Chronicles of the Collar: The Memoirs of Neeve Barbosa. Part 1.

  This Gorean Fan Fiction was generated using Chat GPT alongside a backstory I created for my character. 

PLEASE NOTE: All the information in these blogs are OOC information unless you gain them IC. PLEASE do not metagame or godmod that you know this information. 

Please note that the Gorean Saga is a fictional series, and its world, customs, and values may not align with modern societal standards or moral principles.

Gor is Copyrighted by John Norman

Entry I — The Taking

 

There are nights when I still hear the sea that carried me from the world of my birth.
It comes in fragments—wood creaking beneath chains, salt burning the throat, the faint thrum of oars moving through black water.

I had fallen asleep upon a world of noise and light, and I awoke upon one of silence and iron. They called me barbarian. On Earth the word might have meant savage or untaught, but on Gor it meant simply unshaped. I did not yet know its language, its order, or the meaning of the steel that soon closed about my throat.

When the collar was fastened, the sound was small, almost delicate, yet it marked the death of all I had been. In those first days I raged. The collar burned against my skin as though it mocked me. I pulled at it until my neck was raw; I cursed the men who had taken me, cursed the Priest-Kings whose unseen hands ruled this place. But rage is a poor companion, and Gor does not soften for tears.

A woman learns swiftly that the lash is more persuasive than pity. My first Master was of the Physician’s Caste in the city of Lara. He was a man of measured cruelty—one who believed that pain refines and obedience perfects. His house smelled of herbs and fire, of blood and oils and he taught me the duties of service not with words but with the sting of a switch. Each mistake had a price; each success, a silence that was its own reward.

 

Yet beneath his harshness lay a cold kind of instruction. He permitted me to attend him in the infirmary, to watch as he stitched wounds and set bones. At first I thought it a punishment, to stand amid the cries of the wounded, but over time I learned to see as he did.
I learned that flesh, whether Free or collared, opens and heals the same way. In that chamber I began to glimpse the order beneath the cruelty of this world.

 

The days became months; the months turned to years. I forgot the taste of Earth’s winds, the sound of its rain. The rhythms of Gor replaced them—the calls of tarns above the walls of Lara, the clang of steel from the forges, the measured cadence of command. Ten years passed thus.

The girl who had come from another world had been burned away; what remained was a woman who knew how to serve, how to survive, and, strangely, how to find a certain peace within obedience.

 

Still, there were nights when I would look at the stars and wonder if one of them watched over the world I had lost. But Gor does not permit long dreams. In Lara, survival is a discipline, not a gift.

 

I write these words so that I may remember how the world first claimed me: not with tenderness, but with fire, steel, and the quiet click of a collar closing. Gor does not ask if one is ready; it simply is. And I, unready yet unbroken, began my life anew.