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.

[jack cloudy]

Here's my addition. It isn't related to TES at all, so prepare yourself for sci-fi. Poor robot.



Left behind and forgotten. Written by Jack Cloudy, the Apprentice.


Silence and darkness, two companions who went well together. During the day, sounds could be heard everywhere but during the night, the silence would drown out every sound safe for the beating of your own heart.

Here, the day was as silent as the night. The sun never shone. There was no heartbeat either. Actually, there was not a single being here that was ‘alive’ in the traditional sense. There was one being, though calling it alive would go a bit too far. Even when it was still young, it had missed that essential bit that separates a bug from the rock it sits on. A soul.

Right now, it sat lifelessly in a corner of the room, its grey features hidden by the blackness that embraced the complex. Now, it began to stir, it began to move, to stand and walk. The darkness kept no secrets from its eyes, nor kept it any surprises. Everything was as it had been for countless years. Years that even this being of plastic and metal couldn’t completely remember. One day followed the next, in a neverending rhythm. This day was the latest, the same one like all those before.
Its worn feet thumped on the bare floor without a shred of elegance. Joints protested loudly with every movement. They carried a message, a simple one. ,,Stop, it has been enough. Let me rest.” Yet rest was one thing that the machine would never seek.

The remains of a lush red carpet lined the edges of the room and a single light flickered in a final attempt to scare away the darkness, this was all that remained of the place’s former glory. The machine remembered those days, as clear as the little stream of water jumping from rock to rock high up in the mountains. Despite the loud complaints of its own body and against all the expectations its creators had when it was built, the machine continued to function and perform its duties, even now that these duties had lost their meaning.

It went to what had once been the kitchen. There, it removed a piece of wood mounted in front of what had been the food processor in its better days and caught the greyish goo that dripped out of the hole. The machine dipped a single finger in the revolting substance. It nodded, a motion that had burned itself a permanent place in its programming. The goo was edible, though any sane creature would rather die than eat it. It tasted so horrible, words couldn’t describe it. The machine never thought about those things. All it knew was that a certain amount of vitamins and other things were required to make the food good. As long as it contained that, it was just fine.

The unhappy receiver of the meal wasn’t fine. He didn’t respond when his servant placed the bowl with the goo in front of him. He couldn’t, for he was death.

Something inside the machine creaked. ,,You haven’t gotten out of that chair since the 6th of December 24.381 years ago. That is not healthy. You should move your muscles more. Guess I’ll have to feed you again, lazy. In the meantime, I’m calling the doctor.” It said to the mummified corpse with a slightly feminine voice. It was said that humans felt more comfortable when their machines sounded like a female being. Maybe that was why all military machines sounded like gruff males with a testosterone overdosis. Intimidation was one way to defeat the enemy. Naturally, the death man didn’t respond.
The machine carefully fed the grey goo bit by bit to what remained of its master without noticing how the food dripped down the jaw and passed between the ribs on its way to the floor. At the same time, it extended two antenna on its head and attempted to make contact with the planetary communication net. An attempt that failed as the satellites who maintained the net had all broken down long ago. Most satellites had burned up in the atmosphere, others were fried by a particularly violent solar flare and the remainder suffered from normal decay.

It picked up the bowl, finally noticing the goo on the floor. ,,Tsk, look at the mess you made. Now you won’t get your candy tonight. Also, I couldn’t contact the doctor. The planetary communication net still seems to be suffering from that temporary malfunction that started on the 25th of November 24.386 years ago. I’ll try again tomorrow. You really need to see the doctor.” It informed the corpse with the infinite patience that only a machine could have. The bowl was returned to the food processor after which the machine cleaned the mess on the floor. It then sat down in the corner, so it could conserve the little energy it still had. It only moved to deliver lunch and diner. This had become its daily routine, a routine that would only end when it would finally malfunction and die. Not having a soul was the best thing its creators had ever given to it. If it had one, its existence would have been unbearable. Now, it was simply empty.

The light in the ceiling flickered for the last time and died. Darkness conquered the last stronghold of light. The house, once a place to relax and enjoy a good book during a drink. Now a tomb, both of the man and the forgotten machine that would someday follow.

This post has been edited by jack cloudy: Oct 3 2006, 03:03 PM