Chapter 09: Tongue of Might

Just when he thought everything was developing smoothly, an accusation came from the side of Miss Ravencroft like a bolt from the blue. A misplaced one to say the least. Singird was confused, angry and, even if he did not want to admit it, hurt. Despite planning to use her, he did not remember doing anything that should hurt or enrage her. Besides, he was a teacher. This kind of behavior was unacceptable. How could she. How dare she!

He turned on his heel and glanced over his shoulder to give her door one last look. It was pointless to stay here. She would not speak to him, of that he was certain. But he was going to have a good word with the one who had made her doubt him. Urag, she had said? He sighed. Any other name would have been better than gro-Shub's.

The blue fountain he had just passed gave a wild crackle. Paying it no heed, he stepped out into the cold. His attention was quickly drawn to her sister, the fountain before the spread arms of Arch-Mage Shalidor. The blue stream grew wilder with every passing moment, swirling and crackling, and the surrounding snow created tiny tornadoes around it. The courtyard soon appeared dark and stormy, despite the gentle snowfall dyed light pink in the sunlight that surrounded the College. Singird felt his braid skip in the sudden gust of wind that whipped him. With a furrowed brow, he glanced over the premises of the Academia, finding the other focal points just as ferocious.

He hurried into the Hall of Countenance and just as he entered, his eyes found Drevis Neloren, engulfed in the blue light, raised hands clad in his ornate tuning gloves. He was battling the stream of magicka, carefully combing the light strands, taming them and funneling them with the precision of a dwemer automaton, yet new and new streams gushed from the ground, threatening to swallow him.

It took Singird a few moments to recover from the initial shock before he jumped to the Dunmer's side, raising his hands with a ward spreading to cover his back.

"Master Neloren," he yelled, trying to clamor down the deafening hums and crackles. "How can I help?"

"By putting that down, foolish boy!" the Dunmer returned, too occupied with fending off the magicka to turn around. "You're only giving it more fuel. Do you want to kill us?"

Singird retreated, letting the ward fade. This was just what he was missing. A grumpy old Dunmer telling him off for trying to aid him.

"Is there anything else I can…"

"Oblivion take it!" the master of Illusion relieved himself, ducking as a particularly vicious current poured where his head used to be moments ago. "Yes, Master Larkwing, if you want to help, come here and give me your hand. How much energy can you take?"

"Uh… I beg your pardon?"

"Magicka. What is your capacity?"

"I have not calculated…"

"Oh, for crying out loud! Just come here and give me your hand!"

As soon as he extended his hand, Drevis Neloren grabbed it, creating a small rune on it, not unlike the star on his gloves. It glowed bright blue, the same color as the wild stream, and Singird suddenly felt a wave of energy entering his body. He staggered, gasping in shock, and for a moment, a myriad of stars danced before his eyes.

"What…" he tried to catch his breath, grabbing the knotting stomach with his free hand. "Where in Oblivion does all this energy come from?"

"You young ones," Master Neloren grumbled as he let go, "you know nothing of this place. Back in my day, our masters taught us history and all kinds of magical sciences. Magic is not just simple waving of your hand, throwing spells around and wasting your magicka on a whim…"

His fingers moved swiftly through the current, weaving and guiding it to the skies. It sputtered and wriggled, but slowly, it became more and more docile under his hands. When he finally removed them, the fountain was back to the elegant pillar it used to be. The Dunmer let out a relieved breath.

"Pardon me, Master Larkwing. I got carried away, for the magic, you see… it comes from the College herself. It is a defense mechanism against possible dangers or intruders. If I was her Protector, I could have tamed her easily. But like this…"

"Protector? That isn't just a myth?"

The Dunmer raised a white brow. "A myth? What did your parents fill your head with?"

Singird suppressed a frown. There had not been much conversation going on between him and his parents in their life. They had pushed him to master the arcane arts as well as the art of combat, to be critical toward himself and strive to be successful. They had taught him to read and to interpret texts, to tell blueberries from nightshade, to know a lark or nightingale when he heard one. They had fed him and taught him the value of hard work. But he had never been encouraged to believe in myths and heroes. Whatever people whispered amongst themselves could not be true unless he had a solid proof of it. The tale of the College's Protector was one of such gossip tales.

It spoke of a great mage who would eventually become one with the College. Literally, it would mean that the magic holding the great structure together would be at their disposal. The Protector's task was to shelter the College from harm, whilst she would do the same for them. No harm could come to the College as long as they were alive, and they could use the College's magic to protect themselves, but only to protect and not for selfish purposes. Using her magic to their own benefit would result in severe punishment.

"Shame on you, Singird Larkwing," Drevis Neloren grumbled, beckoning to follow him outside, to the next tempestuous focal point. Singird winced as the Dunmer's words tore him from that little corner of his mind. "To become the College Protector is a great honor, and that honor once belonged to your family. Although, I must admit, Ulfar Larkwing was quite underappreciated, thanks in no small measure to his personality. But he did not fail to protect us when the Great Collapse struck Winterhold. Now, can you take in more magic?"

Singird stared at him with a dropped jaw. "Ulfar Larkwing? My great-grandfather?"

That was not a name he was expecting to hear. Ulfar Larkwing, the very reason Singird had come to Winterhold in the first place. As much as he was unwilling to believe in myths, a single mention of his great-grandfather was enough to convince him they were true. After all, the man himself was a myth. The only one Singird believed in. The only one his parents had believed in.

He let out a breath. This conversation could not have been a coincidence. After all, Singird did not believe in coincidences.

"Yes, that one. It was when my hair was still more ebony and less silver, and my head was much lighter." Master Neloren pulled up his sleeves and flexed his fingers, eyes following the path of the fountain currents. "So can you take in more magic?"

"I suppose. What was he like?"

"Master Ulfar? Well, he was… eccentric. Spent most of his time in books, and when he wasn't reading, he liked to whisper to himself. Rumor had it that he was trying to enchant things with words. I doubt it. If that was true, he would have gone to the Greybeards instead. Now stand here, please."

Singird stepped to the place the old Dunmer was pointing at, letting him proceed with the fountain and fill him with magic again. It was a strange feeling, exhilarating, yet frightening. His own person drowned in the magic, yet he felt the power in his hands and wondered if he could now expand his consciousness into Oblivion just like Miss Ravencroft. Was this how she always felt?

Master Neloren continued his work, directing the streams again until the fountain was calm. "Well, I think I will have to find a new assistant for the next one, or else you might end up like Miss Ravencroft."

"So I am now on par with her?" Singird smiled. What a strange coincidence, that Master Neloren's thoughts matched his. But then again, there was no such thing as a coincidence.

The Dunmer laughed. "Now don't get your hopes too high, Master Larkwing. That was an exaggeration on my part. Miss Ravencroft's power is far beyond our grasp. Speaking of which, I wanted to talk to you about her."

"You did?"

"Yes, well… could you come with me to my room for just a moment?"

Singird quirked up a brow but followed him without a word of protest. Master Neloren's chamber was the plainest-looking room he had ever seen in all of Skyrim, yet he knew his eyes were deceiving him. The Dunmer was known to experiment with anything and everything he had ever gotten his hands on. As though reading his thoughts, the said elf pulled something unseen away from his desk, beckoning for him to sit on it. Singird waited with his brows still raised, earning himself a chuckle.

"Oh, do pardon me," Master Neloren said, summoning a sphere of dark violet light. As he released it, a chair appeared before Singird and he accepted the invitation.

"Strange," the Dunmer mused, scratching his chin. "I would have sworn Miss Ravencroft saw it when she was here. Perhaps I accidentally let that self-concealing spell act up." He groped about his cupboard, withdrawing two tankards and a bottle. "I am afraid my glasses have not so mysteriously disappeared," he commented as he poured a dark, murky liquid into the tankards, "so these will have to do. Here you go."

"What is it?" Singird asked as he accepted the tankard, failing to conceal the suspicion in his voice.

"My sujamma spiced brew. Do have a taste. It is not poisoned, nor flavored with any kind of hypnotic."

Sujamma, of course. The traditional Dunmer drink that made every Nord's tongue burn. Fortunately, Singird was used to exotic beverages and managed to earn himself a nod of acknowledgement as he took in a mouthful.

"What did you want to talk about, Master Neloren? Does it have anything to do with Miss Ravencroft's dreams?"

"Indeed it does. Or, rather, with their root cause. I notice you have discovered it for yourself, yet failed to realize the two things were connected."

"Truly?"

"Her power, Master Larkwing. She is leaking it because she has no place for it anymore. That said, her magical capacity is… how to put it? Interdimensional, maybe. If she spreads her consciousness, she can easily reach Oblivion. Perhaps for her, reaching Aetherius would take about the same amount of effort as reaching Oblivion for us. She is like… a divine walking Nirn's surface. Alas, she is mortal. Do you understand what that means, Master Larkwing?"

Singird frowned. He didn't want to admit he did not understand. Thinking wrinkled his face, but that was all he achieved. "So, how is it affecting the dreams?"

"I thought you a bright one. What she sees are occurrences around Nirn. Her magic leaks, but stays connected. She has not transformed it or released it in any way. It touches everything and reacts to it. She can feel the pain of others, as well as their joy."

"That's… impossible."

"I would have thought so too if I hadn't experienced it myself. Master Larkwing, can you imagine what will happen if she dies while holding onto this power?"

Singird could not decide if he paled at the prospect of Miss Ravencroft dying, or at the thought of what would come next. Powerful mages always left something behind and it was rarely pleasant.

"We would all…"

"Exactly. Unless you drain her of her magic first, she is going to take us with her. If she truly perishes, that is." Drevis Neloren allowed Singird a moment to process the dreadful thought before continuing. "Now, I know her power appeals to you. Ever since you found out about her atronach, she's had your full attention."

Singird opened his mouth to defend himself, but a wave of the Dunmer's hand silenced him.

"You probably expect me to scorn you, just like Lady Faralda or Urag gro-Shub would. Or just like you secretly scorn yourself, for that matter. Don't look at me like that, your face says it all." He sipped from his own tankard. His silence annoyed the young Nord. Fortunately, it did not last long.

"But in all honesty, I don't care. If you plan to use her power, go ahead. Use it all up, though I doubt you will manage to do that. Or teach her to exhaust it herself. Train her so that she uses it for the most trivial tasks. I don't give two septims about which path you choose – just pick one that will not put us to a miserable end. I will support you as long as you make sure we survive. So, do we have a deal?"

There was lull, filled with quiet sipping, before the obvious question came. "One question, Master Neloren."

"Yes?"

"Why me?"

The Dunmer chuckled, obviously having expected the query. "She trusts you. More than you would admit."

Singird gave a bitter snort, finishing his drink with one mighty gulp. "That was before. Not anymore."

"Don't make a fool out of me, Master Larkwing. I spoke with her this morning. I was there with her, in those moments you reached out to her. Quite peculiar. You see, in her memories, all faces are blurry and obscure. All except her parents' and yours. She remembers every detail of it and can trace the slightest hint of the, what do you call it? Gentleness? In your eyes. Humans are fickle, true, but even in a human, trust like that can't be extinguished that easily."

"Master Neloren… what in blazes are you suggesting?"

"What does it look like I'm suggesting?"

Singird took a breath to steady his heart and mind. "If you're so worried about her sending us to Oblivion, then why didn't you convene a committee?"

Drevis Neloren gave a hoarse laugh, pointing at the window. "You already know the answer, Master Larkwing. It is out there… but maybe not quite. She has been attacked repeatedly. I am no fool. The one who does this is close, perhaps listening within our walls. They are witted enough to have managed to escape our attention for over six moons. Public knowledge of her power could lead to catastrophic conclusions."

"True, I suppose."

"And since you have already taken the initiative to investigate the matter, I believe I am putting her in the right hands."

Singird pierced the Dunmer with a sharp look, trying to read in his crimson eyes. "You know awfully lot about my activities here."

"It seems your mind is clouded beyond reason. I told you I saw her memories. And by that, I mean all of them. Mastery of Illusion magic comes with a few perks. But we are digressing. Do we have a deal, Master Larkwing?"

Singird clenched his fists. This was not fair. Every answer would mean certain defeat. To control Miss Ravencroft and strip her of her freedom entirely, or to let her run free and risk her life along with the whole College?

"So, if I go back to my previous questions," he said, carefully choosing his tone not to sound too demanding or too soft, "did you even tell Lady Faralda?"

"You avoid answering my question," Drevis Neloren sighed. "But to answer yours, no, I did not. Lady Faralda is an Altmer. I do not mean to sound prejudiced, but elves… they are unpredictable. I should know, being one of them."

"Pardon my audacity, Master Neloren, but that sounded awfully close to an insult to yours truly and my kinsmen."

The sound of the Dunmer's cackle filled the room. The air quivered. Singird could swear he saw a picture flicker where it hadn't been moments before and then disappear again. A picture of the battle for Imperial City with men standing on top of the walls, gripping kettles of molten oil, and armies of elves outside, holding their magically lit hands up. "Many consider predictability a fault. I do not. Predictable means you always know where you stand. Human faces are like open books. Revealing, teaching us lessons that would have otherwise been inaccessible to us. It means dependable. Would that word suit your ear better?"

"Considerably," Singird nodded. "But given you know us so well, you should be aware of how our conscience works. I can promise I will do whatever I can to protect both Miss Ravencroft and the College. But when our paths clash, I won't restrict her."

"That will suffice. She will follow you."

"I do hope your… predictions will not turn against you, Master Neloren."

"I have trust in my judgement. After all, it has not failed me for those few hundreds of years I have been here. Now, I should go calm the rest of the College, shouldn't I? And I believe you too have your work cut out for you."

"Indeed. Can I ask you one last question before we part?"

"Shoot."

Singird smiled at the expression. The Dunmer were known to pick up every piece of slang they heard in the streets. Master Neloren, despite his literacy, seemed to be no exception. In spite of his words, Singird would exclude his race from the rest of the mer. After all, their ancestry said it all. The Dunmer were all but unpredictable.

"You don't seem to be so smitten with Miss Ravencroft's power. I'd say a master of the arcane arts such as yourself would surely desire it."

"Perhaps a master of the Conjuration school, or one specializing in Destruction. Alteration depends heavily on power capacity and Restoration exceeds them all. An unskilled illusionist may wish for power. I, on the other hand, don't need it. A true illusionist knows that the real art depends on your how you use your power, not how much of it you spend. When you face an enemy, you use their own power against them. That is why most thieves specialize in it. They are masters of intricacy – and that is exactly what I do."

"For that, you seem quite open with me."

"Then I am doing a good job."

The smile Master Neloren gave Singird was literally disarming. The Nord paled a tone and his eyes shifted elsewhere. Naturally, he would know how to appeal to Singird, and also how to disconcert him. Now, more than before, he felt embarrassed and defeated. He hid it behind a mask of stony indifference, although he knew now that the Dunmer could likely guess his every thought.

"I suppose I should be going," he muttered evasively, rising from his chair.

"I wish you luck, Master Larkwing."

"Likewise," he nodded.

When they entered the corridor of the Hall of Countenance and the entrance door snapped shut behind the Dunmer, Singird let out a deep breath of relief. Now to hope Master Neloren is as true as he claims.

Before he could think of what to do next, an angry yell nearly made him jump in surprise. Out of her room shot a fuming Colette Marence, deep wrinkles lining her otherwise beautiful face. A stray lock of hair had broken free from the complex entanglement of braids on her head. She froze before Singird, taking a breath and clearing her throat.

"I, uh… sorry for…" she threw up her arms and pointed to her room, "that. Master Larkwing, did you see someone sneaking out of my room?"

Singird raised a brow. "Certainly not. Has more of your research gone missing?"

"That too, but I'm missing a few valuable potions and some ingredients that I'd gone to great lengths to obtain. Ancestor Moth wings, Void salts… the fool thought they could trick me if they only took a portion. Hah! I have my stuff counted to the last speck of glowdust!"

"Ancestor Moth wings and Void salts? Just what sort of draught are they planning to make?"

"I don't know, and I don't want to know. The only thing I do want to know is who did it."

Singird shook his head in apology. "I did not see anyone, I'm afraid."

"Indeed. Sneaky little thief. I am off to ask Enthir. I swear the thief-friend and his Khajiit groupies are going to be the death of me."

"Good luck, Miss Marence."

The slight woman hinted a bow. "Don't you forget you promised to help with the research," she reminded him gently. He nodded as she stormed out, following Drevis Neloren's footsteps.

A moment after, Singird too took the same path. He knew where he needed to go.


When he arrived in the Arcanaeum, Urag gro-Shub was literally buried in books. Empty shelves dominated the pile that soon revealed a silver-haired robed Orsimer, muttering curses under his breath. The orc was beyond his usual grumpy disposition, angry veins popping on his temples, but behind that mask of rage was something else – a hidden sadness, desperation.

Singird approached the orc in silence, taking a while to examine the unusually disorganized library before he cleared his throat theatrically. The librarian winced, raising his gleaming eyes to meet Singird's. The Nord frowned at the conflict he saw in them, something he would not have been able to connect with Urag gro-Shub before, and almost felt sorry for the green brute.

"Oh great," the orc growled, trying his best to hide behind a mask of anger. "Of all the people on Nirn, you are the last I want to see, Larkwing. In case you have not noticed, I'm in no mood for conversation. Now scram."

"I can see that," Singird stated matter-of-factly. "But if you don't mind, I wish to talk, and I wish to do it now."

Urag clasped his hands together, the single clap thundering through the tall halls of the Arcanaeum. "Wonderful!" he spat. "Would you mind telling me since when the world bends to your will?"

"Since the first orc became a mage librarian. And before you say another word, I want to ask about Yrith Ravencroft. Do I have your attention now?"

The orc huffed, picking up one book after another, moving them quickly to the shelves to clear his path. Then he took three steps toward Singird, stopping inches from his face. He raised a green fist, eyes spitting fire.

"You want my attention?" he whispered. "I'll give you so much you'll regret it. I tell you what, Larkwing. Never mention her name before me. Never talk to her and never even look her way. You're playing with fire here."

Singird scoffed, not moving an inch. "How adorable. So protective of her you are, yet a man of violence toward one you could stand side by side with. I hope this bad mood of yours has nothing to do with the fact that I've just been accused of revealing certain secret of hers to you. As far as I know, I am the one who should be agitated, and for a damn good reason too."

"Oooh, Larkwing is swearing now. Should I be af… wait a moment. What did you just say?"

"That I ought to be in a bad mood. And…"

"No, not that. You mean to tell me that of all the people she could have picked, she told you? She told you her secret?"

"Finally," Singird said with a deep sigh. Unwittingly, he took a book and put it on another one, edges perfectly aligned. His fingers found the spine of the next one.

"Stop that," the orc grumbled, grabbing his hand. "You're breaching my system. And answer my question." Then he shook his head, clenching a fist. "Actually, don't. I can very well imagine what happened between you two. You extorted it from her, didn't you? She would never tell you willingly. She wouldn't even tell me."

Singird put up an unreadable mask, his eyes pinning the orc to the ground. "What does it matter how she told me?" he said quietly. "Are you mad at me for gaining her trust where you failed to do so? But I have lost it and I am not happy about it."

"Well, be amazed. Your happiness, or unhappiness, for that matter, doesn't bother me one bit. Now get out of my library."

"I refuse."

"Shall I remove you myself then?"

"One word is enough," Singird pressed. "I just need to know how you know."

The orc snorted, grabbing the first book he touched to let its velvety surface calm him. "You do, don't you? Trust me, even if I told you, you wouldn't believe it."

"Then you have no reason not to tell me."

The glare that came from those yellow eyes almost made Singird wince. He took a breath, forcing his face to remain that impenetrable mask he so liked to wear and so rarely managed to maintain.

"Fine," he uttered dryly. "Have it your way. She told me herself. Happy now?"

"Are you pulling my nose?"

"No, but I'm soon going to pull something else. I told you you wouldn't believe it. I did as you asked, so get lost." Urag waved the book as though he was trying to chase Singird away with it. The Nord sighed, ready to retreat, but then his eyes caught the ornament imprinted in the lower part of the book cover. A flask standing on a maple leaf with three letters embedded in it. AWA.

He froze, eyes slowly rising from the weathered imprint to the orc's face. This was a chance he could not afford to miss. "I don't recall seeing this book here before," he stated innocently, as if it was natural for anyone to know all the books in the library from top to bottom. In truth, the only three people who did were himself, Urag gro-Shub and Yrith Ravencroft.

"I gave you what you wanted, Larkwing. Now…"

"What do you want for that book?"

Under the green of his skin, the librarian paled. He took a breath, then clutched the book, his fingers almost penetrating its cover. Singird could swear he saw a spark of magic before it sank into it. "What is your problem, Larkwing? Is your mind set on slowly draining the sanity out of me? What is this book to you? And what is Yrith to you, other than one of the many pitiful students you so pompously scoff at?"

Singird gave a sour smirk. "And what is she to you other than a lost kitten that you found and took pity on? We could go on and ridicule each other's reasons. I am proposing another way."

"What could you possibly offer for her that I can't get elsewhere?"

The question brought a smile to Singird's face. How he could find the confidence to so soundly utter his next words, he did not know. Later on, he would laugh at their folly, but at this moment, he stood proud. "An impartial mind. Single-mindedness in protecting her. Those traits that men and mer alike take for granted but are in short supply nonetheless. Laugh at me all you want, but I am not the careless bastard you believe me to be. After all, she opened up to me."

"Of course, and now you think you're special," the orc snorted, a corner of his mouth twitching to reveal several of his yellow teeth. "Am I supposed to be impressed? You're a young sprout who's barely reached his manhood. You know nothing of this world, Larkwing, and even less about the things you just cannot change."

"And I will continue to know nothing unless you actually tell me something. I am no fool, gro-Shub. Even if you're an orc, your face says it all. You're dreading something and it concerns her. So…"

Urag's glare took the words out of his mouth. The orc pressed the book into Singird's hand, eyes shooting more than fire and daggers. "Take the damn book and get. Out."

"So are you…"

"Get! Out! Now!"

Singird backed out of the door, eyes widened in actual fear. Never in his life had he seen the orc so angry. Yellow eyes flaring with rage and pointy teeth bared like a roaring sabre cat, his muscular posture seemed to fill the whole library. He could cut the tension with a knife and delve it into the orc's fury where it would remain standing.

The Nord was grateful for the chilly air that welcomed him once he left the building. He clutched he book tightly, teeth gritting more with agitation than the cold. He always wished to respect the old librarian, yet found himself unable to as the Orsimer brute reminded him of his ancestors, Malacath's loyal fighters, astute warriors who were as strong as they were relentless. It was the animosity in the orc's tone that discouraged Singird every time. Now, however, he had a feeling that Urag's anger was not directed at him. Not even at Yrith Ravencroft. Something else disturbed him, and Singird felt as though it was almost in his grasp. Almost.

He locked himself in his room. There was a report from the advanced class students, Onmund, Brelyna and J'zargo, waiting for him to correct it, but he set it aside. There were also notes from Colette Marence which she had asked him to help with, but at this moment, other people's concerns, such as a bit of lost research, seemed pitiful compared to the matter at hand. With a sigh, he opened the book on his desk, carefully smoothing out its pages.

Tongue of Might by Collective of Authors, the title page said in an ornate script. As Singird turned to the next page, the letters became simpler and easier to read, written with careful precision which reminded him of Urag gro-Shub.

Preface

The book you are holding in your hands is not just an ordinary textbook. It is a millennia old text that has been continually revised and supplemented with knowledge of each passing generation. It is a well that holds the key to our past, present and future.

Some people believe words hold the true power in this world. Not just the words in the dragon tongue, but any words. We do not believe. We know. Others believe the Divines are real. And once again, we are certain of it. Dragons be our witnesses that every word written in this book is true as the dawn and dusk, for Akatosh, the Dragon God and the head deity of all Divines, spoke the Tongue of the Old when he bestowed his gift upon St. Alessia. The same tongue that was used when Anu and Padomay created Aurbis from their own discord. It is 29th of Sun's Dusk, year 188 of the Fourth Era, and up to this day, few can understand the tongue and none can use it.

While the dragon words of power can without a doubt create storms and disintegrate one's soul most effectively, the Tongue of the Old is capable of altering the reality itself. It can create rifts in matter, cast souls into nothingness or assemble them from it. It can shift time, split it into timelines, rejoin them and even create time loops without end or beginning. The nature of this tongue is so complex that even the most powerful mortals can grasp but a few words and it takes them more than a lifetime to comprehend them, for each and every one of them carries the weight of an infinite number of realities which intertwine, coexist and, at the same time, are in constant conflict. To an ordinary mortal, paradox is the exact opposite of reality. To a divine, it is its nature.

This book is a collection of findings that various scholars have been assembling throughout history. Its purpose is to cover the basic knowledge of the tongue. However, do not expect a vast research material, dear reader, for even the most capable ones were only able to record but a few lines.

If you ever stumble upon any piece of information that is not written in this book, please, record it. Perhaps one day, this tome will lead to the salvation of men, mer and beastfolk alike. Perhaps one day, we shall all live in harmony.

Singird sat still and breathless. Lady Faralda's words about the AWA were enough to make him feel overwhelmed, but a tongue of the divines was something he would not have imagined in his wildest dreams. Gathering his determination, he chased away his doubts. There would be enough time for scoffs and disbelief later. What mattered was that he was holding a book published by AWA in his hands.

He caressed the paper and sifted through the pages, searching for names. Carefully, chapter after chapter, he scanned the titles and captions, prefaces and conclusions, keeping a quill ready for notes. Yet, he found nothing. Throughout the whole book, there was not a single name, not even a pseudonym or a reference. Singird cursed his luck. A book without names was as good as shoes without soles. Just what kind of credibility would such a book hope to achieve?

Ready to set it aside, he flipped the pages for the last time just to punish the insolent tome, as if it was its fault that no names were recorded in it. And just as he did, a tiny spark of magic let loose a folded piece of paper which had been attached to the inner side of the cover. As he opened it, his eyes rested on a line written in the familiar calligraphic style. Singird recognized Urag gro-Shub's handwriting.

The walls have ears and time won't bring the dead back. It only takes more lives.

Singird stared at it for a while. At first, he thought the message was meant for someone else. Perhaps the old orc had accidentally used it as a bookmark and forgot it in the book. Then he read it over and over again, finding more sense in it every time he did. He had misjudged the orc. They stood on the same side.

The walls have ears… did that mean there was something the librarian was afraid to tell him? But how was he supposed to understand the rest? And did it have anything to do with Miss Ravencroft? If so…

Time won't bring the dead back…

Could that mean her parents? Then the last part would mean her. But he already knew her life was in danger. What was he missing? There had to be some kind of clue the orc had given him. Singird bit his lip, a gesture that he had probably caught from Miss Ravencroft. It seemed he had somehow managed to gain the librarian's trust, but it made him none the wiser. Urag gro-Shub would not associate himself with Singird. He made no effort to do so, and the only help Singird had received from him was a book and a scribbled note.

He picked the book up and studied it. Just an ordinary book with lots of seemingly forbidden knowledge inside. If only he could believe the orc had had a reason to pick this exact book. Singird opened it again and started reading. Then his eyes drifted elsewhere, frowning at a sudden recollection. How had Master Neloren said it?

"Master Ulfar? Well, he was… eccentric. Spent most of his time in books, and when he wasn't reading, he liked to whisper to himself. Rumor had it that he was trying to enchant things with words. I doubt it. If that was true, he would have gone to the Greybeards instead."

"No, he wouldn't," Singird mused aloud, but he already knew his assumption was wrong. He let out a deep breath, burying his head in his hands. He would. Lust for power runs in the family.

He stopped his fingers from burying deeper in his hair, not wanting to damage his perfectly kept braid. A smile formed on his lips. If anyone could see his face, they would likely run away with their tail between their legs. He smiled like a mad treasure hunter who discovered a pile of gold and then realized there was a dragon sitting on top of it a moment too late.

What a peculiar coincidence that Urag gro-Shub would hand him a book that would let him closer to discovering the secret of his family. The same Urag gro-Shub who would not lift a single finger for him. What a strange concurrence of circumstances that the investigation of Miss Ravencroft's case led him back to his own ancestors. But was it really so?

At this point, Singird was ready to believe that his encounter with Miss Ravencroft had a definite cause. After all, there was no such thing as a coincidence.

He lit a candle and began reading anew.


Merry Christmas, everyone! Well, almost.

I apologize for the extra long delay. Life has been busy these past few months. Work, work, more work… it has been fun though. My colleagues are the best I could hope for – those kind of people who would rather starve to death than go to a meal without you (confirmed, they did it!), my work is interesting… and I've been promoted. After three months which was my probation period. Like holy cow, I did not expect that!

On top of that, I got married so… yeah, life's been fun, mostly. At least I'm glad I can finally say something other than "I was sick for a long time". :)

Anyway… for the story. I wonder how many of you are going to scold me that this looks less and less like Skyrim. Well, actually… I am making it fit into the existing lore, but you're going to find out later. Other than Mirabelle Ervine who is supposed to be dead and the Dragonborn being replaced with his sister as the Arch-Mage, I don't think I made any changes to the original lore. I prefer to extend, not change entirely.

For those who read the first version… well, this is where I start taking a different path. Not that I've changed the story, but, well… I realized there are many ways to write a story and the one I picked this time makes me a lot happier.

And I have a question for all of you. In the first version of this story, I had a chapter with Alteration class. It was totally unimportant for the story itself, but it felt pretty good and featured Yrith getting good at magic and actually making friends in her class. I introduced some of her classmates and made them seem more alive. But still… it didn't really progress the story. So… do you think I should include it, or should I skip it? Whenever I think of it, I end up arguing with myself. On one side, I think it's good to let the readers have a breather and help them know my characters better. On the other, some people don't like it when I include stuff that's not directly related to the plot. I dunno… help, please? :D

Anyway, for those who have stayed with me – thank you! Hope you enjoyed the chapter!

Oblivious ninja IJ aka D-Koy: Thank you. Honestly? I don't like Qassir either. But shhh! :D Sorry if I disappointed you with no Dragonborn in the chapter. He'll be there, don't worry. Just… waiting for the most epic moment to show up. ;) (Even if it doesn't look like it, there will be epic moments!)

Cyclone160: Thank you! Don't be shy! Even if the first story doesn't quite become what you want it to, it'll be an experience. And it just gets better the more you write. :) Here's a little supportive pat on the shoulder from me.

Many thanks to Tildemancer for proofreading my story!

See you guys next time!

Mirwen