| Gorean Ceremony/Ritual Any submissions offered would be greatly appreciated and posted with full credit! |
| Tharna In those days it had been a portion of the Rites of Submission, as practiced in Tharna, to strip and bind the captive with yellow cords and place her on a scarlet rug, the yellow of the cord being symbolic of talenders, a flower often associated with feminine love and beauty, the scarlet of the rug being symbolic of blood, and perhaps of passion. He who had captured the girl would place his sword to her breast and utter the ritual phrases of enslavement. They were the last words she would hear as a free woman. Weep, Free Maiden. Remember your pride and weep. Remember your laughter and weep. Remember you were my enemy and weep. Now you are my helpless captive. Remember you stood against me. Now you lie at my feet. I have bound you with yellow cords. I have placed you on the scarlet rug. Thus by the laws of Tharna do I claim you. Remember you were free. Know now you are my slave. Weep, Slave Girl. At this point the captor would untie the girl's ankles and complete the rite. When she rose from the rug to follow him, she was, in his eyes and hers, a slave. Outlaw of Gor, page 204 Treve - Collaring of Elinor Rask of Treve now stood some ten feet from me. He regarded me. "Remove her garment," he said. Ena and one of the girls from the tent parted the garment and let it fall about my ankles. Two or three of the girls in the crowd breathed their pleasure. Some of the warriors smote their shields with the blades of their spears. "Step before me naked," said Rask of Treve. I did so. We faced one another, not speaking, he with his blade, and in his leather. I with nothing, stripped at his command. "Submit," he said. I could not disobey him. I fell to my knees before him, resting back on my heels, extending my arms to him, wrists crossed, as though for binding, my head lowered, between my arms. I spoke in a clear voice. "I, Miss Elinor Brinton, of New York City, to the Warrior, Rask, of the High City of Treve, herewith submit myself as a slave girl. At his hands I accept my life and my name, declaring myself his to do with as he pleases." Suddenly I felt my wrists lashed swiftly, rudely, together. I drew back my wrists in fear. They were already bound! They were bound with incredible tightness. I had been bound by a tarnsman. I looked up at him in fear. I saw him take an object from a warrior at his side. It was an opened, steel slave collar. He held it before me. "Read the collar," said Rask of Treve. "I cannot," I whispered. "I cannot read." "She is illiterate," said Ena. "Ignorant barbarian!" I heard more than one girl laugh. I felt so ashamed. I regarded the engraving on the collar, tiny, in neat, cursive script. I could not read it. "Read it to her," said Rask of Treve to Ena. "It says," said Ena, "�I am the property of Rask of Treve." I said nothing. "Do you understand?" asked Ena. "Yes," I said. "Yes!" Now, with his two hands, he held the collar about my neck, but he did not yet close it. I was looking up at him. My throat was encircled by the collar, he holding it, but the collar was not yet shut. My eyes met his. His eyes were fierce, amused, mine were frightened. My eyes pleaded for mercy. I would receive none. The collar snapped shut. There was a shout of pleasure from the men and girls about. I heard hands striking the left shoulder in Gorean applause. Among the warriors, the flat of sword blades and the blades of spears rang on shields. I closed my eyes, shuddering. I opened my eyes. I could not hold up my head. I saw before me the dirt, and the sandals of Rask of Treve. Then I remembered that I must speak one more line. I lifted my head, tears in my eyes. "I am yours, Master," I said. Captive of Gor, page 283 Collaring of Vella "Assume the posture of female submission," I told her. She did so, kneeling back on her heels, her arms extended, wrists crossed, her head between them, down. She was weeping. "Repeat after me," I told her, "'I, once Miss Elizabeth Cardwell, of the planet Earth-' " "I, once Miss Elizabeth Cardwell of the planet Earth-" she said. " '-herewith submit myself, completely and totally, in all things-'" "-herewith submit myself, completely and totally, in all things-" she said. "--to he who is now known here as Hakim of Tor-"' "-to he who is now known here as Hakim of Tor-" she said. " '-his girl, his slave, an article of his property, his to do with as he pleases-' " "-his girl, his slave, an article of his property, his to do with as he pleases," she said. Hassan handed me the collar. It was inscribed 'I am the property of Hakim of Tor'. I showed it to the girl. She could not read Taharic script. I read it to her. I put it about her neck. I snapped it shut. " 'I am yours, Master,' " I said to the girl. She 'looked up at me, tears in her eyes, her neck in my locked collar. "I am yours, Master," she said. "Congratulations on your slave!" said Hassan. `She is lovely meat. Now I must attend to my own slave." He laughed, and left. The girl sank to the straw, and looked up at me. Her eyes were soft with tears. She whispered. "I am yours now, Tarl," she said. "You own me. You truly own me." "What is your name?" I asked. "What ever master wishes," she whispered. "I will call you 'Vella'," I said. "I am Vella," she said, her head down. After a time she lifted her head. "May I call you Tarl?" she asked. "Only if given permission," I told her. This was normal Gorean slave custom. Generally, of course, such permission is not even asked, and, if asked, would be denied. Sometimes a girl is whipped for even daring to ask this permission. "A girl asks permission to call her Master by his name," she said. "It is denied," I said. "Yes, Master," she said. I would not permit the slave girl to speak my name. It is not fitting that the name of the master be soiled by being touched by the lips of a slave girl. Tribesman of Gor, pg. 359 A Tarnsman's first capture! When he brings home his captive, bound naked across the saddle of his tarn, he gives her over, rejoicing, to his sisters, to be bathed, perfumed and clothed in the brief slave livery of Gor. That night, at a great feast, he displays the captive, now suitably attired by his sisters in the diaphanous, scarlet dancing silks of Gor. Bells have been strapped to her ankles, and she is bound in slave bracelets. Proudly, he presents her to his parents, his friends and warrior comrades. Then, to the festive music of flutes and drums, the girl kneels. The young man approaches her, bearing a slave collar, its engraving proclaiming his name and city. The music grows more intense, mounting to an overpowering, barbaric crescendo, which stops suddenly, abruptly. The room is silent, absolutely silent, except for the decisive click of the collar lock. It is a sound the girl will never forget. As soon as the lock closes, there is a great shout, congratulating, saluting the young man. He returns to his place among the tables that line the low-ceilinged chamber, hung with glowing brass lamps. He sits in the midst of his family, his closest well-wishers, his sword comrades, cross- legged on the floor in the Gorean fashion behind the long, low wooden table, laden with food, which stands at the head of the room. Now all eyes are on the girl. The restraining slave bracelets are removed. She rises. Her feet are bare on the thick, ornately wrought rug that carpets the chamber. There is a slight sound from the bells strapped to her ankles. She is angry, defiant. Though she is clad only in the almost transparent scarlet dancing silks of Gor, her back is straight, her head high. She is determined not to be tamed, not to submit, and her proud carriage bespeaks this fact. The spectators seem amused. She glares at them. Angrily she looks from face to face. There is no one she knows, or could know, because she has been taken from a hostile city, she is a woman of the enemy. Fists clenched, she stands in the center of the room, all eyes upon her, beautiful in the light of the hanging lamps. She faces the young man, wearing his collar. "You will never tame me!" she cries. Her outburst provokes laughter, skeptical observations, some good-natured hooting. "I will tame you at my pleasure," replies the young man, and signals to the musicians. The music begins again. Perhaps the girl hesitates. There is a slave whip on the wall. Then, to the barbaric, intoxicating music of the flute and drums, she dances for her captor, the bells on her ankles marking each of her movements, the movements of a girl stolen from her home, who must now live to please the bold stranger whose binding fiber she had felt, whose collar she wore. At the end of her dance, she is given a cup of wine, but she may not drink. She approaches the young man and kneels before him, her knees in the dictated position of the Pleasure Slave, and, head down, she proffers the wine to him. He drinks. There is another general shout of commendation and well wishing, and the feast begins, for none before the young man may touch food on such occasions. From that moment on, the young man's sisters never again serve him, for that is the girl's task. She is his slave. As she serves him again and again throughout the long feast, she steals glances at him, and sees that he is even more handsome than she had thought. Of his courage and strength she had already had ample evidence. As he eats and drinks with gusto on this occasion of his triumph, she regards him furtively, with a strange mixture of fear and pleasure. "Only such a man," she tells herself, "could tame me." Perhaps it should only be added that the Gorean master, though often strict, is seldom cruel. The girl knows, if she pleases him, her lot will be an easy one. She will almost never encounter sadism or wanton cruelty, for the psychological environment that tends to breed these diseases is largely absent from Gor. This does not mean that she will not expect to be beaten if she disobeys, or fails to please her master. On the other hand, it is not too unusual a set of compartments on Gor where the master, in effect, willingly wears the collar, and his lovely slave, by the practice of the delightful wiles of her sex, with scandalous success wheedles her way triumphantly from the satisfaction of one whim to the next. Outlaw of Gor, pg. 52 Induction to the Warrior Caste �Come forward, Tarl Cabot,� said my father, and I stood before his throne of office, feeling the eyes of everyone in the chamber on me. Behind me stood the Older Tarl. I had noted that those blue Viking eyes showed almost no evidence if the previous night. I hated him, briefly. The Older Tarl was speaking. �I, Tarl, Swordsman of Ko-ro-ba, give my word that this man is fit to become a member of the High Caste of Warriors.� My father answered him, speaking in ritual phrases. �No tower in Ko-ro-ba is stronger than the word of Tarl, this Swordman of our city. I, Matthew Cabot of Ko-ro-ba, accept his word.� Then, beginning with the lowest tier, each member of the Council spoke in succession, giving his name and pronouncing that he, too, accepted the word of the blond swordsman. When they had finished, my father invested me with the arms which had lain before the throne. About my shoulder he slung the steel sword, fastened on my left arm the round shield, placed in my right hand the spear, and slowly lowered the helmet on my head. �Will you keep the Code of the Warrior?� asked my father. �Yes,� I said, �I will keep the Code.� �What is your Home Stone?� asked my father. Sensing what was wanted, I replied, �My Home Stone is the Home Stone of Ko-ro-ba.� �Is it to that city that you pledge your life, your honour, your sword?� asked my father. �Yes,� I said. �Then,� said my father, placing his hands solemnly on my shoulders, �in virtue of my authority as Administrator of this city and in the presence of the Council of High Castes, I declare you to be a Warrior of Ko-ro-ba.� My father was smiling. I removed my helmet, feeling proud as I heard the approval of the Council, both in voice and by Gorean applause, the quick, repeated striking of the left shoulder with the palm of the right hand. Aside from candidates for the status of Warrior, none of my caste was permitted to enter the Council armed. Had they been armed, my caste brothers would have struck their spear blades on their shields. As it was, they smote their shoulders in the civilian manner, more exuberantly perhaps than was compatible with the decorum of that weighty chamber. Somehow I had the feeling they were genuinely proud of me, though I had no idea why. I had surely done nothing to warrant their commendation. Tarnsman of Gor, pg. 62 Planting Feast of Sa-Tarna The Home Stone of a city is the centre of various rituals. The next would be the Planting Feast of Sa-Tarna, the Life-Daughter, celebrated early in the growing season to ensure a good harvest. This is a complex feast, celebrated by most Gorean cities, and the observances are numerous and intricate. The details of the rituals are arranged and mostly executed by the Initiates of a given city. Certain portions of the ceremonies, however, are often allotted to members of the High Castes. I Ar, for example, early in the day, a member of the Builders will go to the roof on which the Home Stone is kept and place the primitive symbol of his trade, a metal angle square, before the Stone, praying to the Priest-Kings for the prosperity of his caste in the coming year; later in the day a Warrior will, similarly, place his arms before the Stone, to be followed by other representatives of each caste. Most significantly, while these members of the High Castes perform their portions of the ritual, the Guards of the Home Stone temporarily withdraw to the interior of the cylinder, leaving the celebrant, it is said, alone with the Priest-Kings. Lastly, as the culmination of Ar�s Planting Feast, and of the greatest importance to the plan of the Council of Ko-ro-ba, a member of the Ubar�s family goes to the roof at night, under the three full moons with which the feast is correlated, and casts grain upon the stone and drops of a red, winelike drink made from the fruit of the Ka-la-na tree. The member of the Ubar�s family then prays to the Priest-Kings for an abundant harvest and returns to the interior of the cylinder, at which point the Guards of the Home Stone resume their vigil. Tarnsman of Gor, pg. 68 BANISHMENT - Being denied bread, salt, and fire To my astonishment bread, and salt, and a small, flaming brand were brought to him. There were shouts of dismay from those assembled. I could not believe my eyes. Marlenus took the bread and broke it apart in his large hands. "You are refused bread," said Marlenus, placing the bread back on the tray. There were shouts of astonishment in the court. Marlenus had taken the salt, lifted it from the tray, and replaced it. "You are refused salt," he said. "No!" came the shouts from hundreds of voices. "No!" Marlenus then, looking at me, took the small brand of fire in his hand. There was a leaf of fire, bright yellow, at its tip. He thrust the brand into the salt, extinguishing it. "You are refused fire," he said. There was silence in the court of the Ubar. "You are herewith, by edict of the Ubar," said Marlenus, "commanded from the city of Ar, to depart before sundown of this day, not to return on pain of penalty of torture and impalement." Assassin of Gor, pg. 404 |
| Contents:
-Tharna's Rites of Submission -Treve Collaring (Elinor) -Collaring of a slave (Vella) -Tarnsman's First Capture -Induction to the Warrior Caste (Tarl) -Planting Feast of Sa-Tarna -Banishment |