1st of HearthFire

4E 201

Bertrand Lavoisier*

The plains south of Winterhold angled in descent towards the Atmoran sea, marked in places by ice-encrusted boulder formations and deep crevices that sliced into the glacial shelf looming over the turbulent water. The wind howled as it strafed the landscape, causing crests of ice to fly towards the southern mountains, their jagged peaks rising in height towards the east. Atop one of these imposing bluffs was a great marble statue carved in the likeness of a woman draped in a long, flowing dress. Her alabaster arms were raised high, each hand clutching a different object. In her right, she held a crescent moon, and in her left, a pointed star.

Bertrand was educated enough to recognize the statue as a depiction of Azura, the Daedric Prince of Dusk and Dawn. He knew that she was particularly sacred to the Dunmer, the ash-colored elves of Morrowind, the province to the east of Skyrim. Though he recognized the statue's majesty, Bertrand was not here to make pilgrimage. His destination lay through the incoming pass, in the once-great city of Winterhold. In that city was the College of Winterhold, an apolitical sanctum of study, dedicated to the purpose of educating prospective students in the arts of magic, as well as providing arcane services for the people of Skyrim.

Bertrand had come a long way, his journey beginning in the ancient kingdoms of Daggerfall, in the Imperial Province of High Rock. He had been on the road already for about six weeks, and he hoped his adventure would be coming to an end soon. Bertrand had known that Skyrim was a cold and unforgiving land, but he had no idea how cold it was until he had encountered it for himself. Despite wearing layers beneath his furs, he could hardly feel his hands and feet, and he shivered with every step.

To make matters worse, news had come upon his arrival in Skyrim that war had broken out between the Jarls. Not only that, but Dragons had been sighted across the province, an event that had not occurred in thousands of years. Bertrand had not yet seen a dragon, so he did not know if such talk was just hyperbolic rumor, but he had seen plenty of creatures dangerous enough while crossing through the province's vast wildernesses.

The path began to ascend towards the coming pass. The snow was still deep, and Bertrand's pace was retarded by the sheer volume of ice before him. He punched into the snowbank with every step, hoping that the weight of the satchel on his back wouldn't cause him to tip backwards into the snow from being off-balance.

Large, thick flakes fell around him in the thousands. A few hardy trees were interspersed across the glacial landscape, their long branches covered in evergreen needles, coated in a thick gown of snow.

Wish I knew an Alteration spell to keep me warm, Bertrand thought, that should be the first thing they teach at the college, I hope, given this weather.

Bertrand didn't know what kind of makeup the college had. He suspected that there would mostly be Bretons like himself, as Elves were somewhat unpopular in Skyrim, and Nords themselves had little interest in magic. The Beast-Races came from warm, sunny climates, so they would probably not wish to trek so far north.

Suddenly, Bertrand heard a chattering noise from up ahead. A glowing, white form began spiraling and undulating across the open terrain. Bertrand tried to get a good look, but didn't have to wait long, for the Ice Wraith closed the distance in a matter of seconds.

Bertrand cursed in Nedic and immediately called out, "Simmer!" whilst clenching his fist. A corona of purple energy emerged ahead of the young Breton, just as the Ice Wraith rose to attack. From within the flash a humanoid form emerged, a flame Atronach.

Its form was like a woman's, but of no woman that existed in Mundus. Her flesh was rippling flames, her scant garments made of cooled magma, and atop her brow were curled horns of fire that shone radiantly through the dark snowfall. She was a Daedra of the Deadlands, intelligent enough to obey commands after Bertrand had bound her soul to his.

The Atronach's hovering presence was enough to force the Ice Wraith to recoil, snarling as he did so. Simmer's heat was intense enough to force tears from Bertrand's eyes, and to cause the snow beneath her levitating feet to instantly melt into water.

Wordlessly, Simmer began her attack. From her right hand, now outstretched with her arm, she conjured a flaming sphere. Simmer flung it at the Ice Wraith, who dodged the brunt of the attack, but was still grazed across its serpentine back, causing a large chunk of its body to dissolve instantly within the sphere's trajectory.

The Ice Wraith fell back from the young Breton as Simmer launched another attack. Bertrand took the opportunity to cast a Stoneflesh spell around his person, enveloping his body in a film of shimmering light that would produce a magical barrier to reflect damage off his body, in case the Ice Wraith managed to break through Simmer's defense. Bertrand hoped it would work, for all his Magicka was now spent, and he suddenly felt very weary, as if he might collapse on the ground at any moment.

Simmer kept up her assault at the dodging Ice Wraith, who managed to twist around the Atronach's flank to reach her true target – Bertrand, who looked up to see the menacing, crystalline fangs right in front of him.

"Shor's mercy!" Bertrand shouted, before being flung onto his back, his barrier breaking with the sound of shattering glass.

Bertrand stared up at the sky. The wind had been knocked out of him. He was breathing heavily. He could hear the chattering of the Ice Wraith grow closer…

…when suddenly, another fiery orb appeared from the opposite direction and struck the Ice Wraith hard enough that it recoiled again.

Bertrand could hear someone coming down from the hills to the north. The young Breton forced himself up from the ground as quickly as possible, standing up to see a dark, hooded figure engaging the Ice Wraith, along with Simmer. Bertrand hoped that Simmer would understand the figure was trying to help her, and not attack, but the Atronach did not always know when to differentiate friend from foe.

Finally, the stranger disabled the Ice Wraith, causing the creature to implode and melt onto the ground in a large, wet puddle, leaving nothing else behind but a pair of icy fangs.

Bertrand smiled breathlessly and trudged forward towards the battlefield, where patches of snow had been melted by the twin assault. Simmer had stopped moving, waiting for instruction from her mortal master.

"Simmer, return," he commanded in a weak, gasping voice. He was beginning to get his strength back, and he could feel the Magicka stores in his body rejuvenating.

The stranger's back was facing him. They were knelt, plucking their prize from the puddle on the ice, and adding the fangs to their satchel. Perhaps they were an alchemist, Bertrand considered, and they would be making use of those fangs for an invisibility potion.

"Thanks for the assistance," Bertrand began, as the stranger turned to face him at last.

"Your Atronach is weak," the woman stated firmly. She was a Dark Elf, young and pretty. She had high, regal cheekbones and thin, ember-like eyes typical of her race. The hood obscured most of her head, but Bertrand could see that she had dark, raven hair. "And you possess very little Magicka. Curious, for a Breton."

Bertrand was taken aback. She was right of course, about his Magicka, but the Atronach comment rustled him. "Simmer has protected me well before."

"And you've named your Atronach?" the Dunmer asked in disbelief, "What in Aetherius would you do that for? Daedra are not pets!"

"No, of course not," Bertrand replied stiffly, "Still, it makes it easier to command her that way."

"Hmph," the dark elf scoffed, "As you say. Why are you out here, Breton?"

"I could ask the same of you," Bertrand retorted, "Seems like an awful day for a hike."

"I was out on college business," the Dunmer said haughtily, "you know, the College of Winterhold? That must be why you're here, right? To try and get into the college? Well I'm afraid they don't just let anybody in."

"What is that supposed to mean?" Bertrand asked pointedly.

"It means exactly what your offended tone implies. I doubt they will let you in. Your companion is a Daedra without much bite, and you don't seem to have much Magicka to perform more than two apprentice-level spells at a time, I'd say they expect a bit more than that."

Finally, Bertrand began to lose his temper, "What's your name, elf?"

The woman smirked, "You may call me Brelyna, if you please."

"Well, Brelyna, I don't know who you think you are, but unless you're in charge of college admission, you should hold your tongue. Just wait and see before you pass judgment on me."

Brelyna shrugged, "I didn't mean to make you upset. Just trying not to get your hopes up. I can take you to Winterhold, if you so desire."

"You think more of those Ice Wraiths are out there?" Bertrand asked.

"Perhaps," Brelyna shrugged again, "But there seems no good reason for you to travel alone, not if we are going the same way."

As much as Bertrand disliked this imperious Dunmer, he saw the logic in her statement. With an adjustment of his satchel, he nodded and replied, "Alright then, lead the way."

For the next few hours, the pair moved through the pass rather silently. The cold, grey walls of the mountains around them were covered in sheaves of icicles, and the wind continued its howling assault.

Brelyna's words had seeded doubts of purpose in Bertrand's mind, but he managed to shake them off, focusing instead on the pain in his back, the aches in his legs and the numbness beneath his gloves. He prayed to the Nine that his hands were not taken by frostbite, and would not require amputation, for the cold was so deep he could feel it taking root beneath his now waxy skin.

Brelyna didn't seem to notice the cold. Maybe she had grown accustomed to it, or maybe she had found some way to keep herself warm. Regardless, she led the way, often getting ahead of Bertrand and having to consciously slow herself down to accommodate his turgid gait.

"How much further?" Bertrand asked after they had continued for nearly two and a half hours through the mountains.

"Not much longer. Winterhold is beyond that rise," she gestured towards a tall hill in the distance, maybe a quarter of an Imperial mile.

Bertrand sniffed, "Very well. I take it there's shelter in town?"

Brelyna nodded and replied, "Yes. There's one tavern left. But as you will see, what is left of Winterhold is mostly ruins…"

When they came to the top of the rise, Bertrand could see the dark shapes of buildings down below. With renewed vigor, he clambered down the hillside, but it did not take long for him to be in agreement with Brelyna.

Winterhold consisted of a single road, winding its way through town towards the college on its western edge. Even through the snow, Bertrand could make out the college. It was a lonely structure, a stone fortification perched on top of a jagged cliff separated fully from the mainland. The rest of Winterhold was just as high, overlooking sharp, crooked rocks and sheets of glacial ice that rested on the coast's surface.

Many of the buildings left were as Brelyna said – abandoned ruins, piles of stone and charred lumber. There were four or five buildings where smoke poured from the stone-built chimneys, but beyond that, nothing. There were no citizens outside, no guards. The whole place was quiet as the grave, beyond the incessant moaning of the wind, and the creaking of a loose sign that hung from the side of a two-story lodge.

Bertrand was in awe. He had read of the Collapse but didn't realize that Winterhold's days of glory were far behind. It was a corpse, far-removed from the days of being one of the greatest seats of power in all of Skyrim.

"It's a dump," was all Bertrand said. Brelyna said nothing and began scrabbling down the hillside to enter the town proper.

Bertrand followed, passing by a lean-to in which some goats rested, hiding from the snow-storm's wrath. There were chicken coops as well behind what looked to be the Jarl's Longhouse, a run-down building with a thatch roof buckling beneath the weight of accumulated snow. The stink of manure and urine flowed from that direction, causing Bertrand to wrinkle his nose before looking away.

"Over there," Brelyna called to him, pointing towards the town's other large building, "The tavern. There you will find food, shelter, and a warm fire. I must return to the college now. I never got your name, Breton?"

"Bertrand. Bertrand Lavoisier."

"Good luck, Bertrand," Brelyna said to him as she departed into the blizzard, her dark form consumed by the wash of wind and ice, "Only the Reclamations know if we will meet again!"

Bertrand stared for a second in confusion, then simply shook his head. First she berates me, then she wishes me luck. Maybe she sincerely didn't realize her rudeness, maybe she just doesn't care. Bertrand shrugged and turned towards the inn.

* = Pronounced Ber-trand Luh-vwah-see-ay