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]

A note about what follows: parts that are written as [censored] were written exactly that way--no autocensor needed. I hope you enjoy this admittedly mildly baudy (and really fun to write) tale.

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Master Radrothil’s Lessons: Number Three

I know that you are skilled with your bow, Sythia, and that you can kill anyone with but a shot. Your devotion to the art serves you well, but you would be wise to listen to me when I teach you the finer points of the blade. The greatest weapon of the assassin is his mind, not just in the planning of the attack but in the creation of his self—the aura of the assassin, if you will allow me the extravagance of poesy. With your choice of weapon, you choose your self-image. The bow is for the fearful, reluctant assassin—you yourself have said that you need not see your mark’s face to strike him. I worry about how you will respond to the killing, if it becomes personal. I think you know what I mean. But to take up the dagger is to make every death personal, to always see the face of the doomed. It is also the highest expression of skill in our chosen profession. But—where was I?—the aura of which I speak, it is everything to the assassin, and thus the dagger is everything. I do not ask you to abandon the bow, for it serves you well, but I will not let you work on your own until I think you are ready. You must know the power of the dagger.

The Shadowscales of Black Marsh held the dagger “Kills-You-Dead” in high esteem. Only their most exalted master was permitted to hold the weapon. I cannot say that it was particularly special, for it was in appearance a fairly typical daedric dagger. Yet the Shadowscales exalted it, for it its health-stealing enchantment seemed to never run out, even if the wielder struck his foe a thousand times. Still, I know of countless weapons more powerful than Kills-You-Dead—I’ve wielded a few myself. But it was a weapon that all the apprentice Shadowscales aspired to, and they trained diligently in the use of a dagger. Even if, as the legend goes, the order is far more dedicated to practicing the art of illusion than the traditional method of sneak-and-stab. Indeed, the Shadowscales may have benefited from more practice in the old ways of assassination, instead of feats of magick.

Most of the apprentice Shadowscales begin their training when very young, even before they are to lick the Hist. At least, this is what I am told. I must confess that my knowledge here is second-hand. But it is a truism that every argonian in our Morag Tong is a failed Shadowscale. Huleeya could surely tell you…but, where was I? Oh yes. Every now and again an older apprentice is accepted. So it was that not too many years ago, the Shadowscales accepted an applicant of 21 years, with no formal training save that which life in the Arena supplies. His name is lost to me… oh, I remember. Yes, Heik-Auri, I believe—in the Hist tongue. As the story goes, he had been fighting with guerillas in the north of Black Marsh, resisting the Dres slave raiders.

The guerillas had been having some success against the Dres, and were planning a counterstrike—a raid into Tear itself. A bold strike indeed. The Dres, however, had managed to capture the few Shadowscale scouts and spies that the guerillas had at their disposal—and they wanted one of their own trained in the arts of assassination and obfuscation.

Heik-Auri was talented, but he did not fit in well as a Shadowscale. No doubt you have heard that all lizard-men are cunning illusionists, and to a degree this is true. The Shadowscales are far beyond cunning. When you or I cast a spell of invisibility, we reveal ourselves the moment we attempt to manipulate anything. It is one of illusion’s laws, it would seem, but the law does not apply to these Shadowscales—they are trained from their youth to bend the laws of magick. But Heik-Auri was not so cunning with magick, and was too old to forget its rules. So he lost all his sparring matches, as his partner could always cast invisibility in the heat of the fight. He lost, even though he was more skilled with a blade.

Now, you may ask, what good, then, was his skill with a blade if he could be bested by callow illusionists? And I tell you, he wondered about that too. This argonian, Heik-Auri, took to drinking, which of course only made his mood and temper worse, which only made his life more difficult. He began to spar drunk, fighting furiously and losing ignobly. The master of these Shadowscales, one called Sneaks-in-Shadows, saw the apprentice assassin failing.

“Heik-Auri, you [censored] idiot! If you could cast a simple spell of invisibility yourself, you wouldn’t get beaten so!”

But this was the wrong thing to say to a drunken, embarrassed, and angry young assassin. Heik-Auri practically shouted his response to the master.

“And if this one would dare fight with a blade instead of cowardly magic tricks, I could [censored by order of the Temple]! I could [censored] every last [censored] here if the [censored] cowards would fight me like a real [censored] killer would!”

This was also the wrong thing to say. “Heik-Auri, you forget yourself! But you shall have your wish—a battle of blades… with me.” Sneaks-in-Shadows drew a daedric dagger from within his robes, glowing with divine power. It was Kills-You-Dead.

Of course, the encampment was thrown into an uproar, dozens of hushed voices colliding to create a firestorm of whispers. Many of the apprentice Shadowscales had never even seen the sacred blade before; even less could they fathom that it would be used in combat against one so unworthy. Heik-Auri was, naturally, not so awed as the others. He was relatively new to the order, and aside from that he was terribly drunk. Still, he could not help but notice the blade’s power—but he also could not decline to fight and maintain his honor. What honor really means to a drunk, I do not know, but I do know that he agreed to the fight, drawing his own ebony shortsword—how a young guerilla came across such a pricey weapon, is perhaps a question best reserved for Heik-Auri himself. I think he may have taken it off of a Dres. They are rich, the Dres, but as the Hlaalu say… but I’m getting away from the story again, am I not?

The combatants, the apprentice Heik-Auri and the master Sneaks-in-Shadows, squared off a few yards apart as the other apprentices arrayed themselves into a great circle, wider than the greatest of their Hist trees.

Now, from what I hear, the Master made the first move, confident that he was about to give his insolent and incompetent student a good thrashing. Heik-Auri, drunk as he was, deftly avoided the slash across the chest and made his own probe toward the Master’s chest, which mostly missed but did cut a hole in Sneaks-in-Shadows’ robe. Unconcerned, the Master executed a spinning sideswipe that nearly overawed the crowd but which was successfully parried by his opponent, who responded with a blow to his master’s left shoulder. It connected, carving a long gash toward Sneaks-in-Shadows’ heart.

I cannot adequately describe how the gathered apprentices reacted to the sight of their master’s blood, drawn by one they had beaten so regularly. I can only guess that they must have been fairly stunned. Still, Heik-Auri’s cut was rather shallow; by no means was it even a crippling blow. Indeed, Sneaks-in-Shadows responded with a crushing overhand blow—or it would have been crushing had it not been dodged. The Master’s reward was a slash across the stomach.

Still drunk, and now intoxicated with the battle, Heik-Auri shouted for all to hear, “What [censored] taught you to fight, [censored]-in-Shadows? A [censored] courtesan?”

I know what you are thinking Sythia, and you are right. Heik-Auri was stupid to say such things—but it is near-impossible for the drunken and angry to reason with themselves. And indeed, the young lizard-man was both very drunk and very angry. Sneaks-in-Shadows was beyond angry now—he was furious, whipped into a rage. His response was not in words but in deed—he paralyzed his apprentice. In other words, he cheated. “Fool! Perhaps now you’ll learn the value of your [censored] magic studies!” He gave Heik-Auri a single cut across the chest with Kills-You-Dead. “Healer! Treat this [censored] idiot before he falls over and dies!”

Sythia, I know that what I have told you so far seems to emphasize the unbeatable nature of a trick like illusion, but the story is not over. The illusionist thinks he has all the answers, like that book… what was it? Incident at Necrom? But that story is so… oh, nevermind. Where was I? Oh yes, the duel is over…

Later, in the evening, Sneaks-in-Shadows retired to his chambers, up at the highest level of the Shadowscales’ monastery. Where is it? I hear that it is somewhere west of Greenglade… but that is rather immaterial to my lesson, isn’t it? In any case, the Master’s chambers were quite high, quite secure, well-guarded. He needed that sense of security this night, as his chest and shoulder still felt terrible from the wounds he had received—his healer had done good work, but still, he was sore. Cold, too, as it was an oddly cool and breezy evening in Black Marsh. He strode to the open window, to shut it, but before that he leaned out to look out over his academy. His eyes opened wide.

“Forgive me, Sneaks-in-Shadows,” spoke Heik-Auri as he plunged his ebony shortsword into the Master’s heart, “I should have killed you earlier.”

The Shadowscales lost their sacred blade because they did not also hold sacred the skills needed to wield it.

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You have learned from this book. Your short blade skill increased to 85.


This post has been edited by canis216: Dec 26 2006, 01:30 AM