Malg the Magnificent - დიდებული მალგი

by Levi Buchanan

Malg has come all the way from the Dragontail Mountains to study at the College of Winterhold and is expecting to amaze his teachers and dispel the notion that orcs make poor wielders of magic. However, his life at the college does not go exactly as he might have expected.

1. Part 1: The Eye of Magnus

Malg the Magnificent

Part 1: The Eye of Magnus

The air was brisk and chill, as it often was when Mirabelle Ervine took her midmorning stroll along the top of the wall which surrounded the College of Winterhold. The walks helped her clear her head and reflect. Much had happened in last month, not least of which was her ascension to the position of Arch-Mage. It was something she had always wanted, but it had come at a cost. Her friend and predecessor, Savos Aren, had paid the ultimate price in trying to protect the college from the megalomaniac actions of the Thalmor agent tasked with keeping tabs on the college. She hated even the memory of the elf and refused to speak his name, but she took solace in the fact that, even though they had lost Savos, that ruddy elf was dead, too. She remembered the moment. It had played over and over in her head for a week. After returning from Labyrinthian with the Staff of Magnus, she and Tolfdir had broken into the Hall of Elements. The elf was so smug, he did not even acknowledge their presence, that was until she turned the staff on the Eye of Magnus. The power of the staff tore the magic from his grasp, and without the Eye, he was completely vulnerable. At that moment, a gout of flame from Tolfdir's hands engulfed him. She remembered the elf's face as he died, first his robes and then his skin catching fire, his screams echoing throughout the chamber as he crumpled into a heap of charred and smoking flesh. She pushed the thought away. As much as she hated the elf, the way in which he died was still upsetting, and she did not like to dwell on the images burned into her mind.

All of this had started when Tolfdir had taken the new novices into Sarthal without any safeguards. That was risky enough, but then to send them off on their own without his direct supervision? What was he thinking?! she asked herself. He wasn't. That was the problem. A responsible professor would not tell the students to go on while he stayed behind. Obviously, new protocols had to be put in place to keep ignorant students from bumbling into draugr-infested crypts. Thankfully, that expedition had not ended with any deaths, but it easily could have. Teach the novices a ward and then have them take on the undead?! Idiot! She had suspended Tolfdir for a month. She would have expelled him completely had he not been instrumental in retaking the college. Their Master of Alteration was due to return to teaching the following day when a new group of novices was scheduled to arrive. Hopefully, he had learned from his mistake and would not have plans to take this class anywhere dangerous, at least not on their first day.

Mirabelle leaned against the battlements and looked out over the gap between the College of Winterhold and the rest of the city. The Eye Debacle had not improved the relationship between them, which had been as cold and icy as the weather ever since the Great Collapse. At least the only losses were experienced by the college itself rather than the city. She shuddered to think at the backlash had the city lost anyone. It may very well have been a mob showing up at the college gates. It had taken several meetings with Jarl Korir to smooth things over, but luckily, the civil war was far more pressing for him now that the Eye of Magnus had been taken by the Psijics. Once she had convinced the jarl that the cause of the trouble was gone, he decided to leave them be, which was enough for Mirabelle. In time the people of Winterhold may embrace the college again, but that would likely take generations still. She would do her best to repair the relationship, but for now, she would settle for the Stormcloaks not marching up to her gates.

As she made to turn back, she noticed someone approaching the college bridge from the city. She guessed the person was male by the way he walked, but beyond that, she could not see much. He was wrapped in dark robes, and the hood was pulled low over his face. Perhaps he was one of the new students, arriving early and eager to get settled in for classes the next day. Mirabelle watched as he neared the bridge. She wondered which test Faralda would administer to the applicant. Their master destruction trainer had the odd penchant for asking the prospective student their own preferred field of magic only to test them in another. Some might consider this bait and switch a tad cruel, but Mirabelle let her do it. She decided it was a good way to test the novices' adaptability, a crucial skill in magic.

Mirabelle was too far away to hear what was being said, but she watched, hoping to see her first student as Arch-Mage pass his initial examination. After a few moments, there was a flash of green light. That was odd. Mirabelle could not think of a novice or apprentice level spell that gave off that particular hue. She squinted her eyes and continued to observe only to see the figure in dark robes walk out from under the first archway and make his way toward the college, without Faralda. What had happened?! Had he killed her?! Was this an attack?! Mirabelle rushed to the other side of the wall and sounded the alarm. College guards rushed to the gates casting defensive spells as they went. Whoever this person was, they would not be getting inside to do any more harm! She rushed down the stairs and through the Hall of Countenance, calling to those nearby to stay back from the main gate.

College guards had already secured the gate, and the robed figure stood outside the bars, his arms raised in surrender and a look of confusion on his face. His hood was thrown back, and when Mirabelle came face to face with the intruder, she was surprised to see the dark greenish skin and tusked mouth of an orc. It was not unheard of for orcs to use magic. Urag gro-Shub was in charge of the Arcanaeum, but to find an orc who desired to study magic, much less one that was any good at it, was exceedingly rare. From what she knew, their culture did not seem to hold much esteem for the arcane, nor did the race itself exhibit any proclivities toward the magical arts as did Bretons or Altmer. Instead, orcs, for the most part, seemed far more at home on the battlefield, encased in heavy plate or at the forge crafting it.

This orc was not in heavy plate, nor did he seem to understand why he was being held by the guard. As Mirabelle came closer, she heard him desperately trying to convince the guard he was no threat.

"I passed the elf lady's test," the orc was saying. "That means I get to come study magic. That is what she said."

"What is the meaning of this?" Mirabelle asked as she came up to the gate. "Where is Faralda? What have you done with her?!"

The orc answered, "F-ralda, the elf lady on the bridge is still there I think."

"Is she hurt?" the Arch-Mage asked.

"Not as far as I know," the orc shrugged.

Mirabelle breathed a sigh of relief. "Alright," she said. "Then why has she not accompanied you here? It is protocol for her to lead new students onto college grounds."

"This would be difficult," the orc said.

"Why?" Mirabelle asked, her eyebrow rising suspiciously.

"She is paralyzed," the orc replied.

"You attacked a member of the college?!" the Arch-Mage growled. "Why? What is your purpose here?"

"No!" the orc firmly denied the accusation.

"Then what happened?" Mirabelle asked.

The orc began to put his hands down, but when the guards shouted, they shot back up into the air. "Ok, ok, I am not doing anything!" the orc yelled. "I mean just to expound. The elf lady told me I would have to pass a test to come to the college, show her I could cast a spell. She said to summon a flame atronach. Well, I think she was not paying attention because I told her I want to learn alteration. It is what I am good at. Dead should stay dead. Fire does not need to be brought to life either. That seems stupid, so instead, I showed her my spell."

"So, you cast paralysis when she asked you to summon a flame atronach?" Mirabelle asked.

"It seemed like the smart thing to do at the time," the orc shrugged. "It is now seeming less smart."

Mirabelle heard footsteps and saw Faralda running up the steps to the gate. The moment her eyes locked onto the orc, the elf grimaced, and flames began to dance in her hands.

"Hold!" Mirabelle shouted.

A look a genuine disappointment came over the altmer's face, but she dropped her hands. "Sorry, Arch-Mage," she said. "The stupid orc blindsided me with a paralysis spell!"

The orc shrugged and scrunched up his face. "I showed you I can cast a spell," he said.

"You were supposed to summon a flame atronach!" Faralda yelled.

"Living fire in a small confined space?" the orc asked, shaking his head. "You elves are supposed to be smart."

Fire blazed in Faralda's eyes again.

"I don't like conjuration," the orc mumbled. "It's creepy."

The college guards and staff all looked at each other rather bashfully, shrugged their shoulders and nodded. No one could deny what the orc had said. That particular school of magic was irrefutably unsettling. Many practitioners of the arcane had found their talents lay in calling daedric minions from out of the Oblivion wastes or even reanimating the cold corpses of the deceased, and even if some looked at it was disdain or revulsion, it was not illegal.

"Uncomfortable or not," Mirabelle began. "It is part of the curriculum here, and you will have to deal with your own feelings toward it. If you cannot handle that, you might as well leave." She was already impressed with the orc's restraint. Faced with Faralda's insult and a challenge to fight, most orcs would have responded very differently. It was at that moment that Mirabelle had decided to accept the orc into the college. After all, paralysis was a rather high-level alteration spell. He undoubtedly had the skill to succeed, but he would have to come to terms with his distaste for conjuration.

The orc thought it over as the others looked on, and he continued to think it over as the others got bored. The guards began looking around awkwardly, trying to find something else to look at instead of the orc's brooding face.

"Well?" the Arch-Mage asked finally. "Can you accept that?"

The orc nodded.

"Good," Mirabelle said. "What is your name, orc?"

"Malg gro-Snegburgak," the orc said proudly. "From the Dragontail Mountains."

"I officially accept you into the College of Winterhold, Malg gro-Sne… Malg," the Arch-Mage said. Faralda will show you to your new quarters."

Faralda pushed by the guards, grumbling something under her breath. "Come on, orc," she snapped. "Try to keep up. I have a feeling I will be saying that a lot." She led Malg to his room in the Hall of Attainment, a small circular stone tower built into the outside wall of the college. Other rooms, just like the one she assigned to Malg lined the hall opening toward the central room. A blue light rose from a pit in the center of the room, magically lighting and warming the hall against the frigid Nordic winds. "This is where the new initiates sleep," she said. "The previous class has already been moved out."

"Where did they go?" Malg asked.

Faralda thought for a moment. "I don't know," she admitted. "Somewhere I suppose. Doesn't matter. We are dealing with your class now."

The orc shrugged and flopped down on his bed. Faralda stared at him angrily. "Nothing?" she asked. "Nothing at all?"

"What you mean?" Malg asked.

"You don't want to apologize for paralyzing me?" Faralda asked.

Malg sat up in his bed. "Did I do it wrong?" he asked.

Faralda gave him a scathing look, then turned and left the hall.

The Hall of Attainment was nearly empty. Malg could hear someone walking around on the second level, but they did not seem interested in coming down to greet him. He decided it would be better to keep to himself until tomorrow. Perhaps he could figure out why the elf seemed so angry at him, so he did not make the same mistake again. He was not angry with her for not opening the gate like she said she would, but maybe elves and humans just said things they did not mean. There was an orc like that back home. Malg could not remember his name, but he said a lot of things he did not mean. It caused a lot of problems, but the chief dealt with him quickly. His skull was still hanging on the chief's longhouse the day Malg had left.

Eventually, Malg gave up on trying to understand Faralda. Maybe she was always that angry. He decided to spend his time more productively by using telekinesis to rearrange his new room, which had been cluttered with numerous things by the previous tenant. When he finished that chore, he began tossing anything he felt was useless through the pillar of blue light into the room across from his. Perhaps the new occupier of that room would have some use for human skulls, vampire dust, and the other odd alchemical ingredients that had been left behind. Once he was happy with his new quarters, Malg laid back on his bed. Skyrim was bigger than he had been led to believe, much more than the frozen waste some of the Redguard caravan drivers had implied, and the cold, mountainous area around Winterhold almost reminded him of home. It was different obviously. It was much whiter in Winterhold, as snow from earlier falls looked to be piling up rather than melting off as it did in the Dragontails, but it was just as cold here, if not a bit colder. Malg did not mind, though. He had been accepted into the college. That was enough for now. He pulled his blankets up toward his neck until his big, green feet peered out from the other side. He snorted and wiggled his toes as the glowing blue pillar warmed the bottoms of his feet and quickly drifted off to sleep.

The next morning Malg met his fellow novices and new classmates while he attended a rather dry and unengaging class on safety and magical theory. Across from him, on the other side of Tolfdir, was a Breton. He was short, of medium build with bright blue eyes, and he was the only other male in the group. He also must have been rather handsome for a human. The Nord twins had shoved Malg to the side in order to secure a place next to him, and they continued to ogle him and whisper to each other throughout the lecture. Malg wanted to be helpful. He considered suggesting that they whisper more quietly if they did not want the Breton to know they were speaking about him, but he found himself entangled in his own complication with a rather sultry Argonian called Wiggles-Her-Fingers.

"Rather boring, is it not?" she asked.

Malg nodded, his attention on Tolfdir as the mage spoke about the need to stay together whilst exploring unknown areas.

"In Blackmarsh, we are taught not to wander off as hatchlings," she commented. "Are they not taught the same here?"

Malg turned to address her. "I would not know," he replied. "I am not from Skyrim."

"Indeed," she smiled. "You are a rather lovely shade of green."

Malg's eyebrow rose at the unexpected compliment, and he started a bit when she winked at him. He immediately forgot everything Tolfdir was speaking about as his mind raced for some way to extract himself from the uncomfortable situation. He turned back toward the professor, but in his peripheral, he could see Wiggles-Her-Fingers slowly shifting in his direction. Moment by moment, she inched closer and closer. Malg was frozen, clueless how to react until Tolfdir asked for a volunteer. So, delighted by the opportunity presented, the orc never realized quite how hard he shoved the Breton out of the way in order to escape.

"Woah, ho ho," Tolfdir said as Malg approached. "I like your enthusiasm! Let's see. For this demonstration, I will need you to stand on the emblem over there, alright?"

Malg eagerly took his place opposite the professor. It was at this point that he realized he had no idea what was expected of him. He vaguely remembered the professor saying something about defensive magic, but the unexpected advance of the female Argonian had hijacked his attention. He was now standing opposite Tolfdir. The rest of the students had gathered off to one side, waiting and watching intently. Malg wanted desperately to go back in time and hear what Tolfdir said. He wanted to call a halt to the lesson and get an explanation from anyone about what was happening, but if he did, if he was the one person in the class who needed everything to be repeated, he would be known as the stupid orc from now on. His race had already dealt with that stereotype for long enough, and he would not give the others a reason to believe it because some ridiculous Argonian took a liking to his particular skin tone.

The next few moments seemed to go by in a blur. As Malg stood ready, trying to read the expression on his professor's face, he noticed a bright, orange spark flicker to life in the man's hand. He had only the briefest moment to react as Tolfdir tossed the conjured ball of flame toward him. He cried out in surprise and wildly slung up the first defensive spell that came to his mind, a spell he had learned a number of years back from an old elf traveling from Cyrodiil through the mountains near his tribe's stronghold on his way to High Rock.

As he cast it, a purple glow enveloped his body. Gasps of confusion escaped the lips of a few students, but what Malg saw was Tolfdir's expression shift through the flying fire as it reflected off of the orc's skin like light off the surface of a calm lake. It hit the professor's chest, and the old man staggered backward several steps as his robes caught fire. He yelled out in surprise and pain, trying desperately to pat out the flames. Fortunately, he gave up on that quickly and resorted to a few bursts of frost to save what was left of his clothing.

The entire class stared, mouthed agape as Tolfdir began to heal the slightly charred bits of flesh on his chest and then turned all at once to look at Malg who could only manage one word of apology before fleeing the Hall of Elements.

The healing spell Tolfdir cast did its work. When it had completed, the only evidence of the mishap was the damage to his robes, which he was not upset about. The College of Winterhold supplied several sets to each professor, and whenever a set had become worn, he was supplied with a new one. Accidents were covered as well. Considering how volatile magic could be, it was expected that mishaps would occur from time to time. This was not the first time a set of his robes had been ruined, and he doubted it would be the last. "Wow! I did not expect that!" Tolfdir exclaimed. "Where did you learn to… where did he go?" Concerned with healing his burns, the professor had not heard Malg's apology, nor had he noticed the orc's departure.

Malg was angry and embarrassed, horrified that his first day of instruction had gone so horribly awry. He was supposed to be the one who changed the minds of people toward orcs and magic. He was supposed to be the one to show the world that his people were capable of mastering the arcane as well as the forge, slinging spells with the same skill and power as they swung steel, and this was not the way to begin. He had failed at the very beginning, so badly he had set one of the college's professors on fire. Would they even let him stay after that? He entered the Hall of Countenance and plopped himself down on his bed. The arch-mage seemed somewhat impressed with how he had passed the test at the gate, even if it had ruffled some feathers. Perhaps that would be enough to give him another chance.

As Malg was pondering his future at the college, the two Nord twins appeared in the stone portal in front of him. Malg looked up at them. "Come to gawk at the orc who cannot control his magic, huh?" he asked. "What do you want?"

The twins glanced at each other and smiled slyly as they slinked seductively to either side of the orc. Malg was too engrossed in his own thoughts to notice the manner in which the girls surrounded him, but the moment their fingers touched his shoulders, he jumped, the contact shocking him out of his stupor.

"You got a raw deal, orc," the first one said sitting down next to him.

"Yes," the second agreed. "Hilde is correct. Professor Tolfdir should never have been that upset with you for performing such a wonderful display of defensive magic. You are indeed skilled," she fumbled for a moment realizing she did not know his name. "I would like to know the name of the most powerful orc mage I have ever seen."

The statement had been meant as a compliment, but it stung Malg like a dagger in ribs, "orc mage." They still did not see him as a peer. "Malg," he mumbled.

"Malg!" she exclaimed. "Malg the Magnificent!"

Malg shot the two Nords a suspicious glance. "What are you talking about?" he asked.

Hilde ran a finger along the orc's chin. "What my sister Gerthr is trying to say is that you surprised everyone with the power you command today, so much so that you made them feel inadequate."

"Really?" Malg asked.

"Of course," Gerthr replied. "Tolfdir assumed you couldn't do anything. He figured at all you were was an orc, hardly capable of the simplest charms. Why do you think he chose you as his example? He expected you to fail. Then he could keep us all there while he droned on and on about safety."

"Well," Malg shrugged, but Hilde broke in.

"But you surprised us all!" she exclaimed. "You not only blocked that bolt of fire he threw at you, you somehow reflected it right back at him. You should have seen his face!"

"I did," Malg said.

"Then you saw the moment he realized his ploy we over," Gerthr said. "When you proved to him that you were far better than he thought you were, possibly more powerful than him!"

"But," Malg tried to interject.

"Exactly!" Hilde said. "Think about it! He attacked. You not only defended yourself, but you used his own magic against him, penetrating his defenses, and showing yourself the better mage!"

"Perhaps, but," Malg said raising a finger, but the twins did not let him speak.

"You know what he should do now, Hilde?" Gerthr mused.

"What is that?" Hilde asked, a look of mock inquisitiveness on her face.

"I think he should prove to all of them exactly how powerful he is," she said.

"How would he do that, Gerthr?" Hilde asked.

Gerthr acted as if she was pondering a myriad of possibilities before settling on the statement she had in mind all along. "The Eye of Magnus!" she whispered.

Hilde gasped, "Gerthr! What are you saying?"

"Do you think he is not powerful enough to claim it?" she asked.

"Of course, he is," Hilde replied. "But do you think it is necessary for him to venture down into Saarthal for such a powerful artifact?"

Malg's eyes were shooting back and forth between the twins so quickly he started to get dizzy.

"And why not?" Gerthr asked indignantly. "if he has the power to claim it, which he certainly does, why should he not possess it? It would show the skeptics of this college that orcs can indeed master magic, possibly more so than they could ever have imagined! The proof is right here, sitting next to us, magicka coursing through his veins. I can almost feel it radiating from him. I think he should have the eye, don't you?"

"Well, of course, he should have it," Hilde said. "After the show, he put on today, no one is more deserving of it."

"What is this Eye of Magnus?" Malg asked, finally finding space to speak.

"One of the most powerful artifacts in all of Skyrim," Hilde said, her eyes sparkling. "Have you not heard of it?"

"No," Malg said.

"Well," Hilde continued. "It is only because you are not from here. Most Nords do not even know of it because they care nothing for magic, but from what I remember, it would enhance the wielder's own arcane power. With your already substantial power, if you were to obtain the eye, you would be the most powerful mage in all of Skyrim."

Malg's eye flashed with desire. "Where is this Eye of Magnus?" he asked.

The twins smiled, and Gerthr replied, "In Saarthal, an old Nordic ruin southwest of Winterhold."

A grim look of determination came over Malg's face as the orc rose from his bed. It was clear what he must do to accomplish mastery over the arcane. The twins had shown him the path, and all that was left to do was to obtain the Eye of Magnus. With a brief word of thanks, he pulled his hood up over his head and left the hall so focus on this new goal that he did not hear the muffled, girlish giggles of the twins behind him.

Malg stole out of the college as quietly as he could. The college staff may not realize his ability, but others had. They could see how capable his grasp of the arcane was, and the last thing he needed was jealous professors keeping him from obtaining the power he deserved. The Eye of Magnus, Malg silently mouthed the syllables as he crept through the courtyard. To his surprise, the college's entrance gate now stood wide open, seemingly ready to admit anyone who stumbled across the old stone bridge leading from Winterhold. His entrance to the college would have been a lot easier had he arrived when the gate was open the first time, though he felt slightly troubled over the lack of security. Did these mages really think no one would try to break into their citadel? He decided not to question his good fortune too much, however, because the open gate was one more opened door to his destiny.

As he crept from the college grounds, the orc stayed as low as he could, using the short stones of the bridge to hide his movements and then sneaking around the backside of those structures in the city that were still standing. The exhilaration of his stealthy escapade had his heart pounding in his chest. He had escaped the College of Winterhold without anyone being the wiser to what he was up to. No one knew that soon he would arrive at their gates a second time bearing one of the most powerful objects in all of Tamriel.

"Where is Malg going?" Tolfdir asked as he watched the orc slowly tip-toeing out of the college gate. "I promise I did not send him anywhere."

"Do you think perhaps he is quitting?" Mirabelle suggested.

"I do not think so," Tolfdir replied. "He has talent. It's a bit unorthodox, but he does have an expert command of some spells. I have not seen a reflect spell cast in my entire time at the college."

"Nor have I," Mirabelle agreed. "But that is not what you asked him to do, is it?"

"No," Tolfdir said. "I was just looking for a simple ward spell. Look at that. He looks to be trying to sneak across the bridge. I wonder why. The gate opened for him. He should realize that he is not confined to college grounds."

Mirabelle shook her head. "Do you believe he is a danger to the class?" she asked.

"Oh, goodness me, no," Tolfdir replied. "It was a simple mistake. I doubt it will happen again once I teach him a ward spell. They are much easier to cast, even if they do drain mana like an open wound."

"Stick to the curriculum, Tolfdir," Mirabelle said. "Wards work well enough to guard against spells. There is no need to drum up old magic to do what we are perfectly capable of doing already. I would think that our most recent dalliance with the ancient arcane would have impressed the dangers upon you sufficiently."

"Of course, arch-mage," Tolfdir replied.

Mirabelle understood the nuance. That was the phrase Tolfdir had started to use ever since the disciplinary action she had taken against him to show that he was going to submit to her even if he thought she was completely wrong. Mirabelle did not mind. She would much rather he submit to her than endanger more students. There were already too many people with bad feelings toward her college, and she planned to ride out the rough waters with control. Control magic. Show that it can be used safely. She would do whatever she could to disassociate magic from the destruction of Skyrim former capital. If not, who knows what might happen, especially if Ulfric manages to secure his hold on this part of the province.

Saarthal was a dark and gloomy place, like most old Nord burial mounds. Unlike most of these places, however, Saarthal held a grim past as the setting of the infamous Night of Tears when the snow elves attacked and slaughtered almost every human living there. It was an event burned into the consciousness of many Nords and helped fuel their continued hatred and animosity toward the elven peoples. Malg, however, new none of this. He stomped noisily into the old ruin looking high and low for anything that had the appearance of an eye. A couple times he thought he might have found what he was searching for, but after closer inspection, decided the small rocks just did not look enough like an eye to be called the Eye of Magnus. The orc steeled himself. He reminded himself that if it was that easy, others would already have come down here to claim the eye. After all, the only spell he had cast up to this point had been a paralysis spell, his favorite, on the troll wondering about outside. Obviously, there would have to be more standing in his way to deter any powerful mages from journeying here to collect it.

Malg pressed on, searching further and further through the caverns until he found a curious broken wall with a long tunnel carved into the rock behind. The sharp edges of the fractures made it appear as if the wall had been shattered by a large hammer. Malg stopped and studied the scene wondering if someone had made it to the prize before him. It seemed possible, but whoever it was had obviously failed to claim the eye. Had they succeeded, Malg was sure everyone at the College of Winterhold would know, perhaps everyone in Skyrim. No, the Eye of Magnus was still down here somewhere, and he was going to retrieve it.

Malg followed the tunnel to a small chamber that led to another small corridor before opening up into a large crypt. Set into the wall all around the room were sarcophagi crafted from intricately carved stone, and Malg could see the desiccated bodies of ancient men in several of them, still dressed in ancient Nordic armor. It was a chilling sight that sent all the hairs on the back of the orc's neck tingling. Something was dreadfully wrong about this place. It was almost as if the corpses were watching him. Quietly, in the stillness, the hollow cavities of their skulls seemed to stare back at him, watching. What did they want?

Malg waited in the chamber's entryway half hoping the corpses would just disappear and knowing at the same time that if they did, he would be running so fast for the exit that the stones themselves might tell later generations of the swiftness of frightened orcs. Again, he reminded himself of why he was here. Forget the dusty old corpses. He was here for the eye. Steeled once again, he stepped the rest of the way through the portal. As his foot fell upon the floor inside the crypt, Malg heard a low, cracking groan. He looked down at the stones as if they had taken offense to his weight, but quickly realized it was not the stones that had taken exception to his presence. Across the room, one of the ancient corpses had begun laboriously pushed the stone lid off of its sarcophagus. The weighty, slab slammed so hard onto the floor, that Malg felt the tremor reverberate in his foot as the sound echoed off the chamber walls. The corpse shambled out of its not so final resting place and wrapped its crusty, decaying hand around the hilt of a rusted, old greatsword. It lurched forward under the weight of the massive weapon as it hauled it up over its head and began to advance on the encroaching orc. Malg cursed his terrible fortunate but was soon singing a string of profanities as more and more draugr stepped out of their stone coffins and set the hollows of their skulls upon him.

This was not the first fight Malg had found himself in. He was, after all, an orc and an orc who had managed to survive past adolescence. He had every instinct bred into his people since their fall, but where most of them relied completely on armor and weapons, Malg brought spellcraft to the table. The first bone walker fell to a flash of green light. Unable to move, his skull was crushed under the orc's heavy boot. The sword in its hand then rose, violently expelling itself from the draugr's skeletal grasp and placing itself firmly in Malg's right hand. The orc raised his new weapon and brought it crashing down on the next corpse. The blade did not penetrate the helm, but the force of the blow crushed the smaller vertebrae of the spine, sending the skull rolling back onto the floor. This hardly slowed the draugr as it swung its ax in consecutive deadly arcs. Malg fell backward, nearly losing his head to the draugr's relentless attacks. He slung the greatsword at the corpse, impaling the abomination and sending it lurching about as it tried to deal with the large blade protruding from its chest.

Malg muttered a few words, and the green hue of his skin began to darken to a smooth, burnished black as deep as the night sky. As the next corpse swung its sword, Malg raised his forearm to ward off the blow, but instead of slicing through flesh and bone, the old blade fractured against the orc's ebony skin. A small trickle of blood showed bright red against the glossy black skin, and Malg breathed in deep, his eye widening, adrenaline coursing through his veins bringing fury with every rapid beat of his heart. He roared in rage, the passion of battle seizing his senses. He grabbed the undead with both hands and pulled with such ferocity that the old ligaments stretched and snapped. Malg roared again and ripped the walking corpse apart. The orc turned and wretched the battle-ax from the flailing, headless draugr, and smashed it to the stones before cleaving his way through the rest of walking corpses.

Malg found himself again standing on the far side of the short bridge that ran over the center of the room holding onto the haft of an ancient, Nordic battle ax. He did not remember the last few minutes, but the scattering of corpses across the stone floor of the burial chamber and the soft ache in his head was all the evidence he needed to piece together what had happened. It was not the first time he had gone berserk, and it probably would not be the last, though he felt a pang of shame in his inability to control his orcish rage. He felt deeply that it was not the way for a mage to behave, even in battle. A mage keeps his head, casts his spells, defends himself with his magic, not with the brutal savagery he had delivered here. Malg swallowed and dropped the ax. It clanged loudly in the now silent room. Almost mournfully, he walked over and pulled the chains to open the way further into the crypt.

The rest of the underground tunnels were, for the most part, empty. Whoever had managed to leave the first burial chamber undisturbed, had apparently taken a different approach further on. Malg found the torched remains of numerous draugr littering the corridors as he ventured further and further into the depths of Saarthal. Malg found it very strange how much trouble the Nords went to in order to preserve the bodies of their dead. To an orc, it seemed an odd, even macabre practice void of any practicality. After all that effort, the bodies just laid there, unless they somehow arose on their own or some necromancer decided to reanimate them, moving them to his will with deviant magics like some perverse puppeteer. Malg shook off a shiver. Just the thought of it made his skin crawl, and it did not help that he had recently been forced to dispatch several of the restless dead. The shambling of another walking corpse roused Malg from his thoughts with the unmistakable clatter of steel against bone. The orc silently scolded himself for his lack of attention, losing his focus in the middle of exploring ancient ruins infested with undead. It only takes one mistake, one lapse in concentration, to become one of the corpses yourself. As he turned the corner, Malg cast his favorite spell. The spark of green light sailed silently down the stone passageway until it touched the draugr. It washed over the walking corpse like a hazy gleam, something between light and mist. The corpse tensed, the slowly rotting flesh and bones unable to move, and then it toppled rigidly to the stones. Malg smiled. That was how a mage dealt with an enemy. Quick and easy. He did not have to resort to the vulgarity of violence. He was above such boorish behavior. He pulled the steel helmet off the corpse, then picked up a large, loose stone and dropped it squarely on the draugr's exposed head. The orc considered his own hypocrisy in light of the satisfying crunch. Perhaps there was just something in the soul of an orc that gravitated toward that kind of conduct. Was he really as far above it as he thought?

The philosophical conundrum pulled at his thoughts as he traversed the rest of the carved-out corridors. He considered the scorched corpses left by whoever had previously entered the place. There were no fresh corpses, so whoever put those draugr to the flames must have been a magic wielder of some skill in order to destroy so many undead and survive. However, was it really the evolved sort of combat he had always considered it to be? The result was the same, destruction. Was it any better than the sword or the hammer?

The floor shifted under Malg's foot. In a moment, the same reactions that had led to his flight from the Hall of Elements kicked in. With a flick of his wrist, his skin hardened to the same burnished black as before. Malg stood there as the small, envenomated darts bounced harmlessly off his skin. Once again, a lapse in concentration had blinded him to danger. He picked up one of the steel darts. It was a thick sharp piece of steel, still coated with a sticky venom. One might think it would be completely lethal, enough to kill an intruder. Even with the protective spell, it should have hurt, caused some kind of minor injury, but they were somehow as impotent as the fists of an angry toddler. Malg decided not to concern himself with any more traps that might be hidden along the way. If they were anything like this one, it would not be worth the worry.

At the end of the long, winding corridors of stone, Malg stepped out onto a ledge overlooking a rather spacious chamber. It seemed to be a room of some importance. The ancient wooden pillars which had somehow impervious to the decay of centuries still supported a carved stone overhang. Two staircases and additional wooden structures which appeared equally unreceptive to the normal decomposition process surrounded the front portion of the room, at the center of which was a large stone table alight with candles. Magic must indeed be coursing through this place. How else would could this stale air continue to fuel these candles? An elaborate stone chair had been built close enough to the table for someone to oversee what was happening there, but not close enough to do any work upon it. Malg wondered what kind of place this was. Perhaps some kind of ritual chamber or a place of preparation for the dead? A corpse was still lying on the table completely bound with the exception of its head in what appeared to be thick linen bandages. Behind the chair was a stone circle set into the floor surrounded by four stone columns. Was this the Eye of Magnus? A stone circle? Malg descended the stairs and cautiously approached the ring. He cast of few protective spells before slowly reaching out his hand toward the ring. The orc scrunched his face. He could not see any runes or other magical traps, but if this was indeed an artifact of the kind of power the twins described, it may react violently to his intrusion. He inched closer and closer and then nothing. It was nothing, just an empty stone circle. Malg sighed and turned away. He grumbled, angry at the dawning possibility that the twins had sent him on a fool's errand. Vengeful thoughts began swirling in his mind until he noticed a bent and broken form lying on the ground next to the throne in the shadow of the stone table.

Malg walked over to it and rolled the old corpse onto its back. It was ancient, dried with age, but the draugr had been in some kind of magical battle. Perhaps, Malg thought, perhaps this was Magnus! He looked to be a great mage of old. It may be that the artifact the twins had spoken of was indeed a real eye from the great mage, Magnus, and he had discovered his remains! This was indeed a historic event, the discovery of the body of Magnus! Malg thought of how the professors of the school and the arch-mage would stand in awe of his discovery. There was no way they would expel him from the college now! He bent down to examine the face of the corpse. As he pulled off the helmet, part of the scalp stuck and cracked as it pulled away from the skull. "Gross," Malg muttered and tossed the helmet away. The extremely cold climate and relatively dry environment of the tomb had mummified the mage's body, but it had sustained major damage from the flames someone had employed against it. Enough non-metallic pieces of the armor had been burned to cinders, that if the draugr had decided to rise again, the breastplate and other steel plates would have fallen to the floor. Half of the face was charred and black, but the other side was untouched. In the skull, preserved by the inhospitable temperatures of Skyrim, was the mage's eye. Malg marveled at it, imagining the power that would be his once he had plucked it from the skull. The orc reached forward but paused at the last moment. This was foolish. What was he thinking? That eye would never survive being pulled from the socket, and what power would remain if it was crushed during the extraction? Somehow, he would have to remove the eye without destroying it.

The solution came to Malg almost immediately. Touching the eye, he cast ebony skin, but instead of focusing the raw energy of Aetherius onto himself, he focused it solely onto the draugr's eye, which soon shone like black glass. The orc ripped the rotting head from its body and seizing it between his large hands, began to squeeze. Soon he heard the first crack and then another as the skull began to cave in. Finally, the bones of the skull buckled under the force of his arms, and the ebony eye was freed. Malg rolled it over and over in his hand, moving his thumb over the uneven surface. He did not feel any different, but perhaps it took time to absorb the immense power contained within. He smiled a large, toothy smile and tucked the eye into a pocket.

On the table, next to the corpse were several items, but what Malg found of particular interest was the staff. It appeared to have remained untouched on the stone surface, even during the draugr's final battle. It appeared to be a restoration staff, which may have explained why it was left behind, but as Malg picked it up, he got an entirely different energy from it. Considering he did not have a staff of his own yet, he decided to keep it along with the eye.

Several hours later, Malg marched triumphantly across the bridge to the College of Winterhold, his lips curled into a proud grin. He wondered if anyone here had ever been able to bring an artifact of such power to the college before. Even if some of them did not want to except orcs as capable wielders of magic, they would have to be impressed with this, and there would be no way they would expel him unless they wanted to risk missing out on the power it held. He had decided on the way back that if anyone asked, as they most assuredly would, how he managed to retrieve the Eye of Magnus, he would leave out the part about his little episode. Orcs already had the reputation for going berserk, and he did not want the fact that he happened to go berserk to cloud the mages' perceptions on his magical skill.

Strangely, there was no gathering waiting for him inside the courtyard. All of the mages seemed to be going about their business as usual. One of the college guards said hello to him as he passed. Had they not wondered where he was? Surely, someone had noticed his mysterious disappearance over the last couple days. No matter, it was now time to reach the accolades of his accomplishments.

"I have the eye!" Malg yelled as he thrust his trophy high over his head.

Collete Marence, who was walking across the courtyard close to Malg at the moment of his outburst, screamed in surprise and clutched her chest. "What is wrong with you!" she yelled but continued on her way.

Several of the other mages in the area looked over at him, puzzled expressions on their faces.

The guard who had just greeted him, turned back around, a quizzical look on his face, and then approached. "What are you yelling for, orc?" he asked, obviously confused, but wanting to give Malg the opportunity to explain himself. "There's no need to upset everyone."

Smiling, Malg showed the guard the ebony-infused draugr eye. "I went into the ruins of Saarthal and recovered the Eye of Magnus!"

The guard looked at the small trinket, which looked even smaller in orc's large palm, and then slowly raised his eyes up to the orc's glowing face. "You say that this is the Eye of Magnus?" the guard asked. A smile quickly appeared on the guard's face, which he immediately tried to hide. "Malg," he said, as he attempted to smother a smirk. "The Eye of Magnus is an extremely power item that radiates an incredible amount of magicka. Do you feel anything coming off that?"

"Not so much," Malg admitted. "But encasing it in ebony probably masks a lot of it."

The guard managed a pained smile. "Malg," he said. "That is not…"

"Malg, what is it you have found?" Wiggles-Her-Fingers had approached silently through the snow behind him. "Is it a gem?" There was a twinkle of curiosity in the Argonian's eye as her fingers squirmed and fidgeted unconsciously.

Malg turned and proudly showed her the eye he had recovered. With Malg's attention elsewhere, the guard, seeing his way out of the uncomfortable situation, quickly turned and continued on his way. "Gerthr and Hilde told me about the Eye of Magnus," he proclaimed. "I ventured down through the dangers of Saarthal to recover it. I doubt they ever expected me to return."

Wiggles-Her-Fingers' face dropped, and a laugh exploded from the edge of the courtyard drawing the attention of both the orc and the Argonian. It was the twins. Wiggles-Her-Fingers cast an icy glare at the two Nords who continued to laugh as they retreated back into the Hall of Attainment. Once they were gone, she looked back to Malg who seemed to have pieced together what had happened. Pride became embarrassment, and embarrassment turned to anger. A grim look was set into the orc's face, and his eyes, usually bright and clear had taken on an unsettling edge.

"Pay no attention to those egg sacs, Malg!" Wiggles-Her-Fingers began. "They are just stupid girls who have no heart! They are foolish and mean, but they are not worth your anger!" She tried to hold onto the orc as he moved toward the Hall of Attainment, but her efforts proved useless as the large orc quickened his pace toward the door.

The blood vessels in Malg's eye broke, and the white surrounding his eyes reddened. His hands curled into fists, and Wiggles-Her-Fingers felt his muscles swell as she continued her vain attempts to dissuade him. Filled with uncontrollable rage, Malg roared and charged toward the door. At that moment, Tolfdir emerged from the hall's door, and a flash of green light was the last thing Malg saw before everything twisted into form and color. Sounds faded into the distance and then became clear again. He felt the cold of the snow around him, but he could not move. He lay staring up at the clouds as they slowly drifted across the clear, blue sky.

"Help me with him," he heard Tolfdir say to Wiggles-Her-Fingers. He heard the casting of a couple spells and then felt hands grip his ankles and under his arms, but he could not even shift his eyes to see who was lifting him out of the snow. They carried him into the Hall of Attainment and set him down in his bed. Then there was another flash of green.

"What happened?" Tolfdir asked.

"It was the twins, Gerthr and Hilde," Wiggles-Her-Fingers answered. "They fooled him into thinking a great relic was in the ruins of Saarthal. When he came back with what he thought was the relic, they laughed at him. I imagine he risked his life in there, and it was for nothing."

"I see," Tolfdir said. Then there was another flash of green, but it was different. Malg felt the rage subside, replaced again by embarrassment. "Stay with him. He should be fine now when the paralysis wears off. I will deal with the twins."

A few moments later, Wiggles-Her-Fingers asked, "Can you move?"

"Yes," Malg replied continuing to stare at the ceiling.

"I am sorry they tricked you," she said. "It was cruel, but you did manage to survive in an old ruin full of draugr. That is not something just any mage can do. You should have confidence in that at least. Either of them would have perished in that ruin, even if they had gone together."

Malg huffed. He did not feel particularly proud of what he had done.

"Don't worry," she said. "Tolfdir seems to be a fair and even-handed person. I doubt it will go bad for you."

"I was a fool," Malg snorted.

"Maybe," Wiggles-Her-Fingers shrugged. Malg turned to face her. "We all do foolish things sometimes. That is what flawed creatures do. The best we can do is learn so we can stop doing stupid things. We both learned something valuable today, that it is foolish to trust Gerthr and Hilde. So now we will not. Simple."

Malg pushed himself up and sat on the edge of the bed. He stared at the Argonian's feet at the place where her bright green scales met the tops of her short boots which was only visible because of how she sat down in the chair. He was not conscious of where he was staring, however. He was weighing her words, and after a moment he decided that they were indeed wise and worth listening to. He looked up at her face, something he had never done before. Her expression was kind and gentle, and he smiled back. Then he asked, "Was the Eye of Magnus even a real thing?"

"Yes, indeed," Tolfdir answered from the doorway. "It was an immensely powerful relic found deep inside Saarthal. I discovered it with the help of the previous class, which is why all you found in the last chamber was that staff," Tolfdir motioned to Malg's staff which had been brought in with him, "and whatever that black thing is you are holding."

Malg cast the draugr eye to the floor. "You were the one who defeated the draugr?" he asked.

"Oh, yes," Tolfdir replied, nodding. "Myself, Brelyna, Onmund, and J'zargo. I recognize that staff. It was laying on the table, correct?"

Malg nodded.

"The truth is that after seeing the Eye of Magnus, we all forgot about it entirely," he said. Tolfdir entered the room and sat down. "The girl told me what they did," he said. "And they have received their punishment."

"Good," Wiggles-Her-Fingers said.

"I quite agree," Tolfdir noted. "It was treacherous of them to endanger your life as they did. However, it was also completely out of line to attempt to attack them as you did."

Malg nodded.

Wiggles-Her-Fingers attempted to say something, but Tolfdir cut her off. "You will be punished, too," he said. "There must be order at this institution."

"What is it?" Malg asked.

"For the next week after your lessons, you will be helping Urag gro-Shub in the library," Tolfdir said. "He is very protective of the college's books. I hope that as you work with him you will gain a better understanding of how to handle things more delicately."

"Understood," Malg nodded.

"Good," Tolfdir said standing up. As he made to leave the hall, the staff caught his eye again. "That is a fine staff you have there, Malg. I regret not remembering to pick it up myself. If Jyrik Gauldurson once kept it as his own, I'm sure it will serve you well."

The next week went by very quickly as Malg was kept busy from dawn until dusk. In the mornings, he attended lessons given at the college by the various masters in their respective schools. His favorite class was Alteration, which was taught by Tolfdir. It was also the class in which he excelled already being quite skilled in that particular area of magic. The other classes were far more difficult for him. Wiggles-Her-Fingers was able to help him through Restoration, and in turn, he helped her when she was stuck in Alteration. Unfortunately, neither of them were doing very well in the other classes. The Breton, Edwyr, was the top student in every single school with the exception of Restoration where Wiggles-Her-Fingers was just barely edging him out, making the rest of the students look rather hapless. Even the twins were realizing how bad he was making the rest of them look, and had begun to ignore Malg in order to whisper all kinds of terrible things about the Breton behind his back. Malg did not know if Edwyr ever heard what the Nords were saying about him. If he did, he did not seem to care. His indifference to the twin's verbal barbs was something Malg found laudable, and he wished he had shown similar restraint each day as he made his way upstairs to the library.

Urag was indeed particular about the books kept in the college's library. After personally threatening Malg with all kinds of bodily harm should he damage even a single page, he allowed the orc to begin re-shelving the stacks of books that other members of the college how carelessly left out on the tables set around the room. Once he was finished with that, Urag instructed him on how he wanted several of the shelves reorganized. It took a long time, but Malg had nearly completed the reorganization by the end of the week, leaving only a couple of shelves for the librarian to finish up on his own.

As the clock chimed, Urag dismissed Malg with a grunt and a nonchalant way of the hand, and Malg left for his room. His sentence was complete, but he still had a lot of work to do. He was behind the other students, but for most of his classes, he could not have cared less. Conjuration was still creepy, and he had had no desire to continue his study of it when Phinis had brought a corpse into the classroom for them to practice raising. He walked out of the class, and he did not plan on going back. He was not too far behind on Illusion. All they ever did was cast fear, fury, calm, repeat. It might finally get interesting next week when Drevis planned to teach them muffle. He was also not worried about Restoration. Wiggles-Her-Fingers would help catch him up tomorrow. Destruction was still interesting. He needed some serious work on his fireball, but that was not what he was planning to hit first. Tolfdir had assigned him some more advanced alteration work that he really wanted to dig into it.

When Malg entered his chamber in the Hall of Attainment, Wiggles-Her-Fingers was sitting next to his bed, the salty trails of tears visible on the scaly contours of her face. When she saw Malg, the tears began again.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

Unable to answer as her body convulsed with sobs, Wiggles-Her-Fingers thrust an unsealed envelope at Malg's chest. The orc, confused by the sudden and unexpected display of emotion, opened the letter and began to read:

Wiggles-Her-Fingers,

In the name of Jarl Brina Merilis, it is with great regret that we inform you of Watches-The-Water's death. The deceased has bequeathed unto you a measure of inheritance in the amount of 100 gold pieces. The Jarl's court has levied an amount of 10 gold pieces from the sum, as the lawfully and honorably due tax. The remainder has been commended unto the care of a trusted courier for deliverance.

"Who is Watches-The-Waters?" Malg asked.

Wiggles-Her-Fingers did the best she could to compose herself, but her words were sporadically interrupted by sniffs and sobs. "He is my egg-brother!" she cried. "Now he is dead, and I do not know how or why or what has been done with his body!"

Once again, Wiggles-Her-Fingers descended into sobs. Malg had no idea what to do. Orcs did not cry. Crying was weakness, looked down upon even in childhood, but he was clever enough to realize that other cultures were very different from the strongholds. Perhaps this was the expected reaction for an Argonian if their sibling died. He decided to give her the benefit of the doubt. She was, after all, his only real friend at the college, and he did not want to insult her. He stood in front of her for a few uncomfortable moments, not exactly sure what his job as the friend was supposed to be. If she had been an orc, it would have been easy. If she cared that someone had killed him, he would help her find whomever it was so that she could kill him. Simple. However, if no one killed him, there really was nothing to be done about it. Malg reached out and awkwardly laid his hand on her shoulder, and Wiggles-Her-Fingers jumped up from the chair and caught him in a full embrace. Shocked, but happy he had done the right thing, Malg wrapped his large, green arms around her slender frame. Eventually, her sobs subsided, and she pulled away from him.

"I need to go to Dawnstar," Wiggles-Her-Fingers said. "He worked there at the docks, trying to get on with one of the ships."

"Why?" Malg asked.

"Kaoc!" Wiggles-Her-Fingers exclaimed. It was a word Malg had never heard before, but he was fairly sure he understood the meaning. "To find out what happened, why do you think?" she asked.

Malg shrugged.

"This stupid letter told me nothing other than that the jarl decided to take ten percent of his money as a delivery fee. I need to know if it was an accident or if it was something darker." She paused for a moment. "I know you just finished a punishment. You probably do not want to risk getting into any more trouble with the college, but I do not have any other friends here. Would you come with me?"

It was not a difficult request. Malg nearly answered before Wiggles-Her-Fingers had asked the question. Of course, he would go with her. She was his friend. "I will come with you," Malg nodded.

Wiggles-Her-Fingers smiled a wide, toothy, Argonian smile. "Very well, then," she said. "We leave tomorrow morning before the sun rises. Thank you, Malg." And with that, she left the chamber for her own.

Malg tossed his robe onto the chair where she had been sitting when he arrived. Apparently, he would be leaving once again. The College of Winterhold was very lax when it came to rules about coming and going, so he did not expect any reprisal. At worst, he might get further behind on his studies, but what was that in comparison to helping a friend and perhaps a bit of real world experience?