The Wagon People & Fedor SIlas of the Physicians

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

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

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

I will seek him out soon.

A Conversation Between Two Turians

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Agreed," the Leather Worker concurred.

Reflections

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

Turia

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

Carnival

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.