Admission / Removal

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

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

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

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

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

The Wagon People & Fedor SIlas of the Physicians

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

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

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

I will seek him out soon.

A Conversation Between Two Turians

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Agreed," the Leather Worker concurred.

Reflections

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

Turia

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