A rebuilt city and a new problem!

 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.

This story is based off Chat logs and CHAT GPT was used to make it into this.

Gor is Copyrighted by John Norman

Morning light drifted slowly over the stone streets, catching on shutters and hanging signs, warming the edges of the city as it stirred awake. The market district breathed in the new day with the mingled scents of baking bread, sweet fruit, and damp cobblestones still holding the memory of night air. Merchants lifted their awnings, servants hurried with baskets, and the low murmur of greetings wove itself into the gentle clatter of carts and footsteps. It was the kind of morning that felt ordinary and reassuring, the sort that promised routine rather than disruption.

The bakery near the corner was already alive with motion. Golden loaves lined the counter, their crusts crackling softly as they cooled. Trays of pastries glistened with sugar glaze, and small cakes sat in neat rows like little treasures waiting to be claimed. Inside, attendants moved with practiced ease—wrapping parcels, accepting coins, offering polite bows. The warmth of the ovens spilled into the street, drawing passersby closer without them quite realizing why.

Neeve arrived with the unhurried grace of someone returning to familiar ground. She paused just outside the doorway, taking in the comforting sights and smells, a faint smile touching her lips. The city had changed during her absence—new faces, new voices, a slightly different rhythm—but enough remained the same to ease her heart. She greeted those she recognized with quiet warmth, her tone light, her posture relaxed. When asked how she fared, she answered simply that all was well, though her eyes suggested a deeper relief at being home again.

Inside, small conversations overlapped in a pleasant hum. Requests for bread, sweets, and morning drinks passed between customers and servers. Someone laughed at a joke near the counter; another compared the freshness of loaves with mock seriousness. Neeve joined the flow easily, exchanging nods and brief words. When her turn came, she asked for a ring-shaped cake—an indulgence chosen with gentle amusement rather than hunger. It was a small pleasure, a symbol of normalcy, and she accepted it with a soft smile.

For a time, the morning continued in that comfortable pattern. Coins changed hands, parcels were tied with string, and the bakery door opened and closed in steady rhythm. Outside, the street grew busier as more citizens emerged to begin their errands. The city felt alive but not hurried, energetic yet balanced, like a well-tuned instrument playing a familiar melody.

Then the melody broke.

A ripple of unease moved through the crowd near the entrance, subtle at first—heads turning, voices lowering. The sound of hurried footsteps cut through the air, followed by a sharper tone: a command, a protest, the scrape of boots against stone. The comfortable warmth inside the bakery faltered as attention shifted toward the doorway. Conversations stalled mid-sentence. A tray was set down a little too quickly. Someone drew a quiet breath and did not release it.

At the center of the disturbance stood a large mercenary, his presence imposing even before one noticed the scars that marked his face and hands. He held a frightened girl by the arm, his grip firm, his expression unreadable. The girl’s fear was unmistakable—wide eyes, uneven breaths, the instinctive tension of someone cornered. Dust clung to her clothes, and there was already a hint of blood near her foot, though she seemed hardly aware of it in her panic.

The crowd reacted in scattered ways. Some stepped back, unwilling to be drawn into conflict. Others lingered at the edges, curiosity wrestling with caution. A few watched with tight expressions, as if measuring whether intervention would help or worsen the scene. The air grew thick with uncertainty, that peculiar silence that falls when many people are waiting for someone else to act.

Neeve’s demeanor changed in an instant. The easy warmth she had carried only moments before settled into focused composure. She moved forward—not abruptly, not aggressively, but with the quiet authority of someone accustomed to stepping into crises. Her voice, when she spoke, was calm and even, directed first to the mercenary, then to the girl. She asked simple questions, seeking clarity rather than confrontation. Was the girl injured? Did she belong here? What had happened?

The answers came in fragments—half-formed explanations, defensive remarks, confusion layered over fear. The girl struggled suddenly, trying to wrench herself free, and in her desperation she struck her foot against something sharp. Pain flashed across her face; her balance faltered. A small cry escaped her as she stumbled, and the sight of fresh blood drew murmurs from those watching. The situation, already tense, teetered closer to chaos.

Neeve did not raise her voice or call for force. Instead, she knelt beside the girl with deliberate care, producing a bandage from her pocket as if she had anticipated such a need. Her movements were precise and practiced—wrapping the wound quickly to stem the bleeding, offering steady words meant to anchor the girl’s spiraling thoughts. She looked up only briefly, meeting the mercenary’s gaze with composed insistence. The girl required proper treatment. The street was no place for it.

After a moment that seemed longer than it truly was, the mercenary released his hold. The crowd exhaled collectively, though the tension did not fully dissipate. With assistance from a nearby servant, Neeve helped the girl to her feet and guided her away from the gathering. Each step was slow, careful, the girl leaning heavily on her support. Behind them, the market noise gradually resumed, though now colored by whispered speculation.

The infirmary offered a different world altogether. Its cool interior muffled the city’s clamor, replacing it with the quiet sounds of water being poured, cloth being unfolded, drawers sliding open. Neeve set a small bowl of warm water on a table and began preparing her instruments with methodical calm. The girl perched on the edge of a bed, trembling, her eyes darting as if expecting the mercenary to appear at any moment. Neeve hummed softly—not a tune meant to entertain, but one meant to soothe, steady, and remind the frightened listener that she was no longer alone.

As she cleaned the wound, Neeve asked gentle questions, allowing the girl’s story to emerge in uneven pieces. There were deliveries mentioned, gardens tended, fears of punishment and misunderstanding, memories of being chased, of being unseen until suddenly noticed. The words did not always form a clear narrative, but the emotions behind them were unmistakable: confusion, loyalty, fear, and the simple desire to avoid trouble. Neeve listened without interruption, acknowledging each fragment with a nod or a quiet reassurance.

When it was time to stitch the injury, she numbed the area first, explaining each step so the girl would not be startled. The needle moved with practiced precision, drawing the torn skin together. It was careful work, patient and unhurried. Between stitches, Neeve offered practical assurances—that the wound had missed anything vital, that it would heal well if cared for, that scars depended as much on rest as on chance. Her tone balanced honesty with encouragement, never dismissing the girl’s worries but never allowing them to grow unchecked.

Once the bandages were secured, the atmosphere in the room shifted. The girl’s breathing slowed; the tightness in her shoulders eased. Exhaustion replaced adrenaline. Neeve encouraged her to lie back, smoothing damp strands of hair away from her face with a gesture that was both professional and kind. She spoke of arrangements she could make—messages sent, explanations given—so that absence would not be mistaken for flight. Solutions were offered not as commands but as options, restoring a sense of control that fear had stolen.

Outside, the city continued its busy dance of trade and conversation, the earlier incident already dissolving into rumor. Inside the infirmary, however, time felt suspended. There was only the soft rustle of linens, the faint scent of herbs in warm water, and the quiet certainty that care had been given where it was needed. Before stepping away to write a formal note that might shield the girl from consequences she did not deserve, Neeve paused at the bedside once more.

Her final words were simple promises—that the girl would be checked on again, that the matter would not be ignored, that she was safe for now. They were not grand declarations, but in the hush of that small room, they carried weight. The morning that had begun with sweetness and routine had twisted into tension and fear, yet it ended, at least for one frightened soul, with calm hands, measured words, and the steady presence of someone determined to mend what had nearly broken.