Chapter 3

My ears twitch as I awaken the next morning to a muffled conversation, several paces outside of my door. The lack of windows makes it impossible for me to tell what time it is, or how long I slept. Whoever is in the foyer is attempting to be quiet, as if they know I'm here. Their caution will not help them. I'm able to effortlessly pick up the individual words spoken. I lie still in my bed as I eavesdrop on the hushed tones of what appears to be two people.

“Did you hear there’s a Thalmor at the College now? Mirabelle said he showed up sometime yesterday.”

A male voice, deeper-toned but young. There’s a mild accent distinctive to Nords that I've heard before. This must be Onmund.

“Yeah, I did. She called some sort of meeting with the other professors in the Hall of the Elements, after Tolfdir's lecture. I haven’t seen him yet, though. How do you feel about it?”

A female voice responds to Onmund, higher-pitched but also young. Given what I remember of who lives on this floor, this can only be the Dunmer, Brelyna. Her accentless voice lacks the harsh, raspy quality that many Dunmer have acquired over the decades. A result of living in Morrowind following the eruption of Red Mountain, and the many brutal ash-storms that followed. It was a wonder the province was still livable, honestly. I don't know what brings Brelyna to Winterhold, but I can't say I blame her for wanting to leave. If my homeland turned to ash and brimstone overnight, I would leave too. And never look back.

“Worried, if I’m honest. My folks already didn’t approve of my coming here, being against magic and all. If they knew a Thalmor was here, well... they’d raise Oblivion, to put it mildly.”

My ears twitch again. How very interesting. Onmund has valid reasons to be nervous, being at odds with his parents who are staunchly anti-magic. It would not be unreasonable to assume they are Stormcloak sympathizers, since the Imperial Legion routinely trains and deploys battlemages of their own. And the Stormcloaks have proven to be deeply anti-magic themselves. Their aversion to the Thalmor and the Dominion by extension could either be the expected Nord racism against the elven races, implicit loyalty to the Stormcloaks, or even both. Something potentially worth investigating if exploitable.

“I thought the College was neutral on the civil war and the rest of Skyrim’s politics. Why would they grant a Thalmor entry?” Brelyna sounds more curious than suspicious. And for good reason. While Skyrim's civil war rages outside the College grounds, the College itself is perfectly insulated from it. I haven't seen a single Stormcloak or Imperial since I crossed the main gates, especially considering the Jarl of Winterhold supports Ulfric's cause. Granted, no one who still lives in Winterhold seems to want anything to do with the College, and likely would not care if anything happened to the members here. After seeing the aftermath of the Great Collapse underneath the College itself, I cannot say I blame them. Brelyna being an elven novice could mean she is as young as her voice implies, even as far as elven lifespans are concerned. There's a posibility I'm the oldest among everyone here, elves alike. Her naivety presents another exploitable weakness.

“I don’t know, but I don’t like it. I’ve heard what they do to those who support Ulfric and his cause, especially Nords. It’s part of the reason why I came here, to get away from it all.” Onmund’s voice has lowered considerably, like he’s afraid at any moment he will be caught doing something he shouldn’t. Part of me wonders if anyone in his family has been on the receiving end of punishment by the Dominion for supporting Ulfric's cause, or being Stormcloaks themselves. The way he speaks highly implies he's had run-ins with my colleagues in the past. He releases a faltering sigh, although it sounds more to me like a failed attempt to calm fraying nerves. “I think it’s best that we avoid him. Mirabelle said his stay here is temporary, but who knows what he could be up to in the meantime? Hopefully, he wants nothing to do with any of us.”

I smirk, feeling a giddy sort of satisfaction as I picture the dismay and disappointment that will no doubt plague the Nord when he realizes my stay here will, indeed, not be as temporary as he hopes. And I have no intention of leaving them alone, not if the information I glean from them is deemed valuable to myself, or even the Dominion. Although so far, I doubt I would find anything useful here that my colleagues and superiors would bother with. I remove myself from my bed, dressing as silently as possible in the event that the Dunmer girl’s hearing is as proficient as my own, making sure to sling the knapsack over my shoulder with as little movement as possible.

Luckily, Miss Brelyna seems too immersed in her discussion with Onmund to realize that my room is occupied. She speaks a little bit louder, and it sounds like she’s attempting to reassure Onmund, sensing his growing distress. “Well, we’re all novices. The lowest ranking of mages here. What could a Thalmor with years of magickal experience possibly get from any of us? And besides,” I'm at the door with my hand poised at the handle, ready to open. “Mirabelle says he’s going to be an assistant to the Archmage. I’m pretty sure he’ll be too busy with him to bother or even notice any of us.”

I freeze just short of turning the handle. This must be a joke. This has to be a joke. I explicitly told Mirabelle I was here to advise the Archmage, not assist. The very word implied I was to be employed here as some sort of lesser, not in a position of authority that I should be in. My jaw ticks, remembering Mirabelle's words from yesterday. You may be used to the Empire bending over backwards for you, but you’ll find the Thalmor receive no such treatment here. In-fucking-deed. I release a quiet sigh, not putting it past the Breton to have done this intentionally. And although I've yet to meet the Archmage themself, I highly doubt their skill supersedes that of myself or my colleagues. Onmund sounds calmer now. Distress sufficiently quelled, for the time being. But he seems to share my thoughts. “I'm not sure what the Archmage would need with an assistant from the Dominion, but I suppose you’re right. We haven’t been here that long either. Between you and me, I think there’s a better chance he’ll be more interested in Ira, anyway-”

I make a point to yank my door open with as much speed and force as I can, the gust of air whipping my hair back from my face. Both Onmund and Brelyna startle and jump in place, whipping their heads in unison in my direction. Onmund yelps at the same time Brelyna releases an exaggerated gasp. I would have laughed had the circumstances been any different, had I not been incensed by Mirabelle’s insult to my station behind my back. Both were blissfully unaware of my presence, and it is here that I receive my first look at the newly-appointed novices to the College of Winterhold. Awash with the blue light, originating from a yet unknown source from center of the floor, it gives them an almost otherworldly appearance.

True to my assessments, Onmund and Brelyna are as fresh-faced as their voices implied. Both are clad in fur-lined robes, fur hoods over their heads. They look like they’ve been inside for some time, the fur clinging to their clothing dry as bark. Brelyna’s wide-angled and vibrantly red eyes are widened upon me, her body frozen as if she's just seen a Daedra. She clutches a book in the crook of one of her arms - what is it with everyone carrying books out in the open here? - the cover of which I cannot see. There are the faintest traces of age lines on her face, indicating she must be as young as her voice implies. By my estimation, she’s not even a century old. The light absorbs into her skin, diffusing the grey and almost making it hard to tell her Dunmer heritage.

Onmund, for his effort, tries to look unfazed by my sudden appearance. His back is straight as he looks head-on at me, his position almost defensive. But the undertone of fear in his eyes and tense, defensive body language betrays him. Glowing in the otherworldly blue, a strong jaw free of facial hair and hard-set eyes reflect back at me in a nearly blinding crescendo of brightness. I squint at them, and notice a slight shift in their body language. I have no idea how long I've been standing there or what I must look like to them, but my silence and stillness are apparently off-putting enough to put them both on edge. Good.

“So, it appears your superior has already acquainted you with my presence here,” I begin, bowing slightly to step forward from the doorway. This building was clearly not made with Altmer at the forefront of consideration. My voice is raspy from sleep and dehydration, giving me an edge that works to intimidate the two mages. “Although, I'm afraid I must issue a correction. I am not an assistant to the Archmage.” I straighten and cross my arms in front of them, holding both of their rapt attentions. “I’m here as an advisor. The Dominion wishes to promote relations between us and your College, and I have been chosen as their representative.” Arms still crossed, I begin a slow walk over to the two novices. My long legs eat up the short distance in a matter of seconds, and I feel like a predator stalking prey. Prey who know full well there is a predator in their midst. “You two would do well to remember that. I then realize I need to make my purpose here clearer for them. "Whether the two of you are here because you think you'll save the world, or you're only in this for youselves, know that I'll be watching all of you very closely."

Brelyna visibly gulps, and Onmund takes a deep breath before steeling himself to say, "Whatever you say." I can't stop my face from working itself into a scowl. If these are the newest recruits of the College, I'm not looking forward to what the rest of this sorry group consists of. They appear to be weak, and lacking in backbone. And I have yet to meet the sole cat in this group, J'zargo. It means my work has been cut out for me, as at least these two require the lowest possible amount of intimidation and coercion to get anything from them. The cat will be low-hanging fruit. If I even suggest there will be something of value in exchange for information, he will sing like the songbirds of Wasten Coridale. However, I'm getting ahead of myself. There will be plenty of time for this later. Not wanting to waste more time conversing with these two, I make to leave. I'm in front of the door when I stop, remembering something I almost missed during their conversation.

"I believe one of you mentioned a mage by the name of 'Ira'," I say with my back facing them. The Redguard journeyman mage, whom I have yet to meet, inexplicably rooming with a bunch of lower-ranking mages. A conundrum I aim to get to the bottom of, though I doubt his skill level even comes close to my own. His room is next to mine, and I don't believe I heard any indication that he had returned to their room the night before. I can't pinpoint what is making me seek out this mage in particular, but there must be a reason this mage outranks their colleagues. It makes little sense for someone stronger to still be housed with their lessers. At the very least, I reason, it is imperative I build a photographic memory of who these people are. And after this encounter with Brelyna and Onmund, I feel that I've seen enough of the novices to know they by and large won't be worth my time. Not for now, at any rate. Turning around, I find that neither Brelyna nor Onmund have moved from their spots. They seem to be waiting for me to leave before doing or saying anything else. "You will tell me where I might find this individual."

It seems to take them several seconds to register that I requested something of them. Onmund opens his mouth and turns back to glance at Brelyna, who gives him a panicked look. Brelyna opens her mouth, but Onmund is quicker to respond than she is. "I last saw Ira in the Hall of the Elements. S-staying behind after we left, waiting for Tolfdir I think." I don't miss the stutter in Onmund's voice. I can't tell if he's telling me the truth, or telling me what I want to hear that will translate into me getting out of the Hall faster. Without another word, I walk out of the door and step into the College's frigid courtyard.

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The sky is a sickly grey color, the faintest of flurries falling in a slow rhythm. But the sun shines brightly behind this blanket of snow. It appears to be the late morning, and there's considerably more activity now than there was the previous evening when I arrived. I hear and feel the whirring of spells in the background, specifically the tell-tale sound of a magical ward being cast and held for an extended period of time. The idea that new mages here need practice in a spell I learned when my age was in the double-digits is laughably pathetic. The little hope I had in this institute being a serious place of magickal learning, rivaling that of anything found on Summerset, blows away with the the gentle winter breeze. Movement above me catches my eye, and I realize there is a walkway high above the courtyard. Robed figures walk along the circle's highest edge, and I even catch a glimpse of a storm atronach patroling alongside them. I survey my immediate surroundings; to my left is a small wooden table with two wooden chairs. I walk over to it and find an assortment of items left behind - wine glasses, a wine bottle, an inkpot left forgotten with a quill frozen stuff inside of it. I scoff to myself. Carelessness of this magnitude would have resulted in expulsion had they been anywhere on Summerset. The table and chairs are situated against a wall underneath a short, open window. I maneuver around the furniture to peer outside, and immediately regret it; I am almost instantly blinded by the frozen expanses reflecting the muted and weak sunlight.

I back away from the window, rubbing my eyes back to normalcy. I turn to walk in the opposite direction, when I freeze. Waves of awareness crash and wash over me, like a riptide off the shores of Auridon. I get the prickling sensation that someone is watching me, someone close by. I glance to my left and see no one but a female mage in purple robes, dark hair tied in a high pony tail. Her back is to me as she raises a ward in front of her. Two other mages facing her take turns shooting projectile spells at her ward. None of them notice me. I glance to my right, and see a dark figure sitting on a low bench in front of a window similar to the one behind me, on the other side of the door leading to Hall of Attainment. The figure is wearing the same clothing as the one from the previous evening, conversing with the groundskeeper. They are heavily leaning forward, their left forearm resting on their left knee, while their right forearm sits on their right thigh. Wearing a deep hood, I still cannot see their face, but I have a distinct feeling they know I'm here, watching them. They sit completely still, and I can't even tell if they're breathing. I feel all of my senses go on high alert. Something isn't right with this individual. I don't know what it is and the fact that I can't pinpoint this bothers me more than it should. Perhaps...

I start to move towards the mage, intending to confront them, when a voice cuts across the courtyard on my left. "Mister Ancano." My stomach drops upon hearing the authoritative tone of Mirabelle, the Master Wizard. She isn't someone I wanted to see today at all, but she must have news for me regarding the Archmage. Groaning, I glance in the direction of the voice and see her making her way towards me. Mirabelle is wearing the same set of robes she wore the evening before. By Lorkhan, do these people even bathe? She strides in my direction with purpose, and I notice a bundle of cloth in her hands where her book previously was. "I've arranged a meeting with you and the Archmage," she says as she steps toward me. "He will see you now, so I suggest you make haste." She gives me a cursory glance I do not like the feel of, and hands me the bundle. "Here, I procured these for you in the meantime." Unraveling the cloth in my hands reveals a set of College robes. On the thicker side, lined with fur and a beige-ish color, complete with the College of Winterhold sigil on the back. "You might find them more fitting than your..." she trails off for a brief second before finding the right description, "current attire."

I feel an insistent pulsating down the middle of my forehead. The nerve of this woman. "I don't see what's so concerning about my attire, my dear," I begin, trying not to unleash the venom I feel into my voice, "considering you've already told your colleagues about my presence here. I'm sure they know to expect an agent of the Dominion here for the forseeable future." Does she think I'm stupid? I considered insults to my intelligence egregiously offensive. Clearly Mirabelle wants me to ingrtiate with the College staff, so as to make my presence here more "palatable" to those with delicate sensibilites and were too scared for their own good. Nordic fools like Onmund, who secretly harbor a fear that the Thalmor will come to disappear him in the night. While not an unfounded fear, in these circumstances it was ridiculous. None of my colleagues in the Dominoon would bother wasting their time with this hovel if they saw what I had seen so far. Mirabelle is unfazed by my revelation, blinking at me once. "Be that as it may," she says carefully, as if weighing her words, "it would help you to not feel singled-out if you dressed like the rest of us during your stay here".

It takes me a moment to register what's she's telling me, and what she's not telling me. She doesn't believe I'm here as an advisor, she thinks my position here is a sham. I try to look as neutral as possible. "I don't know what you're implying, but I assure you," I tell her in a measured tone, "my business here is solely in the interests of promoting a working relationship between the College of Winterhold, and the Aldmeri Dominion." I need to tread carefully. If Mirabelle can sense my ulterior motives, then who's to say the others won't as well? Mirabelle crosses her arms. "I'm not implying anything," she tells me coolly, clearly not amused by where my interpretation of her line of questioning took me. "But may I remind you that Winterhold is Stormcloak territory? The locals don't need any more reasons to hate us more than they already do. Having someone in full Thalmor uniform may agitate them to the point of physical escalation against us."

I frown. Her words sound like a warning, a thinly-veiled threat. But she has a point, as loathe as I am to admit it. Despite what she and others may believe, the Dominion doesn't have carte blanche across the entire province. There are a great many things I could get away with in Solitude, that would land me in considerably dire straits here. And our superiors repeatedly warned us that should we face local authorities during our assignments, they would provide no assistance. Pushing my luck with the local populace, who already hate magic and elves by extension, is not on my agenda. But I'll be damned if I take advice from a Breton. Before I can respond, Mirabelle begins to leave, but not before leaving me with additional instruction over her shoulder: "Please don't keep the Archmage waiting. Despite all appearances, he's a busy man."

I'm left standing in the courtyard, bundle of mage robes in hand. I heave a sigh, realizing my work might become considerably easier if I comply with the uniform expectations here. Belatedly, I turn back to where the black-clad mage was sitting at the bench, only to find it empty. They must have left during my discussion with Mirabelle, I realize as I take notice of my calmed senses, the lack of eeriness their presence produced having long since abided. It dawns on me that this mage seems to be wearing whatever suits them, a decision I immediately assume to be the result of their higher rank. Begrudgingly, I pull the robes over my Thalmor attire, not feeling bothered to change completely. Consulting with the directory at the courtyard's entrance, I cross the courtyard and pass the statue of Shalidor before pushing the large set of heavy wooden doors that lead to the Hall of the Elements.

My nerves become somewhat frayed upon immediately hearing sounds of combat. Flashbacks from my brief time in Cyrodiil during the Great War threaten to resurface, before I ground myself. Several steadying breaths are all I need to anchor me back to reality. I learn soon enough there is a lower level to the Hall of the Elements. True to its description, the main hall is a wide, cavernous room with high-vauled glass windows and a circular layout. Cushions of varying colors are arranged on stone steps leading downwards and around the room, with podiums stationed in different angles to allow for addressing a varying size of people. What looked a stone well in the center of the room offered an aerial glimpse of an equally massive training area. Students were firing projectile spells at glowing, stone monoliths in gated sections, forming a circle around the arena. There was even a student sparring with what I'm quite sure was a spirit, blasting it with fireball after fireball, causing the ground beneath my feet to tremble. I decide to distract myself with exploring later, and leave the Hall. Staircases to my left and right lead to different parts of the College. Whoever constructed this building at least had the foresight to add directory plaques next to each staircase, labeling each one and listing which staircase led to which floor. The Archmage's quarters, predictably, were at the very top of the College, the 5th floor of the northwestern staircase. I begin my ascent, mentally practicing what I will say when I finally meet the Archmage.

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At the very top of the staircase, I see the reflection of a huge window. High above me, in a foyer-area before a great set of wooden doors, is a blue window bearing the College's sigil. I'm instantly reminded of the singular window I saw when I first set foot onto the College grounds, and realize this is the central tower of the College itself. And they allow an impressive amount of light. The doors lead into another room, massive and sprawling. I'm oddly reminded of the Temple of the Divines in Solitude. Savos Aren, the current Archmage of the College of Winterhold, sits in this room alone. A Dunmer, to my mild surprise. Although it isn't that surprising, come to think of it. Winterhold used to be a haven for the Dunmer, the "dark elves" as many an idiotic human have called them. But that was many decades ago, and those who survived the Great Collapse long since fled what was left of Winterhold to Windhelm. In which, from what I've heard, they are faring much worse. I suppose the only real surprise is that a Dunmer stayed behind after the Collapse, even in the College. The Archmage's quarters look like a giant, windowless office. A desk sits in the center of the room, with so many stacks of parchment that I almost feel overwhelmed on his behalf. Behind the desk is a single row of tall file cabinets, glass windows offering a small peak into their contents. Small chests line the perimeter of the desk, likely storage for writing supplies. Savos sits at a low table right next to the door to his quarters, book in hand, when I approach. He initially had no reaction to my entrance, but upon taking in my appearance, he straightens somewhat. "Ah yes," he says at last. His voice sounds surprisingly young, given his aged and weathered appearance. A dark grey cowl covers his head and conceals his hair, a light blue ornament at the crest. Attached to his robes is a fur shawl, forming a large "V" as it cascades down his torso and the tip of which reaches his pelvic area. Thin fur braces and boots cover his arms and feet, and I wonder if this man has ever set foot outside the College with how underdressed he appears to be for the climate outside.

Savos looks to be a few centuries old, which can be a fraction of the lifespan of an elf of any race. Especially one so magically attuned and experienced as to be the Archmage of Winterhold. I have heard rumors that Neloth, once Master Wizard of the Great House Telvanni in Morrowind, still lives himself. Which sounds hard to believe, even for an Altmer such as myself, having been born shortly after the start of the Third Era Wars. Neloth not only lived to see that, but he somehow managed to survive the Blight Plague of Vvardenfell, the dissolution of the Great Houses, even Red Mountain's eruption. If such rumors are true, then he must be approaching his 800s or older... "You must be the one Mirabelle spoke of. Please," he gestures to an empty chair next to him, "take a seat. We have much to discuss." I nod once, and accept his offer of a chair. This room isn't as dark as I thought it would be, in part thanks to several glowing instances of magelight that seem to be perpetual., as well as dozens of candles lit around the room. "I am indeed the one sent by Mirabelle," I tell him, "and we do have much to discuss." I settle into my seat, unsure of what to expect from the Archmage. I didn't think he would be an elf, although it's too bad he's not an Altmer. The Dunmer have somewhat of a backwards ancestry with the ashlander tribes in Morrowind, and the whole debacle with their Tribunal gods have made some of them quite feral, but all the same I would much rather have this conversation with an elf than a human. I dare not entertain the idea of the Archmage being an Orsimer, and mentally thank Lorkhan there appear to be none in the College at all.

The Archmage clears his throat, closing his book and placing it on the table. "So," he begins in a tone that makes me think I'm about to sit through a lecture. "It is my understanding that the Aldmeri Dominion wishes to facilitate a collaboration of some sort with us in Winterhold?" He leans back in his chair. "I don't recall receiving any official parchmentwork from the Dominion itself about this particular arrangement," he casts a wayward glance to his desk behind us, overflowing with parchment and scrolls, before turning back to me, "but I did receive a letter from the Embassy expecting your arrival." I nod. Despite the messy state of his desk, he appears to be well organized mentally and up to date with everything. Although I supposed that's more Mirabelle's doing than his own initiative. "Yes, that is correct, Archmage Savos. Although I wouldn't call it a 'collaboration' as much as I would consider it a 'partnership'. The Dominion believes a working relationship with magical institutions across Tamriel is a crucial cornerstone to beginning the road to peace. Especially now that stability has been attained within the Empire." I smile inwardly. I impress myself with my ability to sound persuasive and genuine more often than not. "And as for the parchmentwork," I continue, "you'll find that the Dominion doesn't share the Empire's enthusiasm of bureaucracy. We believe direct action speaks louder than words, even those written on paper."

Savos seems to consider this, stroking the long, pointed beard growing from his chin. He seems to be at ease here, perhaps because he thinks both of us being elves means we're practically kin. I'm starting to think I've won him over. "You know," he says, much more conversationally, "you would think such an arrangement would be seen as detrimental in the long run. Considering the Great War wasn't too long ago, magic users are reviled at large in the provice of Skyrim, and our College has something of a... tainted reputation." He pronounced tainted delicately, as if he wants to be careful with how he says it. I can't help but wonder if there's a connection between the Great Collapse, and the College's pristine and mostly undamaged exterior. As if reading my thoughts, he adds, "notwithstanding the Great Collapse, which many blame on us. Even those who stayed in Winterhold after all these years..." he trails off momentarily, lost in thought before snapping back to reality, "anyway, I digress. But I assure you, the College had nothing to do with what happened back then." I flash what I hope comes across as a warm, charming smile. "There's no need for assurances, Archmage. I believe you." And this part happens to be true. I highly doubt anyone in the College would have had the magickal power, talent and reservoir necessary to sustain such a catastrophically traumatic feat for an extended period of time. But what I say next is a bold-faced lie, one Savos will never discover: "In turn, I would like to assure you that my purpose here is for the good of the College itself, as well as aiding in forming relations with my colleagues at the Embassy and Summerset."

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AUTHOR'S NOTE

Player character POV chapter next up let's gooooooo!!!!