Preparation

I cut her hair again.

I did so once before, giving Jenny the moniker 'She' when we were in Jort's Ferry more than a year ago. I was more considerate about shape and style during that incident. I had intended for her to be seen then, just not as Jenny of Gor, once slave to a Tarnsman, once slave to a Builder. She would become 'She.' She had dark, short hair, cut in a short, but delightful style. It drew attention to the collar on her throat and the lines of her torso. I was pleased with the work that I had done. Last night, her hair was not cut for any aesthetic reasons. Since the time it was cut last, it had grown past her shoulders into a sleek, healthy mane. I bound up the ends in my fist and cut it, leaving her shoulders, once again, bare. I was not concerned about the aesthetics, neither the shape nor the style. It would be short. The ends discarded. I had a wealth of patience. Now, I am broke.

She is in the bowels of Samsara presently. There are only a handful of cells in that sub-level of the house, amid the pillars of the west foundation. It is scarcely frequented, but the events leading up to this were not unanticipated. The cell was prepared. There is bedding, fresh hay and an old blanket woven from the wool of the bounding hurt. Too, her name has been scratched upon the metal plate bolted to the bars. Past residents, occupants of that cell before her, were scratched off beforehand. Elise will be in charge of the day-to-day maintenance of the girl. Feeding her. Ensuring her hygiene does not become lax. That sort of thing.

"Can you handle this bitch?" I inquired.

"I think so, Master, yes. With a gag and a switch," she answered.

"You will be given a quirt," I informed her.

You can hold a woman's face in your hands and look directly into her eyes, telling her that she is owned, that it is futile to struggle. You can cuff her about the cheek, rattling her teeth as she is thrown to her side from the impact of the blow. You can beat her ass until she is striped from the back of her ankles to the top of her spine. Some, despite their apparent intelligence, do not learn. Some continue to manipulate, strategize and form agendas even when there is no rationality for it. Put them on half rations, assign them to modalities of she-quadrupeds, gag them, bind them, or command them to go about nude. None of it really matters. Some women will simply resist, refuse to be cognizant of their place. They need absolute proof that you own them. They will push, prod and test you. Debate, rationalize and qualify every action, incident and event in their life leading up to the moment of confrontation. 'Make me,' they seem to be saying. What they fail to understand is that you are not on their schedule. They are not entitled to goals or aspirations that are at cross-purposes with your own. They are, in the end, animals. Chattels. Beasts. In a word, slaves. If they continually veer toward obstinance, recalcitrance, and the folly of testing the patience of the one who owns them, the options left to a responsible owner are considerably reduced.

The Burning Question

originally posted March 29, 2007

We are well into En'Kara, nine days in to be exact, and it seems the revelry of the first hand has quieted down at last. Of course, the violence in the Garden District, the seemingly random murders and arsons, did its part to quell the excitement of the new year. I heard tell of a toy-maker's shoppe in the Central Cylinder area burning down as well. One could imagine the vacant stares, the silent screams of the dolls on their ledges, never-to-be purchased by some doting free woman for her daughter. How the little girl would have clutched that miniature facsimile of the woman she might one day become, in small slippers and brocaded robes, many veils to obscure her face. But the dolls sat still on their shelves, the flames devouring them, lick by hot lick. The toys of young lads would have faired no better. A wooden gladius would be ready kindling for the rest. It would glow hot and then crumble to ash in time, never to feel its hilt in the awkward grip of a young one emulating the Ubar or other such luminaries as Dietrich of Tarnburg. Will it continue unchecked?

Magistrate; Pastries; The Good Citizen

originally posted March 26, 2007

As of today, the sixth day of En'Kara, I am the Magistrate of the People. I may now add that to the growing list of roles that I fill; Poet, Playwright, Whoremonger, Magistrate of the People. I suppose it was no true feat to secure the office as I ran unopposed, but I am assured that at least one citizen, not myself, pledged a vote to put me in office. I received a nice bottle of Turian wine this morning with a note from the Lady Tamborn. She is of the Bakers. I like Bakers. They bake things. I am not much for pastries and the like, but it is not unpleasant to purchase a honeyed cake or some such thing for one's women now and again. Once per year or so. One must endeavor not to coddle them.

"Here is a bit of honeyed cake. Right then. Carry on."

Of course there are fellows that are wont to consent to every wheedle and every whine of their women. Scarcely does a slave have the icing licked from her lips before she is pleading for another taste. To each his own, but I cannot say that I understand it. Gruel is nutritious enough. And filling. It is designed to provide the nutrients a slave girl requires for the maintenance and health of her body. I cannot say that I am aware of it's taste, but I can aver that when I put the women on half rations they seem uniformly depressed. After a time, they will even beg for their full rations. That seems proof enough that it is palatable. Perhaps, to a slave, certainly a starving slave, it is even delicious.

I have finally finished the play, for which the first auditions were held the day before last. I have decided to call it The Good Citizen. As I suspected, with the first hand of En'Kara only now just ending, actors looking to fill the roles were sparse. I am confident the numbers in the coming days will increase. A second call for actors is scheduled for the end of this hand as well. I had thought one of the parts was well-suited to Phineahas, but I have not seen the fellow about for several hands. With the murders and arsons that have occured over the past three hands, I have started to wonder if the vagabond Story Teller told a tale that was taken the wrong way.

The Sleen; The Play; The Election

originally posted March 24, 2007

It will be a busy day today.

It is first light. I am on Aulus Street, at Samsara. The monster, Tasta, is with me. The last time she was here, she rooted around and sniffed at any room that was not locked. It is amusing, I admit, to see her wander in quite confident of herself, having discerned that she knows this place. It is easy to anthropomorphize such beasts, what with their expressions and attitudes, but it is hard to believe that there is any less intelligence behind that animal's golden eyes simply because she lacks the ability of speech. She's certainly vocal enough. I think even, at this moment, as I write about her, she is aware that I am doing so. Rather attentive, with her chin laid on her forepaws and her head cocked slightly to the left. Her ears, too, are perked. She is not to worry, however. I am not slandering her good name or even penning the slightest falsehood about her. Later this evening, I will send her after two of the girls; Elise and Cup. A simple, "Fetch Elise. Fetch Jenny" will do. From this domicile, she will move suddenly and swiftly to the other and compel both girls to return with her. The others will simply end their work days near Aulus Street and proceed directly to Samsara on their own. I have business in this district tonight.

I have yet to settle on a name or, indeed, to write the last few scenes, but I have put the notices up. Auditions for the next play begin this evening. There are two principle roles available and a few other minor, but important parts. It takes place in the Insula of Achiates. With the Waiting Hand just past and the festivities of the first hand of En'Kara still occuring, I have not had time to dress the set. Like the set of Agamedes, however, it will be spartan. It takes place entirely in one room of that cramped Insula. I generally start out with ideas for grand, sweeping epics, complete with elaborate set pieces and a cast of a hundred actors, the Priest-Kings know the stage has the capacity to withstand it, but in the end it comes down to the dialogue.

In addition to the business of the play, people will cast their votes on the Magistracy for which I have been nominated. It is still difficult to imagine that I would engage in politics at all, but I do have a belief that those of the lower castes deserve a voice that is their own. Their advocate should not be a disinterested party, chosen simply for the height of his caste. Their advocate should be one of their own.

It is time to start this busy day.

Graffiti

Vernal infernal
First day of the first turn
Novus Initium
No pardoned propitium
It burns
A furnace
An oven
Ashes left to feed the Garden soil.

Toil and trouble
There, amidst the rubble
Last Hand the blade drank from two
A quill-pusher left dead
A skin merchant's throat bled
The worm has turned
Piss and blood
And oh so much mud
No man is safe in his home.

Dew Drop
Dropping dew
Then the blade turned and dropped you
Erstwhile cup companion
Found Lucius abandoned
Pilfered and poked and run-through
Eighteen days in
It started and continues anew.

Are there osts in the alley?
Black rain in the valley
Of the narrow and twisted
Should-be-resisted avenues
Brush the sing-song from your shoulders
There's your pride before the fall
It is a murder by numbers
That humbles you all.