Leaving my alcove room the next morning, I find Mirabelle reading nearby.
"Do you know anything about the Staff of Magnus?" I ask, after the usual greetings.
"Well, now that's an odd question. Why in the world would you be asking?" She closes her book around her finger to mark her place.
"It may be connected to the Eye of Magnus."
"The Eye of Magnus? I can appreciate that this… thing, this orb… it's very impressive, very unique and definitely worth studying; but let's not jump to conclusions, or assign it importance beyond what we're certain of." She admonishes.
"Sorry. So, the Staff?"
"Well, it's said to be very powerful. Has the capacity to store an incredible amount of magical power, as the story goes. But it's more myth than anything at this point. I've no doubt that it actually exists, but no-one has seen it in what, decades? Longer? I'm not sure. The only time I've heard it mentioned was when those Synod characters showed up some months ago looking for it."
They sound familiar, but I can put my finger on it – some residual effect of my amnesia, no doubt.
"Who are the Synod?" I ask.
"Mages based out of Cyrodiil." Mirabelle adjusts the book's position, nearly losing her place as her grasp loosens. "They fancy themselves the Imperial Authority on magic these last few hundred years. My understanding is that all they really do is make noise in an attempt to curry favour from the Emperor. Lots of politics, little magic. I was quite surprised to find them on our doorstep. They seemed amiable enough, but their line of questioning made me… uneasy. It became clear they're trying to hoard powerful artefacts, looking to consolidate power."
"So no-one knows the Staff's location?"
"No-one here does. The Synod seemed convinced it was somewhere in Skyrim. They inquired about the ruins of Mzulft, but that's all I remember. It sounded like they were headed there, though they were rather secretive about why. I suppose if you're intent on looking for the Staff, there's a chance they might be in Mzulft yet. Just don't expect them to be cooperative." She resumes reading. What happened to the traditional conversation endings, like farewells?
I leave the College and head off out of the small town. On the way along the road, I'm accosted by a small group of Falmer, who retreat inside a cave upon realisation they're no match for me. It's too late for them though, I'm seeing red and I march into the cave and hunt down every last one. It's all for the best interests of the people of Skyrim; with these poor creatures out of the way the roads are a little safer – at least until something else moves into the cave.
Once I emerge from the twisting caves, I decide to pause in Windhelm before I head towards the ruins marked on my map in faded brown ink. I often wonder who the previous owner of this map was before they joined the Stormcloaks and perished at Helgen, that they would have such an extensively marked map of such apparent age. It's well preserved but obviously also well used, as most of the original notations have faded to a dull brown at darkest, making my additions and overwriting stand out in the deep black ink I use. I'll have to overwrite the rest of it at some point, make it completely legible again.
A trio of cultists – I really should deal with this insane group soon – and a bear are not enough to halt my progress and I am soon at the market in Windhelm selling my spare loot. I'm a little low on magicka potions, so I duck into the White Phial to top up.
"I'll be fine." An old elf is assuring a worried Cyrodiil lad behind the counter. Judging by his paleness, which is apparent even through his golden Altmer skin-tone, and his wheezing, he isn't as 'fine' as he insists.
"Master, you're far too old for this sort of journey. We don't know what's inside." His apprentice retorts. I lurk near the door, reluctant to interrupt. I've never had much luck interrupting arguments; earning many an angered backhand in my youth for 'getting underfoot'.
"I'll…" The elf's attempt at an answer is continually interrupted by a hacking cough. "I can… just…"
"You see, you're not well! Have a seat and I'll fetch you some tonic." The worried boy hurries off into a small side room.
"Bah! If there was a tonic that could help me, I would have found it by now…" The aged Altmer turns towards me as he catches his breath once more, and I approach the counter.
"Hello!" He greets me as cheerfully as he can manage, though I have no doubt he knew I was there the whole time. "Welcome to the White Phial. Feel free to browse my wares, and if you have any questions, just ask me, Nurelion, or my apprentice Quintus."
"What are you arguing about?" I ask, concerned.
"Just a man's life's work, is all! I've finally derived the location of the White Phial, but this doting busybody won't let me get it." The busybody in question sighs as he re-enters the room, and sets a small bottle down in front of the old alchemist before seating himself at a small table in the corner of the room.
"He's not talking about the shop, if you were wondering." Quintus says, upon realising my gaze rested on him. "It's an artefact many alchemists would die to get their hands on, if you'll pardon the expression." That clarifies things.
"If you tell me where it is, I can get it for you." I offer. "Put your apprentice's worries to rest; plus I have plenty of experience in this sort of work."
"You would do that?" He smiles as I nod. "It's good to know there are some people out there who are willing to help an old man. It's buried with its maker, Curalmil, in a long forgotten cave to the west of here. Curalmil was a crafty one, even in death. You would need the skills of a master alchemist to reach its resting place. Luckily for you, I've already made the mixture. Here; take it." He pulls out a bottle of what was once Alto Wine, but now it holds a thick green fluid. "Please, don't dally. I've wasted enough of my time arguing with my useless assistant here."
I can spare a little time, and Nurelion certainly hasn't much left, so instead of heading to the Dwemer ruin, I head back west to the small cave that Quintus had pointed out on my map, marked for some reason as Forsaken Cave.
It turns out this cave isn't as small as it seems, but appears so when you have two upset bears charging at you! Casting my chain lightning spell a couple of times deals with the first easily before the pair reach me, and softens up the second enough that a single swing of my sword is enough to slay it.
The back of the cave opens onto the entrance of a typical Nord tomb, so I prepare myself mentally for the usual onslaught of draugr and push onwards.
I was right. The shrivelled undead attempt to impede my progress in every room of the tomb, to no success but actually even a little amusement as they set off their own traps in their hurried attempts to stop me. The deeper into the tomb I go, the fewer draugr I encounter, until I finally enter a large room with a Word Wall at the back, framing the large sarcophagus that has 'Curalmil' engraved on the side in faded draconian script. I'm getting better at reading the dragon-like scratchings, especially since I've been making an effort to learn it; mainly out of curiosity but also because I feel I may as well, since I've learnt a few words automatically, being Dragonborn.
As I had expected, as I approach the Word Wall the coffin explodes open and out climbs the desiccated alchemist, who is decked out in the equipment I've seen used by other important corpses in other crypts. Unusual for an alchemist. An alchemist who, as I discover as I ready my spell, can Shout. Something I also didn't expect. The ancient people of Skyrim were a weird bunch.
Ducking away from the blast of his Thu'um, I cast and cast at the shrivelled shape until I have no more magical energy left, before lathing him with my own fiery Shout and following up by decapitating him. He ended up more staggered than I would have been had he hit his target; between my spells and my Fire Breath, his Shout was the only attack he managed.
After I learn the Word on the Wall, I notice a slab of wall that's different from the rest, with an empty basin placed in front of it. Experimentally, I let a little of Nurelion's concoction drip into the basin, and the wall shifts slightly, so I empty the bottle and the wall vanishes, revealing a small room with a cracked, pearlescent vial placed prominently on a narrow pedestal in the centre. Oh dear.
Wrapping what can only be the White Phial in the bear pelts I'd harvested earlier, fur-side in, I tucked it carefully into my pack and left the tomb, returning swiftly to Windhelm.
At the base of the bridge, the travelling Khajiit have set up camp, so I sell what few valuables I'd gathered from Forsaken Cave, then pause to watch the spectacular sunset through the dancing Aurora. Skyrim may be damn cold, but it a beautiful place. When you're not fighting bears, or wolves, or bandits…
I find the alchemy shop closed and locked up for the night, so I instead stop off at Candlehearth Hall and rent the room.