It was a warm evening in the Voltai Mountains, where the sun was setting and casting long dark shadows through the streets and over the last few remaining crowds that wandered within. Initiates with long indifferent and cruel faces were performing some last rites in archaic and ancient gorean tongue, as they did every day, hoping that their sermons would appease the Priest-Kings and not have their city scorched by the apocalyptic blue flames for at least another day.
Most of those who dwelled through the streets wore long hooded cloaks which protected them from the sandstorms that regulary plagued the mountaincrags of the ancient Voltai. Their cloaks were colorful and diverse, yet uniform, and denoted the rigid Caste structure to which all were subjected. Only the Initiates didn't care to wear their hoods, so their hideous pale and worn bald faces would be clear to all to see. Only those of status and high rank within their Castes would dare to walk around unhooded, it was a status symbol. Only men of worth deserved to show their faces clearly to all.
Among that crowd of street-dwellers, all searching for their houses or taverns and paga-dens before the night would fall, among that crowd there was a man who wore a scarlet cloak and also had his face bare and head unhooded. He was a tall and muscled man with rugged features and a scarred face, along his face there were dark tattoos and lines with symbols that might resembled ancient greek words and art. They were intentionally drawn clearly and visibly on the face, etched in it forever, to show the man's history and achievements. He was a Captain of the Warriors, such was clear from the tattoos on his face. Etched in it as if it was a rock that would forever and shamelesly carry with him his history and past deeds. Goreans weren't ashamed of their past, they lived in the now, in the here and were proud and strong in all the decision they made. Even criminals would proudly wear on their faces the brands of the misdeeds for which they might have been caught, indeed even when they weren't caught they would, boldly too mark their face or arms with the symbol of the crime they commited. It has to be pointed out however that they would only mark themselves with deeds which surpassed previous ones, for it was the gorean way too to always surpass yourself.
The unhooded Scarlet man with dark hair and remarkable achievements marked along his face and neck walked up to a large impressive keep, which was almost as large as the mountainpeaks that surrounded the city. Strong rigid architecture with stoic giant pillars blocked out the setting sun as torches lighted the way into this dark keep. His sandals were heard echoing as they walked over the endless dark marble and large halls until he finally reached a small tight staircase which circled up all the way in one of the many living quarters. It took some getting used to to navigate these tight towers and their staircases, especially if you were armed with a large spear in hand as this man was. The tight corridors and staircases were designed to slow and confuse men who would seek to raid these towers. Raids were common in this city, if it weren't the bored tarnsmen of an enemy city, or the outlaws and slavers of the brigand camps hidden within the mountains, then it would be the Warriors of an enemy clan within the city.
The city was divided in clans, gangs, families that fought over control over the city. This violence was illegal and the city would harshly punish those it could for these kind of clanwars, but goreans were proud and didn't bend for something as surpressive as the law and would feel shamed for being so small and petty that the laws would intimidate them, as if they were obedient verr. They still fought their clanwars and would seek to proove themselves more brave, stronger than the others. Every notable clan or family had it's own home-stone, and even with these constant struggles and bloodied battles fought within the same city they all still would align behind the same banner of the city if an outside enemy was threatening them.
This man too, who finally had reached the end of the dark and tight maze of corridors, was part of a notable and proud renown family. Without it he never would've been made Captain of the Warriors of his home-stone, he would've been one of the many other Low Castes bound in servitude to the High Castes of the home-stone of the family that governed this part of the city. He finally had reached his quarters, they were large and luxurious, filled with scarlet silk and satin drapes and thick furs upon which the warm glow of a fireplace danced. He walked to the balcony as he untied his cloak and let it fall from his shoulders to reveal his mostly naked form. The golden helmet with scarlet plumes which hung from his belt he placed upon the edge of the balcony from which he overlooked the vast landscape of the city and a flock of tarnsmen that flew past in the distance. Behind him two women woke up from among the furs, stretching out their bare legs and naked bodies over the soft fabric that covered the marble floor. They too wore markings and tattoos over their bodies, except theirs denoted they had been enslaved and served as the pleasure-slaves of men.
They woke only just now for their servitude and slavery began late in the evening when the man that owned their steel collars returned home and would seek to feast upon their bodies. If they were lucky he would spend hours with them until deep in the night before they were expected to fetch him food and wine, bathe him or massage him. Most High Castes spent their nights awake until early in the morning and rose only deep in the afternoon after the sun had warmed up the streets again.
But tonight he didn't care for them... He was bored even as the naked women pleaded for his attention. They knew that once he'd get bored with them they he would slay them or sell them to another man, perhaps trade them for new women. Luckily for them he had grown more affectionate as he had grown older, when he was but a young man he had killed and bought a new slave-woman every other half year. He was a Warrior though and as such preferred to kill swiftly without unneccesary prolongued pain. Just a simple stab in the heart or a cut along the throat was enough. The marble floor before the fireplace was stained in old blood that even after much scrubbing of the slave-girls would not go away. It reminded them of their possible fate, it was the place that frightened them, where he was known to slay his unwanted women. Even as he would pull them to that spot merely to mount them and put their bodies to use, they would plead in fear not to slay them. They dreaded that bloodied spot of death, right before the fireplace.
But he had grown fond of them and their bodies had become a familiar soothing feeling that reminded him of home. It was them he would return home for every evening or after every long battle and campaign across the lands against other nations. They kept him company and he enjoyed their talking and laughter, but tonight he was bored... His mind was set only on a single woman, a spoiled rich brat of another family, another clan, another home-stone within the city, a Free Woman, which had taunted him by baring her long tanned left leg and the jewelry around her thighs to him on the street when he regarded her.
If she had not been protected by the dozen of guards which she commanded, he would've walked over and simply shoved her to the ground to enslave her. But her family was richer and more powerful than his, to take her would be a deathwish... but he often imagined that raping her would be worth the steel that would remove his head from his neck afterwards. He closed his eyes and pulled one of his chained slave-women to his hips as he imagined her being the Free Woman that had taunted him. He used her and made her beg to stop, begged her to struggle and fight him away, as only so he could imagine himself raping the Free Woman of the other more powerful clan that had taunted him...
Here some random fan-fiction of Gor written by me, intentfully NOT by the books as I enjoyed to add some of my own twists and flavours to make the world more interesting according to my own tastes. So here's the question. Does it piss you off that I added new traditions and customs to the genre? Or are you like: "hey that's kinda cool"? Did you like the story or is the non-BtBness so groundbreaking that you just want to go punch a kitten instead?