Whispers of Tyros

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 sun of Lar-Torvis hung low over the harbor of Tyros, its golden rays spilling like liquid fire across the sea. Ships with crimson sails swayed gently in the tide, their moorings creaking in rhythm with the waves. The scent of salt and spiced oils clung to the air, mingling with the far-off cries of the dockhands and the ringing of metal on stone.

Tyros — the City of Merchants and Warriors. She gleamed with wealth and ambition, her marble towers standing sentinel over a restless sea. Within her walls, the five great castes intermingled uneasily, each necessary to the whole, yet each quietly guarding its own power. The Scribes held knowledge and law. The Warriors, strength and blood. The Builders raised the towers, the Physicians mended the bodies, and the Merchants kept the coins flowing like the currents that fed the city’s harbor.

And yet beneath that surface civility, Tyros trembled with subtle friction. The High Council, dominated by the intellect of the blue and green castes, sought order through law. The red caste — the Warriors — murmured of control through strength. Some said it was only a matter of time before the quill and the sword would once again test which ruled the city more completely.

It was in this atmosphere that the Head Scribe of Tyros, paused atop the steps overlooking the wharf. Her robes of deep blue rippled in the sea breeze, the insignia of her caste stitched in silver thread across her breast. Beneath her veil, her gaze swept the horizon — not searching for anything, but rather thinking. The towers had felt close of late. The scrolls, endless. Politics had grown thick as swamp reeds.

“Is everything alright, Lady? Are you lost?”

The voice startled her from her reverie. She turned, her dark eyes meeting those of a man on the lower steps. His harness was plain, his bearing disciplined. A warrior — or nearly one.

“I am not lost,” she replied evenly. “Are you?”

A smile tugged at his mouth. “If I am, I am in a great deal of trouble, I fear.” His tone was warm, unthreatening. “I have not seen you before. I thought perhaps you were visiting. I meant only to be of help, Lady.”

He bowed slightly, respectful yet cautious, as though unsure of his welcome.

Aspen regarded him a moment longer, then shook her head. “Are you a warrior under Sir William?” she asked. “I am Lady Fareeda, Head Scribe of Tyros.”

At that, Mord straightened. “Then I am doubly honored, Lady. I am Mord, newly entered into training under Commander William. My lessons began this day — though I have much yet to learn before I may call myself Rarius.”

Her posture eased, and for the first time, there was a trace of a smile beneath her veil. “Then you are in good hands. Sir William is my current guardian while my betrothed travels abroad. I have seen him guide many with both patience and wisdom.”

Mord inclined his head. “He is a good man. Patient, yes — kind, even. Some say that makes him too soft for command, but I think otherwise. Strength without patience leads only to ruin.”

He hesitated, glancing toward the guards who stood behind her — silent, watchful. Their presence was a reminder that Tyros was not a city of trust, not truly.

The Lady turned her gaze toward the water once more. “It is refreshing to meet one who values diligence,” she said. “I have been buried in parchment and seal for weeks. Law, trade agreements, caste revisions — all of it falls to the Scribes to make sense of. My sister tells me I am married to my work.”

Mord chuckled softly. “There are worse things to be wed to, Lady.” Then, more quietly: “Once, I could not even read the marks you study. It was a woman of your caste who taught me. I am grateful still. Knowledge is a kind of weapon — though one that cuts differently than steel.”

Fareeda inclined her head. “A fair observation, warrior. Many forget that the quill often shapes the path the sword must follow.”

He hesitated, as though weighing his words. “If I may speak freely, Lady — you should not so readily reveal your position on the High Council. It is dangerous. Not all men in Tyros are as respectful as I.”

She looked at him then, more intently. “You are wise to say so. The council has its enemies — within and without. There are whispers that some in the red caste believe the council too soft. That decisions should be made by those who bleed for the city, not those who debate for it.”

Mord’s jaw tightened slightly. “I have heard such talk, yes. Some believe the pen weakens us. But I do not. The sword may defend the city — yet it is the word that defines it.”

The Lady’s eyes softened. “Then perhaps there is hope yet for Tyros.”

He smiled at that — a small, genuine smile, the kind that was rare among men trained to hide emotion. “If there is aught I may do to serve you, Lady Fareeda, you need only command it.”

She inclined her head. “I am well, thank you. But I will remember your offer. May your steel serve you well, Mord.”

He bowed deeply. “And may your quill guide wisely, Lady Fareeda.”

As he turned to ascend the steps, the sea wind tugged at his cloak. Behind him, the harbor stretched into twilight — the waves whispering secrets that only the patient could hear. Somewhere within the marble towers above, the High Council gathered to debate trade, law, and influence, while in the training yards below, men like Mord learned to kill in its defense.

In Tyros, both ink and blood had their place. And on that quiet evening, under the dying light of Lar-Torvis, one scribe and one warrior had briefly met upon that narrow space between the two — the place where the fate of a city is most often decided.