Whisperers of Gor

 

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

The Whisperers of Gor

by Arealius the Scribe

I arrived at the bustling river dock, my heart pounding with both excitement and dread. The vivid colors of fabrics, the rich aroma of spices, and the hum of animated conversations filled the air, momentarily distracting me from my internal struggle. It had been months since the disaster in Thentis, but the memories remained sharp, like shards of glass etched into my mind. As a free lady, it was my duty to hold my head high, yet the ever-present whispers threatened to shatter my composure. Gorean men, drawn to my outgoing nature, seemed unable to resist the urge to torment me. They whispered wickedly, their hot breath grazing my ear, causing my skin to crawl. It wasn’t just the men; even the kajirae found a twisted amusement in my discomfort.

At the inn, I sought refuge in the corner, clutching a goblet of wine as a shield. Despite my friendly demeanor, I struggled to maintain my composure when the whispers began. They would saunter close, their eyes gleaming with mischief, and murmur words meant to unsettle and demean me. The marketplace, the inn, social gatherings—they were all arenas where the whispers found me. The outward smile I wore masked the turmoil within. Yet, beneath the surface, a fire burned. I had survived the fall of Thentis, and I would not let these whispers break me. I would find my voice, and with it, the strength to confront the darkness that sought to claim me.

One evening, as I strolled through the market, I noticed a familiar face—Ragnar, a seasoned warrior known for his stern yet fair demeanor. Unlike the others, he never indulged in the cruel sport of whispers. As we exchanged pleasantries, I could sense a kindred spirit in him. Perhaps he, too, had faced his own battles against the unseen forces that sought to undermine one's confidence.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows over the stalls, I found myself in the inn once more. This time, the whispers were different, more insidious. One Gorean man, emboldened by the shadows, leaned in too close. His words were laced with a venom that made my blood run cold. I felt a shiver run down my spine, but I stood my ground. I looked him in the eye and, with a steady voice, said, "Enough."

The inn fell silent, all eyes on us. For a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath. Then, to my surprise, Ragnar stepped forward. "The lady speaks true," he declared, his voice ringing out clear and strong. "There is no honor in tormenting those who have already suffered."

The whisperer recoiled, taken aback by Ragnar's intervention. I could see the doubt flicker in his eyes before he slunk away into the shadows. The room slowly returned to its usual buzz, but something had changed. The whispers had lost their power over me. I realized then that my strength lay not just in my resilience, but in the allies I found along the way.

Finding solace in the home of old friends in Port Olni, I hoped the whispers would fade. But they followed me, relentless as ever. The city, with its bustling river port and vibrant markets, offered no sanctuary. The whispers found new ways to torment me, slipping notes into my market basket, each one more sinister than the last.

One day, as I sifted through fresh produce, my fingers brushed against a folded piece of parchment. My heart sank as I read the words. It was from a notorious whisperer, a man whose name was spoken in hushed tones throughout the city. He demanded I come to him, dressed as a slave, and dance for his amusement. The thought made me tremble with a mix of fear and defiance.

That night, my thoughts raced as I planned my next move. The whispers would not break me; instead, they had ignited a fire within. I confided in my friends, sharing the harrowing note and my determination to confront this shadowy figure. They agreed to help, weaving a plan that would turn the tables on my tormentor.

Determined to face the whisperer, I walked with purpose to the secluded courtyard near the river. The streets were eerily quiet, and the moon cast long shadows over the cobblestones. I had chosen my attire carefully—an elegant gown that commanded respect, accentuating my status as a free woman.

As I stood alone in the courtyard, the whisperer emerged from the shadows, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction. But I refused to let fear consume me. With a steady voice, I addressed him directly, "I am here to end this once and for all."

Surprised by my defiance, he hesitated. "You think you can confront me alone?" he sneered.

With a calm confidence, I replied, "I am never truly alone." My friends, though not physically present, had armed me with the strength and courage to face this moment. The whisperer, taken aback by my resolve, faltered.

The power dynamic shifted as I held my ground, my gaze unwavering. The whispers that once tormented me now seemed distant and powerless. It was not others, but the inner strength I had rediscovered, that turned the tide. The whisperer, realizing he could no longer manipulate me, melted back into the shadows, defeated.

As I stood facing the whisperer, I took a deep breath, ready to speak my truth. "Your whispers, uninvited and degrading, have been a constant torment. Each word a dagger to my dignity. It's not just unwanted; it's unhealthy. My frustration has grown to where I could not remain silent, even if it meant risking exile or physical harm. I had to act."

I felt a surge of strength from the support of my friends, their faces flashing in my mind. "I draw strength from those who care about me, those who stood by me when I needed it most. It's clear to me now that when others cannot or will not act to protect someone like me, harassed and demeaned, they reveal their true colors. I have no use for them, no desire for their company."

The whisperer's face twisted in a mix of surprise and indignation. "You've hidden behind shadows, unwilling to openly address me or to build any relationship in the light. I've found my voice, and with it, the power to stand against you. I will not be broken by your whispers."

His sneer faded, replaced by a flicker of uncertainty. "You think this changes anything?" he hissed.

"Yes," I replied, my voice unwavering. "It changes everything."