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.

[Zelda_Zealot]

Poetic Justice

They call me crazy, a manic, demented. You however, may call me whatever your heart desires, it makes no real difference in the end. If you truly must know though, they most commonly call me The Madman. It is a very interesting little nickname if I do say so myself, for you see; they call me this as a result of my nightly habits. Ironically, it is I who find them to be the madmen, for they are the ones who cheat, lie, and destroy each-others lives. I simply eliminate the unworthy, the cheaters, the liars and the cold-blooded murderers. Though you may find it ironic that I murder the murderers, but I find it to be poetic justice.
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Silently I crept across the wooden floor, careful not to place to much weight in one place for too long, lest the wood squeak. If the floor makes any noise I might end up having unwanted guests bursting through the recently unlocked doors, and that would be a bad thing to have. While I may be a master of unarmed combat, taking on multiple heavily armored guards in a relatively unknown area is a bit out of my league. However, all of my worrying was pointless; I reached the stairs with nary a creak or squeak, and let out a breath I was holding completely unawares.

I had been watching this couple for a few days, they seemed like nice people in public, but in their own home, there was evidence that said otherwise. What they did is unimportant, for their punishment has been decided, they would pay the ultimate price for their crimes, and would be removed permanently, from this plane of existence.
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I had discovered their dirty little secret one hot summer day while they were off in the Elven Gardens, I had been asking around town about the couple, and it seemed like everyone simply adored them. They went to the temple every Sundas, they paid their taxes, they never had any "misunderstandings" in the local bar, in fact, they were as clean as you can imagine. However, no one is that good; no one is that clean, and that is how I knew.
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I stole away up the stairs, silent as a mouse, until I reached the door to their bedroom. I had slipped a hand into my trouser pocket, searching for my lock-picking set, when the sound reached my ears, the sound of someone walking across a wooden floor. No, not just walking, stumbling, as if they were half-awake. For a split-second I panicked, but no longer. As an expert in the art of infiltration, I snuck back into the dark corner of the small landing at the top of the stairs, and waited.

It was only a moment later that the door opened and one of my marks walked sleepily to the stairs, shutting the door behind him. As soon as the latch clanked shut I pounced, slipping my arm around his neck, I dragged him away from the stairs.

"On this cool summer night, you will pay the blood price for the wrongs you have committed," I whispered into his ear, moments before I snapped his neck. Laying his body down at the top of the stairs, I opened the door.
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I knew the couple I was currently watching was in the Elven Gardens District visiting a friend of theirs as I had followed them until I was satisfied they would be gone for a while, so I also knew I would not have to worry about having the residents stumbling upon me during my brief visit to their humble abode. While I did not "dilly dally" in their place of residence, I certainly did not rush through the place. I was careful, checking under the bed, behind the bookcase (It may be cliché, people do still have doors back there), and I even checked the walls for a loose stone that might be pried off, but no such luck. It was just when I was about to give up and accept that maybe they were good people that I found what I was looking for, down in the dark, dank basement.
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My second mark was on the bed in the middle of the room, sleeping, blissfully unaware of her "significant others" demise, and her own approaching doom. The rest of the room was vaguely interesting, and if I did not have the financial security I currently hold, I might have considered pilfering a few items of worth. Nevertheless, I had no need for the primarily worthless trinkets scattered about the room, I had come here for a purpose, and I intended to fulfill that purpose.
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It was just as I was finishing my search of the basement when I heard the sound of the front door opening and footsteps crossing the house to the basement door. Quickly I scanned the room, looking for something, anything in which I could hide. There! I spotted a crate, slightly larger then I, tucked away in one of the many recesses that comprised of the outer wall of the basement. Prying off the top of the crate as silently as I could, I slid down into the crate that was thankfully quite empty, and thus unimportant. There I waited, and listened to the horrors they committed in the basement for many hours.
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My mark shifted in her sleep, still quite unaware of the impending doom. Approaching her side of the bed I stood up and leaned over, placing my gloves hands on the base of her skull and her chin, I twisted. Thus ended the life of another murderer.
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They call me crazy, a manic, demented, a Madman. For I eliminate the unworthy, the cheaters, the liars and the cold-blooded murderers. Though you may find it ironic that I murder the murderers, but I find it to be poetic justice.