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

THE STORY OF PANTHER SHEILA CONTINUES

3° PART

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Kaira stepped back, allowing the sisters to completely surround the kneeling slave. His muscular body glistened with sweat, his chest heaved, and his gray eyes darted from one naked panther to the next, unable to decide where to rest their gaze: Kaira's full, charcoal-striped chest, the bronze thighs of Lyra, who had just arrived with the main force, or Sheila herself, whose appearance had silenced the forest.

Sheila stepped forward slowly, her naked body moving with the regal grace of a leading predator. Her green eyes dug into the slave like claws, and her long black hair, entwined with bone beads, swayed as she bowed her head. She didn't say a word—she merely ran her fingertips over his cheek, then down his neck, where the collar's stripe still glowed red, and down his chest, leaving a trail of goosebumps.

The slave shuddered but didn't retreat: that same Gorean flame was already flickering in his gaze—a mixture of fear of power and the desire to submit to it.

Lyra, standing to the right, growled softly, her amber eyes blazing. The crescent-shaped scar on her chest rose and fell with her breathing, and her hand settled on the slave's thigh, squeezing the muscle with possessive force. "He is strong, my leader," she purred hoarsely. "He will serve well."

Kaira, not taking her dark eyes off her prey, added, "And he already knows the taste of chains. Ours will be sweeter."

Sheila finally spoke, her voice low and deep, like a panther's growl in the night. "You fled from your master, male. Now you are ours. Tell me your name while you can still speak freely."

The slave raised his head, meeting her gaze.

"Thorval," he breathed, his voice rough from long silence. "I... Thorval."

Sheila smiled—slowly, dangerously, revealing white teeth. She nodded to Kaira. She instantly snatched a thin rope and, stepping around the slave, wrapped it around his neck—not tightly, but enough for him to feel the new mark. Kaira handed the end of the vine to Sheila.

The leader wrapped it around her arm, pulling Thorval closer until his face was against her hips.

"Thorval," Sheila repeated, savoring the name. "You are now the property of the panthers." You will carry our water, get our food, warm our bodies at night. And if you obey*—she leaned down, her lips almost touching his ear—*we will let you taste what males are willing to give their lives for.*

A muffled cry was heard in the distance, and the first of the caravan finally noticed the lack of a path ahead and the ring of naked shadows around them. But this was a different hunt.

Sheila straightened, tugging at the leash. Torval rose to his feet, guided by her hand. The tribe closed around him... naked bodies, heated glances, the scent of wild women that would make any male dizzy.

*Lead him to a new clearing, sisters,* Sheila ordered. *Today we celebrate two kills. The caravan will wait until sunset. And this one...*she tugged the vine again, forcing Thorval to step closer, *will begin serving right now.*

The jungle filled with the quiet, contented growls of panthers.

Under the scorching rays of the sun breaking through the dense forest canopy, Sheila's panther tribe moved toward a new clearing—a hidden ravine at the foot of the cliffs, where a silvery stream whispered coolness and soft grass beckoned naked bodies to rest. Thorval walked behind, led by the vine-like leash in Sheila's strong hand; his muscular legs stepped heavily but obediently, and his back, covered with old scars, glistened with sweat. Every time he slowed slightly, Sheila tugged the vine, forcing him to feel who was now the master of his fate. Lyra walked to his left, her bronze skin gleaming with gold, her amber eyes fixed on the slave's powerful shoulders. Her fingers occasionally slid over his thigh—a light but commanding touch, a reminder that he was no longer free. Kaira brought up the rear, her dark eyes blazing with satisfaction; the knife on her hip swayed in time with her steps, and the charcoal stripes on her chest and stomach accentuated every movement of her lithe body.

When the tribe emerged into a clearing, Sheila stopped. Tall grass reached their hips, a stream babbled a few steps away, and ancient trees towered around them—the perfect spot for a new camp. The leader tugged harder on the vine, forcing Thorval to his knees in the middle of the clearing.

"Here you will prove your worth, Thorval," Sheila said in a low, velvety voice that clanked with steel. She let go of the vine, but Kaira instantly grabbed the end, holding the slave in a submissive pose.

Lyra came closer, her full chest with the crescent-shaped scar heaving with a deep breath. She leaned down, grabbing Torval by the hair and forcing his head up. *First, water for the sisters,* she purred. *Then, fire. And then...* her lips curved into a predatory smile, *we will decide if you are worthy of more.*

The remaining wildlings scattered across the clearing: some were gathering dry branches, others were weaving new snares from the vines, still others were already plunging their naked bodies into the cool stream, laughing low, guttural laughter. But they all kept glancing at the kneeling slave—their new toy, their new power.

Sheila sat down on a flat boulder, her hands scraping against each other.and long, muscular legs. Green eyes followed Thorval's every movement when Kaira finally allowed him to stand and pointed to the jars of dried gourds.

"Work, male," Kaira said, running the tip of her knife down his back, leaving a light scratch. "And remember: in our tribe, obedience is rewarded... with passion."

Thorval nodded silently and walked toward the stream, feeling the heated gaze of dozens of naked panthers on him. The jungle around him froze in anticipation of the evening—when the caravan on the trail would become the second prey, and this slave would truly taste Gorean freedom for the first time... in the chains of wild women.

BY KATISHA

darian-editor

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                            I wanted to wisher at my readrs                      

                                                   Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year.

Thanks to everyone who follows me, I love you

onofriodelvecchio-editor

SHEILA THE QUEEN OF PANTHER

part 2°

 When the moon still hung high and the forest breathed a warm mist, Sheila raised her hand, and the entire tribe froze like a predatory beast. Ahead... a cracking of branches was heard in the fern thicket. A large bosk with long horns and black skin came out to drink at the stream. His muscular body glistened with the morning moisture, and his eyes glowed red in the moonlight. Sheila dropped to all fours, her bare thighs tensed, her clawed fingers digging into the soft earth. She didn't utter a word—only a short growl, and the panthers scattered in a semicircle, silent as shadows. Each knew its place: the two youngest, their bodies still untouched by a man's hand, went to the left to cut off any escape route; The elders, their thighs bearing the marks of old claw and whip scars, took up positions on the right, drawing their bows.

Sheila herself led the center. She moved low, her chest almost touching the moss, her long black hair trailing along the ground, concealing the gold rings on her wrists. The beast's scent—heavy, musky—filled her nostrils, and hunger flared in her green eyes, the same hunger that made her heart beat faster: the hunger of prey and the hunger of submission.

The bosk lowered its head toward the water. At that moment, Sheila leaped.

Her body rose in the air like a true panther—long legs extended, hands with splayed fingers ready to clutch the scruff of her neck. She landed on its back, her knees gripping the beast's sides, and her right arm instantly wrapped around its powerful neck. A narrow obsidian spear flashed in her left hand. With a single movement, she stabbed it beneath the shoulder blade, where the heart beat.

The beast roared and reared, trying to throw off the defiant female. But at that moment, arrows rained down from all sides—precise, merciless. Two entered the neck, a third pierced the eye. The tribe burst out of the thicket: naked bodies, covered in ritual paint and sweat, flashed among the vines. Spears pierced their sides, hands reached for their horns to direct their fall.

The beast took a few more steps, wheezing blood, and collapsed on its knees by the stream. Sheila didn't dismount—she remained astride, pressing her chest against the hot hide, feeling the last spasms spreading to her thighs. When the beast fell silent, she slowly rose and stood proudly on its broad back. Blood trickled down her legs, mixing with the ritual paint, and dripped onto the ground.

The tribe gathered around. Everyone knelt before their fallen prey and their leader. Sheila raised her bloody spear to the moon and let out a long, triumphant roar—a roar of victory and eternal readiness. Her body trembled with tension and excitement: she had proven her strength, but deep down she knew that if instead of the bosk, a man of Gor, worthy and merciless, had been here, she would have fallen before him just as this beast had fallen before her.

Now it was time to butcher the prey: skin it for new belts and collars, cut out the best cuts of meat for the feast. And then - to make a fire and dance around it, naked and free, until a new call is heard in the jungle, the call of the one who can catch Sheila herself and her wild panthers.

In the shade of a huge tree, where the tribe built a fire of fragrant branches to roast the meat of a fallen bosk, Sheila's first mate, Lyra, a wild panther with eyes the color of amber honey and a hide that shimmered bronze in the sun, always stood by her side.

Lyra was slightly shorter than the leader, but no less dangerous: her body, naked like all the sisters', was carved by the forest—long, muscular legs, a narrow waist, and full breasts marked by an old crescent-shaped scar just above her left nipple, a trophy from the claws of a sleen she killed with her bare hands on her first hunt.

Lyra's black hair was shorter than Sheila's, braided into numerous thin braids adorned with bone beads and the feathers of a night bird; Each braid jingled softly as she moved, warning her prey of approaching death.

On her right hip hung a narrow obsidian knife, its handle wrapped in a lock of hair from a once-defeated enemy, and around her neck hung a thin silver circlet, given to her by Sheila herself as a sign of trust and seniority. Lyra was the first to sample berries and mushrooms before the leader, the first to form a line during the hunt, and the first to kneel if Sheila raised her hand in danger.

On her right hip hung a narrow obsidian knife, its handle wrapped in a lock of hair from a once-defeated enemy, and around her forearm hung a thin silver circlet, given to her by Sheila herself as a sign of trust and seniority. Lyra was the first to sample berries and mushrooms before the leader, the first to form a line during the hunt, and the first to kneel if Sheila raised her hand in danger.

When Sheila washed her hands in the stream, Lyra stood behind, guarding, leaning on her spear. Her amber eyes watched the forest intently, but every now and then they slid over the leader's back—with devotion, with admiration.

Now, by the fire, Lyra squatted next to Sheila, holding out the best piece of meat—succulent, still steaming. Her movements were smooth, feline, her thighs slightly apart, her knees touching the ground in submission to her elder sister. She didn't speak—panthers rarely needed words—but her gaze clearly said: I am here. I follow you*

Sheila accepted the meat, touching Lyra's hand with her fingers—a brief but meaningful touch. The tribe fell silent, watching their two leaders: the black panther and the bronze one, whose bond was stronger than blood and sharper than fangs. Together, they were unstoppable in the forests...

A little distance from Sheila and Lyra sat the tribe's second mate, Kaira, the most silent and fiercest of them all.

Kaira was taller than most of her sisters, her body a mass of long muscles and taut lines, sculpted by years of climbing vines and silently leaping from branch to branch. Her skin was darker, almost the color of scorched earth, covered with a dense network of white scars—the memory of countless hunts and battles. The most prominent scar ran across her left breast, from collarbone to nipple, left by the fang of a forest tarsk she'd strangled with her bare hands when her spear snapped. Kaira's hair was cut short, almost to the roots, so that not a single strand would betray her in an ambush; only a thin braid of jet-black hair hung from her temple to her shoulder, adorned with three fangs from predators she'd personally killed. Two short, curved knives hung at her hips, and on her powerful forearms were leather vambraces studded with spikes, which she used to break the necks of enemies in close combat. Unlike Lyra, Kaira never wore silver or gold—only one sign of her status: a thick leather collar made of black sleen hide, a bracelet Sheila herself had placed on her after Kaira single-handedly killed a pack of zeders threatening the tribe. The bracelet was wide, fitting snugly around her wrist, and hung from it a single bone plate carved with the symbol of a panther—a sign that this warrior was second only to Lyra and ready at any moment to become first, should the hunt or fate demand it.

Kaira squatted, her knees spread wide, her elbows resting on her thighs, and her dark eyes, almost black and pupilless in the firelight, watched every movement around her. She ate little, spoke even less—her voice, low and hoarse, was heard only in battle or when Sheila asked for advice. When Lyra handed Sheila the best piece of meat, Kaira silently moved another branch toward the fire to brighten the flames and gave the leader a brief nod—a sign of complete, unconditional devotion.

Everyone in the tribe knew: if Lyra represented Sheila's mind and loyalty, then Kaira represented her fangs and claws. She was the first to rush into the thick of the fight, the first to stand between danger and her sisters.

Now she raised her head, sniffed the night wind, and growled softly—barely audible, but enough to instantly make Sheila and Lyra tense. Kaira caught a foreign scent—faint but masculine, coming from downwind. Her hand settled on the hilt of her knife, her body tensed like a spring. The second mate was ready. The hunt for the beast was over. Perhaps another was beginning.

A small detachment, heading for Laurium, moved slowly along a narrow path worn by trade caravans. A tall, broad-shouldered man in a tattered leather jerkin, a sword at his belt, and a heavy crossbow slung over his back—clearly a mercenary guard—walked in front. Behind him, an older man with a graying beard led two pickaxes laden with bales; coins jingled in a purse at his belt, identifying him as the caravan's master. Bringing up the rear was a woman—slender, with long dark hair braided into a ponytail, wearing a long silk traveling dress that attempted to conceal the curves of her body. Silver bracelets glittered on her wrists, and a mixture of weariness and wariness shone in her eyes. They didn't yet know that the trail had long belonged to Sheila's panthers.

Sheila slowly turned her head toward Lyra, her lips curling into a predatory smile. Lyra nodded, the muscles of her bronze body tensing, the crescent-shaped scar above her chest seeming to come alive in anticipation of new prey.

A quiet, almost inaudible roar echoed through the jungle—a signal. The savages silently took up positions: some climbed into the lower branches, others slipped into the undergrowth, surrounding the strangers in a tight but invisible ring.

The caravan continued on, unaware that just a few steps away, the naked, powerful bodies of the panther sisters were poised to spring, their green and amber eyes watching their every move with the primal hunger and passion characteristic of the Gorean forests.

Kaira, Sheila's second mate, suddenly froze, her sensitive nose catching a foreign scent—faint but distinctly masculine, wafting from downwind.

She turned silently to Sheila, her lips curling in a silent growl, and the leader nodded, understanding the signal. Lyra, standing on the other side, also caught the warning—her amber eyes flashed, the crescent scar on her chest seeming to pulse in anticipation.

But the scent wasn't coming from the three on the trail. It was coming from the side, deeper in the thicket, separate from the caravan. Alone. Strong. Dangerous.

Kaira slipped into the undergrowth, her body a shadow among shadows, her thighs and buttocks tensed with each step, her chest barely heaving—the panther's breathing was perfectly controlled. Behind her, at Sheila's signal, three more sisters separated, naked and silent, leaving the main circle around the caravan undisturbed.

The caravan trail continued to move: the mercenary ahead glanced warily, the senior trader muttered something,

and the woman, feeling the weight of gazes she hadn't seen before, involuntarily pressed her hand to her throat, where her heart beat beneath the thin cloth.

But now Sheila's panthers had two prey.

One—open, walking along the trail.

The other—hidden, thinking she was hunting herself. Kaira smiled in the darkness of the foliage, her knife glinting, reflecting the glimmer of the sun. The hunt had only just begun.

Kaira and her three panther sisters silently closed the circle around their hidden prey. The scent grew stronger—masculine, mingled with the dust of city streets and the faint scent of fear. From the undergrowth, carefully making his way along a barely visible animal trail, he emerged: a slave from Hüsvík, a town near Laurius, escaping from his master's chains.

He was tall, muscular, with a body forged by years of hard labor—broad shoulders covered with old whip scars, powerful arms still bound with scraps of rope at the wrists, and dark hair tangled from the long journey. He wore only a pitiful loincloth of coarse fabric, barely covering his hips, and a fresh mark on his neck from the steel collar he'd managed to tear off was visible. His eyes, gray and wary, scanned the jungle—he followed the scent of water, hoping to reach a stream and hide further from the city.

But he was already ambushed.

Kaira was the first to slip out of the shadows, her naked, bronze-hued body flashing before him like lightning. A knife pressed against his throat before he could cry out, and her full breasts, adorned with streaks of charcoal paint, brushed against his. *Don't move, male* she purred in a low, guttural voice, full of primal power. Her dark eyes bored into his, and her hips pressed tightly against his, making him feel all the strength and heat of a wild panther. The other sisters approached silently from behind—strong, naked bodies surrounding him in a tight circle. One grabbed his arms, twisting them behind his back with ease, another deftly bound his wrists with rope as strong as the steel chains of Horus. He didn't resist—he knew that in this jungle, resistance meant death. Or something worse.

Kaira took a step back, eyeing her prey with a predatory smile. The muscles of her flat stomach and long legs rippled beneath her skin, and the knife still gleamed in her hand.

She gave a soft whistle—a signal to Sheila. Far off, by the trail, the leader heard it and nodded to Lyra: the caravan can wait. This prey first.

The slave sank to his knees under the weight of the savage women's arms, his muscular body tensing, but his eyes already filling with that mixture of fear and desire that Sheila's panthers knew how to evoke in males. Kaira leaned closer, her lips almost touching his ear. *You will join our tribe... in our way.*

The jungle froze in anticipation. The hunt was a success. Now the taming began.

story by katysha

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photo from the inventory

darian-editor

 

 Darian,

"Sa Fora Kef dancers Asanei  and Sarah starred in "The Kajira Dance" . a Cat House Productions/Phoenix video, directed by  Gemma Velverleaf, November 2025. Asaeni and Sarah were voted the #2 and #3 best models at Phoenix Studios this month

. Here are are some screen shots form the video􀀂􀀁􀀀

darian - editor

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Invitation to the Physician Fair 2026 in Besnit

January 16–18, 2026

We cordially invite you to the Physician Fair 2026, which will take place in Besnit from January 16 to 18, 2026. This special trade fair brings together medical professionals, trainees, manufacturers, and other interested parties, offering a unique platform for exchange, continuing education, and discovery.

The Venue: Besnit

Besnit is known for its welcoming atmosphere and easy accessibility. The town combines tradition with an openness to innovation and, with its event spaces, provides the ideal setting for a medical trade fair. Visitors can also enjoy the town's cultural and culinary offerings in addition to the fair.

The Program

The Physician Fair offers a diverse and practical program:

Market with vendor booths

Discover a wide range of medical products, medications, and traditional and modern medicinal herbs. Expert exhibitors will be available for consultations and discussions.

Scientific lectures

Renowned speakers will present current findings, new treatment methods, and developments from various medical specialties.

Information sessions from educational institutions

Schools, academies, and training centers for medical professions will present their programs and provide information about training and continuing education opportunities in the healthcare sector.

Whether you want to further your professional development, learn about new products, or network – the Physician Fair 2026 in Besnit provides the perfect setting.

We look forward to your visit!

sent by sabayna

darian-editor

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Part 1:SHEILA    

The Panther's Queen

Deep in the forest, where night fell like heavy velvet and the moon silvered the leaves, Sheila gathered her tribe in a sacred clearing, a place known only to panther hunters. It was the Ritual of the Hunt , an ancient rite in which the wild women of Gor affirmed their strength, their beauty, and their eternal readiness to become prey to those worthy.

Sheila entrò al centro del cerchio, nuda, con solo una sottile cintura di pelle di pantera nera che le cingeva i fianchi e un cerchietto dorato che le luccicava sull'avambraccio, segno di una leader che non si era mai arresa a nessun uomo. Il suo corpo, ricoperto di pittura rituale a forma di strisce di artigli, luccicava dell'olio di orchidee selvatiche.

I suoi seni si sollevarono, i capezzoli induriti dall'aria fresca della notte e dall'attesa. La tribù – dodici guerriere altrettanto nude – formò un semicerchio attorno a lei, con le lance piantate nel terreno e inginocchiate.

Sheila alzò le mani verso la luna ed emise un ruggito basso e gutturale: un richiamo alla Grande Pantera, dea della foresta e della passione femminile. La tribù rispose a tono, e l'aria tremò delle loro voci, piene di potere primordiale.

Poi la capo tribù prese una coppa ricavata dal cranio di una larl un tempo sconfitta, riempita con il denso succo di bacche rosse e miele fermentato. Bevve per prima, lasciando che il succo le scorresse lungo il mento e sul petto, lasciando strisce scarlatte sulla pelle: il segno del sangue della loro futura preda. Ogni cacciatrice si avvicinò a turno, bevve dalla stessa coppa e permise a Sheila di segnare il suo corpo: con le dita sporche di succo, tracciò una linea dalla gola fino ai seni, fino allo stomaco e poi alla vulva, dove il segno terminava con un tratto netto, come un artiglio. Era una promessa: quel giorno avrebbero cacciato, ma se avessero incontrato un uomo degno di Horus, si sarebbero inginocchiate davanti a lui e si sarebbero offerte come trofeo.

Dopo l'unzione, la danza ebbe inizio. Sheila si mosse per prima: lentamente, con fare predatorio, i fianchi che ondeggiavano al ritmo di tamburi invisibili, le braccia che si contorcevano sopra la testa, imitando gli artigli. Si voltò di scatto, si mise a quattro zampe, inarcò la schiena e ringhiò, mostrando i denti bianchi. La tribù seguì l'esempio e presto l'intera radura divenne un turbine di corpi nudi, sudore, vernice e calore femminile. Si strofinarono spalle, fianchi e seni l'uno contro l'altro, non per lussuria, ma in un'unione di forza e sottomissione.

Quando la luna raggiunse lo zenit, Sheila conficcò la lancia nel terreno ed emise un ultimo grido. La tribù si sollevò. La vernice sui loro corpi luccicò, i loro occhi brillarono di verde. Erano pronte. Il rituale era completo.

Ora aveva inizio la vera caccia: silenziose come ombre, le pantere di Sheila scivolavano nella giungla alla ricerca di una preda... e, forse, per incontrare quella che avrebbe potuto catturarle.

Un piccolo distaccamento, diretto a Laurium, procedeva lentamente lungo uno stretto sentiero battuto dalle carovane commerciali. Un uomo alto e dalle spalle larghe, con un farsetto di cuoio lacero, una spada alla cintura e una pesante balestra a tracolla – chiaramente una guardia mercenaria – camminava in testa. Dietro di lui, un uomo anziano con la barba grigia guidava due picconi carichi di balle; le monete tintinnavano in una borsa alla cintura, identificandolo come il capo della carovana. Chiudeva la fila una donna: snella, con lunghi capelli scuri intrecciati in una coda di cavallo, che indossava un lungo abito da viaggio di seta che cercava di nascondere le curve del corpo. Braccialetti d'argento scintillavano ai suoi polsi e un misto di stanchezza e circospezione le brillava negli occhi. Non sapevano ancora che quel sentiero apparteneva da tempo alle pantere di Sheila.

Sheila girò lentamente la testa verso Lyra, le labbra che si curvavano in un sorriso predatorio. Lyra annuì, i muscoli del suo corpo bronzeo si irrigidirono, la cicatrice a forma di mezzaluna sopra il petto sembrò animarsi in attesa di una nuova preda.

Un ruggito sommesso, quasi impercettibile, echeggiò nella giungla: un segnale. I selvaggi presero posizione silenziosamente: alcuni si arrampicarono sui rami più bassi, altri si infilarono nel sottobosco, circondando gli stranieri in un anello stretto ma invisibile.

La carovana proseguì, ignara che a pochi passi di distanza, i corpi nudi e possenti delle sorelle pantera erano pronti a scattare, i loro occhi verdi e ambrati osservavano ogni loro mossa con la fame primordiale e la passione caratteristiche delle foreste goreane.

Kaira, la seconda compagna di Sheila, si bloccò improvvisamente, il suo naso sensibile colse un odore estraneo, debole ma distintamente maschile, che proveniva dal vento.

Si voltò silenziosamente verso Sheila, le labbra arricciate in un ringhio silenzioso, e la capo annuì, comprendendo il segnale. Anche Lyra, in piedi dall'altra parte, colse l'avvertimento: i suoi occhi ambrati lampeggiarono, la cicatrice a mezzaluna sul suo petto sembrò pulsare in attesa.

Ma l'odore non proveniva dalle tre sul sentiero. Proveniva da un lato, più in profondità nel folto, separata dalla carovana. Sola. Forte. Pericolosa.

Kaira scivolò nel sottobosco, il suo corpo un'ombra tra le ombre, cosce e glutei tesi a ogni passo, il petto che si sollevava appena – il respiro della pantera era perfettamente controllato. Dietro di lei, al segnale di Sheila, altre tre sorelle si separarono, nude e silenziose, lasciando indisturbato il cerchio principale attorno alla carovana.

Il sentiero della carovana continuò a muoversi: il mercenario davanti a lei lanciò un'occhiata circospetta, il mercante anziano borbottò qualcosa,

e la donna, sentendo il peso di sguardi che non aveva mai visto prima, si premette involontariamente una mano sulla gola, dove il suo cuore batteva sotto il tessuto sottile. Ma ora le pantere di Sheila avevano due prede.

Una, scoperta, che camminava lungo il sentiero.

L'altra, nascosta, convinta di essere lei stessa a cacciare. Kaira sorrise nell'oscurità del fogliame, il suo coltello luccicava, riflettendo il bagliore del sole. La caccia era appena iniziata.

Kaira e le sue tre sorelle pantere chiusero silenziosamente il cerchio attorno alla loro preda nascosta. L'odore si fece più forte: maschile, mescolato alla polvere delle strade cittadine e al debole odore di paura. Dal sottobosco, avanzando con cautela lungo una pista di animali appena visibile, emerse: uno schiavo di Hüsvík, una città vicino a Laurius, in fuga dalle catene del suo padrone.

Era alto, muscoloso, con un corpo forgiato da anni di duro lavoro: spalle larghe coperte di vecchie cicatrici di frusta, braccia possenti ancora legate con pezzi di corda ai polsi e capelli scuri arruffati dal lungo viaggio. Indossava solo un misero perizoma di tessuto grezzo, che gli copriva a malapena i fianchi, e sul collo era visibile un segno fresco del collare d'acciaio che era riuscito a strappare. I suoi occhi, grigi e guardinghi, scrutavano la giungla: seguì l'odore dell'acqua, sperando di raggiungere un ruscello e nascondersi più lontano dalla città.

Ma era già in agguato.

Kaira fu la prima a sgattaiolare fuori dall'ombra, il suo corpo nudo, color bronzo, che gli balenava davanti come un lampo. Un coltello gli premette la gola prima che potesse gridare, e i suoi seni prosperosi, decorati con pennellate di carboncino, sfiorarono i suoi. *Non muoverti, maschio* sussurrò con voce bassa e gutturale, piena di potere primordiale. I suoi occhi scuri lo trafissero, e i suoi fianchi si strinsero forte contro i suoi, facendogli sentire tutta la forza e il calore di una pantera selvaggia. Le altre sorelle si avvicinarono silenziosamente da dietro: corpi forti e nudi lo circondarono in un cerchio stretto. Uno gli afferrò le braccia, torcendole dietro la schiena con facilità, un altro gli legò abilmente i polsi con una corda resistente come le catene d'acciaio di Horus. Non oppose resistenza: sapeva che in quella giungla resistere significava morte. O qualcosa di peggio.

Kaira fece un passo indietro, osservando la sua preda con un sorriso predatorio. I muscoli del suo ventre piatto e delle lunghe gambe le si incresparono sotto la pelle, e il coltello le luccicava ancora in mano.

Emise un fischio sommesso: un segnale a Sheila. Lontano, lungo il sentiero, il capo lo sentì e fece un cenno a Lyra: la carovana può aspettare. Prima questa preda.

Lo schiavo cadde in ginocchio sotto il peso delle braccia della selvaggia donna, il suo corpo muscoloso si irrigidì, ma i suoi occhi si riempirono già di quel misto di paura e desiderio che le pantere di Sheila sapevano evocare nei maschi. Kaira si sporse più vicino, le sue labbra quasi gli sfiorarono l'orecchio. *Ti unirai alla nostra tribù... a modo nostro.*

La giungla si bloccò nell'attesa. La caccia.e funzionò. Ora l'addomesticamento ebbe inizio.

fine prima parte

 story by katisha

darian-editor

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