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 wanted to try something else. I bet you can figure out what I based this story on.




Files of Grey-Tongue: The Case of the Silver Spoon.

13th of Talos Plaza:

It was a dreary morning. The wind threw buckets of water against the window. Grey clouds hid the sun, making the day as dark as the night. No living soul dared to go out now, not while the rain would last. It was the perfect weather for disaster.

She was an old Breton, bent down with age, like an old scarecrow wearing a hat of snow. For half an hour now, she’d rummaged through the kitchen, searching for something. Something very important. Something more important than anything else at the moment. Yet, she could not find it. And without it, she would be lost.

The woman, in her despair, knew of only one solution.
,,Sir Grey.” She spoke in a hushed tone as she entered the study. The man she’d spoken to looked up from the weathered parchment, a goldtrimmed pipe dangling from the corner of his mouth, the sweet smell of burning Hackle-lo drifting up towards the ceiling.
,,Yes, miss Wolfer. Is something the matter?” He asked back with a slightly hissing accent.

,,It’s the spoon, the silver spoon. It’s missing. I’ve looked everywhere.” Miss Wolfer explained, using her hands to illustrate her problem.
,,Then let the tea simmer on a low fire. I’ll investigate this matter at once.” Sir Grey replied and got up out of his seat, elegantly lifting his tail through the gap at the chair’s back.

The two returned to the kitchen where indeed, a pot of boiling tea stood on an open fire. Sir Grey’s eyes dashed around the room, taking in every detail, every speck of dust and every grain of sugar.
,,This is not a murdercase yet the same principle applies. Discover the crucial detail at the scene. Even the most trivial detail could be vital.” He muttered to himself. He found that talking helped him think.
,,Sugar, spilled near the medicine cabinet. Ah, miss Wolfer, did you perhaps use a silver spoon last night while brewing the concoction that alleviates your arthritis?” He asked the old maid.

,,Oh my. Why yes, sir Grey. I did.” She replied, looking at the small pile of sugar on the sink.
,,Then it would be reasonable to assume that you left your cup, with the spoon on your nightstand, am I correct? I shall investigate your bedroom at once, with your permission.”

Sir Grey ascended the stairs, his scaley arms brushing against the railing. Two minutes later, he returned to the kitchen. In his hand, he held a silver spoon still stained with a medical concoction of indeterminable flavour.
,,I believe this is the missing item.” He spoke.
,,Oh, my. Yes, it is. Thank you, sir Grey. Extra sugar in the tea?” miss Wolfer replied, struck with joy.
,,As always, miss Wolfer. As always.”