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]

An Assassin's Discourse on Deception
by Acolyte Redoran Serayth Dralor,
a Scribe in the Service of the New Temple
Blessed be the Name of Almsivi

I was intrigued to say the least when the Temple Steward of Ald-Ruhn at the time, a particularly taciturn man, told me I was to record a conversation with the new Morag Tong Master of Ald-Ruhn, Goren Andarys. As all Dunmer know, the Morag Tong is an impartial guild sanctioned by the temple, for its Mephalain cult status, and by extension reverence to Vivec.

Uncertain as to what was expected of me, the steward's lined face seemed to show even more displeasure then usual when I inquired. You're a damn scribe, he told me. It's an exercise in memory, diction and recording, he explained in a sour tone.

On the morning that I was to meet with Master Andarys, I prepared myself by washing myself particularly thoroughly, despite the fact that water is rare in the deep ashlands. I feared more the thought of offending a master assassin, then the verbal lashing I was certain to receive from the steward. Much to my chagrin, there was an ashstorm brewing already, and seemed to pick up as soon as my foot left its imprint in the dark soil.

Fifteen minutes later, I stepped into Ald-Skar, my robes and face soiled from the tempest outside. I did my best to brush myself off, leaving a pile of the Red Mountains gift on the ground. I proceeded to the carved doorway in the Emperor Crabs shell, in its place a thick door produced of oak imported from Skyrim.

Knocking upon it lightly, I entered into the main hall of the Morag Tong guildhouse. It was sparsely decorated with Temple tapestries, some furniture, and candles that seemed to emit a faint red glow, my eye caught some trama root, chokeweed and other indigenous Ashland fauna in planters around the immense room.

Dressed in black clothing, with a shock of white hair pulled back into three tails, so that one ran to the back of the neck, and two hung from the sides of his face a lean Dunmer perhaps one hundred and fifty or so, old but not elderly, stood calmly over one of the planters feeding it water from a cup. He looked up at me with serene red eyes, and smiled slightly. His hand rose towards one of the tables, and gestured for me to take a seat. His other hand picked some trama root thorns.

Sitting down, I took note of a bowl of steaming hot water, into which the man dropped the trama root thorns, and replaced the cover.

"You must be Serayth. Three Blessings. I am Goren, Andarys Clan."

I returned his pleasantries, feeling a bit un-centered at being not just calm, but polite with a man who exchanged blood for gold. For a few minutes we exchanged pleasantries and small talk of our backgrounds. I originally from the Kragenmoor district, and he from Dres, living on the Elsweyr border, where the slave trade is common, despite imperial opposition.

After the small talk, he removed the lid, and poured two cups of trama root tea, wisps of steam rising as he did so. I noticed how he also had total concentration upon the task, as though it were a specialized technique that required all his attention.

I inhaled the scent, and felt the warm and rejuvenating aspects of the tea as i swallowed. "Its good?" he asked in passing, as I confirmed with a nod.

"I learned this simple thing from a Khajiit monk." he remarked, to which I nearly spit out my sip.

"A slave knows of trama root tea?" I asked.

He shook his head. "No, a Khajiit knows of techniques in skooma, moon sugar, and other manners of unpleasantness. A Khajiit monk knows of mastering basic techniques. A strong foundation will hold any weight applied to it."

I inquired as to his trade besides being Morag Tong.

"I am a monk." he replied simply, and to my surprise.

"A monk? Does not a monk take an oath to not take lives? To shed no blood?" I asked.

"There are monks who do take such oaths to orders to which they belong, yes. My order happens to be the Morag Tong, which requires no such oath, indeed such an oath would be rather counterproductive."

"Then....what?" I asked, genuinely confused.

"My oaths are Fidelity, Secrecy, Obedience, Reserve, and Restraint."

"I understand fidelity, and secrecy...even obedience, um...reserve and restraint?"

"I reserve all my reactions. I do not let my emotions overcome my actions. I restrain myself from taking the lives of the innocent or those who have no writ against them."

"But you have no problem with those who do?"

"Of course not."

"What about the oath of truth?"

"You mean the Seven Graces, priest. The Grace of Courtesy goes: 'Thank you for your courtesy, Lord Vivec. I shall speak neither hurtful nor harsh word, but shall speak respectfully, even of my enemies, for temperate words may turn aside anger.' There is no stipulation against lies, or deception rather. And there is a long and proud tradition of the Dunmer being crafty, from the Telvanni, to the Hlaalu, for it was Boethiah whom taught us to dispose of our enemies with patience and cunning. And Mephala was the one who saw to it that our societies laws were based around this, through her agency, the Morag Tong."

Feeling rebuked by the monk giving a lesson on theology to a priest, albeit a scribe, I attempted to sway the argument. "Forgive my misunderstanding, I simply meant that the traditional view of a monk seeking the higher path doesnt seem to fit in with an agency such as the Morag Tong. Which thrives on deception."

"Yes, deception is commonly viewed as sinister. As are we. It is a reputation we have earned, and an impression we like to cultivate. At times it proves to make our tasks easier. But deception like many things is neither good nor evil. It is simply what you do with it."

"Deception as a thing which is neutral? Now you speak in riddles, Master Andarys."

He thought to himself for a moment, giving himself a slight smile as he remembered things from long past.

"I will recite a story I heard once. Then perhaps you will see..." he began.

"A long while ago, a Clan head was having a dinner with very important guests from all over his region. Plantation owners, slave traders, Hlaalu businessmen, temple stewards, et cetera. The food was plentiful, and the goblets bottomless. During this event, the clan head noticed that there was an ash worm skulking beneath the table. Ash worms were uncommon, but not unheard of in this part of Morrowind, so few knew of them."

"The Clan Head however, knew well of them, and knew that they were highly poisonous, seeing one above ground likely meant one that was dieing, and confused, and more likely to attack, as they sensed vibrations above the ground from their burrows."

"Realizing that it would cause a panic, and the likely death of at least one of his guests, the clan head thought quickly, and signaled a servant to his side, whispering specific instructions to him. Immediately after, the clan head removed a precious ring from his finger, and gently placed it on the table."

"This ring can buy ten slaves, feed a small fishing village for a year, and make any man or woman at this table here richer then they are by one half. If you accept my challenge, then for the next five minutes, no matter what happens, no matter what oddities take place, none shall move or speak, nary a cough or a sideways glance. The last one remaining shall receive the ring."

"The guests took this as some form of entertainment, and immediately began the game. No one so much as moved, even when the servant crawled beneath the table with a dagger and sack. He crawled out some two minutes later, as the guests started to fidget, and giggle. Finally a Plantation owner won the game and the ring."

I nodded, understanding the point.

"Whereas the clan head may have lost reputation and allies should someone have died." I replied.

"Indeed." The Monk replied, taking a final sip of the tea.