Chapter Eight
The freezing wind had turned brutal, forcing the traveler to take shelter in Stillborn Cave. Thoughts of what might come next plagued the elf. He had no desire to plunge into the cave’s depths, so he simply waited for the storm to pass. Fearing some kind of animal attack kept him awake the entire time. More hours passed, and S’maash started a new journal. In it, he scrawled his story from the beginning, which came from watching Rosoleola disenchant a necklace years ago.
As he continued scribing, he touched on his trip into Damlzthur, Anutwyll, and finally the misunderstanding at the College of Winterhold. Once the storm passed, S’maash continued his journey towards Windhelm. Early morning frost covered the ground.
Signs posted beside the paved road indicated the town was relatively close. With the storm gone, and daylight beginning to cascade over mountainsides, S’maash saw the ancient, stone walls of Windhelm from a distance. He arrived in the middle of the day. It snowed again, albeit lightly.
Upon entering the magnificent city, he saw some dunmer and approached an old, dark elf with long, gray hair. “Excuse me. I’m passing through, looking for work and a place to continue my studies on the arcane arts. Is it possible you could guide me in the right direction?”
“Of course. I’m Faryl. I work on Hollyfrost farm, have for a long time. We could use a hand, I’m not the young mer I used to be,” Faryl stated.
They struck up a conversation regarding crops, the weather, and recent events. For over a week, S’maash helped with the crops outside the walls of Windhelm, only entering the city for drinks at the New Gnisis Corner Club. Quaint hospitality reminded him of home. The rundown interior reminded him of his own house; after all, the establishment was little more than a wooden room, three stories tall.
His new job didn’t pay much, but S’maash was able to formulate new ideas, new projects worth pondering. He also learned that Whiterun was the center trade hub for all of Skyrim. Once he had earned enough pay for a carriage ride, he moved on.
During the short ride, the elf was educated on Ulfric Stormcloak’s rise to the seat of High King. Stories of bravery and bloodshed painted Ulfric as a hero, a charismatic man of power and action. The cart master insinuated the Dragonborn also shared a hand in Ulfric’s victory against General Tullius. The nord’s story ended with a threat from the Aldmeri Dominion.
“Your kind has plans to rule Tamriel,” the nord accused.
“My kind,” S’maash was insulted.
“Elves.”
“High elves, and only a small sect. My quest for knowledge has nothing to do with usurping power,” S’maash stated, bluntly. “Besides, I’m a dark elf.”
“Perhaps. We’ve arrived, dark elf.”
S’maash hopped off the back of the cart then looked at the walls surrounding Whiterun. Nord architecture was designed for strength more than beauty. Apart from Winterhold, walls had surrounded the other cities he had visited, too. These nords are very protective, aren’t they…?
Beyond the doors of Whiterun, S’maash passed by a smithy. Some townsfolk and guards walked around, all too busy to pay heed to a newcomer. Walking the streets, pushing past scores of people of all races, he stumbled onto the door of The Bannered Mare.
The homes and buildings of Whiterun were constructed of the finer, regional wood. The subtle beauty of unrefined logs provided an air of prominence. Inside the tavern, S’maash saw the city’s dwellers feasting and drinking. It did not appear as though any regime change had come about too recently.
“Take a seat, or stoke the fire if you’re cold,” A woman said from behind the counter.
S’maash sat across from her. Behind him, a fire pit with large logs kept the tavern comfortably warm. The woman introduced herself as Hulda. While aged, she was still very beautiful. Her sharp features, dark eyes, and chestnut hair accentuated her former youth.
“Greetings. I’m from…out of town, but looking for employment. I was told Whiterun was the center of trade for all of Skyrim,” S’maash commented.
“Aye. By your looks, I’d wager you’re a mage for hire,” the woman said.
S’maash was a little uneasy. He was not sure why she mistook him for a mercenary.
“Not quite, no. I have traveled a bit. Any work in the field of magick would be a welcome change from harvesting crops, though.”
“The court wizard is always running errands; rather, he is always too busy to run his own errands. You might want to check with him,” she advised.
S’maash smiled. She, too, rolled her R’s as many of the nords did. He was starting to take a liking to the people of Skyrim, even with his current trepidations, yet learning of a powerful wizard—the Jarl’s court wizard—took precedence over making new friends, so S’maash decided to ask for some more information on him.
“Farengar Secret-Fire is his name. No one has seen much of him recently,” Hulda stated.
The young adults of Whiterun overheard the conversation. They told stories of the Dragonborn, and how he trapped the mighty dragon, Odahviing, in Dragonsreach. Apparently, Secret-Fire had managed to elicit quite the story of how he was right beside the Dragonborn and even managed to collect some samples of blood and scale. Intrigued by the stories, S’maash ventured to Dragonsreach to meet with Secret-Fire.
Along the way, he jogged past a grand tree with pretty, lilac flowers. Next, he had to climb the innumerable steps leading up to a massive, wooden palace. Immense arches of rich browns adorned the entry way. Dragonsreach’s interior was more of the same nord design as the rest of Whiterun. The peaceful area housed large tables heavy with food and mead as well as thick pillars with supporting arches.
S’maash asked the guard for the court wizard and was directed to a small room on the right hand side of palace. Upon entering, he was surprised to meet an old mage in black robes with the demeanor of an altmer.
“No doubt you’ve heard of my great research,” Secret-Fire asked.
Like the young mage, Wulfbore, Secret-Fire spoke with the oddly accentuated S’s.
“I heard from some of the townsfolk, yes. I needed to see you. I once read a tome called Twin Secrets, it–”
“Of course, you have, and I’m familiar with the story. You came to see me because you wish to learn about dragons. I’m not sure you could grasp my theories. You’d be better off studying at the College. They’re known to accept novice mages,” he spat.
S’maash laughed. “You should hear my theories, old man.”
“Is that so,” Farengar asked, slightly taken aback.
“I was kicked out of the College for reason’s I won’t go in to. The short of it is simple, Farengar; I’m convinced I can change the course of the art of enchanting, but without use of the College’s resources, I have to find someone somewhere willing to lend a hand. I understand you don’t owe me that opportunity. Nevertheless, I hope to have a discussion with you. If you’ll be so kind as to hear me out, I’m sure a brilliant mage such as yourself will be intrigued.” S’maash explained.
He had planned on buttering up Secret-Fire a bit in order to persuade him into listening. It was not the compliments that convinced Farengar, though; it was the look in S’maash’s eyes, the same look the Dragonborn had possessed.
“I’m in the middle of important work. Why don’t you return tomorrow morning?” Farengar suggested.
“Very well. I’ll be here once the sun rises.”
S’maash left the Jarl’s palace for the town. With nothing else to do, he strolled about, listening to the cheery pitches of salesmen in the town market. The next portion of his plan involved the smith, anyway. Before the evening sun set, he approached an old woman who was pounding away at steel beside the forge. She was engrossed in her work.
“Excuse me,” S’maash asked.
“Looking to protect yourself, or deal some damage?”
“Neither,” he replied.
“Then, off with you, dark elf, I don’t have time to waste.”
“A
pologies. I just wanted to price some iron ingots.”
“Ah,” she said and stood. “I’m Adrianne.”
“S’maash.”
“My ingots go for about twenty Septims a piece,” she informed him.
He looked over her hard face and wrinkles. She had to be close to sixty. S’maash was impressed by how fervently she worked.
“I see,” he said.
“You don’t look like a smith,” she added.
“No, I’m an enchanter. Farengar and I will be conducting some experiments…I hope.”
“Mm hmm. I never had much patience for that one. A bit arrogant if you ask me.”
“Like an altmer,” S’maash smiled.
They continued speaking for a while longer. He let her know he had only just arrived in town and didn’t know how long he was going to stay. In turn, she gave him a brief history including clan Gray-Mane’s rise to power. S’maash learned that Thorald Gray-Mane, the eldest child, had inherited the throne. It originally belonged to a man named Balgruuf, but after the Stormcloak invasion, the Gray-Manes sided with Ulfric. Vignar then took the throne from Balgruuf. His nephew, Thorald, who had originally fled Skyrim with his brother, returned once Vignar took the throne.
After the history lesson, S’maash retired to the Temple of Kynareth. He had no money left, and the kindly caretaker, Danica, let him stay the night free of charge, so long as helped with some chores the following morning. There were no wounded men to heal, so S’maash performed some lighter, cleaning duties. When the sun rose, he made his way back to Dragonsreach. Farengar was in his quarters, mincing ingredients.
“Ah, returned for our discussion then,” he asked.
“Yes. I’d like to begin by thanking you for the opportunity. Now, I’ll keep my explanation concise. I have been practicing the art of enchanting for a long time. I started back in Morrowind. Growing tired of the common enchantments, I decided to learn as much as I could from our old tomes in L’Thu Oad. Naturally, I came across mention of daedric artifacts and dwemer artifacts. I had to know, why were they so much more potent? Why could those artifacts not be disenchanted? I was told to shut my mouth and keep doing my duties.
“Ultimately, it was no longer enough for me. I had to learn the truth. I opted for an expedition through Damlzthur. My brother and some of his guildmates helped me, but we failed to discover anything. Returning to the Mages’ Coalition, I received only jeers and scoffing. My brother’s words persuaded me to continue my search for knowledge, so I packed up and moved to Cyrodiil.
“There, I knew I could explore the ayleid ruins. After all, their studies suggested that light was the truest form of magick. Since I had never dealt with a light based enchantment, I decided I might have better luck in an ayleid ruin as opposed to a picked clean dwemer ruin, so I hired some protection for another expedition. From a man called Barbas, I learned about the College of Winterhold.
“Had I not been beaten badly by rogues in Cyrodiil, I might have stayed, but the lure of endless resources and like minds pulled me to Skyrim. I successfully joined the College and made some advancements. After some miscommunication, it was believed I had been practicing necromancy. I was not. Nevertheless, I was expelled,” S’maash explained.
Farengar listened attentively, though he never looked up from his work. “Yes, there has been quite the problem with necromancy here in Skyrim. Some three or four years ago, a new cult emerged from the old, Forsworn territories. I assure you, anyone who may so much as think you’re a necromage might simply kill you on the spot.”
“Well…then, I can better understand why Tolfdir made such a quick decision,” S’maash stated.
“So, why do you come here,” Secret-Fire huffed.
“I have theories. For instance, and I think you’ll be intrigued, a blade cannot be enchanted to resist fire. A set of boots cannot be enchanted to deal fire damage, but why? Is it not just steel? Can one not kick with boots as one slashes with blade? Furthermore, is it not the wielder of the equipment who benefits from the enchantment? A ring of waterbreathing does not breathe water, the wearer does. And further…furthermore, can you not cast a flame cloak spell, essentially wearing the flame to deal damage without so much as warming your own skin?
“I believe there are many advancements in the art of enchanting yet to be made. Most recently I read–”
“That man and mer may cast two enchantments upon one item, yes, and I believe you hold some exceptional questions, but I regress to my original question. Why have you come here?”
“I heard you worked with the Dragonborn. My theories dealing with soul absorption give rise to questions only you might know the answers to. I also heard you performed some experiments with a dragon. I need to learn about them. It was a dragon, after all, who gave the twin secret,” S’maash explained.
Farengar paused, finally looking from his work. S’maash was unable to see his eyes. They were hidden by the man’s hood.
“Indeed. I have learned much over the past few years. Doubtless I’m the most advanced mage of my time,” he said, unabashedly.
“Then, why not teach at the College?”
“Why should I? I won’t waste my time with the impetuous youth. No, it is someone such as yourself, devoted and focused, I have been waiting for. I will help you, yet I have my own, important experiments.
“So, tell me what you need, whenever you need it. If I think I can help, I will. I may also be sending you to run errands for me as I am very busy. In fact, I have one for you right now.
“I’ve been working with mammoth tusk powder. I learned of it from the Dragonborn who used it to help some alchemist in Windhelm years ago, but I have run low on supplies. Take this coin purse. Find a courier and give him this letter. It’s for Quintus in Windhelm. He should be able to send some powder my way. When you come back, I will help you with whatever your first step might be. Now, off with you,” Farengar said.
S’maash felt a little rebuffed by Farengar’s demeanor, but it was truly no different than Rosoleola’s. Moreover, he felt a rush of energy, hoping that Farengar was true to his word. Immediately, he left to find a courier. Whiterun, being a trading hub, was home to the couriers’ office. S’maash found the building between Belethor’s General Goods and Arcadia’s Cauldron. Upon entering, he saw a young imperial behind the counter. Several crates of letters and packages sat behind him.
“Welcome to the couriers’ central office. Need to ship something,” the young man asked, eagerly.
“Farengar sent me with this letter for Quintus in Windhelm, and here’s the payment for delivery and purchase of the items on the list.” S’maash said, handing everything over.
“Excellent,” the imperial replied as he scanned the letter. “We’ll have the letter delivered for you within two days, then a few days to have everything shipped back if Quintus responds promptly.”
S’maash thanked the courier then returned to Farengar. “It’s done,” the old mage asked.
“Yes.”
“Excellent. Now what will you need?”
“As I’ve stated, enchantments on inanimate objects can take hold, but there seems to be a discrepancy on what kind of enchantment can be placed on specific items. I want to see if I can cast resist fire on an iron ingot and have it pounded into a weapon, allowing the wielder to draw upon the enchantment,” S’maash stated.
“So, what do you want from me,” Farengar asked as he sat at his desk flipping through parchment.
“The funds to purchase an ingot. Adrianne said they’re twenty Septims each….”
Farengar was silent for a moment. He continued searching for something then sighed before answering.
“I suppose I can give you payment for your task. Fine,” he said as he rose from the desk. He then gave S’maash some coin. Promptly, he left to purchase the ingot, after which, he returned to Farengar, but said nothing. Instead, he stood, looking at the mage. “What is it? My patience is wearing thin,” Farengar barked.
“I need
a soul gem.”
“You get one for now.”
S’maash accepted the petty soul gem and set to his task. Casting the enchantment was easy enough. Afterwards, the gem shattered.
“Good. What is your next step?”
“I’ll take it back to Adrianne to see if she can forge a blade.”
“Best of luck,” Farengar replied, facetiously.
S’maash wondered about a possible veiled connotation in the mage’s reply, but left for the smith; it was starting to get late. The wind was also quite chilly, nipping at his ears.
“I have work to do, dark elf, but I’ll see what I can manage. I am intrigued by your thoughts. Come back tomorrow afternoon. I should have a conclusion for you,” she told him.
Satisfied, S’maash wondered where to stay for the night. He decided to return to Dragonsreach and ask Farengar.
“Must I provide you with everything?” Farengar heaved.
“Apologies, but I thought we were undertaking this task together.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. This is your endeavor, not mine, but I will speak to Thorald. He may be inclined to let you stay here for the night,” Farengar said. He then left S’maash alone, but returned later with good news. “He says that so long as we don’t burn the palace down, you can stay. There are some beds the servants use down stairs. Go talk to them.”
S’maash slept in Dragonsreach’s basement for the night. The following morning, he rose to meet with Farengar, who had a new task for him.
“While I await delivery, I need you to obtain something. I’ve heard of a tome called The Black Arts on Trial, Revised Edition, a powerful illusionist, long since dead, might be in possession of it. My research keeps me busy, so I don’t have time to acquire it myself. Go to Brood Cavern and retrieve it for me,” Farengar ordered.
“But I’m supposed to get my results from Adrianne today.”
“That’s too bad. Perhaps, I’ll get the results for you, but it isn’t likely. You may simply tell her to hold off on your project. Go now. There isn’t time to waste.”
S’maash—making his way out of Dragonsreach—thought about how the illusionist was long since dead. He didn’t understand what Secret-Fire meant by that, but then he reached Adrianne’s workshop. She was working at the tanning rack.
“Excuse me,” S’maash started.
“I haven’t gotten to it yet, dunmer. I only just arrived at my forge,” she grumbled.
“Of course. I just wanted to let you know Farengar sent to me to retrieve something, so you can take all the time you need.”
“Very well.”
Promtply, he left for Brood Cavern. It was a windy day, not overly cold. During his travel, northwest of the city, he heard wolves howling in the distance. Fearing the worst, he overcharged an oak flesh spell in preparation. A wavering glow of light wrapped his form. As the cave came into view, a small pack of brown wolves descended from the hills. They circled him. Without so much as flinching, he brought two frostbite spells to his hands.
As the first wolf attacked, the other two ran behind him. S’maash struck the first wolf head-on with a perpetual blast of frozen magick. It died within seconds, but the other two bit at his back and legs, dragging him to the ground. Oak flesh kept him from serious injury, but the bites were still painful. Grunts of pain and rage escaped his lips as he pointed a palm at each wolf. Seconds later, they, too, were dead, frozen over. As a trophy, and testament to his victory, he took their pelts. A gift for Adrienne.
He proceeded inside Brood Cavern. It was quite dark. Candle light revealed rough rock formations. To his surprise, there were many mushrooms growing all about the ground. As he journeyed cautiously, he stopped to pick several of them; fly amanita, Namira’s rot, blisterwort; most of them he found unfamiliar; either they didn’t grow in Morrowind, or he had simply never come across them.
There wasn’t much in the way of danger in the cave- some skeever. The large, filthy, rats were easily defeated. After blasting them with frost, he took their tails. Then, following the cave walls to a wooden door, he overheard voices. People were discussing treasure. Someone was arguing about there being nothing of value in the cave. Footsteps came towards the door, so the elf tried to hide, luckily his candle light spell died out just in time.
The door creaked opened and two men walked out. It was difficult to tell from where they hailed. One of the men was covered in steel plate, obviously the leader. The other man was wearing furs and carrying a large hammer on his back. They both walked in the direction of the cave’s entrance. Slowly, S’maash approached the door. Hearing no more voices, he decided to peek in. It was a makeshift camp with tables, chairs, food and other, miscellaneous items. Thinking back to his beating in Anutwyll, he scrutinized the door at the far end and assumed it led deeper into the cave where likely the tome lay undiscovered.
It never ceased to amaze him how bandits or treasure hunters always overlooked books as treasure. He hoped those men had overlooked it as well. Before opening the second door, S’maash pilfered a coin purse, a minor healing potion, and a silver necklace. He then made his way through the second door. Suddenly, he realized he might have to journey back through the previous room. Guess I’ll deal with that when I have to….
With the door secured behind him, he stood in the darkness. There was no alternative at that point, so he casted another light spell. The magick revealed a narrow corridor. It proceeded at a steep, descending angle. S’maash took a breath before pushing on.
Colorful mushrooms grew form the rocky ground near the walls. He carefully collected more samples on his way down. After rounding some corners, he came across thick webbing. He did not care for spiders and cringed at the thought.
Rustling was barely audible beyond where he stood. He listened attentively then took a step, listened some more then walked further. Rounding another corner, he saw what was creating the sound- a lone spider, a very large, lone spider. There was no way to bypass the creature, as it was nearly as wide as the corridor. Fearing a venomous bite, S’maash casted oak flesh again and prepared for a fight.
He took a long breath, swallowed hard, and then ducked to better aim ice spikes. First, he fired one from his left hand then the right. Both shards of glistening, frozen magick hit the spider, but it turned, saw its assailant, and charged. Realizing ice magick had little effect, the wizard switched to flames. The billowing, fire magick burned the spider to a crisp. The stench was awful, but danger was averted.
Exhaling as the adrenaline passed, the elf examined his environment. Egg sacs filled the room, nasty white globs formed from the spider’s webbing, or so it seemed. S’maash managed to recover a handful of green, speckled, spider eggs. Momentarily, he thought back to his chicken, but quickly shook himself from reverie; he was ready to delve deeper into the cave and locate the mysterious book.
A rocky corridor eventually led to a dead end. He looked carefully at the wall before him. Reaching out, he felt a barely distinguishable seam. Hidden door? S’maash observed the surroundings thoroughly. Behind him, on the right hand wall was a small handle built into the rock. He pulled it out then turned it. The sound of stone scraping against stone assaulted his ears. A new path was revealed after a segment of stone sank into the ground.
It was a very short path; the few paces led S’maash into a burial chamber. A skeleton was heaped in a lidless tomb. He peeked over the edges of the casket. There was nothing inside but bones, so he searched the room. Some burial jars lined one wall. A rotted shelf with ruined books lined another. A few linen wraps and stamina potions were readily available. Then, something caught his eye.
He knelt by some larger stones piled up on the ground. He pushed them away, revealing a broken chest. Inside, he found the illusion book, some Septims, and an old, fur armor. Not wishing to leave anything behind, he took everything of value, including the contents of the burial jars. Once he was ready to leave, he had acquired a steel dagger, more potions, and more, gold coins. Finally, he left the ro
om for an unexplored corridor.
The narrow, rocky hallway seemed to go on without end. It constantly curved in one direction then the other. It also proceeded at a slight, but noticible, incline. After an hour of walking, S’maash saw light. He ventured forth. The corridor spat him out into the hills. He had been successful and escaped unharmed. Satisfied, and under the orange glow of a setting sun, he returned to Farengar.