The Newcomer from the North

 

 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 afternoon sun stretched long golden fingers across the marketplace of Var, a city of banners and bells where travelers from distant provinces mingled with merchants and scholars. The scent of roasting grain and spiced mead drifted through the air, and the murmur of trade filled the square like the hum of a living creature.

At a quiet table just beyond the tavern’s doorway, a solitary man sat with a half-empty mug before him. His cloak bore the dust of many roads; his boots, the hardened polish of long travel. He watched the crowd idly, the stillness in his posture betraying both weariness and the ease of a man accustomed to waiting.

He did not notice the woman until she was almost upon him.

“Tal, sir,” she greeted with a nod, her voice light but confident. “I hear you are visiting from the North? I am Neeve—a physician by trade, though I confess I dabble also in research and the recording of stories.”

The man looked up, meeting her gaze with an appraising half-smile. “Tal, Lady Neeve. I am Taikeo—Tai, to those who wish to keep things simple. A Northman indeed.” His voice carried a low, rough edge, touched by the accents of colder lands. “A physician, a scholar, and a chronicler? Quite the tapestry of skills. You must keep busy.”

Neeve laughed, a bright sound that drew a few curious glances from nearby tables. “Aye, I do. There are only so many patients one can tend in a day before one craves conversation that doesn’t involve fevers or bandages. Welcome to Var, traveler.”

Tai’s lips twitched upward. “My thanks. I’ve walked many paths this past moon, through cities that rise and fall faster than the tide. We shall see what fate has in store for me here.”

“Then perhaps we should sit and see what stories you’ve gathered,” she suggested. “You’ll take mead, I assume? I’ll have tea.”

He leaned back, eyes glinting with quiet amusement. “Sure, if you wish to sit a spell. I’m just being a lazy ox today. Been on the road a long while since my return to this land.” His gaze lingered briefly over her form before settling politely on her eyes again. “Tell me, Lady Neeve—are you even allowed in here?” He jerked his thumb toward the tavern’s inner hall. “Or is this one of those places that bars women unless they wear a collar?”

Neeve smirked, one brow arching in playful defiance. “Off limits, unless I wish to wear a collar—and that would hardly suit my plans for world domination.” She laughed, settling gracefully into a chair by the courtyard table. “So, outside will do nicely.”

Tai chuckled, joining her. “Wise woman. Those with dreams of domination rarely fare well in chains.”

The two sat as the crowd’s rhythm rolled around them—voices, footfalls, the metallic chime of coin.

“So,” Neeve said, pouring her tea, “I am preparing a series of writings about the lands as they are today. Tell me, Northman—what do you see when you look upon our world?”

He exhaled, eyes tracing the sky. “By Odin’s beard,” he muttered, half to himself. “I’ve lived across the breadth of this planet. The North, the jungles, the coasts—everywhere but the cursed sands of Tahari. What I’ve seen…” He paused, taking a sip. “The world is thinning. Villages stand hollow. Cities crumble before they even flourish. The people wander, restless, chasing ghosts of purpose.”

Before Neeve could answer, another voice joined the air.

“Tal, Lady Neeve.”

It was Norweg Asvard, a local merchant draped in furs and fine linen, the smell of spice clinging to his garments. He bowed politely to both.

“Ah, Norweg!” Neeve greeted warmly. “We were just discussing the decline of the lands.”

“A familiar topic,” the merchant replied with a wry smile. “It seems there are more walls than hearts left to fill them.”

Tai inclined his head. “Aye. The tribes grow insular, the warriors weary. Even the free have forgotten what freedom means. And yet…” he gestured with his mug, “there remains beauty. Adventures yet untaken. Stories worth the telling.”

“I believe,” Neeve said, smiling faintly, “not all is conquest and chaos. There is room for talk, for reflection—for sharing thoughts such as these.”

Their words carried into the mild breeze until a soft voice interrupted them.

“Tal, Masters. Tal, Mistress.”

A young woman had appeared—Emma, the tavern’s servant—bowing slightly, hands folded before her. “Shall I fetch something? Drink? Perhaps something sweet?”

Neeve’s face brightened. “Tea for me, and a slice of cake if there’s any left.”

The girl turned to the others. “And for you, sirs?”

“Mead,” Norweg said. “Warm, spiced.”

“I’m well enough,” Tai murmured.

Emma curtsied and vanished into the tavern.

Norweg leaned back in his chair. “People search endlessly for belonging,” he mused. “They wander from hall to hall, but never stay long enough to build what they seek. If they’d only remain, perhaps the cities might live again.”

“A fair thought,” Neeve agreed softly.

When Emma returned, she carried the orders carefully—a generous slice of fruit cake, a steaming cup of tea, and the merchant’s fragrant mug of mead. The scent of honey and cinnamon filled the air.

“Thank you, girl,” Neeve said. “I’ll take the cake with me. There’s still daylight yet.”

“As you wish, Mistress.” Emma handed her the plate, then turned to the merchant. “Your mead, Master.”

Norweg accepted it with a nod. “The gods smile on you, girl.”

Neeve rose then, stretching beneath the fading sun. “Norweg,” she said lightly, “will you walk with me to the waterfalls? There are matters I wish to discuss further.”

The merchant inclined his head. “Gladly.”

Tai stood as well, offering a courteous nod. “May your path be pleasant, friends. Perhaps our roads will cross again.”

And with that, the Northman took his leave, wandering toward the city gates as the last light of day slipped across the cobblestones. Neeve and Norweg turned their steps toward the sound of water, while Emma watched them go, the breeze carrying the faint aroma of mead and parchment ink.

For a moment, the city of Var felt alive again—a fragile heartbeat in a world still learning how to endure.