Disclaimer: What's Bethesda's is theirs, likewise for mod creators.
Chapter 23: (re)Generations
With the civil war over, more were willing to travel to Winterhold. As the senior College professors had hoped, having The Dragonborn as their Archimage bestowed on the College a respectability they hadn't experienced for decades. This summer trimester's enrollment was the largest yet, 30 new students and, to Tolfdir's delight, three-quarters were Nords.
As Master of Wizards, Tolfdir gave the initial tour and general introduction to the College facilities. For some reason, he asked Curtis to attend this one particular meet-and-greet session.
This was the second of two groups. The first group had been yesterday. This bunch were mostly young adult Nords, a teen Nord with an escort, an Argonian, and a Redguard.
Tolfdir finished his speech of welcome, the founding of the College by Archimage Shalidor, and the dedication of the College to magic with no allegiance to either religion or politics. So far, Tolfdir had neither introduced him to the students nor acknowledged his presence at all. He wondered why he'd been asked to attend this orientation. Still, he and Ilya ambled along after the group as Tolfdir led them from the Hall of Elements to the Hall of Attainment
As they crossed the central area, a tiny owl flew down from the head of the statue of Shalidor to the teen's shoulder. It was tiny, grayish-brown thing about the size of a sparrow.
"Pets," said Tolfdir smoothly, "are allowed on a case-by-case basis, but it is generally not encouraged because the potential disruption. And once serious studies are underway, an animal blundering into spellcasting practice can have serious, if not fatal, consequences."
The utterly adorable little thing hacked up the remains of its meal and swiveled its head around to look at everyone with pale, yellow eyes.
"What are you doing with a desert owl?" asked the Redguard novice. "It'll freeze up here."
"No. We had our village wizard make a special ring of warmth for Gaulder. I'm Joric."
"Well met, Joric. I am Hasan."
"There will be time for everyone to get acquainted after the tour," interrupted Tolfdir.
Curtis studied the teen. This kid was on the lean side. White, healthy skin, bone structure held promise of angular, strong features in the near future. Hair was shoulder length and black. Eyes brown. Curtis had heard the way the kid's voice cracked when he spoke, and he observed the way the boy held himself in relation to the older male with him. Kid slouched like he was used to seeing the world from a lower vantage point, or he was really shy. Maybe much younger than he looked. His accent wasn't local, and his name…
Wait, was he that weird kid from Morthal? The one that kept running around with his sister chasing after him and telling you her little brother wasn't mad?
The one who had visions and now had an owl?
Was he the reason Tolfdir asked him to come to this newbie welcome session?
As Curtis mused on the possible connection between a smart-aleck Divine Aedra currently masquerading as Daedric Prince and a kid from a bloodline of strong mystics, he felt something land on his head. The little owl. Well, fuck. The kid smiled at him. He felt someone looking at him and looked to Tolfdir. The Master of Mages' eyebrows were lifted in inquiry. Curtis shrugged. He would need to talk to the kid to be sure. He looked to the kid and pointed to the owl on his head. "Cute little guy. Does he get any bigger?"
"A little, but he's almost finished growing, sera."
"Uh-huh." He walked up to the kid. The boy's father frowned and shifted protectively closer to his son. Curtis couldn't recall ever bothering to learn the name of Jarl Idgrod's steward husband. "Easy there, friend, just talking. And I am one of the researchers here. Name's Curtis Johnson, Dwemer Engineering studies."
"They're a friend, father," said Joric. "They are the ones that built that owl shrine we saw yesterday. I'm suppose to meet them." The kid looked at Curtis and grinned. "You're like our Thane Faro; you're more than what everybody sees. You are also more than who you think you are."
"Um, okay," Curtis said slowly. He looked at the father.
The Nord sighed and said, "Aslfur Blackwing. My son, Joric Ravencrone." He glanced at his son, at the group listening and waiting around them, and then back to Curtis. "Perhaps we can talk after this tour, sera? Before I return to Morthal?"
"Sure thing, sir. My office is on the second floor in the Attainment. I'll be working there the rest of today. Stop in when you're done."
The little owl didn't want to leave his head so it came with him back to his office. Once there, it hopped off his head and into a basket of yarn he hadn't yet knitted into more scarves or mittens or socks. It settled in there and appeared to go to sleep.
"Gaulder, Gaulder," he muttered as he looked through his collection of books and then the general collections that were scattered in the bookcases in the nearby kitchen and common rooms. "Thought so. Forbidden Legends." Those three dead warlords. At the end of the Gauldersons' tale someone had notated a reference to a newer publication of poems and songs by Helsette Faro, Bards College of Solitude, which included an updated tale of the Gauldersons.
He searched around until he found that book and skimmed through it. Okay, yeah, it pretty much was what he remembered of that quest line. It also detailed that the weapons of the warlords were on display at Geirmund's Honor Orphanage in Ivarstead and that Gaulder's amulet was kept at Winterhold College, but it didn't have what he'd hoped for, which was more information about Gaulder himself.
"Curtis! There you are."
He stood up. "Colette, sweetie, what's up?"
"My teachers have just arrived. You must come and meet them." She looked so happy and he smiled, happy to see her so happy.
"Wouldn't miss it for the world," he said. He tucked the books in a pocket for later reading. They swung by his office so he could let Ilya know where he was going and that he'd be back soon. Colette took him to the common room nearest her room in the Hall of Countenance. Faralda stood guard outside the room so that the three inside could relax undisturbed. As they approached, Faralda nodded at them and walked away. Colette trilled at the priests in Altmeris. They smiled back and stood up.
The Skyrim Game's use of generic models just failed to do the diverse races justice. Altmer were supposed to be a tall race. Faralda at 6'2" was the tallest in the College. Ancient Nord texts spoke about how their ancestors came to Tamriel and waged war against the elf giants. Game models did not reflect that. Each of these three mer wouldn't look out of place on a basketball team. 6'5" was the shortest of the three. The other two were easily 7' plus an inch or two. Diminutive Colette was a half-grown child next to them.
"Brothers, this is Curtis Johnson. Curtis, Aldarch Salindil Greyeal—"
"'Brother,'" corrected that one gently. "I am no longer in Summerset and that title is of little use to me." He was one of the 7' ones, gold-brown hair streaked with silver, neatly trimmed beard, silver-gray eyes. Skinny compared to the other two. His skin had the delicate look of age. Colette had told him he was 500 at least.
He had a hard time imagining that number. Looking up into those eyes, he was overtaken by sudden melancholy. He still thought in terms of human ages where 30 years was considered a generation, so 500 years was, what, 16 to 17 generations of Man. He still hadn't gotten used to the notion that his new Dunmer body, that Slitter, was only 83, and he would probably live 2- to 300, or 6 to 10 human generations, without magic assist, barring accidents, sickness, or murder. When he tried to think in mer terms, almost… just almost he could see their point of view that their world was being overrun by short-lived, undisciplined, barely coherent monkeys.
Deadly, innovative little monkeys who had caught up, overtaken, and shat on the ancient mer civilizations.
He would bet Brother Salindil's childhood horror stories from his parents were of Tiber Septim loosing the monster that was the Numidium upon the Isles, forcing them to surrender and bow to the Cyrodiil Empire. He'd have been born a century after that event. For the Altmer, say a generation for them was maybe 150 years, the world had changed that fast.
In about 30 or so mer generations, from the start of the "Ages of Man" to now, the Falmer, the Ayleids, and the Dwemer had vanished. Were they next? And so it was no wonder the Altmer grandchildren were lashing back in their fear and insecurity with fascism.
He shook off that sudden and depressing racking of numbers and broke eye contact with the old priest.
"Brother Salindil," said Colette, unaware of Curtis's odd manner, "Is a Master of Restoration."
She gestured to the other 7-footer, one almost as pale and white as Gelebor, the Snowmer. "This is Brother Meren, Master of Alchemy, specializing in poisons. and this," she gestured to the shortest of the group, "is Brother Tellion, Master of Alchemy—"
"Adept only," corrected Brother Tellion. "Brother Taurliongrim, a Master, was originally to come, but Salindil decided at the last moment that I should come."
"I know another healer was requested," interposed Brother Salindil. "But from what I read in your letters, Colette, of Master Curtis's predilections, I believed this the perfect opportunity for Brother Tellion to advance his skills and find fulfillment of his interests.
"Brother Tellion," he said, turning to Curtis, "is fascinated by alchemy processes not related to the practice of medicine. Can a glue be made stronger, can a metal be annealed to another if it is a dust and affixed by lightning instead of fire, what substances make this patch of soil more fertile than another, and what material can be added to compensate?" he shrugged.
Brother Tellion didn't like the look on Curtis's face and he sidled away, murmuring something in Altmeris.
"I am sure he is not a Daedroth," said Salindil, amused. "And manners," he chided. "Speak Common."
"Forgive me, brother, Master Curtis," Tellion murmured, looking down.
"Nonmedical alchemy? An industrial chemist?" Curtis couldn't help grinning, but he tried not to sound so hungry. "Fantastic! Brother, have I got projects for you! I've been needing someone like you for a heck of a long time."
Ice-melt blue eyes blinked uncertainly in the face of such enthusiasm. "Er, I'm glad? I wasn't sure if my skills would be useful here, but Brother Salindil—"
"Hit it right on the nose," pronounced Curtis, firmly. "Tell me, have you ever taught others before?"
"No."
"Willing to give it a go?"
"Curtis," said Colette firmly, "this can wait. The brothers have traveled a long way and I should show them to their rooms so they can get some rest. After that, we can begin explanations of your various projects and annoying particulars."
"'Annoying particulars?'" he repeated, amused.
"Yes. Thalmor spies, various other spies, Nord prejudices, J'zargo…"
"Oh, hey, ease off my boy, J'zargo!" he laughed. "Every big works project needs an explosives expert."
She rolled her eyes and waved him off. "Please go now, Curtis. My teachers deserve a full night of rest and tomorrow I will give them a tour of the city, let them see for themselves what they think they're getting into before you drag them into the maelstrom."
"You have week," he said. "I got a lead on machine parts in Raldbathar in the Pale so I'm putting a team together and, hopefully, we'll be leaving sometime tomorrow. In the meantime, if you get a chance, take a look at one of the new students. A kid by the name of Joric of Morthal. He's got a pet owl. He and his mother, the Jarl of Morthal, are reputed to be mystics. Tell me what you think of him."
"A pet owl you say? Hm." said Colette her expression showing that she also thought the owl suspicious. "I'll make sure he's introduced to Olve then. And Master Salindil here should also have a word with him. Now shoo!"
He blew her an air kiss and returned to his office. Aslfur Blackwing, Joric, and Tolfdir were conversing with Ilya around her desk. "Hello, sera. Just came for Gaulder and then I'll be gone," said Joric brightly. Curtis let them into the room and Joric fetched his sleeping owl out of the yarn basket then went to his room downstairs.
"Anything to drink, gentlemen?" he offered. "I got some beer, a bit on the hoppy side, but drinkable, or brandy?"
"Beer will be fine," said Aslfur. Tolfdir declined drinks. Aslfur wandered the room, studying the charts Curtis had taped up. He sipped his brandy and waited for the man to settle with his thoughts. Tolfdir settled himself against a wall, placing himself as an observer only.
"The owl shrine, the Jhunal shrine, rumor is you're reviving a cult of an ancient Atmoran god," said Aslfur.
"I owe him my life. I built the shrine as a way to say 'thank you,' but I'm not its priest. Besides, as far as starting a cult, I don't get the sense that Jhunal's into that sort of thing. He seems to want people to eventually think for themselves. That's pretty contradictory for a large, long-term organized religion."
"Then who is the priest?"
"Well, I was rather hoping your son is. The little owl being the clue."
"The owl," Aslfur said heavily. He sat down and scowled into his beer. "The owl is his familiar. Likely the spirit of his damn ancestor Gaulder still clinging to the soul given to my son, if Sadri is to be believed. Do you know the legend of Gaulder?"
"Got the books right here," said Curtis, tapping the two volumes on his desk.
"Aye. The youngest son, Mikrul, putting his damn sword into any wench he could bed when he was warring in the lands. The Ravencrones came from a surviving line. Gaulder's powers didn't show in his sons, but they did in the descendants. It's strong in my wife, my daughter had touches when she was younger, but she seems to have outgrown it or gave her portion to her brother because he's got twice the power of his mother."
"Yeah, but 5000 years? Gotta be other contributing factors. Well over a hundred generations. That's an entire country of descendants."
"I know," groused Aslfur. "My wife and I have talked about that, the chances, why should the curse of power follow her line through the ages. Why is it now Gaulder chooses to be reborn?"
Reborn? What the hell? "You sure about the reborn thing?" he asked.
"How else does my son have memories of times and places he's never been to, never read about?" Aslfur retorted. He leaned forward and grabbed the brandy bottle to refill his cup with. "And a wife! Gaulder was married to a Falmer. He says one of his elf wife's grandmothers is here."
Curtis nearly fell out of his chair. Now fate was really fuckin' with him. Gaulder's kin was one of the sleeping Falmer?
"Figures," he muttered. "So, um, you mentioned 'Sadri' is that Sedura Revyn Sadri? Mind if I ask what his role in this is?"
And so he got the story of how Thane Helsette Faro strongly urged that Joric sent to the College or to her husband for training. But this was before the peace accord and they felt their son was too young and in too much potential danger to be sent into hostile Stormcloak territory. Sadri eventually started visiting while he was about on business trips under his own cover as a merchant, or as the Steward of Windhelm. He would counsel Joric. Then he arranged for the Telvanni wizards to transfer part of Joric's burden of power to his mother to give him a chance to do some growing without his mind being overburdened with visions he was too young to handle.
But their son's growing power was breaking his mother down. She had never had training and was holding her own by sheer force of will. They'd sent for Sadri when power was starting to go rogue and inflicting nightmares. Sadri had worked the peculiar ancestral magic that the Telvanni had said was only practiced by the Velothi shamans. An ancient form of blood and bone magic, dangerous and unpredictable because it relied on the intelligent participation and goodwill of the dead.
He then told them ancient Archimage Gaulder's soul had been reborn in their son, and to sever the link to Gaulder's spirit so that Joric could go forward with his life, they would have to visit Gaulder's tomb, which they did, and which Joric ordered permanently sealed afterwards. And outside the tomb, Joric picked up his owl familiar, which he named Gaulder so that Gaulder's spirit, bound so long to his mortal remains, would experience physical life again before finally flying free and dissipating into the winds of creation when the owl eventually died.
Aslfur, at this point, was clearly reciting something he didn't quite understand or believe in, but it was the simplest explanation that had been given to him.
Curtis, however, was uncomfortably contemplating Slitter's continued existence. He'd at first believed the soul of that mer was gone and he, Curtis, was in its place. A simple swap out. However, Slitter's spirit, born with his body, lingered. It was the necessary, animating force that tied Curtis to this body.
But memories, thought process, and patterns are very much physical and chemical reactions in an organic computer. It bothered him because he knew he shouldn't be anything like he was now because he'd lost the body those memories were created and stored in. Like that little mental breakdown early on when Urag asked him to write his own name and he couldn't remember how to do it. The physical data banks had been destroyed, so how was he able to remember? To feel and react? This contradicted all logic.
He couldn't fathom it. And he wasn't so sure anymore that Slitter's soul was gone. He was a constant phantom in the background of his dreams. He didn't talk much; it wasn't his nature. And the databanks of Slitter's memories were mostly unavailable. In the early weeks of existence, there had been "settling" issues — physical habits that weren't "his," bouts of anger, rage, resentment, or fear that were triggered at unexpected times. Mental double-speak. What was the old definition of crazy? Like, nothing wrong with talking aloud, it's when someone answers back that you have to worry?
—Good one. I agree.—
Why had Joric addressed him in the plural form?
He must have gone too quiet because he became aware of Tolfdir gently reassuring the worried father that they would keep a close eye on Joric. The Archimage had made them quite aware sometime ago that Joric was exceptionally gifted as a Mystic and, although the College did not have a school for Mysticism, they had access to various practitioners of that art, Revyn Sadri included, so he and the Jarl of Morthal need not fear for their son.
The two men eventually left and he could now concentrate on preparing for the upcoming trip to Raldbathar. He was aiming for the "Deep Market" section of the ruins. In his own vanilla game playthrough, this was just another points grinder dungeon.
His brother, however, who tried every faction and constantly upgraded his game with official and unofficial mods, had done the Dark Brotherhood quest line to assassinate someone hiding down there, and had to delve there again to get a puzzle piece to the Aetherium Forge quest as part of the Dawnguard mod.
The only reason he knew of the mod was because his brother wanted him to see what a Dwemer forge looked like. Professional opinion, y'know. Right. Less than 10 feet from an up-welling of lava. He figured the Dwemer had to have done a lot of their metalwork by vacuum or explosive forge welding to combine metals that didn't come apart in the lava. And some kind of magic invisible wall of containment to keep the entire chamber from being a giant oven that could bake a dragon, also to keep a pocket of breathable air free of the toxic, superheated gases bubbling up from the lava pool.
For this trip, Ilya, of course, was coming, and J'zargo and Arniel. So was Gelebor and Ralis. Especially Ralis who had been through that dungeon run with the Dragonborn. Sergeant Beck, unfortunately, couldn't come as he'd been promoted to Armsmaster of the Winterhold Guards and he was too busy with new recruits, so Ilya tapped three of her buddies from her old Stormcloak unit in the Reach — Alfher Sorenson, Melvin Cooper, and Tyra Weber. He knew the three from the judo classes he infrequently taught. They'd all passed the basic stuff Beck taught and they were willing to put up with his erratic classes for advance lessons. Ilya and Beck recommended those three for the secret Skytemple and the Sightless Pit projects. The raid was a test for them, not the least of which was their ability to work with elves and wizards and take orders from them, and their reaction to the Falmer.
So, geared up, maps distributed, meals packed, they rode down to Raldbathar. The hired wagons dropped them off and trotted away.
Ralis had said the Dragonborn had closed and re-locked the stairway between the Deep Market and Blackreach, and the stairs could only be unlocked at the Deep Market side. The College had possession of one of two known attunement spheres, the Dragonborn had the other one.
Oh, and the exit stations one comes across unexpectedly in Skyrim's wilderness? You can't stick a long pole in to shove up and open the gate levers. He had examined the one at Alftand and discovered those were timed locks. When used as an exit, the lift will stay open and operational for about a day. After that, the station resets, the gates close, and the lever drops and locks in place until released again by a lift coming from below. To get back down to Blackreach, or whatever the Dwemer actually called that place, you had to go to one of the trade cities. Or, presumably, wait around the station until someone else came up, then take the lift down and argue with the gate guards if you weren't Dwemer. Of course, nowadays, the only thing coming up were Falmer raid parties looking for food and slaves. Same thing in their vestigial, fleshed-over eyes.
And Blackreach, like the rest of Skyrim, was helluva lot bigger in life than in game. So, taking the high road to Raldbathar was vastly quicker and safer than taking the low road. And there were taverns on the high road.
List of OCs:
Hasan (collage initiate) «» Olve (priest of Talos) «» Salindil, Meren, Tellion (priests of Auriel) «» Alfher Sorenson, Melvin Cooper, Tyra Weber (Winterhold guards)
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XXxxxadisxxxXX : Thank you for taking the time to review.
«» Plot. In other words: Find a plot and stay on it! Yes?
«» Grammar/spelling Mediocrity. Regretfully, this is as good as it gets. I can write or I can rage-quit because I just can't quite grasp the finer points of the mechanics anymore. I can't diagram a sentence to save my life. 10 years of strict verbatim transcription with punctuation at transcriptionist's discretion; it's warped my perception of what is grammatically correct versus "normal" and left me with a high pain threshold and partial blindness when it comes to garbled English. I wasn't paid to make pretty or censor or edit their words for polite company, just stream the sewage straight from ear to paper as fast as possible with no proofing 'cuz I'm paid by the wordcount. As for punctuation, when in doubt, put a period on it. As a result, stuff stuck. Stupid talk people do. Got a lotta [sic] language. That's my excuse.
«»"…Keep track of without reading it in it's entirety." Yeah. Sorry. I never could shop a direct in/out path at a hardware, hobby, or crafts store.
=Food Channel's Chopped: "too many elements/conflicting elements," "could use better editing," "needs a sauce to bring it all together,"