"By Design" by Arealius the Sailor, Scribe of Port Olni.
This Gorean Fan Fiction and Images were generated using Microsoft Copilot or MetaAI.
Gor is Copyrighted by John Norman
The fog lay thick over the Vosk River, curling around the marsh reeds that lined the quays of Turmus. Lanterns glowed faintly in the damp air, casting reflections across the sluggish current. Arealius the Sailor had come upriver from Port Olni, his cloak heavy with travel, his eyes weary from the silence that seemed to spread from city to city. He found Varcus of Turmus waiting at a riverside tavern, broad‑shouldered and weathered by the winds of the delta, his hands calloused from years of barter and trade.
They sat together at a rough‑hewn table, the smell of fish and damp wood thick in the air. Scrolls and tablets lay between them, though neither man reached for them. Tonight, words carried more weight than records.
“The Vosk grows uncertain,” Arealius said, his voice low, as though the river itself might overhear. “Grain from the north falters, timber from the Thentis slopes arrives late, and coinage thins in the markets. The Dar Kosis has not only taken lives but broken the rhythm of trade. Sais suffers, Thentis weakens, and there are whispers of a city lost beyond Boswell Pass. Even Port Kar has fallen silent since the hot season broke.”
Arealius unrolled a parchment, its ink blurred by damp fingers. “The Priest‑Kings shaped this economy to endure calamity. Coinage binds us, tariffs regulate excess, and the agrarian base sustains the people. Yet plague is a shadow they cannot restrain. When peasants die, fields lie fallow. When scribes fall, contracts dissolve. The equilibrium falters, and whispers of Kurii contraband grow louder in the silence.”
Varcus’ tone was pragmatic, his words shaped by the patience of the marsh. “Scarcity breeds resilience. Turmus has learned to barter when coin fails, to rely on river craft when caravans vanish. The marsh teaches patience. If Port Kar is silent, perhaps it waits, not falls. Cities endure, as reeds endure the flood. The economy bends, but it does not break.”
The two men fell quiet, listening to the murmur of the Vosk. Beyond the lantern light, Gor shifted—cities weakened, rumors spread, and winter crept closer. Yet in their dialogue lay the truth: the economy of Gor was not merely trade and coin, but a living balance, tested by plague, rumor, and silence. And as the Vosk carried their voices downstream, the river itself seemed to hold the ledger of a world struggling to endure.
The tavern in Turmus was dim, its walls lined with reed mats and the smell of fish heavy in the air. Arealius the Sailor, scribe of Port Olni, leaned forward across the table, his eyes bright with the fire of a student of history. Varcus listened, his broad hands folded, as Arealius began to speak not of ships or tariffs, but of the deeper currents that bound the cities of Gor.
“Look about you,” Arealius said, gesturing toward the river beyond the shutters. “The Vosk and the Olni are not merely waterways—they are the veins of a body composed of many small hearts. Each city along these rivers beats to its own rhythm, jealous of its independence, proud of its banners, yet bound by the same lifeblood of trade and survival. This is the city‑state model, the way of Gor in its Iron Age.”
He paused, drawing a line across the wax tablet with his stylus. “A city is not merely walls and towers. It is a sovereign realm, complete in itself. Turmus, Port Olni, Sais, Thentis—each governs its own coinage, its own tariffs, its own laws. Each raises its own warriors, commands its own scribes, and sustains itself through its peasants and Rencers. No Ubar rules the rivers entirely. Instead, each city stands alone, wary of its neighbors, yet dependent upon them for grain, timber, salt fish, and hides.”
Varcus nodded, and Arealius pressed on, his voice gaining strength. “This fractionalization breeds rivalry, but also resilience. When plague strikes Sais, Turmus endures. When Port Kar falls silent, Olni still scribes its contracts. No single calamity can fell all, for the cities are many, scattered, and stubborn. Yet this same independence breeds conflict. Tariffs rise, tribute is demanded, alliances shift like the currents of the river. A city may flourish one season, then falter the next, its fate tied not to a central power but to its own strength and the favor of trade.”
The old scribe leaned back, eyes narrowing as though seeing the pattern unfold across the map of Gor. “The Priest‑Kings designed it so. By forbidding the rise of empire controlling the great rivers they ensured that Gor would remain a patchwork of proud city‑states. Each is strong enough to endure, but none strong enough to dominate. This balance prevents tyranny, yet it also ensures perpetual rivalry. The rivers are the threads that bind them, but the loom is fragile, and each city pulls against the other.”
Varcus shifted in his seat, thoughtful. Arealius’s words hung in the air like smoke, painting a vision of Gor’s economy: a world of independent city‑states, proud and quarrelsome, sustained by rivers, bound by trade, and tested by plague and silence. And in that moment, the Vosk itself seemed to murmur agreement, carrying downstream the truth that Gor’s strength lay not in unity, but in the stubborn endurance of its many small sovereignties.
The tavern in Turmus was alive with the murmur of the river outside, the lanterns casting long shadows across the reed‑lined walls. Arealius, ever the student of history, had spoken at length about the city‑state model of Gor, its independence and rivalry, its resilience and fragility. Varcus listened, nodding, then leaned forward, his voice carrying the weight of a man who had seen wealth rise and fall with the seasons.
“You speak of the city‑states and their balance,” the merchant said, “but let us not forget how wealth itself is made, and by whom. In this bronze age economy of ours, it is the High Castes who shape prosperity, each in their own way.”
He raised a finger, counting them off. “The Scribes, they oversee the minting coin for their patron city, record contracts, and preserve law. Without their ledgers, trade collapses into chaos. Their wealth is made in ink and parchment, in the authority of record, for in a balkanized land, each city must trust its own scribes to guard its identity.”
“The Physicians, they preserve life, and in times of plague, their skill is more precious than gold. Their wealth lies in knowledge, in the healing of bodies that keep the fields worked and the ships crewed. When Dar Kosis spreads, it is they who hold the balance between ruin and survival.”
“The Builders, they raise walls, bridges, and quays. Their wealth is in stone and timber, in the shaping of defenses and the arteries of trade. In a land of rival cities, their craft ensures that each polis endures, its towers standing against both flood and foe.”
“The Initiates, they claim the wealth of the spirit. Temples gather tribute, offerings, and obedience. In a fractured land, faith binds men as much as coin, and the Initiates wield their power through ritual, fear, and the promise of divine favor. Their wealth is intangible, yet it commands obedience across caste and city.”
“And the Warriors, they take wealth by force, through conquest, tribute, and protection. In a divided region, where no empire rules, the sword is coin. Warriors guard caravans, seize tariffs, and enforce the will of their cities. Their wealth is measured in steel, in the spoils of battle, and in the loyalty of men.”
The merchant’s eyes glinted in the lantern light. “Together, these High Castes form the pillars of our economy. Each city depends upon them, yet each city guards its own. There is no central treasury, no empire to bind them. Wealth is made locally, jealously, and often at the expense of neighbors. That is the way of Gor—fragmented, proud, and enduring.”
Arealius listened, his stylus hovering above the wax tablet, and he realized that the merchant’s words were not merely observation but a ledger of truth: in the riverside taverns of Turmus, in the quays of Olni, in the silent streets of Port Kar, wealth was not a single stream but many rivulets, each flowing from the hands of the High Castes, each shaping the fragile balance of Gor’s city‑states.
The tavern in Turmus grew quieter as the night deepened, the murmur of the Vosk outside steady as a heartbeat. Arealius, his stylus tapping lightly against the wax tablet, leaned forward with the sharpness of a scribe who had studied many scrolls in the late ahn of the night.
“You speak of the physicians as if their wealth is assured,” Arealius said, his tone edged with curiosity. “But tell me, where do they actually get their coin? Do they charge the peasants the same as the warriors and the scribes? And if they do not, how do they decide what to charge? Surely healing is not measured in equal weights of copper or silver.”
Varcus rubbed his chin, considering. “Physicians earn their coin in layers, not unlike the strata of the marsh. For the peasants, their payment is often in kind—grain, fish, hides, or labor. A peasant’s coin is thin, but his need is constant, and the Physician accepts what sustains him. For the warriors, the coin is heavier, for their wounds are frequent and their purses filled by spoils. A warrior pays in silver or gold, and sometimes in promises of protection. The scribes, too, pay well, for they value longevity and the preservation of their craft. Their coin is steady, drawn from the contracts they themselves record.”
Varcus leaned closer, lowering his voice. “Physicians do not charge equally because the economy itself is unequal. They measure their fees by caste, by means, and by necessity. A peasant’s child may be treated for a handful of grain, while a warrior’s wound may cost a silver tarsk. The Initiates, when they pay at all, offer tribute from temple coffers, for even they must bow to the skill of healing. And the builders, whose hands are their wealth, pay in timber, stone, or coin earned from their craft.”
Arealius’s eyes narrowed, his stylus pausing mid‑tap. “So the physician’s wealth is not merely coin, but barter, tribute, and obligation. Their ledger is written in many currencies, each tied to the strength of the caste that pays. In a balkanized land, this makes them both indispensable and vulnerable, for their prosperity depends on the health of every city, every class, every river.”
The merchant nodded, his expression grave. “Exactly so. The physician’s coin is drawn from the veins of Gor itself. They charge not by a single measure, but by the weight of need and the purse of the one who seeks them. And in that, they mirror the rivers—taking from each bank what it can give, flowing ever onward, sustained by the many, never by the one.”
The lantern flickered, and the two men sat in silence, the truth of the merchant’s words settling like silt at the bottom of the Vosk. The economy of Gor was not uniform, but layered, each caste paying in its own way, each physician balancing survival against service, coin against compassion.
Arealius smiled at the merchant’s reply, tapping his stylus against the wax tablet in approval. “Your answer is keenly observed,” he said, “and it shows the layered truth of how coin flows through the hands of the High Castes. Yet let us turn our gaze from the rivers to the great cities of the central plains—Ar, Corcyrus, Torcadino, Argentium, and Brundisium. Their governance is not like that of Turmus or Olni, nor of the scattered towns along the Vosk. They are shaped by the heavy hand of Ar’s culture, and by the legions of warriors that march beneath its banners.”
Arealius leaned forward, his voice taking on the cadence of a lecturer. “In these cities, governance is centralized, militarized, and disciplined. The scribes record not merely contracts but decrees of councils and commands of generals. The builders raise walls and fortifications to serve the needs of armies, not only the needs of trade. Physicians tend to soldiers as much as peasants, for the health of the legions is the health of the city. Even the initiates bend their rituals to sanctify the power of the warrior caste, binding faith to steel.”
Arealius’ hand swept across the table as though sketching a map. “The city‑state model along the rivers is fragmented, each polis jealous of its independence. But under Ar’s influence, these open plains cities adopt a different rhythm. They are not merely independent; they are organized around the supremacy of the warrior caste. Wealth flows upward into the coffers of the legions, tribute is gathered to sustain campaigns, and governance is centralized to ensure obedience. The merchant’s coin, the peasant’s grain, the scribe’s ink—all are bent toward the needs of militarization, the needs of the empire.”
The old scribe paused, his eyes narrowing. “This model breeds strength, for a city so organized can project power far beyond its walls, as Ar has. Yet it also breeds rigidity. Where Turmus or Olni may bend like reeds in the flood, Ar and its vassal cities stand like stone towers, unyielding, but vulnerable to cracks. Their wealth is vast, their armies disciplined, but their governance is heavy, centralized, and often blind to the subtler currents of trade and survival.”
The merchant of Turmus listened, his brow furrowed, and finally spoke. “So you say the rivers teach flexibility, while the plains teach discipline. One model thrives on rivalry and barter, the other on obedience and tribute. Perhaps both are strong, but in different ways. And perhaps Gor itself endures because it is a patchwork of both—the reed and the tower, the scribe’s ledger and the warrior’s sword.”
Arealius nodded, satisfied. “Exactly so. The rivers and the plains, the fragmented and the centralized—together they form the balance of Gor’s wealth. And it is in that balance that the Priest‑Kings have ensured our survival.”
Varcus threw back his head and laughed, the sound rolling through the reed‑lined tavern like the river’s own current. “Priest‑Kings?” he said, shaking his head. “You scribes always give them too much credit. It is not the Priest‑Kings who ensure the survival of our cities—it is the wisdom and intelligence of the Merchant Caste. We are the true intermediaries, the bridge between the High and the Low. Without us, the scribes would have no contracts to record, the warriors no weapons to wield, the physicians no coin to collect, and the initiates no offerings to sanctify.”
He leaned forward, his eyes glinting in the lantern light. “Think of it, Arealius. It is the merchants who organize the artisans, the tradesmen, the metal workers, and yes, even the slavers. We take their goods and services, we measure them, we distribute them, and we ensure they reach both the high and the low. The merchant’s hand swept across the table as though laying out a ledger. “Control through rivalry and conquest? We, the merchants, know how to balance supply and demand, how to keep coin flowing even when plague strikes or caravans falter. Stability of caste hierarchy? It is merchants who reinforce it, for we know who can pay in silver and who must pay in grain. Agrarian sustainability? It is we who ensure the peasants’ harvest reaches the cities, who barter with Rencers for reeds and fish, who keep the agrarian base tied to the urban heart.”
His voice grew stronger, almost triumphant. “Merchant Laws are the true spine of Gor. Magistrates, often of our caste, balance profit with civic duty, keeping trade routes open, ensuring tariffs are fair, and preventing warriors from seizing all for themselves. Tribute and obedience? Tribute flows through our hands, for we are the ones who collect it, weigh it, and distribute it. It is the merchants who make survival possible.”
Arealius listened, his stylus hovering above the wax tablet, and for once he did not interrupt. The merchant’s laughter had given way to conviction, and his words rang with the truth of lived experience. It was the Merchant Caste that turned scarcity or abundance into order, barter into coin, and chaos into survival.
“You speak proudly of the Merchant Caste,” Arealius said, his voice steady, “and rightly so. Your laws are recognized in every city of Gor, from the quays of Port Kar to the towers of Ar. Yet tell me—why is it that these laws are always revisited annually in the shadow of the Sardar Mountains, at the merchant fairs? Why there, if not to pay homage to the Priest‑Kings? Surely it is no accident that the greatest gatherings of trade and law occur beneath their gaze.”
Varcus shifted, his expression caught between amusement and irritation, but Arealius pressed on, his words flowing like the river itself. “Consider the design of the Priest‑Kings. They restrict technology and resources, ensuring control through scarcity. This prevents runaway mechanization, keeping our society balanced, much as temple economies of old rationed grain to maintain dependence on priestly authority. They reinforce the stability of the caste hierarchy—merchants, peasants, scribes, warriors—each with a defined role, so that no class can easily overturn the order. They center our economy on agrarian sustainability, binding us to peasant labor and Rencer communities, guaranteeing a renewable food base. They permit merchant governance, but only within limits, ensuring trade routes remain open yet never allowing gold and silver to dominate military or political power. Tribute and obedience are woven into this design, for cities thrive only if they remain within the bounds of ‘allowed’ prosperity. And finally, they defend against Kurii infiltration, shaping the economy to be restrained and interdependent, so that things forbidden by the priests and promises of abundance from the Kur cannot easily destabilize our cities.”
Arealius’ eyes glinted in the lantern light. “So I ask again—why do the Merchant Caste return to the Sardar fairs, if not to acknowledge that their laws, their contracts, their coinage, all exist within the framework set by the Priest‑Kings? You may laugh at their influence, but every ledger, every tariff, every tribute is written in the shadow of their will. The fairs are not merely commerce—they are homage, whether spoken or silent.”
Varcus sat back, his laughter gone, his face thoughtful. The river outside murmured, carrying downstream the weight of Arealius’s challenge: that even the proud independence of the Merchant Caste was bound, in the end, to the unseen hand of the Priest‑Kings.
Editors Notes: (Scribed by CoPilot, my trustworthy assistant. The Characters and Plot are mine, copilot compiles historical models based on my prompts and then acts as my editor, my grammarian as I flesh out the stories.)
🏛️ Reasons for Priest‑King Economic Design
Control through scarcity
By restricting technology and resources, the Priest‑Kings prevent runaway industrialization. This keeps Gorean society balanced, much like how Mesopotamian temple economies rationed grain to maintain dependence on priestly authority.Stability of caste hierarchy
The economy reinforces the caste system—merchants, peasants, scribes, warriors—each with a defined role. This mirrors Rome’s reliance on patricians, plebeians, and slaves, ensuring no class can easily overturn the order.Agrarian sustainability
By centering Gor’s economy on peasant labor and Rencer communities, the Priest‑Kings guarantee a renewable food base. This echoes Athens’ dependence on grain imports and Rome’s latifundia, but with tighter oversight to prevent famine or collapse.Merchant governance
Merchant magistrates act as civic stewards, balancing profit with governance. This is akin to Greek agoranomoi or Roman aediles, ensuring trade routes remain open but never dominate military or political power.Tribute and obedience
Cities thrive only if they remain within the bounds of “allowed” prosperity. Tribute functions as both economic and political obedience, much like Rome’s provincial tax system or Mesopotamian temple offerings.Defense against Kurii infiltration
By shaping the economy to be restrained and interdependent, the Priest‑Kings make it harder for Kurii agents to destabilize cities with contraband or promises of abundance. The economic design itself is a bulwark against Kurii exploitation.
🌍 Why this matters
The Priest‑Kings didn’t just build an economy—they engineered a civilizational equilibrium. Every coin minted, every grain harvested, every tariff enforced is part of a larger design to keep Gor sustainable, obedient, and resistant to external corruption. In essence, Gor’s economy is a weaponized balance, as much a defense system as the Flame Death or the Sardar barriers.
The economic conflict between the Kurii and the Priest‑Kings is rooted in their struggle over resources, technology, and control of Gor. The Kurii seek to exploit and destabilize, while the Priest‑Kings restrict and regulate. Below are sources that describe their roles, motives, and the broader context of their war.
📚 Key Sources on the Priest‑Kings and Kurii
The Annals of Gor – Priest‑Kings overview: Explains how Priest‑Kings are revered as divine beings, controlling what Goreans may or may not develop technologically moonproductions.com.
Gor – Wikipedia entry: Provides background on the Gorean setting, including the philosophical and societal structures that frame the Priest‑Kings’ restrictions Wikipedia.
Kur of Gor (Book 28) – Google Books: Details the Kurii as a displaced species seeking new worlds to conquer, including Gor, after destroying their own planet Google Books.
Priest‑Kings – The Gorean Cave: A research resource compiling lore on the Priest‑Kings, their laws, and their control over Gorean society thegoreancave.com.
Kur of Gor – Full text PDF excerpt: Describes the Kurii’s nature, their planetary destruction, and their intent to dominate Gor and Earth rickbulow.com.
🔎 How these sources support the “economic war” premise
Priest‑Kings’ restrictions: They enforce technological limits, shaping Gorean economies by preventing industrialization moonproductions.com thegoreancave.com.
Kurii’s exploitation: Having destroyed their own planet, Kurii seek resources and dominance on Gor, often through infiltration and manipulation of trade Google Books rickbulow.com.
Conflict of systems: Priest‑Kings aim for sustainability and balance, while Kurii pursue extraction and destabilization—two opposing economic models moonproductions.com Google Books thegoreancave.com.
⚠️ Risks and trade‑offs
Lore vs. interpretation: The texts don’t explicitly call it an “economic war,” but the restrictions (Priest‑Kings) and exploitation (Kurii) clearly manifest as economic strategies.
Philosophical framing: Much of this is embedded in John Norman’s narrative style, so interpretations vary depending on whether one reads them as allegory or literal world‑building.
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