Disclaimer: The world of Skyrim and Tamriel, including the races, people, and settings, belong to Bethesda. The main character, some supporting characters, and some of the magical concepts belong to JK Rowling. Only my personal twist to each of these two franchises are mine. This disclaimer holds for every single chapter of this story.
A/N: And so the story begins. Hopefully, you'll all like the story and this crossover between the Elder Scrolls and Harry Potter is not too strange. I thought it was an interesting concept to explore, with a unique twist.
Skyrim was famous for many things.
Of course, one was the infamous grating, biting cold that seemed to permeate the air everywhere. It sunk through the skin, muscles and fibres, and chilled the very bones, making anyone and anything feel just like a giant ice sculpture frozen into the snowy wilderness. The frosty air was refreshing, sure - I would always take the cold over the unbearably hot and humid climate of Black Marsh - but sometimes it was able to lengthen any journey through its frozen wastes from a few days to, seemingly, entire agonizing weeks.
There weren't many nice things to be said about the people, as well. Barbarians, brutes, uncivilized maniacs were just some of the names that they have been called over the years. I even heard someone call the Nords "bloodthirsty conquest-driven shaggy-bearded unkempt manner-lacking dirty sons of whores", although admittedly that came from a close friend who, although a well-raised and rather sweet person, had just been cheated on by her Nord boyfriend.
That probably would start some biases.
I personally had to agree, though. Some people found the Nords rather likable because of their simple look on life, and their rather unflinching resolve, which was admittedly a point of admiration. This did, though, make them frustratingly and stupidly stubborn and completely inflexible, which were also common characteristics people noticed from the Nords. Their inflexibility paved the way towards racism, which I have personally seen exhibited on many a few circumstances. There also was the fact that they lived in such harsh and cold conditions, which made them very coarse and altogether an unattractive people. Their men were, I must confess, of a strong and sturdy build, which I suppose was a point of attraction for some women. Their women, however…
Some things are impolite to say, even in the private recesses of one's own mind. A review of Nord women's beauty was one of them.
Nevertheless, Nord culture was honor-based and built on rather sturdy, if basic and coarse, foundations. There was a … unique, to put it one way, culture that was immensely interesting to observe. This made it a prime destination for people to visit, especially among the residents of Cyrodiil.
After these visits, however, they usually vow never to go back. When asked why, they never really reply, but instead just wrap their newly-bought heavy-fur cloak around their shoulders tighter.
I think the answer there is pretty evident.
However, they adamantly deny that they regret going there. I never understood why, since all the people that have went seemed to have developed a phobia (albeit minor) of the cold and winter. It seems counter-productive to go there for a trip - especially a vacation, as some have - given the horror of the cold that has been impressed, seemingly, into their very souls.
When I passed through the gates detailing the border between Skyrim and Cyrodiil, however, I immediately (if grudgingly) admitted and realized the real reason for their continuing admiration of the frigid northern province of the Empire.
Skyrim was beautiful.
The checkpoint was situated perfectly between the bases of two small mountains, nestled in a tiny valley that somehow still managed to tower above the land. There was a fantastic view sitting perfectly in front of a cliff located next to the gate, welcoming travelers to admire the spectacular sight.
Bright flat patches of white snow, looking a little like soft down from baby chicks, or wool from sheep, dominated the landscape. Interrupting these smooth patches were icy cliffs, the bright white-blue mixing with the abundant dark brown that was the hard rock underneath the snow and ice. They stretched every which way across the landscape, casting shadows that only added to the spotted myriad of dark and light.
Tiny hills and mountains rose, unmoving and sturdy, from the plains of white, adding gentler slopes to the jagged edges of the cliffs and the soft plains of snow. Far away, they were a off-white, a faded blue that gave the entire scene a startling sense of immensity. In the very far distance, to the northeast, there towered the famous Throat of the World, by far the tallest mountain in Skyrim (if not all of Tamriel). Its tops were hidden in the clouds of the always-overcast sky. Mists curled around the slopes, seeming to almost caress the pride and joy of the Nords.
To the west, and left, of the Throat of the World, the white snow and dark cliffs gave way slowly to the dark green pines that were giveaways of the lush green forests of Falkreath Hold. One of the most temperate of the nine Holds of Skyrim - far more so than Winterhold or Windhelm - it was one of the most common first stops for newcomers, including me. It provided a similar environment and weather to my ancestral home on the furthest western Hold in Skyrim, the Reach, which was my ultimate destination.
The air was fresh and crisp as I proceeded through the pass, heading towards Falkreath. My breath left my mouth as a foggy mist, all the water having almost instantaneously crystallized into ice the moment they hit the sub-zero air.
A brief thought flashed through my mind.
If as I breathe, I'm crystallizing small flakes of ice, then technically I'm creating snow. And if I can independently create snow because of my own conditions, I am effectively my own weather system. Thus, if I just hold my breath, I can technically control the weather.
Who knew it was really that easy? Although I was doing it only in technicalities, but still.
Shaking my head at my own errant, quirky thoughts, which did succeed in cheering me up, I rode along the beaten and worn path, watching the white snow gradually meld with, and then succumb to, the green pines of Falkreath. The scenery was fantastic, and I felt myself relax, my previous doubts about Skyrim (at least the land itself) slowly fading into Oblivion.
There were a few twitters in the air, a sign of the early spring, which warmed the frozen winter air and melted some of the snow captured between the trees. In the distance, there was the gurgle of some mountain brook or stream, as the melted snow crept between the roots of the trees and joined into one cohesive whole. The crisp and cold smell - if you can smell crisp and cold - of the snowy highlands gradually filled with the woody scent of pine needles, the sweet aroma of flowers, and the distinct twang of thyme, or some other herb that I have never been good at identifying.
Absentmindedly, I waved my wand, muttering the magical derivation of the Old Cyrodiil words for "Enhance nose".
"Cumula Olfactam."
The sweet scents doubled in magnitude, giving a beautifully pleasurable tingle to my nose, and the sense that I was back in the temperate wooded forests of Cyrodiil. As the centermost province and the heart and capitol of the Empire, Cyrodiil was rich with green deciduous forests that were common at that latitude, south of Skyrim. Further south were the tropical rain forests common to Elsweyr, and the thick foggy swamps that defined Black Marsh. Wand-based magic was excellent in the subtle enhancements and charms needed to discern the subtle scents characteristic of each environment, unlike most freehand or wantless magics, which were limited more primarily to the elements and Olde Magicks.
I took a deep breath, savoring the unique scents. Smell-enhancements charms, along with the other sense enhancement spells, were some of my favorites, simply because it allowed me to experience the world in a sharper and newer way. It opened up the mind to millions of different and more subtle parts of the world, given the numerous hidden smells and tastes that were typically hidden from the rather insensitive organs that both Men and Mer possessed.
There were differences between the races, of course. Some of the Mer - more commonly known as Elves - such as the Orsimer, or Orcs, had sharper noses and tongues that could smell and taste finer scents and flavors. Hence, the reason that some suspect The Gourmet, the Emperor's personal chef, to be an Orc. Other races, such as the cat-like Khajiit, had their famous Night Eye, allowing them unparalleled vision in the dark. The Argonians had the sharpest tongues, given their lizard-blood and massive love for meat.
A faint hint of which seemed to linger in the air. It was almost sickeningly sweet, due the lupine twist to the smell. The enhancement spell had taken advantage of my particular penchant for dogs and wolves, and thus had accented my smell in a way that make it more akin to that of a hound. This did mean that my sensitivity to the smell of meat was heightened drastically, although it also meant that I perceived certain meaty smells in a vastly different manner.
My stomach growled abruptly, deciding on its own that it was best to go and investigate the source of this smell. If it happened to be a hunter roasting or smoking some newly-caught game, well, there was a chance that he would be willing to share a little with a traveller just passing by. If not, I would still be able to buy my first piece of Skyrim fare, if I fished some Septims from my lightly jangling coin pouch.
Thankfully, despite the disunity of the Empire in its current state, at least Septims were still able to be used in every province. Even some of the inimical Thalmor-occupied territories, in northern Elsewyr and Valenwood, accepted the widely-used coin.
Quickly, I dismounted my horse, and tied her to a tree. She had no name, given that she was on a temporary loan, from the post at the northern Cyrodiilian city of Bruma to be delivered to Falkreath. "Loan", in this case, was not a euphemism for "stealing", as I had paid a few hundred Septims for the horse to carry me from Bruma to Falkreath, despite the frequency of horse theft. I never really got the point - horses were so much harder to sneak away, given their inherent suspicion of strangers, the deadly hooves, and their capacity to make ungodly amounts of noise when stealth was required. It was much more practical to go for jewels, or inanimate belongings.
Not to say that I condone, or practice any of the "Thieving" arts. Nor to say that the peoples of Tamriel were very clever to being with.
I followed the scent of the meat on foot, paying no mind to the tall trees that hid the forest floor in their dark shadows. The darkness did not cause too much discomfort, considering that mages are used to weaning the natural reliance on sight as a way to perceive the world. One of the first things that Wizards - wand users - learn is to utilize their inner magical pools as a sixth sense, feeling the magical resonance (or lack thereof) in the surrounding environment. The trees, then, hummed with a faint green glow, the natural aura of the plant rendered in a distinctly woody fashion, crisscrossed by faint faults and lines. Even the floor glowed lightly, although this was primarily from newly fallen pine needles. The rest of the dirt and ground was dark, lacking any magical potential whatsoever.
As I neared the source of the smell, several other distinct flavors rose to my notice. Primarily was the sharp metallic scent of blood, definitely not a uncommon occurrence, given the nature of the source of the smell. There were subtler hints, though - the heavy musk of sweat, for instance. And the barbed spiky scent of fear.
I immediately shifted my silver-grey robe into a better position, so that some of the knots that had accumulated during travel would not hinder my movement if a battle arose. Securely fastening my red cloak around my shoulders, my wand leapt from the holster mounted on my arm into my waiting hand. The hard but smooth, chiseled edges and curves of my polished elder wood wand brought with it a sense of security, knowing that I had the tools necessary to at least try and fend off any aggressors.
This was a very dangerous venture on my part. I could still turn back and leave as quickly as possible, if I so chose. Unfortunately, my traitorous stomach had already brought me this close, and if I turned back now, chances were that a knife would be entering my back before I made it back to my horse.
Best that I deal with anything that came up, face to face.
Cautiously crawling through the dense undergrowth, I peeked my head through the bushes. The faint green feeling, previously surrounding me completely, gave way to visible firelight.
A devastated camp awaited me. All the tents were knocked down into haphazard heaps, or completely burned into piles of black and white-grey ash. Discarded swords lay strewn all over the ground, reflecting the red firelight, making it seem like the fire had erupted throughout the entirety of the camp. A rack of meats, half-cooked, lay upended all over the floor, the source of the rich meaty smell that had attracted me to the camp in the first place.
Tiny pools of red liquid dotted the area right in front of me. The pungent scent of blood emanated strongly from those pools, and erased any feeble hopes of mine that they consisted of aged red wine, and nothing more.
Fortunately (and unfortunately), no bodies remained in the camp. This was extremely strange. Everything was fresh enough that the catastrophe that took place here had to have happened recently. None of the meat was rotten, the blood scent was fresh, and I could still see some of the ashes of the tents glowing faintly with dying embers. The fact that the bodies were removed meant that there was no way to see if this had been some unfortunate slaughter of a hunter (unlikely), or if some catastrophic battle between two unknown sides had taken place.
If only I had read up more on Skyrim's history and political situation before coming here. I know literally nothing about this place.
There didn't seem to be any hostiles around, so I emerged from the bushes, dusting my leaf-infested robes and cloak off. The entire area was silent, except for the crackling fire in the middle of the clearing. It was bright - too bright - and it made the surrounding trees seem even darker than they actually were. In my paranoid state, I swore I could even see some faint shapes flickering around, right outside the reach of the red glow of firelight.
This was not an optimal position. I was framed right against the bright fire, making it laughably easy to see me from the fringe of the trees, and impossible for me to see outside for potential attackers. Anybody could just traipse to the edge of the forest, aim a crossbow, bow, fireball, ice spike, wand, anything at me, and I would could just be dispatched without any idea from where I had been shot (or that I had been shot at all). Despite my lack of knowledge about Skyrim's political situation, I did know one thing - Nords strongly disliked magic users, especially us wand-based Wizards. I had no doubt that even if I was surrounded by a dozen other people, I would be the first to go.
Thinking for a moment, I came to a conclusion. There was no time to set up an extensive ward ring, not in such a dangerous and unsecured position. There most definitely was no time to carve the required rune stones, nor find the rocks to do so. And I hadn't brought any with me either, since I had planned on making it to Falkreath without any hitch in the ride. Bandits were not known to attack this area - not frequently, at least.
My mistake. The first rule of Skyrim - or second, since I suppose the first would be "Drink mead like water" - as I would later learn, is to always expect the unexpected.
Thus, I had to draw back on lessons that I had learned over ten years ago, when I had studied at HOGWARTS, known as the Honorable Gentleman's Wizard Academy for the Realistic Teaching of Spells. Despite its male-oriented name, it did teach an abundance of female students as well, including me.
The brief impression of a bushy haired, brown eyed girl popped into my mind. I shook my head, clearing it of the unwanted and painful memory. It never seemed to leave me, despite having occurred over five years ago - it was as if her disappearance had left some void that was impossible to fill. She had been my best friend, but...
Fighting with my wildly jumping thoughts, I tried desperately to concentrate. Returning to the subject at hand, I closed my eyes, trying intently to focus on the advice of Master Charms Professor Filius Flitwick. A faint smile crossed my face as I remembered the diminutive professor, always filled with boundless energy and never ceasing to bounce around wherever he went.
"Concentrate on the magical residue of the area around you." My memories even squeaked in the typical Flitwick manner. "A blanket ward that you cast blindly will work only rarely because of the pockets of magical power that lay around you. Feel the area around you. Shape your ward to fit snugly with those pockets. These pockets, the ebb and flow, can act as natural roots and supports for your ward, directing any damage into the essentially invincible ground. Only then can your ward be strong, and withstand any damage, or fulfill any other purpose which you desire."
Following his advice, I reached out using my magical senses, preparing to cast my ward once I understood a little more about my surroundings. Immediately, I felt a magical hallmark - essentially, a unique fingerprint or sign of a specific caster - calling out from my immediate left, feeling more or less like a pine-hard-dull. To those that cannot perceive magical hallmarks, it's incredibly difficult to explain them, given they're like a sixth sense. Imagine seeing a ripe, red strawberry, and then trying to explain its look to a blind person using only descriptions for taste, smell, and feeling.
Needless to say, it's challenging.
I explored a little more. After encountering a few more hallmarks with crisscrossing lines, indicative of spells that shot out across the camp, I encountered one like alcohol-cold-red. It flared about a few paces back. I traced an almost imperceptibly faint line of grey, a clear and obvious sign of a Silence spell (commonly used by non-wand mages), to a bright blue hallmark.
This one was very different - enough so that I took a closer look. I cancelled my ward-spell preparation, and inched closer to the source. It only got stranger as I neared.
At first impression, it was a bright blue-steel-cold that had originally caught my intention. Upon closer inspection, however, I noticed that it was almost translucent, a color-feeling that I had never really encountered before, and of which I had never even heard of. There were also mysterious voids in the feeling, popping into and out of existence. A faint smell-feeling of ozone, the kind that smokes after a particularly powerful lighting spell cast by a master Destruction mage, faded in and out of existence. With it came the oppressive feeling of some deep and dark cavern, and yet paradoxically of large and open skies.
With a startle, I realized that I had the impression of some sort of sight. A huge, magnificent cumulonimbus cloud, twisting with the power of stormy winds. Grey, yet white and shining, it stood out against the somehow-black background.
My mouth must have slightly been hanging open, because as I pulled out my self-inking quill and my notebook and started scribbling furiously about my feelings and finds, several droplets of drool splattered down on the still-wet ink. I barely paid it any notice, continuing to write down information at a furious pace.
It wasn't an easy task. My hand was still cramped after gripping the reins so tightly for such a long period of time. I was a mage, and so naturally I was never really that fit in the first place. Riding the horse for such a long journey was most definitely a novel experience for me. Thankfully, I managed to hold out long enough to finish jotting down my observations.
I might not have gone out to travel much, given my parents and I had always considered my goals to be study first, explore and apply later, but I knew this was a strange coincidence. The sixth sense of magical hallmarks was usually more or less adequately described by the smell-taste-touch combo that could give a modestly good impression of what the hallmark was like. Never before, though, had I felt or even heard of a magical hallmark that had given such a strong impression of a sight. Nor had I ever had conflicting feelings from one source, like the open-air yet oppressive-cavern feeling the blue hallmark had given me.
I poked around at the hallmark for a little longer before I suddenly realized that I had to get back to creating a ward. I knew it had been a stupid decision of mine to go about researching while I was unprotected. That, too, would be a lesson that I would have to learn from in the future. I was lucky that nothing had come to attack me. Nothing prowled nearby but a trio of young wolves living together in a pack. They stayed far away, out of the reach of the blinding light of the fire as they turned away to hunt for fresh meat in some less dangerous area.
Strolling around the camp, I finished up examining the remaining flares and terrain of ambient magic before I went back to my original position next to the fire. Raising my wand, I called forth my magic from my core, originating from a specific point in my heart, yet from every point on my body. An undulating coldness crawled through my right collarbone, before it shot through my arm and erupted through the wand pointed upward in my fingertips.
Sparkles of ward-magic flew through the air in a spraying fountain, coating everything in a plain. Where magic already existed, fewer sparkles landed. The darker and more absent portions were coated more thickly. A decent amount landed on my wand, coating it and subsequently turning it into a bright blue glowstick. Other particles passed right through me, leaving trails of a tingling coldness behind.
After ten seconds, the entire camp was covered in a uniform glow of light, slowly fading as the distance from me increased. There seemed to be some sort of fogginess to the air, as if the particles were radiating some barely-perceptible magical force into the area above the brilliant ground. I lowered my wand, and forced myself to close my senses to magical perceptions.
The entire camp looked exactly the same, just as dangerous and startling as before. However, there was a tingling feeling as I stood next to the fire, giveaways to the presence of some ambient or hidden magical spell.
Good. While my magical perceptions confirmed that the spell had worked and was preventing anything specifically not permitted from traveling in or out of the ward, I could also see that there were no obvious overt signs as to its presence.
A standard ward, but useful in the field nonetheless. I found myself thanking Headmaster Dumbledore for encouraging practical practice of spells, besides just studying up on theory. We had gone on several "field studies" in nearby ruins that were deemed not too intensive for novices, where we had been able to put our theoretical and practical studies to the test. Otherwise, I would never have been able to cast the ward as quickly as I did. Although I wasn't sure I could do the same under pressure. It was one thing to do it in a classroom or for a test, another to do it when someone, or a group of someones, was seriously trying to kill or harm you.
That, too, was one of the things he taught us. I caught myself thinking of his words as I sat down on a log, doubling as a makeshift bench, near the fire. "Never be arrogant because of our Gift. It, along with your inexperience in the ways of the world, can easily kill an unwary wizard or witch."
Too bad Quirinus Quirrell didn't take that advice to heart. He just had to get himself infected by Corprus, after narrowly achieving "victory" over a new necromancer. That misshapen blob at the back of his head had born a disgusting resemblance to some inhuman face when we had last seen him.
I shuddered. The guy had slowly developed a twisted personality and went insane. Dumbledore had to have him locked up in the mental asylum by the local Imperial Guards. It was a fate I would have never wished on anybody, especially not some poor stuttering, timid soul like Quirrell's.
Yawning, I forlornly eyed the roasted meats on the rack. My stomach growled at my reluctance to succumb to my desires and just feast on the meat on the ground, despite how dirty the pieces must be. The scents were almost overpowering in their intensity, just worsening my body's hungry protests.
I realized that my smell-enhancement spell was still active, and I quickly hurried to cancel it, in order to quell the torture my body was undergoing. Even still, my hunger forced my nose to pick up on the scent of the rack of meat, accenting it into a strong, albeit weaker, flavor.
Sighing, I pulled out a piece of waybread from my pack. Thankfully, the pack was bottomless, so I didn't have to pack a dozen bags to hold the voluminous, nutritious and tasty waybread that was characteristic of Wizards. It was much better than the standard travel fare given to normal travelers - seasoned with a tiny amount of honey or butter and garlic, they were quite good and rather passable as a meal in themselves. Unfortunately, the bottomless pack was not truly "bottomless", nor was the featherlight charm placed upon it very strong, so there was a limit to what I could place in it. Thus, I could only bring a few loaves, which were able to sustain me for two weeks at best. More, and I would leave no room for potions or other necessary items, and they would be far too heavy for me to carry, either on my back or the horse's.
Nibbling on a piece of the waybread, this one garlic butter and with a crispy crust, I continued to survey the remainders of the camp, leaving my pack at the base of the log. While I had already thoroughly examined all the magical components of the camp, there remained a lot of potential physical evidence for what had happened at the camp. I was no detective, by any measure - magical studies had always been my focus and, dare I say it, forte.
So when I happened across a light blue ribbon the same color as that one strange hallmark I had sensed earlier, I knew that it immediately had to be important. How so, I was not entirely sure. But the bronze bear symbol had to be some sort of clue.
The ribbon was covered in dirt and browned by mud, as if someone had hurriedly torn it from their waist and stomped it into the ground in order to leave a trail. This was starting to look like the beginning of some sort of detective novel that nobles were so fond of reading. All I needed was some indication of exactly what the bear symbol meant.
But it appeared that the gods did not wish for me to know, because besides some other pieces of sky-blue cloth and a few more depictions of the bear head, I received nothing. Not even a single piece of paper was left, unlike in the crime scenes of the detective novels I was admittedly using as some sort of guide.
With no lead, I had no options as to what to do, but continue on my own journey. Perhaps I would be able to find some more leads in the future. And if the entire investigation got too hairy - well, I could always quit later.
And so, I picked my way carefully back through the underbrush and emerged from the dense canopy of the evergreen forest. The light was bright, almost blindingly so, slightly burning my eyes. It was worth it, though, to be out of the darkness of the forest, without the worries that some enemy was hidden just around the next tree trunk, or behind the next bush.
Clambering onto my horse and finally glad to be away of the alarmingly mysterious camp, I nudged my horse, cantering away slowly further down the road.
A/N: And there's the first chapter! Favorite and follow if you like the story, and please please please leave (preferably thoughtful and constructive) reviews / advice / criticisms so I can continue to improve the story.
Cheers!