Rediscovered Country

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

Two Turians in the Market

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Where better in the Southern Hemisphere to visit?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Removal

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

A Conversation Between Two Turian Free Women

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Women such as we," Philomena agreed.

Admission / Removal

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

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

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

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

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