Morrowind is not mine; Bethesda has the dubious honour of owning 90 million cliff racers. I have the dubious honor of owning one half-mad mage. ::shakes finger at Gipfel:: don't get ahead of the author, romance is a secondary category for a reason. –[)

Winterbell awoke to the sound of voices, in an unfamiliar bed and an itchy robe that seemed to be covered in cat hairs. She wondered, with a stab of fear, whether or not last night was a dream. It all seemed rather unlikely in the cold light of morning. Still mostly asleep, she sat up and swung her legs off the bed. And smacked her head on the bunk above her.

"Ow!" She winced, recoiling and putting her hand on her forehead, "well, I know I'm not dreaming."
"Would you like some tea?"
Winterbell looked up to find a rather pretty Breton with cropped russet hair peering down at her. In her hands was a cup of orange liquid. Winterbell smiled as politely as she was able to first thing in the morning and accepted the cup. The firepetal tea was spicy and restorative, and within a few minutes Winterbell was up and about, observing the Mage's Guild doing business.

The Breton turned out to be the Guild Guide, and with a cheery, "Keep all your limbs inside the platform please." She sent a Kaijit family to Vivec with a "whoosh" that rustled the papers on Ajira's desk.

Not so cheery was Sharn Gra-Muzgob. The Orc seemed to view her customers as an annoyance, and did nothing to hide her opinions. Ajira was doing much better business, and as a consequence her prices were somewhat higher. Estirdalin had far fewer customers, and she seemed to be holding one-on-one meditation sessions with them.

"She's creating spells for them," Winterbell jumped as Marayn appeared at her elbow, "if you want something more powerful, or something that combines spell effects you have to get the spell custom-made."
"What do you do here?"
"I sell standard spells, mainly alteration and destruction. I also provide training. May I ask you the same question?"
"I don't know how to train people, I don't have many spells, but I do have some skill with enchanting and alchemy."
"Both eh? Be careful then, you may find yourself stuck between Ajira and Galbidir. That's not the healthiest place to be."
"Estirdalin warned me about them."
"It's Ranis," Marayn frowned, "she encourages them by only promoting one at a time. It's not healthy, having a feud like this, bad for business."
Winterbell got the impression that the dark elf was thinking of something entirely different when he uttered that last line. His gaze was dark and thoughtful for a moment then he seemed to recall where he was, and gave Winterbell a brief smile, "Ajira was waiting for you to wake up, I think she has more duties for you."

Winterbell waited patiently while Ajira dealt with a brawny Redguard after some cure blight potions. When he had gone Ajira beckoned Winterbell closer with a very shifty look on her furry face. With a wicked grin that showed her pointed canines, the Kaijit slipped something cold and glassy into Winterbell's palm.
"Put it in Galbidir's desk." She purred with a knowing wink.

Winterbell found a dark corner and examined the object. It was a magnificent work of forgery. Made of blue glass, it was an almost-perfect replica of a lesser soul gem. Only its heaviness and lack of shine gave it away. Winterbell weighed the object thoughtfully in her hand for a few moments, trying to decide what to do.

At that very moment, an exquisitely dressed wood elf swept down the stairs. Winterbell quickly shoved the fake gem into her pocket. The wood elf didn't give her a second glance, assuming she was a customer. She headed straight for Marayn, and Winterbell slipped upstairs.

When Winterbell reached Galbidir's desk, her breath caught in her throat. Sitting in full view was a magnificent array of soul gems, every one of them shining and warm with a soul inside. Winterbell slipped the fake into the desk in a daze, her eyes glued to the gleaming display. She gently ran her hand over the gems, feeling their strange warmth. The sound of approaching footsteps brought her to her senses, and with one last glance, she slipped outside.

Balmora did not look any more prepossessing by day than it did by night. A light rain sprinkled down, and the buildings looked damp and depressed in the muted light. Winterbell did not stay to enjoy the view, but merely circled down the stairs and went in again by the front door.

Ranis was just inside the door, arguing with an Imperial woman, who claimed that a potion had misfired.
"Well they're gone, aren't they?" Ranis snapped, merely nodding at Winterbell as she passed, "Look, some people find that sort of thing very attractive." The argument continued as Winterbell made her way back to Ajira.

Ajira was very pleased, in a rather childlike, malevolent way, and handed Winterbell a mortar and pestle, saying that there was no point in collecting ingredients unless you could use them.
"Speaking of ingredients," Ajira said, "you wouldn't have some flowers in that bag of yours, would you?"
As it turned out, Winterbell lacked only the stoneflower petals that Ajira required. Realizing that lunch would have to wait a little while, Winterbell emptied out her bag onto her bed, and strapped on her sword.

Winterbell walked over to Marayn, who was finishing up an alteration class. When he was done, Winterbell dropped her bag of gold on his desk.
"I'd like to buy some spells. School of destruction."
Marayn raised an amused eyebrow, "Need some firepower? Just where are you going then?"
"To pick some flowers." Winterbell replied.

Marayn charged Winterbell only 'Guild rates' for the spells, so she had enough gold left over to buy some lunch and get the nicks her sword beaten out by a sullen Nord who seemed to think she shouldn't have been allowed a weapon at all.

Winterbell strolled out of Balmora with no particular destination in mind, as Ajira seemed to think that stoneflowers were fairly common. The rain had stopped, and the sun was playing hide and seek amongst tattered clouds. Winterbell wandered along the Odai river, collecting what ingredients she could.

Winterbell had yet to see any of the delicate blue flowers that Ajira required, so she turned away from the river into a narrow valley. There were no stoneflowers, but there was corkbulb and heather and a mindless scrib that seemed intent on tripping the mage up. Not wishing to get a face full of paralyizing poison, Winterbell resisted the urge to kick it.

There was also a small door set into the granite of the hill. Winterbell wandered up to it curiously; it was obvious that the door had not been opened in a long time. Winterbell realized that it was one of the many Dunmer tombs that dotted the Vvardenfell landscape, and, remembering the loot she found in the smuggler's cave, she started to prise the door open.

It opened with a protesting screech and a wave of musty air rolled out of the darkness. Winterbell stuck her head round the door, seeing only a flight of steps that led down to another door. Magic and adrenalin surging through her, Winterbell crept up to the next door, and gave it a gentle push. It had been trapped long ago, but the magic was as potent as ever. Winterbell found herself unable to move, her fingers still brushing the door.

Just when she was beginning to wonder if she would be stuck in this rediculous situation forever, the magic faded, and she could move again. Making a note to buy some thieving tools when she had the money, Winterbell pushed on the door again. It opened without a sound.

The spirits of the dead lingered here. Winterbell could hear their whisperings and eerie mutterings all about her. Undaunted, the mage continued on, past cobweb-shrouded urns and bone pits. As Winterbell passed the dust stirred, and hissing with spectaral indignation, a ghost rose above her, magicka sparking between its bony fingers.

Winterbell was a lot faster than the ghost, but it seemed to shrug off her cold magic, casting its own subtle weakening spells. Winterbell glared at it and summoned magic that crisped and bubbled the ectoplasm, and the ghost returned to whatever afterlife it was awakened from with a weird, echoing scream. Winterbell soon shrugged off the effects of the ghost's magic, like the paralysis trap they seemed to be temporary.

Thanking her foresight in buying some varied spells, Winterbell continued onwards and downwards, leaving a trail of blackened ectoplasm. There were strange powders and rare ingredients scattered about the tomb, and a couple scrolls. Winterbell collected everything, keeping a running total of how much they might be worth in her head.

From behind the last door came a strange scraping noise. Then a kind of sighing sound. Winterbell cracked her knuckles and pulled her magic to her fingertips. Opening the door as quietly as she could, Winterbell stepped into the inner tomb.

The spectre was twice her height and seemed to have four bony arms. It's eyeless sockets regarded Winterbell and it sent a blast of destructive magic in the mage's direction. Winterbell held up her hands, expecting the worst. The malevolent magic crashed against her small frame, but she felt no pain or sickness. In fact, as the sparkling magicka sank into her skin, she felt stronger, felt the sweet, raw power of pure magicka suffuse her being. Without effort Winterbell hurled a ball of fire at the spectre. It recoiled, but sent another spell. Once again it only fuelled Winterbell's wizard fire. Moving closer, the spectre managed to slash one of its bony hands across Winterbell's face before collapsing in a cloud of bone dust.

Winterbell stared at her own hands for a few seconds, trying to process what had just happened. She was bleeding from cuts in her face and physically exhausted, but the magic, the magic felt strong and powerful. Winterbell sank to her knees, burying her face in her hands. Suddenly her frame shook with peals of hysterical laughter that rang and echoed horribly in the tomb.

"All these years, all this time," she shrieked with a horrible kind of dispair, "Magicka for the taking, oh they would have loved it!"

The laughter gave way to gulping sobs, and Winterbell whispered from between her fingers, "All these years..."

The door of the tomb was kicked open so hard it practically splintered off its hinges. Her face streaked with blood and tears Winterbell stalked out of it, a slow-burning, insane fury tensing her frame. Some egg miners were one their break nearby; they took one look at the mage and wordlessly got out of her way.

It wasn't until late the next day that Winterbell appeared back at the Mages Guild. Her face and arms held deep, bloody scratches, and she looked like she hadn't been to sleep. Her bag was stuffed to bursting with potions, scrolls, weapons, alchemical ingredients, and even a skull. What drew attention to her, however, was the weird light in her eyes, and the magicka that sparked and discharged between her fingers and off the ends of her hair.

Masaline put her hand over her mouth in horror, and even Ranis left her desk, her face a picture of curiosity. Sharn looked vaguely approving, and Marayn looked worried and horrified. Winterbell didn't seem to notice the stares, but she did stop dead when she saw Ajira.

"Rats!" she exclaimed. Without another word she turned on her heel and marched straight out again. She strode up to the manor district and made a beeline for "Whitehaven's Fine Alchemists". Marching up to the high elf inside, Winterbell placed one gold piece on the desk.
"I'd like a stoneflower please."