The Tale of Josie, Scribe Magistrate of Gor by Lady Jasmine Bernard-Carver

 

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The Tale of Josie, Scribe Magistrate of Gor

by Lady Jasmine of the Scribes

Josie was not born into power, but into promise. From her earliest days, her stepfather saw in her a spark—bright as flame, steady as steel. He called her his pride and joy, the apple of his eye, and he vowed that she would be taught not merely to read the scrolls of law, but to embody them.  

Under his guidance, Josie’s hand grew steady with the stylus, her mind sharp with the codes of Gor. She learned that law was not ink on parchment, but the strong arm of justice itself. Her stepfather’s voice echoed in her memory: “The law of Gor is not bent by whim, but upheld by those strong enough to carry it.”  

She carried it well.  

Her auburn tresses caught the light of the sun as she walked the streets of Ar, scrolls tucked beneath her arm. Her piercing blue eyes missed nothing—no deceit, no faltering word. Citizens whispered of her aptitude, marveling at how one so young could hold the weight of the magistrate’s seal with such dignity.  

When disputes arose, Josie’s presence alone commanded silence. She did not thunder with rage nor sway with sentiment; instead, she spoke with clarity, her words cutting through confusion like a blade through silk. Each ruling bore the mark of fairness, tempered by wisdom, yet firm as iron.  

Her stepfather watched with pride. He had taught her well, and now she stood as living proof that his lessons had taken root. She was more than his daughter—she was the embodiment of his legacy, the strong arm of the Gorean law.  

And so Josie’s name spread across the cities of Gor, not as a mere scribe, but as a magistrate whose eyes saw truth, whose hand upheld justice, and whose heart carried the honor of her father’s teaching.  

Josie’s reputation as a magistrate had grown swiftly—her rulings were fair, but firm, and she did not hesitate to convict those who broke the codes of Gor. Yet justice, though righteous, often breeds resentment.  

One man, a merchant stripped of wealth and honor after Josie’s judgment, nursed his hatred in silence. He had been found guilty of fraud, his schemes laid bare by Josie’s piercing blue eyes and sharp mind. To him, she was not the embodiment of law, but the architect of his ruin.  

He plotted revenge.  

One evening, as Josie walked home from the scribe’s hall, scrolls tucked beneath her arm, shadows moved. Rough hands seized her, gagging her cries. She fought her auburn hair whipping as she struggled—but the ambush was swift. The merchant’s men dragged her into the alleys, their plan already set: Josie would be smuggled out of the city and sold into slavery, her brilliance silenced, her dignity stripped.  

The city stirred with alarm when her absence was discovered. Her stepfather’s heart thundered with dread, but his pride turned to steel. “She is my daughter, my legacy. She will not be lost to chains.”  

Word spread among the scribes and warriors alike: Josie had been taken. It became a race against time. Every hour brought her closer to the auction block, where her captors hoped to profit from her beauty and skill.  

But Josie was no helpless captive. Even bound, her mind worked. She whispered defiance to her captors, reminding them that the law of Gor was not so easily escaped. Her piercing gaze unsettled them, as though she could already see the justice that awaited.  

Meanwhile, allies gathered—scribes who owed her their freedom, warriors who respected her rulings, and her stepfather, whose love was a force stronger than iron. Together, they hunted the merchant’s trail, determined to reclaim Josie before she was lost to the chains of slavery.  

The chase was on: through the streets of Ar, across the river docks, into the shadowed warehouses where the merchant’s men hid. Each moment was perilous, each decision critical. Josie’s fate hung in the balance, her life a testament to the truth she had always upheld—justice is never without cost.  

The hunt for Josie was desperate, but among those who rallied to her defense, one man stood foremost. He was young, of the Builders’ caste, his hands skilled in shaping stone and timber, his mind sharp with design. Yet his heart had long been captured by Josie’s piercing blue eyes and the quiet strength she carried.  

He had courted her gently, with words measured and respectful, never daring to presume upon her station as magistrate. Still, his devotion was plain, and when word spread that Josie had been taken, he did not hesitate.  

While warriors sharpened their blades and scribes plotted the merchant’s trail, it was the Builder who led the charge. His knowledge of the city’s hidden passages, its foundations and forgotten tunnels, gave him an edge. He knew where men might hide, where shadows pooled deepest, and where the merchant’s men would think themselves safe.  

Josie, bound and defiant, whispered to her captors that the law of Gor would find them. And indeed, it was the Builder who found her first. He burst into the warehouse, torchlight flaring against the gloom, his voice ringing out:  

“By the law of Gor, you will not take her!”  

Steel clashed, shouts filled the air, and Josie’s captors faltered under the sudden onslaught. Warriors pressed in behind him, but it was the Builder’s courage that broke their line. He fought not with the practiced skill of a soldier, but with the raw strength of a man who would not see the woman he cherished enslaved.  

When Josie was freed, her auburn hair tangled, her wrists bruised, she looked upon him with gratitude that pierced deeper than words. Her stepfather’s pride was fierce, but it was the Builder’s devotion that gave her hope—that even in the darkest hour, love and loyalty could rise to meet the law.  

The merchant was dragged before the magistrates, his schemes undone. Josie stood once more in judgment, her voice steady, her eyes unyielding. Yet when the trial was over, she allowed herself a single glance toward the young Builder the man who had risked all to save her.  

And in that glance lay the promise of a story yet unwritten.