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.

[Black Hand]

What do you get when Marks are running low on Vvardenfell?


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The heavy rain was the only noise in Gnaar Mok, but the sounds of heavy leather boots pounding across the dock planks soon matched the pitter patter of the nights squall. The Breton traveler’s features were obscured in the faint lantern light of the fishing shacks and brown robe pulled over his head to spare him the effects of the downpour.

The Hlaalu guard patrolling the small settlement took a special note that the traveler did not make his way to Dreugh-Jiggers Rest like most of the few tourist’s and Adventurers that came through the backwater town, rather, he strode with an agile gait to Arenim Manor. Strange, he thought, must be here on business.

The Dunmer Lord Manor, Dondes Arenim took in the sharp features of the brown-haired outlander carefully. He had heard rumors of the Nightblade, and had asked for his light touch and expertise in matters such as these. “Greetings, you must be Daric Thorn, the Lawman. Are you here on business?” he asked obsequiously.

The Breton showed little interest in the code words of the Dark Elf, and gave him slight nod. “I am. Who do you want me to kill?” he said fingering the hilt of his ebony shortsword. It glowed with a strange enchantment, and his ring, which looked very expensive, seemed to glow with a powerful restorative as well.

“Straight and to the point, I like that. You must kill not one, but two. They are….dangerous, and should provide a unique challenge to one of your skills.” Said Arenim, unrolling the parchment with the description of the targets, and pulled out a fat purse stuffed to the brim with septims.

Daric intense blue eyes scanned the gold first, and then read down the parchment, stopping when he read the third paragraph on the sheet.

“What is this? Am I some apprentice in the fighters guild? Some lowly spearman in the legion? Let me guess, Avon Oran put you up to this! Tell him the Queen was already dead by the time I took his gold! He will not have the last laugh!” Thorn began chuckling and preparing to leave.

Dondes put his hands on the Bretons shoulders. “No! This is quite serious! They are threatening the town, and the guards refuse to do anything about it! We’ve reached such a crisis here, and the job requires a specialist…I’ll,..I’ll double your pay…”

The Breton scratched his stubbled chin. “Double you say?” he mused. “You’re a fine negotiator. But there is one stipulation I have…”

“That is?” asked the Desperate Dunmer.

“No one is to know that I had anything to do with this. Ever. For any reason. I’d rather steal recipes from Alchemists then have this staining my reputation.” Daric said with an intense gaze into the Dunmers red eyes.

“Agreed. Utmost secrecy.” Said Dondes.

In the morning hours, the hooded Breton took to the shores that surrounded Gnaar Mok, to the North where his marks were often spotted. Though one would expect the Smugglers Coast, ridden with Bandit Caves, Cammona Tong, and Thieves Guild members, even Sorcerers who liked to get some practice on those unwary enough to poke their nose where it did not belong, one would not think of this as a typical assassination.

Finding his quarry, the Nightblade did what those of his trade did best, and casted a strong Chameleon spell, and observed the marks movements for a few moments. Unslinging his trademark, Shortbow of Sanguine Sureflight, he called upon its spell to increase his abilities with archery.

Feet firmly planted, he brought the tail of the arrow back under his chin, and set sailing the Ebony Arrow. With a direct hit, the first mark was down. The Female of the pair. With a death spasm she fell to the ground without a sound, and immediately her lover fell into a rage, scanning his environment for the unseen assailant.

The spell, though strong, was very short lived, and Daric became visible, just in time for the mark to wreak his vengeance on the Nightblade. Apparently his mark was a spell caster too, as he sent a powerful viperbolt to him, the acidic spray burning Daric’s exposed skin.

With a leap, Daric dodged the next shot, barely, and unsheathed Shimsil, his prized ebony shortsword, claimed from a Necromancer in Mawia, and summoned forth the energies to hide him once more. He then channeled the energies from the ring that the Necromancer also carried, called the Ring of Regeneration to heal his wounds from the poison.

But the furious widower would not be stopped, and he rained blows down upon Thorn, the hits making contact, and the bruises hurting like hell. Daric responded with slashes and cuts all his own, until finally, his mark, either from exhaustion, or a desire to join his lover in the next life, gave into the thrusts, and lay down to die.

Daric took his time in returning to Arenim Manor, letting the ring heal his wounds, as it did work very slowly. The wounds he had received were painful, but he would live, and would be 2000 septims richer for it.

“Are they…?” Dondes started

“Dead. Both. Just as we agreed. My payment?” Daric said with his patience wearing thin.

“First the proof.”

Daric handed over the Netch Leather Hides.

“Excellent. Those breeding netches were causing nothing but trouble around here.” Said Dondes, handing over two fat pursese. “I’m going to turn these into a prized pair of boots!”

Daric weighed his reward. “Remember, you said that would tell no one of this! If it gets out….Ill turn YOUR hide into a prized pair of boots…” he said with a dark tone.

“Yes, yes, Lawman. No one will know. Now get out of here, before the locals start asking to many questions.”