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]

A Letter From Prison
(Teaser for that long Alik'r thing I keep talking about)

* * *

My friends,

Prison pains me.

It is dark in the tower, save for the tripartite shaft of light that penetrates my cell, through that single window that is my sole salvation. It is seldom that I feel a stir of wind on my cheek, and when I do it is heavy with moisture from the sea. The other cells here are unoccupied, and the only sounds are of my own stirring. Truly, I am alone.

In spite of my suffering, I will not claim to be maltreated. The food is plain but filling, and the water is good. I am afraid that I have gained some mass in my confinement here. The guards are quite but not rude, though I catch them staring from time to time. I believe that my appearance is curious to them. I see questions in their eyes, which I wish I could answer. I wish that they would speak to me, but I think that they will not. Do they fear my answers? I wish I knew. I wish so much.

Some time ago (two days? two weeks? two months?) a falcon perched on my window sill and I was sure he had been sent by Tava to bring news of home. Alas, I could not speak the language, and after a few scant moments my visitor saw fit to fly off to the north and east, to the deserts and mountains without end. Alone again.

I think much of the legends of lost Yokuda. I think of our old cousins, the Zia, and their confinement.

My home over there,
Now I remember it;
And when I see that mountain far away,
Why then I weep,
Why then I weep,
Remembering my home.

Even from here I can sometimes see Tuk-uhn-ah-k’vah, our mountain. Then I weep.

The window is my salvation and my torment. I can see our beloved Alik’r, and I can imagine you, my brothers, sitting by the fire under these skies of wintertide, sitting and drinking and trading stories. Then I weep.

I see the mountains crested in snow, and I imagine the soaptree’s spines wreathed in white. My horse kicking up snow like the summer dust. Then I weep.

Here on the coast the wind is still warm—I feel it sometimes through my window, and it is then that I cannot see but can feel Sun’s Height and sex in the sand. Then, my friends, why then I weep.

This post has been edited by canis216: Dec 26 2008, 08:14 PM