To any good Imperal folk seeking Skyrim's untamed beauty – don't. Spare yourself the journey, for while there may be an occasional blessing in Skyrim, it is a hive of wretched debauchery the Nords pay no bother to. To any who visit regardless, or perhaps find themselves lost, then perhaps the best place to be lost in is Skyrim's major trade city. Of course, this criterion is not met through merit, but simple default.

My name is Alessia Ottus, and I'd like to tell you all about Whiterun.

"What is Alessia writing?" J'Skar asked, looking at the scribbling Alessia from the other side of their campfire.

"No business of yours." Was her curt reply.

"…So why is Alessia going to Windhelm. You do not seem to be of the spellcasting sort, no?"

"No business of yours."

"Right…"

It didn't take a master of mysticism to know Alessia was not one for conversation. J'Skar simply went back to turning the fish on the spit over the fire. The salmon fat dripped off the now-crispy meat. J'Skar wanted to devour it all – Skyrim had the best salmon. But his den-mother raised a gentlecat.

Holding a stick of salmon to Alessia, the Imperial slowly took it. Before eating, she made it a show of staring down the fish as if it were a toe. Sniffing it, poking it, holding it up to the light of the two moons, Alessia gave a curt thank you before nibbling in on it.

"This one will say why he is going to Winterhold if Alessia says her reasons. A fair trade, no?"

Frankly, Alessia would rather she didn't speak to the mage. Who knows what foul enchantment hid in his words. Still, she was raised properly. She wouldn't be the one to show bad manners.

"…Alright then. You first."

"As he said, J'Skar is a new student at Winterhold. Many in the Mage's Guild either split to other magic institutions when the Mage's Guild disbanded, and J'Skar chose Winterhold." He gave a toothy smile as he bit into his fish.

"Interesting choice of… er… Instutution. I'd figure the weather would be a bit uncomfortable for someone of your…"

"Oh, it is of no matter, no!" J'Skar said, reaching into his bag. Pulling out two fur coats, he tossed one towards Alessia. "Warm furs more suited to blocking the cold than absorbing the heat are plentiful on Skyrim's animals. Besides, it is the remoteness of Winterhold that J'Skar likes."

Seeing Alessia's puzzled face, J'Skar continued. "The Mages Guild, as all things are in Cyrodiil, was much too political. Too involved in matters it should not have touched, no? Winterhold is free from restriction. As long as one keeps their research from blowing anyone up, it is good for those who wish to learn, rather than control the use of magic."

Alessia's head started to hurt. Magic was a wicked thing, yes, but she'd never assumed there was more beyond its surface than people in dresses conjuring foul things from Oblivion. This was the first she'd ever heard of politics in magic.

"I… I see." Alessia coughed. "That's a sufficient answer, I suppose. I'm here to pick up an order."

"An order?"

"A book. My work has requested a special order and of all people, they sent me to pick it up."

"Ah, inconvenient, no? J'Skar sighed. "What J'Skar would have gived for the Guild Guides in Vvardenfell's Mage's Guild."

"Guild what now?"

"Morrowind's Mage's Guild was truly amazing, from what I heard. Run by fat-headed moron who could not write two paragraphs on the Dwemer if his life depended on it, yes, but magic is free there. People are still free to cast flying spells there, and there were mages who could teleport you across Vvardenfell if J'Skar remembers his books right."

"Well, that's Morrowind. The Dunmer are quite careless with an already-treacherous tool like magic."

"Well, luckily, we are not dealing with much Dunmer in Winterhold." J'Skar, putting his skewer into the fire, snapped his fingers. The sleeping bag in his pack rolled by the campfire and unfurled itself.

Alessia sniffed in distaste, as she unfurled her sleeping bag with her own to hands, just as Stendarr would want. "Right. Like the Nords will be any better. Who knows what these brutes do with magic?"

"We will find out when we get there, no?"


Before yesterday's wagon ride, Quill-Weave and Jobasha had very different definitions of boredom. To Quill-Weave, boredom was sitting in her house in Anvil, stuck editing and writing her work she'd gotten from her more exciting field research sessions. To Jobasha, boredom was a slow day at his store where he'd spend more time reading his wares instead of selling them.

That definition was quickly changed to their current wagon ride.

"I'm not saying that I don't like the peace – I do!" Quill-Weave stammered defensively to Tekla. "But… It's the border of Skyrim and Morrowind. I was expecting something more…"

"Dangerous?" Tekla laughed. "Yeah, the Oblivion Crisis doesn't do any favors for the wildlife. Neither do soldiers from Skyrim and Morrowind parading around.

Jobasha's ears quipped, his tail freezing. "Soldiers? There are no soldiers here, yes? Jobasha would have smelled them!"

The two friends scanned their surroundings. They were on the closest thing to a road – a dirt path trodden with wheel tracks and hooves – surrounded by a dead looking region. Ice patches grew on the rocky gray ground, with no green in sight, save for Jobasha's motion-sick face two hours ago.

"Nah, they're close to the border. But hunting's pretty popular with them." Tekla sighed. "Trust me. I snuck some of their rations. They need the meat."

Sitting back down to nibble on a piece of stale bread, Quill-Weave looked up at the wagon's covering, put up recently so the snow wouldn't ruin Tekla's ingredients. And her two passengers, of course.

Mostly the ingredients.

"So… Winterhold…" Quill-Weave said, wracking her brain for any conversation topics.

"Yeah?"

"What's it like?"

In an instant, Tekla turned around with a beaming smile. "It's beautiful! There's a magic well in the center of the College that shines against the snow and ice and all the windows! It's like… looking at a painting, you know? Then when you go inside, the stations are all clean and stuff!"

The two couldn't help but think of the Mages Guild. Jobasha thought of the Foreign Quarter's Mage's Guild – namely, the clueless Archmage Trebonius who kept on ordering the wrong books from him about Dwemer and Chimer. Quill-Weave thought of Anvil's Guild; one of the Mage's Guild staunchest enemies of necromancy. They wondered what it was like in those buildings now that the Mages Guild had disbanded.

Seemingly on cue, Tekla continued. "We get a lotta new students now. Ex-Mages Guild. The ones who didn't go to the Synod or the College of Whispers."

"College of… what now?" Quill-Weave just had to keep track of all these magic organizations if she was to write her new novel.

"Wee bit of a messy situation." Tekla sighed, turning back to the road. They seemed to be approaching a tower of wood and stone, a forest of pine trees miles past it. "That's why people like the College of Winterhold. No political bullshit there, you know?"

"Pfft. No need to tell Jobasha of politics." Jobasha stood up and stretched. "Morrowind's Houses give enough political drama for Quill-Weave to write a bestselling series."

"Wait, really?"

"Guys…"

"Yes. House Redoran is too stuffy to write any crime stories, but House Hlaalu fits the bill perfectly."

"Guys…"

"Then there is House Dres. They're slavers…" Jobasha spat the word. "I am sure you will find no shortage of their misdoings to write abou—"

"GUYS!"

Broken out of her brainstorming trance while she was coming up with Dunmer names for her new House Hlaalu noblewoman, Quill-Weave turned to face Tekla's direction. She saw nothing but a tower and trees in the distance, but Jobasha's feline eyes were keener.

"…Are the Nords…" Jobasha squinted, tensing his body. "Are the Nord's loading arrows?"

"Uh… Yeah." Tekla coughed. "Border guard tensions are getting pretty high nowadays, since most of Morrowind's become a shitshow after the Crisis. If they see you, they're gonna ask for the toll money… Which I don't have."

"W-What do we do?" Quill-Weave stammered.

"Don't worry. I thought of it before we left Blacklight."

How anyone could fall asleep in this cold was beyond him. Still, there his partner was, sleeping with nothing but his spear in the ground supporting his standing form.

"Haldir… Haldir!"

A slap to the back of the helmet did a good job waking him up.

"Agh! What?!"

"You were sleeping again."

"O' course I was sleepin'! There's hardly anythin' to stand watch for! All the usual bandits died durin' the Daedra attack, we hunted all the deer until we scared 'em off, and the Dunmer refugees stopped tryin' ever since we put up these damn tolls!"

"Well, lucky day for you then, eh?" He pointed towards the approaching carriage.

"Halt!" Tekla pulled the reigns at the guard's behest. "What business have ye in Skyrim?"

"Hroar, was it? You remember me, right? I was leaving Wiinterhold two days ago for Blacklight." Tekla produced a scroll of paper from inside her robes. "An approved writ from Eilonwe, the head of the Mysticism Department. Same as I showed you before."

"And what business were you doing in Blacklight?" The other guard said.

"Picking ingredients. Your memories must be faulty today." Tekla smirked.

"Sorry, lass." The guard walked towards the wagon, entering through the back. "Orders of the High King. Even kinsmen are under suspicion."

As the guard patted down sacks of plant matter, opening the lids of barrels, Jobasha felt his heard beat. Please don't open my barrel, he thought, as Tekla replied as if there was nothing to be suspicious of.

"Suspicious of what?"

"Honestly, wish I knew." Jobasha could hear the footsteps grow closer to his barrel. "Dunmer refugees… any remaining Mythic Dawn…" Each open lid was accompanied by a possibility. The guard didn't seem to care much for his job.

Jobasha could feel his heart stop for a few seconds when he felt his barrel jostle. He closed his eyes and readied himself for whatever was going to happen, but after a few more seconds passed, the Khajiit opened his eyes.

The Nord stared straight down at him for what seemed like a minute.

"…Surprised there are apples in Morrowind." Was what Jobasha thought he heard the guard say.

What?

"Heh, yeah. Most are imports from Cyrodiil, but sometimes you find the right soil for apple trees."

Tekla gave a smirk as the guard shrugged. Placing the barrel lid down, the guard started to walk away when his boot caught on the wagon floor. Nearly stumbling, he looked behind him downwards to see a mess of some odd Morrowind plants. Long, thick grasses and leaves to the best of his knowledge.

"Well…" The guard hopped off the wagon, motioning for the other to let Tekla through. "Welcome back to Skyrim."

After Tekla stopped the wagon a good 2 miles away from the gate, Jobasha burst out of his barrel."

"What was that?!" He exclaimed. "Nord looked straight at me!"

Tekla smirked, as she snapped her fingers, bringing forth the illusory image of fruits in a pile by Jobasha's feet without even turning around. "He saw what I wanted him to see. Magic's a handy tool, ya know? Now c'mon, we gotta set up camp. Only thing worse than trying to throw fireballs at Ice Wraiths is throwing fireballs at Ice Wraiths you can't see."

The area they chose was just off the road. Just ahead was a snowy forest of pine, starting sparsely and growing denser as it escaped their horizon. Where they were, small hills of snow rolled smoothly without a single footstep or crease. As Jobasha started setting up unfamiliar tents made of furs, and as Tekla conjured a magic flame, Quill-Weave unstuck the finger the guard had stepped on from the floorboards of the wagon. Landing into the cold snow, she rolled out under it and walked up to Tekla.

"H-hey… Finger." Quill-Weave stammered, wincing in stinging pain. Her finger had a boot-print flattening it.

Motioning for Quill-Weave to sit down on a nearby log, Tekla closed her hands around Quill-Weave's hand. She barely heard it, but Quill-Weave heard Tekla whisper some sort of incantation as a warm energy danced around their hands. It felt like a kiss on a trivial papercut with the warmth it gave. As if she was dipping her finger in a balm of pure bottled sunlight.

"There we go. All better." Tekla opened her hands. Quill-Weave's finger was fine.

"Wow… I… I never get to see magic up close too much. The most I see are spells that unlock things."

"Well, get ready to see a lot of that at Winterhold." Tekla chuckled. "Now, what do we have for food?"

After 15 minutes, they had a meal. Tekla baked it in a closed pot by heating it with flames from her hands, moving it frequently and evenly. The product of this seemed to be average bread, but a bite into it and a cacophony of flavors hit Quill-Weave and Jobasha's mouths. Beef and potatoes with gravy and the slight taste of mead, mixed with the flaky crust of the bread, danced on their taste buds.

"This is delicious!" Quill-Weave exclaimed through a full mouth. "Do all mages eat like this?"

"Pfft. I wish!" Tekla took a small nibble of her meal. "Most mages are too wrapped up in their research to cook anything more than a potion, you know? I figured that if I can make things explode with a snap of my fingers, I should be able to eat more than pre-made horker jerky."

Quill-Weave and Jobasha both noticed the fact that they could see their breath now. The air was noticeably colder, though their new robes blocked out a lot of the weather. They were very much unused to the cold, as Quill-Weave stared in wonder at the now-falling snow, and as Jobasha squinted uneasily at it.

It seemed Tekla was far more comfortable with the cold, as she fell asleep by the fire with nothing but a thin fur blanket over her.

"…I… uh… I heard it gets colder in Winterhold." Quill-Weave said, wondering how Tekla could sleep with snow falling on her.

"Jobasha hopes not."

The two nibbled away at their meals in silence. Tekla really was a good cook, and Jobasha's constant smile as he dug his fangs in displayed that.

Quill-Weave couldn't help it. Tekla was asleep now. It was just them.

"Your neck…" She muttered.

"Hmm?"

Quill-Weave scooted over to Jobasha, peering under his chin. Sure enough, the linear mark across his line was there, well-hidden behind his fur. His fur had grown more coarse and shorter across the mark.

"Your neck." Quill-Weave spoke clearly this time. "What happened?"

Jobasha, after a stunned second-long pause, gave a half-hearted chuckle as he ate the last of his meal. "Outside of the cities, Vvardenfell is dangerous."

"Come on, that's hardly an answer. What happened? It happened… at least 5 years ago, right?"

"What?"

"Uh… Detective novels. They're full of random information, including injuries."

"…Six years." Jobasha said, mock-wincing as he pressed his paw against the back of his neck. "Someone found out Jobasha helped free some slaves. They were not happy."

Quill-Weave wanted to press further, but she figured Jobasha wouldn't want her to. She'd taken an interest in the wound – for once, it wasn't the usual detached writer's interest. When she'd researched injustice and the atrocities done to and by the lower classes, she'd remained stony-faced. She'd only taken the information from her research.

Now that her new friend had one of the many wounds she'd written into her characters himself, Quill-Weave felt a twist in her gut.

She really didn't know about the world she wrote about. Not truly.

There's a time and place Quill! Jobasha was almost hanged to death!

Sighing, Quill-Weave gave Jobasha the last of her meal. "I'm not too hungry."

Seeing her manage a small smile, Jobasha shrugged and started nibbling on the stew-filled bread.

"You know what Skyrim needs?" Jobasha chuckled. "Spices. Good for the cold."

The fire crackled down well after the two fell asleep. Jobasha and Quill-Weave had to drag a sleeping Tekla into the covered wagon, close enough to the fire to stay warm and still out of the snow. The three in their separate bedrolls, it seemed like it would be a pleasant night.

Nope.

They were awoken by the smell of fire. The first to leap out of his sleeping bag – well, Jobasha never slept in a bedroll before, seeing as he desperately clawed his way through the furs and cloths – Jobasha let out a screech that alerted the others.

"Fire!" He exclaimed "Rahjin Kodesh!"

"What?!" Tekla, still confused and hazy upon waking, started blasting frost from her hands. The wagon's cover grew heavy and tore as it froze, but it was still better than a flaming tent.

Quill-Weave looked out the wagon. The campfire was out.

"…I…" Quill-Weave squinted as her eyes moved past their immediate surroundings, looking to the surrounding trees. "I see someone!"

In an instant, as the last spark disappeared, Tekla clapped her hands with a wide gesture. The campfire glowed again, not with heat-giving flame, but with a harmless light. It reached farther than a normal firelight, banishing away the shadows made by the trees. As vision blurred, the only dark left was the dark of a stranger's robes. An Altmer, judging from his towering height and wisp-thin build, though any other feature was obscured by simple purple robes.

He said nothing as Tekla hopped off the wagon.

"What. In. OBLIVION?!" She roared, the beginnings of another frost spell forming in her hand. As soon as it appeared, it fizzled out. It seemed like a pain rushed through Tekla's hand as the stranger merely lifted a finger.

He then pointed the finger towards Quill-Weave and Jobasha.

"What the—"

Jobasha grabbed Quill-Weave and darted off the wagon before the whole wagon fell victim to fiery combustion. The smell of burning wood and ingredients filled the area.

"You are wanted," The cold, methodical, and quiet voice of the stranger said, "By our organization for conspiring in crimes against Tamriel with the known corrupter Crassius Curio."

"…What." Was all Quill-Weave could manage, breathing heavily as she reached for a dagger hidden in her robes.

The stranger took one step forward, raising a flaming finger. Quill-Weave, Jobasha, and Tekla took two steps back, raising blade, claw, and spell. Out the corner of her eye, Quill-Weave saw Jobasha crouch low, nearly to the ground.

"You are Quill-Weave and Jobasha, of Anvil and Vivec City respectively, no?"

"That is… true." Jobasha hissed. "Why does the rude mage wish to know?"

"Crassius Curio has sent you on a mission to Winterhold to acquire a rare copy of 'The Real Barenziah.,' and I am here to ensure you do not complete his mission."

The three remaining silent, he continued. "My intention was to end it quickly, but now that we seem to be in a negotiating stance, I give you two options. One is that I will let you leave with your lives. You will never speak of this incident or of this… escapade, so to speak."

"…And… And the other choice?" Quill-Weave stammered.

"I blow you up." He coughed under his hood. "I take no pleasure in it, if it would make your death easier."

"Thanks, it doesn't." Tekla turned to face Quill-Weave. "What's going on?"

"Umm…"

"Ah, I see that… Tekla Frosthammer." He spoke her name as if he read it off a slip of paper.

Uncomfortably, the three looked around for anything that could help them. The wagon was in flames. He was clearly a better mage than Tekla, seeing how effortless he countered her spell.

Then Quill-Weave noticed Jobasha was missing.

"HeeeyAAAAGH!" Came the Khajiit's screech when he leapt from the tree above the stranger. How he'd snuck up there, she had no idea, but Jobasha clawed into his back and tore his hood down in one deft swipe.

The stranger arched back in pain, stomping his food and pushing Jobasha hard into a tree with a thundering force. "You… You low-born bastard!"

Quill-Weave could now see his face. Thin and gold, as most Altmer's faces are. This man kept his long and equally-golden hair tied into a ponytail. Most jarring was his missing eye, covered by a simple gray bandage.

Snarling, the Altmer sparked his hands to create another fireball, but Tekla took Jobasha's distraction to her advantage.

She was going to see it then! The might of a mage. Lightning coursing through her hands? Can she paralyze him? She'd heard mages could do that. Would Tekla summon something from Oblivion? If Quill-Weave was going to write about mages, this is as best of a field research session she could get.

Tekla didn't cast any spells however.

The Altmer hit the floor the moment Tekla's hammer struck his temple.

"…Where were you hiding that?"

"In my robe sleeves!" Tekla twirled the weapon in her hand, the enchanted mists of frost following its trail. "…What? I'm still a Nord, ya know."

"Right, well what do these three do with rude Altmer?" Jobasha unstuck himself from the Khajiit-sized crater in the tree, walking to the other two. "More importantly, who is this?"

Quill-Weave sighed. "He's… He's a spellcaster. Maybe the College will know something?"

Tekla could only shrug her shoulders as she begun loading their assailant into the wagon.