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.

[Destri Melarg]

Allow this humble apprentice to submit this offering to the Temple. It is a long short story that will be told in several installments:

The Clean-up Detail

I.

Servatius Quintilius stood in his new quarters in the South Watch Tower and adjusted his gleaming silver cuirass. As he admired his reflection in the looking glass, his attention was commandeered by the latest edition of the Black Horse Courier which sat on a desk in the corner where the easel had been. The headline New Watch Captain Named pointed toward the ceiling, and was large enough to allow Quintilius a smile of satisfaction.

After completing the delicate matter of fine tuning his appearance, Quintilius carefully made his way back down the series of ladders to begin his first rounds as Captain of the Imperial Watch.

“Captain Quintilius, sir,” said a young, red-faced guard before the Captain’s feet had adequately touched down on Nirn, “I’ve been sent to find you.”

“And so you have,” said Quintilius. “What is the problem?”

“There’s been a murder, sir!”

A murder, Quintilius thought to himself, excellent! “Lead on,” he said. He followed the young guard through the door and out into the pre-dawn moonlight.

They traveled down the alley and stopped at the gate leading to Green Emperor Way. Four guards had gathered with the shift change. They each straightened when they saw the insignia on Quintilius’ chest.

Quintilius led with his chin, “I don’t suppose there’s a reason that four guards are needed to hold up this gate?”

“No sir,” two guards muttered in unison. The other two were busy searching for the answer on the cobblestones at their feet.

“Then disperse,” said Quintilius, “I’ll not have guards loitering on my watch.”

Two guards said “yes sir” while the other two continued to monitor the pavement. Quintilius moved past them through the gate. Behind him eight eyeballs rolled toward the Firmament.

Dawn crept upon the Palace District; shadows that had shrouded the trees and headstones retreated to the ground and pointed west. The young guard weaved through the graves. Quintilius stayed close behind. He warned himself not to let his pace quicken too much, to investigate a murder on his first day was one thing, but stepping over the interred bodies of generations of the dead to do it made his blood curdle.

Another guard stood watch outside the heavy stone door to the Trentius Family Mausoleum. He fixed his posture when he saw Quintilius approach.

“Here?” Quintilius asked. Ridiculous, he thought, a murder in a mausoleum! He felt the sweat on his palm drip into the fingers of his gauntlet.

“Yes sir,” said the first guard, “we found them like this a couple of hours ago. There is no sign of forced entry, whoev . . .”

“You said them,” said Quintilius, gathering himself, “multiple victims?”

“Yes sir. We’ve identified the first as a Nord named Agarmir. We have not yet ident . . .”

“Why wasn’t I sent for when you found them ‘a couple of hours’ ago?”

“Begging your pardon, sir, Captain Hayn was on duty but he has taken ill. We were not aware that Captain Lex’s position had been filled.”

“It was in the paper,” said Quintilius.

“Yes sir. Sorry sir. I have not yet seen the new edition, sir.”

“See to it,” said Quintilius. He inhaled sharply which puffed out his chest, and then he descended the stairs into the mausoleum.

Lamps burned in sconces along the wall, providing ample light to see. Why is there light inside the mausoleum? Quintilius thought to himself, somehow it seems to defeat the purpose.

Two bodies lay in uncomfortable repose on the stone floor. Blood pooled in copious amounts around each, originating from ghastly wounds that caused Quintilius to struggle keeping the gag reflex in check. His eyes fell upon the short blond hair of the Nord closest to him. He wore a dark shirt, brown linens, and doe-skinned shoes. One should be given the dignity of dying in more becoming clothing, Quintilius thought.

The first guard spoke up again. “That one is Agarmir, sir, late of the Talos Plaza District. He is, was, a known thief, but it is unclear what he was doing in this place.”

“Looking for new clothing no doubt,” said Quintilius. “He must not be much of a thief; one can find better raiment in the crates lying around the city.”

“Yes sir.”

Quintilius allowed his eyes to venture to the other body that lay propped against a pillar in the center of the room. “Another Nord?”

“Yes sir,” said the first guard, “we haven’t been able to identify him yet. My guess is that he is a mercenary of some sort.”

“I am sure that the Empire will not thrive if it must rely upon your guesses.” Quintilius stepped over the body of the one called Agarmir and moved closer to the other. Already the smell emanating from the bodies was straining his olfactory sense. “Steel armor and claymore, a pack filled with a shank of mutton and a restore fatigue potion, I would say that this man was a mercenary of some sort. . . ”

“Yes sir.”

Quintilius froze him with a look. “It is also clear that he was in alliance with this Agarmir.”

“Sir?”

Quintilius sighed through the nose. “This Agarmir has no weapon, and the wounds on the two bodies are not those that would have been caused by a claymore.”

The second guard took two steps back toward the stairs leading out of the crypt. His hand sought the hilt of his silver longsword. “Could it have been an ancestor ghost? They have been known to guard the resting places of the dead.”

“Unlikely,” said Quintilius. “I see no ice burns on either body. Ghosts are partial to cold magic. Whatever caused these wounds was savage, precise and, for now at least, let us assume mortal.”

He raised his eyes from the body and did a sweep of the rest of the tomb. The two guards continued to edge toward the stairs.

“What’s that there?” asked Quintilius.

Both guards followed the Captain’s gaze to the object propped against another pillar in the tomb.

“It looks like a book, sir,” said the first guard.

“I would be very surprised if you did not one day wear the armor of a Watch Captain,” said Quintilius, “given your powers of observation. Being one myself, I can already see that it is a book! Does it not strike you as passing strange that someone would choose to leave a book in this of all places?”

“I don’t follow you, sir.”

Quintilius shook his head. “Who, do you imagine, was the book left for?”

“I imagine that it belongs to one of the two Nords, sir,” the second guard interjected.

“Do you now? Two Nords barged into the Trentius Family Mausoleum on some Arkay-forsaken errand and decided to stop and produce a book because there happened to be ample reading light? However, that is beside the point. My question wasn’t ‘who is the owner of this book,’ it was ‘who was this book left for?’”

Quintilius could almost hear their eyelids scratching against their eyeballs as they blinked at him over and over.

“Hand me the book!” he said.

The first guard bent and secured the tome. He walked across the stone floor to where Quintilius stood. The Watch Captain did just that, and thought for all of the Mundas that the guard looked as nervous as a rat sneaking around in Goblin Jim’s Cave.

“Sir,” said the guard.

Quintilius took the book and opened it. His eyes scanned the words committed to the page.

“It appears that this book belongs to one of the recently expired Nords,” said Quintilius. “It seems to be an inventory of some sort, a list of the recently deceased and their belongings.”

“These men were robbing the mausoleum?” asked the second guard.

“So it would appear,” said Quintilius. “It also appears that they met with someone who objected to their activities.” He closed the book and held it toward the first guard. “Take this ‘Macabre Manifest’ and find the locations of any family members or associates of the recently deceased. Then return the book to my quarters in the South Watchtower.”

“Yes sir.”

Quintilius looked at the second guard. “Inform Commander Phillida of the situation here, I imagine that he will want to quarantine this mausoleum.”

“Yes sir.”

Quintilius mounted the stairs into the morning sunlight. He stretched away the shadows from the crypt and shook the tension from his shoulders. While they are engaged with those errands, perhaps I will break my fast at the Bloated Float, or perhaps the King and Queen . . .

“Captain Quintilius, sir!”

Quintilius turned. The voice belonged to yet another guard who weaved with great alacrity through the headstones and stopped panting on Quintilius’ boots. The Watch Captain waited.

“There’s . . . been . . . a murder . . . sir!”

“So I am aware. You do realize that you find me standing outside the murder scene? And I would not exactly classify it as a murder. I imagine any number of men could endeavor to ascertain the killer. Captain Hayn strikes me as the competent sort, perhaps he could be put to the task. My talents are wasted here.”

“Huh? Oh. Yes sir. I mean . . . no sir. I mean to say, there’s been another murder, sir.”

Another murder? Even better! Perhaps this one will prove a better exercise of my intellect. “Where?”

“In the Temple District, sir, I was told to direct you to the home of an Altmer named Seridur.”