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.

[canis216]

Been a little time since I last flooded this thread with my tales. Here's something...

Breakfast in Balmora

Balyn, get up. Open your eyes. Get up!

Balyn looked up from bed. It was morning; he could see the diffuse dawn’s light through the window. Then he remembered. The man in the bar. A bag of gold changing hands. An appointment he must not miss. No, it couldn’t have happened, he thought, I must have been dreaming. Yet the sack of gold sat on his bed table, right by his head. The deal had been struck, and there was no going back.

Balyn eased his way out of bed and picked up his cheap green shirt and dusty pants from their place atop the storage chest. Soon, ALMSIVI willing, he might be able to afford something a little better. He pulled on his battered shoes, after briefly examining the ever-widening hole in the right heel. His profession took a remarkable toll on shoes, in spite of his efforts to walk softly. Finally, Balyn opened the chest and pulled out his prized flameblade. It was one of the few things he had left that truly worked.

As Balyn ate breakfast—a single serving of scrib jelly—the landlord slipped the monthly rental bill beneath the front door. Was it that time already?, he wondered. Damn. He took the paper from the floor and looked over the scrawlings—the rich lout must be losing at dice still; he’s jacked up rent the last 4 months. For a moment Balyn was tempted to rip apart the document cradled in his hands, but he reconsidered. He would have the money soon enough.

Ready now, Balyn climbed the ladder and out his trapdoor, atop his roof. It was why he wanted the place to begin with; the pursued assassin needs all the secrets he can muster. Today he didn’t wish for anyone to see him leave the house. By Vivec it was a lovely morning—soft sunlight cresting over the eastern hills of West Gash, not a cloud to be seen, and the Odai as placid and clear as ever. And standing above the city, Balyn could see his mark stumbling out of the Lucky Lockup, bottle in hand. The time has come. Balyn downed his last potion of invisibility, leaped down from the roof, and dashed to the Odai bridge.

The mark, a burly but well-dressed Imperial with short brown hair and a neatly trimmed beard, paused in front of the Council Club to take another pull of brandy. Quite suddenly an ill-dressed Dunmer, Balyn Omavel, appeared in front of him.

“Pardon me, sera. Do you have a moment?”

The Imperial looked at first confused, then vaguely angry. “Out of my way, elf. I haven’t any time to talk.”

“On the contrary. You have an eternity.”

At that Balyn seized the man and threw him into the wall. “Perhaps next time you’ll show some courtesy, n’wah!” Balyn slashed open the Imperial’s throat, spilling rich red blood over the walk. Passengers disembarking the strider would be appalled, no doubt. But the outlander was dead.

Balyn’s glance circled about. No one had seen—Balmora was still just waking up. The assassin mumbled a few words and found himself back in his home, like nothing happened. Save the blood on his hands.

He found his washbowl and began cleaning off the victim’s blood.

May Mephala forgive me.

This post has been edited by canis216: Nov 17 2006, 05:21 AM