Post by Creative Consortium on Feb 18, 2008 16:23:58 GMT -6
Turas Lan
The year was 1317… Three galleys had sailed for days from Brest, now quite content to be dodging in and out between the Scottish mainland and the innumerable islands, some large and some small. The smooth sea had been a lovely melting blue, sometimes changing to sapphire and opal where it ran far inland on an Isle named Skye. All around the inlet, or Loch were indescribably beautiful mountains; a vivid mixture of rugged and sharp-peaks, while others sloped gently down to the water's edge; all wrapped in a veil of velvet, offering varied tones from soft brown to softer pale purple. At the top of the mountain peaks sat clouds, as if someone had caught and held them there.
The galleys anchored in the deep part of the Loch, ship captains barking orders to secure the ships and prepare to land; the men had finally made it to Scotland. Long boats were lowered, brave men ventured into a new land, seeking freedom from persecution. By early evening, in a characteristic downpour, the 35 men were ashore. On land, a thrifty number of townspeople provided them a hearty though necessarily damp welcome. The men and their new hosts climbed a steep, slippery path which led to the road atop a bluff.....
- The arrival of the Knights Templar -
Even so much as eleven years ago, the wealth of Skye lived in clan castles while her people remained in the simpler ways of life as they had for generations prior. If the population was dense, there was no evidence to support it. Huddled in villages on the outskirts of the island, save for the battle or a talked of moment made in passion, people kept close to home and socialized only among themselves.
Slowly but surely, progress followed the original 35 men who fled from persecution in the form of advances in science, medicine, the arts, architecture, literature, and language that had trailed with them from homes in France and all across Europe. Some say the talk of witch arts were true and others said it was only the following of wealthy patrons to Skye later on. But soon after villages began to thrive, and they thrived so much funds were found to finish a project that had been abandoned two decades earlier - The capital city of Turas Lan in Southwestern Skye.
Ships sail in and out from the purple yoke of dawn and twilight at the bustling docks while travelers moved from packed earth byways to paved passages of stone through the gates to be found along thick, fortified walls. She cuts an imposing, beautiful scape of multi leveled proportion as one takes in spires and rooftops.
Citizens move up and down along the City Steps to the bustling Marketplace for the best deals to be bartered across the Hebrides. Colorful house banners wave in the breeze on Herald's Row amidst the merchant's jargon as they look up to see which chieftain or noble is in the city to be impressed.
The Clock Tower resounds with rich, musical bells to mark the passage of hours by number while prayer marks it in the Turas Lan Cathedral. It is not uncommon for the priest to have the choir sing if only for the pleasure of filling the sanctuary with sound.
The Hall of Guilds houses every economic trade in Turas Lan, and it is here apprentices may go to begin their training, and where masters go to talk among their fellows.
If one is ill or merely seeking to learn the mystery of healing, then to the Infirmary and Healer's College, where classes on everything from herbs, midwifery, and even the daring controversy of human anatomy are learned. Patients rest in warm beds and caring hands, and the recovering and healthy alike sojourn in the simplicity of the gardens where fresh fruits, vegetables, and healing herbs are grown.
For one who seeks the beauty of the esoteric, the knowledge of mankind, or to learn the arts of chivalry and knighthood, they come to the curious Templar Hall. It houses the libraries where in knowledge is chronicled of the Celts and lands far away, where scholar and pupil alike come to grow in wisdom. The clock on the Hall's face marks the passage of the months and stars, giving whisper to the rumors of ancient, pagan teachings taught and practiced.
Talk of chivalry mingles with sword clang in Fieldren Fields where future men of honor are mad while others bask on distant hills covered in heather and bluebells.
Sailors and brash folk, fiddles and scotch fill the Pubs at Dockside while some huddle in corners over tales or cards at Bannockburn Tavern. Those merely passing through on business prefer a quick refresher and the friendliness of Traveler's Rest while some say the best of food, lodgings, and faces is at the Briar Rose Inn.