The Pulse Beneath the Sand, by Arealius the Sailor

 

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Please note that the Gorean Saga is a fictional series, and its world,

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The Pulse Beneath the Sand

Location: Oasis Residence of Nephtides, Tahari Wastes 

Date: 8th Month, 14th Day, Year 10,175 Contasta Ar

Weather: Dry, sun-scorched, with a whisper of wind through the dunes

Today I stepped into the heart of the Tahari, not just geographically, but culturally. My journey brought me to the residence of Nephtides—a man whose name echoes through trade routes and whispers in the halls of power. I came not as a merchant, nor as a warrior, but as a scribe. A chronicler of lives lived boldly across Gor.

Nestled deep within the scorched expanse of the Tahari Wastes lies the Oasis of the Lame Kaiila—a place of improbable beauty carved into a landscape of relentless sun and shifting sand. Like a jewel dropped into the palm of the desert, it glimmers with life where none should thrive.

The terrain surrounding the oasis is vast and unforgiving, reminiscent of the Sahara’s endless dunes. Waves of golden sand roll like an ocean frozen mid-storm, sculpted by wind and time into towering crests and deep troughs. The air shimmers with heat, and the sky above is a pale, washed-out blue, often streaked with high cirrus clouds that offer no shade.

Approaching the oasis, the first sign of reprieve is the scent—moisture and date palms, mingled with the faint musk of kaiila herds. The Lame Kaiila, for which the oasis is named, are said to limp not from injury but from ancient breeding—sturdy, loyal beasts adapted to the harsh terrain. Their silhouettes often dot the horizon, grazing near the water’s edge or resting beneath the sparse shade.

The oasis itself is a crescent-shaped basin, fed by a subterranean spring that bubbles up into a clear, cool pool. Around it, clusters of palm trees rise like sentinels, their fronds rustling in the dry breeze. Low stone buildings and canvas tents form the settlement—weathered, sun-bleached, and practical. The architecture is simple but resilient, designed to withstand sandstorms and the weight of silence.

Life here is slow, deliberate. Merchants pass through with salt caravans, their beasts laden with goods. Warriors rest between patrols, sipping black wine in shaded courtyards. Slaves move quietly, their silks clinging to sweat-dampened skin, their eyes wide with the awe of survival in such a place.

At night, the desert transforms. The heat fades, and the stars emerge in a canopy so vast it humbles even the proudest Gorean. The oasis glows with lantern light, and the pulse of Gor—its songs, its stories, its passions—echoes beneath the palms.

The Oasis of the Lame Kaiila is not just a place. It is a testament to endurance, to adaptation, and to the quiet power of life in the face of desolation.

The residence was large, marked by a plaque bearing his name. I knocked, and the door was answered not by Nephtides himself, but by a trio of girls—Ganima, Luna, and Ahyoka. Each bore the marks of recent arrival, some more confident than others. Ganima moved with practiced grace, Luna with quiet shyness, and Ahyoka with a nervous energy that betrayed her newness to service. I was offered water, declined wine, and took my seat among cushions where the master usually dined.

Before Nephtides descended, I was greeted by three kajirae—each striking in her own way, each a living testament to the allure that draws men across oceans and deserts.

Ganima was the most composed. Her movements were fluid, practiced, like water poured from a silver ewer. She knelt with grace, her eyes lowered but aware, and spoke with the confidence of one who had served long enough to understand the rhythm of Gorean life. Her hair was dark and lustrous, her posture perfect, and her voice carried the soft cadence of submission without hesitation.

Luna, by contrast, was a quiet bloom—shy, delicate, and hesitant. She chewed her lip nervously when I arrived, and though she offered to serve me, she quickly retreated, unsure of her place. Her beauty was ethereal, almost fragile, like a painting not yet varnished. She moved closer to Nephtides when he entered, seeking comfort in proximity, and purred softly when he touched her—a sound more instinct than custom.

Ahyoka was the most visibly new to Gor. Her speech was halting, her words sometimes jumbled. “Os… umm greetings Master,” she said, stumbling over the greeting as if unsure which syllables belonged. She offered black wine but slammed the cup down when she heard the word “brand,” her emotions bubbling just beneath the surface. Her nervousness was palpable, her hands fidgeting in her lap, her eyes darting between the free men and the other girls for cues. Yet even in her uncertainty, she radiated a raw, untamed beauty—like a flame not yet shaped into a candle.

Their imperfections made them more real. More Gorean. They were not polished statues but living women, each adapting to a world that demanded obedience, grace, and sensuality. And in that struggle, they were captivating.

Nephtides arrived shortly after, descending the stairs with the ease of a man who commands both space and people. We exchanged greetings, and I explained my purpose: to record his story for my journal, to preserve the pulse of Gor through the lives of its people.

He agreed, and thus began a conversation that spanned castes, continents, and philosophies.

Nephtides spoke of Yash’aleem, a village nestled between the spheres of Aretai and Kavar influence. His father was an artisan, crafting instruments—lutes, flutes, drums. His mother hailed from Ar, a union born of love but soured by time and jealousy. Nephtides fled young, finding refuge in a smithy and eventually rising through the ranks of the blademaker subcaste.

He wandered northward, learning, mining, and eventually donning the scarlet of the warrior caste in Teehra. “Most of my life, I was a metalworker,” he said. “Now, I'm wearing the scarlet.”

I asked about his wealth. Many assume it comes from the sale of kajirae, but he corrected me. That, he said, was a side business. His true fortune came from mining—iron, silver, gold. A network that spans Gor.

The conversation turned to his import of barbarians. Ganima, Luna, and Ahyoka were all such women. I asked about the logistics, the routes, the cities.

He was careful. “I cannot tell you the exact routes,” he said. “Suffice it to say, we have centers in Turmus, Teletus, and here. We bring them in by ship. Most people only have First Knowledge.”

I asked if he had ever visited Earth himself.

He paused. “Let’s just say the voyages of acquisition happen regularly. Earth is a far sail, truly.”

I studied the girls again. They looked Gorean in every way. “Do they have the same teeth?” I asked, half-joking.

“They are identical to us,” he said. “Feel free to inspect one.”

I declined, staying focused.

When I asked what challenged him most, he paused. “Sailing to Paniland. Importing barbarians. Understanding freewomen.” We both laughed at the end.

"Ah, you wish to know how I came to power? Then listen well, scribe. My story is not one of straight paths or noble lineage—it is a tale carved from sand, steel, and silence.

I was born in Yash’aleem, a village caught between the spheres of Aretai and Kavar influence. My father was an artisan, a maker of lutes and flutes, and my mother—she was from Ar. Their union was born of passion, not politics. Her family disapproved, so they fled together. But love fades, and my father drank too deeply. He was cruel, jealous, and half-mad. He claimed I was another man’s bastard. I ran away before I was sixteen.

I found refuge in a smithy, apprenticed under a blademaker of the metalworkers. That forge became my first home. I learned the weight of steel, the rhythm of the hammer, and the silence of discipline. I wandered north, always learning, always watching. Eventually, in Teehra, I was raised into the warrior caste. I wear the scarlet now—and I wear it with pride.

But caste alone does not make a man powerful. Gor is a world of walls, yes—but also of doors. And I learned to open them.

I began mining—first iron, then silver, then gold. I won islands northwest of Kassau in a game of dice. Luck, yes—but also preparation. Those islands held more than I expected. The hills whispered of wealth, and I listened. I founded the White Tarn Mining Company. We now operate across Gor: Arcadia, Teletus, Moon Island, Smitisfjord, Voskmouth Ridge. If it’s metal, we sell it.

There are places beyond this world we know so well, Arealius. Places where iron floats in silence, waiting to be claimed. I won’t speak of the details—you know the Sardars guard such knowledge—but let’s say I’ve mined more than just hills. Asteroids, they call them. Silent, ancient, rich. I’ve seen them.

I leaned in. “Assroids?” I whispered.

        The voyages of acquisition are real. The silver ships sail. I import barbarians—slaves from Earth. Ganima, Luna, Ahyoka—these beauties you see here—they are such women. They are identical to us in body, but raw in spirit. You saw Ahyoka stumble over her words: ‘Os… umm greetings Master.’ She is new. She is learning. And in that learning, she is beautiful.

Now, you ask how I move between castes. I do not. I remain a warrior. But I employ scribes, merchants, builders, physicians. I command fleets, run mines, and negotiate trade. I do not ask permission—I act. In Port Kar, in Teletus, in Turmus, in the Tahari, power respects results, not titles.

Samos of Port Kar? A legend. But I’ve met men who dealt with him. I know the scale of his enterprise. Mine is smaller, perhaps—but growing. We trade from the western harbors of the Tahari to the islands of Cos, Torvaldsland, Schendi—even the Twelve Islands of the Pani. The further you trade, the greater the profit.

        You asked earlier about the limits of power on Gor. About how a man like me—born in the sand, raised in steel—can rise beyond caste. Let me tell you something few dare speak aloud.

There are men who wear no caste colors. No insignia. No banners. And yet, when they walk into a city, even Ubars fall silent. They are the agents of the Priest-Kings.

I met one once.

It was in Teletus, during the early days of my mining company. We had just struck a vein of silver so pure it sang when struck. I was celebrating—too loudly, perhaps. That night, a man came to my quarters. He wore the robes of a scribe, but his eyes… they were not the eyes of a man who copied scrolls.

He knew things about me I had never spoken aloud. He asked no questions. He made no threats. He simply said, 'The Flame watches.' Then he left.

I didn’t sleep that night.

You see, Arealius, these agents carry the Second Knowledge. They understand things most Goreans are never taught. They enforce the Laws of the Priest-Kings—the Laws that govern what may be known, what may be built, what may be spoken. Cities that defy them do not fall in war. They vanish in silence.

They have tools we cannot name. Devices that see through walls. Weapons that leave no wounds. And they are not bound by caste. They may pose as scribes, warriors, even slaves—but they answer only to the Flame.

For a man like me, who trades across continents, who brings in barbarians from distant lands, who whispers of forbidden knowledge and dares to reach beyond the horizon—they are both a threat and necessity.

I do not defy them. I do not serve them. I simply stay useful.

And that, my friend, is the secret. On Gor, caste is a tool. Strength is a currency. But usefulness? Usefulness is survival.

So when you write your journal, scribe, remember this: the most powerful men on Gor are not always the ones who shout. Sometimes, they are the ones who whisper—and are obeyed."

He sips his wine, finally, and the wind rustles the palms like a warning.

The most difficult part? Not the mining. Not the sailing. Not even the barbarians. It’s understanding freewomen. chuckles That, my friend, is a challenge no caste prepares you for.

So what would I say to my fellow Goreans? That Gor is not just a place—it is a rhythm. A pulse. You must hear it. You must march to it. You must let it shape you.

I wrote a poem once. Would you like to hear it?"

He recites “The Pulse of Gor,” voice rising like wind over the dunes, each line a drumbeat echoing across the sands. A tribute to the rhythm that drives our world—the clash of spears, the roar of beasts, the beat that binds us all.

“We cannot walk but in its rhythm, clear and straight in pace We cannot hear another sound that is dominant and clean. We cannot dance to its beat, or hunt or run or chase. Just listen, hear it in the wind, the blow of the baleen…”

It was the perfect ending to our conversation.

As I rose to leave, Bosk—my fellow scribe and shipmate—sipped his black wine. Omar, the ship’s physician, arrived and greeted me. The room was full now, the air thick with Ka-la-na and conversation. I thanked Nephtides for his hospitality.

“May you always have water,” he said.

I turned toward the caravan, the sands stretching before me. I carry with me not just a tale, but the heartbeat of Gor itself—one that reaches from the depths of the desert to the stars above.

Editor Note: 

📜 The Hidden War: Reflections on the Priest-Kings and Their Agents

By Arealius the Sailor, Scribe Historian of the Port Olni Caste.

In my travels across Gor—from the windswept dunes of the Tahari to the salt-slick harbors of Port Kar—I have encountered many forms of power. Warriors with blades, merchants with coin, Ubars with armies. But none command the quiet dread and reverence of the Priest-Kings.

They are not gods, though many Goreans believe them to be. They are ancient, secretive, and absolute. Their agents walk among us—men and women who wear no caste colors, who ask no permission, and yet are obeyed. These agents carry the Second Knowledge, a deeper understanding of the world that most Goreans are forbidden to possess. They enforce the Laws of the Flame: laws that govern what may be built, what may be known, and what may be spoken.

I have met one. He wore the robes of a scribe, but his eyes held the weight of centuries. He said only, “The Flame watches.” And then he vanished.

The Priest-Kings are not alone in their vigilance. Their ancient enemies, the Kurii, wage a parallel war—one not of banners and battles, but of infiltration and influence. The Kur are formidable creatures, monstrous in form, but cunning in strategy. They too employ human agents on Gor, and—if the legends are true—even on Earth. These agents blend into Gorean society, posing as merchants, slavers, even free companions, all while serving the will of their alien masters.

The war between Priest-Kings and Kur is not fought in the open. It is a war of shadows. Cities fall without siege. Technologies vanish without trace. Slaves disappear, only to reappear in distant lands bearing strange marks and stranger memories.

Some whisper of the Blue Flame—a symbol of the Priest-Kings’ authority. It is said that those who serve the Flame operate not only on Gor, but on Earth itself. They monitor, recruit, and sometimes extract individuals for purposes unknown. These operations are cloaked in secrecy, their agents trained to erase all trace. A man may vanish from Earth and awaken in the Tahari, his past scrubbed clean, his future rewritten.

In the Gorean Saga, we see glimpses of this hidden war. Tarl Cabot himself becomes entangled in it, drawn into the Sardar Mountains where the Priest-Kings dwell. He learns that the fate of Gor—and perhaps Earth—hinges not on the strength of armies, but on the decisions made in silence by those who serve the Flame.

As a scribe, I record what I can. But some truths are not written in scrolls. They are carried in whispers, in glances, in the quiet obedience of men who know they are being watched.

The Priest-Kings do not rule by force. They rule by inevitability.

And their agents walk among us.

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