TIRED, RETIRED - Self Study 3 (Patreon)

Solitude

Sybille had not been lying when she said that necromancy was not technically illegal. In fact there were a slew of laws, guidelines and ordinances surrounding the practice that the ruling authorities of Cyrodiil worked hard to keep buried. For example, you couldn’t attempt to raise a body that had been sanctified by a priest of Arkay--it wouldn’t work, but the attempt would still carry heavy fines.

You also couldn’t do anything to a dead person’s soul, with ‘dead’ being defined as having already left the plain of Mundus to whatever afterlife they were slated for. There were provisions in place that accounted for someone’s soul having been sealed or trapped somewhere on the mortal plain, and if it happened that they weren’t ready to move on and some charitable wizard was capable of fitting them into a new body that they happened to have lying around, well. It would not be just to, essentially, kill someone who’s only crime is not being connected to their original body anymore.

Such things were kept as far from the public knowledge as possible, because of all the nasty tax evasion type things someone might attempt if they knew it was allowed… but the laws were kept, just in case. Just in case of what varied depended on who you asked, but the rumor among those in the know was that the Mage Guild of Cyrodiil had an ongoing long-term project being funded by certain officials in the Emperor’s court. If it were true, then the experiment had failed to bear fruit as yet.

At any rate, though banned within the Mage Guild itself, the law of the Empire was theoretically just fine with using magic to make dead bodies move about, as long as it was done for lawful purposes, such as fighting for the Empire's name, or reducing the load for carrying fallen comrades back home, or even doing construction work, if a mage was so inclined.

In practice, no one much liked seeing corpses walking around, and even the law-abiding necromancers were shunned.

The pair of skeletons that currently meandered around Castle Dour were the subject of much scrutiny. Every guard and soldier in Solitude kept an eye on them, and though the General hadn’t actually said as much, every man and woman understood that the instant those undead put a bony foot out of line they were to be mowed down with extreme prejudice.

Which made it frustrating that they were being so well-behaved.

Sneaking them into the fort without causing a panic had been surprisingly easy, to the chagrin of anyone responsible for Solitude’s security, and once Ganondorf had convinced Tullius to hear him out--or more accurately, as soon as he’d convinced Hadvar and Rikke, who convinced Tullius--they’d made their way to the armory and got kitted out. The draugr armor they’d scavenged was barely up to the task, and if they were going to pretend to be Legionnaires they needed to look the part.

The quartermaster didn’t like giving them anything at all, but he took some solace from the fact that the Stalfos had elected to take old, worn armor instead of something new.

One had chosen a set of rusty platemail with an Imperial tabard worn over top, while the other had been elected for a mix of heavy and light, wearing the Legion’s leather tunic over plain trousers, with metal boots and bracers. Neither were allowed weapons until they were cleared by the General, which wasn’t likely to happen anytime soon. They didn’t wear helmets, either, of their own volition, which eased a lot of worries among the guard. The skulls were disquieting, but they also represented a massive weak point left uncovered.

At the moment, the skeletons were pacing laps around the dungeon, leaving Ahtar and the prison guards to watch over them.

As the plate-armored one passed his cell, the prisoner Roggvir watched it with more curiosity than fear. “Have you noticed something?” he asked the cell next to him.

Bjartur looked away from the wall, made eye contact with the monster, and looked back. “No, not really.”

“I think that one’s a woman.”

“...It’s a skeleton, Roggvir.”

“No, look,” he insisted, resting his arms between the bars. “It, she, has the tabard cinched tight. It accentuates the hips.”

“It’s a skeleton, Roggvir,” Bjartur said again, looking at the monsters for real this time. “It doesn’t have a waist. For a belt to do anything, it has to rest atop the hips.” The skeleton in question turned to look at her again, then down at its belt.

“And besides,” a nearby guard offered, “If it was a woman, wouldn’t it be wearing the women’s breastplate?”

Bjartur laughed derisively. “Yes, the breastplate. If the monster had worn that I’d have thought it stupid.”

Roggvir leaned out of his cell to try and look at her. “What do you mean?”

“I’ve worn those things before. They are not comfortable.”

“It’s a skeleton, what does it care for comfort?”

“And furthermore, while I’m sure you men think it looks good, it’s garbage at actually protecting you. The shape isn’t right for it.”

“Hey!” Ahtar barked, slamming the butt of his axe against the floor. “This isn’t a floor show! Quiet down!”

The prisoners limped back to their cots, and the skeletons apparently decided that they were done with the dungeon too. They turned to walk up the stairs out of the pit.

“They’re strange creatures, aren’t they?”

Ahtar turned, saw Hadvar, and grunted. “Your new friend’s a troublemaker,” he said simply.

“A trouble-solver, too, though. He handled those pirates for you, didn’t he?”

“I shoulda known Jaree-Ra was no good,” the headsman muttered. “Ganondorf is good at what he does, I’ll grant, but he’s dangerous. And a soldier needs to be more than a warrior.”

Hadvar tilted his head back and forth. “Hm, well. An officer does, certainly.” He folded his arms behind his back and stared at the Stalfos as they walked past. The two of them started following the monsters as they left. “You and everyone else will be pleased to know that they won’t be around much longer. The General tells me he’ll be sending Ganondorf on a proper mission, now that he’s properly equipped, and his…” He searched for an appropriate word, and gave up. “...monsters will be going with him.”

Ahtar raised an eyebrow, and the Redguard gave Hadvar a look. “By himself?”

“No, of course not. The General doesn’t trust him to represent the Legion properly just yet, especially with his thralls--that’s the word I was thinking of, thralls.” He snapped his fingers, pleased. “So another more senior soldier will be accompanying him.”

The possibly-female skeleton looked at him over his shoulder and cackled.

“...You realize, Hadvar,” Ahtar began, darkly amused, “that it’ll have to be someone who’s already proven able to put up with his antics.”

“I know,” Hadvar said flippantly. “Sadly, there isn’t anyone like that, so who knows who it will be.”

“...Hadvar--”

“Yes, I’m fully aware, let me pretend for a moment.”

The Stalfos turned, walking backwards, and gave him a thumbs up. Hadvar pretended not to see it.

-------------------------------------

Zelda, in Winterhold

“...so the Rift has been nice so far. The fall leaves are beautiful, the wolves mostly leave us alone, and the giant Gohma have been pretty fun to fight.”

“Gohma?” Zelda asked, distracted.

The Princess was deep in her studies at the moment. She was absolutely certain she was casting the Summon spells correctly; the College’s Master of Conjuration, Master Gestor, had looked over her casting, analyzed it to the best of his ability, and even guided her through a spell, but invariably it would either summon a creature of Hyrule or nothing at all. She had gone through a dozen ChuChus of multiple types, plus one extremely confused Lizalfos, and all she had to show for it was thaumic exhaustion. That was still a new and unpleasant experience.

Her current theory was that her initial failed conjuring had carved a path through to her homeworld, and now her magic was trapped in that path like water being diverted by a canal.

(She had pondered out loud very briefly the idea of visiting home, but Gestor had disabused her of that notion swiftly. It would be beyond dangerous to travel through unknown space, he’d said, and while foolish wizards doing so was how they knew anything about Oblivion at all, he couldn’t in good conscience allow her to do the same.)

At any rate, her attempts had at least done some good; Master Gestor was so fascinated by the ChuChus, especially after she told him that they could be used in potion making, that he had granted her a small stipend for research in exchange for summoning several for him. She had been worried about the way he looked at the Lizalfos, but thankfully keeping it here proved too strenuous and it vanished back to Hyrule after only a minute.

All that was behind her now. Conjuration was a failed experiment, but every other spell she’d attempted to cast had experienced only minor, easily-corrected hiccups. Restoration in particular was almost second nature to her, and definitely something Zelda wanted to put effort towards. She was capable of healing, but she had never had proper tutoring in the subject. At most she’d been taught some by her mother, who had also had to figure it out on her own. The Zoras’ healers had never existed at the same time as a Zelda with that gift. The school of Restoration, meanwhile, benefitted from generations, millenia of refinement and shared study between countless practitioners.

She ate up everything Ms. Colette, the Restoration Master, had taught her, to the point that the woman had almost seemed intimidated, and now Zelda was attempting something new.

In her room now, at her desk, Zelda had emptied her pocket. A few changes of clothes had been sorted away in her wardrobe, her tanto took a more permanent spot on her hip, and the Gossip Stone was being worn as a necklace. Most of her Rupees had been returned to her storage, but she set one of each color she had on her nightstand as a display piece with a note reminding her to look into them later--the Enchantment Master had seen them and seemed interested.

So much to do. So much to do! Zelda loved it.

The rest had been left scattered across the desk, but she’d organize them properly later. The focus of her attention now was the amulet she’d taken from the Gildergreen in Whiterun. A cherry blossom flower on a silver chain. It had ten pink petals radiating out from a smooth ruby that glowed with an inner light. The glow wasn’t terribly strong; if the room hadn’t been so dark she probably wouldn’t have noticed it.

It had come from a reborn tree. Zelda knew the Great Deku Tree’s work when she felt it. It couldn’t have been anything else. If she recalled correctly, the dying tree had had one remaining flower at the tip of one branch. That spot of life had almost certainly acted as the focal point for the Lord of the Woods’ power, before dropping down to the roots to sprout a new trunk. Once the job was done, the flower’s purpose fulfilled, the remaining magic with nowhere to go had transformed the blossom into an artifact.

That sort of thing happened all the time, but it was so rare Zelda got to see it happen.

The trick was figuring out the amulet’s power. The Tree must have made it for a reason, but she wasn’t able to contact him to ask. There weren’t any holy places for the gods of Hyrule to travel to, so they had no mouths to speak from.

Trial and error hadn’t worked, yet. Her assumption had been that the life energy would make it a good focus for Restoration magic, and while that was certainly true, she could tell that there was more to it than that. Simply wearing the thing hadn’t done anything either.

“Hmmm…” Zelda tapped the ruby with a single finger as she stared at it, sitting in the middle of her desk. “Hmm…”

Someone knocked on her door. “May I come in?” a tired voice asked.

She pushed back from her desk. “Please do.”

Master Tolfdir entered, the elderly mage smiling widely at her. “Phinis said you asked after me, young Zelda?” His brow furrowed. “Also, he wanted me to inform you that his test subjects have vanished, and he needs more.” He looked concerned. “His last one… popped, he said.”

Zelda rolled her eyes. “I told him to be gentle with the little ones. And yes, I wanted to talk to you about Alteration.”

“My favorite subject,” Tolfdir said with a light chuckle. He sat down on the other chair in her room. “I’m always happy to talk to our students. What can I help you with, my dear? Have you made any progress on the Stoneflesh spell?”

“I have, actually,” Zelda said brightly. “The advanced form is proving difficult, but the basic magicka shell was simple enough. I slammed my hand in a door while the shell was up and didn’t feel a thing.”

“Excellent!” Tolfdir cheered. “Always remember to test spells in a controlled environment before trying to use them in the field. I wouldn’t have used a door, but--”

“Oh no, I didn’t start with the slamming. I started by holding my hand in the door jamb and pulling it shut. When I couldn’t feel the pressure, then I moved on to slamming it.”

The old man nodded, satisfied. “Well done.”

“Hmph.”

They looked out the door to see another student, a mustached Khajiit, leaning against the hall’s central fountain and looking haughtily at them.

“It is far better to not get hit at all, in J’zargo’s opinion. That is why he is working on perfecting the Paralysis spell. J’zargo would much prefer to not let the enemy ever get close, and instead attack from afar.”

Tolfdir frowned, but Zelda tutted and shook her head. “In theory, maybe, but it can be hard to keep track of every enemy in the heat of battle. It’s all too easy for someone to get in close when you’re not looking.”

“Perhaps for the false elf this is true, but J’zargo’s magnificent Khajiiti ears will alert him.”

Zelda smiled beatifically. “And I’m sure you’ll hear it over all the yelling and clashing metal.”

“Pah.” J’zargo shrugged and walked off. Without him in the way, they could see Onmund, the young Nord, reading in his bed across the hall, who looked up and waved.

Turning back to Tolfdir, Zelda continued. “As I was saying, Stoneflesh is fine. I want to move on to Ironflesh next, and then move back to Oak and try for the advanced version.”

“A fine goal, true,” Tolfdir said. “Don’t be discouraged if it fails, though. Those forms are Expert-level spells. And from what I hear you’ve been spreading yourself thin, working at every school with wild abandon.” He laughed to himself. “Perhaps I should tell the Arch-Mage someone is after his position?”

“We’ll see how the cards fall,” Zelda said with a smirk. “I haven’t actually met Savos Aren yet, so I don’t know if he needs replacing.” She paused to let Tolfdir laugh again, then went on. “To circle back around, the reason I asked after you.”

“Oh yes. What was it, dear?”

“Does Alteration have any use in construction?”

Tolfdir blinked, surprised. “Construction? How do you mean?”

Zelda pushed the blossom amulet to the side to clear a space on her desk. She pulled out a parchment and charcoal stick and started sketching as she talked. “I’ve noticed a fair amount of hostility from the citizens of Winterhold, and I want to do something about it.”

Tolfdir leaned back, rubbing his beard. “Hm, yes. It’s a sad state of affairs. When I first joined the College, there were still plenty of people in town who experienced the Collapse firsthand. Believe it or not, things are better now than they used to be.”

“Really?”

“Oh yes. It used to be that people would throw things at us in the streets when we went down to get a drink at the inn.” The old man shook his head, despairing. “And, of course, not all mages were willing to stand there and take it, which didn’t help the tension, as I’m sure you can imagine.”

Zelda grimaced. “And what about you?”

“Oh, I never fought back. They were scared and angry, and they had a right to be.”

She looked up at that. “Do you think the College caused it?”

“No, no,” Tolfdir hurried to clarify. “I didn’t mean to imply that. I simply meant that those people had lost everything. They had the right to be angry, even if they chose the wrong target.” His eyes glazed in thought. “Aren swears up and down that the College wasn’t responsible. Urag says that the College didn’t get off as easily as the citizens like to claim. We used to have gardens and dorm buildings surrounding the main keep that were lost in the fall, but no one remembers that.”

“And now, of course, everyone who was hurt by the disaster is gone and people only remember the anger,” Zelda summarized.

“More or less.”

“Well, I have a plan, and it starts with this.” She finished her sketch and turned to show it off. “Before magic can be liked, we need to remind them how useful it is. What do you think?”

Tolfdir squinted, and cast a small spell that set his eyes glowing. “Hm… Oh, I see.” He leaned back again. “And you’d like to use Alteration to make this?”

“Whichever branch of magic would work best. Alteration seemed the most likely,” Zelda admitted.

The Alteration master gave it some thought, muttering to himself. “Hmm, no, but… yes, telekinesis could… been a while since I practiced wood bonding, but…” He smiled. “Yes, it would be quite doable. And, in fact, it could even be a learning experience. Onmund?”

Across the hall, the young man jerked and sat up in his bed, setting his book to the side. “Er, yes, Master Tolfdir?”

“How’s your Alteration?”

The Nord mage looked embarrassed. “Um.”

“Never mind, never mind,” Tolfdir waved it off. “You’ll all get plenty of practice soon enough. Zelda dear,” he said, smiling. “I like this idea, and I think it would make for a wonderful lesson. But…” He trailed off, face falling. “Do you think we’d be allowed to do this? The Jarl…”

Tolfdir made a complicated gesture that endeavored to convey that the Jarl was a man of little patience, especially where wizards were concerned.

“I thought of that,” Zelda said. “And while the Jarl might be a difficult egg to crack, Thane Kraldar will be much more likely to accept our help.”

“Ah, him.” Tolfdir nodded. “If you’re confident, then allow me to inform the Arch-Mage.” He stood, stopped, then smiled with surprising deviousness. “Or, perhaps I shall copy your methods and ask Mirabelle instead. Aren’s let us stay isolated this long, after all…” He grumbled. “It’ll take a few days to source the materials, but it shouldn’t be too difficult… the nearest wood mill is Agna’s, and the girl there owes me a favor…”

“And I’ll see how many of the others are willing to help,” Zelda suggested, following him out of her room. “Onmund, what do you think?”

The thoroughly confused Nord blinked at her. “About what?”

Zelda closed the door behind her as she caught him up on her proposal, pleased at how receptive he was towards the idea as she went on. She felt Brelyna would agree easily too. J’zargo would be a tough sell, but she thought she knew how to convince him…

Behind her, forgotten on her desk, the blossom amulet glowed, pulsing softly. Next to it, where it had been shoved while Zelda drew, was a bottle containing a misty white energy.

Eventually, with no one around to witness, the bottle’s light started pulsing in time with the amulet…

-------------------------------------

Link, the Reach

The plan had been to move to the Morrowind border and ask the guards stationed there if they’d seen anyone resembling Leifnarr’s description. They would say no, Link presumed, but would ask for an errand from a nearby farm, which would set off a chain of quests that would conclude with them running into the missing person by coincidence. Or something to the tune of that, it happened all too often.

Failing that, they’d get proper directions to Broken Helm Hollow, where Leifnarr had supposedly gone to sell grain.

He’d actually forgotten the spirit could sense things. Dousing. It had been… so long… since it was an option, and it had only happened once.

“...!”

She was insistent on something. Given how goal-driven she was, Link could only assume that she’d managed to sense their target and was guiding them towards him. He couldn’t think of another reason for her to almost jerk out of his hand trying to pull him somewhere.

“......”

“Your sword is acting oddly,” Farkas said again. “Is it possessed?”

“Kind of,” Link said. Then, he reflected that this was actually a really strange thing to have happen, and so his companion probably deserved some kind of explanation.

…Although, that said, Farkas was weirdly okay with this happening.

“She’s leading us to Leifnarr,” he said instead. He hoped it was true, it would be embarrassing if he ended up wrong.

Farkas didn’t so much as raise an eyebrow at him calling the sword ‘she,’ simply accepting the information and moving on. “Sounds useful.”

They followed the road around the small peak south of Riften. Link passed over a bridge when she suddenly jerked again, spinning him in place until he faced a dirt road leading uphill toward the waterfall. “Up there?”

Farkas sniffed, and then subtly shifted in a way that made Link’s grip on his hilt tighten. “Trouble ahead.”

They crept slowly up the path, the sword vibrating in Link’s hand, before she suddenly went still and Link stepped behind a bush, Farkas following his lead.

“...I tell you, our luck is turning around!”

“I don’t know, Chalda. I don’t know how I feel working for an elf.”

They leaned out to see a pair of bandits, a man and a woman, both Nords, standing by the waterfall. They were positioned on either side of a wooden door set into the mountainside like guards, but they were too busy looking at each other to be properly standing guard.

“Come off it, Baxard,” the woman scoffed. “So he’s an elf. He could still kick your ass all over these hills, and that’s good enough for me.”

“Only cuz of that fancy sword of his…” the man groused. “Still, I guess it was good of him to take us on at all.”

“We’ve already done more thievery than we ever did on the Brittleshins.”

“I guess.”

Farkas growled, and they both stepped out into view. The bandits didn’t actually notice them until Link spoke.

“Hello,” he started. “Have you seen anyone by the name of--”

“Holy--” They flailed, twisting to grab their weapons and face them. The man hefted a steel greatsword and the woman aimed an arrow at them. “A werewolf! And a companion!”

Farkas twitched.

“Yes, hello,” Link began again. “We’re--”

“Chalda, that wolf just spoke!”

“I heard it, I heard--wait a second.” She lowered her bow (Link sighed internally) to get a better look at them, then gasped. “Baxard! That’s the guy!”

Link blinked, then pointed at himself.

“That werewolf is the guy who beat us up!”

“What?”

Farkas leaned to the side. “You know these guys?”

Link shook his head, bewildered.

“He is!” the man declared. “No wonder he beat us if he’s a werewolf!”

“Take this!”

Chalda fired her arrow. Farkas moved back, acting on instinct.

Link spun in place, letting the arrow bury itself in his backpack. When he was facing them again he was holding a gold piece. “Sorry, the one arrow isn’t worth much, but they look decent quality, so I’ll buy them five for a septim, what do you think?”

She fired again, and Link let it ping off the metal part of his hat without moving.

As she was preparing to fire a third time, Baxard charged, roaring a challenge and bringing his sword up for an overhead swing. Farkas stepped forward and blocked with his own sword. Baxard’s didn’t quite break on impact, but it did gain a sizable new notch. Farkas smacked him to the side with the flat of his sword and stomped on his stomach.

While Farkas was doing that, Link dashed forward, parrying the third arrow as it left her hand and slicing her bow in half. He bashed her head in with his pommel and she slumped, falling to the ground unconscious.

He looked down at her, then at Baxard, who was similarly out of commission. “I think I do remember these guys actually… Small world. Let’s go.”

They walked inside the hideout, and took in the whole of the cave with one sweeping look.

One bandit was on a bedroll, sleeping. Another, some manner of lizard person that Link hadn’t encountered yet, leaned against a wall, looking off to his(?) right.

Link and Farkas exchanged a look, then charged.

The lizard looked idly over at the noise of Farkas’ armor, gasped, and tried to draw his knife before the large Nord rammed into him. Crushed between the warrior and the rock wall, he fell to the ground wheezing.

The noise alerted the sleeping bandit, but he wasn’t able to even sit up. He was groggy, but a sword pointing at his throat helped accelerate the waking process.

“Hiya,” Link said conversationally. “Does the name Leifnarr mean anything to you?”

The bandit blinked tiredly, squinting in the torchlight. “Leifnarr…” He yawned. “Wasn’t that… the stiff we stowed away in the storage room? Wait, who are y--”

“Thank you for your time,” Link said, before sending him back to dreamland. He looked up and frowned at the bloody mess at Farkas’ feet. “He’s here, somewhere.”

“I heard.” The warrior wiped his blade against his fur kilt. “But I don’t see a passage to another room.”

“Probably a secret entrance.” From this angle, he saw a slope up to an elevated area. He nodded towards it and headed off, slinging his backpack off as he went.

With the Companion following, they crept up to the raised area. A proper bed and a large metal chest took up most of the space, but the rest was filled by a wood elf in what Link figured must be Dwarven metal armor, digging through his treasure. He looked ridiculous with his comparatively tiny head poking out of the giant chestplate. What really caught Link’s attention was the enormous black sword leaning against the chest--

“...! …!”

Link’s sword chimed. To her credit, it was a quiet chime, but the ringing noise carried in the silence and the bandit chief jerked. His head banged on the lid of the chest as he rose, grabbing the sword in one fluid motion.

“What in the--Intruders!”

He moved to attack. Link raised his sword to block, but to his surprise Farkas shoved him out of the way. The black blade struck the Companion’s steel, and this time it was Farkas’ blade that chipped. He growled and pushed back, causing more damage to his weapon but successfully staggering the Bosmer.

Link stepped back to let them fight, and after a few exchanges he was moderately surprised to see that they were evenly matched.

Farkas swung his blade, and the bandit stepped out of the swing’s radius before doing the same with his own, longer sword. The difference wasn’t great, but it was enough. It scored a gash in Farkas’s chestplate; it didn’t cut all the way through but it was close, marring the wolf design by chopping off the wolf head’s snout. Next, the Nord warrior managed to land a proper hit, but it failed to penetrate his foe’s armor. It did, however, send him rattling.

Farkas was stronger, but the elf’s armor was thick and his sword just better than the Companion’s, sharper and tougher than even the high-quality steel. At first, Link thought that they were evenly matched in skill as well, but Farkas proved him wrong.

When he realized that wild strength wasn’t working, Farkas changed tactics. He flipped the sword, grabbed it by the blade and swung it like a hammer. The attack confused his opponent long enough to land a hit that sent him sprawling, and once the elf was on the ground it was all over.

He flipped and rolled, just barely avoiding a headstrike, and scrambled away from a disadvantageous position. The bandit chief fell off the ledge of his raised platform, made a sound of distress at the state of his henchman, and tried to make a break for it. Even despite the heavy armor he was fast.

Not fast enough, though, since Link had been holding his bow ready in case things went south. He grimaced.

“Shame.”

Link loosed the arrow, and it stuck fast in the back of the elf’s head. The bandit collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut.

Link hopped down from the ledge himself and walked over to inspect the corpse. He nudged the body over with his foot and frowned uncomfortably as the tip of the arrow sticking out of its forehead.

He didn’t like killing people. Monsters, he had no problem with, but not people. The man was a criminal, most likely a murderer, and if captured would have likely faced the headsman anyway, but still.

“What a shame,” he settled on repeating.

He still took the man’s things. He wasn’t about to be wasteful.

Link hefted the surprisingly heavy sword and inspected it, looking over the strange design with a keen eye. It was odd, all one piece it seemed like. The hilt and the blade and every part was all the same material, and there were no obvious lines separating the pieces. Of course, he might just be missing them against the black blade, but it was not something he’d seen before.

“Is this what you’ve been looking for?” he asked quietly.

The sword on his back buzzed, and he felt something leave it and flow into the blade in his hand. It was a greatsword, single-edged, not at all his weapon of choice… and apparently not hers, either. She radiated disappointment… discontent? Something bittersweet.

“..t g..d eno…. .il. ..ed adj…m…s.”

Link’s eyes widened. “I can almost hear you!”

“…? …!”

Link strained his ears as the greatsword dinged, but after a few attempts he sighed. “No, lost it again. But we’re on the right track.” The sword spirit transferred back to his steel blade, and he vanished the sword into his inventory. As she moved, he could swear that he saw something out of the corner of his eye… a cloak? Something purple? But it was gone by the time he noticed. Link took it as a good sign.

“Link, I think I found something!” Farkas called from back above. A chain rattled, and the ground shook slightly. Link turned around, and saw a rock panel moving aside that he’d never have noticed otherwise. That in itself was shocking.

Weren’t secret passages supposed to be obvious?

…No, there was something wrong with that thought, but Link couldn’t quite grasp it. Oh well.

“......”

He would swear the sword was laughing at him.

Farkas marched down the slope to join him. “You should check out the chest up there. Some good stuff.”

“I will, but first…” He stepped into the secret tunnel.

Immediately, the two of them wrinkled their noses as they were assaulted by the smell of old blood.

The body of a middle-aged Nord lay spread-eagle on the ground. His chest was covered in arrow wounds, including the one, arrow still in place, that had pierced his heart.

“Hm.” Farkas closed his eyes, head bowed.

Link frowned sadly. This… wasn’t how things usually went, but not everyone could be saved.

“What a terrible fate,” he said tonelessly.

--you’ve met with a terrible fate, haven’t you?--

He shook himself, pushing the vision away. Although, it did remind him of something.

He pulled his guitar out of his pocket. It was a gift from the Korok Hestu in this life. Unfortunately, it was cracked and didn’t resonate like it was supposed to, but it didn’t need to to play what he wanted to.

The Song of Healing was a magical song. It resonated all on its own. The notes echoed throughout the chamber.

Leifnarr had been dead for a while. His skin was starting to yellow, in fact. There wasn’t a soul left to heal. But the room felt lighter for it anyway.

Farkas turned to him slowly, eyeing the guitar like it was a bomb about to go off. Link felt inclined to take a half-step away from his wild eyes, and did his beard just get thicker, or am I going crazy?

Farkas took a deep breath to calm down and said, “That was a nice song.” It felt like he wanted to say something else, but he held off.

The two turned their gaze back to poor Leifnarr, wondering what to do next.

“Hey,” Farkas finally asked. “Does your magic pocket trick work on dead bodies? His wife might want to see him buried.”

…

As it turned out, his inventory could in fact hold a corpse. It left him feeling gross, though.

-----------------------------------

Jo’kir, Winterhold

It was even colder than he’d expected, and he’d expected freezing. But even still, it wasn’t getting him down. Winterhold was in sight!

Jarl Balgruuf had been happy to see them, and Lydia in particular. He’d let her regale him with stories of their journey so far while Jo’kir spoke with Farengar about his findings on dragons. He hadn’t made any, except that there were definitely more flying around than before.

Balgruuf had been a little disgruntled when they said they were going to the College of Winterhold next, though he didn’t seem to have an issue with the College itself. The Jarl hadn’t explained himself, instead simply warning them to steer clear of Winterhold’s Jarl.

The rest of their stay had been spent in Jo’kir’s new house in the city, Breezehome. Turns out he’d found enough gold dungeon-diving to afford it, though not enough to get it properly kitted out. He settled on proper beds for him and Lydia and called it a day, since they weren’t staying long.

Farengar had not known any spell that made his fur longer, and Jo’kir hadn’t liked the look in the man’s eye when he mentioned experimenting, so instead they were both bundled up with the thickest clothes they could find. The general store had provided them with coats warm enough to make the temperate Whiterun feel like an evening in Elsweyr.

They were just barely adequate for surviving Winterhold’s chill. Jo’kir couldn’t even imagine what winter proper would feel like.

He looked over his shoulder to check on Lydia. She was handling it only slightly better than he was, even with the icicles forming in the eyebrows.

At least they’d had the luck of running into some friendly iron miners on the road, who were happy to share their campfire with them for a night.

A horse-drawn carriage passed them going the other way, which struck Jo’kir as odd. Then again, the stagecoach outside Whiterun had offered to take them up here. Why didn’t I take that option again? Oh right, I thought walking would be more interesting. Silly me.

Then a second cart passed them. The horse looked perfectly at home in the cold, and Jo’kir envied its thick fur.

A third wagon was parked outside of Winterhold, its driver speaking with a woman in thick robes. They exchanged pleasantries that Jo’kir could not hear over the wind, then she handed him a small jingly pouch and he set off.

The woman saw them approaching Winterhold and waved. Jo’kir realized who she must have been even before she pulled down her hood.

“Jo’kir, it’s about time you showed up!” Zelda called, strolling to meet them. “How were the Greybeards?”

Jo’kir grinned despite everything. “Fantastic, they were. This one has much to learn yet. And the College?”

Zelda laughed. “Busy! So much to do, and all the time to do it!” She draped an arm over his shoulder, then reached over to do the same to Lydia. “And hello to you too! I think I saw you in Whiterun before?”

“Lydia, ma’am.”

“Good to meet you. Say, Lydia, Jo’kir, how do you feel about public infrastructure?”

Jo’kir blinked at the apparent non-sequitur. “What now?”

Zelda’s eyes were sparkling. “Want to help me build a house?”