Journal of the Poet

Provident Son

2010-10-12T20:04:00.000-07:00

Perhaps one day the warrior in man would die, and with him, the fighter, the wanderer, the wonderer, the explorer, the adventurer, the rover, the doer, and hoper. The days of the lonely ones, the walkers and seekers, would then be at an end. Men might then become, as many wished, as cattle and flowers, and be free to spend their days in placid grazing, until they died beneath the distant, burning, unsought suns.

But it was difficult to know what the mists of the morning would bring.

I contented myself with the thought the deeds had been done, which now, whether recollected or not, or however viewed, were irrevocably fixed in their fullness and truth in the fabric of eternity. They had been. Nothing, nothing ever, could change that. The meaning in history lies not in the future but in the moment. It is never anywhere but within our grasp. And if the history of man, terminated, should turn out to have been but a brief flicker in the midst of unnoticing oblivions let it at least have been worthy of the moment in which it burned. But perhaps it would prove to be a spark which would, in time, illuminate a universe.

It is difficult to know what the mists of the morning may bring.

Much depends upon what man is.

Much depends upon what he shall decide himself to be.

___________________

(Explorers of Gor 193-194)

A Free Woman

2010-07-21T14:39:00.000-07:00

"Do not make me come for you," I said to her.

There is a saying, 'Within every woman is both a slave girl and a free woman.' I think that is mostly true, as the world works best with both types of women, and the potentiality of all women to be either. Or both. All women, of course, by nature, are slave girls. This, for me, is irrefutable. What, then, would life be if all women, in the legal and literal sense, were made slaves? Wake up tomorrow to find the proclamation that all women, effective immediately, are to be stripped, branded, and subject to ownership to the first man to place a collar about her throat. Or, perhaps, it would be better to make arrangements with neighboring cities that equitable exchanges might be made. In any case, this is not a favorable situation. Not all women are pleasing enough, whether inwardly or outwardly, to be slave girls. Too, who would be the mothers of our children? Also, it is true that many free women make valuable contributions to society. I have known brilliant Scribes, for example, that just happened to be free women. I knew a woman of the Bakers who was rumored to be a beauty, that was ambitious, hard-working, and also a free woman. They were slaves, of course, inherently, because they were women, but their contributions as free women to society were not unworthy of mention. The ultimate point I am making is simple. If a woman makes a contribution to society and comports herself in a manner fitting a free woman, she should be able to retain the dignity of her robes.

There is always the possibility, however, that she will fall to a man trying his chain luck. Or she might attract the attention of a man that desires her.

"You are mine to chain," I said to her.

I permitted her to leave. In time, she will understand the truth of that statement. In time, she will accept that there will be no compromises. I will relate to her as a man to a woman. Not as equals. I want her to retain her freedom, having felt the whip. She will return, in time.

Jealousy

2010-07-14T21:23:00.001-07:00

"I am hungry, Master," Mina said to me as I entered the villa, and found her much as I left her the previous evening, chained by the ankle to the foot of my couch.

I left before Lar Torvis set, and returned just as it rose. I saw to the sleen first, of course, finding her curled up on the back porch. She greeted me with a yawning maw, and no immediate complaints about sustenance. Sleen, of course, have the benefit of an evolved metabolism, that they may, when put on a scent, hunt tirelessly for days on end. Missing her supper would not have given her much cause for concern.

"Did you find her pretty, Master," Mina said to me as she ate her breakfast. I had her fry the eggs of vulo, traded for in the markets of Venna. There was flatbread, and some ka-la-na fruit set aside from the previous day's harvesting for my meal. Mina, of course, ate her gruel.

"Did I find who pretty?" I asked her, dabbing a bit of yolk from the corner of my mouth with the back of my hand. Mina licked at it gratefully when I offered it to her, and then answered.

"The free woman, who remained here the other night. After the Merchant took his leave," she answered. She spoke quietly, staring at her bowl.

"It would have been rather scandalous, would it not, to have glimpsed upon her bare face, even for something so inconsequential as to gather the objective information to make such a determination?" I asked her.

She paused for a moment, brow furrowed. I suspect Mina was somewhat jealous of the attention I paid the free woman who remained behind after Ibrahim of Tor left the villa with his wards and his retinue. She asked another question.

"Did you call on the free woman last night, Master?"

"Are you curious as to my whereabouts, Mina?"

"Yes, Master," she said, straightening, emboldening herself. She did not elect, I noted, to meet my eyes.

"Perhaps you should be beaten," I said.

"Whatever pleases you, Master," she answered. I did not much care for her tone.

"Would you have preferred we remained in Port Kar, above the tavern, in the rented room?"

I saw her breath catch, and the corner of her left eye moisten.

"Yes, Master. I would have preferred we remained in Port Kar, where Mina kept your room tidy and did your shopping," she said.

"I am not of Port Kar," I answered. It was a simple enough answer, and a true one. However, I do look back on my time in Port Kar, truth be told, fondly. Perhaps I will return one day.

Mina pushed her bowl aside, having finished it. I could see she had more to say, but feared the saying of it.

"You were with her, the free woman, last night!" she shouted. It was a sudden thing. I admit it caught me off guard. I choked a bit on a swallow of wine, and then turned my head curiously as I dabbed my lips.

"You left Mina here! Alone, and hungry!" she continued, her boldness growing as it found a voice. "And now I must hurry my breakfast! And bathe! And tie up my hair! And stomp the grapes! Squish! Squish! Squish! I hate the grapes! I hate the grapes!"

"I was unaware," I said to her, as if she hadn't just shouted at me.

Suddenly, then, realizing she had lost control, she threw herself forward. Her hair about my feet, her forehead creasing with the leather of my sandals. Her hot tears were flowing freely now, and she shivered. Would I beat her? Would I sell her? Would I throw her to the sleen on the back porch? She did not know.

"Forgive Mina," she said with a shaky voice. "Please, Master."

"Lick your bowl clean, slave girl." I said to her. "Tend to the dishes, mine and your own, and then bathe yourself. Tie your hair up. Put a strip of rep cloth about your hips. See to the grapes," I said to her.

"Yes, Master," she said.

Later, after I had taken a nap and she had finished with the grapes, I would whip her.

Ibrahim of Tor; Mina is given a camisk

2010-06-27T20:15:00.000-07:00

"Does it please you, Master?" Mina asked me, unsure of herself.

I could understand her trepidation. Most of the time, she is kept nude or thrown a piece of rep cloth to wrap about her hips. If I take her into the city, I might allow her a girl tunic that shows off her legs. She stood before me this morning, however, modeling a rather plain camisk that fell to just above her knees. It was sleeveless, of course, as she is a slave. The neckline, unusually, did nothing to display the curve of her bosom.

"I am pleased," I assured her.

I will have guests this evening. I reacquainted myself with the Merchant, Ibrahim of Tor, while I was at the markets of Venna, bartering wine and olives for cheeses and bread. The Merchant had accompanying him several wards, a dozen or more free women. As they were free women, I did not bother to take an accurate count. Where free women are concerned, estimates suffice. Accordingly, Ibrahim and a dozen or so free women will be guests at my Vennan domicile. I thought it was only polite to give Mina something somewhat modest to wear. I will have to encourage her to reacquaint her right knee with her left knee, as well. They've scarcely touched one another since I locked steel on her throat during my stay in Port Kar.

2010-05-11T08:24:00.000-07:00

"Have you spoken with Turianus?" I asked. "Locutius? Alcobiades, perhaps?"

I was speaking with Vesutto about the theater. Plays, actors and such. Of the three actors mentioned, one was of Torcadino, another was of Ar, and one, specifically Locutius, was said, simply, to be 'of Gor.'

"I have not," he confessed, "but such can be arranged, surely."

"I have written a new play," I told him.

"Excellent," he answered.

It was the mid-afternoon. Vesutto and I dined on olives, cheese, and a round of sa-tarna. The wine, as it was the middle of the day, was cut with water. Vesutto is a wealthy Merchant of Venna. He speaks of things such as 'intellectual property' and 'calculating ratios of profitability.' He was not amused when I, quite seriously, asked him what fishing had to do with the theater. Apparently, 'net income' is not at all related to the number of fish one can scoop from the water on a single cast. Mina knelt quietly in the corner, waiting to be of service. If she was curious as to the nature of our conversation, she masked it well. In the several months I have owned her, she has not been permitted to know my name, nor my caste. When my guest left, and I had retired for the evening, she spoke to me. It was quite late in the evening.

"I saw a play once," she said, her voice somewhat forlorn.

I was not sure what business she had being forlorn, neck-chained to the floor of a perfectly lovely villa. What with her captor, the fellow that owned her, raping her more that he beat her most days. I had to pause for a moment, thinking this might have something to do with profitability ratios, but I dismissed the notion as unlikely and conversed with the wistful slave.

"Surely, in a city as refined as Ko-r0-ba, a Lady called Philomena attended the theater on a regular basis," I answered.

"No, Master," she replied. "The only play I...the Lady Philomena...saw was at the Fair of En-Kara."
I whistled. "That is a long way to go to see a play."
"It was my first trip to the Sardar," she said. "The play was called..."
"...Fall of Agamedes," I said, finishing her sentence, venturing an educated guess.
"Yes, Master," she said. "How did you know, Mas..."
"Go to sleep, Mina," I answered.
I watched her for a time. It is pleasant to watch her sleep, nude and chained, at the foot of my couch. She is a distraction, as most slaves worthy of the collar are. There is much on my mind these days. The olives cure in their pots on the back porch. The last of the ready ka-la-na fruit has been harvested, and stomped. By the time the skin of Mina's pretty calves and feet are completely free of the stains, there will be more fruit for her to harvest. More fruit to be crushed beneath her toes. Vesutto has arranged for the ripened olives to be taken to Ar on his wagons. The wine, when there are bottles to send, go with his wagons, too.
"It is quite good," he said to me. "With a dozen or so kajiri, refinement in the method of production..."
I thanked him, but I am not interested in furrowing more fields, 'maximizing my earning potential,' or even 'diversifying my portfolio.' As Merchants go, Vesutto is a good fellow. He keeps to his codes, always placing profit above all else. He makes for an unlikely friend, but a perfectly logical business partner. He does not appreciate aesthetics in the way I do, in the way I like to think most men do. There is more to a rolling field than the number of plots one might seed. One would lose the beauty of dew-soaked blades of grass in the morning, were one to plow every hort of property and place stakes for planting. On the other hand, as Vesutto has tried vainly to explain to me on a number of occasions, without the Caste of Merchants; Builders would build, Scribes would study, Potters would make clay goods, Peasants would labor in their fields, Warriors would defend the walls of their given cities, and so on, but there would be no one to ensure the economy remained viable in relation to other cities. He will go on, at times like these, to explain weights and measures, the value of precious metals, the store of a city's wealth, the quality of exported goods and on and on until he realizes that it is not necessary for me to understand such things, at least to the degree that he does.
"You are of the Merchants," I say to him. "I am a Poet."
I think of Ar, just south of Venna, beyond the great forests. Gleaming, and glorious. There is no finer city, none that I have visited in my extensive travels. There are many fine cities. Many beautiful cities. Many exotic and thrilling places, but none finer. There is still a twinge now and again, and were I a romantic I would say it is a tugging on the strings of my heart, but I know better. The ribs have mended and the ripped flesh has knitted together beneath the scar tissue, but I do not think I am healed after all of this time.

...I was silenced, at the moment of declaration
I met an old woman with young eyes

She scrubbed the stain of rebellion from my hands
Struck once, I was not struck again...

Acquired Tastes; Delicious Morsels

2010-04-29T11:07:00.000-07:00

"I do not care for the olives, Master," Mina said to me.

With the groves tended to, and Tor-tu-Gor starting to give way to the moons, I am frequently on the back porch of the villa working on the olives. I do not mind the preparation, but it takes a few hands before one may enjoy the fruit one has harvested, so to speak.

"They are an acquired taste," I answered, as I squeezed a bit of tospit juice into a pot of sufficiently soaked and rinsed olives. "Doubtless, they do not compare to the ambrosia that is your gruel."

Her nose wrinkled. It could not be a non-verbal, nonplussed response to the notion that her gruel was delicious. Once, having complained that her gruel was cold, and having been subsequently denied nourishment for two days, she assured me that her gruel was highly pleasing to her. Eminently palatable, even when cold.

"Am I an acquired taste?" she asked. I had to think on that for a moment.

"One makes do with what one has," I said with a shrug, as I sliced garlic for the brine.

"Master makes do with what he has," she pressed. "Often."

"It is often foolish to assume there are correlations, based on insufficient and inherently biased data," I countered.

"Master?"

"For example, you assume that I have 'acquired a taste' for you due to the fact that I make use of you, when and where I please, and frequently," I said.

She bit her lip, and squirmed a bit. 'Yes, Master."

"Further, you have attempted to draw an analogy to the fact that most, if not all, must acquire a taste for olives to yourself, implying that most would not like the taste of you from the first bite."

Her eyes widened a bit, briefly, and she blushed.

"That is patently false," I continued. "You are a delicious, little tart. Soft, and moist. Fragrant. Like the flaky crust of a tart, you are delicate. Easily crumbled."

"Master," she whispered, scandalized. I found it humorous, after all I have subjected her to in these past months, that Mina might still be, quite easily, scandalized.

I shrugged.

"Am I any good?" she asked.

I paused for a moment, and considered the question before I replied. "You are adequate. One could own worse."

"I do not understand," she said. I suppose it could be confusing, to be told she was delicious, but also only adequate.

"There are sweet tarts, and savory tarts. There are tarts baked in the kitchens of Ko-ro-ba, Torcadino, and such. And there are tarts baked in the kitchens of Ar," I said. "There are bakeries here, in Venna, that draw men from hundreds of pasangs."

I placed a cork in the pot of olives I had been preparing, having added garlic and the juice of a tospit to the brine, and used a grease pencil to note the date of preparation. These things are important. Once must allow the ingredients time to come together.

"I am a delicious, little tart," she said.

"Quite," I agreed.

"And adequately pleasing?" she asked.

"Just," I confirmed.

"I will endeavor to be sweet," she said. "And sometimes savory."

"You have no choice in the matter," I informed her.

"Have me, Master," she begged, suddenly. She is only a girl. Her needs come upon her like that, not infrequently.

"Perhaps later," I said.

"Please, Master," she sued. "Taste Mina."

"In an ahn or two," I said. "Or tomorrow, maybe."

"Am I not delicious?" she asked.

"Quite," I assured her as I corked another pot of olives and set it on a tray to cure with the others. "You will be tastier, I think, in an ahn or two. Tastier still, tomorrow."

She wept a bit, genuinely I thought. How attractive the vulnerability of a slave can be! I resolved myself, however, to wait a bit. To let her simmer. To let her, not unlike the olives in the clay pots, cure in her own juices for a bit. Yes, she would be tastier in an ahn or two. Tastier still, tomorrow.

"Please," she begged, her upper body bent between her spread thighs, her cheek on my bare thigh, beneath the hem of my tunic, licking at my leg as she could.

A devious slut, I thought, for I knew she would derive pleasure from this, even if she were not touched or caressed herself.

"Tomorrow, I think, is soon enough for having you," I said, fixing my hand in her hair.

Admittedly, I considered advancing her cheek further up my thigh, with the intention of feeding her something other than gruel, but I steeled myself against this. Mina, I realized, was becoming a slave girl, inwardly and outwardly. She was beginning to understand what she was for, what all women, essentially, were for. I would have to chain her tonight, wrists behind her, and gag her. Tomorrow would be soon enough. Early in the morning, when she had finally, fitfully, succumbing to exhaustion, fallen asleep, I would slap her awake, startling her, causing her to whimper behind the gag. Then, at her most helpless, gagged and bound, I would make use of her. Then, having contented myself, she would attend her chores for the day.

A Cup Raised

2010-04-22T14:35:00.000-07:00

I let myself get drunk about a hand or so ago. Well and truly drunk, the way I used to with men like Seth Gage, Plythias, and Russ Finn. My brother, Varhan, and I, too, used to drink to excess now and again. And Sal DeVade, wherever he may be. I raised a cup to them all. It was the first bottle from the vineyard, you see, that aged two years without turning to piss. I've since sent a few crates to the Marketplaces of Ar, along with several small pots of olives. There isn't any profit in this endeavor, nor is there meant to be. Not that I intend to drink myself out of any potential profits, just that the margins for such an enterprise are best understood by the Vintners; men whose business it is to grow, harvest, ferment, and bottle ta-grapes, and the succulent fruit of ka-la-na trees. I have a modest grove, nothing more than a testament to vanity, perhaps. I am a vagabond Poet, sometimes a playwright, once a politician and whoremonger. I know plenty about turning a phrase, twisting a plot, the realities of red-tape, and turning a slut out. I know very little about how one becomes wealthy from the growing of fruit, nor do I care to know. It is enough to have the wine and the olives, and to have enough to share. And while I had raised a cup to my brother, and friends I once called brother, I raised my cup first to a mere girl. She followed along with me to wipe the sweat from my brow as I tilled the field and plotted the stakes. Her hands picked the first harvest with me, and her feet later stomped them. After pressing, and filtering, she handed me the nails when I hammered the lid to that first barrel, sealing it shut for fermentation.

Were she here today, she would have been permitted to drink this first bottle with me.

Poetry in the Margin

2010-04-05T10:29:00.000-07:00

Just a little softer, for
I know your secret, and
I feel it, dull and aching
Throbbing there
Beside my heart, where
You kissed and slipped away

Blood and bone, I alone
Know the unknown, and
I felt it, rent and breaking
Pouring freely
Soaking the stones, where
You watched me fade away

Yesterday and Today

2010-04-03T16:34:00.000-07:00

"Master," she whispered from her place at the foot of my couch.
The day had been long for her. Every day is long for her. She is a slave. I no longer own a brothel full of slaves to put to tasks both menial and mundane. There is only Mina, and she is enough. She wakes at dawn most days, often with a kick to her flank. I suppose I am strict. I have been many things to slaves in the past. Harsh, at times. Loving, at others. Understanding, on one hand. Unreasonable, on the other. I have walked hand in hand with a girl down a public street, illiciting murmurs of 'coddler' from the more judgmental of my peers. I have walked down that same street with a girl bent at the waist, her head to my hip and her hair grasped roughly in my fist. I have had girls branded, and chosen not to do so with others. I have freed a slave or two in my day, and kept others in the most abject positions on my chain with little or no hope for a better lot in life, let alone the notion of existence out of the collar.
"Please have me," she begged, tears welling.
I have had slaves intensely devoted to me, and others that I frustrated so deeply that they ran from me. Of those that ran, I hunted a few. Others, I let run. I have had women that were nothing more than physical diversions, used for the desire their scent and their curves provoked in me. I have had others that I enjoyed speaking with, at length, on a variety of subjects. These were women that were obviously thoughtful, and laudably intelligent before they became the property of men. I have taught whores and barbarians to read and write The Language, and play musical instruments. A few times in my life, I allowed a mere slave girl to assume the role of 'every woman' to me. I took the time to learn everything about her, physically and emotionally, stripping her bare before me, leaving her utterly vulnerable beneath me.
"Please," she said.
Her cheek was on the bare floor, staring boldly at me. She was nude. Her shoulders were low and her hips were high. After an exhausting day, she was yet restless. She wound the heavy chain I secure her with about her body, circling her waist with it. There are times she fights me, asks too many questions of me. There are times she earns the whip that I put to her on a regular basis. And there are times she simply submits, both to me and to herself. Mina is not very good, but she is hungry. And she is learning.

Questions

2010-03-26T22:12:00.000-07:00

The sky opened up last night. The rain fell in wet, constant sheets for several ahn. I stood on the porch at dawn, when all had abated. The fields were intensely verdant, beautifully alive. I could hear Mina inside, singing as she bathed in the metal tub. The songs she knows all have to do with Ko-ro-ba, mostly having to do with the way the sun bathes her pastel cylinders at the start of each day. They call the place ‘The Towers of the Morning’ for a reason. Objectively, it is one of the finest things I have seen in all my travels, so I indulge a slave and let her sing of what was once home. Tasta is not much for the rain, so I imagine it was a restless night on the porch for the sleen. She only chuffed and then rolled over, slipping back into her slumber when I stepped out on the porch with her.

When Mina finished with her bath, she had work ahead of her. The same work she has had since the second day of En’Kara.
“Must I stomp the grapes, Master?” she asked. She wore her hair up in a kerchief. I allow her a rag to cover her hips, but only her collar past that.
“Do you question a command, slave girl?” I said.

“No, Master! Certainly not,” she said quickly. The sound of the grapes, squishing underfoot, was oddly pleasant. “I only meant, is there not a better way to extract the juice?”

I thought of stating the obvious, that getting Mina’s juices extracted was not a difficult process at all, but refrained and merely smiled. Judging by the way she blushed, and looked down, I noted that she sensed the double meaning of her words as swiftly as I did.
“There are presses, and other such machinery, yes,” I answered her. “...but the best wines are produced this way, with the fruit crushed by the foot of a woman before the fermentation process.“
“I am a woman,” she said. There was a hint of pride in her voice, as she took a turn at stating the obvious. However, she was not merely stating that she was of the female gender. She was admitting to the fact that she was a woman. Those that have had a slave, a true slave, one completely submitted and free of all pretense beneath them know the difference.
After staring directly at her bare breasts, I lifted the rag about her hips and feigned a cursory observation. “You seem to have the requisite parts,” I agreed.
“Yes, Master,” she answered.
“Do not take all morning,” I advised her. “When you have finished here, you have a full day ahead of you in the fields.”

I imagine the Lady Philomena, high born in the city of Ko-ro-ba, would choke at the notion of a man putting her to such menial work. Mina, a slave I acquired in the city of Port Kar, Jewel of Gleaming Thassa, however, seemed fittingly content. Delighted, at times.

Sentiment

2010-03-21T05:10:00.000-07:00

The sun is rising in Ar just now, as it is rising here. The bars are ringing, and they will continue to ring for the better part of an ahn. People are crowding out onto the bridges and into the streets. People are wearing their finest clothing, and they will sing and dance, drink and feast the entire day.

I've painted my door green.

When she rises, I will set Mina to the task of burning the brak branches in a small tin. I let her sleep, finding myself unable to do so. She is a beautiful girl. A distraction at times, but a comfort at others.

Saw the world, turning in my sheets

And once again I cannot sleep

Walk out the door and up the street

Look at the stars beneath my feet

An auburn-haired girl used to paint the door of Samsara on the first of En'Kara each year. It had served as home and hostel for wandering souls, itinerant artisans, family, and friends for many years. A mere slave, a barbarian, she was the heart and soul of that home on Aulus Street. I won't hesitate to say that I miss her, and that I always will. As I rose to prominence in the theater, in business, and in politics, she waited patiently. Most nights, I did not make it back to Aulus Street. Some would say such sentiment for a girl is the mark of a fool. I have never denied it. I am a fool. Some days, like today, the first day of En'Kara, I allow myself to be a sentimental fool. She has been gone over a year, and I miss her.

Remember rights that I did wrong

So here I go.

Hello. Hello

There is no place I cannot go

My mind is muddy, but my heart is heavy

Does it show?

I lose the track that loses me

So here I go.

I do not know how long I will stay here, in the hills northeast of beautiful Venna. Vesutto has seen to the upkeep and maintenance of the home and modest vineyard over the last few years. I look forward to resuming our friendship, and sorting out business matters between us. For the duration of my stay, I think I will find pleasure in the brining of olives and the pressing of grapes. So starts another chapter in a life I am only beginning to learn to live.

And maybe someday we will meet, and maybe talk and not just speak

Don't buy the promises, 'cause there are no promises that I keep

And my reflection troubles me

So here I go.*

*Excerpts from 'Same Mistake,' by James Blunt

End of the Road

2010-03-15T14:28:00.000-07:00

It is good to be home.

When the Argentum Road offered a choice, the Vosk or the Viktel Aria, the Merchant's Wagons headed south toward Ar. I parted ways with them, heading north.

"Master?" she said, struggling to keep up. She is a little pack animal, carrying my burdens on the road. Sometimes I forget that she was a free woman not so long ago, unaccustomed to being used thusly.

"What is it, Mina?" I asked.

"They travel south, toward Ar," she said. A statement, not a question.

"And how have you ascertained this?" I said curious-like, my eyes on the road ahead.

"A girl in one of the wagons said so," she answered. "A blonde one with blue eyes."

"The one with freckles across the top of her cheeks?" I asked.

She paused a moment. I suppose, in retrospect, were I attempting to be kind, I would not have identified the girl in question so quickly. However, the girl in question was made to dance between the campfires on more than one evening. Also, I do not always endeavor to be kind. And, in the interest of full disclosure, I had noticed Mina talking to the slut on several occasions over the last few hands on the road out of Argentum.

"Yes," she said, her tone a bit indignant. "That one."

I am not sure what the purpose of her question. or rather her statement, was. I suppose she wished for me to confirm that the wagons were heading into Ar and we, for some unfathomable reason, had decided to walk in the opposite direction.

It is good to be home.

I had not seen the villa in the hills northeast of Venna in some time. Mina may have been surprised by the way I abruptly unburdened her of my pack and threw her to her hands and knees in the rich, dark soil. There between the stakes bearing pendant bunches of succulent ta grapes ready to be plucked from the vine, I raped her. The sun was setting. I could see a panoramic silhouette of the distant, majestic Voltai on the horizon. Another journey had come to an end. I had a clear picture in my mind how lovely she would look in that position, the garment I allowed her to wear lifted to facilitate my use of her. As it turns out, I was correct. She was perfectly lovely, exposed so. And while she is not very good, as I have said, she is beautifully eager.

Sometime later, chained to the floor at the foot of my couch in the villa, she broke the silence.

"Master?" she whispered.

"What is it slave girl?" I asked. In the dark, I spoke to the ceiling.

"They will sell the blonde girl, the one with the freckles," she said. It was a question this time, much as she tried to phrase it otherwise.

"Yes," I confirmed. There was little doubt the dancer was bound for service in one of the better taverns, perhaps on Wagon Street.

"Thank you," she said quietly.

While her gratitude is fitting, I guessed at why she might be thankful. "You would not bring a very high price, Mina."

"Oh," she said. "Mina will endeavor to improve, Master."

I believed her. She was not only an eager slave bundle, but an earnest one.

"Then," I said to her, "you might be worth selling."

"Master?" she asked timidly. "Might a girl worth selling also be a girl worth keeping?"

I smiled in the dark, and then ended the conversation for the night. "Go to sleep, slave."

It is good to be home.

No, this is not the place of my birth. The Home Stone to which I am pledged is not housed here. Samsara, Aulus Street, the domicile in the Anbar are not located here. This hillside does not contain the Great Square, nor the Stadium of Tarns. This is neither the city of Marlenus, nor the Theater of Pentilicus Tallux. This is, however, for the time being, the end of my journey. I am not ready to return to Ar. Tomorrow begins the Waiting Hand. I will paint the door of my villa white, and nail to it the branches of the brak bush. I will reflect on my travels for the next hand, ruminate over the past, and consider what the future holds. I will welcome the first day of En'Kara from the porch of this villa on a hillside northeast of Venna. For now, Venna is home. It is good to be here.

Are we there yet?

2010-02-16T02:10:00.000-08:00

The North is to South what the Clock is to Time

There's East and there's West and there's everywhere life

I know I was born and I know that I'll die

The in-between is mine. I am mine.

East of Argentum. En'Kara is on the horizon, but the mornings are anything but temperate. It is rainy and cold. I find little to complain about, however. I have the company of Merchants and those in their employ, the camaraderie of good men. Camp food, to a man with simple tastes, is palatable. Mina, as it turns out, is becoming blanket-worthy. What she lacks in formal training, she makes up for with a fervent desire to please, and be found pleasing. However, despite these simple and sustaining pleasures, I know now that I have been gone far too long. I feel the pull of Home.

And the feeling, it gets left behind

All the innocence, lost at one time

Significant, behind the eyes

There's no need to hide. We're safe tonight.

"I am cold, Master," she said to me just this morning.

"I am not surprised," I replied. "You are not properly dressed for walking in this weather."

"I mentioned this to my Master," she said.

"And what was his response, pretty Mina?"

"He beat me," she said. Her words were whispered, not only to emphasize her meek demeanor at the prospect of being beaten again, but also to mask her frustration. And probably her anger. I lose track of her grievances, honestly. 'I am cold.' 'I am needy.' 'I am hungry.'

The ocean is full because everyone's crying

The full moon is looking for friends at high tide

The sorrow grows bigger when the sorrow's denied

I only know my mind. I am mine.

"Men can be impatient when their methods are questioned," I told her.

She mumbled something imperceptible. It sounded expletive-laced, but I did not choose to press the matter. She was already walking with a hitch in her step. If I beat her again, I might have to carry my own pack. After a brief pause, she let out a huff and answered.

"Yes, Master."

"We are almost home," I said charitably. I thought this might buoy her spirits.

"Master?" she said hopefully, with an endearing and altogether feminine grunt as she tugged the strap of my pack, to reset it on her shoulder.

"I aim to be home by The Waiting Hand," I said to her. She would have no idea precisely when that would be, or how long we had yet to walk. Still, it was enough to put a smile on her face and a new determination in her stride.

It might be another five or six hands, but there was no need to dampen the girl's mood.

And the meaning, it gets left behind

All the innocents, lost at one time

Significant, behind the eyes

There's no need to hide. We're safe tonight.*

*'I Am Mine' lyrics by Eddie Vedder

My two girls

2010-01-14T11:15:00.000-08:00

"Where are we going, Master?" she asked me.

"Down this road for a while," I answered. It was not the most helpful of answers, but strictly speaking it answered her question. Mina is a slave. She does not need a detailed itinerary in order to serve.

"Are there others?" she asked. Slaves ask a lot of questions. All of the time. Beating them helps, but nothing short of a gag silences them.

"Others?" I asked.

"Girls, Master. Do you own other girls?"

"Curiosity is not becoming in a kajira," I answered. "You might be beaten for it." It is a common thing to say to an inquisitive girl, and takes less effort than removing one's belt. Still, I was leaving my options open. Tasta, bless her heart, weighed in with a menacing growl and a nudge of her snout against Mina's flank.

"Oh!" she cried.

I own two girls. Tasta is my first girl. And the bitch knows it.

I acquire a slave; I leave Port Kar

2010-01-12T20:03:00.000-08:00

"Was it really necessary, Master?" Mina asked me, shuddering in a decidedly uncomfortable fashion as she met Tasta's golden-eyed, serpentine gaze.

"It was the prudent thing to do," I answered her.

"I do not like the sleen," she said.

"Tasta is very thorough," I granted.

"Do you think I will run from you?" she asked.

"It would be foolish," I said.

She could only guess at just how foolish it would be to run. The sleen had taken her scent. If she ran, it would follow her. It would continue to follow her until she was found. She would then be herded back to my feet. Or eaten. Sometimes sleen misinterpret your commands. It is understandable. They are only sleen. Mina, too, is tender about the flanks. One could hardly blame a ravenous carnivore for the lapse in discipline. These things were explained to Mina. I would not want her to misinterpret my commands. She is not a sleen. Lapses in discipline are tolerated far less in slave girls than sleen.

"You put a collar on me," she said.

"A simple block collar," I said.

"You had me branded," she said.

"Your thigh is marked with the standard kef," I said.

"I belong to you," she said.

"That is known to me," I said.

Before I left, I purchased her from the Tavern Master. I suppose it was inevitable. She is not very good, but she tries. And she is eager. Also, she has a nice ass. And she was sold at a discount.

"I will not run from you," she assured me.

"You will consider it from time to time," I said.

"Master?" she replied.

"You are a slave," I answered. "You will test the length of your chain."

"I will not run, Master," she reiterated.

"You are a slave," I answered. "You will try to manipulate me."

"Master?"

"Yes?"

"Why did you leave Port Kar?" she asked.

"I am not of Port Kar," I said. This should have been obvious, really.

A conversation about discipline

2009-12-30T09:10:00.000-08:00

"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

2009-12-24T18:00:00.000-08:00

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

2009-12-17T22:04:00.000-08:00

"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

2009-12-14T08:25:00.000-08:00

"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

2009-12-08T14:42:00.000-08:00

"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

2009-12-03T20:00:00.000-08:00

"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

2009-11-24T15:36:00.000-08:00

"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

2009-11-22T12:26:00.000-08:00

"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

2009-11-20T17:51:00.000-08:00

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

2009-11-19T11:06:00.000-08:00

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

2009-09-19T14:41:00.000-07:00

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

2009-09-04T07:19:00.000-07:00

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

2009-08-25T10:49:00.000-07:00

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

2009-08-21T09:49:00.000-07:00

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

2009-08-16T10:39:00.000-07:00

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

2009-07-19T12:10:00.000-07:00

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

2009-07-15T08:37:00.000-07:00

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

2009-06-01T11:22:00.000-07:00

"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

2009-05-28T13:20:00.000-07:00

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

2009-04-27T07:57:00.000-07:00

"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

2009-04-26T17:46:00.000-07:00

"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

2009-04-22T08:55:00.001-07:00

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

2009-04-21T13:41:00.000-07:00

"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

2009-04-09T08:28:00.000-07:00

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

2009-04-01T14:03:00.001-07:00

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.

Carnival

2008-09-12T20:47:00.000-07:00

There was a carnival on the beach this evening. The usual things one expects at a carnival were there. Men walked on stilts, juggling fruit and other items. A barker beckoned people into a red and white striped tent to witness 'Lulu the Dancing Sleen'. Every sort of sweet treat you might imagine was being vended. I heard people speaking about a man that swallowed fire and how, ironically, in the tent next to his there was a girl named Fire that would swallow men. What I was most interested in, however, was the troupe of actors rumored to be visiting this beach, and what play they might be staging.

I allowed Noemi to dress herself for the evening. She wore the white material I purchased a few months ago. It was wrapped tight about her like a shift, positioned low to present her bosom like so much produce. Though I do not require her to wear a collar, she tied a pink ribbon around her throat. While I am certain she would have protested the notion that the ribbon served as proxy for that heavy, obdurate ring, there is little doubt that was precisely what it did.

We found the play being performed on a small, makeshift stage with torches at the four corners. It was a time-honored rendition of 'The Magic Veil of Anango.' I did not recognize the actors in the troupe, but I thought they were all talented. The Brigella, in particular, was very good. One improvisation, when she lamented about the 'brigands on her tail' rather than 'on her trail' was particularly inspired. The play progressed per usual, with the saucy maiden conned into believing the magic veil will hide her from the brigands. She paid for the privilege to wear the veil with a 'peek' of her hidden delights, ironic as she ends up completely nude on the stage for a good portion of the play, but never failing to entertain. I have seen versions of the Magic Veil that were successful with sub-par actors, simply for the beauty of the company's Brigella. A good looking nude slut goes a long way in this form of theater. It does limit a company's repetoire, however, to productions that include the Saucy Maidens. It is my guess this particular troupe might perform the standards including The Timid Captain or The Pedant with equal skill. I'd guess their Brigella doubles as a competent Desirable Heiress, too.
It was tempting to peruse the beach, enjoy the various diversions a carnival has to offer. At the end, we stayed just long enough to see the Brigella's use rights for the evening raffled off to a lucky deckhand from a local Merchant ship. Even as he pumped his fist, congratulating himself on his good fortune, I was lifting my own prize into my arms. Somehow, I think the manner of Noemi's dress and the ribbon tied about her throat, a subtle reminder of what she still was, what she was always going to be, was a plea for rape. If it was not a plea for rape, it really doesn't matter, does it? Miscommunication or mixed signals, in these sorts of situations, are unimportant. A man will do what a man wishes with what he owns.

Dominion

2008-08-13T09:43:00.000-07:00

I do not find it difficult to be in new surroundings, much as I love the city of my birth. Of course, it is easy to rationalize my comfort-level with the particular place I've chosen to settle for the moment. On the western coast of the continent, Thassa seems to stretch endlessly to the World's End. I know that is not the case. Teletus is less than 1,000 pasangs due west. Less than 500 pasangs north are the marshes of the Vosk Delta. Still, these are distances beyond the limits of my eyes, which lengthens the limits of my imagination.
I am not a complete stranger to the rough chop and rude tumble of life asea. Many lunches have been evicted from my throat into the splashing maw. I once was tempted by the lure (or was it the allure?) of Thassa's endless, cerulean promise. The seeker in me, the romantic, the lover, the wanderer, the fool, all embraced her once. Elusive, unbending. My guess, and it is only a guess, based on nothing but supposition, is that more men willingly sail to their demise on the song of sirens than seek the barren, bitter path into the Sardar. When men have had enough of life, there are many choices for enlightenment, should we wish such a thing.
I removed the collar from Noemi's throat several days ago. I do not need it to know she is mine. The way I raped her when her throat was bare and vulnerable as the rest of her left no doubt that her body -and the rest of her- was still mine. The breeders may not have been thinking of Szol of Ar when they made her, but it does not matter. Does she understand this? She does. The collar is a symbol. My world, at the moment, is considerably smaller in scope. A cottage. A stretch of sand. A village with a small population of itinerants and peddlers. A vicious sleen. And her. Perhaps I will replace it on her neck when I decide to move onto more populous, metropolitan surroundings. Or not. Societal conventions aside, I draw the boundaries within which she will live and serve. She is not subject to eminent domain.

What Price, Freedom?

2008-07-29T13:28:00.000-07:00

The pale pink stockings matched the garters of ribbons and ruffled lace. The slip was opaque, silky and blush-colored. It was less modest than normal, leaving a hint of thigh between the hem and the top of the garter. The gloves, too, were blush-colored and silky, with a tasteful, contrasting stitch. I covered the heavy collar in a length of pin-hole lace, tied off at the back of the neck with ribbons. Matching pink slippers, three shades darker than the gloves with a finely-tooled, leather sole cradled her feet. The bodice of the robe was tighter than it should have been, hugging her bosom, but the skirt flared by the multitude of pleats. It was a pale pink, brocaded tone-on-tone with dina blooms. There were five veils, but only the light veil, the one scandalously sheer and close to the face, was attached.
She could not breathe. As I moved to attach the Veil of Citizeness, she swooned and asked that I stop. Not long ago, she begged for her freedom. 'For one night,' she asked of me. She wished for the chance to prove that I would find more favor with her as a free woman than I do as a slave. It is, I think, impossible.
As a slave, she is a compulsion and a constant struggle of will. Not of her will against mine, of my own will against me. There are times that I am dizzy in her presence, so much so that I wonder if it is a trick of breeding. When I was the People's Magistrate, I conducted an audit of her papers. I know there is no trick, but there are times I can't help but wonder. When I look at her, I am already three steps into her future. She stares back at me boldly, blue eyes at times inquisitive, at times a challenge, but what she doesn't know, couldn't know, is that I can already see her on her belly, with my hands on her hips. By the time the distraction clears, I am already pushing her face to the pillow, my disposition decidedly rapacious.
I do not know how far I was willing to allow this illusion of freedom to go. I may have pinned all five veils, for example, but I would not have removed the collar from her throat. If her tone had taken on an air of superiority or even equality with me, I would have torn the whole ensemble from her, not paying mind to the workmanship of hook & eye closures, nor the fragility of pins. Clothing her essentially as a free woman was an experiment of sorts, but not to prove a point to her. I have no insecurity about my dominance over this woman. I have no need to force her into rote behavior, nor to beat any amount of submission into her that she does not sincerely offer on her own. I did wonder how far I could go. How far I could take it. I can't imagine I would have let it go on for long. She is a slave. While others chose to ignore that fact (and presumably some still do), I did not. The collar around her throat is mine. I put it there. Robes of concealment are at best a curiosity. I much prefer keeping her nude, or at least nearly so. After all, the only thing a woman's robes conceal, collar or no, is a slave girl.

prevarication

2008-07-22T15:21:00.000-07:00

Carnviorous, in flux
Salivate

Ever-changing, never-rust
Wide-eyed and grieving
Slack-jawed, lust
You there
Lipchewer, venomspewer

Don't forget to breathe

Compulsory, implausibly drawn

Fact from friction
A predator predilection
Pretense & deprecation
Blended smooth
Shut-mouth satiation
Hunger-driven salivation

Something to prove

Open

2008-07-21T08:22:00.000-07:00

I do not have a Sailor's love for Thassa, nor a Pirate's lust for her wide-open potentialities, but I do have an abiding admiration and respect. It is difficult to quantify how vast, how foreboding and yet, at the same time, how beautiful she is. No one knows just how far, nor just how deep. Mad shipbuilders conjure visions of a craft that sails to the World's End, but is it really the 'End?' Is there not another side to her? How many in Kassau or Laura or some other northern port have set sail, determined and hearty, only to end up on the well-mapped shores fronting the Ta-Thassa Mountains or, perhaps, landed on the beaches of Ianda or Anango? If anyone has made it to the other side, assuming there is another side, he has kept this knowledge to himself. We often tease our children with tales of what lies beyond the World's End; notions such as primitive cultures and wild, dangerous beasts. Some speak alternately of the beauty or hideousness of the people one might find there, if there are people at all. Some believe, even, that beyond the World's End is the place called 'Earth.' I have owned enough barbarians and read enough to be convinced this is not the case, but it is easy to see where the origins of such a thought might derive. Whether it is the World's End or another world altogether, both are strange, foreign concepts to most. I imagine there are people beyond the World's End. I think they must be quite similar to us. 'Us,' of course, being a relative term. Are the men of Ar not very different than the men of Torvaldsland? And are they, in turn, quite different from those of Schendi? Those of Schendi would not be mistaken for those of the Barrens or the Tahari regions. I think, perhaps, the people beyond the World's End are just another variation of 'us.'
It is easy to lose one's thoughts to such ideas where the land meets the sea. "Where the boneyard meets the mountain," I once penned. "An eroding faith survives. It thrives on hunger, feeds on swell, sustaining peace and a beat-down pride." It is here, in these unconquered places, these untamed wildernesses, that we truly live. Outside our zone of comfort, our scope of existence, where majesty and bewilderment taunt us, this is where we thrive.

South of Brundisium

2008-07-19T15:08:00.000-07:00

One Night On Treasure Road

2008-06-30T07:16:00.000-07:00

I took them for scouts from the walls of Samnium. At the time, we were about three or four days outside the city. With the moons full, it was easy to spot two riders silouhetted in the night sky. Our camp was at the confluence of the Cartius River and Treasure Road. Being of Ar, one assumes the alternate name for the Eastern Way has its origins in the riches regularly transported from the west to the east. As on any Gorean road, however, for the bold tarnsman or desperate bandit, a caravan of wagons spells treasure - fiscal temptation too great to pass up.
The two tarnsmen I took to be scouts were, perhaps, just that. Advance riders, but not for the City of Samnium. Their loyalties, as we would soon find out, were more mercenary. I had wandered off with Noemi across the stretch of road that spanned the Cartius, both to spend some time away from the other travelers and to allow Tasta some freedom from her chain. The sleen bounded off on the trail of her supper, and I found a spot at the edge of the river to cool my feet. The attack was sudden. I was alerted perhaps a few ihn before the camp proper threw up the alarm. Buffeted by a strong wind kicked up by half a dozen riders, we were nearly sent tumbling into the river. I grabbed the girl and started up the hill. I could hear the shouting on the other side of the river as the men of the camp fought to repulse the attack. It was my thought to stash the blonde slave out of sight near the bridge and then cross to help if I could.
Apparently, the girl with me was spotted however. As I started up the hill with her, we were again assaulted with the gust of the tarn's descent and its challenging avian cry. I shoved Noemi to the grass and suffered a glancing blow from a weight attached to the rider's capture net.
He made his first pass. I knew he would come again. I was only one man in the open, defending a lovely prize. The odds were definitely in his favor, particularly with the stars popping before my eyes and the cold sweat complementing the struggle to remain conscious. As I started for the bridge again, the blonde slave screamed for the sleen as she struggled to pull me in the opposite direction, to the water. The rider was already making his second pass. There was no time. The rest all happened too fast. I remember hearing that throaty growl of Tasta as the talons of the rider's large, sable tarn stretched forth, eager to engage. I could not find the monster in the darkness until the moment she leapt between me and the bird, and then I was buffeted by her, thrown to my back as she bit into its leg, where feathers meet claw. I could hear cheering from the other side of the river as the tarnsman above me struggled to take off with the weight of a fully grown sleen depended from his mount's leg. My forehead felt cold and damp. I could not keep my eyes open.
I don't know for what duration of time I was out, but it couldn't have been too long. I remember thinking Noemi was cold and wet against my side, apparently having made it to the water. Then we were back in the camp, but I can't recall crossing the bridge. People seemed in good spirits, though a few complained about their losses. The rest of that evening, as they say, is a blur. Drinking in moderation these days, it was a disconcerting reminder of a not-so-distant past.
We altered our itinerary, which would have taken us through Samnium and then through Brundisium. Having arrived in Market of Semris this morning, most of the Merchants in this caravan seem content to sell their goods right here. Some will press forth to the coast as planned to port cities south of Brundisium, perhaps as far south as Bazi.
The adventure has only just begun.

Fortuna Favet Fatuis

2008-06-24T10:43:00.000-07:00

It rained last evening – a hard, sheeting rain. It was not a cold rain. The downpours of En’Var are warm, often fragrant. I sat just inside the tent, watching the monster, Tasta, enjoy the impromptu shower as she tested the length of her chain. I keep my bitches in the collar, even her. Her black, forked tongue darted out at regular intervals to both catch the droplets and wipe them from her damp snout. From time to time, she reared up to swat at the rain. Deadly and tenacious as she is, the sleen can be playful. She likes to play.
Behind me, exhausted by the demands of my rape, Noemi slept. She is a lovely thing. Curved as a woman should be, and soft. I should beat her more, but I find myself without the compulsion to discipline her as often as her behavior warrants. It is a mistake, and I know that, but it is what it is. “I will NOT go to Port Kar,” she informed me. I was not taken aback by her defiance. The Jewel of Thassa is the source of several traumatic experiences for her. I suspect many of her less desirable traits stem from the time she spent there. I have heard the tales of sadism and cruelty, of extraordinary deviance. She is not permitted to keep events in her past locked away, secrets of another time. I own her, from her fatal flaws to her delightful perfections, and everything between. She is starting to understand the near-implacable nature of her master. Consequently, each outburst, every defiant tantrum, reveals more to me about the woman I own. She is more than a novelty, more than an ego feeding conquest. She is mine. Fully.
Once, I was foolish enough to think I might seek the World's End. I think on this trip, I will be content to find a spot on the coast to take a piss in the general direction of Cos. I suppose it would be prudent to consult someone with a bit of longitudinal/latitudinal knowledge beforehand. It would be rude, for example, to take my symbolic piss on Teletus or Asperiche, however unintentional that would be. It is a poetic notion, but there is more that takes me west than a desire to delete my bladder to the ignominy of that fat waste of flesh, Lurius of Jad - not that it wouldn't be a perfectly sound reason for undertaking a journey of hundreds or even thousands of pasangs. I will find myself on the wharves and plazas of Port Kar again soon. Some men seek adventure in such a place, but I seek something more. Perhaps, I will be lucky enough to find it.

The River

2008-06-23T07:46:00.000-07:00

Interminably intertwined
Contemptuous passion
Tempestuous fate

Constant
Hungry
The physicality a bright, hot light

Blindingly besotted in the bind
Bruised and aching
Suck-winded, slaking

Trust no one
Most of all
Yourself

On this river of no return
Commit to the current
Lest you drown in the past

Discrete Revelations

2008-06-02T12:26:00.000-07:00

My fingertips hovered over the fresco as I walked by, elaborating the details to the girl, Noemi. Often, she seems utterly uninterested in the particulars of past events, but now and again a light sparks behind her blue eyes. It is difficult not to admire Dietrich of Tarnburg, and history has been kind to him. He is a mercenary, but the record of his deeds show he has a conscience. A ruthless conscience, but a conscience just the same. The more I stared at the frescoes, studying their relationship to one another, I started to realize the inaccuracies of what was depicted. This was not a case of blatant revisionism at the expense of the truth, but a subtle bending of the truth. Certain events were depicted that never occurred, or occurred differently than represented. I studied the wall more closely, keeping mind of the guardsman that was posted at the end of the block. It was all starting to make sense. It was a beacon, to those that could read

(missing page)

Beneath the city, I realized the walkways over the massive well were laid out much like the streets above ground. Once I had my bearings, I could see where the water from the Issus aqueduct entered the well and, too, the run off from the springs at the Hills of Eteocles. Some of the entrances to the surface were marked on the wall, either by name or pictogram. When I found an exit that corresponded to the Market Square, I repeated the process to exit, I

(bottom half of page torn, missing)

Wander; Lust

2008-05-28T10:24:00.000-07:00

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

2008-05-20T10:15:00.000-07:00

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

2008-05-05T10:27:00.000-07:00

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.

Sentiment of the Day

2008-04-23T19:07:00.000-07:00

If I write, and you are moved, I have done my due diligence. If you find, despite your best efforts, you are not ambivalent to my indulgent rambling, I have made my point. You may agree whole-heartedly with my sentiments, raising a defiant fist in support, or you may spit, unable to contain the bile rising in your throat. So much of what I write fades from this physical plane; withered and dog-eared pages burned to ashes, lost to time, or graffiti upon the walls white-washed or rinsed away by the rains. If I have a place in history, if I am to be remembered for song, slogan, soliloquy, or slur, it will be because you keep my words, tenuous things they tend to be, deep in your heart.
Catch of the Day was performed last evening in The Great Theater of Pentilicus Tallux. Due the greatness of the actors Locutius and Alcobiades, their ability to deliver the words I pen with proper pace and sentiment, I believe it went well. Not every patron in the tiers received it favorably, but I do not recall an ambivalent reaction among them. Perhaps the words were more divisive than many would find polite, but that is only indicative of the divisions of the day. I do not speak of mere privileges. For the record, I believe in the structure of caste, in the fitness of a society in which every man pulls his weight by engaging in what he was born to, and born to do. Each of us has our role to play. Mine is to write verse addressing the glory of my city, to recite prose dedicated to the wonder of love, lust, and the range of human emotion - but there is more. The Poet is a bellwether against corruption, conspiracy, and a catalyst for change. Today's current events are tomorrow's history. While I would not be so bold as to think a Poet should write the history of his day, such things are for Warriors to forge and studious Scribes to record, my caste does what others cannot. We record the sentiment of the day. We are not here to record the chronology of things. If you wish to know what occurred during the life of Szol, you will find little in the lines of his poetry and less in the dialogue of his plays to form a complete history. What you will find in these things, however, is far more telling. You will know what men felt.

Flyer

2008-04-19T08:05:00.000-07:00

Demands

2008-04-09T07:25:00.000-07:00

Once, for your lapse in judgment

Twice, for your need to speak unbid

A third time, for your not-so-subtle betrayal

And three more times, for I felt like it.

I was not angry, I do not lash out unchecked

I was unhurt, for I expected no less

It would be falsehood to claim ambivalence

For I knew precisely why I did it

I would do it again, that is the lesson

Subversive diversion, manipulation

Temerity, the order of the day

Modus Operandi of an inglorious past

I will not be swayed from this path

I will not be convinced otherwise

You will endure this

When you are finally left with nothing

Bereft of all, depleted of stores

Then I will take everything

When you have nowhere left to turn

No avenue not traversed

Then I will show you the way

The Planting Feast Approaches

2008-04-03T08:20:00.000-07:00

We are deep into En'Kara, the first month of the year. The First Passage Hand approaches and, with it, the Planting Feast. With the animosity between the lower castes and the five high, particularly the Initiates, I wonder if differences will be put aside for the three ceremonial days that necessary sacrifices, prayer and ritual may be completed. It is a solemn, important event not taken lightly, particularly by the working men and women of the lower castes. This event is not so sacrosanct, however, that it has not been blasphemed in the past. A glaring example from history was the time a rogue tarnsman from Ko-ro-ba dared to storm out of the city astride a fierce, black tarn with the Home Stone in hand - not moments after it was sprinkled with the offering of the Life Daughter. He took, as well, a woman once known as the daughter of Marlenus, but in retrospect, I take no offense to that - only that he failed to keep the bitch in irons from Day One. I will say that he has done service to the city since that time, but there are some slights so grave that one does not easily forgive - and one certainly never forgets. Given the opportunity, I would certainly drop Tasta's leash to see just how heroically he might run.

Whatever the political climate in a few hands time, I will make my observances and honor the day in hopes others are good enough to do the same.

I am reminded of a conversation I had with a man that might have been Ubar, had his personal pride and ambition not outweighed his sense of civic responsibility. "This is my city," I told him. "Your city?" he answered incredulously, as if I were a threat to his machinations. I have no doubt he could have gutted me where I stood, if the notion occurred to him. "My city, yes," I answered unwavering in my claim. I still believe that. This is my city. With defiance and obstinance, I have defended her gates. With conviction and determination, I have been the voice of her People. With a patriotic and dissident heart, I have defaced her walls that acceptance and kow-towing to the elite would not become the order of the day. So yes, my friend and sometimes adversary, Ar is mine. My love for her is deep and abiding, unending and enduring. Let no man or nation stand between us.

Graffiti on the Avenue of Turia; A Conversation Overheard

2008-03-26T12:25:00.000-07:00

"What do you make of this?"
"Damned insolent to be marking walls in this District!"
"I suppose so. Were you at the festival, the parade and so forth?"
"Indeed I was. The rabble of this city have some nerve!"
"You are exciteable this afternoon."
"The wall to my shop was defaced, Timon! Should I be pleased?"
"It is only a bit of paint and an opinion."
"My opinion is that these rabble should leave well enough alone. Marcus Claudius is a hero!"
"So it would seem."
"Your empathy with the lower castes is ill-placed, Timon. The cut of your tunic is far too crisp."
"Perhaps you are correct."
"Caste distinction is the foundation of an ordered society. You would do well to remember that."
"I doubt the average Peasant has any desire to give up his plow that he might learn the mathematics of Builders or the letters of Scribes, any more than I have a notion to dismiss the study of Medicine that I might recite poetry or knead dough."
"Do not speak of poetry."
"Very well."

A Letter to Brutus Aurelius

2008-03-26T09:37:00.000-07:00

Administrator,

I was relieved to hear you were unharmed in the attempt on your life last evening. I would have preferred to express this sentiment personally, however I was turned away at the entrance of the Central Cylinder this morning. I understand the added security and find it a prudent measure.

As you are well aware, I spent a good part of last evening and all of this morning effecting the release of Citizens jailed during the festival. The chaining of Citizens exercising their right to assembly was, in my opinion, a poorly considered course of action. Further, adding the insult of incarceration was a regrettable decision. Magistrate Silenti overstepped the bounds of his Office last evening and should be sanctioned. This, however, I leave to your discretion. The People of this City, the finest City, are passionate. They do not need to be 'shown their place.' They know their place rather well. What they require, what is their right as men of Ar, is the respect and support of this Administration - of your Administration. If you wish to be successful in your term of Office, to leave a lasting legacy of your name, I suggest you avidly seek the endorsement of the People.

Respectfully,

Szol of Ar

Magistrate of the People

Beginnings

2008-03-25T21:39:00.000-07:00

Spring sprung

Sentiment sung

And the rain washes clean

Another year

Perennials bloom

Brushing back gloom

And the naysayers have

Said their solemn say

I greet you, Lar Torvis

My door a verdant hue

You remember me

I remember the sun-dappled dew

The crisp mornings

And warm afternoons

It is month One

En’kara undone, open

To any and all avenues

But today is not for planning

Our laurels are for wearing

Not standing upon

Good-natured drinking

Not worrisome thinking

Fill my cup

From the bottom up

Return my smile

Accounting

2008-03-25T21:31:00.000-07:00

New Year

2008-03-22T17:54:00.000-07:00

With another somber Waiting Hand having passed, we welcome the start of another En’Kara and with it, another new year. I was up before the Central Fire crested the Voltai. Tasta prowled the cul-de-sac as I painted the door to my Anbar domicile green, a celebration of the season. The first hand of En’Kara is always a festive time. There is much to celebrate entering this new year, but much to be wary over as well. The Initiates have been exposed, but one cannot help to reason they will be preaching their dogma again soon, gathering the faith of the fearful and the adherence of the pragmatic in the process. The repeal and prescribed restitution of unjust levies have been met with begrudging consent, but that may hold true only so long as the ambivalence of our current Administration remains intact. New challenges are sure to arise. Our city is at its best, I fear, when conquest is on the agenda. During times of peace, the power-brokers are all too willing to turn inward, against their own to satiate their greed. I can only hope they have seen the folly of pushing the People too far. When you leave a man with nothing to lose, logic dictates he has nothing to lose. Each day another ten walls are defaced in districts across the breadth of the city, the contempt plain in the words, in the crude renderings. Some speak of it as social commentary, others dismiss it as the petulance of the poor. What it truly represents, in my mind, is a warning. The men who sweep your stables, light your lamps, sing your standards, vend your food and drink, brand your bitches, tool your sandals and perform a thousand other menial tasks most take for granted are not to be thought of lightly. We are all of Ar, from the tavern master renting a flat in the Trevelyan to the Scions of the City with their Tabidian Tower residences. There are no men of humble birth in this city. We are men of Ar.

A Conversation Unheard

2008-03-18T11:48:00.001-07:00

"He is still alive."

"The intelligence was sound."

"He is still alive."

"Do you really think he is the problem?"

"He is hardly the solution."

"Agreed."

"So it is the sleen on your heels or the larl at your throat, is it?"

"So it would seem."

"I choose neither."

"If you do not make a choice, a choice will be made regardless."

"Perhaps the time has passed for picture-painting and slogan-craft."

"You may be right, old friend."

"Is it better to be ruled by the sublimely apathetic or the ambitiously corrupt?"

"I choose neither."

"As you say, if you do not make a choice, a choice will be made regardless."

"Perhaps I spoke in haste."

"How so?"

"What if there were a third option?"

"That is intriguing Kaissa, Player."

"Intriguing, certainly. Dangerous, assuredly. And I am hardly a Player."

"We are all far more than we seem these days."

"We are of Ar."

"We are Giants."

"Both are true."

Distraction pt. 2

2008-03-13T12:33:00.000-07:00

Preternatural lust
One hunger
One ache, just
Swim-headed
Cold-sweated, gone
The leash is broken
The cage door
Knocked down
Slake, sate
Seethe, rape
Coming

& coming again
Say my name
Say my name
Say my name
Shut your mouth

Graffiti in the Street of Brands District; A Conversation Overheard

2008-03-13T08:40:00.000-07:00

"It seems Marcus has purchased a sleen."
"Big, gray one, by the looks of it."
"The gray ones are said to be excellent trackers."
"I do not wish to be tracked by any sleen, be it gray, brown, black, barred or purple."
"There are purple sleen?"
"If there were, would you wish to be tracked by one?"
"No, certainly not."
"Tenacious. Tireless. Always get their man."
"I knew a kettle & mat girl like that once. Face looked like she was hit by a butter pan, but she was an insistent, little slut."
"You are the most indiscriminate fellow I know."
"And you, my compatriot, are far too wrapped up in superficial beauty."
"I think I would like to see a purple sleen."
"So long as it was chained."
"Indeed."

Graffiti in the Anbar on Sixth Street; A Conversation Overheard

2008-03-12T14:35:00.000-07:00

"Sloshing pissbuckets of the Priest-Kings, why is it always on my walls?"
"Not just yours. Something similar was put up in the Great Square just yesterday."
"Bold, aren't they?"
"Or foolish."
"Both, likely."
"Certainly."
"D'you suppose there is anything to it?"
"There is always at least a notion of truth in this things. If not more."
"Hm."
"I will fetch one of the sluts to get this scrubbed clean."
"No. Leave it."

Graffiti in the Great Square; A Conversation Overheard

2008-03-11T08:12:00.000-07:00

"Do you think it is true?"
"It is only art, subject to interpretation."
"I suppose so, but the artist seems to guide the viewer into a rather narrow field of possible interpretations."
"Indeed."
"It is an accurate likeness. Of both."
"The essence of each has been captured admirably, yes."
"Would you rather be bitten by an ost or a larl?"
"What sort of question is that? I choose neither."
"I would choose to be bitten by Keri, a Dancer at the Braided Whip."
"She is a delightfully fierce, little slut."
"I am thirsty."
"As am I."

Poetry In The Margin

2008-03-10T13:59:00.000-07:00

Unadorned
Unable
Unsound

Unraveled
Unstable
Unfound

Unsung
Unheralded
Uncrowned

Untouched
Unlabeled
Unbound

Diversionary Tactics

2008-03-08T13:52:00.000-08:00

I have decided to ask Locutius to accept one of the parts in the new play, which I have entitled Catch of the Day. It might prove difficult to find him timely, but I have sent word to Vesutto of Venna who seems to have a rather reliable network. He has been able to locate the actor extraordinaire for me in the past. I sincerely enjoyed Alcobiades' performance in The Good Citizen, so it is my hope he can be persuaded to accept the co-lead in the new production. He is of Ar. If he is within the walls and not off performing with some troupe on a dusty trail, it should not prove too taxing to find the fellow.

I have found myself slipping a little of late, unable to quench certain thirsts, sate certain hungers. The distraction, diversion, whatever one calls it, helps to take my mind away from work-related issues. In the past, I have turned to the bottle to ease the stresses of everyday life, but I do not have the taste for grain alcohols like I once did. I will indulge in a bowl of paga now and again, of course, but I do not miss waking in the morning unable to lift my head from the couch. I am coming to realize, however, that the distraction of soft thighs and a tender throat is still an addiction, an obsession that is far too easy to cede control to. I find that writing, a return to the work of my Caste, rather than the work of the People, is helping to hone my focus. I have been prolific of late, three poems and a play in the last hand or so.

It is a thin line that divides having control of one's desires and letting one's desires take the reins.

Poetry in the Margin

2008-03-06T15:10:00.000-08:00

Forget me
Remember me
Dismember me not
Judge me
Begrudge me
Come
Take my spot
Relieve me
Reprieve me
Black kettle
Blacker pot
Imbue me
Re-undo me
Re-imagine
Life and lot

Playwright

2008-03-05T11:21:00.000-08:00

Two years prior, during the Fair of En'Kara, The Fall of Agamedes was staged in the shadow of the Sardar for the world to see. It was a play about two men, each seemingly at odds with their place in the world; the archetypes of Assassin and Warrior. Famed actors, Locutius and Nikos of Tyros delivered my dialogue to the world. Earlier this year, in the middle of En'Var, The Good Citizen was produced on the stage of the Great Theater of Pentilicus Tallux. It was a historical account, a chronicle of true-to-life events that took place in the Street of Brands District of Ar several years ago, but most probably took it for dramatic fiction. There were four parts. Locutius, again, deigned to accept a part. Turianus of Torcadino, Phineahas of ...Cos, and Alcobiades of Ar were the remaining Actors. That was my third production on Tallux's grand stage, and by far the most successful. The previous two were my first work, Merchant of Ko-ro-ba, and a reprise of The Fall of Agamedes.

The new work, as yet untitled, will feature two principals with minimal stage production and props. If the parts can be filled timely, I hope to stage it soon after the start of the new year. Inspiration comes from the strangest of places.

Smolder

2008-03-05T07:06:00.001-08:00

We are tired
Your huddled masses
Worn and bruised
Disillusioned, confused
Disparate from you
The grease to your wheels
The gears of your machine
Lean, but not broken
Hungry, but not starved
These setbacks will not
Tear us asunder
Like tin men you fell
Sanguine waters, the well
Still you dance, oblivious
Lascivious, your greed
Your corruption, a seed
Deep in the dogmatic soil
Pampered feet refuse to touch
These embers, remember
Have yet to cool

Distraction

2008-02-29T16:48:00.000-08:00

Undeniable addiction
Absolute predilection
An unkempt desire
Unchecked, unchained &
Tirelessly devoted
To the feast
Licking rape-hot thighs
Kissing sleep-worn eyes
Untenable, ostensible &

Purely driven to

Exhaustion

Repeal, Restitution, Responsibility

2008-02-20T15:10:00.000-08:00

The notice went up quietly last night on the Public Board of the Great Square of Ar. While the People threatened to become the Mob, the document was posted. It read:

DAY 6 / MONTH 12 / 10,157 C.A.

BY ORDER OF THE MAGISTRACY OF THE PEOPLE OF AR:
PURSUANT TO PROOF OF CORRUPTION , TAX INCREASES INSTITUTED IN THE MONTH OF SE'KARA 10,157 TO THE PROPERTIES OF THE PEOPLE OF AR AND SERVICES RENDERED WILL BE REPEALED EFFECTIVE IMMEDIATELY.

(1) BE IT KNOWN, THE 'PEOPLE OF AR' IS DEFINED AS ALL RESIDENTS WITH A LEGAL CLAIM TO CITIZENSHIP WITH A CASTE BENEATH THE HIGH FIVE, WHICH ARE DEFINED AS; INITIATES, PHYSICIANS, BUILDERS, SCRIBES AND WARRIORS.

(2) BE IT KNOWN, THE PEOPLE OF AR ARE SUBJECT TO INCREASED TAXATION ONLY IN TIMES OF WAR, HARDSHIP OF THE STATE, OR EXPANSION OF THE EMPIRE.

(3) BE IT KNOWN, TAXATION AGAINST THE INCOME OF THE PEOPLE OF AR WILL BE APPLIED ONLY AFTER DUE CONSIDERATION OF ALTERNATE FORMS OF REVENUE AND ONLY IN THE EVENT THAT ITEMS DETAILED IN SECTION (2) HAVE OCCURRED.

(4) BE IT KNOWN, THE SCOPE OF THIS OFFICE ACTS AS ADVOCATE ONLY TO LEGAL CITIZENS WITH A CASTE BENEATH THE FIVE HIGH. NO OFFER OF REPRESENTATION IS INTENDED OR IMPLIED TO CITIZENS OUTSIDE OF THE SCOPE OF THIS OFFICE.

(5) THE PEOPLE OF AR, BY WAY OF RESTITUTION, WILL HAVE TAX AGAINST PROPERTIES REDUCED BY THREE PERCENT FOR THE SUBSEQUENT PERIOD OF THIRTY HANDS. TAX ON SERVICES RENDERED IS HEREBY REMOVED. FOR IMMEDIATE AID, CITIZENS SHOULD APPLY DIRECTLY TO THEIR RESPECTIVE CASTE LEADERSHIP.

SIGNED, SZOL OF AR

This morning, the slave Tupita was laden down with a satchel containing signed and notarized copies to be posted to every public board in every district of the city. The investigation will continue, but I suspect it will be at a level above my grade. Now that corruption has been exposed and the knowledge of it made widespread, it is entirely possible that the remaining culprits will be anxious to deflect responsibility onto functionaries, lackeys, and scapegoats, thus painting themselves in the best possible light. It is becoming known that the responsibility lies not only with Initiates placed highly within the White Caste, but also with certain parties in the Administration. I am told that the Administrator's trusted advisor Marcus Claudius covets the title of first citizen. It is only a matter of time before fingers start to point at one another in the halls of the Central Cylinder. Two cases of arson done upon high placed pieces of real estate in the last hand all but guarantees the gears of the guileful are grinding.
The rub of it is this - I don't see governmental reform as the outcome of these events. At best, another will use the Office of the Administrator as a seat of power, abusing his authority, albeit a bit more gently than his predecessors, while the sting of the past year still smarts, remaining fresh in the minds of the People. With the repeal and restitution in place, the risk of further rebellion may not be commensurate to the reward.

Prayer

2008-02-19T11:12:00.001-08:00

Priest-Kings,

I do not ask you for guidance. I do not pray from my knees. I stand in the shadow of the Black Sardar at this, a moment of truth. I speak to you directly. Understand that I do not ask you for permission at this juncture, for any endeavor I choose to undertake. Understand, too, that my transgressions are not directed at you, but at those claiming to speak in your stead. I ask that you do not take offense. I do what I must. Do what you must. I do not fear you. I will not bow. I shall defeat those presuming to be your emissaries. I will not stand by while this fable of fate unfolds, accepting all without question. It is with a clear conscience that I move forward. Mark my name.

Lo Szol, Civititas Aria.

Chaining the Giant

2008-02-18T11:32:00.000-08:00

You are Giants. Bow to no one. It was a simple message, scrawled in red paint boldly across the sheer, white wall of the Cylinder of Initiates. The delka, painted under cover of darkness on that same wall, was long since white-washed. This message, a message for the People of Ar, was done with an indignant attitude, at midday, facilitated by a well-rehearsed scuffle on the avenue that fronts the power base of the White. Punches were thrown, guardsmen distracted, and a crowd of apparent onlookers shielded the front wall of the Cylinder while the defacement took place. It was meant to be a blow to the dogmatic, the carnivorous, shaven-headed fear-mongers of the Temple. Let them see that superstitions and pragmatism will not prison all low men in cages of their own fear. Giants. The men of Ar are Giants. Lay your chains upon them at your own peril.
Most disturbing is that the inevitable has occured. A serpent's hiss tells the tale of more than happenstance, but of intricate orchestration. As chaos begins to reign, the strings of the puppet masters pull tauter. The mob rule may play directly into the hands of the elite. On one hand, it is a fine thing, a just thing, for the People to proclaim sa'ng fori, but I wonder if the chains are about to break, finally, or simply be replaced by something far more constricting, pervasive and inescapable.

Retribution, Not Rivalry

2008-02-14T12:45:00.000-08:00

Much like the arsons early in the year, the assassination of Administration and greed-merchants alike continues unchecked. Scarcely a hand goes by without another of my magisterial peers or some shamelessly wealthy fop being cut down. The latest were displayed publically, a disturbing notion if it is to continue. Deserved or no, people have a way of becoming desensitized to such spectacles. Eventually, the longer they must pay an unjust tax, they will need more to still their wrath. If the Initiates do not stir them to violence, the pot may boil over all on its own, cutting a swath in every direction until just one is left. I struggle with the idea of a Ubar that is not Marlenus, but a Ubar is needed. It is difficult to be the first in a city, moreso in the finest city of our world. Who would ascend such a throne? Who could bring together all factions, summarily quieting the voice of the White and the influence of the power-brokers? Perhaps the killing will not stop until every stone in the Plaza of the Central Cylinder is soaked in the blood of those culpable. They are not all bad men. It is my hope that the ones lining the pockets of Assassins are discriminate.

"These things tend to be circular," I said to one of my constituents, a vendor whose food I favor in the Great Square.

"Indeed," he quipped. "The last time around it came full circle and bit you in the ass."

His comment was crude, referring to the day I was brought down by a Killer's bolt not a handful of feet from the spot we now stood, but his observation was astute. I did not gainsay him. When your peers are falling one by one around you, it is an easy thing to imagine your turn is inevitable. This is my city, however. I do not fear them. It is my hope this is the justice of retribution and not rivalry. To replace the vacated filth with ones dirtier still would be...heartbreaking.

Once Upon a Time

2008-02-06T16:44:00.000-08:00

What claims pure
Is driven & un-riven
Whole & focused
The Locus of Control
Knuckle-bones & Frail frames
Slit-throat screams
Endeavor to tame the masses
What passes for integrity
In the first of all cities
A mass mind interpretation
Integration, wholesale assimilation
Open wide for another mouth
Full of sunshine, promises & hope
Swallow, follow, grope
Swing from the rope
From which we all will hang
Tomorrow is today
What we sing we sang
To your ambivalence

Once upon a time.

She Hates Me

2008-02-04T09:15:00.000-08:00

"I hate you," she said to me.
I collared a woman last night. She has been mine, in a legal sense, for several hands. I administered discipline to her one afternoon in the Office of the Magistrate of the People and then allowed her to dress herself, dismissing her as if she were free. In fact, she had made several verbal and physical gestures of submission which I accepted before she was sent off. That afternoon, I drew up her Writ of Enslavement and filed it away, but she was already owned. Not long after that day, I wished to be served wine by my property. I had her picked up during her afternoon shopping and brought to me. She, believing herself a free woman, was not pleased to be summoned in such a manner. She protested, scandalized, but she served my wine nonetheless.
On another occasion, it occurred to me to exercise rape privileges over my property and I summoned her once again. It was then she chose to stick my thigh with a poison pin to 'teach me a lesson.' As a free woman, of course, it would have been perfectly within her rights to defend herself against the unwelcomed, unbidden carnal advances of a man. Her convenient denial of submission, however, did not excuse her behavior. She was at that time, as I have illustrated, a slave. When I was free of the effects of her poison, I reminded her of the things she said, of the things she did which, incontrovertibly, supported by the notarized Writ of Enslavement, made her a slave.
I did not, at that time, choose to collar her. Arguably, it would have been a wise moment to do so, but it pleased me to keep her throat bare. For several days, I left her in the garments of a free woman. I kept her wrists shackled. She protested her treatment and I allowed it. Eventually, she was given something else to wear, something more appropriate to her station, and her wrists were unshackled. She held out hope, I think, that I might tire of the 'game' and free her, returning to her the possessions she once owned, the funds in her name on the Street of Coins and, most importantly, her freedom. As long as her throat remained bare, she convinced herself that this was a temporary situation.
She was wrong. It was never a temporary situation. When she wakes this morning and crawls to the mirror, her hands will go to her throat. She will pull at the collar locked securely on her neck. It is functional, the sort of collar I am fond of. Heavy, simple, and obdurate, it has a large ring welded at the front for the attachment of a leash or chain.
She hates me. I permit her to do so.

Checks, Balances, Rituals & Murder

2008-02-02T13:14:00.000-08:00

"Nero was corrupt," Martius opined. "He got what was coming to him.
"I won't argue the point," Callidorus concurred, "but it is troubling to have the mark used in that fashion."
"Gah. Fuck 'em," Martius shot back. "Let the Guardsmen worry over it, chase after shadows."
I walked into the small tavern, hidden in one of the meaner warrens of the Street of Brands District. The blonde slave, Noemi, not yet collared but fully imbonded, was at my side. The men grunted their acknowledgment of me as I sat around the table, but continued their conversation. They paid little attention to the blonde girl, which was indicative of the importance of this meeting.
"It is troubling that an Assassin would do something so ritualistic," Callidorus answered.
"Well it certainly wasn't one of the bald ones," Martius replied. "Unless they specified it was done that way."
"We cannot afford to let up," I interjected. "But we must be prudent in our activities."
"Prudent?!" Martius answered sharply. "Are we not reactionaries?"
"Martius, calm down," Callidorus answered. "There is no need to be rash."
"We must increase our activity!" Martius asserted.

"I agree that we must continue," I answered, "but I, for one, do not wish the murders of Bronte or Valois pinned on me."
"There is no proof!" Martius exclaimed.
"They will not need proof," I answered. "The mark will be enough."
After a time, we agreed it was time to adjourn and I bid the fellows well, bringing the blonde girl at my side up by her hair. I was stopped at the door by Callidorus.
"I cannot control Martius, Poet," he said to me. "He is angry. He lost much with the last increase."
"I am doing what I can," I promised. "I intend to file another repeal and then I will apply for restitution on behalf of the People."
"No, no..." he started. "Nobody here blames you. I did not mean to...let us talk another time."
Callidorus paused and glanced at Noemi. He offered the girl a smile and then wished me well.
There was much on my mind when I left the tavern with the unmarked door in the Street of Brands District. Men like Martius are well-meaning, but hot-headed. It is something we cannot afford. The memory of our faction and the respect it garners has been usurped by others, repurposed. It is troubling. The murders are, doubtless, connected. The People's endorsement is tenuous at this point. They will rally as the tide starts to turn against the elite or they will retreat to a pragmatic, 'safe' stance, putting further faith in the establishment that abuses their trust. Either extreme is troublesome; blind ambivalence or a violent revolt, but I have come to understand the path between two extremes is no solution. Society requires checks and balances. Every man has his part to play, his performance to deliver. It is paramount to discern just where I stand on this stage, before the entire house comes down in a pile of shattered timbers.

Behind the Mask

2008-01-28T10:38:00.001-08:00

There was a party at the Savant Estate a few evenings prior, a masquerade ball. Though I was invited personally by the scion himself, and endeavored to go, I found myself working late into the evening. If pressed, I would admit that I was not entirely keen on attending. I felt I would be a little out of place. I am, of course, of the Poets. At such gatherings, men of my caste are often sought to recite something topical, providing one of many diversions for the guests. At the moment, however, I am also the People's Magistrate of the city. The invitation was extended to that Szol of Ar, the fellow which wears that particular mask. I am between two worlds and the longer I remain there, the more out of place I feel in both of them. How does one attend a soirée for Ar's elite and continue to be regarded as the voice of the People? It always comes back to the concept of fact and appearance. It is as important to appear ethical as it is to actually be ethical. How would it appear to a Weaver or a Saddle-Maker or a Leather-Worker that is skipping a meal to satisfy the demands of the latest unjust levy if his 'voice' is supping on choice viands amongst well-heeled company? There are those amongst my constituency that already harbor doubt. "The list of the corrupt, does that include you, Magistrate?" The outward appearance, these days, seems to outweigh the inward truth of things. Circumstance presumes guilt.

The delka made an appearance again, this time in the chests of two men seen leaving the very party I declined to attend. While I can be reasonably certain that recent appearances of that mark in the Anbar and on the sheer face of the Cylinder of Initiates were painted by members of an anarchist faction, I would bet heavily against the Brigade having anything to do with the murders of Nero Bronte and Tiberius Vilios. It just goes to show that Scribes of Accountancy and a Poet named Szol are not the only people cognizant of the power of appearances.

Dogmatic

2008-01-24T11:02:00.000-08:00

The zealots increase in number as the days pass, as the men of the White chant, ring their bells, collect their gullible adherents. The Initiates are just one more group of players in the political arena, always with their own agenda which is, like any other powerful group, the acquisition of further power. They seem to enjoy parading through the Great Square at the tenth or eleventh ahn when much of the city is seeking a midday repast and a bit of company with friends. All too convenient, all too calculated. They have no need to preach to the masses. Their very sight is enough to recruit the beguiled and fearful into giving their sermon for them. "Repent!" I have heard. Repent? What the fuck would I repent from? Or for, for that matter. Ring your bells, anoint your heads, and choke the city with the smoke of your incense. I am not of a mind to listen to you. And I will do what I must so others might think for themselves. Do not call me a heathen, nor a hypocrite. I am Szol of Ar. I am of the Poets. I honor the Priest-Kings. I honor the traditions of my city. I do not, however, subscribe to the pervasive dogma that systematically strips a man of his opinion, his free will, and his pride. I do not care if he is an Initiate or an Administrator. I do not care, even, if he is a Ubar.

We must expose and close the doors on those that try to strangle and mangle the truth.*

[*Zack de la Rocha]

The Science of Reaction

2008-01-20T13:46:00.000-08:00

Once set in motion, the outcome of events are often unpredictable. Every action will prompt a reaction. There are theories about this phenomenon, claims that it is more than common sense, but an inevitability predicted by science. I am not a Scribe, but these ideas are not entirely beyond my ken. Most of the things people do or say, in fact, seem to be said or done precipitating a desired reaction. The neglected slave girl acts out that she will be disciplined, thus reminded that she is owned. In a dual, one combatant feints in hopes his rival will strike, thus opening his guard for an offensive attack. Such feints are used by men as readily in Kaissa as they are in mortal combat. Animals, too, are bound by the science of action and reaction. A larl will threaten with a fierce roar, done to strike fear into his prey's heart, thus freezing it in place for a swifter, more efficient kill. Certain predatory fishes, grunts and sharks, are said to show themselves at a distance, drawing one's focus to a spot in which they abruptly submerge, only to deliver the attack from directly below. I do not know if that is true, but it is a frightening thing to consider the intelligence of such beasts, the calculative ability, the innate, instinctive understanding of such sciences.

Men have fallen. More, I think, will fall. Their actions prompting reaction, some calling it justice, others calling it murder. One further thought; corruption necessitates collusion, but collusion predicates betrayal. Greed knows no bounds and breaks all ties.

Poetry in the Margin

2008-01-16T08:28:00.000-08:00

Titus went swimming
In the Founder's sparkling pool
Lucid fountain waters
Spoke a cold and crimson truth
Just days before his anointment
His appointed bloody end
Two accountants lost their footing
Their last entries left unsent
Vengeance for the Isle of Filth
Or justice for a cause
Rumor rampant painted far
And wide upon the walls
And on the lips and tongues
Of people, dispirited not tame
Who falls next, they ponder
For whom the blade is named.

Equations of Corruption

2008-01-14T07:40:00.000-08:00

It is just a ledger.
There are names, dates, notations, amounts of payments, amounts in arrears, accounts payable and receivable - in short, precisely what a ledger should contain. Not much is coded in the ledger and the code that is there is not so cryptic that it cannot be readily deciphered. It was in the lockbox left to me by Ibrahim, the large southern man I first encountered at the party for Bonnane. After the news of two more dead in the ranks of the Magisterial Offices, I was compelled to finally look inside the box. I wonder now what, if anything, I might have done. I wonder if I would have done anything. I think, perhaps, I should say something to the others that are named in this ledger. I do not think it is necessary, however, with Bonnane and the two that followed him into the City of Dust already expired. It does not take a mathematical genius to sort out the equation. Someone, an individual or a collection of individuals, has taken exception to the conduct of a select group that, unfortunately, happens to be counted among my peers. One would hope those that have this coming to them know precisely who they are.
It would beg the question 'why?' on several levels. Why was the attempt made on my life? If, of course, it was truly an attempt at all. Why was I given a front row seat to the execution of one Magistrate and what appears to be a guidebook to the next in line to fall? I have some of those answers. I have had them for some time. At least, I think I understand. The weather in Ar is regarded as temperate, but when it rains, it pours. Like any other city, great or small, the detritus, blood and filth accumulates in our gutters. Something has to wash it all away.
Coincidentally, just a few evenings prior, I spoke with my own provocateur. She has made progress and she, too, has a list of names, but I do not know if this list of names coincides with those in the ledger provided by Ibrahim. I will have to meet with her, speak with her in confidence. Something tells me this is beyond the scope of my Office, but something greater tells me it is not beyond the domain of my Citizenship.

The Waiting Hand comes early

2008-01-08T08:30:00.000-08:00

There are a dozen Passage Hands in each year. After the twelfth of these, we recognize the Waiting Hand. It is still quite far off, nearly a full season until the Spring, En'Kara, but I find myself tending toward a pensive demeanor earlier and earlier each year. I think it is the cooler weather, the way we huddle in our cloaks, heads down to avoid the wind, minding the puddles left by the cold rains. It affords us time to ourselves even amidst others. We resist this, of course, being men of Ar, scoffing at the chill by labeling it 'brisk' or 'lively.' We continue to dress our sluts in as brief an attire as the weather will reasonably allow. There is no denying, however, the propensity for self-reflection during this time of year. Many cities will distract themselves from the true nature of the Waiting Hand, allowing their slave girls to run amok just one day before, perhaps justifying the practice as a fitting way to close the year. 'Let the bitches run wild today,' they say to themselves. 'Tomorrow, we will observe the Waiting Hand.' They are wrong, of course. The proper time to celebrate Kajuralia is closer to the Love Feast. It is a festive time when games and races are often sponsored. Men are better disposed to a temporarily unruly girl when the wine is flowing freely and there is a spirit of joy in the air. I prefer to spend the day before the Waiting Hand painting the door to my residence white, having the branches of the brak bush fetched to ward off the ill-omens. It is best to leave the poison of the past in the past and start each year fresh. I am rambling, with far too much on my mind.
The transition from vending whores to investing a greater interest in the Braided Whip has been largely successful. Though the duties of the Magistracy keep me occupied far more than most would deem reasonable, Darwin has shown himself a capable enough proxy at the tavern. Elise supervises the women, a duty she is well-qualified for due the nature of her past owner's business. I would prefer, of course, to be more intimately involved with the running of the tavern, but I have come to understand that the duties of a People's Magistrate, when the overall population of the city is vastly skewed to the lower castes, is nearly an insurmountable task for one man - at least a man of my background. There is a reason, I think, Magistrates are commonly of the Scribes. It is fitting.
The greatest reason for this far-too-early bout of self-reflection is the real lack of anger or even open indignation on the part of my peers. Just a few months prior, they seemed poised to revolt, to stand up and demand their due, equitable representation for the taxes, fees, and fines assessed against their incomes and properties. They have apparently accepted their fate, having been shown their place. Salt, I know, is in the city. The tax is, therefore, unsuitable and improper. I do not have the proof to pursue it further. I would challenge it, demand it be repealed as is the right of my Office, but it would fall on deaf ears. The sharks and profiteers, extortionists and black market dealers have already moved into Ar to prey on a population resigned. Talena does not stand upon the dais beside Myron, Polemarkos of Temos, and Seremides, the Captain of the Guard, informing us that Lurius, fat tarsk of Jad, has our Home Stone clutched in his swollen, sweating fingers, but the lack of ire in my brothers and sisters, scorned citizens of Ar, brings those memories far too close to the front.
Perhaps it is time that I step down.

My captive begs to be fed

2008-01-07T18:43:00.000-08:00

"My victory over you is something I will savor," I said. "I will not conquer you all at once. I will take my time with you. I will completely devastate you and remove your defenses entirely."
My captive has has resigned herself to her fate over the last hand. Having not eaten in better than five days, given only water, she begged food. "I am hungry, Master," she said to me. Understanding that her refusal to beg for food would only get her strapped to a Physician's table with a funnel in her mouth and a tube down her throat, she crafted her words and her mien carefully to avoid that indignity. I was not unaware of her behavior, nor bothered by it. I do not require her, at this moment, to be genuine. She is, within reason, allowed recalcitrance. She is permitted to struggle, to reconcile her fate. There are limits, of course. If she becomes bothersome or shrill, it is a simple thing to gag her. Too, I am not completely averse to putting the belt across her ass at this stage. I am simply in no hurry. She is on my schedule. Her wrists remain shackled and she continues to wear the same garment she wore on the day she was chained. I have, of course, altered it significantly. The skirts of her robes have been shortened. The sleeves have been completely removed. Though I have allowed her to retain the slippers, she has been denied veils. It has not occurred to me to be cruel to her, but I do not intend to be gentle. She will learn what she is. She will learn, too, what I am.

The Progress of Six

2008-01-02T08:01:00.000-08:00

Six Girl seems to be progressing nicely at the Capacian House. I am well aware of the rigors of her training and she does not complain much, making mention of her tribulations only when prompted to do so. In the last passage hand or so, the effect on her physique is starting to show. Like most bath girls, she is getting leaner through the middle. Her arms and legs, too, have started to take on some swim-specific definition. I am assured, too, that her cardiovascular health and respiratory limits have been steadily improving. She seems determine to succeed, though she recently came to understand that her success might ultimately lead to her sale. Her training at the Capacian is something of a trial period. She is a beautiful girl, there is no arguing that point, but she must demonstrate her endurance while learning an entirely new skillset. Early comments on her progress indicated she had the desire to learn, but questioned her strength, both physical and emotional. The most recent notes I have received from Andreas, one of the men overseeing her training, judge she has about a sixty-five to seventy percent chance to complete the program. Her fitness, I am told, is commensurate with expectations due the time she has spent training. She has proven, mostly, her determination in the face of adverse conditions. She completes the lowest tasks assigned to her competently and does not complain. The only reason she is not one hundred percent assured of finishing the program is that most girls that get this far fail in the last months. It is a matter of statistics, I am told.
I have given her some responsibility in managing my shackled captive as well. I can hardly have the woman chained to the floor of the main room at all hours of the day, so I have decided to put her on the second floor in a room with Six. In her chains, dressed in the robes she wore the day she was chained, Six was put to the task of bathing her. That will continue.
Another note - the captive, asked if she was hungry yesterday morning, indicated that she was. Six was directed to bring her a half-ration of gruel and put it before her. I fed the first morsel of it to her myself, pushing the dollop adhered to my finger past her lips and teeth. I could tell by the tension of her jaw that she considered biting me like a recalcitrant animal. Fortunately, she did not. When she was told she was permitted to address the remainder of the bowl herself, without the use of her hands, of course, she scoffed and disdained to eat another bite. She will come to regret that decision.

Captive Audience

2008-01-01T08:22:00.000-08:00

Just a little pin prick.

I let my guard down for a moment and found myself stuck by the poison pin of a woman. Noemi, to be exact. The day had not gone the way I had envisioned. You see, I own this woman. I have, in a legal sense, owned her for some time now. Several hands prior, nearly two passage hands to be more precise, she had committed several actions befitting a slave girl. Six of them that included, but were not limited to; face-stripping herself in the presence of a man. She was told on that day that she was owned and confirmed that she understood the fact before I dismissed her from my presence. Of course, she would have said anything to get out of that office that day, but it does not change the severity of what occurred. That day, I took the time to draw up her Writ of Enslavement. I had it signed and notarized and filed the document in the appropriate places, including the Hall of Records of Ar.

But the pin prick...

I had been forewarned of this woman's poison pins and, of course, expected no less from any free woman. It was foolish of me to let my guard down. I had sent for her, knowing she would come to the Cylinder of Justice due her greedy nature and to sate her curiosity. The letter was delivered by a functionary of the offices and stated plainly that her 'immediate attention was required to discuss an issue of property.' She, herself, of course, was the property with which there was an issue. She was, collared or no, a slave girl living the life of a pampered free woman. I had allowed her to do so, giving her the freedom to leave after accepting her submission. It is a fine thing to tear down a woman's defenses and utterly devastate her in one grand gesture, but it is also equally delightful to let her have the length of the chain, so to speak, for a time. She knows she is shackled, but she allows herself to believe it is not so. 'There is no collar on my neck!' She tells herself. 'He would not dare to make me a slave!' She protests in the depths of her mind. All the while, she knows the truth. He would dare to do so. He has already done so. It is you, woman, that have to reconcile this. He is allowing you time to absorb the truth. How long will he give you before he simply pulls the net out beneath that wire you walk upon? Do you think you he would allow you this slack in the chain if it did not please him to watch you struggle?

I swam for a moment after being pricked.

My eyesight was clear, unclouded. I could feel the cool floor beneath me. I could see her crawling about me, taunting me. She chose this moment to speak to me. To protest my cruel treatment of her. I could not move, but I was completely cognizant. This was the toxin described to me by the Physician, Sertorius. Paralysis was induced, but consciousness was not forced away. She reveled in her small victory, but that victory would be short-lived. Whether it was the guilt of her conscience or somehow, inherently, she knew she could not run from me. She knew I would rouse from this and put the men and the sleen at my disposal on her trail. She had made a poor choice and tried to do what she could to reverse the misstep. She administered the antidote. Another pin prick that sent a sudden warmth through my limbs and torso. The movement came slowly, but she was not hurrying from me. She was saying her farewells. She was warning me....warning...me not to come after her. I pushed myself to my feet and called into the hallway. Her guard, Marcus, was there with her. I indicated I wished to speak to him. Though he is her guard, he is a citizen of Ar. There was no reason to refuse an audience with me, a fellow citizen, a magistrate of his city.
We spoke. I showed him the Writ to which he immediately admitted ignorance of his employer's indiscretions, and the level of them. He could not remain employed to her, a slave, any longer. He understood this woman had nothing at this point, that she was unable to tender his salary, were he even amenable to working for her, which he clearly was not. He agreed to furnish me with a list of her property and holdings, with the numbers of her accounts on the Street of Coins and other various assets and interests.
Noemi, two days later, would still be wearing the same robes as she wore that day. She would find herself chained at the wrists and shackled at the ankle in my Anbar District residence. She would, in time, be taught much more. She miscalculated. She is now my captive.

Sertorius; A Golden Dancer

2007-12-28T13:10:00.000-08:00

Sertorius was not pleased by my request. I found it intolerable to leave the Anbar or even the cul-de-sac in which my residence stands, but I needed the care of a Physician. He carried with him his usual pleasant demeanor and delightful couchside manner, scoffing at my resistance to walk my own indolent ass into a more 'proper' district where a thorough examination could be conducted. After having a slave of his apply some antiseptic oils, scraping it clean with a stirgil, he saw to the retaping of my torso. I mentioned to him that it was a bit tight for my liking, but he merely muttered about my posture and left the dressing as it was.
I had plans for that evening, a fête of some sort for one of the politicians of Ar, a man named Bonnane. It was not my usual choice of entertainment, to be certain, but the invitation came from one of my peers in the Magisterial ranks and I was resolved not to remain a recluse forever. It seemed as good a time as any to be seen in public.
Flame-eaters, wire-walkers, jugglers and the sort performed in the spacious hall. The wine flowed freely and musicians kept the atmosphere festive. I was seated next to a rather large fellow, a man of Tor judging by his coloring and choice of dress. His name, too, suggested a southern origin. "Tal to you, man of Ar," he said. "I am Ibrahim, Merchant of the Kasbah!" I responded in kind, though I was starting to think it was a bit premature for me to be out of doors or, at least, my first destination might have been somewhere less ebullient. I had allowed Elise to accompany me, and indicated that she should pay attention to the technique of the men playing the tabor and kaska. She was given the opportunity to learn to play different hand drums and when a chance to further her training arises, I see to it she makes the most of it.
Bonnane, the guest of honor and owner of the House and Hall within which we dined, seemed in good spirits. Jovial, in his cups, his eyes lit when a golden cocoon started to lower from the ceiling. I had assumed it was a gift of some sort and that gift would be a woman. Ibrahim, the apparent giver of such generous measure, exchanged a smile with Bonnane, confirming my second assumption. The first assumption, that the gift was a woman, was confirmed as the cocoon unfurled to a hammock and a tall female with dark hair, painted from forehead to toes completely in gold, stepped out. She danced for a time, an elaborately choreographed routine that removed veil after veil from her face. I was beginning to feel a bit uneasy and that was only increased when the man Ibrahim gained my attention, sliding a lockbox my way before taking his leave. I was about to protest, not comfortable with accepting this fellow's parcel uninformed as to its contents, but the dancer turned her attention to me. Crawling, she removed her veil, the last veil, as she met my eyes. She placed a coquettish finger before her lips and uttered 'shhh.' I saw a small blade spring from a bracelet at her wrist. She then turned on her knees, stood and spun back toward the dais where the guest of honor sat with eager anticipation. As the music swirled, she flung herself between the man's legs, slicing at the high, inner part of his thigh. In the next moment, she was spinning away from him and being hurried from the room. The time between crawling to my table and doing murder between the legs of the guest of honor couldn't have been more than a few ihn. Had she not shown me the blade, I would have been as oblivious as the rest of the room to what occurred. I did not remain at my table for long, instructing Elise to carry the lockbox left by the man, Ibrahim. There was a truth that was starting to unnerve me as I took my leave from the house of the recently deceased politician Bonnane. It was a truth of many layers. The scent of clove root was on the air. The woman painted gold was no dancer. Most disturbingly, I knew the Killer of the recently deceased politician Bonnane.

Resolution

2007-12-22T10:54:00.000-08:00

I never made it out of the cul-de-sac, having lost the desire to leave the sight of my Anbar domicile. The pull of sanctuary is strong and I've become a bit reclusive. In years past, I would have left for a time, forsaking the comfort of my city. Wanderlust is a strong pull. I have made a career of the vagabond life, but I have never considered walking away entirely. I could lose a year or two in the bazaars of Tor, I think. Donning the salwar and kameez southern men are often seen wearing, drinking the sweetened teas, learning the scents and cultural idiosyncracies of another city...all are appealing. I could venture north, instead, and revisit the mountain city of Thentis as a guest of Clark, of the House of Clark. Perhaps I would revisit, too, the notion of a companionship with Constance of the Vintners. She was young when her Father, a good man called Gerald, proposed the union. I had the glow of success about me at the time, I suppose. The Fall of Agamedes had just been staged in an outdoor amphitheater at the foot of the Sardar, a true world production. She was a lovely girl, a delightful, bright conversationalist and though it is not a requirement in such a relationship, I was assured by her hand maidens that she was not without beauty. She was simply too young. She deserved the chance, I thought, to mature a bit.
If not spicy, sweltering Tor or crisp, clean Thentis, there are a dozen other destinations that I feel a certain pull toward. Dawn on the road to Ko-ro-ba, Sunset on the Genesian Coast or the filthy wharf taverns in the Thassan Jewel, Port Kar, are all but a few. The low rolling hills north of Venna, too, with the groves of ka-la-na and olives viewed from a certain humble villa beg my attention. I know, however, that I will not be leaving. Not at the moment. If I am to see the world, I must first honor the duty I have to my city, to her People. I must gather the will to leave this lotus amongst the filth and show my resolve.

When I walk beside her
I am the Better Man
When I look to leave her
I always stagger back again

Once I built an Ivory Tower
So I could worship from above
When I climbed down to be set free
She took me in again

When she comes to greet me
She is mercy at my feet
When I see her bitter charm
She just throws it back at me

Once I dug an early grave
To find a better land
She just smiled and laughed at me
And took her blues back again

When I go to cross that River
She is comfort by my side
When I try to understand
She just opens up her hands

Once I stood to lose her
When I saw what I had done
Bound down and threw away the hours
Of her garden and her sun

So I tried to warn her
I turned to see her weep
Forty days and forty nights
And it's still coming down on me.

[Eddie Vedder. music from the motion picture Into the Wild]

Restless

2007-12-18T10:32:00.000-08:00

In his own uniquely verbose, but ultimately obscure manner, Habib confirmed what I already suspected. The shortage was not orchestrated in collusion with the suppliers in the Tahari. It would have been a stretch, in my opinion, to have implicated the fiercely independent Salt Ubarate of the Tahari. The tales of the revolt in the mines, the ascension of desperate men, throwing off the chains of oppression to seize the throne of one of the world's most important commodities is legendary. Call me an idealist. I am not jaded enough - yet - to think such men would be party to this level of conspiracy. I may be wrong, but I would rather risk feeling dejected in the future than carry the weight of cynicism. I was, too, given names that seem to implicate a small band of cohorts. One more piece of circumstantial evidence that does little but whet the appetite of curiosity and stir the glowing embers of a building anger. Soon, I am told, there will be proof.

It is difficult to remain patient, to contend with this necessary, but tedious immurement. The Anbar residence is a quiet, calm sanctuary in the middle of a vibrant & lewd district. I have ventured as far as the end of the cul-de-sac, and even accepted a few visitors, but it is not enough. I will take a walk this evening, venture off this once infamous porch where the doors are no longer red. I need the care of a Physician to be certain I am healing correctly. I do not understand such things as the mending of tissue and the setting of bones. Such things are best left to those qualified. If pressed, I will admit in these pages if nowhere else that I do not much like the notion that I have been 'silenced.' The last time I was in the Great Square, I was rent through and bleeding like a stuck tarsk, unable to utter a word. I am stubborn. I know this. I do not wish to give whomever was responsible the pleasure of having delivered my full comeuppance.

A Missive from Tor

2007-12-13T11:34:00.000-08:00

Noble Szol, Poet of Ar

I am devastated due the inability to render you timely assistance or, in lieu of such service, an answer to your dilemma. I will say, without the monumental vagary specificity would require, neither Aretai nor Kavar nor any tribes vassal are component to corruption on the scale your interview would imply. Look within the white walls for that which you seek.

May you always have water,

Habib of Tor

Duty; Responsibility

2007-12-12T17:15:00.001-08:00

For the first time since it happened, I left the house. I did not go far, of course, still heavily taped and finding it difficult to breathe or exert myself much. I made it as far as the front stoop, but even that seemed to irk Mathor to no end. Apparently, the fellow feels somewhat responsible for what happened to me in ther Great Square. I told him it was nonsense. He was not even in attendance, nor does he have any explicit duty to guard my person, only my assets. "You are not of the Warriors," he said to me.He did not say much more, nor did I press him. To get more than five words out of his mouth on any given topic, let alone a coherent sentence, is a noteworthy achievement. He was nonplussed when I pointed out that it would be rude to turn Rufus the Player away when the fellow left his usual place in an alley adjacent to Sixth Street just to keep our standing appointment. "This is my street. This is my city. These are my people," I told him. I have said as much to more than one slave girl on my chain in recent days as well. I will not cower indoors. The men of my city are as larls. We are tarns. We are no urts, nor are we helpless verr. I do not wish to be perceived as such, nor do I wish that perception to be applied to my peers of low caste. I would be attacked for standing, rather than mocked for crawling. Yes, you have scratched me. I have bled. I am still here. The Game, of course, took its usual route, with Rufus utterly decimating my attempt at an offense and completely shattering the notion that I could defend against his attack. He plays the Game in such a fluid, eloquent style, progressing with nuance rather than something so clumsy as 'moves.' I will likely never beat Rufus at the Game, but I have learned an incredible amount in a short period of time; little of it having anything to do with a board of red and yellow squares. Kaissa is motive and intent. At times, it is about the imposition of will. It is about defining a goal and drawing a map to reach one's desired conclusion. There are rules, prescribed ways of doing things, but each man's Kaissa is different than that of his peers. Some are blunt. Some are subtle. Some employ Spearmen and the Riders of High Tharlarion. Others employ Assassins. In time, I will know where they have hidden the salt. Regardless, I must stand and finish what I started. Lo Szol, Civititas Aria.

Missing Pieces

2007-12-06T06:17:00.000-08:00

It wasn't enough evidence to lay the blame at the feet of any one person or group, but it was enough to expose corruption at high levels. Were I permitted to finish the speech in the Great Square two nights prior, I would have encouraged the People to demand an accounting. The salt was still coming into the city. It was done efficiently. Quietly. Under cover of darkness. The Foreign Merchants had their scheduled deliveries, but the missing piece of the puzzle was to whom. On the last day of the Eight Passage Hand, I was fired upon; a warning shot that was meant to scare me off. Still, I continued to press. To make demands. To investigate. Two nights prior, the warning was somewhat more severe. The word 'corruption' was barely off my tongue when I felt one side of my body forced back. The pain was there, certainly, hot and white, throbbing and insistent, but it did not register immediately. My knees buckled when I saw the bolt protruding from my body, the blood quickly spreading out onto the fabric of my tunic. I wanted to speak. I wanted to finish the fucking speech, but my body wanted to crumble to the ground below. While the choice to stand is the domain of any free man, the ability to do so is sometimes compromised. I was aware of the shouting. And the screaming. It was an Assassin. In the crowd or on the rooftops, I do not know. I wanted to laugh. No, it was not funny. It would have been a rueful sort of laugh had I the courage to let it slip, but it hurt to breathe let alone speak. Laughing might have sent me into shock.
It was Savana's men, hirelings and thugs such as Mastavius that cleared the crowd and conducted me from the area. Not the usual sort of protection for a Magistrate of a city such as Ar, but I suppose I am not a usual sort of Magistrate. Elise was there. As was Portia. The Six Girl had the scent of the baths on her. Savana was politely scolding me for my foolishness. Her wealthy confidant, a recent recluse, was cautioning her, in turn, about some foolishness or the other. I remember seeing Tia the Baker briefly before her guard, Carl I think his name is, pulled her away. I don't blame the fellow. The job was not finished. There might have been another shot forthcoming. There was one in the crowd that searched for it. Perhaps many. It never came. It seems an evening of panic, a reminder of our humble place, was the purpose for this latest warning. There is still a piece to this puzzle that needs fitting. Until it is solved, I will draft the paperwork to repeal this tax for a second time. Whether the Administration is involved or not, it does not matter. There is salt. It is in the city. It will be found.
I do not intend to extend my convalescence in this clinic for more than the next few ahn. A fee cart is being fetched. The petitions, applications and other papers from the previous few days, too, are being fetched. I will have to rest, but it will be from my residence in the Anbar.

The Wisdom of a Player

2007-12-04T11:20:00.000-08:00

"The right move is wrong from time to time. You may play a perfect Game and still lose."

[Rufus the Player Month 9 / Day 3 / Hand 4 / 10,157 C.A.]

I Speak With Tellius the Younger

2007-12-03T10:11:00.000-08:00

"Where is Senecus the Younger?" I asked the functionary delivering the day's petitions, applications for license and other various paperwork that I find myself deluged with at the start of each hand. Senecus is the clerk that usually brings such documents.
"He did not report for work today, Magistrate," the man said to me as he turned the documents over for my perusal. His name was Tellius. He was also a 'younger.' His father served as a clerk for a Magistrate of one of the Districts. The Metellan, I think.
"Odd," I noted, thinking little of it at the time. "Tellius?"
"Magistrate?" he asked.
"Slip 1301, northwest corner of the Great Square," I mentioned. "I asked Senecus to keep an eye on the vendor. Did he mention anything?"
"The woman selling herbs and poultices and such?" Tellius nodded. "Yes. Said she seemed harmless enough. The people seem to be curious about her wares."
"Oh. Good to know. Run by Senecus' place later if you are able. Look in on him, would you?" I asked.
"Certainly, Magistrate," he answered.

I Speak Again With Lucius Verus

2007-12-02T14:18:00.000-08:00

"That is a dangerous Game, Poet," the tall, fair man dressed in the unlikely garb of a desert peddler said to me. I had not known he was in the House. Indeed, I had not known he was in the city.

"Lucius Verus," I acknowledged, looking up from my tea. "You were due to return to Lara."

"You place far too much trust in your informant," he said to me. "There can be no trust between the two of you."

"Was it so different..." I started, "...then?"

"That is completely different, Szol," he answered angrily, "and you know it."

"No. What I know is the stewards of our well-being are duping us, taking advantage of our lack of a real voice," I said to him. "Were our informants so reputable back then?"

"There was a foreign power, usurping authority!" he said, his temper rising.

"It is much the better to be subdued by one's brother than one's enemy then?" I asked him, returning his ire. I have not slept properly in better than a passage hand. It is starting to get to me and I am not always as much in command of my anger as I would like.

"No, of course not," he said ruefully. "But you are putting yourself in harm's way needlessly."

"That is not the first time today I was cautioned thusly," I nodded.

"Perhaps you should listen, then," he said to me. "To someone."

"You are a good friend, Lucius Verus," I said to him. "You know me well enough to understand that I will see this through."

"All too well," he said evenly. "All too well."

Prelude

2007-12-01T13:44:00.000-08:00

"Can she swim?" He asked me, he being a representative of the Capacian Bath House. The Pool of Blue Flowers is one of the most famous pools in Ar, in the world, in fact. It is a cool water pool, fragrant with the scent of veminium, after which it is named. The Pool of Blue Flowers was one of dozens at the Capacian Bath House.

"You approached me, fellow," I answered with a quiet smile, lifting my cup. We were watching the girl we spoke of dancing in the sands of The Braided Whip Tavern, which I own in partnership with a few others. "But to answer your question, I believe so."

"Before the offer is finalized, I would like to test her out," he said to me, lifting a hand to snap his fingers twice. Dahlia, a soft, lovely thing, hurried forth to refill his cup. "Put her through her paces in the water. See that she possesses the potential fitness necessary."

"I have no doubt she will meet or exceed your expectations," I answered, shooing away Dahlia with a dismissive gesture when she glanced up at me with an unspoken question. Dahlia is not a petulant thing, but she is a slave girl. She would need to be put to her belly and raped eventually. "You may, of course, put the girl through these tests to assure she is a good fit."

He nodded with a grunt as he watched Dahlia saunter off before returning his attention to me. "We need a new girl for the Pool of the Northern Forests," he intimated. "Am I wrong in detecting a certain fittingness?"

I let my gaze move back to the sands. The girl that sparked the man's interest moved and swayed. I suppose, after all of these years, there was a certain fittingness as he presumed. I nodded and said as much to him. "Long removed from her. Beaten from her, but latent. Certainly."

"You will, of course, be compensated during this time," he assured me.

"I will be certain to deduct that compensation from the price of her sale, should it result in that," I offered, assuring him in turn.

The Mystery of Free Women

2007-11-29T13:24:00.000-08:00

In many ways, the free woman is a greater mystery than the slave girl. That should be prefaced, perhaps. A slave girl can potentially be a delight to a man for the length of his life or, at least, several years of it. She is a conquered thing, constantly striving to please. She enhances her essential self for her owner's pleasure and at her owner's pleasure. If he wishes her to be literate, she will be beaten until she can read, write and speak intelligently on a variety of topics. If he wishes her to cook, she will learn his favorite dishes and also learn to anticipate what he might find pleasing to eat, providing that to him in hopes she has learned his palate enough to delight him with something new now and again. And she will, in time, on his schedule, not her own, reveal every nuance of herself to him. Yes, he may spend months dallying over her physicality. Memorizing every curve and valley, every scent and sensation her body has to offer, but eventually he will plumb her depths. He will want to know her intimately, because he owns her. She is his. It is true that some men do not wait more than a few ehn to tear down a slave girl's walls, baring her soul. And some never bother to do so at all. In general, most men will want full value whether the girl was purchased or otherwise acquired. They will own her fully and, in doing so, will know her. Her mystery, whether she believes it or not, will be known to him.

The free woman, however, remains a mystery. For some, that seems like a good thing. A quality. Something to strive toward. I think it is an emptiness, however. A lack of fulfillment. Without the bravery to step forward and admit what she is, what all women, in essence, truly are, she must content herself with being a mystery. Hidden behind veils, she is constrained by the laws and social mores of her city, the expectations of her family. I admit to observing them, wondering after them. What man hasn't caught sight of an inadvertantly exposed ankle and pondered what else lay beneath the heavy brocade? Having seen an errant strand of hair, loose from its pins, would not most men consider her mane? I think most would. I have done so. However strong a draw the mystery is, the free woman is not a female slave. It takes very little to draw one's thoughts from contemplating a free woman. The scent of a slave girl's perfume on the air or even the sight of such a woman walking in her short, revealing garment is generally enough to distract any man. It is no wonder such women are sometimes cruel to their sisters of the brand and the collar. Sexual congress with a free woman may be enjoyable. It might even prove to be an excellent way to spend one's time. Such relationships with slave girls, however, are guaranteed to be pleasing. If not the slave may be severely beaten. The free woman, normally, would suffer no consequence for being less than adequate. It would be, in fact, somewhat suspect if she were skilled at pleasing a man past the rudimentary mechanics of the act.

I saw two free women in the Teiban Sul Market last evening, each with an agenda. Lady Tia of the Bakers wished to have a discussion, the topic of which was never revealed. I told her my door was open to her. I will speak with her, I assume, before the end of this hand. Noemi, too, wished to speak of matters not thoroughly explored at our last meeting. She also wished to bestow gifts upon the Girl Six and Elise. I am a particular fellow when it comes to garmenting and accessorizing my property. Scheduling meetings for the remainder of the hand as my trip to market concluded for the day was not the only event of note last evening. The rivalry between Noemi and Tia was a rather revealing incident. Tiffs between free women are generally limited to such things as a pointed scoff or disdain, public displays like the refusal to greet one another or the aversion of eyes, coupled by a haughty lift of chin. Occasionally, insults are tossed lightly at one another, stinging little barbs that point out the supposed inadequacy of one another's behavior. Noemi and Tia, however, were anything but limited in their vitriol. It was the pointed dismissal of Noemi by the Baker, turning her back to the woman, that escalated the affair. As it was a squabble between women, it was neither my place nor my inclination to get involved. When food was thrown and a market basket full of ripe, juicy peaches was used as a weapon, I did step between them, cautioning them to act in a more proprietous manner. We were, after all, in a public place. Were they slave girls, I might have taken a quirt to each of their behinds. Not for squabbling, of course. Nobody cares that slave girls fight, so long as they do not inflict serious injury or permanently mar one another's appearance. When it moves beyond a squabble and becomes a distraction that, for example, might require a free person to divert his path to avoid their tousle, then correction becomes necessary. They are only slaves. Free women, however, are generally separated by their Guards and conducted home, that they do not further embarass themselves in public, that their mystery be maintained.