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]

This one, I am particularly proud of. Enjoy it; nay, savor it. I know I do.

Freelancers

It was a merry evening in the Eight Plates. A tall, handsome young Dunmer—one of the newest members of the Balmora guard contingent—was performing a traditional dance atop his shield, surrounded by a clapping and giggling group of revelers, keeping time, drinking brandy. The troubadours played in the corner, an improvised band featuring the trader Ra’virr on the guarskins, Fast Eddie Theman on the lute, and the tailor Milie Hastien singing a fine old tune. Their music filled the dim space of Balmora’s finest tavern.

Balyn dearly wished he could join the revelry—Milie’s voice wasn’t the only fine thing she had going on—but he sat at the bar, and waited. This was business.

His client was late. Balyn consoled himself by nursing a bottle of mazte, taking a sip whenever he felt he needed to flee. After Balyn had nearly convinced himself to stand up and go, or join the party, a middle-aged smartly attired in a custom tailored shirt came down the stairs and made his way to the bar.

“I’m glad you waited for me, Balyn. I had some business to attend to. I’m sure you know how that goes.” Feigning agreement, Balyn nodded. “As you no doubt have guessed, I require your services once more. I’m concerned that one of my neighbors is watching me a little… closely. In my line of work I find such a trait worrisome, if not downright inconvenient. You know this man as an old skooma addict, but everytime I see the man I feel his eyes following me… I know this must seem ridiculous to you, but I can take no risks. My peace of mind is worth 2000 gold. What do you say?”

Balyn mulled it over. 2000! It was more than he had ever earned working for the Morag Tong. But, he thought, I must not seem too excited; no, I can negotiate, get a little more. But 2000!

“2500, Helas.”

“Impossible. 2100. No more.”

“Surely your peace of mind must be worth at least 2250 drakes.”

Vorar Helas smiled, and nodded. “Yes, it’s worth that much.”

The Dunmer shook hands. Vorar Helas ordered a bottle of brandy. Balyn Omavel joined the party.

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The sun was sending the first shafts of morning light over eastern hills when Balyn stumbled out of the Eight Plates. What a glorious night! He had taken his own awkward turn upon the shield, impressing no one, but his grace in poking fun at his own dancing had won him a peck on the cheek from Milie Hastien. It seemed that Balyn was finally finding his niche in Balmora—fewer Tong jobs meant more free time, and the opportunity for a social life.

But now it was time to head home, and off to bed. He would need to be well rested if he were to properly earn his gold. Balyn was not the most conscientious of the Morag Tong, perhaps, but he still believed in a job well-done, even when freelancing. Freelancing! The idea still sent a pulse of ice down Balyn’s spine, but a few more nights like this would ease the trauma. He smiled as he thought of his brother—Taren did not support his younger brother financially, nor would Balyn ask him to, but it gave Balyn some comfort knowing that he was safe from open retribution.

Balyn crossed the Odai and turned the corner around Hecerinde’s place, then started to jog. A figure in a dark brown robe was hunched over the trapdoor, on the roof. He shouted at the interloper, “Hey you! What are you doing? Get out of there!” The figure stood up, and then Balyn stopped, turned, and began to run. The trespasser cradled a crossbow in his arms. Balyn had almost reached the corner when he felt the white-hot poison bolt lodge itself in his back; he screamed. Staggering forward again, almost to the corner, almost to safety—he digged into his pockets for the healing potion he always carried—almost….. Another bolt struck him, in the neck. Balyn collapsed.

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Eno Hlaalu and Huleeya were sharing a corner table at the Black Shalk Cornerclub when Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun strode briskly through the door.

“Back so soon, assassin?” Hlaalu looked him over.

“The freelancer is dead, Grandmaster.”

“That bittergreen works quickly indeed,” murmured the Dunmer.

“No bittergreen, Hlaalu. Not my style. Viper-bolts.”

Eno Hlaalu stood up; he nearly shouted, “What! Not your style! His brother will know! This is unacceptable!” Then he looked into a drawn crossbow.

“Unacceptable for you, perhaps, but I think I’ve done more than enough to satisfy our agreement, unless you want me to kill his brother, too. Or would you rather I kill you instead?” The Argonian did not lower the crossbow.

“Fine, assassin, have it your way. The writ on your head will…fade away. But tread carefully, Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun. Next time could be different.”

This post has been edited by canis216: Nov 23 2006, 03:21 AM