Whitney Writes…

The pool of red bloomed outward; the edges bleeding further and further out, twisting and curling as it met various obstacles.  A long, swirling tail was forming.  Wings sprouted from its back.  Horns curled from its skull.  Fire roared from its mouth.

A sharp jab to the ribs and Arya gasped for air.  She turned a scathing glare to Brelyna, beside her, who motioned in front of them.  When Arya looked back at her parchment, the dragon was gone, in its place was a large, black, ink blot.  She lifted her quill from the page, laying it down upon the stone table top.  When she looked up again, she was startled to see Professor Colette Marence staring her down.

Arya shifted uncomfortably on her wooden stool.  “I’m sorry, Professor,” she said, swallowing nervously, “did you ask me something?”

“No,” the professor of restoration magic said coolly, looking down her nose at Arya, “you were humming.”

She could feel her cheeks blaze with heat as she heard the other students in the hall snickering.  She pulled her indigo sleeves down over her hands and covered a cheek in mortification.  “I apologize, Professor,” she said in a hushed tone.

“Are you through with your symphony?” Colette demanded.  Arya merely nodded, hunching forward over her work station.  She exchanged a glance with Brelyna before going back to doodling in the margins of her notes. 

It was still a mystery to Arya why the mage’s college had to have lecture based classes.  She thought they would all benefit much more from quiet, independent studies with books.  It seemed that most of the professors that came to the College of Winterhold these days were just attempting to prove how important they found themselves.  Rarely, in all her years of study, had Arya met a professor with some new or useful take on a school of magic.  And then there was Colette Marence, who was desperately seeking the school of restoration magic be taken seriously by the magical world.  It seemed to be her life’s work to have it declared as a “great school” of magic.  Yet another self-serving professor.

When the chimes finally sung at two that afternoon, Arya gathered up her papers, quill, and ink pot, storing them all in her well-worn leather satchel, and walked out of the Hall of Elements beside Brelyna. 

“Have a nice rehearsal, ladies,” snickered a Breton student named Manuel as he shoved past them.

“Watch it, you horker!” Brelyna snarled, snatching an abandoned, empty inkwell from a desk and flinging it in the direction of Manuel.  It collided with a blood curdling thunk against his shoulder.

He let out a howl: “You psychotic, whench!”  He rounded on the two Dunmer women, shoving his way back through the throng of other lecture attendees.

A pale hand gripped his shoulder, holding him back.  “No, Manny, leave it,” the Nordic owner of the pale hand said.  “It’s not worth getting another dungeon cleaning beat.”  Manuel’s grey eyes flashed, and his lip curled in a snarl as his body slowly untensed.

“You’re right,” Manuel said with a sneer, his gaze passing up and down their bodies.  “They’re nothing but dirty elves.”

Arya shifted uncomfortably, wishing for once that Brelyna had been able to control her impulses.  She gripped her friend’s wrist and hurried forward, past Manuel and his friends, dragging Brelyna behind her.  Once they were free of the crowd, Arya headed for the staircase that lead to the Arcaneum, two floors above them.  She was pleased to see the other students were headed either out to the courtyard, or to the stairwell that led to the student floor with the dormitories and dining hall.

The soles of their leather boots pounded ominously as they rounded the spiral staircase up to the third floor.  Urag was seated at his enormous desk as they entered, as he was every day.  He glanced up over the rim of his wire-rimmed glasses as the two Dunmer women entered the circular chamber filled to the brim with books.

“Is the lecture done already?” he asked in his gravelly voice as they crossed the chamber and leaned against the pale maple wood of Urag’s desk.

“I don’t think her heart was in it today,” Brelyna sighed, leaning an elbow onto the counter top and resting her chin in her palm.  “She barely got off on any tangents.” 

“What a pity,” Urag rumbled, stroking his white beard.  “Either of you have any interest in working on some cataloging for me?”  His bushy, white brows arched enticingly.

Brelyna made a face.  “Not me,” she said quickly, shaking her head.  “I have loads of configuration calculations to work on for tomorrow.”

“I will,” Arya said eagerly.  She stuck her tongue out as Brelyna rolled her eyes to the vaulted stone ceiling.  “What do you have today?” Arya asked, turning her attention back to the college’s Orsimer librarian.

“The khajiit was here last week,” Urag said, lowering his voice as he leaned across his desk to speak as old-fashioned conspirators.  “They brought me a load of rare books, some of them still have the fresh scent of antiquity on them.”  His eyes twinkled, “Have I peeked your interest?”  Arya nodded eagerly.  “Very well,” he grinned a toothy grin, “this way.”  He motioned for Arya to come around the counter of his desk and to follow him into the back room.

The small chamber was crammed full of wooden crates, some stacks piled as high as the ceiling.  There was a small, unornamented door on the back wall that led to Urag’s small, meager apartments.  He motioned to a stack of three crates just inside the door.

“Here they are,” he said proudly.  “If you want to work back here, or spread out in the main chamber, it matters not to me.  All I ask is-”

“To please keep the books out of direct lighting,” Arya finished, flashing a grin at Urag.

“You always have been my favorite,” his voice rumbled affectionately with a chuckle as he flicked a glance back in Brelyna’s direction.

Arya pulled off her shoulder bag, dropping it to the floor after pulling out a leather notebook, a quill, and an inkwell.  With a pop, the wooden lid came free of the crate and Arya slid it carefully to the stone floor.  She breathed in the heady scent of old books.  Closing her eyes, a feeling of pure contentment and pleasure rushed through her, warming her skin.  Standing on her tip-toes, Arya leaned over the edge of the crate and began sifting through the stacks of books.

Urag had not been speaking out of turn; some of these books were ancient, and an incredible find.  Gently, she pushed the tomes around, reading their spines.

Galerion the Mystic, by Asgrim Kolsgreg

The Rise of Queen Ayrenn, by Nuulehtel of Skywatch

The Lunar Lorkhan, by Fal Droon

An Accounting of the Elder Scrolls, by Quintus Nerevelus, Former Imperial Librarian

Liminal Bridges, by Camilonwe of Alinor

Manual of Spellcraft, by Unknown

Proposal: Schools of Magic, by Gabrielle Benele

Mysterium Xarxes, by Mankar Camoran

Arya sucked in a breath, clasping her fingers around the soft-with age leather cover.  It was an ashen-blue, much like her own skin, but Arya suspected the greying was more from age rather than intentional.  On the cover, embossed in gold was a symbol much like the sigil of the college itself: an eight-pointed star with a wide-open eye in the center.  The spine read, in shimmering golden metallic lettering: Shalidor’s Insights.  She brushed her hand over the cover, wiping away a thin film of dust.  Urag had been searching for this tome for ages.

She wondered if Urag knew this was amongst his newly acquired treasures.  “Urag,” she called, “you need to come and see this!”

The tall, elderly Orc emerged through the door, lumbering over to where Arya stood beside the new crates.  She held out the book to him. 

“Malacath’s breath,” Urag swore under his breath.  Tentatively, he took the book from Arya.  Gingerly, he opened the cover, smoothing the first page.

Shalidor’s Insights

By Arch Mage Shalidor

“Never, in all my days, did I think I would actually see one of these,” Urag murmured.  When Arya looked back up at him, she was startled to see tears in the Orc’s eyes.  He turned the pages gently, tenderly.  The dark, charcoal-color parchment was firm, but not brittle as Arya would have expected, being a book from the Second Era.  Much of the silvery-ink was smudged with age, but large, intricate drawings were present on every page.  The ink shimmered upon the dark pages.

“Stars,” Arya breathed, “Urag… is this the original?”

Urag nodded.  “The one written in Shalidor’s own hand,” he said reverently, his eyes wide.  “By the heavens above,” he hissed, “that khajiit grossly undercharged me!”

Arya gazed curiously at the circular diagram in purple-metallic ink with Daedric runes etched in the center in red-metallic.  “Perhaps they didn’t realize what they had?”

“Oh, they knew.”  He grinned.  “His son is a student here.  This beauty was the price of getting J’zargo enrolled here.”  Urag finally tore his gaze from the book’s cover.  “I trust you’ll help me decipher and restore it?”

She felt her face mirroring Urag’s grin.  “Of course,” she said giddily.

The afternoon hours whirled past in a serene lull; Brelyna bent over her configuration calculations, Urag studying at his desk, and Arya cataloging in the back room and shelving some of the display-worthy pieces.  When her stomach began to rumble with hunger, Arya emerged from the back room, startled to spot a black sky beyond the narrow windows.  She said her goodbyes to Urag and Brelyna and left the Arcaneum, heading up the stone staircase.

At the top of the stairs, she summoned a bit of her aura into her palm and dropped the floating, moveable, pliable orb into the elaborate stone contraption on the wall.  She admired the ivory ironwork that scrolled across the rounded front as she waited for the Ayleid device to recognize her magical aura and allow her into her family’s apartments.  The scrollwork began to roll and entwine within itself, glowing silver began to snake along the organic shapes until four Ayleidic runes formed in the basis.  They spelled her name.  There was a thunking deep within the stone wall, the sound of gears whirring, and finally the elaborate metal lock on the door popped.

Arya sighed, turning the handle and pushing the door open.  She could no longer remember when her uncle had become so paranoid about security in his own college, but it had been years since the contraption had been installed and she still was not used to the Ayleid-Dwemer lock hybrid.

The heavenly scent of her uncle’s cooking greeted Arya as she entered the apartment, dropping her bag near the door.

“Which of my loves is that?” a voice exclaimed.  Arya moved to a chair to sluff off her boots.

“It’s just me, Paba,” she called.  Her uncle’s head popped out of the kitchen and he grinned at her.

“Come give me a hand, won’t you my darling?”

Tolfdir had an orange sauce smeared across one cheek, and part of his silver hair had been powdered with flour.  A laugh bubbled out of her.  “What on Nirn are you making?”

“Just one of my specialties, Savos’ favorite,” Tolfdir said proudly.  “Curried Kwama Scrib Risotto with Balmora Cabbage Biscuits and carrots in a Moon-Sugar glaze, with cream-cheese frosted Gorapple Cake for dessert.”

“Oh, is that all,” Arya chuckled.  “Sounds like a proper Dunmer supper.”  She suppressed a grin.  Only Tolfdir could make Dunmer cooking edible.

He nodded to a golden crystal bottle on a shelf.  “I got plenty of Five-Fireball Infusion to make it all tolerable,” Tolfdir said with a wink.  “Speaking of which, why don’t you pour us a glass, darling.”

“Is that really wise, Paba?” Arya asked, reaching for a pair of goblets.  “The last time we did this we were slurring by the time Amoo got home.”

Tolfdir waved a hand dismissively.  “Perhaps he’ll finally learn not to tarry so long on these adventures of his.”  Arya could not help but snort at the amount of disdain in her uncle’s voice as she uncorked the crystal bottle and filled the two goblets with the fiery red liquid.  As she returned the cork to the bottle, five miniature fireballs shot up out of each goblet.  She grinned; it was a cheesy party trick, but it never failed to thrill her.

Taking a seat at a stool across the countertop from her uncle, Arya swirled her own goblet of Five-Fireball, watching the flecks of gold shimmer in the depths of the flaming red liquor.  Some said it was merely an illusion spell, but others believed they were flecks of real gold.

“Where was Amoo going this time again?” she asked, taking her first sip.  A sigh escaped her as she felt the fiery drink sink down through her insides.

“Searching for those damned rogue students again,” Tolfdir said with a roll of his eyes.  “Honestly, I don’t know why he can’t leave well enough alone.”

“But… they’re missing, Paba.”

“I told Savos a hundred times it was just a mess love triangle.”

“Paba!” Arya exclaimed, nearly choking on her drink in shock.  “All the more reason someone needs to be out looking for them!  They’re four missing apprentices we are talking about!  Little more than children!”

“Please,” Tolfdir scoffed, “they were all in their early twenties.”  Her uncle waved his hand dismissively at her once more.  “Here in Skyrim, that’s practically middle-aged,” he added with a wink.

“You’re awful,” Arya grumbled.

“And you’re unusually grumpy.”  His bi-colored eyes narrowed at her, studying her, like he studied his artifacts.  “Has something happened, my little dragon?”

Arya folded her arms over her chest.  “No,” she said shortly.  She had no desire to discuss the incident with Manuel.  Not even with her beloved paba. 

“Oooh,” her uncle cooed, leaning forward across the malachite countertop on his elbows.  “Is it about a boy?” he asked eagerly as he propped his chin on both his fists.  Arya wrinkled her nose in disgust and looked away.  “So, it is about a boy!”  She had not noticed when her uncle had finished his glass.  “Tell me everything,” he added eagerly, pouring himself another.

She sighed dramatically, a trait she had likely acquired from this uncle.  “Fine,” she sighed.  “It is about a boy.  But not in the manner you’re hoping for,” she added quickly when she saw how Tolfdir’s eyes nearly instantly began to twinkle.  “It’s one of the newer students,” Arya began, “actually, it’s all of the new students.”  She looked up to the ceiling, wondering how to word it.  “Mages are essentially the outcasts of society here in Skyrim,” she continued.  “And this boy, Manuel, he makes me feel like the outcast within the outcasts.”

Her uncle gave her a sad smile.  “You are anything but an outcast, my dragon,” Tolfdir soothed, running a knuckle down her cheek.

Arya shrugged his hand away.  “They think I can’t even perform a simple ward,” she grumbled, turning away to stare at the wall again.  “Like I’m some incompetent buffoon that just wanted to study magic.”

“You should put the little skeever in his place tomorrow,” Tolfdir murmured, pouring himself a third glass and Arya her second.  He flinched slightly at the trademarked fireballs. 

“Paba?”  She accepted the goblet with a questioning look.

“During Faralda’s destruction lecture tomorrow, you should be her volunteer.”  His eyes were positively gleaming with plotting.

She sighed, taking a drink from her goblet.  “But you and Amoo have always advised me to blend in during classes.  My real education has always lied with the two of you,” she reminded him.

“Savos has always insisted you blend in, not attracting attention,” Tolfdir clarified for her.  “He fears the day when the world finds out what you really are.”

“What I really am…?” Arya’s brow furrowed in confusion.  “And just what am I?”

The door to the apartment closed heavily behind her, causing both herself and Tolfdir to jump.  Tolfdir made a face implying he believed himself to be in grave trouble any moment.  Savos appeared around the corner, his garnet eyes glittering as he pushed the rune-embroidered hood from his greying head and plucking the fur-lined gloves from his hands.

“You are, perhaps, one of the most skillful mages Tamriel has ever seen,” Savos said, pointedly holding the gaze of Tolfdir.  “And one of the most powerful,” he added, turning a gentle, smiling gaze upon his niece.

Tolfdir set down the container of wheat flour, which puffed into a cloud in his face.  “Really, Savos?  How long are we going to keep this up?” he demanded after coughing through the flour cloud.

“We will not be discussing this while you have been drinking,” Savos said slowly, his voice level.  His gaze lingering on the empty bottle.  “Either of you,” he added, eyeing Arya.

“It’s about time she learned the truth,” Tolfdir pressed.

Savos eyes flashed in warning, “I said not… now.” 

Tolfdir’s eyes rolled in the direction of Arya, sitting between them.  “Ah, yes, and we all know Savos knows best,” he muttered testily, his tone sullen.

“Come now, Tolfdir, darling,” Savos said smoothly, moving around the counter to slide an arm around Tolfdir’s waist.  “Is being surly really any manor to greet me in after my being away for two weeks?”  He planted a light kiss on his partner’s cheek, “Heavens!  Were you this grey before I left?”  Gently, Savos brushed the flour from Tolfdir’s beard.  “There, that’s better, only slightly grey.

“Don’t think I don’t realize when you’re sweettalking me,” Tolfdir said gruffly, shaking a wooden spoon at Savos.

“Of course, my darling,” Savos said again, smiling keenly.  “Yet, you go along with it, every time, my love.”

“Just because I know you’re doing it, doesn’t mean I don’t like it,” Tolfdir said curtly.  “Now, stop your yammering and let us have a nice dinner, eh?”

The three of them sat around the rectangular, wooden table; Savos at the head, Tolfdir on his right, and Arya on his left.  They joined hands, saying a quick prayer to the Divines and Daedra above, and then Tolfdir began dishing out the food he had been working on all afternoon. Arya breathed in the sweet and spicy scent of the curried risotto as she bit into a crisp cabbage biscuit.

“So, what is it we’re not talking about?” she asked around her mouthful of biscuit.

“Arya!”  Tolfdir and Savos gasped in unison.  She shrugged innocently.

“I’m merely pointing out, that from my position, it appears there are secrets in this family.”  She speared some of the curried meat with her fork and shot a pointed look between her uncles.  “Which you two always vow there will never be.” 

Savos rubbed his temples, glancing hopefully at the liquor cart at the end of the table.  “Why is it you two always drink all my alcohol while I am away?”

Arya twirled her fingers idly beneath the table and a moment later she produced a nearly identical bottle of Five-Fireball Infusion.

“Did you…”

“Arya, you can’t just create-”

“No,” she said tartly, interrupting both her uncles, “I conjured it from the kitchens downstairs.”  She rolled her eyes, setting the bottle down with a thump.  “Besides, I learned my lesson that time I attempted to magically create my own Mermaid Whiskey…”

“You were ill for weeks,” Savos chuckled heartily, reaching for glasses.

“She was twelve,” Tolfdir said curtly with a glare at his partner.

“Highly irresponsible, Arya,” Savos added, forcing his tone to mock-serious.

She rolled her eyes again.  “Please, that was over a century ago.”  They took the three, low-rimmed glasses from Savos and poured them each a drink.  “So, did you find those missing students?”

Savos nodded gravely.  “The… remains… of three of them… have been found.”  Arya covered her mouth with her hand as Tolfdir made the sign of the Blessing of the Divines before him. 

“Were they… together?” Arya whispered.

“No,” he murmured.  Savos took a drink of Infusion before continuing.  “I found Ilas-Tei first, he was the young Argonian-”

“The one that idiot Phinis always thinks is a female?” Tolfdir murmured.

“Yes,” Savos sighed, “I know he was one of your favored Alteration students,” he added sympathetically.  “I believe Ilas’ disappearance was only a coincidence to have coincided with the others, I found him at a Shrine of Talos, just northwest of here, on the island of Ysgramor’s Tomb, where he had been attempting to practice some of his spells.”

“What did him in?” Arya asked quietly.

“His own skeevers, it appears, the ones he was using to practice his spells on.”

“A nasty way to go,” Tolfdir murmured, shaking his head.  “Was he already gone when you found him, there was nothing you could do?”

“No, there was nothing,” Savos said, shaking his head slowly.  “I think the cold did him in after the skeevers started.”

Tolfdir poured them all a second glass.  “And what of the other three, Savos?  What of the twins and Yisra?”

“Next, I came across Rundi, the younger of the boys,” Savos began wearily.  “I found him at an altar, half-way to Journeyman’s Nook.  He had been run through with ice spikes the size of tree trunks.  I pray to the Lady of Twilight that it was a swift, and painless death, otherwise I fear he lay, fixed and frozen to the spot as he died.”

“But ice spikes that size were the specialty of-”

“Yes, his twin brother, Borvir,” Savos said darkly, interrupting Arya.  He sighed heavily once more, “From there, I traveled southeast to Journeyman’s Nook, and there I found Borvir.  He was barely holding on to life, having been stabbed in the stomach with his own dagger, and had already lost quite a bit of blood.  He told me that he had heard from some of the other apprentices that Yisra and Rundi had run off together, that there was even a rumor that she was carrying Rundi’s child.  So, he set off to find them, furious, because as many may know, just this spring Borvir had proposed marriage to Yisra and she accepted before ending things in the summer and beginning what they thought was a secrete affair with Rundi.  In his last moments, before succumbing to his injury, Borvir admitted to killing his brother in a rage of fury and likely would have killed Yisra as well if she had not fled.”

Arya’s heart lifted.  “So… Yisra may yet still be alive, Amoo?” she asked eagerly, thinking of the bubbley, auburn haired, brown-eyed Breton that was Yisra.

“She may, Borvir said he did not harm her and that she had fled to the west.”

“But, who stabbed him?” Tolfdir wondered.

“He swore it was his brother,” Savos continued.  “But given the distance of them… there is no way Borvir could have walked all that way with a dagger in his gut.  Not to mention there was no blood trail in the snow from Rundi’s body to where I found Borvir.”  He rubbed his chin a moment.  “I think what happened is that Borvir came upon the pair at that abandoned altar, perhaps saying some vows, and he flew into a rage.  He killed his brother with Yisra still there, she fled, Borvir chased after her, then when he caught her, she simply defended herself.”

“If she could still be alive and out there somewhere, why are you here, Savos?” Tolfdir asked suddenly, the wrinkles around his eyes deepening.

“You know how dangerous the snowfields can be at night, Tolfdir, I wasn’t about to make camp out there.”

“But what about Yisra?” Tolfdir demanded urgently. 

Arya’s gaze flickered between her uncles; they were both strong and stubborn men in their own rights, but under certain circumstances one always folded to the other.  She wondered which it would be this time.

“Given the head start she had, Yisra is likely already in Dawnstar,” Savos said calmly. 

“Unless she turned south!  What if she turned south,” Tolfdir was practically shouting, “if she really was with child, why in her right mind would she continue along the coast?”

“Solitude,” Arya heard herself say.  Both her uncles turned their blaring gazes on to her and she hastily cleared her throat.  “Her sister, Yivana, I think her name is, she lives in Solitude.  She’s a seamstress, or a cook, or something.  She lives in the capital with her husband and children.  Yisra would be going there, to her, especially if she’s with child.”

“You’re certain, Arya?” Tolfdir pressed.

“Yes,” she nodded, “Yisra’s only sixteen, Paba, Yivana is the only family she has left, regardless of anything else, after everything that’s happened here, she would be going to where she felt safe, to her family.”

She watched as Savos took Tolfdir’s pale hand in his ashen one.  “I plan to leave at first light,” Savos said reassuringly.  “This is harrowing work, Tolfdir, I needed the strength of my family for an evening.”

“Of course,” Tolfdir nodded gravely.  “Come, we should go to bed then, dawn will come sooner than you’ll like.”

“I’ll clean up,” Arya said quickly as Tolfdir reached for some dishes.

An uncle kissed her on either cheek, squeezing her shoulders tightly before heading off in the direction of their chamber, their heads close together and the sounds of their hushed voices whispering to one another.  She smiled as she watched them, the amount of love they held for one another was the most beautiful thing in the world to her. Arya could not fathom a household that did not hold the amount of love theirs did.