The Entertainer of Selnar: Part 1

 This Gorean Fan Fiction was generated using Chat GPT alongside the RP logs. 

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

The night had drawn its dark cloak across the city of Selnar, and most of its good people had long since sought their rest. Yet for some, the dark hours were not for sleep, but for song, for laughter, for the beauty that lives beneath the moons of Gor.

By the dockside, where a merchant ship from the south was tethered in still waters, stood a man of the Caste of Singers, known by name as Armand Geh’Mare, lately of Port Victoria. His eyes shone with a restless light as he watched the stragglers upon the quayside, and his lips curved with the promise of a story — or a song.

The night wind stirred his cloak as he murmured, half to the stars, half to whatever soul might hear:

“The wind doth blow cold. It whispers. It roars. It sings of the tale of a man. Young proud and free. Committed was he. Questing for the stone of his lands. He searched far and wide. For where it did hide. Alone, the last male of his line. And in his journey. He in no hurry. Found beauty gentleness divine. The one thing he wanted, beyond obligation, duty and honour above all. She stirred his heart, and then they were parted. In nefarious Kar she would fall. Driven! Determined! Searching and yearning. Nothing would keep him from her. And when he found her. His heart near did flounder. Kajira once woman was she. Taken from he. No longer free. His anger did flame in his breast! Taking her back. Warrior's honour cracked. A price would be paid high of fee. Given no choice, ringing his voice. The father he never did see. In hindsight guilt wracked. Twas true he had her back. But all things they come at a cost. Bound now to service. Karian cur no less. Fallen from nobility. Bound now to Thassa, the sea. Chantyman would he ever be."

The words flowed from him like a river, the rhythm catching upon the air, telling of honour, of loss, and of the eternal price of pride. His voice carried, low and melodic, across the dock.

It was then that a lady descended from the moored vessel — her gait sure despite the lateness of the hour. She was of the Green Caste, a Physician by training, though her bearing spoke of more than quiet study. Her name was Neeve Barbosa, of Var-Kor. Hearing his song, she paused, a smile playing upon her lips.

“Aye,” she said softly. “A good song... and a good story.”

Her gaze swept the quiet streets and then returned to him. “You would not happen to know if a lady called Cherry, a physician, still resides within this city?”

Before Armand could reply, another voice drifted from the shadows — a man’s voice, deep and tempered, the tone of a warrior, cloaked in crimson.

“Songs rarely end the way the one who first sang them intended,” said he. “If the music is real.”

Armand inclined his head toward the warrior. “Perhaps not, Warrior,” said he, smiling faintly. “But welcome, Lady, to the shores of Selnar. I fear I do not know such a woman as you seek. Truthfully, I have not even located the infirmary, and I need to. I was set upon by ruffians, likely men of Turmus, who did not appreciate a certain tune of mine. My wrist pains me. I have had willow-bark tea for it, but I worry of infection. Were I able to direct you, I would offer escort to the place.”

He turned then to the warrior. “You sound as one who has had poor dealings with my caste, Sir. Is that the case?”

The Lady Neeve chuckled softly. “Perhaps it is a warrior thing,” she mused, before looking to the singer with kindness. “If you wish, we could find the infirmary together. I can treat your wrist — make sure it is not infected.”

As she spoke, the soft footsteps of another approached. A kajira, lithe and graceful, emerged from the direction of the bathhouse, her silken camisk clinging to her form. She lowered her gaze respectfully.

“Tal, Masters. Tal, Mistress,” she greeted, her voice smooth, touched by an accent not of the city.

The warrior answered her greeting, then returned his gaze to the singer. “Perhaps it is more than a warrior thing,” he said, his tone dry.

The entertainer smiled, despite the ache in his wrist. “Ah! There you are, girl,” he said to the slave with a grin. “I wager you know where the infirmary lies. You seem to know every juicy little secret of this place. How many candies will that knowledge cost me, I wonder?”

The kajira — Tayir — laughed lightly, her dark eyes gleaming in the moonlight. “Through the market, then the square,” she said, “up the stairs on the left before you reach Frank’s tank. Twelve candies, Master.”

“Good Kings, girl!” Armand exclaimed, feigning outrage. “Are you trying to round your belly? Your master would have my hide if I so fattened you!”

Another man approached from the dock, his voice smooth as silk, his manner refined — a Slaver of Lydius, named Latif Omar. His green eyes shone with amusement. “Lady,” he said to Neeve, “I do not recommend seeking the infirmary. The Physicians of Selnar have strict rules about outsiders practicing there. But first aid, that may be done in the field without consequence.”

Neeve inclined her head in thanks. “I came only to visit an old friend,” she explained. “But perhaps Lady Cherry is no longer here.”

As they spoke, the kajira curtsied lightly. “I have never heard of a Mistress Cherry, Mistress,” she said softly. “But I will ask.”

Before more could be said, Tayir tilted her head as though hearing a summons only she could perceive. She bowed to them all. “Please excuse me, Masters, Mistress. I am summoned.” And with that, she departed.

Armand turned once more to the warrior, who had since taken a seat within the inn, calling out to them. “There’s no one here who will harm you, Scarlet,” the singer called with a grin. “Come forth! Tayir here is the only one among us who bites, I wager.”

A laugh rippled from the group, but the warrior’s eyes, though amused, were guarded.

Latif glanced between them all, his manner ever calm. “I am merely a visitor,” he said. “Would you like me to fetch bandages for the lady physician? My brother is of the Green Caste.”

“Your offer is kind,” said Neeve. “Yes, please — and some salve, if it can be spared.”

When Latif returned, he carried a small green cloth bag. “My brother gives these to his patients,” he said. “Salve, antiseptic, bandages, and pain medicine — none of that willow-bark nonsense.”

Yet before the healer could tend the singer, the warrior rose suddenly, gladius still sheathed, and pressed it against Armand’s forearm. “I invited you to sit among us,” he said, voice sharp. “Will you withdraw that arm — or shall I cut it off?”

Neeve gasped, stepping between them. “He extends it so I can look!” she said sharply. “Peace, Warrior!”

For a tense moment the air crackled — then, with a grunt, the warrior lowered his blade and sat. “Very well,” he muttered.

The singer, pale with strain, withdrew his arm, lips tight against the pain. The moment passed, but the unease did not.

He rose, bowing stiffly to the lady and the slaver. “Forgive me,” he murmured. “But I think I have had my fill of hospitality for this night.”

Without another word, he turned toward the lane, away from the inn’s firelight.

“Is he mad?” he asked quietly of Neeve, when they had gone some distance.

The slaver, following at an unhurried pace, gave a soft laugh. “Mad? Perhaps. But I’ve seen worse among the scarlet.”