prevarication

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

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

One Night On Treasure Road

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

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.