Always thinking of it as a delicate language, the language of empires and poets, a form of symbols that reflected not only the ancient past but also the inner workings of the soul, Templeton treated it with the utmost care, not at all magic but rather, as poetry.
Perhaps that is why the Notars, his sect of magic wielding scribes, forced him into this exile, far from home. For Notars wrote stoic short words or symbols as tradition demanded, only writing the letters needed for the magical effects. Their language, the only remaining shred of the Noat Empire that spanned the Prytanian continent, allowed the caster to alter the world around him with a glyph, a cartouche or the pictograph of a needed item. Notars wrote for spell effects in much the same way Runeweavers do. Simple letters written on items made them enchanted. Notars, like secluded scribes, spent hours beautifying these symbols and thus giving them that much more power. Power that the magical notaries used to control most of the civilized continent; any other form of magic rendered illegal. Thus the Notars had become the undisputed monopolizers of the arcana arts. Templeton gravitated in secret to establish a black market in the illegal trade of magic and its enchanted items.
Despite their power and control, the resulting syntax while elaborate, always read clumsy, always primitive never truly reflected the heights of a once great people. Yet Templeton, pressed on by the evidence of recent excavations and artifacts that his own band of adventurers, discovered evidence of a poetic style to the Noat language, poetry that contained tender emotions, lavish descriptions, and profound philosophy. The mage-scribe found connections, used adjectives and adverbs to enhance his magic.
This combined with the blatant power of the Noat tongue opened deep recesses of power to Templeton. Advancing further than anyone had ever known the now former Notar began to alter his own possessions- then altering his own past through the language. For centuries the Notars expressly condemned and punished using The Noat in the first person.
Yet Orleon had done just that.
Betrayed (perhaps justifiably so) by his Acropol, his mentor, branded by his own powerful sect of scribes as a heretic, Orleon found himself imprisoned deep in the Swamp of Shadows North of Rivermoon. The city rested on a fertile southern delta of the continent, deflecting the overall savagery of the Noat Empire's fall by harnessing commercial relationship with the mysterious tropical islands to the south. The metropolis so successfully navigated the oceans of trade that it established a mercantile barony and retained independence from the Notars.
For a steep price Templeton was imprisoned in its underbelly. Luckily one of the inquisitors sympathized with his ideas, and thus allowed the disgraced Notar to keep his clothing and equipment.
Undaunted, though desperate, Orleon spent weeks, then months attempting to scrawl one symbol onto the floor using his toenails. An eight pointed asterisk soon developed on the floor under him. Covering the ancient Noat symbol for "Random" when someone entered his cell, Templeton then proceeded to empower his spell with borders, cartouches, and adorations which increased its range and power.
Perhaps too much range and power.
For when Orleon Templeton fashioned the last curve onto a intricate diamond design in the center of the cipher, his reality shifted, whirled and plummeted. His cape enveloped around him to protect its master from the sudden onslaught of particles and wormholes.
Upon pulling the ends of his cape together, Orleon found himself in a spectacular but unfamiliar city, far from the memories of his Rivermoon or even his Prytania.
"What is this place?" he said to an astonished merchant selling a fruit that was unfamiliar to Orleon.
"The Marketplace," the man said, adjusting his robes uncomfortably. "And ya shouldn't be popping in like that here, that's why we have the School for the Mages 'ere"
"Blast I mean the name of the city man, this place, what is it?" Orleon barked, angered and sweating from the loss of energy and the long journey.
"Tis the city of Rhydin, sir, now begone before I call a guard!"
As Templeton walked away, nearly staggering, he could not remember that name. In all of his research nothing had been called Rhydin.
It would be some time before Orleon Templeton would know exactly how far he 'escaped'.
Perhaps that is why the Notars, his sect of magic wielding scribes, forced him into this exile, far from home. For Notars wrote stoic short words or symbols as tradition demanded, only writing the letters needed for the magical effects. Their language, the only remaining shred of the Noat Empire that spanned the Prytanian continent, allowed the caster to alter the world around him with a glyph, a cartouche or the pictograph of a needed item. Notars wrote for spell effects in much the same way Runeweavers do. Simple letters written on items made them enchanted. Notars, like secluded scribes, spent hours beautifying these symbols and thus giving them that much more power. Power that the magical notaries used to control most of the civilized continent; any other form of magic rendered illegal. Thus the Notars had become the undisputed monopolizers of the arcana arts. Templeton gravitated in secret to establish a black market in the illegal trade of magic and its enchanted items.
Despite their power and control, the resulting syntax while elaborate, always read clumsy, always primitive never truly reflected the heights of a once great people. Yet Templeton, pressed on by the evidence of recent excavations and artifacts that his own band of adventurers, discovered evidence of a poetic style to the Noat language, poetry that contained tender emotions, lavish descriptions, and profound philosophy. The mage-scribe found connections, used adjectives and adverbs to enhance his magic.
This combined with the blatant power of the Noat tongue opened deep recesses of power to Templeton. Advancing further than anyone had ever known the now former Notar began to alter his own possessions- then altering his own past through the language. For centuries the Notars expressly condemned and punished using The Noat in the first person.
Yet Orleon had done just that.
Betrayed (perhaps justifiably so) by his Acropol, his mentor, branded by his own powerful sect of scribes as a heretic, Orleon found himself imprisoned deep in the Swamp of Shadows North of Rivermoon. The city rested on a fertile southern delta of the continent, deflecting the overall savagery of the Noat Empire's fall by harnessing commercial relationship with the mysterious tropical islands to the south. The metropolis so successfully navigated the oceans of trade that it established a mercantile barony and retained independence from the Notars.
For a steep price Templeton was imprisoned in its underbelly. Luckily one of the inquisitors sympathized with his ideas, and thus allowed the disgraced Notar to keep his clothing and equipment.
Undaunted, though desperate, Orleon spent weeks, then months attempting to scrawl one symbol onto the floor using his toenails. An eight pointed asterisk soon developed on the floor under him. Covering the ancient Noat symbol for "Random" when someone entered his cell, Templeton then proceeded to empower his spell with borders, cartouches, and adorations which increased its range and power.
Perhaps too much range and power.
For when Orleon Templeton fashioned the last curve onto a intricate diamond design in the center of the cipher, his reality shifted, whirled and plummeted. His cape enveloped around him to protect its master from the sudden onslaught of particles and wormholes.
Upon pulling the ends of his cape together, Orleon found himself in a spectacular but unfamiliar city, far from the memories of his Rivermoon or even his Prytania.
"What is this place?" he said to an astonished merchant selling a fruit that was unfamiliar to Orleon.
"The Marketplace," the man said, adjusting his robes uncomfortably. "And ya shouldn't be popping in like that here, that's why we have the School for the Mages 'ere"
"Blast I mean the name of the city man, this place, what is it?" Orleon barked, angered and sweating from the loss of energy and the long journey.
"Tis the city of Rhydin, sir, now begone before I call a guard!"
As Templeton walked away, nearly staggering, he could not remember that name. In all of his research nothing had been called Rhydin.
It would be some time before Orleon Templeton would know exactly how far he 'escaped'.