The Scroll Box

I have been working on a project for quiet some time, at least fermenting in my head and coming out as several sketches. Years ago I began writing an Epic Novel. THE NEPHILIM AGE: The Watcher's Requiem.  It is a complex tale, but basically a Fantasy.  A man learns of his lost brother and develops a relationship with him.  In doing so inherits an unusual gift.  One of which is a manuscript that tells about an ancient "pre-flood" people.

   I am crafting a Scroll that will be placed in a specially carved box.

The Cloth.  One day as I took the trash out I noticed an old couch had been discarded near the dumpster. I had been thinking a lot about the idea of crafting the Scrolls of Mithar and upon seeing the upturned couch knew immediately where the "cloth" would come from. Taking my pocket knife I removed the underlining of that old discarded couch and a year later am only now beginning to design the artwork to put on them.

 An Elven-teacher, Seraphim by name; the "creator" of the Scrolls themselves, (in the story).  The handwritten Script, shown in this drawing I did, is called Sinenya.  It is my own vocabulary mixed with variation of Tolkien's Elvish Sindar. 
  [Not pictured here is the Language of Nasil, the common speech of men. With Nasil (which looks like Sumerian cuneiform), is a translation of my poems into Spanish, reversing the letters, and dropping the vowels by one and changing the font.] Dan Smith created the FONTS for me.

    The Great Hall of Mithar; shaped like cupped hands with interlaced fingers. The "thumbs" of the building are supported with pillars and the main door just beyond them.

THIS is a Photoshopped design I did of viewing inside The Great Hall of Mithar.

 The Watchtower of Mithar, with an eternally lite bon fire atop. (An original sketch done awhile back).

 The Cultic hand-sign of the teacher's of Mithar's Tower, (with tattoo of their full titles).

The setting sun between the gateway to the sea beyond the Bay of Mithar.

Some of the Elves of Middle-Earth stayed behind and devised a new Cultic Society.

The Grey Havens of the City of MITHAR of Eriduah, 

 (another photoshopped picture I crafted).

The High Lord of the Grey Havens of Mithar died and was cremated; the remaining Elves kept his ashes in a special Urn. From there after those who passed away of the original remaining 21 Elven fathers were added to his upon their own death. The Watcher's Urn. Each one of these sketches will be a panel with elvish script telling the story.

"...These are but needless things we do here, unto them who understand not the majesty of the lives once lived and now thusly enshrined as sacred ashes within this Holy Urn." ~ Baal`yik Dormath Second Priest of Mithar.

THE SCROLL BOX

...................................................................................

Afterward, Murelen approached his throne picking up a resting pouch, and shared its contents with his silent scribe, “Upon my father’s death everything he owned came to me. This was among his most prized possessions, and spurred him toward his deepest desire; which has now become our journey to new beginnings.  I wish to give it to you, Fayendar as a token of our friendship, love and the deep respect my father had for you.”  Smiling, he added, “Something tells me it is more a part of your destiny than my own.  Keep it well.”

   It was the leather satchel that the king had always carried across his shoulder.  From it, Murelen removed a velveteen green-bag.  Supporting it with both hands, one on top the other below, he presented it to Fayendar.

   Accepting it, Fayendar said, “In the receiving alone, am I honored, milord.”  While untying the wrapped-around gold-cord and unfolding the bag, he slowly withdrew the object within just as the King added, “It is the original Watcher’s Requiem, written by the very hand of Seraphim himself.  I feel it will validate all that you have already come to believe, my friend and strengthen you for that which is yet to come.”

   Seeing his genuine surprise, the king smiled back as the scribe’s face lit up, “Thank you, for such a unique gift indeed, sire!”

   It was a small wooden box, almost the length and breadth of Fayendar’s hand.  Its lid was latched closed with a simple metal flip-lock, which needed no key or peg.  The lid’s top surface was ornately carved with deeply drawn vines. A windowed opening was accented with a hand carved swan-ship riding upon the waves, whose three unfurled sails pointed upward.  A small cloth scroll was rolled onto two pine-wood spindles that were locked in place by the closed lid.  Framed and showcased by the ornate window, Fayendar noticed that when he turned the left spindle the illuminated text was written in such a way that the lid’s carvings pointed out certain passage details: either chapter, verse or circled letters.

   Interrupting the inspection of his new gift, Murelen told Fayendar, “I am pleased you are so taken with it; however, I must now attend to other matters pressing upon me. For the tribal leaders will soon be arriving with a multitude of questions.”

   Returning the boxed-scroll to its bag, and returning it to the leather case, Fayendar quickly nodded as he was leaving through the tent flap entrance, “Certainly, and again, thank you, milord.” 

   Later that evening, in his private tent, Fayendar read the scrolls in their entirety, studying every word and its many detailed drawings with great interest.  After decoding the circled letters, Fayendar read a message that really astounded him.  For the author had written a warning not to add or take away from his words. 

   The tale he read on the scrolls were almost identical in every detail to Lyerah’s personal account.  It was written in poetic form in the tongue of Sinenya.  The version of the Watcher‘s Book he had studied those many years ago at Varlendur paled in comparison to the beautiful simplicity of the original cloth scroll.  For it contained none of the additional embellishings about the family and priestly lineages who followed the Watchers.  Neither were there any of the proverbial sayings and ceremonial songs nor the lyrical prohibitions against associating with dwarves, and venturing into the western woods of Kinderval.  

   Fayendar began to remember all his ‘sacred service,’ the mundane ceremonial duties he had preformed, and how they were labeled as ‘theocratic secrets,’ forbidden to be shared with even his non-priestly family members.  Strangely his eyes began to tear up.  He felt confused inside.  A scene of loss, and a feeling of gain all at the same time.  He had been told by so many people his entire life what the book said, that finally being able to read it for himself was an almost overwhelming experience.  A scene of disappointment made his shoulders drop because of the story’s difference was so different, so plain and simple, yet believable.  Suddenly, he realized his tears were of joy.  For he felt an inward growth, and the weight of all his guilt and frustration had finally lifted from his mind and heart.  The king was right, learning the truth about, ‘The Truth’ had validated his new beliefs, and strengthened him with a resurgence of confidence.