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.

[darkynd]

Oops, sorry about double posting! But this little story is currently intended to stand alone, so the Temple of Lore seems like the perfect home for it. Anyway, here it is, and I hope this isn't a bannable offense

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A Knight's Error

The sun was a splendorous faerie’s orb overhead, illuminating a lush forest whose trees burst with greenery and whose bushes were rife with animals great and small. It was a glorious day indeed for newly-anointed Knight Errant Velorna; not only did the God of Beauty consecrate the morning with wondrous nature, but on the road ahead he spotted a group of brigands assailing a defenseless peasant. This was a golden opportunity for Velorna to try his righteous arm in a test of combat against the chaos gripping the countryside, and he wasted no time in drawing forth his brilliantly sparkling blade, Celandine.

Spurring his every-loyal destrier, Morrigan, onward, he delivered a knightly challenge to the scruffy band. “Ho, doers of evil deeds! Though you prey on those who cannot raise a hand ‘gainst you, there is one who shall protect them. And it is I, Velorna of Arienne, who will defeat you in this hour!”

Every brigand looked up from kicking the dusty figure laying out on the dirt road, and after a brief interchange, scattered into the surrounding vegetation. Velorna was not surprised; his fair countenance, symbol of deliverance for the meek and innocent, was as that of death to dark men such as they. Although sitting astride an armored warhorse wearing shimmering plate might have had some small effect, he supposed, but his Knight Superior had always told him to quell those thoughts. In any even his attention was all on the peasant he had saved; the man was back on his feet, brushing off a green tunic which may have actually been cleaned somewhat by rolling in the earth.

Velorna reined Morrigan up next to the man, flashing his beamiest smile to reassure the man he was safe, like the Knight Superior had also told him. “Hail, good yeoman! You have been saved from the rude accosting. No, there is no need for thanks; it is my duty as Knight Errant to help all those I meet whilst my quest for justice continues.” Almost word for word from the Knight’s Manual of Honor! And Taerion had said he would never make a good knight...

The peasant stared at him, one eye barely visible for puffing up, but the man looked suspiciously close to a rat, Velorna realized. He did not say anything for several seconds. And then for several seconds more. Finally Velorna cleared his throat ostentatiously, but still no words came. He began to think the fellow was a mute. Deciding that a hint was not too much, Velorna leaned down from Morrigan and whispered. “However, thanks are appreciated, you know.”

“Thanks!?” shouted the peasant right into his ear. “What bloody thanks do I owe ye, shiny great fool that ye are!” His words cut off as abruptly as they had begun.

Velorna straightened up, flipping back his shoulder-length blonde hair to stick a finger in his ear; there was an incessant ringing now. Still, he could not understand this man. “I saved you. You understand that, right? Those men were assaulting you.”

“Assaulting me alright,” said the rat-faced man disconsolately, “I haven’t paid me taxes in several months, and those men came to collect it out of me hide. And now ye’ve driven them off, they’re going to come back in force next time, and really take it out of me!”

“Ah,” said Velorna slyly, “so the corrupt lord sent his thugs to beat a poor farmer for failing to pay his exorbitant taxes. Well, have no fear goodman, for there is a savior about, and his name is Velorna of Arienne!”

“Well, actually, I keeps me money in me cowhide sack,” said the 'goodman,' “but I hid it from them and tried to bite the nose off the lead fellow when they all followed me out here, so they all jumped on me. I’ve got such a temper you know, ever since they confiscated all me merchandise.”

Velorna’s nostrils flared with rage at the man’s plaintive tale. “Fiends! They stole your livelihood, and must pay for such iniquity!”

The former merchant looked up at him wonderingly, with not a hint of gratitude on his face at last. “Well, I thanks you sincerely now, me lord. I did not realize that Knights sympathized so with me plight.”

“The Knights of Arienne sympathize with all men,” Velorna announced grandly, flourishing Celandine in a broad overhead sweep, “Freedom from oppression is a right no matter your coloring or societal status! And so I promise to aid you in your quest to regain your employment and eliminate this evil lord who so afflicts the land! I do so swear, on my honor as a Knight of Arienne.” He crossed himself then, to seal his pact before both Gods and man.

The goodman’s jaw hung slightly open after that display. He recovered admirably however, clapping loudly; a single tear rolled down one crusty cheek. “I truly, truly thanks ye, and a thousand times over I thanks ye me lord. No one ever understands how much a slaver must go through. Everyone always hates ye, calls ye the scum of the earth, the spawn of Hell, and worse besides! It is nice to finally have an ally.”

Velorna’s sapphire eyes twitched. “Did you say…you were a slaver?”

“Not ‘were’ me lord,” responded the man, dry washing his hands and watching the Knight Errant intently, “I will be again, once ye do with Lord Del Corazon. Me lord, are ye alright?”

But Velorna could not hear him over the crashing sound between his ears. Swaying in his saddle, he doubled over and retched all over Morrigan, who promptly reared onto hind legs and bucked the sickly Knight Errant right off. Between his head and the jagged rock, consciousness winked out.




When he awoke, Velorna discovered he was no longer in the verdant forest. Now he was in what could best be described as a smoky hovel, and a poorly constructed hovel at that. Some man he vaguely recognized was lying on a pile of straw in one corner, snoring raucously; the furnishings of this place seemed to consist of one upturned barrel for a table, and two upturned buckets for chairs. Otherwise, everything was straw, besides the thin cot he lay upon. Which was stuffed with straw as well, Velorna quickly found when he tried to get up and hay spilled everywhere. A sudden snort came from the sleeping man. He opened up beady little eyes – which rather reminded Velorna of a rat’s – and slowly got to his feet making horrendous noises with his mouth. Yawning, Velorna remembered the Knight Superior calling that. It was discourteous to the ninth degree – there were only ten degrees in Knightly insults – and at any other time he would have backhanded the churl with his gauntlet.

But he could not recall how he had gotten here, so Velorna did not think it a brilliant idea to start hitting all sorts of people when there might be mitigating circumstances. The Knight Superior would have slapped him with the flat of a sword for that kind of thinking of course, but Velorna also remembered him saying that being a Knight Errant meant finding your own way. Finding your own way…

The beady-eyed man looked at Velorna just then, and smiled an ingratiating smile, although the young Knight could not recognize such a subtle thing. “Have you recovered from your li’l spill, me lord?”

“Spill?” asked Velorna, clambering to his feet – and finally catching a whiff of himself. He blanched; the odor smelled disturbingly like vomit had spent half a day steaming beneath his breastplate, reaching a ripeness so vile that cesspits would be considered better company.

“Yes, yer spill me lord,” responded the man, oblivious to his guest’s discomfiture, “ye fell off’n your warhorse, but no worries; I stabled him up with Hook-fer-Hand Tom, and brought ye back to me mansion for rest! Wait, why are ye grabbing me, me lord!? Is there a problem?”

Velorna had surged at the man, clutching violently at the front of his shirt and pulling his ratty, somewhat crusty face only inches away from his own. “Tell me true, goodman, for I cannot believe my memory…are you a slaver?”

“Ah, the fall must have knocked ye for a walk through the forest,” said the man understandingly. “And I ne’er told you my name besides.” He pushed Velorna away gently, and the Knight relented uncertainly.

“Me name is Davish Henry, and I am indeed a slaver; yer memory serves ye right in that respect me lord.”

“And did I…I swore to…to…” Velorna could not complete the thought. It was just too horrible.

“That ye did, me lord, ye swore to get back me confiscated merchandise and help overthrow Lord Del Corazon so’s hard-working men like I can live in peace!” Davish beamed at his new savior, wringing his hands out of sheer excitement. “What’s more, I managed to procure ye some aid in the doings whilst ye slept!”

“Aid?” said Velorna bleakly. “What aid?”

“‘Tis a surprise, lordship,” Davish said, grinning futilely; the young Knight plopped back down onto the cot, armor clanking loudly, dropping his head into his hands.

“I’ve made a huge mistake,” moaned Velorna.

Davish continued to grin for a while, thinking it probably unwise to interrupt the man with a great big sword in an apparent moment of weakness. That was in fact the most intelligent thing Davish ever intentionally did in his entire life, bar none, for Velorna was at that very moment having a raging internal debate on the topic of his oath.

On the one hand, slavers and anyone who sold other people into servitude were exceedingly wicked, and by his Knightly creed Velorna should have struck the man down on the spot. Had Davish touched him right then, he would have. But, on the other hand, a Knight’s word was his honor. To break that meant to abandon the creed he lived by. It was an impressive quandary, Velorna had to admit. He remembered, though, the Knight Superior’s final speech to the him and the other Knights Errant before they set out on their individual quests. Each one of you shall travel separate path. Some shall go through fire, other through ice, and yet more through temptation. Yet know always that it is a part of your quest, the only quest for any Knight of Arienne; the quest for justice.

Right then Velorna decided – he had to help this man. Not to do so was to turn his back on the ideals he had built his life upon; honesty, honor and strength of purpose. It had been a difficult decision, and it remained one fraught with complication, but Velorna solemnly believed he had chose the most righteous path given the circumstances. He would accomplish his task, and then kill the slaver right after. Leaping to his feet, he put his hand over heart and declared his intent. “Davish Henry, take me to my steed, so that I might ride and confront Del Corazon and defeat him, thus fulfilling my obligation to you.”

Davish grinned genuinely this time, and quickly led Velorna out of his hovel and out into the bright sunlight outside. The sight that greeted him was a truly revolting one. Dozens of clumsily thatched and horribly askew hutches dotted a small clearing, surrounded by a drooping wooden palisade. There was no grass, only mud trampled and churned to a fine brown sludge by many uncaring feet. Men and women walked here and there, unkempt, filthy and generally of an ill look. Worst of all, at the center of this collection stood a cluster of iron cages, black and jagged with rust, standing no more than five feet high. They had to pack people into them like swine; people with eyes sunken like pits into hell. The bottoms of the cages looked as if swine really inhabited them; filth was strewn about, and the smell wafting from there was intolerable.

Righteous anger swelled within Velorna, but he contained it; these people were his charges, for now. He remembered something Davish had said in the hovel. “You mentioned aid for me, Master Henry. What did you mean by that?”

“Ye have a sharp mem’ry, lordship,” Davish said slyly, tapping his nose. “But I’d hate to spoil the surprise now it’s been held so long. Ye’ll meet the man shortly.”

Velorna shook his head at the man’s evasion. That was another offence against Knightly conduct, but he supposed men such as Davish could not be expected to know those things. Again a thought which the Knight Superior would have purpled to hear, but the Knight Superior was – thankfully – not around.

He followed Davish through the village, if it could be called that; according to Davish, this place was a gathering grounds of sorts for slavers and other men of disreputable professions. Lord Del Corazon had never come in force here, and Davish had only been attacked by his poltroons when traveling to meet a buyer and been forced to surrender his wares. People, Velorna remembered. People, not wares. The Knight frowned at Davish, who paled. “I thought you said you owed Del Corazon taxes.”

“Yes, well, I meant more like taxes in the meaning of fines levied against me, me lord,” said Davish in his most servile way. “I did not mean to mislead ye.”

Velorna was disappointed at that; it might have been a way out of his oath. Davish was lying, but Knights Errant were not trained to hear much beyond words.

The slaver brightened though, looking beyond Velorna, who turned to see a group of horsemen approaching. The five following were rangy, thuggish types in leather brigandines and sporting short bows on their backs with short swords at their belts. Their leader, however, was tall and sat straight in the saddle. His tabard was sable, and a silver eagle was proudly embroidered on the chest. Velorna immediately recognized the sigil. “You are Maevhorn the Sable!”

The rider bowed with a flourish. His black hair was long and cascaded down upon his shoulder in fancy curls; he had black mustachios that twirled into ridiculous spirals; he had even painted his armor black. “I am indeed the illustrious Maevhorn, and have come to kill Lord Del Corazon alongside you.”

Velorna winced at his bluntness, but inclined his head respectfully all the same. The Knight Superior had always said dangerous enemies were deserving of respect, so he would have at least been happy at that, for Maevhorn the Sable was indeed a dangerous enemy. The greatest swordsman who ever lived some claimed, and the primary antagonist of the Knights of Arienne. “Your assistance shall be crucial, I am sure.”

Maevhorn laughed airily, afterwards wiping his mouth with a silk kerchief – dyed black. His men joined in, but fell silent at a peremptory motion from the villain. “Del Corazon is often out in the Forest of Equanimity at this time, hunting with his personal guards. Perhaps we can catch him there?” he said

“Yes,” Velorna replied, heart sinking. It was best to finish the job quickly, so he did not have to associate with these people much longer, but he wished there might have been more time all the same. “When can we ride?”

“Right now!” exclaimed Maevhorn bouncily, “I love ambushes, and this shall be one recorded in the history books for all time”

“How…” But the Knight had no words in response. Instead he followed Davish to Hand-fer-Hook Tom – who did not have a hook for a hand at all, strangely – and retrieved Morrigan, his steed.

Shortly after Velorna rode out with Maevhorn the Sable and his five minions to assassinate a Lord. They traveled through the Forest of Equanimity for some time, finally reaching a spot where one of the minions said Lord Del Corazon always came through on his way back to Galoraunt, the castle where he ruled the Forest from. Tying their horses off some distance away, they all concealed themselves cleverly, with Maevhorn and Velorna directly across from each other so that they fell on the Lord’s party like a pincer.

Not much time passed before they heard much rustling close by, and then ten mounted men emerged from the growth, sweaty and carousing with each other over the animal carcasses slung over their mounts. Most of them wore simply red coats with a single white stag galloping on their breast, but one man at the center wore an intricate hunting jacket embroidered with dozens of the stags, all in different action poses. Velorna waited until they had passed just beyond his position, when the five archers positioned in front of the horsemen released their arrows. Three fellows crumpled immediately, and while the company was in disarray and attempting to close around the man in the nicest jacket, Velorna jumped up, drawing Celandine and delivering his battle cry.

“For righteousness and all that is good!”

Maevhorn leapt up simultaneously, adding his own cry to the cacophony before delving into the battle. “For lechery and absolute freedom!”

Despite the uncomfortable admonishment from his ally, Velorna piled on, laying Celandine about on all sides with the practice of a man trained from boyhood to wield a sword. The men, crowded close together on their horses, never really had a chance. One red coat after another had blood added to its pigments as the Knight grimly applied his blade to their bodies. Finally, it was only the man who must be Lord Del Corazon atop his proud gelding, sword dancing with Maevhorn the Sable’s.

Like steel lightning they fought, so fast you could only follow their action if you had spent a lifetime learning the art as Velorna had. Both were very good, true masters, but Del Corazon was slightly better. He rained down blows on Maevhorn’s head, cutting him innumerous small times, until the black-clad man was forced to retreat.

Lord Del Corazon did not attempt to flee, however, for he saw Velorna intended to engage him. The two squared, and saluted each other with their blades, when Del Corazon suddenly stiffened and toppled from his horse with an arrow in his back.

Velorna froze as one of the concealed archers leapt up, shouting gleefully. “I shot him, I killed the Lord! I’m a right old hero, I am!”

But the Knight Errant could have found no words of congratulation had he even desired to give them; he was too stunned for speech. He had sworn to kill Del Corazon, not the archer; and if he had not done it, then his oath stood unfulfilled.

This was a new and more terrible quandary than even the previous; honor and duty were supposed to distill the world into black and white, not turn everything into accursed sepia tone! What would the Knight Superior say in this situation…