Turmus

This Gorean Fan Fiction was generated using MetaAI. 
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

As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting a golden hue over the Plains of Turia, our ship finally docked at the bustling port of Turmus. The city, with its white, shimmering walls, stood majestically against the backdrop of the setting sun. I, Arealius the Sailor, known to my friends as Ar, felt a surge of excitement. Beside me stood Lady Sorana, or Ana as I affectionately called her, and our kajira, Fleur, whom we lovingly referred to as Ours.

We disembarked and made our way through the grand gates of Turmus, greeted by the sight of its winding alleyways and beautiful buildings. The streets were alive with the sounds of merchants hawking their wares, children playing, and the general hum of a city steeped in rich culture. The architecture was a marvel, with intricate carvings and vibrant murals adorning the walls.

Ana and I were captivated by the city’s charm. We wandered through narrow alleys, discovering hidden courtyards and quaint cafes. Ours followed closely, her eyes wide with wonder at the sights and sounds around her. The scent of exotic spices filled the air, mingling with the sweet aroma of blooming flowers.

As we turned a corner, we stumbled upon a small art shop tucked away in a quiet alley. The sign above the door read “The Art Barn.” Intrigued, we stepped inside. The shop was a treasure trove of beautiful oil paintings, each one more stunning than the last. The walls were adorned with scenes of Gorean life, from majestic landscapes to intimate portraits.

Ana’s eyes sparkled with delight as she admired the artwork. Ours, too, seemed entranced by the vibrant colors and intricate details. We spent hours in the shop, losing ourselves in the beauty of the paintings. It was a joyous discovery, a hidden gem in the heart of Turmus.

As we prepared to find an inn for the evening, I noticed a particularly beautiful kajira standing in the corner of the bakery we had stopped at. She was a vision of grace and elegance, her eyes reflecting a depth of emotion that captivated me. Several citizens of Turmus entered the shop, each one addressing her with the endearing name of  “Beloved Ariel,” the name spoke of their love and appreciation for her service.

I couldn’t help but be fascinated by her. She moved with a fluid grace, her every gesture a testament to her multitalented nature. It was clear that she was cherished by the people of Turmus, a symbol of the city’s rich culture and artistic spirit.

As we left the bakery and continued our exploration of Turmus, I couldn’t shake the image of the beautiful kajira from my mind. Our journey through the city had been filled with joy and surprise, each discovery more enchanting than the last. Turmus had welcomed us with open arms, and I knew that our time here would be an unforgettable chapter in our travels.

Ana, Ours, and I walked hand in hand through the streets of Turmus, our hearts full of wonder and excitement for the adventures that lay ahead.

As I strolled into the city, whistling a cheerful tune, I couldn’t help but marvel at the stunning architecture and the warm welcome I had received the previous night. The morning sun bathed the city in a golden glow, making everything seem even more beautiful. I greeted the first person I saw, a lady who seemed deep in thought. “Thank you, Lady. I am Arealius. It is my pleasure to greet you.”

The lady, who I later learned was the baker, smiled and nodded to a man nearby. “Tal to you, welcome to the city,” she said. The man, who turned out to be the Magistrate, also greeted me warmly. “Tal, sir, and welcome,” he said with a chuckle.

I expressed my admiration for the city’s architecture and the friendliness of its citizens. “I am totally awed by your city’s architecture, and the friendliness of the citizenry by the way I was greeted last night and by you this very beautiful morning,” I said. I then asked the baker if I could approach her, to which she graciously agreed.

As I walked closer, I couldn’t help but be struck by her beauty and the way she carried herself. “Oh good lady, I am a professional listener! And have a curiosity barely permitted by the Priest Kings. How can one not be curious about a woman as striking as you?” I said, smiling at her with unashamed honesty.

The Magistrate, who had been observing our interaction, tossed a coin towards me and laughed. “She was speaking with me, sir… she is not alone,” he said, eyeing me with suspicion. I looked around, trying to spot the unseen person she had been talking to.

The baker blushed at my compliment and explained that she had been talking to the Magistrate, who was sitting above us. She invited me to join them if the Magistrate allowed it. “Sir, please walk around and enjoy yourself. If you get hungry, there is the Bakery restaurant as well as some other areas…” she said.

I introduced myself as Arealius of Port Olni and asked the Magistrate if he was a scribe. He confirmed this and allowed me to deliver a letter to the head of his caste. As we continued our conversation, the baker mentioned her travels to Olni and a parade in the city. She offered to make us something to eat and drink, which I gladly accepted.

I handed the scroll to the Magistrate, who agreed to deliver it. I expressed my belief in chance encounters and offered to take the baker’s announcement to Olni. She prepared drinks for us, and we discussed our connections to Olni and Lady Lucy. I introduced myself fully as Arealius Barbosa, a scribe known for my artwork and writings. The Magistrate, now revealed as Draco’no, reflected on his past connections to Olni and Lady Lucy.

The baker served the drinks, and I couldn’t help but feel that the Priest Kings had indeed blessed our meeting that morning. It was a day filled with new acquaintances, shared memories, and the promise of future connections.

Announcement from Turmus: Grand Parade to Honor Our Protectors in the War. 

The War Continues. 

With the esteemed approval of the Ubar, Turmus is proud to announce a magnificent parade to celebrate the Warriors, Defenders, Aiders, and Militia of Turmus and Genesian Port to build morale.

These parades are dedicated to honoring those who valiantly protect us in the ongoing war against our enemies and to uplift the morale of all citizens of our allied cities. We are calling upon participants from all ranks—city rulers, warriors, aiders, defenders, and militia members of Turmus and Genesian Port—to join us in this celebration. If you wish to participate, please contact Bea Lael or Willi Mycles immediately.

Please note that militia members from both cities, even if they hail from different home stones, are welcome to join as they contribute to our war efforts. We also need many spectators and street performers to make this event truly spectacular. Performers will be compensated in coin.

For those unable to participate in person, you may have a picture of yourself carried in the parade, or designate someone to walk in your place. This is an In Character Parade, so please ensure there are no modern balloons or vehicles. Imagine a medieval parade with bosk-drawn carriages and handmade floats.

For any questions or further information, please reach out to us. Thank you for your support and participation.

In service to Port Olni, Arealius

Editor's Notes: 

A Travelogue of Turmus, Written in the Chronicler’s Hand

Arrival on the Northern Vosk

The river widened as we approached Turmus, the current slowing into a broad, glassy sweep that reflected the city’s walls like a second, wavering skyline. The air smelled of wet reeds and distant smoke — the scent of a city that lives by the water and listens to it closely. Rivermen called out to one another across the channels, their voices carrying strangely far in the open delta air.

I stood at the prow of our round‑hulled craft, Lady Sorana beside me, her stylus already poised above her wax tablet. She has a way of capturing a city before we even reach its quays, noting the angle of its walls, the color of its stone, the rhythm of its waterfront. I, for my part, prefer to wait until my feet touch the ground; only then does a city reveal its truth.

Turmus rose before us — a fortified river jewel perched on the northern lip of the delta.

The River Gate and the First Impressions

Our craft slid beneath the shadow of the River Gate, its iron‑bound doors thrown open to the day. The stone here is old — older than the Administrator’s records admit — patched and repatched by generations of Builders who left their signatures in the mortar. I traced one such mark with my fingertips: a tiny chisel‑cut spiral, the sign of a Builder from the early Vosk League days.

Inside, the city opened like a fan.

The Lower Market sprawled before us, a riot of color and noise. Fishmongers shouted prices over the cries of marsh birds circling overhead. Rivermen unloaded crates of grain, timber, and river‑salt. A scribe in blue robes hurried past, clutching a scroll case as though it contained the fate of the city itself.

Turmus is not a city that pretends to grandeur. It is a city that works.

Through the Craftsmen’s Quarter

We made our way uphill toward the Craftsmen’s Quarter, where the streets narrowed and the air filled with the rhythmic clatter of tools. Bowyers shaped the short, powerful river bows for which Turmus is known. Coopers hammered iron hoops around barrels destined for upriver trade. The smell of fresh‑cut wood mingled with the tang of pitch and oil.

A bowyer, seeing my interest, invited me to examine a newly finished piece. Its curve was elegant, its draw smooth. He spoke of the marsh hunts, of the dangers of the delta, of the skill required to navigate its hidden channels. His pride was quiet but unmistakable — the pride of a man whose craft sustains both city and livelihood.

Lady Sorana recorded every word, her script flowing like the river itself.

The High Ward and the Keep

As we climbed toward the High Ward, the city changed. The streets widened, the houses grew taller, and the noise of the markets faded into a distant hum. Here lived the scribes, merchants, and caste leaders — those who kept Turmus orderly, prosperous, and aligned with the shifting politics of the Vosk.

The Keep of Turmus dominated the rise, a squat fortress of grey stone that seemed to grow directly from the earth. Its tower offered a sweeping view of the delta, though the Warriors stationed there told us the view was not always peaceful. Pirates, marsh‑raiders, and the occasional ambitious city‑state had all tested Turmus’s defenses over the years.

Inside the Keep, the Administrator received us with the polite reserve of a man who has seen too many travelers and trusts too few. Yet he spoke warmly of the city’s resilience — of floods endured, raids repelled, and alliances forged across the Vosk.

The Delta Beyond the Walls

No visit to Turmus is complete without venturing into the delta itself.

We hired a shallow‑draft skiff and a guide who knew the hidden water‑paths. The reeds rose taller than a man, whispering in the wind. Birds scattered at our approach, their wings flashing white against the green. The water was dark, still, and full of secrets.

We passed reed‑cutters’ camps perched on raised platforms, where workers harvested the long stalks used for thatching and writing materials. Farther in, we saw marsh farms — improbable islands of cultivation in a world of water.

The delta is a place of quiet danger. Beautiful, yes, but treacherous. A wrong turn can lead to dead water, or worse, to the hunting grounds of creatures best left undescribed.

Yet it is also the lifeblood of Turmus — its shield, its granary, its identity.

Evening on the Quays

We returned to the city at dusk. Lanterns flickered along the quays, their reflections trembling on the water. Merchants tallied their day’s earnings. Fishermen mended nets by lamplight. Children chased one another between crates and barrels, their laughter rising above the murmur of the river.

I sat on a bollard, watching the last light fade behind the walls. Turmus is not a city that dazzles. It is a city that endures. A city that listens to the river and answers in its own steady rhythm.

Lady Sorana joined me, her notes complete. “Will you write of this place?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said. “Turmus deserves to be remembered.”