Finally having it the way the Notar wanted, the former monastery settled into a forgotten sandwiched street deep in the city. Tucked away from all hindrances of the tumultuous world outside; it served its master as sanctum primus. Shelves upon shelves of spells, tomes filled with formulas, ancient histories gone crisp and ripe as time passed- all forgotten eager to be summoned. What portals lay dormant there? Dimensional and spatial hells shut upon command. Creatures, demons, the deceased, pounded upon those encaging codices.
Rooms exhaled with the pounding. Then inhaling the presence of rare and elaborate furnitures and chests strategically placed to bring all a calm and soothe. Upon pedestals of gold and bronze stood crystals and large unmined gems (still connected to curving pieces of stone) of various natural and monetary values. Made valueless by the objects within, entrapped and preserved, in a suspended point in time. Long shutters, thick windows of stained glass, and thick tapestries (retelling in pictures the tales of heroes and the Fallen) kept the threatening world outside at bay. At the same time keeping the warmth of the massive double fireplace, and its kin, within the stone and stucco walls.
The Kronos room, a large octagonal chamber dominated by a strange circular table, littered with Grafica, sat deep in the estate. A push red couch of fine blood velvet and mahogany room orbited the table, retractable armrests interrupted the flow in nearly random order. The room lay as a retreat for its master, absent since his rather rude incarceration at the hands of his former colleagues. The walls of this once busy abbey's office, stood littered and jumbled with notes, atlases and archives specific to the geography and natural history of the vast Prytanian continent. From that vantage point, the Lord of the cloister could keep watch and notes on the world around him- for his unique profession (and obsession) made it absolutely necessary. In a world that deemed his arcana (and all others) illegal, in a magical state reflecting less and less metaphysical liberties, a purveyor and excavator of rare arcanum became a very condemnable occupation .
Only one object tarnished the austere cloud of study. Upon one of the armrests, a cup of cooling tea ( made of peach root and a strong crimson chai, extracted by three separate episodes of boiling and tempering, a dash of blood orange swirled into the mixture- forming a brilliant marbling effect. Finally stirred with a cut bark of cassia) waited for the master of that domain. Presented by the keeper of the house, one of many ever present diminished memories, it stood as a reminder of the absence of the master.
This procedure, now ritual ("The only difference between procedure and ritual being," the master once said. "Is the presence or absence of the intended respectfully), occurred every Lunes. The caretaker supplying the cup for the intended upon every day, three hours past zenith. To the point that it can be said that the cup of marbled chai belonged to the room and not the intended. After a time the chamber even began to not only smell of the concoction but expect it daily.
The cup's scents curled and folded over, blurring books and tomes behind it. Where dozens of days went unnoticed that the cup cooled unattended. So many days where the cup's colors finally fused, untouched for so long- this day was different. On this day, the cup was finally met with an index finger and thumb upon its delicate porcelain leaved handle. The rim curled to meet the drinker, finally reunited by the delicate, if not trembling kiss of the intended.
Templeton had returned, and his Monast, finally exhaled.
Rooms exhaled with the pounding. Then inhaling the presence of rare and elaborate furnitures and chests strategically placed to bring all a calm and soothe. Upon pedestals of gold and bronze stood crystals and large unmined gems (still connected to curving pieces of stone) of various natural and monetary values. Made valueless by the objects within, entrapped and preserved, in a suspended point in time. Long shutters, thick windows of stained glass, and thick tapestries (retelling in pictures the tales of heroes and the Fallen) kept the threatening world outside at bay. At the same time keeping the warmth of the massive double fireplace, and its kin, within the stone and stucco walls.
The Kronos room, a large octagonal chamber dominated by a strange circular table, littered with Grafica, sat deep in the estate. A push red couch of fine blood velvet and mahogany room orbited the table, retractable armrests interrupted the flow in nearly random order. The room lay as a retreat for its master, absent since his rather rude incarceration at the hands of his former colleagues. The walls of this once busy abbey's office, stood littered and jumbled with notes, atlases and archives specific to the geography and natural history of the vast Prytanian continent. From that vantage point, the Lord of the cloister could keep watch and notes on the world around him- for his unique profession (and obsession) made it absolutely necessary. In a world that deemed his arcana (and all others) illegal, in a magical state reflecting less and less metaphysical liberties, a purveyor and excavator of rare arcanum became a very condemnable occupation .
Only one object tarnished the austere cloud of study. Upon one of the armrests, a cup of cooling tea ( made of peach root and a strong crimson chai, extracted by three separate episodes of boiling and tempering, a dash of blood orange swirled into the mixture- forming a brilliant marbling effect. Finally stirred with a cut bark of cassia) waited for the master of that domain. Presented by the keeper of the house, one of many ever present diminished memories, it stood as a reminder of the absence of the master.
This procedure, now ritual ("The only difference between procedure and ritual being," the master once said. "Is the presence or absence of the intended respectfully), occurred every Lunes. The caretaker supplying the cup for the intended upon every day, three hours past zenith. To the point that it can be said that the cup of marbled chai belonged to the room and not the intended. After a time the chamber even began to not only smell of the concoction but expect it daily.
The cup's scents curled and folded over, blurring books and tomes behind it. Where dozens of days went unnoticed that the cup cooled unattended. So many days where the cup's colors finally fused, untouched for so long- this day was different. On this day, the cup was finally met with an index finger and thumb upon its delicate porcelain leaved handle. The rim curled to meet the drinker, finally reunited by the delicate, if not trembling kiss of the intended.
Templeton had returned, and his Monast, finally exhaled.