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He crawled to his knees, squinting against the torch, trying to shelter his eyes with manacled clawlike hands from the sudden, fierce, painful blaze of fire that his world must have then been for him. - (Assassin of Gor, Chapter 18, Sentence #404)

It had been nibbling at the scrapings of dried gruel caked in a tin pan near the prisoner's foot. I could smell wet straw in the place, and the excrement of urts and a human being. The slumped figure, that of a small man, naked, white-haired, stinking, skeletal, haggard, covered with sores, awakening, cried out in misery, whimpering. He crawled to his knees, squinting against the torch, trying to shelter his eyes with manacled clawlike hands from the sudden, fierce, painful blaze of fire that his world must have then been for him. "Who are you?" he whispered. I saw that he was not actually an old man, though his hair was white. One ear had been partly bitten away. - (Assassin of Gor)