vriter

THE STORY OF THE PANTHER SHEYLA 

(fantasy immagine)

5° part

The night in the jungle grew thick and hot, like the breath of a larl during mating season. The fire blazed, casting crimson reflections on the naked bodies of the panthers, who sat and lay around it in free, predatory poses. The air filled with the heavy aroma of sweat, medicinal herbs, and awakened desire—Gorean, primal, knowing neither shame nor bounds.

Sheila rose first. Her strong body, glistening with sweat, cast a long shadow. Her green eyes swept the circle of sisters, then settled on the bound slaves. She said nothing, merely slowly running her hand over her full breasts, down her flat stomach, between her thighs, and growled softly. That was enough.

Kyra and the three other savages immediately pulled the elder trader closer to the center. The man, trembling and with a graying beard, was forced to his knees. Vines bound his wrists and ankles, but left enough room for him to serve. Kaira grabbed him by the hair, forcing his face up.

*Look at us, male,* she hissed, her dark eyes blazing. *Watch and learn how they pay for passage through our jungle.*

(fantasy immagine)

The merchant woman, still wearing the remains of a torn silk dress, was brought in next. Her slender legs trembled, silver bracelets jingling on her wrists, now bound behind her back. One of the younger panthers—tall, with skin the color of ripe chestnuts—torn the last shreds of fabric from her in a single movement, revealing a pale body, so alien among the bronze and black shadows of the tribe. The woman gasped, but that same flame already flickered in her eyes—fear mingled with admiration for the power of the wild females.

Sheila approached her closely. The leader's fingers slid down the woman's throat, then lower, along her collarbone, tracing a nipple, causing it to harden under the gaze of a dozen predatory eyes.

"You will dance for us," Sheila said quietly. "Dance until you fall. And then... we will decide if you are worthy to remain among the panthers."

The woman, whose name was Selena—the name escaped her in a trembling whisper—was untied just enough to move. Two wild women stood at her sides, ready to direct and punish. There was no music—only the rhythmic clapping of hands and the low, guttural chant of Nayra, the shaman, whose voice made the blood run faster.

Selena began to move—clumsily at first, then more boldly, spurred on by the touches, the growls, and the heat of the fire. Her hips rocked, her chest heaved, her hair flowing down her back. The panthers watched, unwavering: some stroked themselves, others pressed themselves against each other, their lips finding their sisters' necks and nipples.

Lyra, still lying on the skins, watched with amber eyes. Torval, kneeling at her feet, was pressed against the wound again—his tongue working slowly, meticulously, under Kaira's stern gaze. Each time Lyra moaned softly, Kaira pressed harder on the back of the slave's head, forcing him deeper.

Sheila finally sat on the boulder as if it were a throne. She spread her powerful thighs and nodded to the two sisters. They dragged the trader toward her. The man, now completely overcome by resistance, was forced between the leader's legs. "Serve," Sheila ordered curtly. "And if you do well, you might live until morning."

The night filled with groans, growls, and the rustle of bodies against hides and grass. The panthers took their toll—one by one, two by two, three by three, trading, sharing, dominating. And above it all, in the shade of a tree, Nayra smiled quietly, fingering her bone beads. The tribe was well-fed, strong, and united. Wounds were healing. The prey served.

As the fire burned low, leaving only glowing embers that reflected red sparks in the panthers' eyes, Naira suddenly rose. Her ebony body, covered with ritual scars and shadows from her fang necklace, seemed part of the night itself. She stepped into the center of the circle, her bare feet silently touching the warm earth, and all the sisters froze. Even the groans of the slaves died down. Even Lira, pressed against the skins, turned her head, her amber eyes widening.

The shaman raised her hands to the starry sky, where the cold disk of one of Horus's two moons shone above the jungle. Her voice sounded low, ancient, as if the earth itself spoke through her:

*I saw. The spirits of the forest whispered to me in the smoke of the fire and in the blood that spilled today.

The great panther will come—black as a moonless night, with eyes as green as our leader's. She will bring either power the likes of which no tribe has ever known, or death to us all.

Blood has already been spilled, but that is not enough.

The spirits demand a sacrifice. Living. Voluntary. Or taken by force.

One of the males must be given to the forest tonight—bound at the roots of a sacred tree and left until dawn. If he survives the night, he will become marked by the spirits, the strongest of slaves, capable of impregnating new warriors. If not... his blood will water the roots, and the black panther will pass us by.*

Silence fell heavy, like damp air before a thunderstorm.

Sheila rose slowly. Her naked body cast a long shadow across the embers. Her green eyes met Naira's black ones—long, wordless. Then the leader glanced at the three bound males.

Thorval—a strong, muscular fugitive from Laurium, already proven strong. The elder merchant—graying, trembling, but still alive. And the woman, Selene, not a male, but her blood could also please the spirits in other ways.

Lyra, despite her wound, raised herself on her elbow. Her voice was hoarse but firm. *Thorval. He is the strongest of them all. If anyone will survive the night with the spirits, it will be him. And then...*she grinned*—then he will be worthy of us all.*

Kaira nodded, her fingers tightening on the hilt of her knife. The other sisters growled softly—a mixture of fear of the prophecy and predatory arousal.

Sheila approached Thorval and grabbed his hair, forcing his face up. Her hips were right in front of his eyes. "You heard, slave," she whispered, her voice low and dangerous. "Your life is a gift to the forest. Either you die this night... or you will truly become ours."

Nayra was already weaving a new rope—thick, soaked in the juice of poisonous berries, so that no beast would dare approach before the time.

The tribe rose. The naked bodies of the panthers closed around Torval, like shadows around prey.

The victim had been chosen.

Beneath the roots of the sacred tree, where the ancient trunk curved like the back of a sleeping larl, Sheila's panthers prepared a sacrifice. The night was moonless, black as the hide of the foretold panther, and only the embers of a distant fire glimmered in the distance, like the red eyes of spirits.

Torval was led to the tree. His muscular body glistened with sweat, the old lash scars silver in the dim starlight. Ropes soaked in bitter sap wrapped around his ankles and wrists, pulling him to the thick roots until he lay spread out on the ground—back to the bark, chest and belly exposed to the night, legs slightly spread.

He offered no resistance: his gray eyes gazed upward, into the impenetrable canopy, where invisible spirits whispered. 

Nayra circled him three times, her bare feet leaving barely noticeable marks on the ground. She held a bone knife with a sleen tusk handle. She stopped at Thorval's head and drew the blade across his chest—not deeply, just leaving a thin red line from his collarbone to his navel. Three drops of blood appeared, and the shaman caught them on the tip of the knife, then smeared them across the bark.

*Blood for blood,* she whispered. *Life for strength.*

Sheila stood closest, her naked body casting a long shadow over the bound slave. She crouched beside his head, her green eyes boring into his face.

*Survive until dawn—you will truly be ours,* she said quietly, almost tenderly. Her fingers slide across his cheek, then down his throat, stopping at the pulsing vein. *You won't survive—your blood will make us stronger. One way or another, you're already ours.*

Lyra, leaning on Kaira's shoulder, stepped closer, despite the wound. Her bronze skin glistened, the fresh stitches beneath the bandage darkening. She leaned over, her amber eyes meeting Thorval's gray ones.

*Prove yourself worthy,* she purred hoarsely. *I expect you in the morning... whole.* Her tongue quickly touched his lips—briefly, powerfully, leaving a taste of blood and desire.

Kayra touched him last: she ran her fingertips down his inner thigh, almost to his groin, causing the slave's muscles to tense. *Don't close your eyes,* she whispered. *Spirits love to watch.*

Then all the panthers retreated. Naira raised her hands, and the tribe quietly growled an ancient chant—low, guttural, reaching into the earth. They walked back to the fire, leaving Thorval alone.

As the first rays of dawn, pale and cold, broke through the dense forest canopy, Sheila's panther tribe moved silently toward the sacred tree. The naked bodies of the savages glistened with morning dew, their muscles tense in anticipation of the spirits' verdict. Sheila led the way, her green eyes narrowed, her full chest heaving evenly, but the steel of her leader was felt in every step. Lyra followed, leaning on Kaira's shoulder—the wound still aching, but her amber eyes glowing with anticipation. Naira brought up the rear, the bone beads on her neck clinking softly, like an echo of nighttime whispers.

They reached the roots... and froze.

Thorval was dead.

His muscular body was still stretched, the ropes cutting into his skin, leaving deep furrows. But his chest was torn—four long, parallel claw marks, from shoulder to belly, so deep that his ribs showed white. Blood had caked into a black crust, mixed with earth and leaves. His throat had been ripped apart by a single, precise bite—the cartilage snapped like a dry twig. The slave's eyes were wide open, gray, staring at the treetop, but empty, lifeless glass had already frozen in them. No scream, no struggle—only the traces of a single lightning attack.

The black panther was coming.

Nayra was the first to kneel beside the body. Her ebony fingers touched the torn flesh, then scooped up a handful of blood and smeared it over the bark. The shaman's voice was quiet but firm:

*The spirits have taken their toll. The sacrifice is accepted. The blood of a strong male has watered the roots. The black panther passed us—I can smell it in the air. It's satisfied... for a while.*

Sheila stood motionless, her powerful thighs tensed, her green eyes darkening. She showed neither grief nor anger—only a cold acceptance of the law: the weak die, the strong tribe lives.

Lyra grew softly, her amber eyes flashing with disappointment. She leaned closer, running her palm over Thorval's still-warm chest—the panther's last touch on her unfulfilled toy.

*He was strong,* she whispered hoarsely. *But not strong enough for her.*

Kaira bared her teeth, the knife in her hand flashing as she cut the vines, freeing the dead body.

Sheila finally turned to her sisters. Her voice cut through the morning silence:

*The black panther spared us. We've grown stronger today... tomorrow...* her lips curved into a predatory smile, "*tomorrow we'll find a new male. Stronger than this one.*"

The tribe grew in response—low, in agreement, hungry. The naked bodies of the panthers closed around the dead slave. The forest was awakening. The scent of fresh blood carried on the wind.

(fantasy immagine)

And somewhere in the depths, beyond sight, a huge black shadow silently retreated into the darkness, sated and satisfied with the tribute it had accepted.

continue.........

by Katysha Silva

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darianeditor

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 THE KO-RO-BA ART MUSEUMINVITES ALL OF GOR

Greetings!

Have you ever captured the magic of a sunset on the beach, the charm of a bustling city street, or the serenity of a mountain trail in your art or images? Whether through a photo, sketch, or painting - we want to see the world through your eyes!

The Ko-ro-ba Art Museum invites all of Gor to participate in our upcoming community exhibition:  "Gorean Vacations" - a celebration of travel, relaxation, and the beauty of exploration.

We welcome:

*    Photographs, Snapshots, Sketches or Paintings from your travels (all forms of media allowed, r/l or inworld.)  􀀃

*    Descriptions of each travel shot with a few words about the location, the trip's intent, and the emotional vibe.  (ex.  Port Kar, business trip, caught this ship sailing in at sunset while enjoying dinner at a sea side cafe..)

*    Poetry welcomed - accompanied with an image.  Please keep to a very short prose so that they show well when posted on the museum walls. 􀀄

*   Post cards!  -  blank one attached to fill out however you want too!

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Submission deadline:  February 21st, 2026.  Please send your entries to tersa vella

Pieces will be featured in our gallery on 1st of March.

We can't wait to see where you've been!!

Staff

Ko-ro-ba Art Museum

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darianeditor

 THE PHYSICIAN FAIR 2026 BESNIT

Dear Physicians,

We are pleased to invite you to the Physician Fair, taking place from January 17–18, 2026 in Besnit, with arrivals beginning on Friday, January 16, 2026.

The Physician Fair is a gathering by physicians, for physicians — created to foster professional exchange, shared knowledge, and new connections as we begin 2026 together. This weekend offers an open space for discussion, learning, and collaboration within the medical community.

✨ Special Highlights

Participants can look forward to specials presented by Rapture Enchantment and Angelicus throughout the weekend.

We warmly welcome all physicians who wish to exchange ideas, expand their knowledge, and build meaningful connections within our community.

We look forward to seeing you in Besnit and starting 2026 together.

Kind regards,

Physicians of Gor

PHYSICIAN FAIR – WEEKEND PROGRAM

16.01.2026 – 18.01.2026 (AM/PM)

Location: Besnit | EU Time

Friday, 16 January

Arrival and visit to the Besnit Infirmary

Saturday, 17 January

8:00–9:00 AM – Alyssa H-B & Guest: Welcome

9:00–10:00 AM – Astorette Novi: Iskander’s Draft

10:00–11:00 AM – Yesi Glas

11:00–12:00 PM – Sabayna (Tremlays): Physician Support Group

12:00–1:00 PM – City of Venna

1:00–2:00 PM – City of Venna

2:00–3:00 PM – Peter Six Hirokin: Critical Thinking in a Crisis

3:00–4:00 PM – Ettah Resident: Death and Dying for the Gorean Physician

4:00–5:00 PM – Toi Armani Skolldir: Basic Fundamentals of Apothecary

5:00–8:00 PM – Open exchange, discussion, and fellowship

Sunday, 18 January

8:00–9:00 AM – Astorette Novi: The Importance of Roleplay in Slave Examinations

9:00–10:00 AM – Yesi Glas: Caste Discussion and Memories of Lady Kaiila

10:00–11:00 AM – Yesi Glas: Caste Discussion

11:00–12:00 PM – Sabayna (Tremlays): Traditional Pani Medicine

12:00–1:00 PM – (TBD) Alyssa H-B / Mews

1:00–2:00 PM – Lib (Liberace57): Physician Administration

2:00–3:00 PM – Dσмiησ (Domino.Morales): Birth and the Meaning of Children

3:00–4:00 PM – Nuada Silverpaw (Soothsayer): On the Gorean College in Lara

4:00–5:00 PM – Anya Sanglan: Basic First Aid

5:00–8:00 PM – Closing exchanges and farewells

send by Sabayna Kiseki

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darianeditor

THE STORY OF THE PANTHER SHEYLA

 

4° part

As the sun began to set, painting the jungle a blood-gold hue, Sheila gave the signal. The panther tribe, leaving Thorval tied up by the stream under the care of his two younger sisters, silently returned to the trail. The caravan had only managed to move a little further: the pickaxes dragged wearily, the mercenary nervously clutched the hilt of his sword, and the merchant woman kept glancing back, as if feeling the breath of danger on the back of her neck.

Sheila raised her hand—and the panthers surged out of the thicket like a black wave.

The first arrow, fired from the short bow of one of the savages, pierced the neck of the lead pickaxe; the animal roared and collapsed, blocking the trail. The mercenary drew his sword and crossbow simultaneously, but Lyra was already in the air—her bronze body flashed, clawed fingers clutching his shoulders, knocking him off his feet. They rolled across the ground; the mercenary's blade slashed across her side, leaving a long, bloody furrow from rib to hip.

Lyra roared in pain and rage, her amber eyes flashing, the crescent-shaped scar on her chest flushing crimson. But she didn't retreat: her knee pressed against the man's throat, and her knife found his own throat before he could scream.

The elder merchant dropped the reins and raised his hands, muttering about ransom, but Kaira was already behind him; a thin rope wrapped around his neck, and he sank to his knees, gasping with fear. The other savages surrounded the woman—she was retreating toward the fallen pickaxe, her dress hiked up at her hips, revealing slender legs, her eyes wide with horror at these naked, bloodied predators. Sheila was the last to emerge onto the trail. Her green eyes coldly surveyed the battlefield: one kyle dead, the other bound, the mercenary motionless, the merchant on his knees, the woman surrounded. But the leader's gaze settled on Lyra.

The first mate rose, pressing her palm to the wound on her side—blood flowed between her fingers, staining her bronze skin dark red. She staggered, but rose proudly, baring her teeth in a pained smile.

"He was a tenacious beast," Lyra breathed hoarsely, nodding toward the dead mercenary. "But he paid."

Sheila stepped closer, her fingers gently pushing Lyra's hand away, examining the deep cut. The leader's abdominal muscles tensed—the wound was serious, but not fatal for the panther. "You will not die today, sister," Sheila said quietly, her voice a mixture of command and promise. She turned to Kyra. "Bind these two. Kayla, too. Everything valuable—to the clearing. And quickly: we must return before dark."

Kyra nodded, already throwing vines around the wrists of the woman and the merchant. The woman didn't resist, only looking at the naked savages with a shudder.

Lyra, supported by Sheila's arm, walked ahead, leaving a trail of blood on the leaves. Her naked body, despite the wound, still radiated strength; her chest heaved, her thighs tensed with each step. Sheila hugged her tighter, feeling the heat of blood and skin.

"Nyra is escaping you," she whispered to her sister with concern, "you're not the first, you're not the last."

The bushes closed behind them, hiding the traces of the attack. The caravan became prey. One of the panthers was wounded. But Sheila's tribe returned home stronger than before—with new slaves, new trophies.In the clearing, as the last rays of sun sank into the foliage and the fire crackled, casting golden reflections on the panthers' naked bodies, Sheila led the wounded Lyra to the center of the camp. The blood on her side had already dried into a dark crust, but the wound still oozed, and every attempt to take a step further forced Lyra to grit her teeth.

Nyra, the tribe's shaman and the eldest of the sisters, emerged from the shadow of an old tree. Her skin was the color of dark ebony, and her long, graying hair was entwined with the bones of slain enemies and the feathers of forest birds. Her body, like everyone else's, remained naked, but a necklace of sleen fangs hung around her neck, and a belt of dried herbs and roots hung around her hips. Nayra's eyes, deep and black as a night pond, saw more than mere mortals. "Put her down," Naira commanded quietly, her voice like the rustling of leaves before a storm.

The two younger wildlings spread soft skins on the ground, and Lyra lay on her side, revealing a long cut from her rib to her hip. The bronze skin around the wound was inflamed and red, and the crescent-shaped scar above her chest seemed paler than usual. Lyra's amber eyes glowed feverishly, but she made no sound—the panther wasn't complaining.

Sheila knelt beside her, her hand on Lyra's shoulder, her fingers gripping the muscle tightly—the leader's silent support. Kaira stood behind her, her arms crossed beneath her chest, her dark eyes watching the shaman's every movement.

Naira squatted down. First, she placed her palm directly on the wound—Lyra flinched, but didn't pull away. The old panther closed her eyes and began to softly chant an ancient Gorean chant of healing, its words like the growl of the earth and the whisper of the wind. Then she took a small pot of thick green paste from her belt—a mixture of crushed kanda leaves, moss from a sacred tree, and the venom of a slain snake, diluted with the honey of wild bees.

With her fingers, Naira generously spread the paste along the entire length of the wound. Lyra hissed—it burned like red-hot iron—but she immediately sank her teeth into her own forearm to keep from screaming. The scent of herbs hit everyone around her sharply, bitter and heavy. "Hold her," Naira said curtly to Sheila.

The leader lay down next to her, pressing Lira to her with her whole body—chest to chest, thigh to thigh—wrapping her in her arms so tightly that the wounded panther couldn't move. The warmth of Sheila's skin, her strong heartbeat, and the scent of a wild female helped Lira endure the pain.

Naira took a thin bone needle and a thread made from the sinew of a slain larl. With quick, precise movements, she began stitching the edges of the wound—each stitch accompanied by a new chant, as if the shaman were weaving not only the thread but also the power of the forest into Lira's flesh. The blood began to flow again, but less rapidly.

When the last stitch was tied, Naira placed a wide leaf soaked in the juice of medicinal roots on top and tightly bound everything with a strip of soft leather.

*Three days—no sharp ones and no males,* she said sternly. She raised her gaze to Sheila. *The scar will be beautiful later. Like that old one.*

Lyra, still pressed against the leader, smiled weakly through her sweat. *Three days... that's a long time, sister.*

Nyra chuckled, stroking Lyra's bronze thigh. *Thorval will lick the wound every morning and evening. His tongue is better than any ointment. And you—lie there and let him.*

Sheila nodded, not letting go of Lyra. The fire crackled higher, casting shadows on the naked bodies of the new slaves bound at the edge of the clearing. The merchant woman watched, wide-eyed, as the wild panthers treated their sister—with the same primal tenderness with which they killed enemies.

Night fell over the camp. Lyra finally relaxed in Sheila's embrace, her breathing evening. The wound was closed, the pain easing under the influence of the herbs. and the warmth of a sister. The tribe growled quietly around the fire—content, strong, invincible.

to be continued

The photos do not represent Sheyla But Panthers whom I met in my travels

darianeditor

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 RAVEN STORY - (KILIAN)

I was alone. In one corner, there was a low cage in which a person was crouching. Naked and frozen with terror. Impassive. The look in their eyes was unclear; I couldn't explain it then, and I still can't.

Until then, I didn't know how I would ever get out of there. It was all so alien to me,

but one thing was clear: if these beings found me, I would meet my end here.

Everything around me was so surreal. Unreal, yet somehow real.

So what was I supposed to do? Go back? Lie down in my box and wait? Wait for what? What did these beings want from us? I felt like I was at the top of the menu, and damn it, we all were, every single one of us in this damned box.

But I was so unpalatable; they would break their teeth on me.

From that point on, I realized that even this intermediate step wouldn't protect me from the beings. It was almost laughable; what could a wall like this stand with? A human fist? Sure, but not the fist of one of these creatures.

So far, no one had noticed that I was no longer in my box. That was good, because it gave me a good head start and allowed me to hide. Because one thing was clear: this thing, this thingy, would eventually land again, and that was my chance.

I searched more and more for a safe hiding place, and I found one.

I looked around my hiding place. Yes, I had found one in the passage. It was well hidden, narrow, and low, so I could only crawl. And that's what I did. I crept forward; no one would get in here so easily. What I quickly discovered was that this shaft connected many rooms. And soon I had figured out where each room was.

I spent a lot of time in these shafts, finding sleep there and devising my plan for what to do next. I hardly thought about food, suppressing the thought; only my thirst troubled me. Often my mouth was as dry as the Sahara, my tongue swollen. So I had to do something about it.

As I mentioned before, I knew my way around a bit. I knew where the food was. But I didn't dare touch it. It was what I had learned in the camp: do with what you have.

Time passed, how many days, I couldn't say. At some point, I lost all sense of time. All around me was steel.

This gave me plenty of time to think, many thoughts for which there were no answers. But I wanted answers, and I knew I would get them eventually.

This time of waiting always brought me back to my true goal. Why I endured all of this. Why I couldn't give up. Not until I had an answer to my most important question. In those moments, a deep stillness settled over my mind. I sank back into memories. I saw the precious moments, moments I hoped I would never forget.

I thought I heard a voice in the corridor calling me. That he needed my help. That he was stuck somewhere and on his own. Yes, just like me right now. I clenched my fists and whispered. "Kilian, I will find you, I will find out what happened to you, and if anyone has wronged you, I will avenge you. I will pay everyone back." I swear this to myself in those moments. Because my brother had walked this path before me. Why did I know that back then? It was a feeling, an impulse. It made my blood rush through my veins. We had always been together, grown up together. He was my life. He was my brother.

In those moments, I awoke, briefly disoriented, caught between dream and waking. I whispered... Kilian, where are you?

But just when you think you have everything under control, something comes along, and that's how it was back then... It threw all my plans into disarray.

It happened sometime later, what time of day? Who cares in a moment like that? The whole thing started moving strangely. It jolted me out of my half-sleep. I tried to grab onto something, but it kept jerking. There were noises, shouts, roars. In a language I didn't understand, had never heard before. But what worried me most was the smell of smoke.

LARA CITY

I remember that moment so vividly, as if it happened just yesterday.

I had to get out of that passage because it would mean the end for me. I climbed out quickly, forgetting the worry of being found, of being discovered. I assumed other things had more priorities than me.

I slide out of the shaft and into the passage. I tried to find a foothold, but something grabbed me, and I lost my footing. The impact was hard as my back hit the ceiling. It was almost the same moment when I heard a loud bang, an explosion. A tearing sound, something shattering.

The tremors...The men seemed to understand what I wanted. He then stepped forward and separated the men. It was the captain; the men's respect made it clear. He slowly approached, spoke to me, and explained where I was. He told me I should let the man go, or there would be no food that day, and nobody would like that. He also assured me that nobody would hurt me. Otherwise, they would have left me at sea.

To cut a long story short, because I don't think what happened next was of any real interest.

So I had to decide: trust him orgo back to sea. Since the latter wasn't an option, I chose the former. Trusting him was, and still is, such a complicated thing for me, but sometimes you have to take a leap of faith.

So there I was on the pirate ship "Nimble Sleen," working in the galley for the first week and quickly getting to know my surroundings. The men didn't hold my behavior against me; in fact, they showed a kind of respect. My skin healed quickly, thanks to one of the men.

So the days passed, and I began to learn the language and understand where I was. BRAT. I had never heard of it.

OLNI CITY

Should I tell them that I came from another world? No, they wouldn't have understood. Only the captain occasionally drew me to him, asking me things related to Earth.

And over time, we became friends. I trusted him more and more until one night I told him everything—my whole story, why I fought so hard. It was a clear night; the stars and three moons gave off an unnatural light. Mist lay on the still water. Only the lapping of the water could be heard. When I finished telling my story, my speech folded.

I needed a moment to collect myself. When I was able to take it all in again, the captain placed his hand on my shoulder. He said he hoped I'd stay on board because, as a pirate, I'd have a much better chance of finding out anything, since we anchored in many places. He also explained how unlikely it was that I'd ever find him. But he liked my tenacity and appreciated everything I'd done to get this far.

by RAVEN (killian)

KILLIAN STORY

1° PART

Some of you know me and my story of how I came to Gor, but I've kept the details of how and why a secret. And that's exactly what I want to tell you about today. No, it won't be a colorful, cheerful tale.

But I hope that afterward you'll understand me better, why I am the way I am.

I was born on Earth in the year of our Lord 1678 in Scotland. The Highlands. The land of endless expanses of green hills. The land of magic. Of goblins, trolls, a land full of myths and legends.

But also a land that has long been at war with other countries. Starting with Rome, who were defeated by the Picts. My ancestral people, and a people I will return to in my story.

But the conflict continued later in history, with Scotland against England. A land soaked in blood.

Proud clans, men who rebelled against other powers and paid dearly for it.

It is my home, my land. My refuge. It makes me proud to belong to them.

My family were among the common people. We ran a farm. I wasn't an only child, though; there was my older brother, Kilian. He managed the farm as the eldest of us, since we never knew our father. Life was hard, but it gave us what we needed. My childhood memories are still very vivid: wide open spaces and green hills.

We belonged to a group of people destined to protect the king from a powerful enemy. Every boy with a very special bloodline was promised to the king's war camp as a baby, and so were my brother and I. Our existence had only one purpose. The rules stipulated that at the age of 21, each of these young men was sent to one of the war camps. There was no "no." We were raised to believe that this was the path we had to take. Were we worth anything? Did we count for anything? No, until we completed our training at the war camp, we were insignificant.

SIR KILLIAN

My brother left the farm five years before I did. Until then, I had hoped it wouldn't happen. But it did, and my mother and I were left behind. Now it was up to me to manage the farm. I had just turned 15, and yes, I was quite the handful. Suddenly, I was burdened with such responsibility, suddenly forced to grow up. The work became even harder, but I persevered. In the back of my mind, though, was the hope of hearing something from my brother, of getting a sign of life from him. But nothing ever came, not a single word.

Could it be true? Could the rumor be true? That the men would never return to their families? But I didn't understand. At some point, they had completed their education and were free to move about as they pleased... right?

So the years passed, and my hope died with each year of waiting.

But the pressure inside me grew, the feeling that my time would soon come, that I would have to leave the farm and my mother. But also the unwillingness to submit to the system. They had taken my brother from me, because I had given up hope, and all that remained was a blind rage.

And so, the day before my 21st birthday, I received precise instructions about when and where I was to report. There were rumors about these camps, of which there were quite a few. But none of these rumors had anything to do with reality. It quickly became clear to all of us: Only the best would get out of here alive. The king was to receive only the best warriors. Men who could not be broken. Men who would endure pain and who would walk to their deaths without a word. Men who knew that their lives belonged to the king and the people.

And so it happened. My camp was that of the Bloodletter. His reputation preceded him. Only the best came from there, but out of 100 men, barely 20-30 survived. The camp was an arena; there were no huts, only shelters where our sleeping quarters were. These shelters enclosed the fighting area. We should always keep in mind what we were. We were dirt, unworthy. And so we lived in filth. Always with the battles and humiliations before our eyes, these constant fights, the punishments of the losers. Humiliations that spared no one, and so we learned right from the start what would happen to us if we lost.

A duel raged in the middle of the arena. The fight was fierce, the weapons thankfully made of wood. It went on like this, sometimes one was ahead, sometimes the other. Blood covered the sweat-drenched bodies and the arena floor. In total, the fight lasted about 15 minutes, and in the end, a young blond man lost. He was still one of the new recruits, which was evident from his hesitant movements. He was also rather slight in build. The other was an experienced fighter, his...The movements were balanced, fluid; beneath the skin, the muscles were visible, flexing.

But there was something about the fighters that I couldn't quite grasp. It was training, yet they fought as if their lives depended on it. Eventually, the blond man lost and was thrown against a pillar, where he lay motionless. At first, he didn't move. He didn't stir. It had been a hard impact. Then, one of the bystanders entered the arena; judging by his demeanor, he was someone in charge.

He leaned over the blond man, grabbed him by the neck, and threw him at the victor's feet. Not a word was spoken; their glances and gestures spoke volumes. The victor remained motionless, unmoving. The moment, the atmosphere, seemed to grip everyone in turn, paralyzing them. We were tense, and a whirlwind of emotions raged within me. What was happening? My gaze was fixed on the blond man, who was now conscious but didn't move; rather, his whole body trembled.

Time seemed to stand still until the man in charge picked up a whip and began to beat the victor. He crumpled and knelt. His back was a gaping wound, blood running down his sides. But what disturbed me most was that not a word escaped the tormented man's lips. He had been raised this way, right here in the arena. That much became clear to me all at once. My gaze fell behind me to the large gate, which was now locked. I pushed aside the thought of leaving, for others had already had that idea; they ran to the gate but were met with a harsh reception.

........ When I turned back to the arena, the blond man had been seized and tied to a post. The victor stood before him, a riding crop in his hand, and began to beat him with it until he hung screaming from the ropes. But the punishment wasn't over yet; no, what happened next became etched in my memory, shaping my behavior then and forever. I could never forget, nor would I ever forget, those screams that escaped his throat. The weeping, the pleading. The horror. These images haunted my dreams for a long time. He was humiliated in the arena by the victor in an unimaginably cruel way. He was abused. I didn't understand it, and I didn't want to. "That happens to everyone who loses, until you have only one goal left: to win!" I looked at the man next to me; he was one of those who had been there longer, I could tell.

The Commander was a sadist. He took pleasure in picking on each individual, one by one, and trying to break them. To explore their weaknesses. He pitted every novice against an experienced opponent, so the chance of winning remained very slim. That was the order of the day, that defined our lives. This constant pressure to prove we were worth more than the dirt we slept on.

But it wasn't just the fighting that wore us down, it was everything. The nights, the cold that got to everyone. Then winter began. Snow spread, like a white blanket covering everything. Until then, I didn't know what it meant to freeze. But that winter, I learned. The dwellings were just shelters. Like open barns. And we were the livestock. All just to show us who we were, where we stood, and also to build our strength. Whoever was too weak was eliminated.

Has anyone ever tried to light a fire with ice-cold fingers? A simple fire? Just to keep warm so their toes wouldn't freeze? Necessity forced us to huddle close together. And that's how our bonds grew. Deep friendships were forged. But it was all the more horrific to hurt my friend. To watch him being tortured. It was all a ploy to drill us, to extract every last emotion from each of us, until nothing remained but an icy coldness within. We were supposed to learn to be attached to nothing and no one, only to serve, to obey. Even to stubbornly endure torture.

My hatred for the Commander and his subordinates grew day by day. Week by week, month by month. It was eating me up inside.

I did well in the arena, why? Well, my brother had always pushed me in my free time to fight with him, to defend the farm with whatever we had, and any means were justified. But there was more to it than that. Did he already know back then what awaited us? Now I'm quite certain he did.

In any case, this served me very well in the arena, helping me maintain my will. And as I mentioned before, I didn't intend to lose, nor did I intend to punish the loser. So, against

BY KILLIAN

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DARIAN-EDITOR