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.

------------------------------------------------------------------

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.

[Illydoor]

The Beast

Light. Blinding and white and pure. It fills my shying eyes like a disease, first a trickle, then a painful torrent, invasive and exposing. I shut them.

I liked the darkness.

I missed the darkness. It was my home, my sustenance. I feed off the shadows, like some kind of beast. You see that is what I am, or was made. A beast. A creature. An unthinking, brainless savage, living like an animal amongst the blackness and the bleakness that I consume and that consumes me.

The shadows protect me. Hides my true identity from those hateful, accusing eyes. Conceals my hideous form and spares humanity the horror of witnessing me. They hate me, cast me out into the wilderness to fend for myself, judged me a monster on appearances alone. And that's why I hate them so. A deep burning ire that burns bright, that no amount of shadow and gloom can hide in the depths of my cave.

My dark, long-dead heart clenches at the thought of it, their leering faces, their jeering comments. They don't understand me. Nobody does. Only the shadows.

They know of my contempt. And they use it for themselves. They turn my hate of humans into a weapon. And I let them. They threaten me with perils of Sithis and the Mother of Night’s wrath, but they do not realise I am not afraid. In an instant I could but turn around and end their lives in a swift second of blood and murder and vicious gore. But I choose not to. I kill for them on my own volition.

I kill for my own pleasure.

Deep in the subterranean caverns of Cyrodiil they train me, goad me in cages, fuel my hate, and when a target is set, they release me, and like a dog I obey. I hunt the target down until his blood is on my lips and his soul is whispering in the underworld. I can imagine them all now. Wandering the afterlife as ghosts, every single victim of my savagery, watching, waiting for me to come out of the shadows.

I never will.

Sometimes they die silently. Sometimes they thrash and brawl until I decide I've had enough. And then the fun stops. The 'Brotherhood', as they call themselves, will never know what it means to be totally unhinged, to be absolutely free, to be able to enjoy the thrill of the kill.

They only use the shadows, yet I am the shadow.

They don't know what it feels like to be abandoned, to be left to die, to be so unloved even the gods despise you so. They worship false idols like this 'Sithis' and the 'Night Hag', they think they're free.

They're not at all. They're just the same as the rest. They think they can tame the untamed, control the uncontrollable. They can't control the shadows. The darkness is unstoppable. It was they who created me, made me so hideous and repulsive, and brought me into this world full of such dark hate and predujice. I used to consider it a curse, what they did to me, but now I see. It is a gift.

Screams. Blood spattering. It's almost like music to my distended ears. And as I listen to its sadistic ensemble I wonder how long it has been since I've seen the sun, felt its warm embrace and looked upon its beckoning glow.

It makes me gag. I said I liked the darkness.

The transcript has an unknown author.

These scribbled notes were found in an abandoned underground dungeon, when members of an Imperial Legion cohort uncovered a major Dark Brotherhood Sanctuary deep within the depths of Cyrodiil's hidden caverns. The Imperial Legionnaires were shocked to find every member of the secret covenant grotesquely murdered, seemingly mauled and in some cases devoured alive by some kind of beast. They sealed off the area and destroyed the entrance to the cave accordingly, though some reports from the soldiers tell of strange things moving in the darkness.

Signed Temple Archives Apprentice, Curator Illydoor

This post has been edited by Illydoor: Mar 29 2009, 08:28 PM