Hello,
Sorry for the delay!
Good story so far! What's the old line? The
more you sweat in peace the less you bleed in war!
He is so confused. So many ideas he is dealing with.
Chris
The Lurking Fox
-----Original Message-----
From: C. Matthias <[email protected]>
To: Metamor Keep <[email protected]>
Sent: Fri, May 4, 2018 2:42 pm
Subject: [Mkguild] Elvmere's New Duties (1/2)
I've had this done for a little while but I was
hoping Raven could provide a review of it. I
have not heard back from him so I'm going to
share what I have and if he gets back to me we'll make corrections.
Metamor Keep: Elvmere's New Duties
by Charles Matthias
1/2
June 16, 708 CR
First principles. The world existed before I was.
Elvmere ducked beneath a spinning wooden arm and
then jumped over its brother aimed for his
shins. A second later he did so again as the
training machine spun. He grit his fangs
together and sucked in quick breaths through his black nose.
The world is intelligible. I can know things and
these things can be tested. There is truth and
it cannot change. A changed truth is not a truth at all.
The bar swung for his head and Elvmere ducked
low before jumping. The rhythm had not been hard
to master; after two weeks of grueling training
he no longer collapsed on his bunk with the
other acolytes with bruised shins and brow. Now
he could spare a moment to gather his thoughts and train them too.
It is the measure against which I must find my place.
Jump, duck, jump, duck. His body was wound like a spring and just as loose.
Nothing can both exist and not exist. It either
is or it isn't. Once it is it will always be,
only its state of being can change.
Elvmere felt the lower bar brush his tail and
the brief touch made him hesitate a single
heartbeat. He hissed under his breath as he
ducked, and then tripped as the lower bar
swinging back around clipped his paw. He thrust
his arms forward to roll aside but bounced from
the edge of the spinning platform and landed on
his back staring up at a blue-liveried mule with
a lop-sided ear and sardonic expression.
To wit, the bruise on my ribs did not exist a moment ago.
ÂWell, Acolyte, DeMule remarked with a
braying laugh. ÂYour best time yet. You dodged
forty-three passes this time. Back to Tamsin for
sword practice. You'll try this again in an hour.Â
Elvmere pushed himself up and offered the other
trainees waiting their turn on the machine a
hopeful grin. Some chuckled at the raccoon's
latest stumble while others returned the
encouragement. Most were young enough to have
just undergone their first change while a few
were the last stragglers from Bradanes. A few
were older come in need of a refresher before
their annual patrol duty. A handful, like
Elvmere, were acolytes of the Temple fulfilling their assigned duty.
At the beginning of the month, Celine informed
him he would be spending his mornings training
for combat until DeMule felt he was ready for
his first patrol. Every able-bodied Metamorian
was required to go on patrol at least once a
year and acolytes of the Temple were no
exception, especially one as hearty as the
youthful raccoon. The fact he had never before
used a weapon was no excuse, and both Celine and
the Lothanasa had assured him nothing in his
past would alter their expectations of him.
Other than his vow of silence regarding who he'd once been.
Whatever uncertainty he'd felt from the other
acolytes when he joined the Order had been
assuaged by six months of communal living and
serving. The rhythm of life in the Temple had
its variations, but each day began with prayers
and ended with the nightly sacrifice. His only
interruptions were the occasional visit from his
traveling companions Malger and Murikeer.
Malger's last visit had been to inform him of a
long journey to Sondeshara and say goodbye Â
they had sung an impromptu traveling song
together before the marten took his leave.
Murikeer visited not long after to inquire after
his training and, after securing Celine's
permission, took Elvmere for a short jaunt
through the nearby forest to help the raccoon
see Artela in all her splendors. The skunk's
obvious devotion and gentleness as he touched
each tree and bush and whispered of each animal
surrounding them lifted his spirits and filled
him with marvel. Artela'kema had been only three
days before, and so already heady with the
ancient ritual, Elvmere had felt praise for the
goddess come easily to his tongue. He'd felt a
sudden urge to shrink to his feral form and,
leaving his brown acolyte's robes behind, climb
up the nearest tree to see, listen, and smell
the forest the way her wild children did. Later
during the evening prayers he wondered if he
would have done so had Murikeer not been there.
But as Elvmere lay waiting for sleep to claim
him, he fought tears for the faith he had lost.
I exist, or else I could not perceive any of the
universe. But I did not bring myself about.
ÂYou're almost there, Elvmere. A short-furred
young man dressed as a guard of the Temple in
smoky-gray livery with the twin cross emblazoned
across the front smiled to him. The smile lifted
his protruding, heavy snout enough Elvmere could
see the short, sharp teeth beneath it. Elvmere
had seen creatures like this only once before on
a mission to Eavey in Sonngefilde, but Metamor's
curses drew from all across the world for its inspiration.
ÂAnother two weeks, eh, Tamsin? Elvmere asked
as he practiced the stretches DeMule had showed
them. The tapir shrugged and lowered his snout.
ÂPerhaps. I think you'll get it sooner.Â
Tamsin flicked his large ears out to either side
of his head and turned the practice sword over
in his mostly human-shaped hands. ÂI'd prefer a
Summer patrol; I don't have thick fur like you. You know how winters are.Â
ÂAye, Elvmere admitted. His second winter at
Metamor had been spent in the Temple; he'd could
only notice the change by observing what the Lothanasi coming to worship wore.
ÂWell, let's get started. DeMule is watching!Â
Tamsin offered the second sword to Elvmere. Even
though both were fashioned from strong oak, the
raccoon felt sure they would be nothing more
than kindling before the day was done. He
scratched his claws across the surface, green eyes lost.
Something brought me into existence. Something
before me. Not my parents or theirs.
He felt a tap on his shoulder and blinked. ÂNo
daydreaming, Elvmere! Lutins won't wait for you
to finish praying, eating, or well, you know!Â
He chuffed at himself and Tamsin's reluctance to
swear. He'd heard far worse from Malger and had long since stopped flinching.
He stepped back and lifted the sword the way
he'd been shown, trying to keep his attention on
the tapir's face, hands, and shoulders. Tamsin
shifted back and forth on his big three-toed
feet, swaying the sword tip for a few seconds
before jabbing at Elvmere's chest. He stepped
back and swung his sword down making a solid crack.
ÂGood, your reflexes are improving, Tamsin
said as he flashed another snout-lifted grin.
Before Elvmere could acknowledge the compliment,
the tapir swung in from his left again. Elvmere
gritted his fangs and held tight.
Something brought all of us into existence.
ÂOw!Â
ÂWell, keep your eyes on me! Tamsin laughed
and stomped back a pace. ÂNow, come at me.Â
First principles will have to wait. Dokorath, help me learn to defend myself!
It was a long morning.
----------
By noon-time Elvmere felt at least three new
bruises along his arms and sides. It was his
fewest yet. He half wished he'd asked Malger and
Murikeer to teach him on their journey through
Sathmore, but he could not have foreseen his
service to the Temple then. He followed after
Tamsin as they returned the practice swords and
gathered their brown acolyte robes. Even inside
the castle with its cold stone walls they were
too hot to dare put them on. The gray tunic and
breeches of the Temple guards would do for now.
ÂYou are a good swordsman, Tamsin, Elvmere
noted as they left DeMule's training hall. ÂI
can tell you are going easy on me.Â
ÂOf course, Tamsin replied, patting him on
the shoulder. ÂWe may be about the same age,
but I've been swinging a sword since I was six.
So I've... He looked at his fingers and took a
few seconds to count, Âfourteen years on you!Â
ÂIt cannot be a good idea to send someone like me on a patrol.Â
Tamsin shrugged, and turned his long head toward
the raccoon. ÂWe do it all the time. Usually
your first will be down south. Less chance of
excitement. Once we've had the patrol you won't
have to come to training every day. Unless Celine says to.Â
Elvmere felt a sullen dread at the thought. ÂShe won't, will she?Â
Tamsin chuckled. ÂProbably not. But then
again. He scratched under his chin and lifted
his snout as if smelling out his thoughts.
ÂYou're young and in good shape, and beastly
too. Not many of us acolytes have those nice
claws. I'm jealous; I bet Dokorath himself is
jealous! They shared a light chuckle before
the tapir shrugged. ÂI'm surprised she didn't send you sooner.Â
ÂShe had her reasons, I'm sure. The last two
months I've been in the archives or with the musicians.Â
ÂAnd good! You really learned from the Dreamwalker?Â
ÂMalger. Aye.Â
ÂThe life of a wandering minstrel didn't suit you?Â
Elvmere looked away for a moment, surprised to
see they had not yet reached the familiar
entrance to the Temple. The strange power of the
Keep to reshape itself never interfered with the
inside of the Temple and it startled him on his
first outing when he discovered it anew. Now it
seemed to be prolonging their way back.
He liked Tamsin hin'Feros. Though he could not
admit his real age, his body in appearance and
in the many impulses and passions it experienced
was close enough to the tapir's own. There were
only three other male acolytes touched by the
animal curse: Christopher who was locked in the
form of a feral bear, and two others who had
served since long before Three Gates. With
Tamsin, much like with Murikeer and Malger, he
felt the age the Keep had made him. The tapir's
earnest nature and genuine devotion made it easy
to like him. He was Elvmere's first friend among the acolytes.
ÂSuit me? For a season or two it did. But not
for the rest of my days. And why are you not a
warrior or scout for Metamor? You could be.Â
ÂI was, Tamsin admitted, turning to look at
the ceiling for a moment. He made a sign with
his fingers Elvmere recognized as the spiral of
Akkala. He then patted his side and right leg.
ÂI was badly injured during Winter Assault. I
would have died. But Akkala healed me. Her gaes
was to serve as an acolyte and strengthen the
Temple for a year. My year is up but... He
lifted his prodigious snout again and laughed.
ÂI fell in love with life at the Temple and so I stay.Â
ÂBesides, he added, nudging the raccoon in
the ribs. ÂI still go on patrol, and help other
acolytes like you manage their martial duties!
But I get to do so much more now, and help the
Lothanasa with all the rituals. Much better than
the life of an ordinary scout.Â
Elvmere smiled to his friend and took his turn
to pat his friend on the shoulder. ÂIt might be
why Akkala chose to heal you; so many were dying, and yet she choose you.Â
ÂShe healed many more than me, but aye, maybe
so! Tamsin looked down at his brown robe for a
moment, small eyes fixed as his fingers traced
across the rough folds of fabric. His nose
swelled with a deep breath as he pulled it over
his head. ÂTime to share the Light, Elvmere.Â
Elvmere could only nod and do the same as the tapir.
All things happen for a reason.
----------
The raccoon and tapir normally enjoyed a meal
together after returning to the Temple but the
time of fasting for the Day of Dedication was
upon them so they were only permitted a little
drink. Once finished they were sent their
separate ways; Tamsin to his daily training in
magical arts and Elvmere to a few hours of
copying in the Scriptorium. There was no time to
remove the heavy, gray guard-of-the-temple
livery and change into lighter underclothes, and
so in the stuffy Archives he soon began panting
and every few minutes had to wipe the sweat from
his palms onto his robes to keep from staining the ancient manuscripts.
Still, he enjoyed a chance to learn the history
of the Pantheon, their progeny, their dealings
with man and the rise of the Lothanasi. There
was a cosmic sweep to the events so different
from what he'd learned as a Patildor in his
first youth. At times he felt as if he pored
over tomes of some ancient civilization of men
and at others their celestial nature was
manifest so powerfully he felt smaller than a
beast in comparison. What startled him anew, and
what he found with each new day he savored more,
was how like he and all his friends the Pantheon
seemed. They had feelings, motivations,
struggles, victories, and suffering too. Each of
the gods writ upon a canvas of ages the struggle
of mortal life and the depth of goodness it could overflow.
And perhaps, he noted with a hint of doubt, they
showed weakness too. Against the sweep of time
there seemed mistakes. Elvmere chuffed at himself for the thought.
I cannot measure the gods the way I measure
myself. I do not see nearly as far as they and must be humble.
Elvmere wiped his paws on his lap again and
blinked, eyes returning to the page. The warm
glimmer of an enchanted stone  one of eight
gifted him by Murikeer  made the letters clear
and crisp. He rolled the quill between his claws
as he read the next line. Carefully he dipped
the quill in ink and copied each word. The
language was difficult to decipher as it was an
ancient form of Suielish common in the glory
days of Sathmore a thousand years ago already
fallen into disuse in the eastern extent of the
Empire by the time of the Patildor. But he was
able to discern a long, arcane ceremony where an
ancient goddess of the arts, Sakkan, swore
fealty to Kammoloth to save her sole surviving worshiper.
He copied a few more sentences before he was
forced to wipe the sweat from his paws again, as
well as dab up a bit of drool from his panting.
Elvmere grimaced as he stretched and then
massaged the bruises along his side and arm. The
soreness lingered but he was growing used to it.
Kammoloth, King of the Gods. To whom all in the
Celestial Realm owe allegiance and who created
the Lothanasi to mediate between god and man.
But there are other gods. What is a god? A being
surely, but of what nature? Sakkan is not Aedra,
not like Kammoloth and Artela and the rest. Yet
she is of the Celestial Realm. What is it? How
many more Celestial beings abide there?
How do they relate to Eli and Yahshua? What is
it the Lothanasi call Him? Geshwa Onequion. Hirasoth. What does this name mean?
Elvmere tapped the end of the quill to his nose
and stilled his panting as he watched the ink
dry. Even his tail fell still at his feet as his mind wrangled with questions.
There were other gods worshiped by mankind
before, perhaps by the Elves as well? What of
the Lutins, Giants and Dragons? Do they have
gods too? Will all of them bend the knee to Kammoloth one day?
But the Patildor claim, and I believed for so
long, they were the one true faith and all
others are false. And I have done things with my
own hands, driven out terrible evil, in
Yahshua's name. There was power there. But there
is power in Kammoloth and his court too.
How do they relate?
ÂAcolyte Elvmere! A boy's contralto sundered
his pondering and made him jump in his seat.
ÂAre you transcribing or are you perspiring?Â
Elvmere blinked and with chagrin realized he'd
been panting onto the quill. He dried the haft
on the sleeve of his robe. ÂForgive me, Master
Weiland. I was pondering what I had just read and...Â
A youth of about thirteen also attired in the
brown robe of a Lothanasi Acolyte stepped from
behind him with a critical glance, hands clasped
behind his back, a scroll tucked beneath his
arm. His short blonde hair was peppered by
Archive dust; Elvmere could smell old vellum and
ink on him as if he too were a tome preserved in
the ancient library. He tapped his boot with the impatience of a schoolmaster.
ÂWhat room are you in boy? Elvmere did not
know how old Weiland truly was and had long ago
stopped wanting to correct anyone about his own true age.
ÂThe Scriptorium.Â
ÂAnd what is it Acolytes are assigned to do in the Scriptorium?Â
Elvmere sighed and chuffed, eyes lowering to
Weiland's feet. ÂCopying the ancient texts.Â
ÂIndeed. Weiland gestured to the stack of
parchment at Elvmere's station. ÂAnd just how much have you managed today?Â
He sighed, and scuffed his claws on the stone. ÂHalf a page...Â
ÂHmph. You are usually more productive. What is on your mind, Elvmere?Â
Elvmere cast a glance at the tome, the words and
illuminations decorating them, and then back to
the senior acolyte. ÂI was reading as I copied
and... and it made me think. I was wondering
about Sakkan and who she is; she is not Aedra,
and yet she serves them in the Celestial Realm.Â
ÂAnd directs the Muses, Weiland added, a
warmth touching his words. ÂThe muses who bring
inspiration and help us know the stories of old
passed down to guide us. Elvmere could almost
hear the lilt of a tale rush to the man cursed
to be a boy; on a few nights as he lay in his
bunk with burnt flesh of the evening sacrifice
and the bitter pungency of the incense still in
his nostrils, Weiland had told a few of those
stories to acolytes fighting sickness or tending
an injury to soothe them. Elvmere liked those
stories; Malger had told many tales on their
journeys, but his always seemed to end with some
salacious or malicious twist. Weiland's always
had some message to lift the soul higher and make it strive for the better.
ÂAnd the Muses are the daughters of Samekkh and
Velena, Elvmere added. The thought of the gods
having children no longer scandalized him though it did perplex him.
ÂDo you know the stories of Sakkan? Perhaps the
Brave Tailor and the Flies? Or the Titan and the
Wheat? How about the Fisherman and the Maid of the Sea?Â
ÂI... I have never heard of any of those tales.
I know what I read here, the histories and the legends. I...Â
Weiland scoffed and Elvmere saw him roll his
eyes. ÂHalf of knowledge! If even half. History
and legends have much to teach us, but the gods
in their wisdom give us stories too, and Sakkan
is caretaker of the daughters who bring them to
us. Wisdom is their gift, Samekkh's gift.
Knowledge without wisdom is a sword without a
handle, dangerous to touch and of more harm to
its wielder than to its enemies.Â
Elvmere kept his muzzle shut, waiting for the
senior acolyte to pronounce whatever it was,
punishment or pearl, his diatribe was building up to.
ÂYou will finish your duties here, boy, and I
will speak to Celine about seeing you are
properly trained with the Stories when your
other duties allow. You are too clever not to
know them and be able to recite them for others.
A bit of wisdom would do a young man like
yourself some good. The boy turned the scroll
over in his hands as if it were a switch a
father used to discipline unruly sons. ÂNow,
back to it and try not to pant on the manuscripts this time.Â
ÂAye, Master Weiland! Chastened, the raccoon
sat back down, dipped the quill into the ink, and resumed copying the letters.
Over his shoulder as he left, Weiland offered
one more critique. ÂAnd next time, Acolyte
Elvmere, change out of your guard tunic first!Â
The raccoon leaned over the text, grunting as he
drew each character. He did not even spare the time to read them.
----------
Celine found Elvmere on the way back to the
men's sleeping chambers  he intended to doff
the guard tunic beneath his acolyte's robes for
something lighter. The Head of the Acolytes
divined his intent and shook her head. ÂNever
mind about the guard tunic, Acolyte, you will
need it again in a few hours. Next time change
before heading into the archives. I am surprised at you.Â
ÂI did not realize how overwrought I would
become. Forgive me, Mistress Celine.Â
The girl's eyes were firm but there was a touch
of humor at the edge of her lips. ÂMaster
Weiland spoke to me of his idea for your
training. You will apprentice under him... after
you return from your patrol with Tamsin. For
now, you will continue your military training
and will begin to serve as temple guard this
night. Tamsin will help you adjust. Now, off to
your duties. I will see you in another hour for your musical training.Â
Elvmere nodded. ÂAs you wish, Mistress Celine,
I will do it. What else could he say?
His next round of duties were by far his least
favorite  helping clean the Dove room. He'd
spent his first three months as an acolyte
tending the doves used in the nightly
sacrifices. He filled their dishes with seeds,
poked his claws into their nests to count their
eggs, and cleaned the droppings filling their
cages and the nearby floor. The stench clung to
his fur even after he'd bathed, and for weeks
after he'd been reassigned to the Archives in
March. After the plague had left Metamor he'd
been given a variety of duties in the Temple,
and one of them took him right back into the
Dove room every week. One hour each week to help
with cleaning, a task everyone participated in
because it was the foulest task in the Temple.
The only solace Elvmere had in the duty which
rankled his nose was it gave him time for
thinking. As he checked each cage amid the
cooing and turning of heads to watch him, he
tried to draw back what he had begun during sword practice.
First principles. The world I know through my
senses is real and precedes me. It is the
measure against which I must understand myself.
He inserted a claw into one of the cages and
flecked his jowls when a dove pecked it to keep
him away from her nest. Three robin-bright eggs
nestled there. He gave his pecked finger a lick
before wrinkling his nose in disgust at both
taste and scent. A few minutes in the room was
all it took; he hoped there would be time to bathe later.
My senses tell me some things are good and other
things are bad. They did this even before I
became part raccoon. The vitality and intensity
only have changed; the nature of what I perceive
has not. What we sense is real; only the
accidents of our perception may very given
strength and skill. It is up to my intellect to
interpret those sensations into something
intelligible; a well-formed intellect will
conform to reality; an ill-formed intellect will
mistake its own will for reality.
Elvmere bent down on hands and knees, tail
flicking from one sandal-covered paw to another
as he began to scrub bird poop from the stone
floor with a rag. His whiskers backed against
his jowls and he tried to keep his nostrils
pressed tight. The miasma slipped through anyway; his empty stomach clenched.
A well-formed intellect will seek to understand.
Truth is truth whether we like it or not. It's why I'm here now.
Elvmere grunted and glanced at the
white-feathered bird staring back at him. In a
week or two its blood would spill when the
Lothanasa or one of the other priestesses would
sacrifice it; its flesh would burn in the fire
pit in the center of the Temple. The sacrifice
was part of the life of the Lothanasi Order
Kammoloth created to govern man's relationship to the Aedra.
There were once animal sacrifices in Yesulam
too, but all of those ceased when the Patildor
won the city in the decades after Yahshua's
death upon the Yew. He'd spent decades thinking
the practice barbaric and a sign of the errors
of the Lothanasi. How fitting his first task was
to tend to these birds. He knew it had been
meant to humble him who had once been at the
side of the Patriarch, but it did so in more
ways than one. It was Lothanasa Raven's way of
reminding him it had been his ways in error not theirs.
Do you really believe so?
Elvmere scrubbed harder and turned his gaze from the bird.
The Aedra are real. Even Akabaeith believed it.
He would have been Lothanasi too had he been but
sent to Sathmore instead of Pyralis.
But he was not sent to Sathmore.
He wanted me to stay at Metamor. He wanted me to
be here. All my steps led me here. My companions
along the way... aye, I do believe in the gods.
Kammoloth is King of the gods. Samekkh the Wise.
Artela the Huntress. Dokorath the Warrior.
Dvalin the Warden of the Sky. Velena the
Beautiful. Akkala the Healer. Yajiit who warms
the Earth. Wvelkim who governs the Sea. Why
shouldn't I be faithful to Kammaloth and to the Pantheon? My Lady...
Elvmere slowed his scrubbing as a smile played
across his snout. He shrank a little in his
attire and the rag slipped from his fingers as
his thumb shifted along his hand until they were
a beast's paws. In his mind he could see his
Lady's smile and felt her comforting presence.
She had welcomed him home with pride and delight
in her gaze when he'd spent his first night in
the Temple as one of its acolytes. She had
comforted him in all his agonies most every
night he spent in Metamor. This place was more
home to him than anything he'd known in Yesulam
and in time he felt sure the Temple would be
more revealing to him than anything he'd learned from the Patildor.
One of his sandals fell from his paw and he
chittered in surprise. His body swelled back to
its normal size and proportions as he reached
behind and pulled the sandal on again.
I am too comfortable in my feral form. I shouldn't be comfortable as a beast.
Acolytes were given one day a week free from
their Temple duties so long as they were present
for the dawn prayers and the evening sacrifice.
Elvmere, when not in the company of other
acolytes on some errand in Keeptowne, had
wandered the halls or gardens of Metamor as a
normal raccoon. He half expected to find himself
curled tail to nose on his bunk one morning.
I need to stop hiding from the world.
And myself.
Elvmere sighed and moved to the next cage to resume scrubbing.
I am still a Bishop of the Patildor  the
Ecclesia. The raccoon child who gave me the
message for Lothanasa Raven assured me so. And I
do still believe Yahshua is the Son of Eli. I do
still believe He died and rose again. Do I truly believe in the Pantheon?
His claws caught on a bit of mortar and a grim chuckle filled his throat.
A moment ago I was afraid I was too used to
being an animal. I believe in the Pantheon for
the same reason I believe in Yahshua  the
witness of others who have seen. Malger has met
Nocturna. Murikeer has met more spirits and
creatures of elder days than I can count. Nylene
knows and loves them more intimately than she
knew  or loved  me. Many of the acolytes
here have seen the gods or their messengers
within these last years. I have my Lady who has
guided me to this place. Aye. Of course I
believe in them. Of course I will serve them.
Elvmere leaned back on his haunches and picked
at the mortar stuck under his claw. His tail
tucked around the side and then flicked back
when it felt the damp stone he'd just cleaned.
I only do not know what they are and to whom my
ultimate faith must lie. I must learn. I must listen. I must think.
He glanced about the room and the half-dozen
more cages he needed to tend before reporting
for his musical training. ÂLater, he murmured
to himself. ÂToo much to do. The raccoon
acolyte resumed scrubbing, counting eggs, and
avoiding the pecks. There would be time later.
----------
May He bless you and keep you in His grace and love,
Charles Matthias
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