"Shooting Stars and Changing Moons", by Arealius the Sailor
This Gorean Fan Fiction and Images were 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
Shooting Stars and Changing Moons
It was supposed to be an ordinary afternoon in the inn of Port Olni—quiet, dusty, and about as lively as a half-dead sleen. But fate, as Arealius would later write in his Gazette notes, was in a whimsical mood.
Arealius, long-traveled sailor and scribe, had convinced Kus—fresh from the plains—that Port Olni was the proper place for him to grow roots. And like any scribe explaining his ideas, Arealius spoke with the gravitas of a man who had survived too many voyages on the Thassa and too many wars.
Before the philosophy could deepen into depressive poetry, Ruby swept into the inn like a burst of color and hip-swaying sunshine. Her smile alone resurrected half-dead paga drinkers, and her serve to Kus and Arealius was so gracefully suggestive that Arealius marked it in his imaginary scroll as “Most Dramatic Fade-to-Black Serve of the Season.”
Ruby’s arrival, and the sudden appearance of paga where there had previously been none, signaled that the day was taking a turn.
Because then—like a soft perfume drifting through a crowded market—Lady Nava arrived.
Elegant. Irritated. Veiled.
She had the aura of a woman who had dealt with three frustrating men before lunch and was ready to throttle a fourth.
She sat beside Kus.
Not near Kus.
Beside Kus.
Close enough that Arealius immediately made a mental note thinking as a sailor, "Anchors." “Men,” he said, leaning back with that sage confidence, “are like ships. We drift. We wander. We cross waters no sane navigator would chart. But eventually…” He tapped his cup. “We need anchors. Women are anchors. A man without one drifts until he is lost.”
Kus nodded slowly, perhaps understanding, perhaps pretending, but the idea struck something in him.
Kus, acting entirely on instinct, reached out and steadied her, placing his hand in the small of her back.
“There,” he murmured, gently rubbing her back. “Breathe. Slow. Good.”
Nava, eyes watering, tried to pretend she hadn’t just almost drowned in alcohol.
Arealius watched all this with the expression of a man witnessing destiny and trying very hard not to shout, “I KNEW IT!”
Instead, he cleared his throat and launched into the speech he had been saving.
“Men,” he began, “are like ships—prone to wandering, storm-chasing, disappearing for seasons.
But we all need anchors. Women are anchors. Not weights,” he added quickly, just in case Nava kicked him under the table, “but points of purpose. Of meaning. They give direction.”
Nava’s eyes softened behind her veil.
Kus pretended to focus on his drink, which fooled absolutely no one.
Arealius leaned back, smugly satisfied after downing the small paga cup he had followed quickly with the ale as a chaser.
“Port Olni,” he explained, tapping the table with his charcoal pencil, “is a place that endures. Cities rise and fall with the ease of a shooting star—bright for a heartbeat, illuminating the night sky brilliantly, and then gone, nothing but an empty trail and fading memory.”
He paused, letting his companions picture the vastness of Gor’s night.
“Some cities burned from within. Some died from the sword. And many,” he added quietly, “succumbed to Dar-Kosis. When the corpse plague came last season, entire metropolises vanished like sparks in the wind. Goreans scattered like frightened birds, migrating, rebuilding, wandering…Ti, Vonda, Lara, Tancred Landing, and down the Vosk River, the beautiful Sais, the Rock of the Vosk. Even Port Kar!”
He looked around the inn—the badly maintained walls, the patched tables, the persistent warm glow of the place.
“But Olni endures. It survives. It adapts. Always here, always present. Not a shooting star, blazing so brightly until it goes black.” He lifted his cup. “Olni is a moon. One of Gor’s moons—changing phases, dimming, brightening, shifting, but always returning. Always hanging above us.”
Kus listened intently. Nava did too, though she pretended not to.
Arealius finished his oration with a pointed look at Kus:
“A man looking for belonging should choose a city that knows how to outlive everything thrown at it.”
Kus, a man not given to unnecessary words, simply nodded.
Nava’s eyes softened.
And then— all philosophy was destroyed in seconds.
The kajira burst from the kitchen, scratching her head, her arms, her legs, and—Priest Kings help them—her intimate places, her fur. She taste-tested the roasting bosk meat as though she were a wild animal auditioning for a failed cooking show.
Aisha squealed.
Ruby gasped.
Arealius wondered whether scratching was contagious.
Eridain announced in the tone of a martyr, “She’s going to the kennel for… everything.” Delousing, training, possibly a full spiritual cleansing.
Kus swore he’d caught something just by looking at her. Nava began scratching her head in sympathy and immediately stopped, horrified. Aisha fled behind the bar. Ruby exchanged scandalous smacks with her just to restore normal inn chaos.
The moment Niki was dragged off for fumigation, Arealius raised his pencil like a general lifting a sword.
“So,” he shouted over the noise, “does anyone mind if I use your names in a Gazette story?”
Kus didn’t protest.
Nava didn’t object—though she lifted her veil an inch higher, perhaps to hide a smile.
Ruby winked.
Aisha giggled.
Niki was already gone, presumably receiving deity-level cleansing.
By sunset, the inn was still standing, which was a triumph in itself.
And Arealius, scribbling notes with gusto, knew he had captured something rare:
A night where philosophy, flirting, fleas, fate, and the enduring spirit of Port Olni collided in one unforgettable, ridiculous, perfect inn tale.
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