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.

[Black Hand]

This is not Sethyas Velas. That being said it's a short work I'm doing to get back into the zone of FanFic. Sorry for my constant delays

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An Assassin’s Letter to Vehk

Truly, who can begin to fathom the mind that has fathomed the Aurbis? I say with no ego that I cannot. Murder as moaning, indeed. God's holy rape-erasure of wet death. The sermon numbered at twenty two, so often read by the priests and the teachers. To place a holiness to an action that is so shunned by creatures of the west.

Often I wondered at my own nature, pouring over old tomes that had been scribed by your scribes, read aloud in the temples, and felt as a three-fold ecstasy in my younger days, before reason clouded my vision, and the laws of the ehlnofey, the earth-bones, became my only absolute.

Then, I came upon them, commoner and noble alike, the one vast moving event of thrusting-kill-laughter as described in my favorite Sermon. The hidden hands of Mephala, darkness within the light, and woven by the threads of your anticipation. Less your words, and more mine.

My First Experience filled me with no lust, unlike my first experience. Rather, it filled me with the tenuous hesitation that precedes the action that will lead to regret, as was present in my first, along with the regret that ensues with the act, that was not present after my first experience. (First Kill, first time. Two differing events, that her webs weave as one.)

Then, my hands became black as yours, dried blood, innocence lost, dirt from shame, hidden in shadow. The interpretations are innumerable, as the methods of moaning, yet with only one clear result.

Perhaps my metamorphosis was self-inflicted, or perhaps it was merely a web of the spider I was caught in, blessed be her name, that anticipates yours. But the result was undeniable as my true desire came to the light as the ashen expression I now wear.

In her name, the true psychopomp, do I execute. In your name, the Lord, do I serve, for I know that our order is true and eternal, in faith I write, in ink I praise, for these words shall not see me draw breath in the morning fog.