The Temple of Lore, Works of the Schola Options

[Black Hand]

This thread is for the stories of the members of Order of the Schola, for any questions you may have please click on the following link.

http://chorrol.com/forums/index.php?showtopic=3495

ANYTHING that is not a story or poem or whatever should be posted on the link that was just provided. Thank you, not trying to be mean, just trying to keep our sacred temple clean. Now then, an explanation.

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The Temple of Lore is a sacred sanctum of tomes, dreams, thoughts, abstracts, histories, stories, poems, and the written word.

It exists in the twilight, between reality and fantasy, it embraces all forms and images that attempt to define it. It is perception, and the perciever.

There exists an order of men, commonly known to the masses as the Writers Guild, more accurately called the Order of the Schola who have mastered this twilight abstract in the form of storytelling, they alone have the power to transcend to the Temple of Lore, and contibute and take from its threads of knowledge.

They exist amongst us as Journalists, Bards, Old Men sitting on a porch with a glass of lemonade recanting old experiences. If you ask nicely, and your lucky to find the chosen few, a Schola can breathe life into any illusion, any thought.

[canis216]

I'm resurrecting the old Temple of Lore, because I like the name, and because I think it somehow fits this character who I think I'll serialize but won't devote a formal fanfic to. So it's not exactly a one-shot story, is what I'm saying. But it sort of is. Plus, I've got some made-up Lore, so I've got that going for me. Anyway, on to this little scrap of writing...
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Arena Fighter

A booming, disembodied force echoed throughout the great bowl, “Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome to the Arena!”

The redguard mercenary ignored the rest of words. They were meaningless to him, just vapid grandiosity meant to whip the crowd into a unified, frothing call for blood. No, he was thinking about his shield, the wall of steel he needed to keep the archer across the way from penetrating the flimsy excuse for heavy armor he was being forced to wear. If Darnell had his druthers he would still be arrayed in his heavy steel plate.

Unfortunately, he needed the Arena’s money. He’d already depopulated his favorite stretch of Imperial City sewer and blown the proceeds on a warding charm for his sister back in Stros M’kai, for the holiday of Satakal-Don’t-Eat-Us.

The gates lifted, and both fighters sprinted a few steps out into the open, eager to put on a good show. The archer stopped and reached back to his quiver, Darnell’s cue to slow down and bring up his shield. The first shot penetrated the steel plate anyway but not all the way through; Darnell ran a few steps forward while the archer restrung his bow, then elevated the shield again.

The redguard grimaced; the second shot penetrated once more and caught his hand, holding the shield. But now he was upon the archer.

Darnell charged forward, knocking the bow away with his steel sword and then knocking down the archer with a backswipe across the chest. Blood flowed, and the crowd roared.

This post has been edited by canis216: Jan 13 2008, 10:36 AM