What we do not know cannot hurt us

?


It is not only bred slaves whose destinies are crafted from their heritage. A slave born of slaves is to become a slave. Likewise it is the same of all Goreans. The caste system determines the fate of the children. A child born of a warrior is a warrior to be from the time of its birth, as is a merchant, a scribe or even a peasant. The caste of the sire is to be the caste of the child upon reaching majority. One can change their caste only by edict of a ubar and never does one take on a lower caste than they were born to. These tenets have not changed since the creation of parchment to write them down. There may be a cornerstone somewhere that bears the chiseling of it in stone.

There is a selfish tendency of people not to ask more than what they wish to know. Racselis was a physician by birthright. He followed in his father's footsteps albeit with a strange limp that almost dragged one foot in a crippling fashion. His specialization was the breeding of pleasure slaves. That is all anyone ever cared to know. It is the point that they stopped asking questions. No one ever asked what he had desired to be, what he wanted to do when he grew up. Because of that, his passion tainted all that he touched. Unrequited love. It is not only women that have a hellacious fury when scorned.

It would have been a lowering of caste to pursue his greatest dream. A life of simplicity as a weapon's maker would have offered him peace and contentment, but that would have defied a legacy. Instead he continued with the work his father had handed down, crafting the most glorious of creatures meant to serve. In his spare time he still dappled with his hobby. Speculation had rumored that long ago in his tinkering, he had combined a potassium derivative, and another ingredients with quite exciting results. It excited the Priests enough to exile him to Acresius. No one ever asks what happens to those consumed by the blue flame. It would be beyond the World's end that he would spend the rest of his life paying restitution. There in the imposed seclusion of his laboratories, his true brilliance would surface. He would find a way to combine his profession with his desire.

poor little widow to be

Those that patronize the physician's 'shop' come in a variety of flavors and colors like candy. Within the wrappers holds delicious little treats just waiting to be devoured.

Detre was one of the copper bit kind, you can get a whole bag of them for next to nothing. He was a kanda junkie. As thin as a satarna straw from selling everything he had for 'one more fix'. He would beg, brrow or steal for his habit and more often than not it was the latter. You could find him in the alleys barebacking wealthy magistrates who wanted something scandalously different.

Twitching, ticking, constantly scratching at the imaginary itches that seemed to infest his frail body, he had come in just before midday. No sooner than the door had eased behind him he had drawn out his silver ladle and flint striker. Sorticles was livid, grabbing him by the scuff of the neck like a gianni to toss him back into the street. Not however before he relieved the boy of his coin and tucked a new packet into the small pocket beneath his belt.

The scenario almost ran Lady Olivieta over when she arrived. Poor dear, she's had such a difficult time of things as it is. She was a three time widow, king's rest their souls. The first had taken a tumble from his tarn. Broken strap on the saddle and all. Had it waited a few moments more before it snapped he would have died instantly, instead he had lived shattered for almost two hands. The second and third mates expired under more mysterious circumstances. One choking on his own tongue, perhaps an allergic reaction to something he ate. The other seemed to have a latent respiratory disorder. He stopped breathing in the middle of the night. And now her latest mate was suffering from a spell of sleep apnea. It seemed neither could find peace in slumbers. Lady Olivieta had come for a sleeping potion. Such a worrisome little thing, she plied the healer with questions. How much is safe to give without worry of overdose? One? Ahh then she would take three, one never knew if it could get lost or one of the staff pilfer a packet.

I'd asked if she needed anything else. It was a petulant little sigh that came with the request. I was such a graceful little pretty. He would so enjoy having me serve tea.

sentiment rompu

compassion severed at its core
there is no remorse
watching the writhe of the last breath
breathed in rattling gasp
there is no ear for the whimpering
pleas to fall upon
no change of destiny
that will suddenly wake you
from your mare
make you inhale sharply
with quiet whispers
it was only a dream
it was only a dream
no fingertips response
that finds or offers mercy
along the life flow in an artery
only curiosity if it will bleed
as prettily as the one before
just a rhthym of pulse
a lullaby so maddeningly soothing
that I wish it to stop
the thundering
and the final snap
that brings silence with it
and peace
~hers

Feast

Gathering cradling
clutching with care
I held him close,
as close as I dare
I ran my fingers
through the dark mane
twirling a lock
around my fingers again
sliding it back
and tucking it tight
I cleared his vision,
I cleared his sight

All my words
caught on the tip of my tongue
my wants, my needs
remained my own
for this moment
this moment I live
I wanted to reach out
I wanted to give
the shivering creature
I held close to me
I curled him to my heart
to set him free

slit open my ribs
slit open my skin
into the warmth
I pressed him in
I held him tight,
I held him there
I fed him my blood,
his drink was my tears
I willed him to grow
I willed him to live
I begged him to take
all I could give

He drew in my breath
and he drew his strength
He unfurled, uncurled
and stretched his length
Within the womb
of my heart
and my soul
There he could thrive,
There he could grow bold
Make a feast
of my love
I cry without lament
make a banquet divine
For your nourishment

For now For ever

Devour me whole.

In the crevices

It would be my capabilities with a quill that helped fill in the gap of expenses for the opulence of our quarters. The old physician was pleased to see me again and assured Jelus I would be an asset to him in exchange for a few coins. The day went quickly with the constant comings and goings of patrons. The hushed tones like the chanting from within a temple were continuous. The passing of coin always secretive regardless of who could have seen a vial, an herb, the toss of a fetus into a bucket along with scarlet soaked reps.

The two books kept of accounts were updated with an ease. It did not take me long to memorize the entries of vitamin for the kanda or the sleeping powders in lieu of various poisons. When the bell on the door sounded the last time, Sorticles flipped the sign over and turned the key. The mild manner of the man had spun over as easily as the tumblers of the lock.

Lechery now burned in his eyes like a well filled lantern. The fumbling of the lacings came with difficulty by the gnarled old fingers. They began a rhthymic caress even before he approached, never lessening their grasp of his ardors. Age had not dampened the speed of which he set upon me. He was tender though with the press of his wrinkled mouth against the vee of my throat. The free hand touching the swell of one breast as if it were delicate enough to be fragile. I found myself pressed and my body buffeted against the ledgers on his desk for what seemed an endless few moments. It was a long acrid breath, a puddle of slack jawed drool on my chest and the close of his eyes that spoke of a journey well ended for him. In profuse apologies, the physician grabbed a roll of gauze to clean away the spill of his affections from his own thigh.

The professions of shame continued as he pressed extra coins into my palm for my use. A more stoic retort came afterward as he transformed once more to the business man I'd worked for throughout the day. He looked forward to seeing me tomorrow.

Those coins were poked into a crevice of loose bricks in the alley close to the apartment when I was sure no one was looking.

A window on the world

He had rented a small apartment, the furnishings of which were far more luxurious than the one I'd stayed in prior. It would never hold a candle to Caethlong but with a good scouring it had potential. It was only half block up from the previous insula and the little diner I remembered could be seen if one crooked their neck to an obscene angle.

I had my own room this time albeit only a few feet by a few feet in measure. One thread bare mat in its center to be the difference between sleeping on the floor itself. My 'room' had a window overlooking the alley and another opened to the street. This one adorned with curved bars that allowed the shutters to open but not allow strangers to scale the two floors below and creep within.

At night I would slip out onto the ledge with the kalika my keeper had given me. It was a gift for the bluish black marks left of wishing silence and finding it if it meant sealing off my breath. The elongated box was worn and scarred. The strings aged enough to need constant tightening to keep it in tune. But there on my little perch I would play the meloncholy songs of Acresius. The songs of Five, the ballads of Pent.

There I had a soul.

Iniquities

Iniquities


Shorl's weakness was avarice and in the end it had swallowed him whole and tied his fate off with purse strings. Dolht's wrath had laid him wide open and left him to rot in the alley only a few blocks from here. A smile painted obscenely beneath his chin with the edge of a blade as definition of irony.

Jelus was one of those men who had a taste for something else. The grace and beauty of a serve was lost to him with his want for someone bawdy and brash. In your face sexuality was brushed aside in want of vulnerability and demureness. He would spend much of his time in the alcoves, disgruntled that he was never pleased and demanding his coin back or in the paga dens with the same end result. Always something. Always something else.

This lust that he carried perhaps unknown even to himself would always leave him dis-satisfied with every thing in life. My hair was not blonde and it enraged him. My eyes were not brown which sent him to a fury. Each small nuance of difference than his ideal set the brakes on his enjoyments and rendered him impotent to thriving in any manner. I was the current scapegoat for his troubles. The more his world collapsed in around him, the more he would lash out. At last I'd asked if he would sell me if I was the bain of his existence. His answer was that I was not worth even a portion of a copper. I was useless. Still his grasp on my arm when we walked the crowded streets held me like a manacle of iron next to him.

My query became a pleading to let me go, allow me to work for enough coin then to buy my freedom from him, something, anything but release me. There was a flicker of weakness that streaked his features, his voice ... a terror in his eyes when he spoke quietly. He couldn't allow that, he wanted me.