<html> <body> 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. “Well, Acolyte,” DeMule remarked with a braying laugh. “Your best time yet. You dodged forty-three passes this time. Back to Tamsin for sword practice. You'll try this again in an hour.” 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 – 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. “You'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. “Another two weeks, eh, Tamsin?” Elvmere asked as he practiced the stretches DeMule had showed them. The tapir shrugged and lowered his snout. “Perhaps. I think you'll get it sooner.” Tamsin flicked his large ears out to either side of his head and turned the practice sword over in his mostly human-shaped hands. “I'd prefer a Summer patrol; I don't have thick fur like you. You know how winters are.” “Aye,” 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. “Well, let's get started. DeMule is watching!” 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. “No daydreaming, Elvmere! Lutins won't wait for you to finish praying, eating, or well, you know!” 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. “Good, 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. “Ow!” “Well, keep your eyes on me!” Tamsin laughed and stomped back a pace. “Now, come at me.” 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. “You are a good swordsman, Tamsin,” Elvmere noted as they left DeMule's training hall. “I can tell you are going easy on me.” “Of course,” Tamsin replied, patting him on the shoulder. “We 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, “fourteen years on you!” “It cannot be a good idea to send someone like me on a patrol.” Tamsin shrugged, and turned his long head toward the raccoon. “We 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.” Elvmere felt a sullen dread at the thought. “She won't, will she?” Tamsin chuckled. “Probably not. But then again.” He scratched under his chin and lifted his snout as if smelling out his thoughts. “You'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. “I'm surprised she didn't send you sooner.” “She had her reasons, I'm sure. The last two months I've been in the archives or with the musicians.” “And good! You really learned from the Dreamwalker?” “Malger. Aye.” “The life of a wandering minstrel didn't suit you?” 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. “Suit 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.” “I 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. “I 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. “I fell in love with life at the Temple and so I stay.” “Besides,” he added, nudging the raccoon in the ribs. “I 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.” Elvmere smiled to his friend and took his turn to pat his friend on the shoulder. “It might be why Akkala chose to heal you; so many were dying, and yet she choose you.” “She 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. “Time to share the Light, Elvmere.” 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? “Acolyte Elvmere!” A boy's contralto sundered his pondering and made him jump in his seat. “Are you transcribing or are you perspiring?” Elvmere blinked and with chagrin realized he'd been panting onto the quill. He dried the haft on the sleeve of his robe. “Forgive me, Master Weiland. I was pondering what I had just read and...” 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. “What 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. “The Scriptorium.” “And what is it Acolytes are assigned to do in the Scriptorium?” Elvmere sighed and chuffed, eyes lowering to Weiland's feet. “Copying the ancient texts.” “Indeed.” Weiland gestured to the stack of parchment at Elvmere's station. “And just how much have you managed today?” He sighed, and scuffed his claws on the stone. “Half a page...” “Hmph. You are usually more productive. What is on your mind, Elvmere?” Elvmere cast a glance at the tome, the words and illuminations decorating them, and then back to the senior acolyte. “I 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.” “And directs the Muses,” Weiland added, a warmth touching his words. “The 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. “And 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. “Do 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?” “I... I have never heard of any of those tales. I know what I read here, the histories and the legends. I...” Weiland scoffed and Elvmere saw him roll his eyes. “Half 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.” Elvmere kept his muzzle shut, waiting for the senior acolyte to pronounce whatever it was, punishment or pearl, his diatribe was building up to. “You 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. “Now, back to it and try not to pant on the manuscripts this time.” “Aye, 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. “And next time, Acolyte Elvmere, change out of your guard tunic first!” 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. “Never 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.” “I did not realize how overwrought I would become. Forgive me, Mistress Celine.” The girl's eyes were firm but there was a touch of humor at the edge of her lips. “Master 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.” Elvmere nodded. “As 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. “Later,” he murmured to himself. “Too 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 </body> </html>