ɪᴠᴀʀʀ sᴄɪᴘɪᴏ ʙʟᴜᴇᴛᴏᴏᴛʜ

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✦ Para-Rper-BTB and Novella Typist
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✦ And on this barbaric world I have seen it in all its beauty and cruelty, in all its glory and sadness. I have learned that it is splendid and fearful and priceless. I have seen it in the vanished towers of Ko-ro-ba and in the flight of a tarn, in the movements of a beautiful woman, in the gleam of weaponry, in the sound of tarn drums and the crash of thunder over green fields. I have found it at the tables of sword companions and in the clash of the metals of war, in the touch of a girl's lips and hair, in the blood of a sleen, in the sands and chains of Tharna, in the scent of talenders and the hiss of the whip. I am grateful to the immortal elements which have so conspired that I might once be. I was Tarl Cabot, Warrior of Ko-ro-ba.
Outlaw of Gor Book 2 Page 253


✦Tarnsman Of Gor✦
Homo Hominis Lupus
(A man is a Wolf to another man)

ᴛɪᴍᴇᴢᴏɴᴇ: ᴇsᴛ +𝟹 sʟᴛ
ᴏɴʟɪɴᴇ sᴄʜᴇᴅᴜʟᴇ: Mon/Wed : ᴀfter 7am and before 10pm
Fri and Sat : ᴀnytime
Sun : ᴀnytime

Ivarr Bluetooth was born in Torvaldsland beneath a sky that never promised mercy. The sea winds carried salt and iron through the timber halls of his people, and from his earliest days he learned that a man was not shaped by comfort, but by what he endured. His name—Blátǫnn, “Blue-Tooth”—was not given as ornament. It was a name of lineage and omen, spoken with the expectation that he would either rise to it… or be crushed beneath it.

As a boy, he was quieter than the others. Where young warriors boasted, Ivarr watched. Where they rushed forward, he held back just long enough to understand. That patience became his edge. By the time he first took up steel in earnest, he did so without hesitation, without ceremony, and without regret. Blood did not thrill him—but neither did it trouble him. It was simply part of the world, like the sea and the storm.

When the Kurii Wars came to Ironhall, they came like a wound carved into the world. The stories told in southern cities never truly capture what it was to face the Kurii. They were not just enemies. They were wrongness made flesh—relentless, alien, and without fear. Men who had spent their lives raiding and killing found themselves hunted in turn.

It was there that Ivarr ceased to be merely a warrior of Torvaldsland and became something harder to define.

Battle after battle stripped away the simplicity of northern life. Strength alone was not enough. Rage failed. Pride failed. Only those who could think within chaos endured. Ivarr proved to be one of them. When lines broke, he held them. When leaders fell, he stepped forward—not out of ambition, but because someone had to. His decisions were not always clean. At Ironhall, nothing was. There are whispers still, among those who remember, that he made a choice in the final engagements—one that saved many lives at the cost of others who had trusted him.

Whether those whispers speak truth or not, Ivarr carried something away from that war that could not be set down.

When it ended, he did not return home.

There was no exile declared, no judgment spoken in the halls of Torvaldsland. He simply left. For a man of the north, that is often the only exile that matters.

The south was a different world—stone cities, layered laws, and men who wielded words as readily as weapons. At first, they saw him as little more than a northern brute, a curiosity to be tested or used. That illusion did not last long. Ivarr learned as he always had—by watching, by listening, and by acting only when it mattered.

He sold his blade, but never cheaply. He fought, but never blindly. Over time, men began to understand that he was not merely dangerous—he was deliberate.

That understanding followed him to Ar.

In that great city, where power is rarely worn openly, Ivarr moved with the same steady certainty that had carried him through Ironhall. He did not chase rank. He did not bend easily. And yet, in time, he became First Sword of Ar—not because he sought it, but because no one better could be found to stand in that place.

As First Sword, he was something both respected and unsettling. He did not play the games others played. He enforced order with a clarity that left little room for manipulation. He was not a man easily owned, and that alone made him dangerous within the walls of Ar. Yet for all the authority he held, there was always a sense that he stood slightly apart from it—as though the city was something he served, but would never truly belong to.

Eventually, even that role could not hold him.

He left Ar as he had left Torvaldsland—without spectacle, without explanation.

It was then that he took to the skies.

As a tarnsman, Ivarr found a different kind of clarity. From the back of a tarn, the world changed. Cities became small. Borders meaningless. The concerns of men seemed distant compared to the vastness of wind and sky. It suited him. There was no pretense there. A tarn obeyed strength, instinct, and will—nothing more.

He traveled across Gor in those years, his name spreading not through proclamations, but through stories carried by those who had seen him fight, or had survived standing against him. He worked as a mercenary, but not in the common sense. He chose his causes. Sometimes he fought for coin. Sometimes for balance. Sometimes for reasons known only to him.

Then came Holmesk.

How he came to rule there depends on who tells the story. Some claim he took the city through force, breaking its enemies and stepping into the vacuum that followed. Others insist he was raised to the position by warriors who saw in him something their own leaders lacked. However it happened, Ivarr Bluetooth became Ubar—a title that would have tempted many men into permanence.

It did not change him as others might expect.

He ruled with the same principles that had guided him since Ironhall: clarity, strength, and consequence. There was order under his rule, but little softness. Decisions were made cleanly, and the cost of defiance was never uncertain. Yet even as Ubar, there remained something in him that did not root itself to the throne.

Power, for Ivarr, was never the goal.

And so, as unexpectedly as he had taken it, he relinquished it.

No grand downfall marked the end of his rule. No betrayal drove him out. He simply walked away, leaving behind a city that would remember him long after his departure.

Now, Ivarr Bluetooth moves through Gor as a man shaped by every life he has lived and every role he has abandoned. The fire of youth has settled into something colder, more controlled. His strength remains, but it is no longer something he feels the need to prove. His voice is measured, his words chosen with care, and his presence alone often carries more weight than threats ever could.

He understands loyalty, but no longer gives it blindly. He understands power, but no longer seeks it. He understands war better than most—and for that reason, he does not rush toward it.

Men who meet him sometimes fail to see what stands before them. They see the scars, the bearing, the quiet demeanor, and mistake him for a warrior past his prime.

They are wrong.

Ivarr Bluetooth is not diminished. He is refined.

A man who has led, fought, ruled, and walked away from all of it is a rare thing on Gor. Rarer still is a man who has done so and carries no need to reclaim it.

He moves now not as a servant of any city, nor as a king without a throne, but as something far more dangerous—

A man who chooses his path… and answers to no one.



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⠄⡜⠸⢰⡐⠄⠄⠄⠄⠄⣇
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⠄⠏⣎⠟⣻⣿⢻⠃⢈⡝
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⠄⠄⠄⠄⠸⣿⣿⡏⣷⢹⣦
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