"Skill in bondage is still service, and service is the essence of Gor" by Arealius the Sailor
customs, and values may not align with modern societal standards or moral principles.
Gor is Copyrighted by John Norman
Skill in bondage is still service, and service is the essence of Gor
The tavern’s air was thick with the mingled scents of roasted bosk meat and spilled paga. The flicker of torches cast long shadows across the wooden beams, and the murmur of sailors, warriors, and scribes filled the hall like the low tide against a quay.
Arealius, The Sailor, leaned back with the ease of a man who had weathered storms both on the Thassa and in the courts of Merchant Law. His sul paga steamed faintly in its small clay bowl, a sharp contrast to the frothing ale beside it. He lifted the paga first, savoring the bite, then let the ale chase it down with a grin that spoke of survival and defiance.
The kajira’s smile lingered in his mind only long enough to remind him of the pleasures of endurance—of living long enough to be noticed as “old” in a world where few scribes survived the intrigues of cities and castes.
Turning to his companion, he spoke with that blend of challenge and inevitability:
"I have a challenge for you. The loser pays for our drinks. Agreed?"
The other scribe, younger and less scarred by the world’s hidden wars, shook his head quickly. He knew too well that Arealius would choose a contest of maps, laws, or the obscure tributaries of Gor’s rivers—topics where The Sailor’s mastery was unassailable.
Arealius chuckled, tapping the rim of his tankard. "Ah, wisdom indeed. To refuse a challenge is sometimes the greatest victory. But then, my friend, you will still pay for the drinks, for I have won by your refusal."
The tavern was alive with the hum of voices, the clatter of tankards, and the soft laughter of kajirae weaving through the crowd. Their movements were practiced—graceful as dancers, efficient as servants—bearing trays of ale and roasted bosk to the tables of warriors, merchants, and peasants alike. Smoke curled from the lamps, mingling with the scent of spiced paga.
At a corner table, Arealius sat with a tankard of ale, his eyes half on the room and half on the youth across from him. The younger scribe’s wax tablet lay untouched, his gaze distracted by the swirl of tavern life. Arealius, seasoned in both chronicles and kaissa, leaned back, watching the kajirae with the same quiet calculation he gave to the opening moves of a game.
“Do you see them?” he asked, nodding toward the collared girls as they bent to serve. “They are not merely decoration, nor indulgence. They are the muscle of Gor, the unseen gears of her economy.”
The boy blinked, surprised. “Muscle, Master? I thought the pillars were loftier things—slavery, caste, Priest-Kings.”
Arealius chuckled, swirling the ale in his tankard. “Lofty, yes, but never abstract. Gor is not driven by fire, nor by water, nor by air. It is driven by muscle. The kajira grinding grain, the peasant tilling soil, the oarsman pulling a galley—these are the engines of our world. Slavery harnesses that muscle, caste directs it, and the Priest-Kings forbid us from replacing it with forbidden machines. That is the triad, boy: the personal, the civic, and the divine, all bound by sinew.”
He leaned forward, his eyes sharp, like a kaissa master setting a decisive piece upon the board. “Think of it as a game. The kajirae are the pawns, moving steadily, tirelessly. The castes are the higher pieces, each with its own power and path. And the Priest-Kings? They are the unseen hand, the rules themselves, shaping the board upon which all play. Without muscle, the pawns do not move. Without caste, the pieces have no order. Without the Priest-Kings, the game collapses into chaos.”
The younger scribe lowered his eyes, humbled. The tavern noise seemed to fade as the lesson settled upon him. He had come seeking wisdom in scrolls and tablets, but here, amid the laughter of slaves and the clink of tankards, he found the living truth of Gor.
Arealius raised his ale in a quiet salute to the kajirae passing by. “Write this in your chronicles: Gor endures not by her elements, but by her muscles. Remember it, as you would remember the opening move of kaissa—for all games, whether of board or of life, begin with strength.”
Arealius, seasoned in both chronicles and kaissa, leaned back, watching the kajirae with the same quiet calculation he gave to the opening moves of a game. “Do you see them?” he asked, nodding toward the collared girls as they bent to serve. “They are not merely decoration, nor indulgence. They are the pulse of Gor. The collared girl grinding grain, the chained oarsman pulling a galley, the tavern slave bearing trays—these are the muscle that drives our economy. Fire warms us, water carries us, air refreshes us—but muscle moves us. Slavery is the harnessing of that muscle, the first pillar upon which all else rests.”
The boy frowned, uncertain. “Muscle, Master? I thought the pillars were loftier things—slavery, caste, Priest-Kings.”
Arealius smiled faintly, swirling the ale in his tankard. “Lofty, yes, but never abstract. Look around you. Warriors at that table, their scarlet cloaks marking them. Merchants haggling in the corner, peasants with rough hands drinking their fill, scribes scratching notes even here in the tavern. Each caste has its place, its duty, its color. The second pillar is this order, this structure. Without caste, muscle is wasted. With caste, it is directed—like kaissa pieces, each with its path and power. And remember this: every caste, high or low, is tied to the Priest-Kings. The Builders rely on their knowledge of materials, the Physicians on their secret formulas, the Scribes on the very alphabets and histories permitted to endure. None of these knowledges are wholly their own. They are gifts, or restrictions, from the Sardar. Gor’s technology is bound by muscle, and the castes depend upon the Priest-Kings to provide the tools they cannot fashion themselves.”
His voice lowered, and the tavern seemed to hush with it. “And above all, the Priest-Kings. You will not see them here, nor in any market. There are no traders in their goods, no stalls selling their secrets. Their hand is upon every cup, every coin, every collar, yet unseen. They forbid the machines that would replace muscle, they restrain the ambitions of men, they shape the very rules of our existence. They are the unseen hand of kaissa, the laws that bind the board. Without them, Gor would collapse into chaos—or worse, into a world of forbidden fire.”
The boy’s eyes widened as the lesson settled upon him. He had thought of pillars as abstractions, lofty ideals. Now he saw them as living forces, shaping every coin exchanged, every harvest gathered, every city defended.
Arealius leaned forward, his eyes sharp, like a kaissa master setting a decisive piece upon the board. “Think of it as a game. The kajirae are the pawns, moving steadily, tirelessly. The castes are the higher pieces, each with its own power and path. And the Priest-Kings? They are the unseen hand, the rules themselves, shaping the board upon which all play. Without muscle, the pawns do not move. Without caste, the pieces have no order. Without the Priest-Kings, the game collapses into chaos.”
He raised his ale in a quiet salute to the kajirae passing by. “Write this in your chronicles: Gor endures not by her elements, but by her muscles. Slavery harnesses them, caste directs them, Priest-Kings restrain them. And remember—there are no merchants of the Sardar, no trade in their gifts. The castes live by what is permitted, and Gor survives by strength. As in kaissa, all games, whether of board or of life, begin with muscle.”
The boy bowed his head, the tavern noise returning like the rush of a tide. He had come seeking wisdom in scrolls, but here, amid the laughter of slaves and the clink of tankards, he had found the living truth of Gor. The tavern’s noise swelled and ebbed like the tide, the laughter of warriors and the soft voices of kajirae weaving through the smoke. Arealius sat steady, his tankard half-raised, when the younger scribe, emboldened by the ale and the lesson, leaned forward with a spark of defiance in his eyes.
“Master,” the boy began, his voice low but firm, “you place too much emphasis on the role of slaves. They are muscle, yes, but surely not the first pillar of our civilization. The low castes and the collared only support the physical needs of the high castes. They provide food, materials, and pleasure. They are easily replaced, for they breed like urts, with no concern for pedigree or training. Education is withheld from them, and rightly so—for what scribe would waste his time teaching higher skills to those who could never master them? The true pillars must be the high castes, for they hold knowledge, law, and governance. Slaves and peasants are but the fodder that sustains them.”
Arealius listened, his expression unreadable, as though considering a move upon the kaissa board. He set his tankard down with deliberate care, the sound of wood against wood sharp amid the tavern din. His eyes, seasoned by years of chronicles and debates, fixed upon the youth.
“You speak boldly,” he said at last, “but you mistake the pawn for a piece of no consequence. In kaissa, the pawn is small, easily replaced, yet without pawns the game cannot begin. So it is with slaves and the low castes. They are the sinew, the pulse, the foundation. The high castes may hold knowledge, but knowledge without muscle is parchment without ink, a plan without execution. What use is the Physician’s formula without the peasant’s bosk to supply the flesh? What use is the Builder’s design without the laborer’s hands to raise the stone? What use is the Scribe’s record without the kajira’s toil to grind the grain that feeds him?”
He leaned closer, his voice sharpening. “You say they breed like urts, easily replaced. That is precisely why they are the first pillar. Their abundance ensures endurance. Their collars ensure obedience. Their muscle ensures movement. The high castes may direct, but they cannot conjure strength from air. And remember—every caste, even the highest, is bound to the Priest-Kings. The Builders’ tools, the Physicians’ medicines, the Scribes’ alphabets—all are gifts or restrictions from the Sardar. There are no merchants of the Priest-Kings, no trade in their goods. The high castes depend upon what is permitted, and the low castes and slaves provide the muscle to make those permissions real.”
The boy faltered, his argument crumbling beneath the weight of Arealius’s words. The elder scribe’s tone softened, though his eyes remained keen. “Do not despise the pawns, boy. They are the first to move, the first to fall, and yet they shape the game. Gor endures not by her elements, nor by her lofty castes alone, but by her muscles. Slavery harnesses them, caste directs them, Priest-Kings restrain them. That is the triad. That is the truth.”
The tavern noise returned, the kajirae passing with trays, the warriors laughing over paga. The boy lowered his gaze to his tablet, his stylus trembling as he scratched the words, knowing now that the lesson was not merely about pillars, but about the unseen strength that sustained them all.
The tavern’s lamps flickered, casting long shadows across the tables where warriors laughed and merchants haggled. Kajirae continued to move silently among them, their collars gleaming as they bent to serve. Arealius sat steady, his tankard of ale untouched for the moment, his gaze fixed upon the younger scribe who had dared to challenge him.
“You speak of the high castes as if they stand above the pillars,” Arealius said, his tone measured, deliberate, like a kaissa master setting a piece upon the board. “But hear me well—the high castes are restrained too. The physician’s alchemy allows only the potions and tools permitted by the Priest-Kings. There is no innovation in their mixtures, no refinements in their techniques to heal the sick or repair the body of a warrior fallen in battle. The Physician may stitch wounds and mix draughts, but he does so within boundaries set by powers greater than himself.”
He gestured toward the rafters, as if the unseen hand of the Sardar hovered there. “Yes, there are innovations in the designs and styles of our buildings, but not in the materials or the tools used to raise them. The Builder may shape arches and towers, but his stone is still stone, his tools still bound to muscle. And the Warriors—though their styles may change, their banners shift, their tactics evolve—steel remains steel, and arrows are powered only by the arms that draw the bow. The noble high castes of Gor fear the Blue Flame or the Dar‑Kosis, the same way the slave fears the whip. One is the punishment of the body, the other the annihilation of the mind and the work of generations.”
The boy’s stylus trembled above his tablet, his earlier defiance waning. Arealius leaned closer, his voice lowering, steady as the tide. “Do you see now? The pillars bind all. Slavery harnesses muscle, caste directs it, Priest-Kings restrain it. Even the loftiest Physician, Builder, or Warrior is no freer than the kajira who serves him. Both live within the limits decreed by the Sardar. There are no merchants of the Priest-Kings, no trade in their goods. Their gifts are not bought or sold, only endured. Thus Gor endures, not by fire, nor water, nor air, but by muscle—and by obedience to the unseen hand.”
The tavern noise swelled again, laughter and clinking tankards filling the air. Arealius raised his ale at last, drinking deeply, while the boy bent to his tablet, scratching the words with newfound gravity. In the smoke and din of the tavern, amid slaves and warriors alike, the truth of Gor’s pillars had been laid bare.
The tavern’s din carried on—tankards clinking, warriors laughing, merchants haggling—but Arealius’s eyes shifted toward the counter. There, among the bustle, a kajira bent over a wax tablet, stylus in hand. She was counting bottles, marking the tally with quick strokes, her lips moving silently as she added and subtracted. Her collar gleamed in the lamplight, yet her hand moved with the precision of a scribe.
Arealius gestured subtly, drawing the younger scribe’s gaze. “Look there, boy. Do you see her? A slave, yes, but one who counts, who writes, who reads. She tallies bottles for the tavern’s stock as any merchant’s clerk might. Tell me—do you call that a waste of a pawn, or the best use of one to achieve a goal?”
The boy’s eyes widened, his earlier certainty faltering. “But Master… she is a kajira. Education is withheld from them. They breed like urts, with no concern for pedigree or training. Surely it is folly to teach them higher skills.”
Arealius’s smile was thin, his tone sharp as a kaissa master placing a decisive piece. “And yet, there she stands, stylus in hand, serving the tavern with skill. You see, pawns are not wasted when they are placed with purpose. A kajira who can count is more valuable than one who can only pour paga. A kajira who can write is more useful than one who can only dance. The collar does not forbid knowledge; it forbids freedom. Knowledge in bondage is still service, and service is the essence of Gor.”
He leaned closer, his voice low, deliberate. “Do not mistake the pawn’s simplicity for uselessness. In kaissa, pawns may seem expendable, yet they shape the game. So it is with slaves. Their muscle moves the world, and when guided, their minds may serve as well. The high castes may direct, but they cannot scorn the tools that make their direction real. Even the Priest-Kings, in their wisdom, permit such uses, for they know that Gor endures by muscle and obedience, not by wasted potential.”
The boy lowered his gaze, humbled, watching the kajira’s hand scratch numbers onto the tablet. The tavern noise swelled around them, but in that moment, the lesson was clear: pawns are not wasted when placed with purpose—they are the foundation upon which the game is played.
Arealius leaned back in his chair, the lamplight catching the lines of his face, and for a moment his gaze drifted beyond the tavern walls, back into memory. “You know,” he began, his voice carrying the weight of years, “my first training as a scribe was in Port Kar, during the era of Captain Darkstar. Strange days, when the Scribe Caste held great prestige even in that city of thieves and pirates. We were respected, for even pirates must keep their ledgers, and even captains must count their coin.”
He paused, sipping his ale, before continuing. “There was a captain then, one whose insignia was the head of a bosk. Rumor said he was no merchant sailor, but a warrior who had taken to the sea. That is a debate for another day—whether Gorean sailors are a subcaste of the Warriors or of the Merchants. What matters is this: he had a slave, a girl named Moon, or Luna, or something of that nature. She had a mind that understood numbers the way you and I understand spoken language. She became legendary for the way she managed his wealth. So skilled was she that he freed her, made her a freewoman. And yet, in time, he recollared her, returning her to bondage. Still, she managed his wealth, and the captain prospered. Such is the paradox of Gor: a pawn, collared, yet indispensable.”
Arealius gestured toward the younger scribe’s tablet. “Do you see the lesson? A kajira may be muscle, but when guided, her mind may serve as well. Pawns are not wasted when placed with purpose.”
His gaze shifted again, this time toward the Imperial city of Ar, as if he could see its towers rising in his mind’s eye. “And in Ar, the great slave houses are managed in part by high slaves—experienced women who have earned the use of the rejuvenation serum, who have accumulated years of skill in training and management. Within the walls of those houses, they are permitted luxuries akin to freewomen. They oversee scribes and physicians, ensuring the health and support of the stock. Some call it decadence, that Merchants of Ar would grant such authority to kajirae. Yet others call it wisdom, for it produces the finest trained slaves in all of Gor. Is that waste, boy, or is it the best use of expertise to achieve a goal?”
The younger scribe hesitated, his stylus hovering above the wax. The tavern noise pressed in around them—the laughter of warriors, the clink of tankards, the soft voices of kajirae—but in that moment, the lesson was clear. Slaves were not merely muscle, nor merely pleasure. They were pawns, yes, but pawns that, when advanced wisely, could shape the game itself.
Arealius leaned forward, his eyes gleaming with the satisfaction of a kaissa master who has placed his pieces well. “Remember this: Gor endures not by wasting its pawns, but by using them with purpose. Whether in Port Kar or Ar, whether in the counting of coin or the training of kennels, the collar does not forbid skill. It forbids freedom. And skill in bondage is still service, and service is the essence of Gor.”
Editor's Note:
In the Gorean Saga, society is often described as resting upon three great pillars—fundamental structures that uphold the order and philosophy of life on Gor. These are not merely institutions but deeply ingrained cultural forces that shape every caste, city, and individual. Let’s break them down:
⚔️ Pillar One: Slavery
- Slavery is the most visible and controversial pillar of Gorean life.
- It is not seen as aberration but as a natural order, reflecting Gorean belief in hierarchy, strength, and the mastery of the strong over the weak.
- Both men and women may be enslaved, though female slavery is far more common and culturally emphasized.
- Slavery is woven into economics, law, and even aesthetics—collars, brands, and rituals mark the institution as central to Gorean identity.
- Philosophically, it embodies the Gorean conviction that freedom is rare, and most beings are destined to serve.
🏛️ Pillar Two: Caste System
- The caste structure is the backbone of Gorean civic life.
- Castes are hereditary, though individuals may change caste through training or circumstance.
- High Castes (Scribes, Physicians, Builders, Warriors, and Initiates) hold authority and governance, while Low Castes (Merchants, Peasants, Artisans, etc.) sustain the daily life of the cities.
- Each caste has its own colors, codes, and duties, creating a mosaic of specialized roles.
- The caste system ensures stability, identity, and continuity—every Gorean knows their place and obligations.
🔱 Pillar Three: The Priest-Kings
- The Priest-Kings are mysterious, godlike beings who dwell in the hidden city of the Sardar.
- They are the ultimate authority on Gor, enforcing laws that maintain balance and prevent technological advancement beyond certain limits.
- Their decrees—such as the prohibition of firearms—shape the very trajectory of Gorean civilization.
- Though rarely seen, their presence is felt everywhere: through agents, rituals, and the awe they inspire.
- Philosophically, they represent the unseen hand of order, a reminder that Gor is not ruled solely by men but by higher powers.
🌀 Interplay of the Three Pillars
- Slavery defines personal relationships and economics.
- Castes define civic structure and social identity.
- Priest-Kings define the overarching laws and metaphysical order.
Together, they form a triad: the personal, the civic, and the divine. Without one, Gorean society would collapse into chaos or drift into alien paths forbidden by the Priest-Kings.
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