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.

[jack cloudy]

I suppose you could call this a teaser for my next story. (after finishing agent.) I plan on making a teaser like this for all of the main characters. It should be fun. So don't worry if things are a bit confusing, I plan on explaining them (eventually).





He had come a long way. Each scar telling a chapter of his life. Danger was his breakfast, violence his lunch, blood his dinner. Now he knelt before the small altar, giving a prayer to his ancestors. The great cheering of the crowd caught his ears. The man finished his prayer and stepped outside his alcove. There was a short silent conversation between the man and the gate’s operator. A simple wish for luck.

With the sound of rattling chains, the gate rose up into the air. The man walked through, holding up a hand to shield his eyes against the sun as he was momentarily blinded. On the far side of the sandcovered pit, he could already make out his opponent. His crimson eyes narrowed as they analyzed his opponent.

Both never withdrew their eyes from each other, not even when this fight’s sponsor entered. Only a slight frown of the man revealed that he’d heard, and recognized, his sponsor.
,,Begin!”
The man raised his weapon, so did his opponent. Both were experienced gladiators, having survived countless battles. Both knew that he who rushes in like a fool dies. Much was at stake. Their lives, the title of champion, a rivalry older then the Empire, personal honour. The man made one step forward, so did his opponent.

The man’s feet disturbed the sand only slightly, despite the heavy weight pressing down with each step. His grey skin was like the land he hailed from. He had been raised in the ashy wastes of Vvardenfell, living at the slope of a mighty volcano. Ashlander he called himself, Urshilaku. Man of ash, hunter of dangerous prey.

The other towered into the air like a walking mountain. A large beard hid his face, the blue mask of war covering his bare skin. His eyes reflected the cold that embraced him upon his birth. Nord, the great warrior of Skyrim, a land as cold as the Ashlands were warm. Opposites of birth, opposites of ideal.

Spear against Axe, fire against ice. The two gladiators quickened their pace slightly till they met at the center of the arena. Warily, they circled each other. The Ashlander probed with his spear, using its greater reach to his advantage. The Nord carefully kept his distance from the plain yet deathly tip. Then, it all happened as both exploded into combat.

The latest probe with the spear was batted aside by the waraxe and the Nord lunged forward with a blow aimed to crack his opponent’s skull. The Dunmer quickly stepped to the side, letting the axe scrape against his pauldron. Now he backed away, once again moving to a range at which his spear would grant him the advantage. The Nord followed, his only option. The axe was meant for a heavy offence, the spear for a solid defence. Unstoppable force against an unbreakable wall, it was the ancient paradox turned into reality.

This time, the axe came in low, just above the knee. The Dunmer was unable to jump the blow in his heavy suit of Iron and had to block the blow with his spear. The shaft trembled from the impact, a slight crack forming across its length. The wall had taken damage. Once more, the axe moved in, aiming for the heart. The Nord had moved too close to avoid, too close to stop. The battle had reached its final moment. The Ashlander put his life in the hands of his ancestors. Releasing one hand from the spear, he reached out with his gauntlet and grabbed the incoming blade. Leather cracked, bones shattered, flesh and muscles torn beyond repair. Gritting his teeth in pain, he thrust his spear forward, into the Nord’s heart. The two men stood there for what seemed like eternity, like statues. Then, the Nord fell, dragging his axe down with him. Cheers erupted from the wild crowd.

The Ashlander’s wounded hand dropped to his side, his blood mixing with the blood of his opponent in the sand. There was only one thing left to do. The one thing that had brought him here, so far away from his home. As his sponsor approached him with his prize, he turned to face the man. Their eyes locked, revealing the truth.
,,Murderer, I claim vengeance for my people! Vengeance to the Urshilaku who you tried to drive away from the lands given to us by our ancestors! Your friends, your Empire shall be witness to this deed!” With a final surge of adrenaline-fueled strength, he hurled his spear, splitting the man’s head like a melon. The spear's shaft, already damaged from the battle, shattered from the power with which it struck its target. The crowd fell into a frightened silence, shocked by what they'd seen.

Both hands hanging by his side, he waited silently. He had done what he needed to do, anything else was unimportant now, even his fate. The guards would later report that the man who had been such a feared foe in the arena, was now like a man whose soul had already left this world, leaving only an empty shell behind. As he was led away, the man whispered one last thing.
,,We were born in the ash, we will die in the ash. No one will ever be able to destroy the Urshilaku.”

This post has been edited by jack cloudy: Dec 28 2006, 10:52 PM