"On the Teletus' Street of Coins"
This Gorean Fan Fiction was generated using AI.
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 wind off the Thassa carried the scent of salt and kelp, mingling with the tang of fish and tar from the docks of Teletus. The old scribe walked slowly, his sandaled feet tracing familiar paths across the worn planks of the harbor. His gray beard stirred gently in the breeze, and his eyes—still sharp despite the years—swept across the bustling waterfront with quiet affection.
Teletus had changed little in the decades since his first arrival. The same stone warehouses, the same cries of dockworkers and merchants, the same gulls wheeling overhead. Yet it was not the city that had changed—it was he.
Once, he had arrived here not as a guest of honor, but as a castaway of circumstance. Ejected from the Caste of Scribes in Port Kar for reasons that still stirred a quiet ache, he had left the city with nothing but a satchel of scrolls and the clothes on his back. The round ship that had taken him aboard—a squat cog bound for Tyros and Cos—had smelled of pitch and sweat, and its crew had eyed him with suspicion until he proved his worth.
He had not been a stranger to water. Raised among the Rencers of the Vosk River Delta, he had learned to swim before he could walk, to pole a rence craft through the reeds with the grace of a marsh bird. But the Thassa was no river. It was vast, gleaming, and unknowable. Its moods were deeper, its tempests more violent, its silence more profound.
Still, he had adapted. He had charted the stars above the Thassa, mapped the coastlines of Tyros and Cos, and earned the grudging respect of sailors who had once mocked his ink-stained fingers. In time, his maps became prized possessions, his knowledge sought after by captains and scholars alike.
Now, decades later, he returned not as a seaman but as a historian. His scrolls chronicled wars, treaties, and the rise and fall of cities. He had written of the Siege of Ar, the intrigues of the Scarlet Caste, and the quiet heroism of forgotten men. His name was known in libraries from Torcadino to Ar’s Station.
But Teletus held a special place in his heart. It was here that he had first tasted freedom—not the rigid honor of caste, but the raw, uncertain liberty of reinvention. It was here that he had written not just maps, but stories.
This was not the harbor he remembered.
The stone piers had been widened, the warehouses rebuilt with newer timber and iron fittings. The scent of salt and fish remained, but the rhythm of the place had changed. The old scribe smiled, not with bitterness, but with the quiet amusement of one who has lived long enough to see the world reshape itself.
He remembered the day clearly. The round ship had groaned as it settled against the dock, its hull scraping the barnacled wood. Sailors shouted as cargo was hoisted from the hold—crates of dried bosk meat, barrels of ka-la-na wine, and bundles of rence paper bound for the scribes of Cos. He had waited until the bustle eased, then stepped onto the dock with his satchel, his notes, and a wool robe that smelled faintly of mildew.
He had no coin. Only his knowledge, his hands, and the stubborn pride of a man who had once worn the blue robes of the Scribes of Port Olni.
His first steps took him to the perimeter street—a winding artery that encircled the walled city of Teletus like a protective ring. In those days, it was a place of noise and color, where the merchant caste mingled with sailors, travelers, and outcasts. Taverns spilled music and laughter into the street. Inns advertised warm beds and spicy stew. Shops sold everything from rence mats to tarn harnesses, from scroll cases to exotic spices.
Everything, except slaves.
The slave markets were kept within the walls, where the city’s caste structure held firm and the transactions were recorded with precision. Outside, the taverns employed their own girls—collared, yes, but not for sale. They served drinks, danced, and whispered promises to men who would sail again with the tide.
He had wandered that street for hours, searching for shelter. He remembered the cracked sign of the “Three Chains Tavern,” where a one-eyed proprietor had offered him a corner by the hearth for copying a shipment manifest. He remembered the smell of stew thick with sul and parsite, and the warmth of the fire on his damp robe.
That night, he had slept with his satchel clutched to his chest, dreaming of maps and stars and the river reeds of the Vosk.
The bells rang like the shriek of steel on stone, echoing through the alleys and over the rooftops of Teletus. Panic surged through the city like a tide, sweeping merchants and tavern girls alike toward the main gate. The old scribe, still young then, had felt the pulse of fear in his chest before he even understood its cause.
He crept to the front of the tavern, clutching his satchel and blanket, eyes scanning for warriors—any sign of order. But there were none. Only the stampede of feet, the cries of alarm, and the distant clash of something far more primal than steel.
He darted across the street, his bare feet slapping the cobblestones, and slipped into the shadowed shell of an abandoned bakery. The scent of bread—warm, yeasty, and rich—hit him like a wave. Hunger overpowered caution. He tore into a loaf, crumbs falling into his beard, then stuffed more into his satchel with trembling hands.
He was an outlaw. No city, no caste. The codes were clear. But codes didn’t feed a man. Hunger did.
Then he saw it.
Outside the bakery, silhouetted against the flickering torchlight of the street, stood a creature that did not belong in the world of men. Towering, broad-shouldered, covered in coarse fur and muscle, the Kur was a nightmare made flesh. Its snout was wet with blood, its claws curled around a severed human arm, still twitching.
The scribe’s breath caught. His satchel fell to the floor with a dull thud. The beast turned its head slowly, its eyes gleaming like molten iron.
Time fractured.
He remembered the stories whispered in the Vosk Delta—of beasts from the steel worlds, of creatures bred for war and domination. He had dismissed them as sailor’s tales. Until now.
The Kur sniffed the air, then growled—a low, rumbling sound that vibrated in the bones. It stepped toward the bakery door.
The scribe backed away, heart hammering, fingers fumbling for anything—a rolling pin, a bread peel, a shard of glass. He was no warrior. But he was not without cunning.
He grabbed a sack of flour and hurled it at the doorway. The sack burst in a cloud of white, blinding the entrance. The Kur roared, enraged, and swiped at the air.
The scribe bolted through the back of the bakery, leaping over barrels and crates, slipping into the alley behind. He ran, not toward the gate, but to the docks — toward the roundships, toward the warehouses, toward the places no one would think to hide.
Behind him, the beast howled. The scribe bolted through the back of the bakery, his limbs fueled by desperation and instinct. He darted between barrels and crates stacked haphazardly in the alley, the scent of fresh bread still clinging to his robe. Behind him, the thudding of heavy feet grew louder — not the chaos of the crowd, but the deliberate pursuit of something monstrous.
From the rooftops above, a shadow dropped — smaller than the beast in the street, but still towering over any man. A young Kur, its fur matted and its eyes burning with primal hunger, landed with a crunch atop a crate, splintering it beneath its weight. It held a great ax in one clawed hand, and its other arm twitched with anticipation.
The scribe turned sharply, slipping between two stacked barrels, hoping to lose the creature in the maze of refuse and stone. But the Kur was faster. With a roar, it swung its ax, shattering the barrels and sending shards of wood flying. The scribe stumbled, his foot catching on a broken plank, and fell hard onto the cobblestones.
Before he could rise, the Kur was upon him.
A clawed hand, thick with muscle and tipped with black talons, seized his throat and slammed him down. His head struck the stone path with a sickening crack, stars exploding behind his eyes. He gasped, choking, as the beast leaned close, its breath hot and fetid, its tusks glistening with gore.
The scribe clawed at the creature’s arm, kicking wildly, but it was like fighting a wall of iron. The Kur growled, amused, and with a swift motion, flipped him onto his belly. He felt the beast’s weight press down on his back, pinning him like a captured urt.
Then came the binding.
Thick, sinewy cords — not rope, but something tougher, something alien — were wrapped around his ankles with brutal efficiency. The Kur pulled tight, and the scribe screamed, the pain sharp and immediate. He felt the bones grind, fearing they might snap. His hands were next, wrenched behind him and lashed together, the bindings biting into his wrists.
He was helpless.
From the rooftops, two more Kur howled in response — guttural, resonant calls that echoed through the alleyways. The young Kur barked back, triumphant, and hoisted the scribe over its shoulder like a sack of meat.
The city blurred beneath him as the beast leapt — first onto a crate, then to the tile roof of a nearby building. Each impact jarred his body, each breath was a struggle. He hung limp, bound and broken, as the Kur carried him into the night.
The beast dropped the scribe like a sack of rence onto the cold stone; the impact jarring his ribs and sending a fresh wave of pain through his bound ankles. He groaned, rolling onto his side, and found himself face-to-face with two women—both kajirae, their collars glinting faintly in the moonlight.
One was young, her hair tangled and her eyes wide with madness. She screamed without pause, a shrill, broken sound that echoed through the alley like a wounded larl. Her limbs flailed, her voice cracked, and her mind—clearly—had fled. The other was older, her face streaked with dirt but her gaze steady. She knelt quietly, her hands bound, her breathing controlled. She looked at the scribe and gave a slight nod, as if to say: I see you. I know.
The scribe hoisted himself upright, wincing as he shifted his weight. Around them, the Kurii moved like shadows—massive, furred, and silent save for the occasional guttural exchange. They were not looting, nor were not raiding. They were hunting humans.
The scribe’s heart pounded. He glanced down at his bindings—thick leather strips, pulled so tight around his ankles that the flesh bulged and throbbed. The knot was expertly done, not the work of a man but of something that had bound prey before. It would not come loose. It would have to be cut.
He fumbled at his sash, fingers trembling, searching for the deck knife he had hidden there. It was a small blade, curved and sharp, meant for slicing rope and canvas. He had dared not draw it in the presence of the young Kur who had captured him—doing so would have meant instant death.
But now, with the beast distracted, he had a chance.
His fingers found the hilt, wrapped in worn leather. He eased it free, inch by inch, careful not to draw attention. The screaming kajira beside him thrashed again, and one of the Kurii growled in irritation. The older woman leaned toward the scribe, her eyes flicking to the knife, then to the bindings.
She understood.
The scribe raised the blade, positioning it against the leather strip. He saw, slowly, silently, each stroke sending a jolt of pain through his ankles. The leather resisted, thick and stubborn. He gritted his teeth, praying the screams would mask the sound.
Then, a roar.
The scribe froze, blade halfway through the binding, his breath caught in his throat like a trapped insect. The roar had not come from the young Kur who had captured him, but from one of the larger beasts now circling the perimeter of the alley. It sniffed the air, its massive head swinging side to side, nostrils flaring.
The screaming kajira beside him had gone silent, her voice spent, her body trembling. The other woman—the coherent one—shifted slightly, her eyes locked on the scribe’s blade. She didn’t speak, but her gaze urged him: Finish it. Now.
The scribe resumed sawing, slower this time, each stroke deliberate. The leather was thick, soaked with sweat and blood, and it resisted like sinew. His ankles throbbed, the pain sharp and constant, but he dared not stop.
The Kurii moved closer.
One of them—a brute with a jagged scar across its snout—stepped into the circle of torchlight. It carried a spear tipped with bone, its fur matted with gore. It growled something to the others, and they responded with a chorus of low, rumbling sounds.
The hunt was not random. It was a ritual.
The scribe’s blade slipped through the last strand of leather with a soft snap. He didn’t move. Not yet. He tucked the knife back into his sash and shifted his legs slowly, testing them. The pain was intense, but he could move. He could run.
The Kurii formed a ring around the captives. One of them tossed a severed head into the center—a merchant, perhaps, or a warrior who had tried to fight. The head rolled to a stop near the scribe’s feet, its eyes wide and glassy.
The coherent kajira leaned toward him and whispered, “They’ll make us run. Then they’ll chase.”
The scribe nodded, his mind racing. He had mapped cities, rivers, coastlines. He had escaped caste exile and survived the Thassa. He would survive this.
A horn blew—deep and mournful.
The Kurii stepped back, clearing a path toward the darkened alleys beyond. One of them pointed, its clawed hand gesturing toward the maze of stone and shadow.
The scribe had freed his feet, but freedom meant little in the shadow of monsters. The two kajirae beside him remained bound—one broken by terror, the other silent and watchful. He knew that if he ran now, the Kurii would cut him down before he took three steps. They were waiting. For what, he could not guess.
He had never seen a Kur in the Vosk Delta. Their legends were northern—Torvaldsland tales of beasts bred for war, for conquest. He had dismissed them as myth. Now he knew better.
The bells had stopped. The silence was thick, ominous. He didn’t know if it meant the city had fallen or rallied. He knew only that the people of Tyros and Cos were sailors, fierce and proud, but vulnerable to the tarnships of Port Kar. He had no allies here.
The largest Kur thudded its spear against the stone, the sound like a drumbeat of doom. It slapped its chest with its massive arm, then let loose a roar that scraped the soul. The other Kur stepped over the screaming kajira and silenced her with a single, brutal motion. Her cries ended in a wet gurgle. Flesh was torn, shared, devoured.
The scribe retched, bile rising in his throat.
Then came the sound of salvation—or slaughter. Warriors. The thud of sandaled feet in unison, disciplined and deliberate, echoing down the Street of Coins. The Kurii turned as one, roaring, slapping their chests in defiance.
The first three rows of warriors dropped to one knee, spears leveled. Behind them, the fourth row raised the long bows of the peasants—simple, elegant, deadly. The scribe and the surviving kajira flattened themselves against the stone, praying to any god that might listen.
The bull Kur was the first to fall. Arrows riddled its chest, neck, and face, dropping it like a felled tree. The younger Kur howled, three arrows embedded in its barrel chest, yet it stood defiant, roaring louder still.
Then the third Kur turned, eyes blazing, and chose.
It chose me.
Not the kajira. Not the warriors. Me.
It snatched me up like a child’s doll, its claws digging into my ribs. I screamed—high, shrill, broken. I beat on its back with my fists, useless, pathetic. I screamed like a child. Like a woman. Me, with the soft, beautiful kajira there to take, to use, to discard—it chose me.
It leapt, bounding over crates and barrels, heading for the docks. Toward the water. Toward the ships. Toward something I could not yet understand.
I was the chosen prey.
The bull Kur lay dead, its massive body riddled with arrows, steaming in the cool night air. The younger Kur, wounded but defiant, had vanished into the shadows of the harbor, dragging the scribe like a prize. The warriors of Teletus did not hesitate.
"Form ranks!" barked the captain, his voice cutting through the chaos like a blade. "Pursue to the docks! No quarter!"
The warriors surged forward, sandals slapping the stone in perfect rhythm. Their spears gleamed under the torchlight, and their longbows were already being restrung. The Street of Coins narrowed as they approached the harbor, the scent of salt and smoke thickening with each step.
The alleyways were slick with blood and refuse. Crates lay shattered, and the bodies of merchants and sailors were strewn like discarded cargo. The warriors moved with precision, stepping over the dead, eyes scanning the rooftops and shadows.
At the edge of the harbor, the fog rolled in from the Thassa, curling around the masts of docked ships like ghostly fingers. The roundships bobbed gently, their sails furled, their crews either dead or hiding. Somewhere in that mist, the Kur ran.
The captain raised his hand. "Split into threes. Sweep the docks. Watch the rooftops."
They moved like a tide—silent, deadly, relentless.
One group found the remains of the bakery, its door splintered, its interior smeared with blood and flour. Another discovered claw marks gouged into the stone walls of a warehouse. A third found a trail of blood leading to the edge of the pier.
Then, a sound.
A roar—not defiant, but wounded. The younger Kur.
The warriors converged, spears raised, bows drawn. The fog parted just enough to reveal the beast, clutching the scribe, its breath ragged, its fur soaked in blood. It turned, eyes wild, and leapt onto the deck of a roundship moored at the far end of the pier.
The captain shouted, "Archers! Bring it down!"
Arrows flew, slicing through the mist. The Kur staggered, one leg buckling, but it did not fall. It vanished into the hold of the ship, dragging the scribe with it.
The warriors of Teletus surged down the pier, their sandals slapping the stone in perfect rhythm, spears raised, bows drawn. The fog from the Thassa curled around them, thick and damp, but their formation held. The Kurii had taken one of their own—a man, not a warrior, but a scribe. And that was enough.
The roundship rocked gently in its mooring, its hull dark and silent. The beast had vanished into its hold, dragging the scribe like a trophy. The captain signaled with two fingers, and the first wave of warriors boarded, blades drawn, shields raised.
Inside the hold, the scribe lay crumpled against a barrel, his ribs aching, his robe torn. The Kur had thrown him like refuse, then vanished deeper into the ship. The air was thick with pitch and salt, and the creaking of the timbers echoed like whispers.
He crawled to the edge of the hold, his fingers brushing against a broken crate. He could hear the warriors above—boots on wood, commands shouted, the scrape of steel. He tried to call out, but his voice was hoarse, his throat raw from screaming.
It burst from the shadows, wounded but wild, its eyes burning with fury. It grabbed the scribe again, lifting him with one arm, and roared toward the deck. The warriors responded instantly—arrows flew, spears thrust, and the beast staggered.
The captain leapt from the gangplank, his blade flashing. He struck the Kur across the back, slicing deep. The beast howled, dropping the scribe, who rolled across the deck and slammed into the mast.
The Kur fought like a cornered larl, its claws tearing through shields, its roars deafening. But it was wounded, and the warriors were many. They drove it back, step by step, until it fell to its knees, blood pouring from a dozen wounds.
The captain of Teletus raised his sword; the final blow was swift.
The scribe lay gasping, his body broken, his mind reeling. Around him, the warriors stood victorious, the fog lifting, the ship silent once more.
The harbor of Teletus shimmered in the late afternoon light, the scent of salt and ka-la-na wine drifting lazily on the breeze. Arealius, the historian, stood near the edge of the quay, his gray beard stirring gently, his eyes fixed on the roundships bobbing in their moorings.
He smiled. Not the smile of a man amused, nor one lost in nostalgia—but the quiet, knowing smile of someone who had survived.
It had been many years since the Kurii hunt. Since the blood on the stones of the Street of Coins. Since the roar that had split the night and the arrows that had dropped monsters like thunder. He had been young then—clever, desperate, unarmed but not unready. And somehow, he had lived.
The city had changed. The bakery was gone, replaced by a merchant’s guildhall. The tavern where he had filched food now served scribes and warriors alike. The perimeter street was quieter, more orderly. But the stones beneath his feet were the same. And so was the sea.
Arealius reached into his satchel and withdrew a scroll—his own account of that night, written in the years that followed. He had never published it. Some stories were meant to be remembered, not shared.
He turned toward the city gates, where the bells now rang only for trade and ceremony. A group of young scribes passed him, their robes crisp, their eyes bright. One nodded respectfully. Arealius nodded back.
He was no longer an outlaw. No longer a hunted man. He was Arealius of the Caste of Scribes, the cartographer turned historian, recounting the many things he witnessed, or participated in over a lifetime on Gor.
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