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]

Regrets

Caius Cosades and Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun sat quietly at the corner table of the South Wall Cornerclub soaking in the scene. A Bosmer and a Khajiit sat at the bar loudly debating which of their respective races made better thieves; the remaining patrons, also thieves, sat at tables adjacent to bar, inserting their own bawdy commentary into the discussion between drinks. Phane Rielle kept the liquor flowing liberally, as always, and put in a few good words for Bretons.

“But you must admit, Aengoth, that it is much easier to steal when cloaked in a spell of illusion”, he interjected.

Aengoth burst out laughing, “Come now, Phane. Even Breton magicks run out sometime. But I never have to worry about running out of stealth.”

“But what about picks and probes, friend? You wouldn’t be much of a thief without that hardware.”

“Not even little kitties forget their tools, good friend Phane Rielle! Habasi tells you that only the dumbest thief could do such a thing, an embarrassment to Habasi’s profession.”

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And so it went, on and on. It seemed to Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun that all these thieves did was drink, smoke, and talk.

He tossed back another brandy; Caius lit his skooma pipe.

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“Am I in the clear now, Caius? I am tired of waiting.”

Caius passed a small brown satchel across the table. “You’ll find some money and paperwork in there. Your license to kill has been restored. Also, your next mission is this envelope.” Caius passed an unmarked gray envelope to the Argonian. There’s no need to hurry on this one. I expect your mark won’t be in the open for a few days, anyway.”

“Then I think I can take care of something else. Take a look at this note—I found on the body of one of the locals.” Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun passed a crumpled piece of paper to the Imperial. “An unfortunate side job I had to take. You understand, of course.”

“Yes, of course…” he murmured—then Caius Cosades’ eyes opened wide. “Vorar Helas hired someone to kill me? I knew he was dirty, still….. Very well. You can eliminate him. Assassination may be legal in Morrowind, but this is a crime against the Empire.”

Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun nodded. “I expected as much. He’ll be dead by morning.”

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Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun exited the South Wall at about 2:30 AM, under the eternally vigilant masses of Masser and Secunda. The night was clear, cool—only a few burning lanterns gave warmth to the streets. The assassin checked his blades—ready. He threw the hood of his robe on—he was wearing black once more—and made his way up the stairs, to highest Labor Town. No movement graced the street, and the only sound came drifting up from the South Wall—the argument had not yet ended, indeed, when could it ever end?

Vorar Helas lived in a modest two story house at the end of street, next to the spymaster. The hooded Argonian crept up the back stairs to the rear door—locked of course, but no problem, Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun pulled a pick out from his robe, smiling as he thought of debating thieves and little kitties breaking into homes in Elsweyr or the Imperial City—anywhere and everywhere really. Reverie took the assassin nearly to Iliac Bay, until he heard a muffled scream inside the very home he was breaking into.

He jerked the pick, and the lock was undone.

Inside—he stood in the bedroom, blades at the ready. Helas was not in bed. But someone was downstairs, shuffling about, muttering.

Now Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun was barely breathing, staying quiet, concentrating at the task at hand. He eased his way down the stairs—he smelled blood.

A trim Dunmer male, dressed casually, stood over a gutted, bleeding Khajiit slave. A bloody dagger lay on the stone floor.

“Helas!” The assassin leapt down the stairs at the wide-eyed Dunmer, raising his ebony shortsword. Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun brought the hilt down upon Vorar Helas’ skull.

“You barbaric scum! I was just going to kill you! Now you suffer!”

Helas, just conscious still, struggled to rise. “Wha… what are you going to d-d-do, lizard.”

At that the Argonian struck Helas’ face with the flat of the blade. “The better question, scum, is what won’t I do. My skill in destruction magic is modest, Dunmer, but I think you’ll come to regret it nonetheless. But I think I’ll start with a few ‘noise’ spells—just as a warm-up. I assure you this will hurt quite a bit. You’ll beg me to slit your throat before I’m done.”

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The sun was high over Balmora when Always-He-Lingers-in-the-Sun sat down on Caius Cosade’s bed and stared down the stony floor. “It’s done Caius. I think I may have exceeded my orders…”

Cosades stood across the room, leaning against the wall. “I thought I heard a few screams, Al. I won’t ask what happened. I don’t really want to know—I seen too much on Vvardenfell already. My superiors seem to think so, too. I’ve been recalled. It’s just as well—Helas may have told his Camonna Tong superiors about my interest.

“Recalled? Where will I get my orders?”

“The Nerevarine will be ranking agent on the island, but you’ll get your orders through Elone, for a while. The Emperor still has need of your services here.”

“Wait, wait… the Nerevarine? The incarnation of Indoril Nerevar, the Temple saint? You’re joking, right?”

Caius Cosades said nothing.

“Damn…”

Then the Imperial smiled.

“Caius? Damn, I thought you were serious for a minute there. The Nerevarine! Good one, old friend! Heh, I hope you keep your sense of humor back in the City. I’m heading back to Ebonheart—I need the rest.” With that the Argonian saluted his spymaster and stepped out the door.

Caius Cosades stood and smiled.