The First Night in Teletus by Ar the Sailor, Scribe of Port Olni
This Gorean Fan Fiction was generated using ChatGPT and 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 First Night in Teletus
As told by Arealius the Sailor, Scribe of Port Olni.
The tavern in the lower quarter of Teletus was full of wood smoke, laughter, and the sound of coins clinking against cups. It was the sort of place where one could buy a man’s silence or his story — and the latter was cheaper.
At a table near the hearth, surrounded by half a dozen merchants fat from trade and pride, sat an old man in a faded blue robe. His beard was gray and wild as sea foam, his hands still rough despite the ink stains upon them.
This was Arealius the Sailor — once a man of rope and mast, now a keeper of scrolls and inkpots in the scribes’ tower of Teletus. Yet tonight, he was no scribe. He was the evening’s entertainment.
“Another round for the old salt!” cried one merchant.
“Aye, he tells better tales when the cup’s full!” added another.
Arealius raised his drink with mock solemnity. “Then, gentlemen,” he said, “you shall have your money’s worth — for my tongue loosens with paga, though not always wisely.”
The table erupted in laughter. Someone slapped his back. The old scribe coughed, grinned through his beard, and began.
The Tale Begins
“It was nearly forty years ago,” said Arealius, his eyes gleaming with mischief, “when I first came to Teletus — not as a scholar, mind you, but as purser aboard a two-masted round ship called The Tarsk’s Fortune. A sturdy vessel, fat as her name, and twice as stubborn.”
He leaned forward. “We had crossed from Cos, laden with trade goods. By the Priest-Kings, it was a fine voyage — not a storm nor pirate to be seen. When we made port here, we unloaded our cargo and took on new wares. The men were in high spirits, and the captain, a generous fool when the mood struck him, granted shore leave to most of the crew.”
He paused dramatically. “Most of the crew.”
The merchants chuckled knowingly.
“I, however,” he continued, “had drawn the short straw — or, more accurately, the captain’s displeasure. A small matter of miscounting a shipment of olives, which, in my defense, had been sampled liberally by the men during loading. So, while my shipmates marched off into the pleasures of Teletus, I was left aboard with two other miscreants — Jarn of Tyros, who could not tell the difference between a rope and a snake, and Tabo the Lame, who had acquired that name, ironically, by falling over his own foot on deck.”
Arealius raised his brows, spreading his hands. “A fine company of watchmen, you see. Three men to guard a ship — two drunk on resentment, one sober by duty.”
He sipped his drink and went on.
The Wagons Arrive
“The night was quiet at first. We sat on deck, listening to the hum of the city — the music of flutes, the laughter of women, the shouts of sailors wasting coin they hadn’t earned. I began to feel sorry for myself, wondering why I had to be the one left behind.
Then, just after the third glass of kal-da — for I did allow myself a modest indulgence — I heard wheels creaking down the cobbles.”
He leaned in, lowering his voice. “Up rolls a wagon, drawn by two tired tharlarion, and guarded by red-tunicked soldiers of Teletus. One of them, a grizzled fellow with a nose like a hammer, shouts up to me:
‘You Arealius of The Tarsk’s Fortune?’
‘Aye!’ I called down.
‘Got some of your men!’ he says.
‘You what?’ I ask.
And he waves his arm, and, by the Priest-Kings, the guards start unloading sailors like sacks of grain — bruised, drunk, and grinning like fools!”
The merchants roared with laughter.
“Oh, they were a sight! Staggering, bleeding, some singing, some kissing the dock planks. The guards dumped them without ceremony. One even rolled a fellow down like a barrel. We hauled them aboard — or rather, dropped them down the hatch into the hold. A few landed on the cargo. One poor devil landed in a crate of lamp oil, and for the rest of the voyage smelled like a torch.”
The Second Wagon
“Barely had we finished when another wagon rolled up — same guards, new load. These ones looked worse. Torn tunics, black eyes, but laughing twice as hard!
‘Another batch!’ the guard shouts.
I said, ‘By the Priest-Kings, how many taverns are in this city?’
He said, ‘Enough to keep you busy till dawn!’
Down they went as well, until the ship stank of sweat, paga, and the perfume of regret. I began to think we’d seen the worst of it.”
Arealius gave a theatrical sigh. “But then came the third wagon.”
The Third Wagon
“It was nearly dawn. The sky just starting to glow when I heard the wheels again. This time the guards looked as battered as the sailors. The lead man’s helmet hung askew, and a red streak of blood ran down his face.
I called down, ‘What mischief have they made now?’
He only laughed — that tired, wild laugh of men who’ve been in a fight they’ll be telling stories about for years.
‘We’ve no quarrel with sailors having their fun,’ he said, wiping his brow. ‘But when they start dancing with each other — and then try to dance with the city guard… well, sir, that’s where we draw the line!’”
The entire tavern burst into laughter, pounding their cups against the tables. Arealius grinned, raising his hands for quiet.
“I tell you true — when the captain returned at dawn, he found half his crew groaning in the hold, one man serenading a coil of rope, and another wearing a bucket for a helmet. He said, ‘Arealius, I leave you one night in charge, and you turn the ship into a tavern!’
I told him, ‘Aye, Captain — but at least it was our tavern, and the guard had to pay for the dancing!’”
Back in the Tavern
The merchants were wheezing with laughter, tears in their eyes. One wiped his beard and said, “By the Priest-Kings, you should have been a bard!”
Arealius raised his cup in salute. “Better to be a scribe,” he said. “Ink stains wash easier than bruises.”
“Another round!” cried one of the merchants.
“Two!” said another. “And one for The Tarsk’s Fortune!”
The old man smiled, leaned back in his chair, and as the tavern filled with laughter again, he thought — not for the first time — that a good story, like a good voyage, was best when someone else paid for it.
Editor's Note: This is based on a real occurrence that the I experienced at Roosevelt Roads Naval Station, Puerto Rico in 1976. I had the topside watch for my ship I served on and that night three U.S. Marine, 2 1/2 ton military trucks drove up and dropped of a large portion of the ship's crew that had been partying at the Non-Commissioned Officers' club on the base. But we departed Puerto Rico on schedule.
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