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.

[canis216]

Trying to work my way back into the writing game. This may or may not turn into something larger.

* * *

On the Hunt

A figure in green crept through the twilight, ducking smoothly from tree to tree, eyes fixed to the earth. It was a man; an elegantly curved wood-and-metal bow dangled from his left hand, the handiwork of the elves. His right hand gripped a pair of broad-headed silver arrows—the quiver slung across his back held perhaps thirty more. On his left hip sat a light silver short sword. The man was smiling.

The track was perhaps eight hours old, the gait a slow walk. Probably a big black bear, the man thought. Not as good as a brown bear, but good enough to make the offering. He would find it. The bear would have spent most of the afternoon bedded down, would have just gotten up. The man found the trail and resumed his effortless, crouching walk.

Forty minutes passed. The man flushed a white-tailed deer and instinctively prepared a shot, but his fingers could not release the arrow. The blessing ritual he’d held behind his cabin had prepared him to hunt bears and only bears. Though he hungered for meat, he could not take deer. Not now. He nibbled on a block of goat cheese; just enough to quiet the rumbling of his empty stomach. Another ten minutes passed and he found the bed.

The bear had scraped away a few inches of duff and dirt at the edge of a large stand of aspens. The aspens made the man nervous. With every breath of wind the delicately suspended leaves on the trees rattled about—drowning out every other sound and overwhelming the senses. It added risk. Fresh tracks, no more than half an hour old, led away from the bed and deeper into the forest. The man followed after pausing to refresh his spell of night-eye. The creeping darkness had become complete.

He smelled the bear before he saw it; a rich, musky aroma. The bear’s trail led over small rise and into a small meadow. The bear was digging up the bulbs of wild allium—onions. It was black and it was large, a male weighing at least 300 pounds. It would likely take more than one shot.

Moving into the wind and covered by the sound of aspen leaves, the man crawled behind a screen of gooseberry shrubs to within forty yards of the bear. If the bear detected him before he could shoot, he was sure to get mauled. But the bear was looking off to the side, engrossed in its digging. The man pulled arrows from his quiver, sticking four into the soft earth and nocking a fifth.

The first shot came out just as the bear turned toward him, exposing the heart. The bear bellowed and lunged forward, covering ten yards in what seemed like a fraction of a second, only to be shot once more. After one last great leap and two staggering steps the bear fell and moved no longer.

Hircine would be pleased.

This post has been edited by canis216: Nov 5 2010, 02:06 PM