Hello everyone!

First of all, thank you so much for clicking here and reading my story! This is my first time submitting, and I am so grateful for you taking time out of your day to give this yarn a little read!

I'm planning on this story taking place over maybe a dozen chapters or so. I can't really promise regular updates, but I will do my best.

Our tale is going to cover the events of the Main Questline in Skyrim, The College of Winterhold Questline, The Dawnguard Questline, and a little of the Dragonborn Questline. So spoilers might follow!

Also, I do not own the Elder Scroll Series or any of the characters or assets found therein.

I hope you all enjoy!

The ruined home was quiet. The chilled wind coming off the Mount of Anthor heralded a coming storm, but amongst the rubble, there is no sound. Snow and ice, elements that never seemed to fade away here, have long blanketed these halls. Most people fear this place is cursed, but the truth was much more dismal. There simply was nothing to come back to.

There was only one source of sound. A wood elf, one of the Bosmer, stands in these ruins, a look of sadness fixed on his face. It seems that he can see and hear things no one else can. Memories play in his mind: open and roaring fires and family and company kept. But that former life is only in his eyes, and a harsh cold wind sweeps those thoughts away as the elf shudders, drawing his cloak around him, and hoisting his pack higher on his shoulder.

He turns to grab hold of his mule and stops. He stoops down, eyeing a golden amulet glittering in the snow with a mirthless smile, and picks it up and drapes it on his neck. And then, he leads the mule, loaded with all he has in the world, further north.

The road to the College of Winterhold was devoid of any travelers. It was easy to understand why. One, the citizens of Skyrim viewed the study of magic with a skeptical eye at best, thus new traveling students were rare. Pilgrims must also take into account the severe cold, and the possibility of roaming bandits and feral creatures. The road to the college was death for many.

Tuscal, however, had no issues with the road. He had lived in Skyrim for many years, and had survived many a winter colder than this one. His cloak and robe were made himself. His face was hidden by a wrap and cap composed of snow hares. He was prepared, for it was only the prepared who survived this far north.

But the elf's final destination was even further north still. Winterhold was still a frigid three day journey from Morthal, and while Tuscal did not fear for himself to finish the journey, the mule could not handle much colder climates.

"No matter," Tuscal said under his breath. "Tonight we will reach the Nightgate Inn, and I'll sell the beast and continue on my own. Perhaps he will fetch me enough septims for a hot meal."

So they travelled on, until blinding white snow hid them from view.

The mule was dead.

Tuscal swore under his breath for the hundredth time. He had miscalculated. The road had seemed to point him around a great forest, but Tuscal had also spotted a smaller trail that led through the evergreens. Tuscal debated on the two paths. Surely, as an elf of the woods, the forest would be much kinder to him and spare him of encountering any bandits. So he followed his instincts, left the road, and was rewarded with a miserable day and night in the blizzard and trees, hopelessly lost.

By the time he realized his mistake, it was too late for the mule. Despite laying blankets on it, it would not stay warm through the night. Tuscal offered a warming potion, but the mule would not drink. The elf even tried to cast a minor spell to attempt to simulate heat, but all he got in response were frenzied kicks from the beast. When morning broke, the mule did not rise.

Tuscal's stomach growled. The provisions he packed had already been running thin, and now he had lost several days progress. He still had the warming potions, but they burned his throat and emptied his bowels. He needed real food, and shelter.

Tuscal looked at the mule's corpse slyly. The meat would be tough, but it would keep him alive. His mind went to memories of warm fires, sparkling wines, savory meats, with the scent circling like a miasma in the air…

The wave of nausea hit Tuscal like a charging cave bear. He vomited into the snow, emptying what little his stomach held. Once he cleaned himself of the sick, he turned away from the mule's body, grabbed what he could carry and forged on with his best idea of direction, hoping to make a break in the trees.

Tuscal was actually beginning to worry.

The food was gone. Yes, he was able to pick up a few snow berries along the path, but more worrisome, he had missed the last landmark. The snowstorm had not let up, and the icy oblivion met him at every turn. All Tuscal knew now was that he headed North, and he hoped to find a town along the way.

But none of those things worried him like the body. Tuscal had literally stumbled upon her. At first, it was simple enough to discard her as another victim of exposure. A windswept campsite, half buried in the snow, and a frozen Breton woman lying to the side. But the freezing cold preserved the body, and Tuscal could see more.

He could see that she was prepared. She had rations and provisions that were untouched, dried meats and nuts and breads. He could see that she was dressed warmly and well-suited for winter. He could see a broken bow. The line had been fresh and taut, but the cold had snapped it clean. He saw a full quiver of arrows.

It was all off. In life, Tuscal would have guessed her to be hearty, capable, and ready for the road. No footprints surrounded her, and her body had not been disturbed by any animals.

Almost by instinct Tuscal examined her neck and wrists. He then quickly stood up and looked about him. He was supremely out of his element. The cold had numbed him, he could see nothing, and if they were near, all hope was lost.

Time seemed to freeze.

Tuscal waited until his fingers stopped shaking, despite their new blue tinge. He then pulled the nuts and dried fruit from the rations, careful not to touch the meat. Right as he began to go, he looked back at the woman. He knew he shouldn't linger in this place, but he had a duty to fulfill.

Tuscal removed a small hacksaw from his pack and began his work. Removing the head was the only guarantee that victims of a vampire attack would not turn.

The snow had not relented. Tuscal's body desperately needed sleep, and that was dangerous. The warming potions were getting low, and he had only leaned against a tree, just to get a moment of rest. The cold nap in the snow lasted far longer than he expected.

When Tuscal woke with a start, half cemented in the powdery snow, he realized he could finally see about him. The sky was clear, a dark blue, where there was no sun but moonlight refracted from the white clad ground. The storm had passed, and the crystal plains were pristine and tranquil.

The beauty was largely lost on Tuscal, for he saw a road. Not only a road, but as his eyes followed, there was a glow, and a dark, solemn shape in the sky of high stone towers.

It was the College.

Tuscal gathered what strength he could still feel in his frozen bones and trudged towards the lights. Desperation and numbness and hunger drove him to move quickly. He downed the last of the warming potions, dry lips and tongue licking and smacking against the glass bottle, not caring about the stares from the large number of people who appeared out of doorways, around street corners, pale and bundled up and whispering and pointing at the ragged stranger.

Tuscal noticed none of this, but continued his path down the main street, towards the college. His feet transitioned from ground to stone, as a narrow and winding bridge led from the mainland to an impossibly large castle, towering on precarious pillars and supports, looking down over the frozen wasteland below a steep cliff side. The stone walkway was sure, steady, and unmovable. Tuscal's feet seemed to shatter with each step.

He finally collapsed at the feet of a worried looking elven woman who stood guard at an impasse of the bridge. "Good heavens, are you alright?"

"I must-" Tuscal coughed and gasped, pitifully. "I came for the College. Please, I have travelled very far."

"The elven woman looked sympathetic, and she helped Tuscal to his feet. "I can help you find food and shelter in the town, but the College is not accepting new students."

"No!" Tuscal shouted, refusing to be led away. "I am not a student! I wish to teach! Look!" Tuscal pulled a small silver ingot from his pocket, and waved his hand over it. A green light appeared between his fingers, and when uncovered, the silver revealed itself to be gold.

"An impressive illusion," the elven woman said, persisting in leading Tuscal away, "But the fact remains that…"

"Stop."

The new voice cut through the cold. It was rich and soft, but unmistakeable in power. "Faralda, do you not know the difference between illusion and alteration magics? J'zargo is surprised."

The elven woman immediately assumed a stance of reverence. "Master Wizard J'zargo, I am sorry, I was just escorting this Mer back into town."

"But he said he wishes to teach, no?" The figure stepped forward, casting off his hood and extending a fur covered hand. "How most fortunate for us. He may enter, for all those of great skill and talent may find home at the College of Winterhold."

Tuscal took the hand, thankful for once of the cold that caused him to shake like a leaf in the wind. For the Khajiit, while warm in voice, was ice cold to the touch. His canine teeth, while common to be showing for the catlike race, were slightly too prominent. And his intelligent eyes glowed with a subtle, otherworldly power.

But even without these, Tuscal would never have forgotten the face of the vampire who killed his brothers.

And there you have it! I hope you enjoyed reading.

I would love comments and reviews, and I am open to constructive criticism. You guys have an awesome day out there, and happy questing!