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.

[saqin]

This story takes place in a world that I have created. The country that I'll be writing about the most is named Rigor Mortis, the place where this one takes place. I'll be writing about it in my blog later. The land is usually a really good place to live in, you've just got to watch out where you put your feet.

Bad Luck by Saqin, Scribe of the Order of the Schola

1 E 243 Winter
The wind sighed in the snow covered pines. It sung a desperate song about a war long since forgotten, and the man who slept beneath the trees curled himself up, only to moan of the pain as his wounded arm touched a stone. His eyelids fluttered open, and he sat up. The forest was quiet except from the disturbing noises of the wind, and suddenly the man was alert. He grabbed the sword that lay next to him, and arose despite the vile ache that sometimes felt as if though it intended to crush him.

Far away, he heard the soft trampling of feet and the merry voices of men coming back from a successful hunt. But he had slept many miles away from the roads, and no one with good intentions travelled the cursed forest at night. His heart sunk where he stood, and the man covered his failing fire with snow as fast as he could, the silence was eerie. He rolled up his bedroll, and put it in his pack. Having slept with his clothes on, there was nothing more for him to do except to cover the last of his tracks before leaving.

Standing ready in the snow, he listened to the distant song that came from the east, before beginning his hike southward. Then he heard the words, and stopped dead in his tracks.

“...We come for them who flee our house,
we walk the path that no one knows
Our silent steps shall not be heard,
hear them you and you shall die
Worse is the curse that lies on us

The wind sighs and the birds flee our sights
Long ago we left these lands
We are those who you lost
In a war so very long ago

We come for them who fled our house,
with deceit and lies they brought us down...”

The man shook his head and left the trance. It was at a run that he continued, no longer caring whether they heard him or not. Panic filled him, and it felt as if though the trees reached down to hit him, to stop his passing. Snow crunched beneath his feet, and he did not slow down more than enough to leap over that which came in his way.

He no longer heard the singing when the fire appeared through the trees, and he slowed down. Panting he walked the few last steps through the forest, out onto the plains where the fire was. But the fire was blue, and there was no wood. The fire was floating, and just as his mind registered that, he saw the woman.

She looked at him with a smile. She was using a cane of white wood to support herself, and black hair fell down her shoulders. The cold did not seem to bother her, though she wore nothing but a thin robe. There was a carriage behind her, and from it he heard a scream. Then a man came out.

“That one's dead, mistress. Shall I try and revive him?” The new man's voice had a melancholy voice, as if though neither the cold nor any other feelings touched him.

“Wait boy, a guest just came to us from Darkrange forest.” She looked upon the man that had just come from the forest, and her smile took on an evil hint. The man stood as paralysed, and could do nothing when she walked against him.

“Nec-necromancer.” The man gasped, and the woman gave out a short laugh.

“Indeed boy, I am one of those that worship the gods of death and pain. It's not for nothing that the name of our land is Rigor Mortis.” She said, and put a hand on his chest. Her evil smile was the last thing he saw before his eyes rolled up, and everything became black.

The woman stood above him for a while before she turned to her servant. “Dispose of the old one will you? Reviving them is such a nuisance, and besides, we just found us a new toy.”