"Forbidden Knowledge". by Arealius the Sailor
This Gorean Fan Fiction and Images were generated using
Gor is Copyrighted by John Norman
Forbidden Knowledge
Scribe of Port Olni
Is there knowledge beyond the Second Knowledge?
I write these words with a trembling hand, deep beneath the Central Cylinder of Ar, where the lamps burn low and the dust lies thick upon the scrolls of Selius the Scribe. I had thought myself prepared for whatever truths the founder of our Caste had hidden here, but I was wrong. No man is prepared for the moment when the world he knows begins to slip from beneath his feet. I came seeking knowledge; I have found dread.
For days I have read, cross‑referenced, and compared the scrolls of Selius with the forbidden records sealed in the catacombs. At first the fragments seemed unrelated — a mention of the sea of worlds here, a cryptic reference to “the first battles” there, a half‑burned interrogation transcript of a captured Kur. But slowly, horribly, the pieces began to fit together, and I felt as though I were watching the shadow of a great beast take shape upon the wall of a cave.
The war between the Priest‑Kings and the Kurii did not begin in our time, nor in the time of our fathers, nor even in the age of the first cities. It began before Gor was shaped, before the rivers carved their beds, before the first man raised a hut of reeds upon the banks of the Vosk. The Sea of Worlds was already aflame with their conflict when the Priest‑Kings first reached down to Earth and took their earliest biological samples — long before Earth’s tribes forged iron, long before their machines, long before their own rise toward ruin.
I had always believed the Priest‑Kings eternal, unchanging, inviolate. But the scrolls speak of the Nest War — a catastrophe so great that it nearly extinguished them. They are not gods. They are a wounded, dwindling people, clinging to survival in the ashes of their ancient glory. Their vigilance has waned. Their numbers have thinned. Their power, though still terrible, is no longer absolute. And in this weakness, the Kurii have found opportunity.
It is here, in these dim archives, that I first allowed myself to consider a thought so blasphemous I scarcely dare write it: the dreaded Dar‑Kosis may not be the punishment of the Priest‑Kings at all, but a Kurii weapon. The scrolls of Selius never attribute the disease to the Priest‑Kings directly. The Initiates claim it, of course — they claim all that is terrible, for terror is their coin. But the symptoms, the spread, the strange resistance to Priest‑King intervention… These align far more closely with the biological horrors described in the interrogations of captured Kurii.
If this is true, then the yellow robes of the Dar‑Kosis victims are not symbols of divine judgment, but the shrouds of a people struck down in a war they do not even know they are part of.
And what of the agents? The scrolls speak of chosen humans who act on behalf of the Priest‑Kings — men who walk among us, unnoticed, yet bearing the weight of a dying race upon their shoulders. They are few, secretive, and burdened with tasks no mortal should be asked to perform. But the Kurii, too, have their agents — criminals, mercenaries, ambitious men who would sell their own cities for a taste of power in the world the Kurii intend to shape. Some even crew the ships of acquisition, raiding Earth’s cities for resources and slaves. These humans are not victims. They are collaborators. And then there are the Assassins. For whom do they truly work?
I once believed the Assassins of Gor served only coin, bound by their dark codes and the neutrality of their caste. But now, after reading these scrolls, I am no longer certain. Too many killings align with the interests of the Priest‑Kings. Too many silences fall where Kurii plots once stirred. Too many deaths are too convenient, too precise, too timely. Are the Assassins merely tools, unknowingly guided by the invisible hand of the Sardar? Or have some among them been chosen — or corrupted — by the Kurii?
I do not know. And the not‑knowing gnaws at me. The more I read, the more I feel as though I stand upon the edge of a vast abyss, staring down into a darkness older than Gor itself. The sea of worlds is not empty. It is a graveyard of forgotten battles, drifting fortresses, and dying peoples. Gor is not merely a world. It is a fortress. Earth is not merely a distant land. It is contested. And we — men, women, cities, castes — are pieces in a game whose players are nearly spent, yet still deadly.
I fear what I have learned. I fear what I have yet to learn. And most of all, I fear that the scrolls of Selius are not a warning, but a record — a record of a war that has never ended, and into which we are all, knowingly or not, already conscripted.
I have returned to the archives night after night though every instinct in my body urged me to stay away. The lamps guttered as I continually descended the long stairs, as though even the flame feared what lay below. I told myself I would read only a little more, that I would seek only to confirm a few minor details in the scrolls of Selius. But I knew, even as I crossed the threshold, that I was lying to myself. A man does not return to the mouth of a cave unless he knows the beast within has not yet finished speaking.
The scroll I opened first was brittle with age, its edges flaking like old skin. It contained the interrogation of a Kurii operative captured near the northern ice. I had read parts of it before, but tonight I forced myself to read every line, every scratch of the scribe’s stylus. And as I read, a coldness crept into my bones.
The Kurii spoke of their homeworld — not with sorrow, but with a kind of savage pride. They described a world once rich, then ruined by their own hands. They spoke of seas turned black, skies choked with smoke, forests burned for fuel, cities devouring themselves in endless war. They spoke of machines that grew more complex even as the minds that built them grew more desperate. They spoke of a world that died not in a single cataclysm, but in a long, grinding collapse.
And as I read, I realized with a sickening certainty that I had heard this story before. Not from Kurii. From barbarians. From men and women from the land of Earth.
The parallels were too precise to ignore. The same poisoned seas. The same darkened skies. The same wars of resource and ambition. The same machines multiplying faster than wisdom. The same slow death of a world that once teemed with life. I felt my breath catch as the truth settled upon me like a shroud.
Earth is not merely similar to the Kurii homeworld. Earth is becoming the Kurii homeworld.
And if Earth is following that path, then the implications for Gor are dire beyond imagining. What happens when a world collapses under Kurii influence? What happens when a world becomes ripe for conquest? What happens when the predators no longer need to hide?
I pushed the scroll away, but the words clung to me like burrs. I tried to steady myself by turning to the writings of Selius, hoping his calm logic would anchor me. Instead, I found something worse.
In one of his earliest scrolls — a document so old the ink has faded to the color of dried blood — Selius writes of “the first battles in the sea of worlds, fought before the shaping of the rivers.” He speaks of the Priest‑Kings as “already diminished” when they came to Gor, as “survivors of a greater war.” He hints that the Nest War, terrible as it was, may not have been the first great blow the Priest‑Kings suffered.
If this is true, then the Priest‑Kings were already in decline when they shaped Gor. Already weakened. Already desperate. And now, after ages of attrition, they are a dying race clinging to a fortress they can no longer fully defend. I felt a tremor in my hands as I wrote that. I do not want it to be true. But the scrolls do not lie.
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And then — as if the night had not already given me enough to fear — I found a sealed packet of notes from a lesser scribe of Ar, long dead. His handwriting was frantic, uneven. He wrote of “humans taken from Earth to serve aboard Kurii ships,” of “men who raid their own world for the beasts,” of “crews who believe they will rule when the Kurii ascend.” These humans are not victims. They are collaborators. They are the hands and eyes of the Kurii on Earth.
And what of Gor? The Priest‑Kings, too, use humans. Agents. Intermediaries. Chosen ones. Men who act where the Priest‑Kings cannot. Men who kill, who spy, who silence. Men who walk among us unnoticed, yet carry the weight of a dying species upon their shoulders.
And suddenly I understood something that chilled me more than any scroll. The Assassins of Gor — for whom do they truly work? Their neutrality is a myth. Their loyalty to coins is a mask. Too many killings align with the interests of the Priest‑Kings. Too many silences fall where Kurii plots once stirred. Too many deaths are too precise, too timely, too convenient. Some Assassins serve the Priest‑Kings. Some serve the Kurii. Some serve themselves, which may be worse.
And we — the Scribes, the Warriors, the Builders, the Merchants — we walk among them blind. I closed the scrolls then. I could read no more. The lamps flickered as though the air itself recoiled from the truths I had uncovered. I felt as though the walls of the archive were leaning inward, listening. I do not know what I will do with this knowledge. I do not know if I should speak it, or bury it, or flee from it.
But I know this:
The war in the sea of worlds has never ended. Earth is falling into the Kurii pattern. Gor is defended by a dying race. And we — all of us — are already pieces in a game whose players are nearly spent, yet still deadly.
I fear the next scroll I open. I fear the next truth I uncover. And yet, gods help me, I know I will return tomorrow night. I do not know why I returned tonight. I told myself it was my duty, that a Scribe must follow truth wherever it leads, even into shadow. But as I descended the long stair into the lower archives, I felt the weight of the stone above me like the closing jaws of some ancient beast. The lamps flickered as I passed, though there was no draft. I should have turned back. I did not.
The scrolls lay where I had left them, scattered like the bones of a great bird picked clean. I sat again at the low table, the wood worn smooth by centuries of hands, and unrolled the interrogation transcript of the Kurii operative. I meant only to confirm a detail, a single line I had not fully understood the night before. But as I read, I felt the hairs rise on the back of my neck.
The Kur had spoken of Earth again during his interrogation in the bowels of this imperial city — of its poisoned seas, its choking skies, its endless wars. The scribe who recorded the interrogation had noted, almost casually, that the Kurii seemed amused by Earth’s decline, as though watching a familiar play performed by new actors. And then, in a line I had somehow overlooked, the Kurii said, “Your other world dies as ours did. It is nearly ready.”
“Nearly ready?” I whispered to myself. I felt my breath catch. Ready for what? Conquest? Consumption? Replacement? The scroll did not say. The Kurii had died before they could finish the sentence. Or perhaps they had been silenced. I leaned back, rubbing my eyes, trying to steady myself. And that is when I felt it.
Not a sound. Not a movement. A presence — as though the air behind me had thickened, as though the shadows had weight. I froze, my hand still on the scroll. The lamps flickered again, though there was no wind. I told myself it was imagination, the product of too many nights alone with forbidden knowledge.
But then I heard it. A soft scrape. Leather on stone. A footstep, slow and deliberate. I did not turn. I could not. My heart hammered against my ribs like a prisoner begging release. I felt the presence draw closer, felt the air shift as though something tall and silent stood just behind my chair. I forced myself to breathe. I forced myself to speak.
“Who is there?”
No answer. Only the faintest exhalation, like the breath of a creature that does not need to breathe but mimics the act to unsettle those who do. I turned then — slowly, painfully — and saw nothing. Only the long rows of shelves, the scrolls stacked like sleeping serpents, the darkness pooling between the pillars. But the presence remained. Watching. Waiting.
I rose, my legs unsteady, and gathered the scrolls with shaking hands. I told myself I would leave, that I would return in daylight, that no truth was worth this dread. But as I turned toward the stair, I saw something that froze me in place. A single scroll had been placed on the table behind me.
I had not placed it there. I had not touched that shelf. I had not even known such a scroll existed. Its seal was unbroken. Its ribbon was black. I approached it as one approaches a sleeping sleen. My fingers trembled as I lifted it. The seal bore no mark of the Scribe Caste, nor of the High Council, nor of any city I knew. It bore instead a symbol I had seen only once before — in the deepest vaults of the archives, on a fragment of metal said to have fallen from the sky.
A circle. Within it, three lines. The mark of the Priest‑Kings. My mouth went dry. I looked around again, but the presence was gone. The air was still. The lamps burned steadily. Only the scroll remained, heavy in my hands. I do not know who placed it there. I do not know how long they watched me. I do not know whether they were Priest‑King or Kur, or something worse — a human agent of either, or both.
But I know this, I am no longer alone in my search. And whatever watches me does not intend for me to stop. I fear the next scroll. I fear that the truth I seek is now seeking me. Will I see tomorrow’s sunrise…or was this morning my last?
Set down in the Lower Archives of Ar, beneath the Lamps of Quiet Study
I write these notes for myself alone, as I sift through the countless scrolls of Selius of Ar, founder of our Caste and first among those who dared to question the hidden powers that shape our world. His scrolls are many, and their ink is faded, but the truths they hint at are sharper than any assassin’s blade.
What follows is not a treatise, nor a scroll for public reading. It is the record of my own dawning understanding — a slow and troubling illumination — as I piece together fragments scattered across the archives of Ar, the testimonies of barbarians, and the whispered confessions of dying beasts.
I. On the Age of the War
The first revelation is the most staggering: the war between the Priest‑Kings and the Kurii predates not only Ar, but civilization on Gor itself.
Selius hints at this in his earliest scrolls, where he writes of “conflicts in the Sea of Worlds before the shaping of the rivers.” At first I took this as metaphor. Now I see it as literal.
The Sea of Worlds — that vast darkness above the sky, whose true nature we do not know — was once a battlefield. The earliest battles for dominance were fought before the first Gorean city was raised, before the first caste was named, perhaps even before the Priest‑Kings completed their shaping of Gor.
This ancient war is the foundation upon which all our history rests.
II. On the Earliest Extractions from Earth
Selius records that the Priest‑Kings began taking biological samples from Earth long before Earth’s tribes forged iron, long before their machines, long before their cities.
This suggests:
the Priest‑Kings were already engaged in a war of attrition,
they required biological diversity for reasons unstated,
and Earth was already within their sphere of concern.
The Kurii, too, must have known of Earth in this era. Predators always know the grazing fields of their rivals.
III. On the Nest War and the Decline of the Priest‑Kings
The scrolls speak in veiled terms of a catastrophe — the Nest War — so devastating that the Priest‑Kings were nearly eradicated. This war occurred in the distant past, long before the founding of Ar, perhaps even before the stabilization of Gor’s orbit.
From the fragments I have pieced together:
the Priest‑Kings suffered immense losses,
their reproduction slowed to a crawl,
their vigilance waned,
and their influence diminished.
They are not gods. They are a dying race, clinging to survival.
This truth is hidden even from most Initiates.
IV. On the Kurii and Their Fallen Worlds
The interrogations of captured Kurii and their human operatives — sealed in the catacombs beneath the Central Cylinder — describe a homeworld ruined by:
unrestrained industry,
poisoned seas,
darkened skies,
endless war.
Earth now walks the same path.
This is not coincidence. It is pattern.
The Kurii do not terraform as the Priest‑Kings do. They reshape worlds through predation, exploitation, and entropy.
Earth is becoming Kurii‑shaped because Kurii walk upon it.
V. On the Sea of Worlds
We Goreans do not understand the void above the sky. We call it the Sea of Worlds, for it behaves in our imagination like a vast Thassa, dotted with distant shores.
In truth, it is the arena of the ancient war — a war fought:
upon drifting fortresses,
between wandering spheres of metal,
and across the dark between worlds.
Gor is not merely a world. It is a fortress, shaped and positioned by the Priest‑Kings to resist Kurii incursions.
Earth is not merely a distant sphere. It is a contested territory, influenced by Kurii agents and neglected by Priest‑Kings whose strength is fading.
VI. On the Use of Humans in the War
Both sides — Priest‑Kings and Kurii — now rely on humans to supplement their dwindling ranks.
On Gor
The Priest‑Kings employ:
agents,
informants,
assassins,
and chosen intermediaries.
These humans act where the Priest‑Kings cannot, or dare not, intervene directly.
On Earth
The Kurii employ:
criminals,
mercenaries,
political opportunists,
and entire networks of human operatives.
Some humans even crew the ships of acquisition, raiding Earth’s cities for resources, slaves, or information. These humans serve the Kurii willingly, for promises of power, wealth, or dominion in the world the Kurii intend to shape.
Thus the war is no longer fought solely by alien hands. It is fought by men, on both worlds.
VII. On the Present Age of Shadows
We live in an age shaped not by Ubars or councils, but by the echoes of ancient battles.
The Assassins of Gor walk a world where:
Kurii infiltrate cities and courts,
Priest‑Kings watch from dwindling strength,
and the balance of the Sea of Worlds trembles.
The Agents of the Priest‑Kings move through this same world, seeking to preserve a stability their masters can no longer enforce alone.
Between them lies the fate of Gor. And perhaps the fate of Earth.
VIII. On the Earliest Extractions from Earth
The Scrolls of Ar record that the Priest‑Kings began their biological extractions from Earth long before the rise of Earth’s machines, long before the steam engine, the musket, or the loom of iron gears. Some fragments suggest they took samples even in the age when Earth’s tribes hunted with stone and bone.
These early extractions imply:
the Priest‑Kings were already at war,
they needed biological diversity for reasons unstated,
and Earth was already within their sphere of concern.
It is reasonable to conclude that the Kurii, too, were aware of Earth in this era — for predators always know the grazing fields of their rivals.
IX. On the Influence of the Kurii Upon Earth
The Scribe Caste possesses limited but telling records of Earth, gathered from:
interrogations of barbarians brought to Gor,
confessions of Kurii agents captured by Imperial Ar,
and the scattered testimonies of men who have traveled between worlds.
These records reveal a disturbing pattern.
Earth’s history mirrors, in miniature, the collapse of the Kurii homeworld:
unchecked industry,
poisoned seas,
darkened skies,
wars of resource and ambition,
the rise of machines beyond the wisdom of their makers.
This is not coincidence. It is familiarity.
The Kurii do not terraform as the Priest‑Kings do. They corrupt, accelerate, and consume.
Earth is becoming Kurii‑shaped because Kurii walk upon it.
X. On the Decline of the Priest‑Kings
The Priest‑Kings are not eternal. They are not gods. They are a dying race.
The Scrolls of Ar, in their most secret volumes, speak of the Nest War — a conflict so devastating that the Priest‑Kings were nearly eradicated. This war occurred:
before the founding of Ar,
before the rise of the river cities,
before the stabilization of Gor’s orbit,
perhaps even before the Priest‑Kings completed their shaping of the world.
The Nest War left them:
few in number,
slow to reproduce,
cautious to the point of paralysis,
and forced to rely on human agents.
Their vigilance has waned. Their reach has shrunk. Their power, though still terrible, is no longer absolute.
This is the truth no Initiate will speak.
XI. On the First Battles for the Solar System
The initial struggle between Priest‑Kings and Kurii was not fought on Gor. It was fought:
in the void between worlds,
upon drifting stations now lost,
and perhaps even upon Earth itself,
in an age before men kept records.
Gor was moved — not as an act of creation, but as an act of defense.
The Priest‑Kings reshaped the world to create a stable, controllable environment from which to resist Kurii incursions. Gor is not merely a world. It is a fortress.
And like all fortresses, it has endured siege.
XII. On the Parallels Between Earth and the Kurii Homeworld
The archives of Ar contain interrogations of Kurii and their human operatives. These documents, sealed in the catacombs beneath the Central Cylinder, describe the Kurii homeworld as:
industrially glutted,
ecologically ruined,
divided by endless war,
and ultimately abandoned.
Earth now walks the same path.
This is not prophecy. It is pattern recognition.
The Kurii do not need to conquer Earth. Earth is conquering itself — in the Kurii manner.
XIII. On the Stage Upon Which Assassins and Agents Walk
Thus we arrive at the present age — an age shaped not by Ubars or councils, but by the shadows of ancient powers.
The Assassins of Gor operate in a world where:
the Kurii infiltrate cities and courts,
the Priest‑Kings watch from dwindling strength,
and the balance of the solar system trembles.
The Agents of the Priest‑Kings — few, secretive, and burdened — move through this same world, seeking to preserve a stability their masters can no longer enforce alone.
Between them lies the fate of Gor. And perhaps the fate of Earth.
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