Guide:

Dwemeris

Thoughts

"Speech"

"Dovahzul"

Warnings/Disclaimer: see chapter 4

Chapter Warning(s): Is it J'Zargo or J'zargo? I don't know! Also, we're jumping into the middle of a Questline because every issue starting when the Dragonborn shows up is too convenient for the rest of Skyrim.

Last time…

"Trust me, I've tried. I only know one spell, flames. But… It's barely enough to light a twig, let alone to 'roast my foes in arcane fire'. Magic isn't for me. Give me an axe over a staff any day."

The innkeeper seems to be glad for any business at all, elf or not, mage or not. It's… refreshing. It shouldn't have to be.

Chapter 22 – Winterhold College

"And just who, exactly, might you two be? The college isn't accepting any applicants right now, so get out of here."

I exchange a glance with Marcurio and shrug. "You don't know it until you try it." I Call, the corner of my lips curls upwards as he startles slightly before being able to mask it with the feigned indifferent mask he'd had plastered on since early this morning.

Do magical colleges have problems with each other? Also, Marcurio is terrible at pretending cold indifference – his eyes and the way his left index finger keeps twitching are enough of a giveaway for me. We'd been running around for two months with barely any company aside from each other, after all.

A general insight into how he tics should be expected by now – I wonder if other people are capable of noticing his twitches as well as I can, or if he notices how I react when trying to cover something. It bears asking. I muse before turning back to the conversation.

"Actually, I am not here to apply. I have zero magical aptitude, inborn abilities notwithstanding." I tell the Altmer cheerily, putting on a happy-go-lucky smile to look even more like an innocent brat. "But, you see, I do have a curious streak a mile wide, and thus I was only hoping to have short access to your library."

A pause.

"I'm… rather deeply involved with the current dragon issue. Not of my own volition, if I may, but a guy has to do what they have to when it's apparently somewhat important, you know?"

Marcurio swats me on the back of my head and I grumble in fake protest, jabbing him in the ribs in return with a small grin playing on my face – nevermind that the jab didn't even hurt. I rub the place where he hit me with a faux-annoyed huff, glaring at the mage's pretty brown eyes maybe a second too long before staring at his faded yellow collar instead.

"You can just tell them you're the Dragonborn. They're not going to kill you for it. The College of Winterhold has always been a largely independent organisation that stays out of such affairs." He lectures me imperially – hah, pun unintended.

I roll my eyes dramatically, and the Altmer mage still standing in front of us looks like she isn't sure what to do or how to react anymore.

Good.

"So if you could let us in?" I suggest mildly, and she snaps back to herself. "Well I, uh, well, I suppose I could let you through… Provided you prove your status. And your friend will have to gain access the traditional way." She then goes to explain that we're both supposed to attack some sort of sign with an eye on it, which is carved into the floor.

Well, Marcurio attacks it with the Firebolt spell the woman suggests.

I would cry and throw a tantrum like a toddler to get my hands close to more fire and blessed warmth right now, but I'm scared my tears will turn to icicles in this weather. Also, being coldly miserable, I'm not feeling up to being too impressive, so with a simple "FUS!" I gain entry.

…

I'd expected a magical college to be less… panicked. I knew the feeling I had to come here wasn't misplaced. Mages are standing in what seems to be a main square, overgrown with snowberries and other weeds, and they're all arguing.

Not that I'm about to jump in head first, oh no. I'm gathering my bearings, first of all. After all, I'm still clutching valiantly at the nearest sturdy stone pillar of support with an ashen face because crossing that sorry, miserable, Tschranumnd eiglurch excuse of a bridge just..! It's not even worthy of being called a bridge! Bridge, hah! A level 12 out of 10 safety hazard, more like!

A College of Magic, indeed. It MUST be held together by magic, because otherwise that 'bridge' would be several hundred metres lower! On the SEA FLOOR! How do these damn people deal with it?

I force myself to refocus on the ongoing chaos – two younger mages, a Khajit and what looks to be a Nord at first glance – seem to be standing against what appears to be the entire faculty, if their stern, disapproving looks are the same as the ones my teachers used to give me.

Ah, Ms. Dwegsh, you will not be missed. Bitch.

Marcurio stands behind me nonchalantly, arms crossed and eyebrows up to his hairline. He clicks his tongue, apparently finding not even his most sarcastic comments worthy of this chaos. Giving him a long-suffering look, because I can already tell I'm not going to be able to stay out of this, I tune in to the ongoing conversation.

"You two are wholly unprepared for an undertaking of this size! I understand that you want to fix this problem before it runs even further out of hand, but we've already contacted someone outside the college to aid us!" The woman… either a Breton or a Redguard, I can't really tell, then spots the two of us. "See? They're already here!"

Marcurio and I, meanwhile, are stuck gaping at her like fish. Excuse me, but what in Oblivion? I tilt my head to my companion slightly, whispering under my breath so as not to offend the angry mages: "Did we agree to help this Mage College? When did we get that drunk, again?"

"I'm pretty sure we haven't been drunk enough for something of that magnitude in the past few weeks. You won't let me get drunk, remember?" He whispers back, and now I turn to him fully, disregarding the mages and letting out a disbelieving snort.

"You – The last and only time I let you get drunk you froze me. To the ceiling. I had frostbitten toes for days!" He holds his hands up in mock-surrender. 'Fair enough', he mouths silently, eyes somewhere just over my shoulder. I stand a little straighter. Then, I slowly turn around, giving the Breton – I'm pretty sure, at least – a dull glare.

Alright, I'll play along for now, see where I end up.

"Aye, what is it?"

"You… Are not the same as the mercenaries I hired?" Now, I must admit that I've been curious. About this college in general, as well as the overall size of the library, sure. But with this chaos, and the talk of hiring help to deal with what sound like severe problems?

I need answers, and I need them fast.

"We're not. At least, we're not helping unless we have some more details on the situation." Does it have anything to do with the dragons? I narrow my eyes, because ugh, I should hope not. I have enough dragon problems as it stands.

She, Mirabelle Ervine, Master wizard of the College of Winterhold, goes on to explain a strange orb they found under Saarthal, exuding magic, which Tolfdir, another mage teacher, brought in for further examination.

Without first doing research on the nature of the artefact and its possible origins, or the extend of its power, or in which manner it might be used or abused. Highly professional. A Dwemer Scholar would have been executed. Just goes to show how far standards for education have dropped – not that I've seen ANY school suitable for small children to learn the basics of anything since I arrived here in Skyrim, which is sad in itself, really.

Now, the orb had been obtained with the best of intentions, but they needed a Staff of Magnus to avoid someone abusing it.

And nobody knew – of course – where to find said staff. The two students who have been joining up to work on the 'project' after helping Tolfdir find the orb, want to go find out where it's located.

"Some Imperials from the Synod came by and asked after it, as well. Their secondary plan was to go to a Dwemer ruin called 'Mzulft'. Now, these two idiot apprentices," Mirabelle almost growls, gesturing with a wide sweep of her arm at the two now sheepish looking boys, "want to go there, as well. But it's far too dangerous to send mere apprentices out there on their own."

Hold on, on their own? So, the lady is planning to send them off towards certain death and doom by Dwemer traps and Falmer shenanigans with nothing but a few hired swords to help? My eyes narrow even further at her and I push my shoulders back, assuming a more serious stance and crossing my arms for further effect.

Marcurio, still loyally behind me, just groans and mumbles 'here we go again' under his breath. Hah, you like it though. My people's architectural and technological advancements fascinate you even though they want to murder you.

"My apologies, Lady Ervine, for not introducing myself earlier – I am Fjaldi dû Bthardamz. Master Enchanter, expert on Dwemer and currently, willing to help you out in return for access to whatever constitutes as a library in this College." I even add a shallow, if mischievous, bow at the end. An elegant eyebrow arches – wow, Marcurio could take lessons from this woman – and she mirrors my stance.

"Bring my students back safely, and then we'll talk about you gaining access to the Arcanum." I give her a razor-sharp smirk. She lets me walk out with her students without payment so that I will work harder to get it when I return, like dangling a shiny new ebony sword in front of a warrior. Smart. But also stupid. I have every right to refuse, after all she needs me more than I need her. That said…

"Deal."

With that, even the snowstorm raging through the courtyard seems to abate as the master Wizard tilts her head once more, in a nod towards me, before turning sharply on her heel and walking off, the rhythmic thumps of her shoes crunching the snow the only sound for a few long moments.

Then, Marcurio's voice echoes around the nearly emptied courtyard: "Why am I even surprised at this point?"

"Because you still don't understand how far I will go to get what I want."

As long as it isn't related to having you. I smile back at him innocuously. The two college apprentices walk up to us, the Khajit lazily trailing after the Nord, tail sweeping gently to and fro, and I'm hard-pressed not to applaud the two for the mutual show of trust, however insignificant, in a world where it's so hard to come by between races.

"Uhm, hello! My name is Onmund, I study here at the college and -"

"J'Zargo thinks the travellers know you study here." The cat interrupts with a sharp nod in our direction, ears twitching warily and I find my own ears, the traitors, curiously moving in response, ever so slightly as they don't move to the extent that cat ears do, but unfortunately, enough to peek from underneath my hair. I'd let all of it loose to cover my poor blue-tipped ears from freezing off.

Of course, the eyes sharp enough to spot a bug ten feet away on a new moon night notice. "This one is J'Zargo. If it's not too much to ask, can this one ask why an elf and an Imperial mage interfered before J'Zargo and his friend were singed painfully?"

Onmund now gives me a closer inspection, eyes widening in surprise and I sigh slightly. "You also do not smell like a human, or even a normal elf, now that this one pays more attention to it. J'zargo's poor nose has been stuffed because of the cold for a long time." He seems… alright. If shady. I'm watching my back, that's for sure.

In contrast, Onmund seems like your typical village Nord with a background in farming. I'm glad to see that not all stereotypes fit in every case, and the boy seems to have no aversion against magic or magic users – quite the opposite, in fact.

"Mzulft will not be easy to get through. The Dwemer there were notorious for their trap making."

I jested with Mellte about it often – said that he should consider moving there to train under a master of traps that appreciated his sadistic streak. Of course, we both knew Ma wasn't going to let him go once she got her hands on him.

A feeble smile briefly plays on my lips before I can wipe it away. "Marcurio and I are ready to go whenever you are." The two exchange glances before nodding at us in unison, Onmund with a small bow and J'Zargo with a Cheshire grin. "We'll get our bags right away."

Bags and staffs, apparently. I'm no expert on the long staves with fancy Nordic engravings and gemstones, but Marcurio easily identifies them. "A Staff of Firebolts and a Staff of Paralysis. Not bad."

The Khajit bows dramatically, twirling the staff that can fling balls of fires around merrily. I scoot away slightly when it lets out actual wisps of smoke. Onmund just stands off to the side, glowing proudly at the minor praise.

Maybe he knows that Marcurio's 'not bad' is the weird equivalent of 'pretty damn impressive'? Nah.

I take the lead of the small group of mages, now feeling severely outnumbered in terms of enjoying to split skulls with a normal weapon rather than 'roasting foes in bouts of arcane fires', like J'Zargo seems to enjoy even more than Marcurio.

Onmund, contrarily, is like a humanoid sweetroll.

To the point where even I'm blindsided by it, and I've been around enough Dwemerlings to know what 'sweet' is. I blink at him a few times when he offers me his overcoat because I 'looked kind of cold'.

Marcurio meets my eyes, his deep brown gaze reflecting exactly what I'm feeling at that very moment – We must protect the Innocent One at all costs. J'zargo also clearly agrees, we find out not much later, when the Khajit comes suspiciously close to herding the Nord aside before jamming an Ice Spike up a wolf's… behind when it tries to attack the blonde.

Marcurio, with a generally perverted sense of humour that gets to me far more than I want to ever admit – A secret to take to the grave – is adorably and predictably awkward, holding back and sometimes cutting himself off suspiciously abruptly in the middle of a sarcastic tirade.

The glares J'Zargo gives him whenever he's out of line seem to not have any effect whatsoever, but Onmund's shocked, sad, kicked puppy look?

Oh my, oh my.

…

When once more passing Windhelm, I quickly sneak into the city in a heavy cloak that covers all my features to stock up on potions from one of several barrels inside Hjerim's secret room. Two out of three mages visit the alchemist in the meantime, Marcurio waiting outside the gates.

If either of the two apprentices are wondering, they don't ask.

I briefly glance around the mess that is the room-hidden-behind-a-wardrobe, you can't even take a step before breaking your ankle over some gold ingot. 'Damn, tomb-delving makes a guy richer than the king' and 'I am so getting cursed by some ancient evil over taking a piece of rock from its grave' pass through my head before I shut the panel securely behind me.

I pause, a single thought striking me as odd when I shut the closet doors. Look at me, shamelessly coming out of the closet. I snort at the mental jeer at myself, shaking my head before leaving.

Mzulft isn't far, and though I'm loathe to camp in front of the doors once again, I doubt the new tagalongs have the stamina to last both the journey and the tomb. Because it's still a tomb, no matter how many times I refer to it as a 'Dwemer city' in my head. My people died in there.

I don't quite manage to fully clear my head, but I DO get out of the city without being spotted thanks to my highly trained and practised skill at sneaking around.

And yetI did not die in those cities. I really want to find this… Vulthuryol, since I'm starting to get the feeling that the reason I'm still here and the reason he's in need of help are connected somehow.

Marcurio is the only one to catch onto my melancholic mood swing. "Let's go then. We follow you, Mr. Dwemer Expert." I give him a half-hearted Look, not daring to make a rude gesture in front of Onmund, who can't be old even in human terms and – "How old are you two?" Might as well clear that up now, before I'm distracted by it in a deadly trap-inclusive hazard zone.

"This one has seen seventeen summers. Not all of them as pleasantly warm as in my homeland." The Khajit purrs, giving a long, hard look at a sneering Nord – a guardsman standing next to the entrance gates who somehow did not catch me waltzing around.

Even though I went to shout at the docks and entered the city by bribing an Argonian worker to get me over the water so I could take the proverbial back door quite obviously.

That said, it had been a trial and a half to even get J'Zargo into the city. In the end, threatening the guard, pulling the 'Dragonborn'-card saying I'd join the Empire since they, at least, weren't being annoying asswipes to me personally, had been enough for the guards to let the cat beyond the gates.

I seem to have gained a smidgen of respect from the young mages for that, though J'zargo admitted to not knowing what a 'Dragonborn' was in the first place.

"I'm nineteen." I give Onmund a long, considerate look.

"No way."

"Yes way."

No way.

"There's absolutely no way you're my age."

Three pairs of eyes turn to me instantly, shocked. "Wait, you're nineteen?" Marcurio exclaims loudly, and I slap my hand in front of his mouth as fast as I can before warily looking around to see if anyone else heard, but we're alone on the road south of Windhelm, near Kynesgrove.

"Hush. My birthday's in Sun's Height, so I'll be twenty in less than a month." Onmund is still staring at me with those big blue eyes that do NOT belong on the face of a young adult. Marcurio is also still staring at me with his big brown eyes. I mentally scream even as a blush dusts my cheeks and I avert my gaze to the snow-ridden ground.

"So what if I'm nineteen?"

I've probably killed more people than all three of you combined during my time with Jenassa. I might be young, but I'm not innocent like Onmund.

"My birthday's in Frostfall, so you're still older than me." Said blonde mage is trying to console me. I let out a puff of frozen air, forcing myself to push down the unmentionable feelings in my chest. "This one now also wonders how old your Imperial friend is." J'Zargo mentions, and when I look at Marcurio he buries his face in his hands.

He mumbles something incomprehensible, and my ears and J'zargo's both twitch to try and catch the sound better whilst Onmund just gives Marcurio a puppy-eyed stare.

What am I saying? He's not even a dog. It must be some sort of human speech quirk that I adopted along the road.

"I'm… twenty-four." A five year difference? Doable. That's actually quite doable. Ugh. Hold it right there. Stop. Alright, let's just. Stop right there and focus on the present. Let's see… It's starting to snow again. The white frozen water droplets have me quickly look up at the darkening sky. If we hurry, we can still make it.

"Well, this was an enlightening conversation. But we really need to get going, unless any of you want to travel at night?"

A/N: Not sure what to put here, but meh. Hope you enjoyed my chapter! Reviews are love and stuff! Also, in my effort to stick close to canon lore I came across the little "Khajit aren't allowed in the cities" bit. Uhm, I've played Khajit? Can we have extra race-related questlines to get into new cities, please?