Become A Heroine In Your Own Story

Gorean culture has many heroes. They are brave and strong. They are winners. The hero always gets girls. And a fort. Actually, they usually get it all.

But what about Gorean heroines? Do we praise the heroines at all?

Since we haven’t been raised with many examples of true heroines, no wonder most of us don’t know how to step into power and live our lives as a heroine would. Our strongly patriarchal offline society is definitely to blame for this bias.

A Heroine is “a woman admired for her courage, outstanding achievements, or noble qualities”. And as always I intend to write about it with a capital H.

Whatever the society offline or online wants us to believe or be, we have all the right to claim our power, and our lives. Each one of us is born a Heroine. And if on the way we forgot that, then it’s the time to reclaim it.

Panther sisters of GE, never ever forget your power. You are a Heroine. You were born a Heroine. Now go and create your own Gorean tale.

So, without further ado a short story about Red hair and Feather.

Feather goes missing

Dappled sunlight filtered through the canopy of the forest trees, painting Red hair’s face half in light, half in shadow, the warmth lulling her slowly awake from a delicious dream involving having the collared smithy delicately kissing each one of her toes. She smiled and stretched, feeling the pleasant tug as her muscles came to life. It was early spring and a gentle warm breeze brought the scent of fresh green leaves to her nose.

The smile was quickly replaced by a frown as her nose twitched at what was missing. There was no scent of smoked fish, and the only smell from the fire was that of cold burned-down ashes. And it was too quiet. Feather wasn’t snoring, which would indicate she was asleep, and she wasn’t stirring about the camp fire, which would indicate she was awake and cooking. A slender arm reached out, curiously patting the sleeping furs next to her.

Two emerald green eyes popped open and Red hair sat up. The furs were cold, as if Feather had never been there. Red hair stood and quickly donned her leathers and boots, slipping her sleen knife into its sheath and strapping it in place. She looked around for her bow, but it was missing. She was certain she had placed it carefully in arm’s reach before they went to sleep. “Feather,” she growled. “You’d better not be using my bow again, or I swear, I’ll …. I’ll …” she paused, searching for an appropriate threat. It died on her lips. Feather’s travel bag was gone from the branch where she had hung it the night before.

As she looked carefully around the campsite, there was no trace of her best friend. Not a single hair or footprint. “She’s gotten way too good at those evasive maneuvers I taught her,” the Red head grumbled. She rocked her head to one side and closed her eyes, listening intently. Only the slight rustle of the leaves and the scurry of some small creature in the brush greeted her ears, along with the cheerful rush of the nearby stream where they had bathed and fished the night before. “Maybe she went to get water.”

Red hair shrugged and took off for the stream, following the same trail they had taken the day before. There were no broken branches or any disturbance in the undergrowth to indicate anyone had been by there. She frowned again. Even she should have left some footprints. She wasn’t trying to hide from anyone and hadn’t done anything to cover her tracks, that she could recall. Maybe Feather was testing her, and had covered both their tracks.

She grinned. Red hair always enjoyed a good game. “Okay, Feather,” she called out gleefully. “You want me to find you, you’re on!” She slowed her pace and took her time, studying every twig and leaf, but nothing was out of place. As she reached the stream, she heard only flowing water and a few twittering vulo. Further inspection along the muddy bank brought nothing. No footprints at all. Even the two linen cloths they had left to dry on a sunny rock were missing. She found the spot where she had cleaned their meal — a string of fat fish — but there was nothing on the rocks — no scales, bloodstains, or any remains of the considerable catch.

Suddenly it was no longer a game. “Feather?” She called out hopefully. “You win.” She waited, listening for her friend, wanting desperately to hear the rustle of branches or the crunch of leaves underfoot.

Silence answered her.

She sat down on a boulder, resting her forearms on her legs, thinking hard. “I don’t think I did anything to upset her yesterday,” she muttered. She looked down and retrieved a handful of pebbles, hurling them savagely into the stream one by one.

“Now what would make her take off in such a hurry that she would forget to even tell me where she was going?” Her brows scrunched together and her eyes narrowed as a thought occurred to her. “Why, that little sneak! She’s taken our last tarsk coins and gone shopping in that market in Gimli.”

She stood, wiping her hands off on her leathers, heading off down the narrow path which led to the village.


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