Gorean Confessions - February 18

Anonymous Assassin

I confess that I have been either the direct murderer, or accomplice to 4 murders in the last five days.

Some of the murders are known to the city, some are not, and never will be, aside from this instance.

I have plotted and conspired with the citizens of the city to do harm to it's other citizens.

I know many of your secrets... and if you think I don't know yours, then its probably you Im talking about.

I will be watching you, my fellow Arians closely, for there is more to come.

***

Anonymous Woman - Don't Cross Me

I've always been the vindictive type. Do not cross me. I will get you, it may not be today, it may not be tomorrow ...it could be years from now. But I will get you.

Yes, my mother told me this was wrong, would poison my soul, whatever.

I am still the vindictive type. And the older I get the better I get at it.

Oh sometimes it's just subtle things. A carefully planted bit of gossip, a stolen moment with someone's companion, a false ego stroke.

But sometimes it is planned...extensively. And as I watch it unfold it is like watching a well orchestrated play upon the stage.

And I of course have my willing accomplice who shares my devious mind in more ways than one. We have always been close and for this particular plot he was more than willing.

You see...I was insulted. I won't go into the details but the accusations were highly unflattering and not something I wish to be public knowledge even though...it was true.

So I have sought to make the family pay...with a virgin. Oh I have picked her out, she is perfect. Absolutely unsuspecting. And he, my co-conspirator, will seduce her ...easily. He will woo her and make her love him. He will promise companionship and children. And once he takes her virginity, and he will, he will dispense with her without second thought. And she will be a blight on that family's good name.

People really shouldn't cross me. The plan is already in motion.

***

Anonymous - The Breaking Point

It's been happening for a while now, but I've been doing the best to control it.

My house..hah. I would prefer unity within it, but I would get more luck not getting blue-flamed for some of my inventions, or having one of the tavern regulars not smack one of the girls when they're displeasing. My companion and her pregnancy are advancing, but she has been withdrawing within herself. The FG..if she thinks she's fooling me with the murderous glares she gives the companion. My final..the blonde gift..she's coming out of her shell, and that pleases me.

What's been disturbing me is when I get the thoughts of fire and of blood. It starts on the Street of Brands and expands out. Everywhere I look, I see fire..I smell the coppery twang of blood. It is reminiscing of the final days of Larl and quite frankly it disturbs me.

I pray..and I do not do much of this..with no belief..I pray to the Kings and to Odin that there is no repeat. I cannot start over again. I refuse to start over again.

Somewhere out there, there's this tree with star-shaped fruit; and the fruit represents an unbreakable connection. So as long as you and your friends carry good luck charms shaped like it, nothing can ever drive you apart. You will always find your way back to each other. - Aqua "Kingdom Hearts - Birth By Sleep"

***

Melisande's Confession

It was maddening waiting for him.

I knew he was going to arrive, because he always did on the nights he told me. This strange, dark man in my employ. He would not be stopped, he would not speak to others, and he would always appear silently beyond the reach of my guards. As I sat at my desk, the lids of my eyes beginning to get heavy, I felt a breath on the back of my neck from his exhalation as his expansive chest grew behind me. I did not turn, as was my first reaction. I merely sat where I was, still, my quill now ceasing from its scratching as I felt the kiss of my own soft scarf upon my neck. He, doubtless, had brought it with him and was holding it up to his face. He brought it every time, so that I might hold it when we spoke. Then, he would take it with him for reasons that should've disturbed me, had I not known the nature of his secret cravings. We are all made from the same dust.

He never acted on those desires, for to do so would be death for him. Death for me. A bringing down of an entire people. I saw him fight against it as, at times, he would simply stare at me during our meetings, saying nothing, but saying everything with his silence. We would have brief exchanges with those long pauses.

“You're reporting on the situation with the Captain of Port Kar, I assume?”

“Yes,” said he. “That is also why I have come.”

“Then tell me, what did you find?”

“Do you use lavender in your scented oils, my lady?” he would then ask, not answering my question.

“It is not for a plainsman to know what a high lady uses in her bodoir.”

“I did speak with him.”

I never could see his face. It was not permitted upon the contract. It was the way of the men of the Paravacii, and of the clansmen who practiced his art. I could see his courage scars, the very tips, red and peeking out near his shadowed eyes. I told myself I only wished to see his face so that I could remember a man long past, the Ubar of Cos, a man of the Kataii, whose breath carried with it the wind whipping across waves of sa-tarna. His dark skin. The flashing, bright smile of a nomad, always roaming. Always at home.

One evening, he beckoned me at the end of our conversation, towards the hearth. I stood, my guard not interrupting us, as was the command, but they would not leave us alone for long. I walked to him and he said, “I thought perhaps the light of the fire would drive out the shadows from within your veil.” He reached up. I did not move. His finger touched the tip of the poison needle, and he stopped, putting his hand down slowly at his side.

“Why?” I said, “Do you wish to see? It will not be good for either of us.”

“Because I want to know if you are as beautiful as I imagined you to be. I want to see your hair, my lady.” He then took my scarf. One does not ask a torturer not to take one's scarf. It is simply given.

I reached slowly for his hand with my left, touching his forearm. His eyes grew wide, and with my right hand, I slipped out of the confines of my robes, quickly, as might the ost, slipping its poison into its prey, a small needle of tassa serum. It went so effortlessly into his thigh muscle that I barely felt the resistance, and with a thud, he fell to the floor.

I let go of the breath that I had been holding, and shuddered with a wave of power that washed over me. I, the Ubara of Treve, standing over this man who had held me in a fearful, yet beautiful bondage simply with his timing, the darkness of his arrivals, and with the holding of my scarf.

I crept down like a she-larl, against the polished marble of my chambers until I was face to face with him. He was paralyzed, wide-eyed, watching me. Slowly, I slipped my fingers into the confines of my darkened veil and removed it. An avalanche of bright, creamy locks came tumbling down over my breast after I removed my hair pin, and my icy gaze regarded him who was powerless before me.

“Now, you have seen me,” said I. “And now, I will see you.”

And with that, my fingers slipped inside his leather mask, taking it from his face and tossing it over next to his head.

I wept at what I saw, so shocked in the revealing of his visage that I could barely speak. The tears that I wept fell from my eyes to drop upon the rivets of the courage scars that still decorated his cheeks. With trembling fingers, I replaced his mask. I stood and turned, repinning my veil, and walked back to my desk. In only a few ehn, he roused with a wrenching cry, refastened his mask, and like a mad man, he left my chambers, never to return.

***

Anonymous Physician

I'm born to the role of a healer, a member of the Caste of Physicians. I've worn green robes all my life, and my training, my education, the research I've conducted, they've all steeped me in the proud medical traditions of our world, and in particular, of glorious Ar.

I administer the Stabilization Serums. I treat wounded Warriors of our city when they return from the field of battle. I care for the old man and the child, the free and the slave. My Caste Brothers and Sisters are some of the few strangers before whom, out of medical necessity and trust in our art, a Free Woman will accept being face-stripped. All of these make me deeply happy, but one of my duties leaves me frustrated and saddened for reasons I can't fully comprehend.

The mixing and distribution of slave wine depresses me. I've had occasion to watch as my nauseating concoctions are given to slave-girls as their Masters watched. Annual doses are, of course, completely unnecessary; two or three doses of it over a slave-girl's serum-extended lifetime would be quite sufficient.

Once, I tried to prepare the stuff so that the taste was actually rather pleasant, to ease a bit of the wretched creatures' sufferings. I had feared the displeasure of their Masters, my customers, but it never came. The slave-girls, oddly, seemed to react to the drink just as miserably as before.

I reflected on this for a while, and concluded that perhaps the misery of a slave-girl in consuming a drink that should freeze her womb was not solely a problem of taste. As a Physician I examine slave-girls on a near-daily basis. I have seen the best the Street of Brands has to offer, and I have seen unparalleled physical beauty, gifts for dancing and training. But I believe that what infuses a truly supreme slave-girl is an elemental need to draw strength, love and life itself from her Master.

So, while I can't conceive of a worthy experiment to test this hypothesis, I suspect that those superb kajirae, those who live for closeness and affection from their Masters, are not solely nauseated by the bitter taste of slave-wine but more so by the bitter loneliness it enforces upon their womanhood.

In my heart, I confess that I see the warmth of a slave-girl's womb, accepting her Master's seed and nurturing it in love, as the deepest connection she can make with him. And in doing so, he plants a part of himself within her, possessing her at the very base of her womanhood. When she drinks slave-wine, a Master- for reasons that may be good and wise- withholds from his slave-girl that truest form of his essence.

But perhaps slave-girls hate only its taste, and perhaps I am a sentimental fool. But when I examine these things of beauty, and return them to their Masters, I'm saddened when I hand them a bottle of slave-wine.

I have not given this drink to my two slave-girls. Nor will I.

***

Curse of the Dark Man - Ice Bradley

I was collared as a working slave when 19

At 21 i had killed more than a dozen people

At 51 i lead an army to battle and war

At 91 2 weeks prior to the birth of my first child i accidentally killed my free companion and the unborn baby.

At 150 years i saw a kur rip my free companion apart before my very eyes.

At the age of 207 I became Ubar

At the age of 209 i let my first born daughter sail down the river in a small basket to the unknown as i didnt want my first heir to be female, same year i killed my companion also.

At the age of nearly 400 years i finally got my first heir when my son was born.

One day i think the tide will change and ill learn to adapt fully to city life, but perhaps my time is running out.

***

Tycho's Confession

It was the ugliest thing I had ever seen in a kennel.

For a man of my background, this is saying something. One who has kept sleen, or even tarks and wild tharlarion in kennels. But this creature was something else altogether ... something quite vile, and horrid.

"As you can see," said the slaver, "I am in need of some assistance."

The slaver was hunched over, on all fours like an animal. It was the only way a man of his considerable size could fit inside such a small space, after all. His meaty fingers clutched at the bars of his tiny cell, as if they might summon the strength to tear the indomitable steel from its hinges.

"I had no idea there was a new kajirus afoot," I told him. "I shall have to update the city records."

"This is no time for levity," he growled.

I stepped back and forth before the kennel, observing him. The gate was fastened shut; he was indeed in quite a predicament. Too, this muscular beast had the look of a captured larl, always more angry than afraid.

I tried my best not to show any external signs of my amusement, which was considerable.

"So, the girls finally managed to overpower you, did they?" I asked him.

"Of course not!" he yelled, clawing at the bars. "I crawled in here all on my own, I'll have you know!"

He lowered his head, almost instantly. This was not something to be particularly proud of either.

"And why," I ventured, "would you do such a thing? Wanting to experience how the sluttier half live, perhaps?"

The slaver did not look at me, but fixed his gaze at a spot on the ground as he spoke, "I was investigating ... some graffiti."

I turned my gaze to the far wall, on the other side of the kennel. There was indeed something written there, some Gorean letters scrawled by unpractised hand of a kajira.

"I had no idea you could read, slaver," I said, squinting towards the text. "I cannot read it from here, though ... what does it say?"

"It reads," he said, "the slaver has a nice arse."

"Well then," I replied, "it was surely worth all this trouble."

Then, without speaking, I went to fetch the master key from the slaver's office. As I unlocked the gate, he practically spilled out of the kennel and into a messy heap on the floor before me.

I helped him to his feet.

"Sir," he said, "let us not speak of this again."

I nodded.

***

The Honey Man

They say a slave has no power, lately I have found that to be so untrue. With the local honey merchant I have discovered I have a lot of power. It started out so innocently, I was passing through the market early one morning after having walked over to the House of the Knot to use the slave baths in the courtyard. When I passed by the honey merchant cart as they were setting up for the day, I could not resist pausing to look over the fresh combs of honey the man had laid out. They looked so succulent, dripping with golden sweet honey.

The man noticed my interest and of course thinking perhaps I might of been out shopping for my Master's house, was really nice in showing off his wares. Told me all about the differences in the combs of honey, how the bees of one kind were fed only the pollen of certain flowers so that the honey had a special taste and color quality. The more he told me about the honey, the more I wanted it. So like a good slave girl, I flirted with him. He ended up offering me a small sampling of his honey to which I took to like a hungry larl cub, putting the comb up to my mouth to suck the sweet golden treasure from its treasure trove of little hexagonal compartments. I even let droplets of the honey escape my lips to drip down my chin to the lush mounds of my breast, all for his enjoyment of just watching.

Needless to say, one thing led to another as things tend to do with unrestricted slave girls who wander around the city at times. And now, I regularly stop by the honey merchants cart on my way to either the slave baths or on my way back and my Master's house is well stocked with the finest honey in all of Ar.

***

From An Anonymous Serving Girl

I confess during the food shortage I poured leftover drink back into pitchers,using a sieve to make sure only the drink went back in, and uneaten rolls were put back into the breadbaskets. I even brushed a few off that fell onto the floor and served them to others, if meat was left, I cut it smaller and used it for soups, it was not in order to harm but to make the food last longer, and it did, not by much but it helped and I spiced the mead a bit more so that it would taste better when I thinned it with honey water.

I worried every day someone would find out and I would be punished, but no one ever noticed.