I returned to the hills surrounding Mahn Tor, continuing my observations of the minotaur, by necessity, from a distance. Learning early on that my presence was unwelcome in their midst, I have created a bluff from which to watch their everyday workings, without them knowing any better. I am uncertain if the herd (if that is what a group of minotaur are known as) is xenophobic to outsiders or merely agitated by the presence of drow. Likely tis more apt to be the second reason as the first. (It certainly has nothing to do with the minotaur corpse that I was studying a few days ago. Again, I shan't speak on how I came to acquire it.)
The daily patterns of minotaur are largely innocuous and tedious. At first glance, they seem to mill about aimlessly from one space to another, much like the surface cattle or the Underdark rothe that they resemble. Yet, if you look closely, there seems to be an inherant pattern to their ambling. Each member of the society has contact with all of the others in the herd, owing to this strange pattern of movement. Does this strengthen the beasts' sense of unity, of wholeness? Perhaps this is part of the reason by which they were so quick to discover the absence of one of their own. Perhaps I just give them more credit than they deserve.
The children, or calves, are not permitted to fall outside the perimeter of the adult movement, kept within an unseen corral by the protective minotaur adults. They go about their adolescent games with nary a care, butting heads and raking the ground with their hooved feet in imitation of the older specimens. The warriors converge along the outside of the herd regularly, enveloping the whole of the herd, before once again moving to another locale. To my eyes, it is all obvious, the workings of an intelligent group to protect the weakest, and present a strong front against any predator that may attempt to strike.
There is yet more upon which to observe and write, yet, for now I have run out of time. The milling group is slowly making its way this direction. It seems necessity requires that I find a new roost from which to make my observations.
I have considered long and hard upon the continuation of my education and have determined to avail myself of all the languages of the Underdark races. What better way may I prepare myself to survive the jagged passages of Forever Night than by studying the ways of its varied beasts and sundry monsters that traverse the darkest ways. I must release the prejudice of my people's ways, seeing these base creatures as nothing more than slaves. The way of the Tabernacle does not permit such clouded views or usage of knowledge.
For this reason, I have recently undertaken the study of the minotaurs. The idiosynchrosies of the bullish snorts and pawing of the ground for meaning are quite humorous to behold. Their alphabet is quite simple, and suprisingly short, leading one to assume that either their intelligence is not nearly so high, or they do not require as many words as the rest of us to get their meaning across. I undertook a sebaticle to the Keep at Mahn Tor, studying the society from the shadows. After close inspection of a cadaverous minotaur (I shan't relate how the beast died) I was able to determine why they are so abrupt in their language. Their mouths lack the physiological construction for higher consonant pronunciation, whilst their broad tongues often tangle long words and make them indistinguishable from other vocalizations. Clearly, they use facial contortions, eye glinting, and horn waving to accentuate their language owing to their lack of ability to say so much more. Quite intriguing.
Upon another subject, I have concluded my first report to the Tabernacle. It was a bit long in its content, yet the subject could prove most fortuitous to the Lore Masters in dealing with matters currently occuring in the world. I still feel the lingering sting of the slap I took from the parties involved in the encounter, the red mark paleing on my dark face as we speak. Methinks there are those that are threatened by the watchers. Perhaps they foresee dark designs in our constant gathering. I offer no apologies, however, nor take offense. It is not my job to console the disconsolate or anxious, let them believe as they shall. I shall continue to watch and report, gather and write, see and listen.
What an intriguing life this has turned out to be. The Tabernacle has fulfilled my wandering spirit's longings. My purpose is clear, as a Mason, and a drow.
The months have paid off. I have brushed the gathered dust of countless hours spent in the library from my shoulders, unmoved but for the shifting glance of my eyes as they read line after line of passages, my fingers lightly and quickly turning the pages. My cloak no longer holds the pungent scent of smoke from candlewax. My eyes squint in the presence of so much light. Daylight.
I emerge from the halls of knowledge, a new drow. I emerge, as a full member of Tabernacle. The rituals I undertook to prove myself worthy, I shan't even list in this journal. The secrets of the Tabernacle must stay with the Tabernacle.
I have walked the realms for days since leaving the sanctuary. Roaming the shadows, watching, listening, collecting information. I hesitate to admit, my passing has not been unnoticed, for many are the whispers that I have heard from the murderous gangs lurking in the alleys. "Was that a Tabernacle?" slurs a lecherous footpad. "I have never seen one before! Are you sure?" squeeks his enthusiastic cohort, each craning to get a better view of my unmarked vestements.
"What gives it away" I ponder to myself, disinterested with their attention, for I know it shall quickly wane as more acolytes pass through the Tabernacle doors and out into the world. The novelty shall soon end.
I have more important things to do. Secrets to divine. Plots to discover. History to record. Let others be the center of this unwanted focus, for I shall remain, ever the recorder of acts.
"No, the inflection is on the second syllable when it is a question, and on the first when it is peremptory." The tutor says in her drill instructor manner that would make any soldier snap to attention. Obviously irritated by my continual mangling of the lycan language, she continues on with her diatribe. I hardly listen, her attitude setting me on edge. I need a break, and the amusement of our verbal sparrings will not be denied to me, even if it is at her expense.
"Honestly, young priest, if you refuse to dedicate yourself entirely to the study of this language, you are wasting both my time and yours." She continues, her spider thin fingers tap the side of the tome upon her lap. Breathing audibly, as if tested to the point of breaking by an errant child, she snaps the book shut and rigidly stands. "Let me know when you are ready to complete the lesson. Until then, there are others better suited to my time."
"Indeed, Bgorah' troon the gold and delaney.", I respond in broken leprechaun, smiling wickedly and awaiting a tirade. With a sharp intake of breath, she drops her book. Hastily the woman stoops to retrieve it before confronting me, my pleasure at her discomfort clearly splayed upon my visage. Her eyebrow arches, clear to the heights of her widow's peek, a few stray strands, wispy as webs, drift across her steely eyes, escapees from the severe bun atop her angular head. She blushes a deep crimson, the color descending her cheeks, spilling across her face and becoming buried in the coarse fabric of her full body grey dress fastened tightly at the neck. "Does the woman even have a body underneeth all the fabric. How does she breath for goodness sake." I ponder to myself, enjoying the spectacle.
"I am not amused.", she clips, turning upon her silver-toed boots and goose-stepping from the chamber, the commanding clomp of her passage heard for many minutes.
I laugh uproariously at her exit, my mirth following her retreat down the hall. "Serves her right. I know full well that she has no other pupils at the moment." I had long noticed her loitering attentions fixated upon a certain drunken letcher of a Den soldier, a meer Sloth, at his haphazard martial practice. "What is it about stolid researchers falling for brigands and unkempt, smelly debaucherists. I wonder." I laugh again. "I can't really be blamed for merely pointing it out, can I. Collection of information is paramount, after all.", I state to the still chamber around me, the walls reverberating with my past laughter. The picture of the prim and proper Tabernacle acolyte swept up in the filthy clutches of the marauder springs to mind. I fall silent and shudder. "ICk, out damn-ed thought, out!" *TWITCH*
Replacing my slate and chalk upon the velvet cushions at my feet with a sigh, I walk to the window. A chill breeze sweeps through the grate, raising goosebumps upon my flesh. Change has seized the world since I have holed up to learn the secrets of the tomes. I feel the yearning to be out in the world. Seeing what is happening. Collecting the secrets. Listening from the shadows. "I am drow after all. What better cause is there for me now." Clouds langouriously cast wispy tendrils across the darkening sky. The ancients have re-emerged.
"You chose this." I whisper, looking away from the window back to my vestibule of towering books and scrolls. A personal litany echoes through my mind, "Information is the one true treasure and key to the world. The word is the destruction of armies, the bane of monarchs and nations. Those that hold the word, rule the word."
I return to my desk, taking up my books. "She has a point. I cannae serve a purpose until I learn as I must. The sooner this is mastered, the better for me." My eyes peruse the sigils on the delicate yellowed paper, my hand transfers each to the slate, with the graced practice of one that has spent years copying texts in the sanctuary of the church.
"If only there wasn't so much slobbering and drooling involved with this language." I state disgustedly, drow pride tested, yet again. Clearing my throat, I read the words transferred to the slate in broken, hesitant barks and yips.