An excerpt from The Depths of Norhaven: A Complete Guide, Volume Five – Of Chanderwick and the Convocation, by Alerdy Parlyle.-...yet, like the Gauth egg, is a situation simply bred from ignorance and local superstition more than malevolence.
Professor Dorgan Tallbeard once stated, “Ignorance is like any king, for its reign depends on the willingness of the people to accept it.” Regrettably, Ignorance has kept its crown within the depths for a time longer than most members of civilized society have lived. When Allkind first fled the surface of the world for the safety of the earth, its last priority was the preservation of the memory of what had once been above. The unending stone ceiling soon dulled the memory of the sun and the sky, and the constant scramble for food and shelter in a world hostile and foreign to them pushed scholarly pursuits to the back of most people’s minds. The past threatened to vanish like a pebble in a landslide; and with it, perhaps, the future. It is, after all, our origins which have defined us the most.
For almost five centuries, the sole task of preserving the world’s knowledge has fallen to a small, secluded group, hidden deep within the Warrens. They call themselves the Convocation, and it is an apt title. These men and women have been called together for a singular purpose: to enlighten both the past and the present. Stored away within the halls of Chanderwick Keep reside the collective knowledge of Allkind. Stories and legends of the past sit next to the materials of the learned sages of the long-dead surface civilizations, all meticulously copied from their original sources from the patient Scriveners of Chanderwick’s many copyrooms.
Their founding is mostly a mystery, lost to time and myth, though the little that is known points to Marsimold Deathspeaker as the founder of the group. When the forces of civilization marched below the surface for the last time, it was Marsimold who carried with him the knowledge that others had abandoned. He disappeared into the maze of the Warrens with a few unknown followers, and went silent for several hundred years. It was not until the time of the Cleansing that he made his presence known. Emissaries made their way to the colonies and made offers to the few surviving arcanists and wise men: there was a sanctuary, safe from Hunters, where they could live their lives in service of knowledge. Many fled the colonies, draining them of their brightest minds. More than a few peasant mobs attempted to assault Chanderwick; all vanished without a trace.
Eventually, after the Cleansing had passed into history, the doors of Chanderwick opened to the world once more. Within the converted ruin of the Keep lay the history of Allkind, filled with discoveries and literature written both before and after the death of the surface world. To the depths, Marsimold extended his hands, offering them the knowledge he had stored, if they would but only help to contribute back to it.
Yet it is not merely a collection of knowledge, for knowledge by itself is a fairly meaningless thing with someone to interpret it. Within the halls of Chanderwick lies the Collegium, the most revered - and one of the only - institutes of learning in the depths. Access to the Collegium is highly restrictive, for it is a place that only the best and the brightest will ever find their way to. Within it, exceptional men and women are trained become the next honored Professors of Chanderwick. Not only shall their training help the Convocation as it stands, but it shall also benefit the colonies themselves, as the services of the Collegium are more and more requested by the kings and priests of a world waking from the darkness.
Less prestigious, though certainly no less important, are the Magi of Chanderwick. While the Scriveners preserve and the Collegium studies, the Magi make it their goal not merely to preserve and translate, but to add. It is from this branch that Chanderwick’s body of knowledge grows, for it is the Magi above all others who are willing to take bold risks and leap from theory to experiment with little else inbetween. The research that they perform is instrumental in expanding both the practical and arcane knowledge of the Convocation. They are not merely researchers, however, but explorers, adventurers, and diplomats. Given Chanderwick’s neutral status, they are as heavily involved in diplomacy between colonies as any of their other activities, and more than a few are called upon when arcane threats grow too great for local authorities to bear. The fact that this often forces them to side with the same Hunters that occasionally seek their deaths is not one that escapes the Magi, and they are as cunning on the battlefield as they are in a study-hall.
It is within Chanderwick that the greatest gift left by our ancestors rests. It is not this underground world that we should value most from them. Instead, it is the hope contained within the quiet cobbles of Chanderwick that we should treasure; the hope that, eventually, we might yet return to what the world was before.
An urgent silence haunted the copyroom of Chanderwick Keep.
Such a thing rarely bothered Scrivener Guln, who often worked on his vocation while others slumbered, and only slept as the world slowly wakened. He had formed a friendship - one of his few - with the quiet dark. It never questioned, never bartered favors, and went away when Guln needed it to. He was, all-in-all, content in his loneliness.
Guln glanced over at the single candle on the copy-desk impatiently. He had lit it when he first arrived in the copyroom, and the wick was nearly half-burnt. Jaris was late. He always had a slacker’s reputation, Guln knew, but it had never really been his work ethic that had made him a favorite amongst the Convocation.
He picked up the candle carefully, the light cutting dark crevasses on his skin, as yellow and creased as the paper he cared so deeply for. He was as unique to Chanderwick as Chanderwick was to the depths. Of his own people, the Gaunt, he knew little, save that most colonists thought of them as rugged savages and prowling monsters. He had speculated that this was part of the reason the Chancellor had seen fit to keep Guln locked inside of Chanderwick. A monster that could speak and think was always more frightening than one that could merely snarl and spit.
It was for this reason that Guln had turned to Jaris Underknot. He had often suspected that Jaris was kept around Chanderwick for some esoteric purpose; never could he have guessed that it was as a booklifter. Booklifting had, as far as Guln knew, been an activity that, while technically being illegal, was something that the Convocation indirectly profited from, as the fragmentary flow of information that the booklifters obtained would inevitably make its way to Chanderwick. It was not until he had seen Jaris heading up to the Chancellor’s office and returning back down alive that the thought of Chanderwick condoning such an activity - at least unofficially - ever crossed his mind.
A soft padding of feet on smooth stone broke his reverie. The darkness of the copyroom thick and musty, heavy with age; another thing that rarely concerned Guln. His opaline eyes sliced straight through it, only to be greeted by the swaggering form of Jaris Underknot as he crossed the floor, heavy sack in tow.
“You’re late,” said Guln, sitting upright by the candle.
“Only fashionably,” replied Sir Underknot, bowing facetiously. “You never sleep, anyways, far as I can tell. What’s the rush?”
“We are supposed to not deal with booklifters,” said Guln firmly. “I can’t be seen dealing with one! Indexer Sivarius would flay my hide if he ever found out. I only agreed to meet here because no one else would be up, but it’s nearly Wakening!” he huffed, pointing to the nearly-melted candle.
Sir Underknot merely shrugged. “It was an odd request, first off, and not a bloody easy one to pull off. The Elothi keep their place as well-guarded as you keep the copyroom under watch.”
“But you have it, yes?” said Guln, excitement temporarily overriding his anger. His eyes widening at the burlap sack. Just about the right size and shape, he could tell.
“Sure do,” said Jaris, letting the sack fall to the desk with a louder thump than Guln would have liked. “You’ve got my payment, yes?”
Guln produced a small bag from his belt, emptying its contents onto the desk. A handful of golden disks rolled out, a proud, Dwarven face pressed onto the side of each one. “Just like you asked,” replied Guln. It was all he had managed to save from the meager amounts he collected as “living expenses” from the Convocation. He wasn’t sure why Jaris had agreed to work for so little, considering what he had asked for. Pity, perhaps. Is pity something that a man like Jaris even knows?, wondered Guln.
Jaris nodded approvingly at the Scrivener’s savings. He reached into the burlap sack, and gradually produced a thick tome, bound neatly in leather. A small spark of joy hit Guln as he wrapped his hands tenderly around the ancient book. This was it. He was sure of it. He had only heard of books like these, of course; yet was it not true that the tree of hearsay must always have its roots somewhere?
Guln’s hand quavered only slightly as he brushed open the cover of the book. The words inside were faded by age, and the ink had run in places, but it was, without doubt, the book he sought. The swirling glyphs on the first page - the gasping voice of a past age - only confirmed it.
Jaris spared only the vaguest look at the trembling Scrivener as he collected his pay together. “Doesn’t look like much to read in there. Who wrote it, anywho?”
“It’s from the last civilization that built down here,” said Guln, gingerly turning the page. “When they first found Elothos, there were hundreds of lead casks, sealed tightly. Most of them were empty, but a few of them had ancient literature tucked away inside. Most of them were taken by the Elothi and locked away. No one’s been able to translate their language yet, but with some time, it might be possible to-”
“Possible to do what? Go in and translate everything the Elothi have under lock-and-key?” Jaris chuckled, spinning the coin bag around. “They stored them up for a good reason, I’d reckon. Maybe there’s something they don’t want to read in there. Maybe they’re scared of what a few tomes could tell the world. Doesn’t that scare you?”
“What scares me more,” said Guln, “is the idea of those casks sitting there until the next civilization pulls them out from beneath our bones. People only fear truth when they’ve gotten too used to the taste of a comfortable lie. What could possibly harm the Elothi? They haven’t even a clue what’s in them.”
Jaris shrugged, looping the coin bag around his belt. “There was a time when people wanted to burn down Chanderwick and all the mages in it, thought Joreal knows why. They were afraid of what you’ve got in here, even though half of them wouldn’t even know what to make of it. People shun the stuff they don’t understand, ‘cause it’s an awful lot harder to change things around once you’ve built everything up around your own ignorance. Take this place, eh? Most of you scriveners don’t even really know what half the stuff you’re copying down is, do you?”
Guln paused on a dry, fragmented page. In a way, Jaris was right. The role of the scrivener was to copy and re-copy the small measure of knowledge that had survived the perilous sojourn northwards, and, eventually, downwards. It had been kept hidden away from the rest of the world for nearly five-hundred years, now, in the stone cradle of Chanderwick, awaiting the day when the world was ready to learn from it. It had been passed from generation to generation, an inheritance that made less and less sense as the memory of golden fields and open skies had faded. Now it was stored merely for the sake of being stored, like the lead-sealed casks in Elothos.
But, no, we are different. Guln was certain of it. The Elothi shy away from it, detest it, for they have already found a paradise in their worship. All other knowledge must seem useless to them. And perhaps the knowledge in here, too, is useless, for now.
His hands gripped the book tightly. No, not useless. They lacked a use now. In the hands of the Elothi, even this book was nothing better than kindling. But here, they could be studied, and considered, and researched. That is all the information lacked: a few men to see beyond the written words, to fit the scraps of texts together once more. Perhaps there was a darkness now that filtered over the knowledge kept safe in Chanderwick; but, more and more, Scrivener Guln saw the passing shadow not as the darkness of an oblivion of ignorance, but as the darkness of the womb.
“Not yet,” Guln mumbled cryptically as he packed the book back in its sack. He got up to leave, turning only briefly to address Jaris. “We never spoke,” he noted, against all logic. Jaris nodded in return.
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Jaris waited in the darkened copyroom until the candle-wick had burnt low and the soft steps of Scrivener Guln had been replaced by the cold silence of stone. He carefully trotted towards the reception hall, coin-bag jingling. It was lighter than what he had hoped for, but orders had been orders. Jaris Underknot might have been cheeky, but he had never been disobedient.
The jingle of coins and the echo of his feet against the cobbled floor followed him all the way to the Chancellor’s office. He was certain that Deathspeaker would be pleased, but he nevertheless opened the door with only the greatest of care.
