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]

Yes, another one. I must be trying to shame everyone else into posting stuff here.
I think this is my outburst of creativity before I write all of my end-o-the-semester papers.

Friends and Brethren

It was quiet yet in the Black Shalk Cornerclub. The arena games would not start for several hours. Most of the club’s expatriate clientele were still nursing hangovers, and would not emerge to drink again until the evening battles. Still, a hardy few were scattered around the tavern: a half-sensible Nord in the corner; the young bard reworking his repertoire of poems, tales, and songs; three Dunmer playing cards near the door, and an Argonian at the bar. He nursed an open bottle of cyrodiilic brandy, exchanging the odd word here and there with the publican, a well-dressed middle-aged Dunmer. The Argonian started a bit when he felt a hand on his armored shoulder.

“Huleeya, let me buy you another drink.”

“Ahh, friend Lingers-in-the-Sun. You startled me. What brings you into Vivec at this hour? And where is your black robe?” Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun was instead wearing the dirty brown cotton robe of a commoner, with the hood drawn over his head.

“One of your brethren forced me to abandon it.”

Huleeya raised an eyebrow. “We should discuss this somewhere… more private. Let us go to Jobasha’s.”

“Very well. But first I want my drink. Riral, could you spare a bottle of brandy for each of us?” Riral Giral, publican, nodded and brought up two bottles from beneath the counter. The Argonian handed over a small pouch of gold. “Now, shall we?”

The door, unfortunately, was blocked. “Hey, two filthy lizards! Where do you think you’re going?” The three young card-playing Dunmer were all standing, and not nearly so drunk as would be desirable.

Huleeya turned to the racists, “Gentlemer, please—”

Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun pulled two blades from his robe and quite suddenly had one of the Dunmer against the wall; the flat of an ebony blade pressed to the elf’s midsection, a gleaming daedric dagger at his throat.

“I go wherever I please, softskin! Neither you nor the whole Dark Elven race can stop me!”

With that the Argonian brought the hilt of his shortsword down upon the Dunmer’s skull.

“Your friend will need a drink when he wakes up. And perhaps a healer. I suggest you attend to him.”

Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun strode between the two stunned Dark Elves and out the door.

“Come Huleeya. We can speak now.”

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

The two Argonians sat at a small table at the bottom of Jobasha’s Rare Books, drinking quietly. The proprietor was up front, haggling with a customer, a Breton carrying an armload of cheap-looking texts. The guard, a ‘gift’ from the Duke, stood in the corner, watching none-too diligently, waiting for his shift to end.

“You know, Lingers-in-the-Sun, it is those rash acts which are responsible for our problem. If you had not burned down the slave market…”

“Was it not the right thing to do? I am not ashamed of what I did. And if Caius would let me kill the softskin… there would be no problem.”

“The slaver has a wealthy family. It would become their problem. You know how this works—a murder leads to an assassination, which leads to another assassination…”

“Yes, I know. Perpetual employment for assassins… except those who get killed, anyway….. So what can be done?”

“Your spymaster could transfer you out of Morrowind. My order has a long reach… but it does not often leave the province.”

“No. My honor forbids me to leave. You know this.”

“Yes… this is troublesome. Let me speak with my Grandmaster. We may be able to make… an arrangement.”

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

A couple of Redoran were dueling in the arena, arrayed in bonemold armor, armed with silver claymores. Booze and money flowed freely throughout the stands, but for once Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun wasn’t drinking. But he wasn’t really watching the fight either; he was just… there. After a few moments parrying one of the Redoran’s caught his counterpart cleanly across the chest—he went down, sword falling to his side. Healers rushed to the arena center as victory was declared. The crowd cheered the victor, and two new combatants took the floor. It was all so sudden, simple, and clean.