- Location
- Europe
I can't let all my wiki diving go to waste, so here, my Winter Dynasty build omake.
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- Arrival in Winterhold 1.0
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4E 201, 17th of Last Seed – Winterhold
Wind whips across the desiccated remains of Winterhold, its snowed over buildings, roads, even its people are bent by the flurry of snow and ice.
The College of Winterhold, Skyrim's preeminent center of magical learning looms in the blizzard. It is of stupendous size, on its own it rivals the remaining city. There is enough space within its towering walls to fit a thousand men, less a building or campus and more a citadel of arcane knowledge. Perhaps in decades past, when the city still thrived and the College was a mere extension of a thriving metropolis by the sea it would have seemed more welcoming, a part of life.
Now it stands unconquered and alone, connected to the land and the city's main road by a single crumbling bridge that reaches like a crooked claw across a gap of open, frigid air at least three hundred meters long.
That bridge of granite is guarded by a single woman, Faralda. Her features are angular to an inhuman degree, the difference between mer and man. She seems entirely unaffected by the cold, not even wearing a hood to protect the tips of her long ears.
As I am, confronted quite suddenly by the snow kissed winters of Skyrim as opposed to the oppressive heat of summer, I feel a fierce desire to learn whatever magic guards her so. Rapid, indeed rather hasty, I scuttle from an alleyway and onto the main road.
On my left I pass by the trader, Birna's oddments or so her sign says, and almost slip as I transition from the cobblestone road onto the granite slabs of the bridge. Stone and snow are cold beneath my now wet fingers, almost burning. Shorts and a T-shirt are entirely inadequate for this weather.
"Mistress Faralda, I don't mean to be rude," I say, even as I clamber up the rest of the ramp. "But I'd rather like to get out of this weather as soon as possible. What must I do, to join the College?"
Rather than surprised, shocked, or confused, Faralda looks, at most, mildly bemused. "Yes, I imagine you would. Do you know the Firebolt spell? It is a simple, ranged, non-explosive fire projectile."
There is a moment of dissociation as a part of me wonders whether I do know that spell, even as another part is as certain as only extensive practice could make me.
"I do." I say, wrestling my mind into submission.
"Quickly then, cast it upon the sigil on the ground."
Faralda takes a step to the side and, with a near negligent motion of her left hand, projects a ward of force and anti-magic before her body.
With the familiarity of rote I take stock of myself, the tenor of my mind, the rhythms of my thoughts. I raise my left hand, grasping nothing. Then, for the first, and with all the experience of the ten thousandth, time I sink down into myself.
There, just left of the center of my chest, nestled in the caverns of my heart, there churns an orb of liquid light. I focus my intent on harm, on the hungry crackle of fire, its ravenous burn, the form and function I desire. In response the light surges up and out of metaphor, into the manifest realm of the real, and I rise with it.
All at once the fire crackles by my ear, held securely in the grasp of my left hand. It does not burn, still more liminal than not, an incomplete substantiation.
I sight the sigil on the granite of the bridge, a stylized monochrome-black sun with the lids and pupils of an eye. With a twist of my arm that is less a throw and more a shove the fire ball flings itself forward, more an arrow in flight than a ball.
It splashes over the embossed eye of Magnus and is absorbed in an instant, as the outlines shine with a vibrant summer sky blue.
My lips twitch with a smile, a rush of joy and exultation that sweeps up from my stomach and into my throat, a laugh so bright and free I do not dare to let it out.
"An excellent working." For the first time Faralda sounds pleased, rather than amused. I cannot help but look to her, the praise all too pleasing in that moment. "I look forward to teaching you the intricacies of Destruction magic, it seems you have some talent for it. But now, let us be quick, and get you your robe, before Colette must regrow your fingers and toes."
Buoyed by success I almost don't feel the wind as we hasten across the bridge and to the gates of the College of Winterhold.
Magic, real at last.
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