A/N: All characters and places are the propety of Bethesda Softworks. No money is being made. Please note, this story will contain scenes of a sexual nature.


Quaranir first saw the Dragonborn through the magical haze of the manascope, while several of his colleagues worked hard to tune and focus the damn thing. The arrival of the Dragonborn, they knew, should herald the return of an artefact of great power to the world. Thus, they had set up certain wards and alarms, that were tripped when a new voice Shouted in dragonspeak to the world.

Roused from his bunk by this alarm, Quaranir had flung his robe over his sleeping clothes, and hurried down the tiled passageways and marble staircases to the room that housed the huge manascope. The lens, so often turned towards the stars, or more recently towards Summerset Isle, was now turned towards Skyrim, and a breathtaking vista of snow-capped peaks slid across the polished glass.

"Two seven four, two seven five, two seven five and a third, two seven five and a seventh-"

Quaranir didn't interrupt. He simply waited and watched as other monks arrived, those woken by the commotion or simply staying up late.

There! Fire in the dried grass, a ruined building, guards, sky, a smouldering dragon skeleton – instinctively Quaranir leaned forward, as if that would give him a glimpse of the Dragonborn any sooner. The picture wheeled about, the monks muttering.

Finally, the picture steadied. Quaranir couldn't help but feel a slight stab of disappointment. The Dragonborn was barely a man. He was looking at a slight, skinny young Imperial who wore an unhappy expression as the guards explained something to him. He was dressed in ragged clothes in an Imperial style that had originally been quite expensive, and he clutched a wooden bow like it was his only friend.

He looked scared and cold and generally miserable. He had ash on one side of his face and his lip was bleeding. His short, dark hair was sticking up this way and that and in general he looked like a kicked dog. Quaranir felt a little sorry for him.

The image drew back a bit, and Quaranir was going to give the order to shut it off and give the attendants a much needed rest when the Dragonborn looked around, his gaze sweeping the plains of Whiterun. And for a moment, he seemed to look directly at Quaranir. It was an illusion, of course, as the manascope watched but did not manifest in any way itself. Although Quaranir knew this he found himself rooted to the spot, pinned by a dark, observant gaze.

It was only when the Dragonborn turned his attention back to the road in front of him that Quaranir managed to unstick his tongue from the roof of his mouth.

"That's all we need to know for now," he said. "I'm satisfied with the visual confirmation." He scribbled down a few hasty notes, but at this stage there was very little to say. Nevertheless, in a meeting the next morning, he said it.

"I'm happy to confirm that our predictions have been accurate so far. However, the Dragonborn appears very young and unsure of himself. I believe we still have some time before we need to concern ourselves; weeks at least, possibly months. Winterhold is a long way from Whiterun." They would wait and study the flow of magic across Skyrim, while the Dragonborn stumbled forward towards his fate.

The weeks turned into months, and Quaranir had many other projects to divert him while he waited for some development on the Dragonborn front. Only occasionally did he recall those piercing eyes and wonder how the young man was getting on in Skyrim. Eventually, however, he began to grow concerned, as did the other monks.

"He's not dead, is he?" Tandil asked. Several monks had gathered in one of Quaranir's favourite locations: the garden of fountains near one of the three libraries. It was a peaceful spot, and dappled sunlight warmed the Altmer monks as they sat and poured tea into glass cups.

Quaranir shuffled some parchment. "Our sources report plenty of rumours about the Dragonborn and the increased number of Dragon attacks. We've no reason to believe he's dead. We've checked and rechecked the equipment, but there's definitely no problem on our end. The...object remains dormant. Or, possible but less likely, someone is shielding its presence from us."

"How likely is that?"

"Not very. The Thalmor are sniffing around the College, but the locals aren't making them feel welcome – at least according to what reports of theirs we've managed to intercept."

"Well just summon him up on the manascope again. Find out what he's up to."

Quaranir shook his head, "That would be an ideal solution, unfortunately it seems to be impossible at this time. We tracked him via his first use of dragonspeech, but with the Greybeards' increased activity, and the constant conversations among the dragons themselves, we simply can't get a clear location."

It had been a source of some frustration for Quaranir, and he'd even gone as far as commandeering the manascope for as long as he could and tracking down dragonspeech randomly, hoping to find the Dragonborn by sheer luck. Mostly, what he saw were dragons, and as exciting as the images were, they weren't very useful. He knew he was wasting time and resources.

There had to be a better way.

Quaranir drummed his long fingers on the carved wooden table. "We may need to think outside the box for this one," he said. "Our usual lines of enquiry are stretched too thin when we try to reach into Skyrim."

Nerian leaned back in his chair, watching Quaranir with a faint smile. The two had been friends for many decades now, and Nerian could tell when Quaranir was hatching a plan.

"Well, what do you suggest?" he asked.

"I think," Quaranir said carefully, knowing this would be an unorthodox suggestion at best. "We might have to send someone in person."

There were sharp intakes of breath around the table. "Are you sure that's wise?"

"Frankly, no. But I can't think of anything better. It wouldn't break our policy of non-interference; we simply locate the Dragonborn, observe him, and report back."

"You'll have to be discreet; our existence must remain a secret to as many people as possible."

"Well, I'm aware of that – wait, me?"

"Who else, Quaranir?" Nerian drawled. "You have seniority with this project, and it was your idea."

"Well I-" That did make sense. Quaranir was not known for hesitating when the course of action was clear. "Better see if I can get authorisation," he finished.

He did. And so Nerian found him sitting on his bunk, pulling on a pair of sturdy fur-lined boots. He'd travel as light as possible, but he still had a bag full of notebooks and potions with him.

"Look at you," Nerian leaned on the door frame, "ready for the snow. The real question is, are you ready for the civil war their hatching over there? Not to mention the dragons, and the fact that Nords have every reason to hate Altmer, and the lousy food."

"I was not anticipating a holiday," Quaranir said with a frown. "I just hope this is the right thing to do."

"That's up to you, isn't it? Don't worry; just stay out of sight and it'll be fine. Where do you plan to start?'

"Whiterun. It seems logical, does it not? I had considered Winterhold but the fact is it's the only place we know he's not."

"Good luck," Nerian said sincerely.

"Thank you. Hopefully I won't be gone long."