Chapter Six
S’maash slowly came to. He was lying on the cold floor of Anutwyll. Only able to open one eye, he searched his surroundings. The bandits were gone, so were his dagger and coin purse. He sighed then winced in pain as he stood. At least, I left some of my goods back at the inn. Injured and discouraged, he made his way back to town.
The painful walk of shame provided the wizard ample time to mull over his next course of action. A warm sun sat atop the sky. S’maash looked into the blue expanse. Some clouds were rolling in. He thought about the College of Winterhold. I hope it’s not like the Mages’ Coalition back home. I’d hate to travel all the way out there just to face the same problems. Suppose I won’t know until I go….
He strolled through Bravil, avoiding the gaze of the townsfolk. After pushing aside the doors to the inn, he plopped down at the bar. The innkeeper’s daughter stood behind the counter. She, like her father, had dark eyes and thick hair. Her apron was smeared with early morning’s breakfast.
“Looks painful,” she remarked. S’maash looked at her with his one, good eye. She was a cute, young, woman. “How about one on the house…if you tell me your story.”
S’maash obliged her. He started with work in L’Thu Oad then told her about the trip through Damlzthur. She listened intently as he drank and spoke. By the end of the tale, he arrived at the point where the bandits gave him a sound thrashing, and put forth his dilemma.
“So, now you’re going to move to Skyrim,” she asked.
“I don’t know; it’s either that or go home, I guess. I wish my brother was by my side.”
The lass shrugged before leaving him to tend to the next customer. S’maash left the bar for his room. After a quick nap, he checked the remainder of his gear. He figured selling off all things unnecessary was sufficient to afford a ride to Cheydinhal. From there, he needed to find someone to take him into Skyrim. Then, it was only a matter of finding the College of Winterhold, if Skyrim was his destination.
Rapping his fingers on the table, he recalled S’maath’s words, and so he wrote a letter to his brother explaining the circumstances. After handing the letter to a courier, the elf went to the local, supply store. He sold off his camping gear, some potions, and other, miscellaneous items. By the end of the transaction, he had only his traveling pack, the magick boots he had found, food, water, the stones he took from Anutwyll, the clothes on his back, and forty seven Septims.
It was an early Middas when he reached the stables outside Bravil. There, he spoke to a stableman, an orc named Grogot no Grob. Though brutish and pig-like in appearance, the orc wore fine clothes and spoke quite eloquently.
“Yes, dark elf. We do have a carriage we can arrange for you to take. It will cost you a paltry, twenty Septims for a journey to Cheydinhal. I’m from there, you know?”
“Do you know the best way into Skyrim from Cheydinhal?”
Grogot stroked his thin beard. “I do not, though I have heard of nord clans living in the Jeralls. Perhaps, you may find someone in Cheydinhal who can tell you more. I haven’t actually been to Cheydinhal for many years. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to gather my son, horses, and carriage for your departure,” Grogot said, holding out a green, open palm.
S’maash nodded as he placed the twenty Septims in Grogot’s hand. Shortly thereafter, he was on his way to Cheydinhal. Rorgot, the wagon driver, made four stops along the way to allow the horses some rest. Throughout the trip, the chatty orc asked many questions for which S’maash had only guesses. While Rorgot wasn’t interested in magickal theory, he did listen to the elf’s ramblings.
“Do you miss Morrowind,” Rorgot asked one night as they rested by a fire.
“I do not miss the land so much as the people I knew…mostly, my brother. This traveling is lonely and difficult….”
They stared into the fire for many minutes before fatigue set in. The area chosen for camp was somewhat rocky, but level. Native insects buzzed around, but didn’t disturb the campers’ rest. After waking, they took back to the paved roads. If nothing else, Cyrodiil’s streets were easy to traverse; the imperials had built quite the road system between their towns.
They arrived in Cheydinhal on Freddas. It was a well-to-do town with fine, dark elf architecture. From the gates, S’maash immediately located the tavern. Inside, he listened to conversations. Once he found the right person, he asked around for a guide through the Jerall mountains. He was directed to clan Snow-Shield; they were known to make most of their money doing just what he needed.
Upon meeting with them in a cabin just north of town, they agreed to help him for a small fee. He learned they also helped couriers and merchants move to and from Skyrim. Many deliveries had to go through the dangerous, mountain passes. The matriarch of clan Snow-Shield was a hearty, old woman by the name of Sigryud. She led her two sons, Sigurd and Thurro, as well as S’maash, through the mountains. Their specific route took them over some iced over rocky hills.
“Soon, we will come across the cavernous Pale Pass. It has a lively history dealing with the Akaviri,” Thurro said.
Like Barbas, he too spoke with a heavy, nord accent. Both the sons were rough and tumble types wearing heavy armor. Their mother preferred the use of destruction spells.
“I thought nords were not overly fond of magick,” S’maash commented while carefully traversing the rocky terrain.
“What nonsense. If that were true, why would we have the College of Winterhold,” she asked.
He shrugged, admitting that perhaps it was a stupid comment to have made. “I didn’t mean disrespect. You’re right, of course. Do nords prefer destruction over the other schools?”
“I do, but we hail from a family of warriors,” Sigryud replied.
“We were warriors until Ulfric and his uprising,” Sigurd stated.
S’maash had some difficulty keeping up with their hurried pace. The sun reflected quite fiercely off the poweder at his feet, and the air was thin and bitter cold. Some sparsely growing trees peppered the landscape.
“You did not agree with his decision to rebel,” S’maash asked.
“We agreed with his decision. We did not care for his purpose. He said it was about a free Skyrim, but we all had our doubts,” Thurro interjected.
“So, you moved into the Jeralls during his rebellion?”
“Aye, and never looked back,” Sigryud answered. “It is not an easy life, but it pays well and keeps us safe. Other than a few trolls or cave bears, we don’t face much adversity.”
The journey through Pale Pass into the town of Riften was not an easy one, but upon its completion, S’maash was glad to have time to rest. Mighty, city walls of stone were in sight.
“There it is, Riften. Once, a great city, now it is little more than a place for trouble. Keep an eye out for thieves,” Sigurd stated.
The Snow-Shields didn’t enter the city; they left S’maash to his adventure. Riften was surprisingly lively. He took a stroll into the market area above the ratway, an underground home to beggars, and then asked around for work. He needed coin to continue his journey to Winterhold, and he had none left. Few were willing to provide, but an old man at a forge motioned for him. The smith was a nord by the name of Balimund.
“I can always use a little help around the forge,” the smith said.
S’maash accepted the offer. He liked Riften. The town was quite lively with its stone mansions and wooden homes. A waterway led out to the docks. While the elf didn’t care too much for sailing, he did enjoy traipsing around town. Days of menial tasks passed by before Balimund gave away his secret.
“See, this forge is unique. Fire salts fuel its flames, thus allowing for easier manipulation of steel.”
As S’maash worked the bellows, he listened to Balimund’s explanation of alchemy’s uses in smithing. “I had never taken alchemy as a relevant study,” the elf confessed.
“You have to. I’d expect as an enchanter, you’d want to further your studies by utilizing alchemy,??
? Balimund said.
The old man’s bulky body, thick, gray hair, and gruff exterior effectively masked his intelligence. S’maash listened to him and followed up with questions.
“How would alchemy boost my enchanting?”
“I heard tales from Ingun Blackbriar; she used to study under Elgrim. She said some reagents specific to Skyrim can be mixed into a potion. When imbibed, the potion draws on the innate talent of the enchanter. I don’t know the specifics. You’d have to ask at the College of Mages,” Balimund said.
“Well, that’s what brings me to Skyrim. What can you tell me about the College?”
“Not much, I’m afraid, but you can head there yourself. There’s a carriage that comes by here. You can purchase a ride to Winterhold.”
S’maash continued his work with Balimund for a week before earning enough coin to purchase that ride. At the week’s end, he learned it was going to be another couple of days before the wagon came to Riften. While waiting, he found himself outside Haelga’s Bunkhouse. Upon entering for the night, he realized something was off. The older, attractive woman at the counter greeted him profusely.
“Welcome, welcome to Haelga’s Bunkhouse. I’m Haelga. Will you be staying all night, my young traveler,” she purred.
S’maash raised an eyebrow, quizzically. “Why? Doesn’t everyone stay the whole night?”
“No. Some only stay an hour or so. Very disappointing, but I don’t judge. If I did…I’d judge you could stay all night.”
“How much do you charge,” S’maash asked.
“Is it me you want to pay? Maybe Irulia is a better fit for you?” she asked with a hand on her curvy hips.
She then motioned with her head to a voluptuous, lady, dark elf. S’maash saw her across the room. She wore lighter clothing, revealing shapely legs and other, such, feminine parts. He smiled to himself.
“Then, I will see how much she charges,” he replied.
He had buried himself in his work for far too long. One night of passion was worth the ten Septims. After bedding down in the bunkhouse, he awoke well rested and ready to round out the last day before setting off to join the College of Winterhold. That Loredas lingered on.
While Skyrim was known for its cold days, Riften had been a little warmer than other establishments due to its low altitude and proximity to both Cyrodiil and Morrowind. It was certainly warmer than the Jeralls. When the Sundas morning sun rose, S’maash was all set to leave.
He went to the stables where he purchased a ride to Winterhold. The journey took almost two days, during which he learned how cold Skyrim truly was. A snowstorm brewed as they approached Windhelm, the home of Ulfric Stormcloak. S’maash kept his eyes on the surrounding view.
The ice capped mountains and blustery snowstorms were a sight to behold. The closer they came to Winterhold the more difficult it was to see. Heavy winds and thick snow obscured the vision. Skyrim’s hardy horses had little difficulty pushing through, though. Late Mundas evening, S’maash arrived at his final destination.
The place was not what he had expected. Winterhold was little more than a provisions store, the Jarl’s Longhouse, and an inn. At the north end of town was the enormous bridge leading to a great tower. Knowing the bridge led to the College, the elf walked past the wooden homes, and right up to the mighty arch, and the stones buried beneath the snow packed ground. An altmer woman in bluish robes stood before him.
“You seek entrance to the College of Winterhold,” she asked, looking down upon him.
“Yes. I am S’maash. I wish to join and further my works on the art of enchanting,” he replied.
“Hmmm. How droll. Most do not come for such…dull work,” she said. “I am Faralda. I challenge those who seek entry to prove themselves worthy of joining. What can you do?” Slightly irritated by altmer demeanor, S’maash explained his research. “That means nothing to me. I need to see something. Can you even cast a spell,” she asked in her most condescending tone.
“I could pop you in the chest with an ice spike if you like,” he retorted.
“No need to be rude, dunmer. Just cast it over the bridge.”
So he did; the crystalline shard of frozen magicka soared away. She then bid him follow her as she ignited the magickal wells along the way. The precarious bridge held great portions with no railing. S’maash carefully looked over the side as a flurry of snow blew over him. Upon reaching a large statue of a mage, she gave information regarding each section of the College.
“The Archmage, Tolfdir, will meet you in the Hall of the Elements when you are ready. It is the centermost entry. For now, I will show you to your room in the Hall of Attainment.”
They both entered a large, round tower; a perfect circle of gray stone. His room, a very modest area, contained a bed, a trunk for his belongings, and scattered reagents and soul gems. He quickly unloaded what little he possessed before making his way to the Hall of the Elements.
The second tower was much like the first. The only real difference was the large practicing area in place of rooms with beds. On either side of the tower were doors leading to areas unknown. An old nord in blue robes stood before young mages, explaining the difference between alteration and illusion. His calm demeanor was a welcome respite from recent events.
“So, you see, alteration is a practical change in the flow of magick, whereas illusion is the appearance of change granted by one’s control of the flow of magick,” Tolfdir said.
“Reminds me of the Response to Bero’s Speech,” a nord boy claimed.
He had a peculiar way of speaking. While his accent was obviously nord, there was something strange about the way he accentuated his S’s.
“Aye, good call Wulfbore,” another nord said.
“Thank you, brother,” the first boy replied.
“What’s this, a prospective student? A traveler with questions, perhaps,” Tolfdir asked as he approached S’maash.
The entire class turned to look. “Yes…prospective student. I have studied quite a bit in the field of enchanting. I am S’maash.”
“Excellent. Settle into the class and follow along,” Tolfdir instructed.
The following days passed by with little incident. S’maash met the instructors of each school. He found it odd, however, that he had come all that way to find there was no instructor for the school of enchanting. Of the instructors, a few stood out for one reason or another. The khajiit, conjuration master, J’zargo, only eyed S’maash. The illusion master was friendly enough, but S’maash had little interest in illusion.
Brelyna, a middle aged dunmer, was instructor of the school of alteration. Collete Marcene, a strange and annoying breton, taught restoration, but her constant self-judgment was a nightmare. Lastly, Faralda taught destruction, though it was a rare occurrence.
Forced to confinement after hours in the Hall of Attainment, S’maash made some friends with the students. One night, while drinking some mead with the nord brothers, he posed a question to them.
“Why is there no instructor for the school of enchanting?”
“I don’t know. Far as I can tell, they don’t focus on enchanting or alchemy here,” Wulfgar said.
Wulfgar was taller and broader than his older brother, Wulfbore. Wulfgar also kept his thick, red, hair long and braided while Wulfbore kept his neatly trimmed.
“I heard a story of someone who used to teach here. He sought help from the Dragonborn shortly after the defeat of Alduin. Word is, he was looking into the disappearance of the dwarves, but it might just be a tale,” Wulfbore explained.
“That is most intriguing. I have done some studies on the dwemer. My brother and I explored Damlzthur in Morrowind,” S’maash said.
They passed the night exchanging stories of adventure. Unfortunately, no one had any answers regarding the school of enchanting.