been one that indicated I was at least marginally impressed, as she began to blush from her cheeks to her throat.

"Indeed," she said hoarsely, trying to clear her throat. "I am here under duress, forced by that brute of a man to clean the rooms of renters!"

"I am the only tenant," I pointed out helpfully.

"There is that," she nodded, accepting that her fate, while dire, needn't be exaggerated.

"Shall I make haste to the Tavern Master and request an audience?" I asked. "Perhaps I can enlighten him to his obvious mistake, illuminate him to the absence of a brand on your thigh or a collar about your throat."

I saw her tense, her shoulders squaring and her fists clenching. Her brow furrowed in anger. "You are mocking me."

"Yes," I admitted. "I could commence with your beating, if you'd prefer."

Her eyes widened and her mouth opened, the words failing her for a moment.

"Of course, that would delay the cleaning of my room," I pointed out to her.

"You, too, would beat me?" she asked, her tone quite a bit less indignant.

"The Tavern Master beat you?" I asked.

"Yes,"she said, her eyes a bit wet, but tears not yet imminent. "For no reason! No reason at all!"

"That is not true," I pointed out. "New slaves are commonly whipped when they cross the threshold of their master's domicile for the first time. It encourages discipline."

"I am not a slave," she said firmly, some of that indignant tone returning to her voice.

"My apologies," I said. "Lady?"

"Philomena," she answered. "Lady Philomena of Ko-ro-ba."

"Are you the one the Tavern Master refer to as Mina?" I asked, already certain of the answer.

She had a disgusted look on her face, but I noted her nipples were firm beneath the flimsy slip. It did not seem to be chilly in my room, but that is a subjective observation. I wondered, for the first time, how she might look nude, if the indolence of a free existence had made her completely without interest.

"Yes!" she said. "The brute calls me Mina! Mina! It is the name of a slave!"

Apparently, this was a point of contention between her and the Tavern Master.

"It is a lovely name," I pointed out. "Lyrical, even. And it recalls your given name cleverly."

"I am sent to clean your room," she said, her teeth clenched. Her anger confounded me. Were we not having a pleasant conversation?

"How did you come to be a servant in this tavern?" I asked her.

This seemed to buoy her. Would I listen to her story? Truly listen? Maybe there was hope for her after all. She was not branded. Yet. Her throat was not encased in steel. Yet. If she changed her tone, spoke more pleasantly, I might be consigned to her cause.

"Sir," she started. "I was arranged to be the companion of Samos, Master of the House of Samos."

"I was under the impression that Port Kar did not recognize free companionships," I interjected. "Are not free women here referred to as the 'women of their men?'"

"Yes, sir," she nodded. "I was to be the woman of Samos. My father arranged for this in order to seal a friendship with him."

"A friendship?" I asked.

"Indeed," she nodded hopefully.

I stroked my chin, letting my fingers cover my mouth that she would not detect the smile.

"And when you arrived in Port Kar, what occurred?" I asked.

"We gained entrance to the House of Samos, where I was received in a rather unimpressive room for such a grand residence," she said. "Papers were signed, men spoke amongst themselves as I waited, and then..."

"And then?" I prodded.

"I was put in shackles!" she exclaimed. "And gagged with my own veils!"

"No!" I exclaimed facetiously.

"Yes!" she averred. "It was terrible. I was thrown, robes and all, my wrists behind my back, into a hay wagon!"

"And then?" I asked, my best incredulous look.

"I was offloaded into a boat, a small dinghy!" she said. "And put beneath a man's feet as he rowed! He showed no concern for my discomfiture!"

"The rogue!" I said back to her, barely able to contain my laughter. "What then?"

"I was brought here! Of all places!" she said. "This is not the House of Samos! I am the woman of Samos! Lady Philomena of Ko-roba!"

I took a breath, and smiled. I suppose my smile was a bit condescending, but there was no reason to apologize for that. She was not due better.

"Are you finished now?" I asked her.

"Finished? Finished?!" she asked, clearly surprised. "Are you not prepared to liberate me, to come to my succor?"

"Do not be silly, Mina." I said to her. "You will clean my room. Later, when you have finished, I will beat you for your insolence."

Thoughts

Early and often, I have paid the penalty of passion and the price of dignity

The ego-driven presumption, assumption, and the outright lies we tell ourselves

Our own self-deception, projected perception, and well-weighted opinions

Of our lives, of our ambitions, of our prowess and our possessive positions

Is it such a scandal, such an elusive notion that a man's wishes exceed his grasp?

And what of the unlikely event, upon reaching that uncharted horizon

Where heretofore unimagined circumstance alights, and he steps foot on that isle

While the doubtful, the scornful, the meek, and the mundane shake their fists?

Living a life in full, an existence unbound, a vision unfettered by blinds

Demands the seeker of fates and friction, unlimited faith in the frisson

Fear hath no hearth and home in the heart of the hero, if such melodrama applies

It flies in the face of his unconventional ignorance, a wisdom of sorts

Cut me, and I bleed. Red and full, in a dilution that stains and cleanses in one stroke

The scars external, can never match the rending of the soul, the un-mended whole

What is fierce, is yet fragile. Agile, existing on solace over feckless adoration

We are all an island, a city, a state, a nation of one - until our penultimate breath

Introspect; Longing

There's still a little bit of your taste, in my mouth

There's still a little bit of you laced, with my doubt

It's still a little hard to say

What's going on

Days gone by. Hands. Months. Years. The pasangs behind me never surpass the distance laid out before me. And the farther I travel, the smaller the world seems. Most days it is little more than this modest stretch of canal, where only rowers, canoes, and gondolas navigate. It is a humble view of the world, from the window of my rented room, but enough for now. Vendors laden down with their goods of trade, slave girls hanging laundry. All of this under the complimentary haze of a midmorning sun, before the full light of day brings an honest clarity to the muck and the mire, the myriad sins of lies, deceit, debt, and betrayal.

There's still a little bit of your ghost, your weakness

There's still a little bit of your face, I haven't kissed

You step a little closer to me

Still I can't say what's going on

A prisoner of the city, in his chains and manacles, under guard, scrubs the same stretch of cobbled pathway each day. I sometimes wonder where he is from, how he came to this predicament. He weathers the blows of the guards, sometimes a fist to the back of his head, other times a kick at his legs, with a patient resolve. Wretch though he may be, he does not seem to be a slave. Perhaps he will find a way out of this morass of circumstance.

Stones taught me to fly

Love, it taught me to lie

Life, it taught me to die

So it's not hard to fall, when you float like a cannonball

I have fallen into a comfortable routine in this city, famed for its infamy, and also for its courage to overthrow the chains of despots. Free men did not build her walls, but she is free nonetheless, grand in a way that is best understood by being here. And a power to be reckoned with. Though I long for home, for the beauty of the Theater, the adventure of the Anbar, and the simple pleasure of being amongst the People, I am starting to wonder when I will return, if I will return. I do not believe in the maxim, 'you cannot go home again,' as I have gone and returned dozens of times, but I understand the meaning of it. One changes. One grows. One evolves with the passage of time, and the experience of life. If one is truly 'of' a place, as I am of Ar, I do not believe one changes into something incompatible with his origin, nor does he outgrow it, or even evolve past the intangible part of his being that defines him. I suppose I will return home, but I cannot say when.

There's still a little bit of your song in my ear

There's still a little bit of your words I long to hear

You step a little closer to me

So close that I can't see what's going on.

lyrics by Damien Rice - 'Cannonball'

The Wisdom of Wanderlust

I have considered starting a theater troupe on the wharves of Port Kar, thinking it might be a way to earn a living during my stay. I have a few plays suitable for street actors, the vulgar wit and sensibility appropriate for the venue. However, my relative anonymity here is something I have come to value. I am not Szol of the Poets; a whoremonger, playwright and politician here. I am merely a foreign tenant, renting a room in a tavern on a canal.

"Looking out that window...again," the Tavern Master remarks, interrupting my train of thought as he sweeps the landing below. "Writing your life story?"

"Are you lettered?" I ask him.

"And just what would I write?" he asks. "And to whom?" he says, not really answering my question.

"Do you not have thoughts or notions from time to time worth writing down," I ask, "for the sake of prosperity?"

"Anything thought up worth rememberin'," he says to me, "doesn't need to be written down."

I smile, outmaneuvered by the logic of a Tavern Master once more. I see no need to debate the merit of my argument further. I see him as a teacher, someone to learn from, a mentor of sorts. Like Rufus the Player, now Rufus the Vagrant holding court in a narrow Anbar alley, there to impart wisdom to anyone willing to sit across a Kaissa board from him for the price of a moment in time, the Tavern Master is a wise man. Wisdom, you see, has many faces, many names. I have spent a fair amount of time perusing the dusty shelves of Ar's library, but gleaned only a finite measure concerning the nature of men, or the nature of myself in doing so. This is why I wander.
It is a sad irony that I am never truer to myself, never truer to my caste, than when I wander, when I roam afield from the city of my birth, the city I love.

Poetry in the Margin

Spun drunk
Sunk, finally
This is how you
Left me, spinning still
Cupid from a distance
Damaged psyche, instant
Through the adoring throng
A poem unsaid
An unsung song
In memory of the day
I was too soaked to say
The Quarrel still marks me

Acquiescence

The tavern is not the nicest in Port Kar, or even in the area of the unnamed canal on which it resides. It is quiet, frequented mostly by regular patrons. The food, honestly, is terrible, but it is honest. Honestly terrible, even. There is no wine to speak of, but the keeper will augment the usual paga with a vat of kal-da on the weekends. One of the main reasons I chose to stay here was the keeper's acquiescence to boarding Tasta. "It is a quiet place, she'll keep it that way," he said. Of course the acquiescence, like the ability to tie my small boat to the dock at the side of the tavern, increases my rent a bit - but it is not unreasonable. I think, in addition to the security a sleen can bring an establishment, the keeper is allowing Tasta stay for one, overarching reason. She doesn't think his food is terrible at all. The monster still needs her exercise, so I make use of the few narrow passages and alleyways available to foot traffic in the vicinity of the tavern each morning. Once, I made the suggestion she swim alongside my small boat, thinking that might be fun for her. The sleen took one look and about half of one sniff of the canal and stared at me as if I had two heads. I am pretty sure she understood the suggestion, and her stare was an irrefutable refusal to entertain the notion. Cheeky monster.

Acclimation

Underneath this smile lies everything.
All my hopes and anger, pride and shame.
I'll make myself a pact,
Not to shut doors on the past.
Just for today, I am free.

"Why are you here, of all places?" is the question I ask myself most these days. It is not to say that my room above a non-descript tavern in Port Kar is not sufficient to meet my needs. I have a window that overlooks a long, winding canal. In the morning, before the fog rolls away, I enjoy opening the poorly painted shutters to watch the more industrious of vendors and merchantmen poling their little boats and gondolas toward another workday. There are few streets or land-based thoroughfares in Port Kar. Most own some form of watercraft, be it only a raft, to get from here to there. It is an adjustment for a man of Ar, used to tree-lined boulevards and impressively wide avenues, or even filthy, prostitute-filled alleyways, to get used to. You find, quite quickly, however, that the scarcity of sidewalks does little to impede their citizens. There is even a market, I am told, that gathers around a monument to the 25th of Se'Kara, the day Port Kar claimed her Home Stone. Unlike the impressive figure of Hesius in the Great Square of Ar, this monument is erected in the middle of a large, inland lake, in the the vicinity of the city's arsenal. The trades and bartering of market day are done almost exclusively from the decks and planks of the vendors various boats and rafts, each abutting one another in close proximity, the crowding an accepted and even anticipated coming together of humanity.

I will not lose my faith.
It's an inside job today.
I know this one thing well...
I used to try and kill love.
It was the highest sin.
Breathing insecurity...out and in.

I purchased a small boat yesterday. Nothing all that impressive. It is painted bottle green and is navigated with a single oar. Often, the oar is used as a pole, as many of the canals in the city are quite narrow, and some are deceptively shallow. Though it is unimpressive, the fellow that sold it to me pointed out the advantages. "Pretty floaters get to bein' stole tha' much quicker," he pointed out. It made sense. The rental of my room increased a bit with the privilege of docking my 'floater' to the tavern's moorings. Not that I have a private slip or anything. It just knocks around with the other boats, one more rope amidst many. Still, it makes me smile to see it bob in the shallow canal with the others. I suppose a sturdy boat in a city like Port Kar is much like a trusted pair of sandals in most other cities.

Searching hope, I am shown the way to run straight.
Pursuing the greater way for all...human light.
Holding on, the light of night,
On my knees to rise and fix my broken soul...again.

I will work my way out to the market around midday, acclimate myself further to the watery 'streets' of Port Kar on the way. There are literally hundreds, and perhaps thousands, of canals that bisect one another in nothing that resembles sensible right angles. This city is like most. It is illegal to create a map, and it is a capital offense. While the city is eager to welcome strangers, it is not so amenable as to let them draw up directions to their rich and famous. Not to mention their armory or other strategic points of interest. Most, despite their reputation for inhospitability, are more than happy to point you in some direction if you simply ask. You might not get where you intended upon going, but you will undoubtedly find yourself in some place of interest.

Let me run into the rain,
To become a human light again.
Let me run into the rain,
To shine a human light today.
Life comes from within your heart and desire.

*lyrics from 'Inside Job' by Pearl Jam

Port Kar

I have never understood why they are called 'round' ships, but I am told it has something to do with being wider through the beam than the 'ram' ship, which is more suitable for war than cargo and transport. I still imagine something more literally round, somehow, or at least ovoid, right up until the moment I see one of them anchored to the docks. The Drums of Tabor was a twin-masted craft with a crew of twenty four, including officers and sailors. I signed on to be the twenty-fifth. There were, of course, a few hundred slaves manning the oars. I make no claim of exemplary service to the Drums of Tabor. Szol of the Poets, though he appreciates the beauty of Thassa, well understands her disdain for him. The Captain was a good sort, and said he knew my name. This is always, still, a surprise to me. He did not know me for my songs, nor even my plays, for which I was not disheartened. While it is pleasant to be remembered for a verse or a well-written turn of phrase, my hope is that such things are savored most keenly in the moment, as they happen, when they are the most relevant, the most timely. It turns out that a crew member of his was in the City of Ar several years ago, and was served by a whore in the Anbar District.

"Paaarsha, ewned by a blook cawled So-luff-ahr," the Captain told me, doing his best impression of his First Mate's accent. After getting a look at the First Mate, I can't say I remember him, so I don't know in what capacity Portia served him, or if she served him at all. It is best not to gainsay the details of a man's memory, for two reasons. First, if he had been served by the 'Earner,' then at some point in time his coin made its way to my pocket, and I am grateful for that. Second, he clearly knew the girl and who owned her at the time. The Boarding House had become a tourist destination, it seemed, at least while it lasted. Several of the girls gained a bit of celebrity, though I would never have encouraged such a thing.

The upside of it all is this; the memory of a whore, and the respect for that whore's owner, allowed me to sell my service to the Drums of Tabor in exchange for passage to Port Kar, Jewel of Gleaming Thassa. I've booked a room here, above a tavern overlooking one of the countless canals. How long I will stay here, I do not know. Strangely, at this point in my life, it feels as if I am precisely where I am meant to be. A bit dingy, and the stench will take time to get used to, but still...precisely where I am meant to be.

Archetypes

I spoke with Aramis and his associate Felix before leaving Turia. They wanted me to remain in the city and conduct auditions with them for the Turian production of Fall of Agamedes. It was, however, time for me to leave that city, the purported Ar of the South. She is a beautiful place, and I admit to having a greater appreciation for her this visit than I have in past encounters, but ultimately she is not home. I'd like to think I might return there some day, but I get the feeling I will not. 

"The roles are essentially archetypical," I explained. "It is important, only, that you find actors who understand those archetypes."

The play is popular, I think, because it challenges convention. It illuminates the duality of our nature, showing two sides to the coin. While I don't think it bridges the gap between good and evil, I think it suggests the thin line between the two and, inherently, for those inclined to make the mental jump, the thin line between many seemingly opposite states. Good and Evil. Love and Hate. War and Peace.  Bliss and Pain. One state is meaningless without it's counter, and the counter-state is closer than we like to believe. Bonds of purity are fragile, often held together by little more than a faithful ideology at best and cynical dogma at worst. 

I may revisit the Southern Plains for a time, reacquaint myself with the Wagon Peoples, Tuchuks in particular. Or, perhaps, I will travel north, back along the Genesian Coast, to Port Kar. Or I may wander with no clear direction, true to my caste, that of the Poets, and earn each round of sa'tarna with a song.  

Rediscovered Country

From time to time, I leave my home. It may be for a few days, a hand or two, or as much as a year or more. These journeys have made me the man that I am, arguably as much as the providence of being born in the finest city on Gor. When a man sojourns for a lengthy period, there is much more to the travel than his destination, apparent intentions, or stated agenda. He is looking for something or, to put it more succinctly, searching for something. Is the compulsion to wander, after all, not greater than his desire to remain in the place of his birth, the city in which he pledged to a Home Stone? Too often, and perhaps this is a product of our self-effacing behavior under the shame of Cosian occuptation, men place far too little value in the preciousness of their Home Stone and, subsequently, in themselves. But how do we know ourselves, if we do not test the boundaries of our coveted self-image? How do we know our city, if we do not seek the differences and similarities, first hand, of other places? I think pride and faith are certainly components of a well-rounded man, but so are skepticism and curiosity. One must believe strongly in his convictions, but one must also be open to new ideas and new ways of doing things. One must change his ways, even for a time, if only to confirm that his established truths are not only self-evident, but preferable.

Two Turians in the Market

"Of course it is him," Aramis insisted with an assured tone.

"The one there," Felix questioned, gesturing toward Szol of Ar as he sorted through peaches on a vendors cart. "The one with the shamelessly attired blonde woman? Are you certain?"

"I saw him at the En'Kara Fair three years ago? Perhaps four," Aramis confirmed.

"Why would he be in Turia?" Felix asked.

I was oblivious to the scrutiny, or seemed to be, as I moved on from peaches to cherries, a white variety which had just been imported from Ko-ro-ba. They were only in season about a month out of the year. The 'shamelessly attired blonde woman' with me seemed to agree that the only-available-once-per-year cherries was a prudent choice. Who knew when you would be able to get Koroban white cherries next?

"Why would he not be in Turia?" Aramis said.

"Where better in the Southern Hemisphere to visit?"

"There are rumors that he lived among," at this point Felix paused to affect an appropriate expression and tone of disgust, "the Tuchuk."

"Mere speculation, my friend," Aramis answered, and then hedged, "and what matters if it is true?"

"Just so unseemly, is all," Felix said.

"Adds a bit of color to his character, no?" Aramis posited.

"Not a very complimentary hue, if you ask me," Felix answered.

Aramis laughed a bit, clapping his fellow on the back good-naturedly.

"At any rate," Aramis said. "Szol of Ar is now a playwright. I first saw his work at the En'Kara Fair. That play and others are produced in several cities."

"And you are considering producing his work in our Theater?" Felix surmised.

"Might shake things up a bit," Aramis smiled. "Don't you think?"

Removal

It won't soothe muscle ache, or ease arthritis, but the salve I rubbed into her thigh did have the same cooling effect as creams or lotions that do that sort of thing. It is nearly colorless, and completely odorless. After a half dozen applications in as many days, the mark was already starting to fade. It works several layers beneath the skin, breaking up the organic compounds making up the ink, causing the resulting smaller particles to dissipate through the pores. Eventually, there will be a faint reminder that something was there, the general shape might be hinted at. Soon enough, however, even that will fade until there is only her skin. Well, my skin. She belongs to me, and the mark, which was something more than a simple identificatory mark, became unacceptable. Therefore, I will see it gone. The application of salve is a sensual thing, of course. At times I lift her skirt to apply the salve, but other times I strip her completely. Noemi was meant to be nude, to better appreciate the curves and valleys of her figure, the sinuous symmetry of her lines. After all, soon following these applications of the salve, I often have her.

A Conversation Between Two Turian Free Women

"Preposterous!" the Lady Philomena of Turia exclaimed.
"By the very beard of Kamras, I swear it is all true!" the Lady Melpomene, also of Turia, averred.

The two free women were seated in a public garden, attended by rather chastely attired hand-maidens, delicately sipping at juice beneath their veils. The afternoon was warm, but breezy, allowing them a modicum of comfort in their weighty garments. Both were of High Caste, one a Builder's companion and the other, Melpomene, the daughter of Warriors.

"Right there, on the table, in that establishment?!" Philomena asked again, not certain she heard correctly. Surely, she did not hear correctly.

"Apparently, the brute was taken with his sleek, worthless, little beast. Something she said or did, I do not know. Perhaps she provoked him?" Melpomene guessed. "Men are disgusting! So taken with their trivial, meaningless, base desires!"

Philomena gasped, setting aside her juice. Her hand-maiden, who was called Neela, sensing the mistress' discomfiture, opened a fan and began fanning her. Not wishing to seem weakened, Philomena pulled back her gloved hand and slapped Neela across the jaw with her knuckles. The girl, though she was not struck very hard by Philomena, managed to fling herself appropriately to the side as if she were run down by the cart of a red fruit vendor. She remained there, flung to her side, chastened, for several moments before righting herself into a meek tower, her eyes turned down.

"My dear, it was terrible," Melpomene continued. "The girl eagerly invited the rape! It is unimaginable!"
"What did you do? Surely you did not stand for such behavior in such a reputable establishment," Philomena asked.
"Certainly not!" Melpomene exclaimed, as if this were obvious. "I called for the proprietor to hasten, to remedy the situation. While I am above such...meaningless couplings, such...filthy urgings, I do not wish to witness it. No more than I wish to see the ruttings and such of tarsks or verr!"

"And the proprietor, of course, hastened?" Philomena asked. "He hurried to remedy the situation?"

"Of course he did!" Melpomene answered. "He placed several of the serving sluts of the establishment around that table, obstructing other patron's view of the debauchery taking place."
"That was very...solicitous...of the proprietor," Philomena nodded.
"Of course, it did little to disguise the sounds and scents of the whole disgusting affair," Melpomene despaired.
Philomena gasped, her breath catching, before she spoke quietly. "Why do men lust for women such as that? Surely, there are men which would prefer a chaste woman, an austere woman, a woman of gravity and propriety? Surely, there are men which would prefer an equal, someone not concerned with such base and crude stirrings?"

"Certainly," Melpomene lied.
"Oh, good," Philomena answered, a twinge of disappointment in her voice. "Then there is hope for women such as I."
"Women such as we," Melpomene corrected her.

"Women such as we," Philomena agreed.

Admission / Removal

"I am far too possessive, far too in love with you, to allow another man's claim to remain on your thigh."

It was a simple statement. I had never noticed the marking on her thigh, which was not a traditional brand - until a few evenings prior. A previous owner placed his personal mark, by means of needle and ink into her thigh. There was little reason to pay attention to it. A brand, made traditionally or otherwise, merely denotes a simple truth. The woman wearing this mark is a slave girl. Whether it is a kef, a dina, a mark of Treve, bosk horns, or otherwise does not matter. It may be placed in several commonly accepted sites; on the thigh just beneath the hip, the lower abdomen or the heel. It may be placed anywhere, really. Noemi, for the record, in addition to the personal mark on her thigh, has a breeder's mark, a small brand on her heel. 

She hesitated with me one evening, when I moved the hem of her brief garment in order to place my hand on her bare ass. It revealed the mark, and revealed, too, the fact that she considered it more than an identifier of her slavery. It was a link to her past, a reminder of her history. Having seen her reaction, I decided that was unacceptable. Noemi belongs, fully, to Szol of Ar. Her slavery, in recognition of Merchant Law in dozens of cities, is clearly marked on her heel. 

It was for this reason I made contact with Fedor Silas of Turia, a Physician of renown in the Southern Hemisphere. During my time with the Tuchuk, it came to my attention that Fedor Silas was skilled at removing such marks from the skin, by means of a simple salve, which penetrates several layers of skin to break up the embedded ink. The ink, then, is released over time through the pores. The salve was created, interestingly enough, for a more commercial rather than medicinal demand. The vanity, effeminate nature, and questionable fashion sense of the Turian elite, wealthy Merchants, Slavers and such, compel these men to shave a good deal of the hair from their bodies, including the brows. Some will then reapply the brows cosmetically, while others will have them redrawn semi-permanently by needle and ink. From time to time, they wish to change the shape or remove them entirely. Thus, the salve. Turians are, as I have said often in my life, an odd lot. 

Fedor Silas, of course, did not deign to meet me. He sent in his stead an Apprentice who explained the application of the salve. After about a Passage Hand, her thigh will be unmarked, leaving only the brand on her heel. I wonder if the slave world, Earth, has medicines such as this? Somehow, I doubt it. 

The Wagon People & Fedor SIlas of the Physicians

Fedor Silas, a Physician of Turia, is well known for his research in the biomedical sciences. He was there in Turia, in the ivory towers of knowledge and learning, during the Year in Which Tarl Cabot Commanded a Thousand, and, too, in the Year in Which The Wagon People Do Not Speak Of. The latter was the last year I lived amongst the wagons. I have made a commitment elsewhere in this journal not to write of that time, and I do not mention it with the intention of reversing that commitment. Rather, I will speak of Wagon Peoples and, perhaps, Fedor Silas in general terms.

There is often some misconception about the Wagon Peoples; Tuchuk, Paravaci, Kassar, and Kataii to name them directly. They are not, in fact, automatically hostile to everyone that encroaches on their territory, the Southern Plains of Gor. And it is, make no mistake, their territory. Everything south of the jungles of Schendi and west of the Tahari sands is said to be theirs. There are some, particularly Tuchuk, that believe their territory is without limits. It is only that they have not been the most attentive stewards of their vassals lands. Why is this relevant? Wagon People, contrary to popular belief, will, in fact, allow some persons access to their lands, if only for the purposes of trade. They have much use for the goods of cities, such things as cloth for clothing, spices for cooking, and tools for the repair and maintenance of their wagons. Metal Workers and Wood Workers, too, play a necessary part. Their labors are often traded and bartered for. All of this comes at a price, however. In order to enter unimpeded amongst the Wagons, people must submit to having an identificatory mark pressed into their flesh; generally a brand about the forearm. There are rumors that not everyone is branded who is permitted to walk freely amongst the wagons, and also that there are other means by which the idenificatory mark might be made. I lived fifteen years in the wagons of Tuchuk and was never marked, by a brand or otherwise.

Fedor Silas, through means of medical journals and other publications for lay persons, is still very much active in biomedical sciences. Like Flaminius of Ar was once regarded before being associated with the House of Cernus, Fedor Silas is much respected as both a researcher and a mentor to hundreds of young men apprenticing in the Green Caste.

I will seek him out soon.

A Conversation Between Two Turians

"I do not remember him," a vendor of fruit said to a Leather Worker who had stopped by the cart for a mid-morning repast.

"It was a few years after that business with Saphrar and the Tuchuks," the Leather Worker reminded him as he took a hungry bite from a fat peach. He was unconcerned about the juice that ran down his fingers, and onto his wrist. He had a slave girl or two that would find his sticky fingers the high point of their day.

"Saphrar?" the vendor asked. "The fellow with the golden teeth?"

"The poison, golden teeth," the Leather Worker reminded him, as if that distinction better defined the particular Saphrar in question.

"Saphrar, I remember," the vendor nodded. It was difficult to forget a fellow like Saphrar. In addition to poison, golden teeth, he was a pudgy sort, and more than a little effeminate. His nails were polished and, for no discernible reason, his eyebrows were shorn and replaced with melted droplets of gold. The vendor nodded to the man they had been talking about as he rounded a corner and made his way into the Inn. "That fellow, I do not recall."

"That is Szol, of the Poets. Of Ar," the Leather Worker informed him.

"Why would I have recollection of Szol, of the Poets, of Ar?" the vendor shrugged, arranging a pyramid of larma. Customers seemed to be more interested in fruit that was displayed well.

"He lived among the Wagon Peoples, with the Tuchuks, like a savage," the Leather Worker commented, looking about for a refuse container to dispose of the pit from his peach.

"I have never been overly fond of those of Ar, but surely he did not..." the vendor started and then let the matter drop. "Who can account for the actions of the men of Ar?"

"Surely not I," the Leather Worker laughed. The vendor, too, laughed.

"Have you seen his woman?" The Leather Worker asked.

"His woman? His Companion, you mean?" the vendor asked.

"I do not know. She is not collared, but I do not know that she is his Companion," the Leather Worker shrugged.

"If she is not collared, why do you think she is his slave?" the vendor asked.

"Have you seen her?" the Leather Worker asked.

"No man, not even a dolt from Ar, would not want her as his slave."

At the word 'dolt,' the vendor laughed, but then sobered a bit.

"If he is of Ar, and once lived in the wagons of the Tuchuks, surely such a woman is his slave," the vendor affirmed, punctuating his comment with an assured nod.

"Too, he travels with a sleen," the Leather Worker nodded in reply. "One needn't travel with such a beast if one does not have something of value to guard."

"No man would trouble himself with a sleen to protect a Free Woman," the vendor added, perhaps unnecessarily.

"Agreed," the Leather Worker concurred.

Reflections

I remember the way my supposed arrogance infuriated her in the beginning. Had she not been intrigued with me, as I was with her, she would have stayed well away. She did not. I considered her mine far before she understood the veracity of my claim. The first time she sauntered into my presence, unconditionally unafraid of men and what men might do to one such as her, I knew I would own her. I knew at some point I would cuff her with the back of my hand for some slight or another. I knew I would chain her. I knew I would collar her soft throat. I knew I would rape her, repeatedly and at length, when and where I chose to do so. In those first weeks, I kept her on the second floor of my Anbar domicile, and treated her like a tasty snack, something one craves in the middle of the night. I expected her to be ready for it when I grabbed her by the ankle and dragged her into the hall, and she was. Oh, she was offended to be treated so abjectly, so rudely. She told me as much, and it only made her all the more delicious. I was not gentle most nights. You see, Noemi was more like kanda than ka-la-na. She was intoxicating, surely enough, but she was deceptively addicting as well. Once whetted, one's appetite was never fully sated. Some candies are meant to be enjoyed in small doses. After a taste or two, the sweetness becomes cloying, and one has one's fill. Not Noemi. Each lick lit the flames further. Each bite kicked the beast inside me a little harder, urging it on, goading it. Once I was set upon her, I would not stop until she was devoured fully and completely. The fucking was as much about sexual satiation as it was about the compelling desire to dominate her. I did not have much control over my desire, if any. Even today, after traveling with her to the western edge of the world, sleeping in a dozen cities large and small, each with its own temptations, its own beauties, Noemi is an obsession. I wonder if she knows how tenuous my renewed grip on the reins is, how the beast inside of me still growls. In the midst of Turian luxury and indulgence, right at this moment, does she know what I am thinking? Does she know what I write of as she passes before me, the scent of her skin distracting me? Can she guess that I am imagining the curve of her ass lifted to my hands after she is stripped and thrown to her belly on the floor? Is she wise enough to fear it, just a little?

Turia

Seasickness has always been an issue with me, but the recent Thassan trip was less eventful than normal. I was dubious about wearing the copper wristlets the vendor sold to me at the Genesian Port before we raised sails, but they seemed to have done the trick. I cannot say why that is the case, only that I vomited just twice in the several hands we were at sea. I was a bit queasy a good deal of the time, of course, but nothing so bad as to be unmanageable. In any case, it is still a relief to put sandals to Terra Firma. While I am decidedly ambivalent about visiting Turia, I understand that is mostly due my city-centric leanings toward Ar. Turia is, after all, the 'Ar of the South.' No one, not even Turians, would harbor the foolish notion that Ar is the 'Turia of the North,' or any other such nonsense. Noemi's excitement at the prospects of Turian luxury - shopping, cuisine, bath houses, etcetera, will ultimately be the source of my own enjoyment. A man likes to see his woman stimulated, eager, and alive. Also, from a large city like Turia, it will be easier to correspond with Vesutto about the property in Venna and the status of my stage productions in various cities. The last message indicated an imminent Thentian run of Agamedes. One caveat - I will have to keep a firm hand on Tasta's leash, as she has already noted the indulgent Turians tend to be soft and meaty. It is disconcerting to see the monster lick her lips at the sight of a fat fellow's calves.