By: The Orange Mask
Travelling was boring; no, not just boring: mind-numbingly, insanity-inducingly boring. Now I understand why people say to never travel alone. I’d already been to the Shrine of Azura the previous day, to find the shrine guarded by a single priestess. After asking her about her duties as a priestess, I failed to get much viable information. I did learn, however, that Azura could be contacted at any time, not just at a shrine, and can give people visions of the future. Having no need for divination, I quickly thanked the priestess for her time and moved on.
Having realized that pursuit was a complete waste of time, I decided to make haste to Windhelm. Unfortunately, making haste on foot is as difficult as it is tedious. Looking over my notes didn’t help; the one note I had written I had already committed to memory years ago:
DON’T talk to priests about magic!
I must have repeated that fact over and over in my head a thousand times before I set my eyes on the city of Windhelm. I arrived around dusk, but it felt like midnight while I was enclosed in the pitch-black walls of the city. The only hint of daylight could be found in the twinkling flakes of snow draped on top of the walls. That didn’t provide much comfort, however; the majoritry of the city was clad in stonework, including most of the buildings and sconces built into the walls, providing light (but not warmth; the stone saw to that). Despite the dreariness, dankness and general misery of the city, I slowly made my way to the Jarl’s palace… oh, what was its name…? Ah, well, it mustn’t have been that important. Something huffy, I’m sure
I walked inside at what must have been a bad moment, as the Jarl’s guards immediately drew their weapons. Fortunately, Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak, leader of the rebellion, was still seated on his throne, apparently discussing an important matter with an advisor of his; the details elude me, as I have very little care for politics.
“Hold your weapons!” he said. I was surprised at the strength of his voice; although he only looked to be 40, most Nords lost the strength in their voice by the age of 30 due to yelling for whatever reason.
“What is your business here, warrior?”
“Not a warrior, Jarl Ulfric; a scholar. A thinker. A mage, if you prefer. My apologies for any interruption I may have incurred. I sent letters to your court earlier in the year requesting board in with your court wizard, Wuunferth. Perhaps he has told you of my coming?”
The Jarl’s eyes lit up. My smile diminished ever so slightly. I immediately knew something was going to cost me research time. “Ah, so you’re the one from the college? Good. I believe I have a matter that you could help with. Sorry for the trouble with my guards. There have been several attempts on my life by weak-necked, milk drinking assassins.” I’m not sure how I felt about the phrase ‘milk drinkers.’ Personally, I think a cold glass of milk is great with some warm ham. That is, of course, when wine isn’t available.
I approached the throne cautiously, waiting for another guard to come flying at me with a battleaxe. This time, I wouldn’t hesitate. “I understand completely. Better to be safe than sorry.”
“Yes, exactly; that’s also the reason I need your help. But enough talk. You must be exhausted from your journey. Come, join us in a feast!”
Now how, exactly, was I supposed to turn up an opportunity to feast with a rebel leader and a ruler? So, the Jarl called his court to the table and we all feasted, mostly in silence. Gods, it had been so long since I had had a decent meal! The college only served up basic needs, as was expected. And no one at the college was rich enough to buy food from any of the other holds and have it transported on a regular basis. Many a time, though, I had tricked my colleagues into eating dirt (or worse) using an illusion spell, usually provoking a response of anything ranging from a punch in the gut to being chased by an angry dremora.
After a fairly long spell of silence (no pun intended), I excused myself from the table and one of the Jarl’s guards showed me to my room. I thanked him and began to unpack. A nice straw bed, wooden cabinet, and some very nice hunting trophies adorned the room. Torches were lit in a few places, and a candle was put on the end table near the bed.
“Simple, but quaint; I like it.” I snuffed out the lights and put up a magelight in the center of the room. Flames flicker too easily; makes it difficult to read. I quickly switched into my bedclothes and wool cap, pulled out a few books, and piled them on the end table. For a few minutes, I managed to entertain myself by attempting to bend the iron fittings holding torches on the wall with telekinesis from by bed, but to no avail. Eventually, I simply settled down with a copy of “XVI Accords of Madness.” I must’ve read each of the volumes 100 times, but they never got old.
“Ah, the story of Hircine…” I trailed off, getting lost in the stories of Sheogorath. The interesting thing about books is that, no matter how many times you read them, you always uncover something new. Also, each of these books teaches a lesson that can be applied to many parts of life.
So there I sat, reading and rereading the same story over and over, looking for any detail I missed, something interesting or completely useless. As I combed over the pages, I hardly noticed my eyes drooping lower and lower with every page flip. The light I had made slowly started to fade out of existence as I set the book aside and drifted into a very peaceful sleep.
…something wasn’t right. I didn’t remember falling asleep in shackles, blindfolded and gagged, in a chair. A muffled groan acknowledging the bump on my head was all I could manage before being yelled at to stay silent. If I wasn’t gagged, I could have explained how that was an impossibility on Tamriel, but I doubted this would have been the right time for a lecture. Suddenly, the gag was ripped from my mouth and I was being screamed at by a very irate woman.
“Who are you? What do you know about the Stormcloaks, mage?” I should have known politics would be wrapped up in this.
“First of all, your breath stinks. It smells like you’ve been up all night. Secondly, my name is none of your business. Thirdly, I refuse to be affiliated in this petty war between an empire and its people. Now if you’d be kind enough to let me go…”
“You’re not going anywhere until I say so!”
“You just said ‘so,’ did you not? Will you let me go now?”
“NO!” She replied, screaming in my face.
“Very well, then. How about we play a little guessing game, then? If I guess who you are and where we are, you let me go, and I promise to take you out for a drink at the nearest inn. Deal?”
“Hah! I’d like to see you try! You were asleep when we grabbed you!” She rambled on like this for a bit before I finally cut into her monologue, undoubtedly upsetting her.
“Well, as for who you are, you’re obviously a female; Nord, from the sound of it. Secondly, you knew I was a mage, even though I’m wearing a warrior’s armor. The last time I mentioned my being a mage was at a banquet in the Jarl’s hall, so you must’ve been there. There was only one female at that banquet, a guard standing near the door, arms crossed almost defensively, like you had something to hide.
As for our location, the floor is cold, as is the air, although I assume you are holding a torch in your hand. Your right hand, as you kept your sword sheath on your right hip, making you left handed. Ah, but I digress; we are still in Windhelm, by the coldness of the place. The air is dank and moldy… perhaps a cellar? No, I don’t smell food or drink. A dungeon, then?”
Silence. I smiled, knowing I had guessed frighteningly well. I had taken a shot in the dark, but her silence confirmed my guesswork.
“Well, then? May I see the face of my captor now?”
To be continued…
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