The College of Winterhold, of the Province of Skyrim, Tamriel || 4th of Morningstar

I read Estormo's encrypted message once, twice, three more times. I'm grateful he taught me the encryption system he used once we started working together. I won't admit it to him, but he is much better at it than I am. I remember it took some convincing on my part for him to agree to this assignment. He, like the rest of our colleagues, did not see Winterhold as a high priority target for the Dominion. They believed its importance would be revealed once the pieces we arranged and planted for the civil war fell into motion. Nonetheless, I am glad he decided to come along. The note, written before we parted ways and just before I went into Winterhold alone, detailed the plan we laid out while still in Solitude. Approximately five days after arriving here in Winterhold, we were to meet at a pre-designated meeting point for intel briefing. Preferably somewhere nearby, but not within sight. With Winterhold being such a ghost town, one would think there would be a plethora of options to choose from. The problem was that everything in Winterhold's immediate outskirts is a barren, frozen wasteland and the weather was severely unforgiving even on a sunny day. We would stick out immediately even in spite of Winterhold's diminished population and rocky terrain, our only cover being a blizzard or high winds that effectively disguised us as black, shapeless masses. I have yet to explore the area surrounding the College proper myself, but I'm certain it contains the usual hostile wildlife among the occasional ruins, supremely adapted to the bitter cold. And I trust Estormo has not forgotten his scouting training and remembers how to navigate harsh terrain and environment on his own. We decided on a spot to the northwest, just below the College itself. With enough cover from the rocks, we should slip by undetected and properly shielded from the Sea of Ghost's arctic winds. For our sake, I hope and pray he remembers above all else how to build a bonfire. I lean back in my chair, rubbing my face in the still darkness of my room. It is the next morning, and I have had much time to reflect on from my near-death experience the evening before. There is a lot to brief my partner on, and most of it will be about one person.

I have had many, many brushes with death. Enough to span the lifetimes I have lived on Nirn. The brief time I spent in Cyrodiil at the outbreak of the Great War showed me the fragility of life, both men and mer. At this stage of my life, I have lost count of how many times I have nearly been killed, accidentally or not. It became normalized before I could fathom it, especially after joining the Dominion. Estormo can attest to how numb I've become to nearly being killed time and time again. But the encounter I had with the Redguard felt different. Closer. She had already proven herself to be proficient enough with magic during her demonstration with Tolfdir, enough for me to spend considerable time attempting to spy on her. Grasping such advanced magical concepts as flawlessly as she did was rare for humans, even Bretons. I initially thought she was cheating, using enchanted clothing and jewelry to make herself magically stronger. Many do not know this, but Altmer are said to have magical sight. We can physically see magic enchantments on items; they emit a certain glow relevant to the enchantment in question. Red was almost always fire-related, deep blue and purple were shock. The lighter blues were frost and even felt cold to the touch. But nothing she's worn so far had even a hint of magical enchantment to them. I was then beginning to think she had been a magic prodigy in her youth, although I ended up dismissing the idea as getting too ahead of myself. And of giving a simple human too much credit. An idea that was all but proven to be correct when I nearly took a lightning bolt straight to the face.

An orange lightning bolt.

The color for the standard lightning bolt spell, the one taught in Mages Guilds and other magical institutes around Tamriel, is a bright, sky blue. And for the longest time, really since its conception a millennia ago, it was considered to be the only color. Until close to a century ago now, word from the Arcane University in Cyrodiil indicated that some of their mages had discovered a much stronger variant of the lightning bolt spell, that had an orange hue. They knew not how it was formed, but those that managed to cast the spell successfully detailed the techniques they used in its creation. A few members of the College of Sapiarchs had traveled to Cyrodiil upon hearing the news, eager to see this discovery for themselves. They came back and shared the knowledge with the rest of their lot, and Ancoril had been among them. The instructions for casting the orange lightning bolt had been vague, which was to be expected from human mages. Perhaps this was why I had never been able to cast the spell myself, but to no one's surprise, Ancoril had been able to cast it perfectly on the first try. I remember so distinctly the way his face lit up when he cast the spell for the first time, the orange glow reflecting back in his eyes a glow that I have no doubt was matched by how he felt inside. To date, Ancoril is the only person I have seen successfully cast the orange lightning bolt spell, said to be three times as deadly as the original and lethal enough to kill with a single cast.

Ancoril... and the Redguard mage. Ira of Astora.

Human magic prodigies were exceptionally rare, usually once in a lifetime. And they typically went on to do extraordinary things in their lives. They were the ones whose legacy lived on long after their deaths. Whose deeds, whether good or bad, exceeded their limited lifespan and were spoken of for millennia afterwards. They were living legends, to be feared, revered, or even both. Shalidor, Zurin Arctus, Jagar Tharn. That these were all non-Breton examples makes them all the more significant, but Redguards being magic prodigies was quite literally unheard of. Some were petty mages in their own right. Ordained temple priests and priestesses, healers, alchemists, perhaps some enchanters. But for the most part they were wandering nomads, desertwalkers, swordsmen, warriors, traders and adventurers alike. Their ships have criss-crossed all of Tamriel and the known world ever since they settled onto Hammerfell, long after their doomed ancestral isle of Yokuda was claimed by the Azurian Sea ages ago. Some texts have even described an ancient race of Altmer inhabitating the space as well, before they were genocided by the Ra Gada, the Redguard's ancestors, in the ensuing territorial disputes. It was a process that supposedly took a millennia to fulfill. I could not help but feel a smug sense of pride when I learned of this. Our people truly were all over the known world, and have been everywhere since time immemorial. What further proof was needed that we should be the Empire's seat, and Tamriel's rightful rulers? Some Redguards had magical ability, and others were smart enough to become tacticians and strategists in times of war. But theirs were not a people of magical talent. It was hard to contain my surprise when I saw that orange lightning bolt zap through the vacant space where my head once was, and obliterate part of the wall behind me. I can still smell and taste the metallic electricity it left in its wake, and I can still hear the stone wall beneath me crumble and shatter into dust from the impact. The air was super-charged and felt hot in its absence, and truthfully, I hesitated for a long moment afterwards to move from where I dodged certain death. Talent of that magnitude was almost unheard of in humans.

Almost.

I never get ahead of myself like this, I am not one to exaggerate or blow things out of proportion given the appropriate circumstances. But facts do not lie, and I knew talent when I saw it. The accolades these people shower her with, the respect she has from her professors and peers, the unending praise from Tolfdir and the Archmage himself. The spell she cast yesterday that nearly killed me was the final confirmation. This is a genuine human magick prodigy, and the likes of which I have never seen or heard of in a Redguard. She is perhaps the first in her people's history. Which makes her an anomaly even outside of Hammerfell, as her people, like many of the Nords, do not place high value on magical talent. They would have shunned her as a pariah and made her an outcast had she shown this much skill while living in Hammerfell. Had she been an Altmer, she would have been recruited to the Dominion in the blink of an eye, rising within the ranks at an alarming rate. She and I might have even been colleagues put on assignment together, or she would have been paired with the likes of Ondolemar, patrolling the streets of Markarth with other justiciars. Perhaps she would have even worked under Lady Ambassador Elenwen herself. The Dominion valued talent, magical talent more than anything. There is no doubt they would have had her torturing prisoners for interrogation purposes, or purely for fun. She would have been on the front lines of the Great War, blasting humans apart with magic far more destructive than anything they possessed. She would have-

I stop myself short upon realizing I am daydreaming of fantasies that will never come true. The Redguard is not an Altmer and she will never be part of the Aldmeri Dominion. If anything, she would be a person of interest to the Dominion, someone a higher-up would write a dossier about and assign spies to keep tabs on should she prove detrimental to our operations within the province. As such, the development she poses to my assignment must be discussed with Estormo. He may want to interrogate her about her abilities, although I don't see a point in that now. She hasn't proven herself to be... problematic, per se. I have seen no obvious affiliation with the Empire or the Imperial Legion, despite her Cyrodiilic accent. She will remain a person of interest, however, in the event more information comes to light that could be useful to us. Would that the door to her room wasn't always locked when she was gone, I'd have found more out for myself by now just by snooping through her room. I take a deep breath. It feels like I did not sleep enough the night before. At least I didn't have any lucidly surreal dreams this time. Perhaps the one I had a few nights ago was a one-off incident. Or, I at least hope so. It's becoming mildly alarming how many reminders, both subtle and not-so-subtle, of Ancoril this place is giving me. Storing the note from Estormo in one of the desk drawers, I then reach for my journal, flipping to the very first page. It contains a map I painstakingly drew of the College grounds, copied from the missive board out in the courtyard, and includes detailed floor plans of the buildings I've explored so far.

On my first day, after my initial meeting with Archmage Savos, I explored the sublevel beneath the Hall of Elements. It was a training ground of sorts, an open area with multiple alcoves for a number of students to use simultaneously. And it was in constant use, the smell and taste of magic thick in the air and never leaving. I remember several of the occupants in this area glancing at me with varying degrees of suspicion and confusion as I walked through the area, examining each alcove. Some were empty, others had stone markers at the other end that lit up when projectiles were thrown at them. One alcove even had a spirit, an old bearded man clad in mage robes, with his hands raised up as if in supplication. A plaque outside this particular alcove that explained that the spirit was some "ancient sparring partner". Adjacent to the alcoves were shelves of magicka potions, health potions, one side had an alchemy set up with myriads of ingredients. A note on a nearby wall explained that the potions were for students to use after training, and the alchemy station was open for anyone to use in the event the potion shelf was empty. There's also a single bed for someone to sleep on, and I could not imagine who would think a training grounds appropriate sleeping quarters. Next to the bed and alchemy station is a door I simply labeled investigate later. I frown at it, not remembering anything significant about the door in question. My mind made, I sigh as I stand to leave, knowing I won't have anything else better to do with the day now that the Redguard woman has been granted space from me.

It then occurs to me that I haven't heard a sound from her room all day.

##########

At midday, the Hall of the Elements is sparse. Few people linger aside from the guards and the occasional student passing through to the upper and lower levels. Most of the students I did see were outside, practicing their spells with each other in the open, frigid air that I'm sure I will never get used to no matter how long I stay here. Many more are likely in the Arcaneum, studying for whatever may pass for magical exams here. As it is, there are only three people in the subterranean training grounds - J'zargo, whom I'm beginning to suspect never leaves this place unless absolutely necessary, an Argonian with scales the color of Valenwood's trees, and a Dunmer woman manning the alchemy station. J'zargo and the Argonian stand next to each other, each one casting spells in the alcove next to the other. As such, both are too busy to notice my arrival, but the Dunmer woman keeps a suspicious eye on me for longer than is comfortable. She doesn't say a word to me, but she doesn't need to. The suspicion on her face says everything I need to know from her. The wooden door is nondescript and unassuming, or at least it would be if it didn't have a wooden bar attached to it. The bar, clearly used for keeping the door locked in the crudest form of security, has been lifted up. Someone has been here, recently. And no one has made to replace the bar in its original position to block the door. A wrinkled piece of parchment next to the door explains the reason for the bar's existence:

~~~~~~~~

This door to the Midden is to be kept locked at all times, otherwise we're going to have ice wraiths in the Arcaneum again, and you get to find out exactly what it's like to have ancient tomes dried to my liking.

-Urag

~~~~~~~~~

I sneer at the letter, feeling offended even by its presence. I can almost smell the stench from that foul brute of a librarian who authored the note. Despite the unpleasantness his memory brings, there is at least useful information here. This 'Midden' is evidently cold enough for ice wraiths to inhabit. There are plenty in Skyrim's northern regions, and they were a nothing short of a hindrance. Floating, rattling ice bones vaguely resembling the shape of a snake, with a large set of fangs. They were hard to hit with precision, on account of them moving too damn much. Our only method of dealing with them has been blasting them with the highest level of fire spells we had in our arsenal, which effectively reduced them to a pile of melted ice. Apparently, some of the Nords have taken to seeking them out and killing them in melee combat as part of some rite of passage into adulthood. They were vicious enough to pose a serious threat even by themselves; stronger, deadlier and faster than they looked. I almost don't see why anyone would want to voluntarily visit this place, but there must be a reason why someone went down here. And the Orc wouldn't have left this note if he did not expect people to follow suit. Reaching out to touch the handle, I find it's bitterly cold, a hint at what lies on the other side. I presume this is a basement of sorts for the College, whatever that may look like.

I roll my neck, never having been one to shy from a challenge or a forbidden entrance. Everyone no doubt knows of my presence here anyway, assuming Mirabelle did her job informing the others. Having the Archmage's ear will make me as close to faculty as any of the professors here. If for some reason I am not allowed to go down here, no one says a word. In fact, no one in the training area verbally objects or perhaps even notices as I push the door forward and disappear through its threshold to the other side.

##########

This is a plane of Oblivion. It must be. It has to be. No other explanation will suffice.

Time is swallowed up in this place at an alarming rate. It feels like I've been here for days, weeks even. The corridor was dimly lit when I entered, barely lighting the stairs leading down into its depths. My footsteps echoed with every step I descended, the only sound for the first few moments I arrived. With the look, feel and smell of a dank cellar, I passed through one corridor after another, identical to the next and containing no shortage of macabre oddities and surprises. The first sight I was greeted with was a human skull, missing a bottom jaw, mantled on the wall in front of me. Skeletal arms and hands are positioned all around its head, forming a bone crown on the wall behind it. And that was the tamest "display" I came across so far. Skeletons and remains of skeletons, chained and shackled by their legs and wrists to iced-over brick walls - one even had a deer skull with gemstones in the eye sockets - seem to be all over this place. I have to wonder if this Midden place was the College's version of our torture chambers. But the lack of fresh or even dried-over blood seems to disprove that theory. Amid poor lighting, unforgivingly bitter cold that somehow feels worse in here than it does outside, and a dampness I can literally taste, I pass through rooms full of bones, some animal, some human, and some I can't identify at all. Random assortments of cooking items, errantly discarded armor and weapons, brooms and other tools, and large crates and barrels filled with Lorkhan-knows-what. They've been webbed over a thousand times over by the resident frostbite spiders that set upon me almost as soon as I rounded a corner. My jaw ticks. Urag's note neglected to mention they lived here alongside the ice wraiths.

Which, oddly enough, I have not see a single one of.

By my estimate, it's been at least an hour since I first came here. Between getting lost navigating endless stairways and hallways, strange rooms with tripwire and other traps I've since lost count of, the only evidence of ice wraiths I've seen are the crystal blue ice piles they disintegrate into upon death. And the floor around them charred and blackened beyond belief. This concerns me the most, as it is not so easily explainable. There is no fire scroll or fire spell strong enough to leave scouring this deep and this protracted, to leave the stone beneath almost crumbled into ash. Even the air around these marks reeks of burnt stone, and another smell I'm acutely familiar with. Burning flesh and fabrics. It's as if a dragon was down here, scorching them and someone else to the Deadlands. Which isn't possible but... who or what else could be down here? And why? On top of this place having no real purpose that I've yet to see other than a massive and macabre storage facility, it is deathly quiet, and every sound seems to echoes for eternity. The only sounds I've heard so far have been errant water droplets from sources unknown, the wind howling as things scurry and move out of my sight, and my own labored breathing as the cold threatens to shut my body down from the inside out. If someone else was down here, someone humanoid at least, I'd have heard them long ago.

One room is much more open than the rest, boasting a high ceiling. A few paces away, a short set of stairs leads to a small, flat area littered with a few bones. Next to them is a small wooden crate, a thin tattered mat and a yellow rug. In front of them is another doorway, a wall-mounted torch lighting the way. And to the right are four small windows, showing what look to be a rock wall on the other side. All of the windows are gated, except for the bottom right. I can't imagine I'm extremely high up - I've gown down more flights of stairs than climbed - but it would help to know exactly where I am. I make my way down the stairs and I'm about to go through the opening when the bones start moving. I'm almost taken off guard when a skeleton begins wordlessly clambering towards me, ancient battleaxe in hand and eyes glowing bright blue. A quick dodge and a weak firebolt spell sends it down permanently. The brief blast of heat feels heavenly in my palm, momentarily trapped in the ice box I've foolishly decided to explore in my meantime.

Once I'm sure nothing else is going to try and get the jump on me, I turn back to the open window. Stepping through it, the first thing I see is a huge rock wall. It looks like I'm inside a huge rock crevice, maybe inside of a glacier. There are floor to ceiling rock walls all around me, encased in what look to be centuries of ice and snow. I'm also a considerable distance higher than I anticipated. I happen to glance down in time to see a shadow move through the entryway of another doorway, highlighted by a reddish-orange glow of light, all the way at the ground level of the Midden. I saw it for the briefest of moments, but it looked humanoid and made no sound to indicate otherwise as it moved out of my sight. I'm surprised someone is still down here and I haven't heard them yet, but whoever it is clearly hasn't left. There is still time to catch whoever it is. They clearly know more about this place than I do, and it's been too long since I properly interrogated someone for anything. I spin and move to the entryway behind me. I get to the threshold and come up short when something on the ground catches my eye in the low candlelight. It's lightly colored, which makes it stand out in this godsforsaken Midden that's starting to feel more and more like a sprawling dungeon than a basement or even a cellar. Somewhat shiny, and glittery. I squat to pick it up, examining it closer in my hands. It's a necklace. Made to fit a very, very narrow neck. It could be a choker. The chain is a bright bronze, almost gold. The part of the chain that should have opened and closed is gone. The metal looks like it was melted by something. But the pendant itself catches my attention.

A small triangle with an eye in its center is attached to the chain. Hanging from this is a bronze circular pendant the size of my palm with three small circles, formed into an inverted triangle, while a single-banded equal-sided triangle is super-imposed on top of them. Fancy bronze filigree outlines the outskirts of the circles and the pendant itself, and there are intricate carvings inside each circle reminiscent of stained glass windows. The bold borders of the triangles on the pendant itself are rigid, but the circles and carvings are as smooth as tempered glass. The chain missing a clasp, commonly found in the middle, indicates it was still being worn when it fell off the neck. When it fell off someone's neck. Rubbing my thumb across the pendant, I instantly recognize the symbol etched onto it from the time I spent in Cyrodiil, and my inspection of the Temple of Divines in Solitude.

Julianos. The Imperial god of wisdom and logic, and the patron saint of all magic users, men, mer and beast alike. This is an amulet of Julianos, custom-made into a choker.

I pause, not sure I really understand what I'm seeing. Amulets were not uncommon in Skyrim or Tamriel for that matter. While the Talos amulets were quick to disappear throughout most of the province after our truce with the men and the signing of the White-Gold Concordat, people wore the rest of the pantheon's amulets everywhere. Skyrim especially had a custom of wearing an amulet of Mara to signify their intent to marry, and it looked as ridiculous as it sounded. But choker amulets like these were less common, perhaps even rare. Someone took the time to have this customized specifically for them. And it looks so, so familiar. The longer I look at it, the more I can't shake the feeling that I've seen it before...

The memory hits me like a slap to the face. I sharply inhale through my nose as my eyes widen, the biting cold filling my lungs. The last time I saw this pendant, it was fastened around a slender, saddle-brown neck. Framed by a cascading waterfall of a myriad of dark braids, accenting icy-blue eyes, dark red lips, and thick, stark-white warpaint striated across a sharp face.

The Redguard mage. Winterhold's star pupil, and a true human magickal prodigy. Ira of Astora.

This is her amulet, the one I saw her wearing on the first day of our shadowing in the Hall of Attainment. I wasn't able to get a good look at it then, and hadn't been since that day, but the shape and color are unmistakable. It is of no surprise that her patron saint is the father of sorcery and magic himself. Unbidden, memories of her flash in my mind, seemingly at this connection I've just made. Her damnable smile and laughter are the most prominent among them. I remember the way she smiled down at me in the staircase leading to the Arcaneum, seemingly amused by my struggle to navigate the dimly-lit corridor. The light from the sole candle in that stairway gave her features and soft and almost aetherial glow. The way she laughed and tried to conceal it when Urag insulted me in the Arcaneum, and I feel my jaw tick at this particular memory. The Orc has yet to pay for said insult, but he will get his in due time. The soft look on her face as Drevis walked away from us, the day she nearly killed me. I tense. The memories are sharper than they ought to be, stronger and much clearer in my mind than anything else I've seen and done here. At first, I don't know why I'm remembering these particular aspects of the past two days, but then I realize she's the sole member of the College I have spent the most time with since my arrival. In retrospect, I'd rather mop the Sea of Ghosts than spend time with the insufferable halfling Mirabelle. And the Archmage is oh so busy sitting about his office reading whatever book falls into his lap, all the while neglecting the growing mountain of parchmentwork on his desk. But no matter. If her amulet is here, then she must not be far behind.

I stand from my squat, and nearly black out from the sensation. I was in that position for longer than I should have been and stood much too quickly, an action my body was swift to punish me for. I feel lightheaded, like all the blood has rushed from my head and pooled down to my lowest extremities. The room feels like it's spinning around me and I'm willing myself not to collapse. I'm not getting that old, am I? I stand motionless for a moment, eyes closed as I regain my senses. While physical fitness was not always a necessity for Justiciars in the Dominion, it helped on the battlefield. I can almost hear Estormo chiding me for being out of shape. Originally a patrol soldier, he quickly showed an affinity for sneaking and surveillance. It was not long before he was promoted to a scout, accompanying Justiciars as they patrolled the streets of Imperial-controlled cities and roads. A path I would have taken myself, had I not shown proficiency in every school of magic and a knack for interrogation. I open my eyes and glance to my left. The corridor looms before me, and I stride through it as I pocket the newly discovered amulet. It settles in perfectly, clinking alongside Ancoril's amulet. I had nearly forgotten it was still there, its weight both comforting and burdening. Surely there are rules and regulations regarding the College's star pupil trudging through what amounts to be an icy off-limits dungeon by herself. She will have some explaining to do.

##########

The scent of magicka and an unsourced smoke gets stronger the further down into the Midden I go. I'm getting closer, but still have not seen a trace of anything or anyone other than myself. Had I not found the amulet, I would have successfully convinced myself I had imagined seeing a shadow down here, the cold warping my mind to dangerous proportions. Rounding a corner in one corridor, an unnaturally bright orange glow is visible around the bend, the brightest light I have seen here so far. I listen for sound, believing someone might be sourcing this light up ahead, but hear nothing. It's genuinely impossible to tell if there's someone here or not, and I don't know what I'm about to face that I haven't faced already. But regardless, my feet begin a careful approach of the bend and managed to carry me to the other side. Inside is a large circular room, brick stone walls from floor to high-domed ceiling, with basic wooden furniture. A large wardrobe is off to the left side, next to a small table, two accompanying wooden chairs, and a single bed. The meagre furniture in this space is confusing to make sense of. This place is hardly a suitable habitat for anyone to sleep in, much less live, but I've seen enough nonsense in this province to know Nords will make do with anything. There is an immense glow of light coming from the adjoining room next to the furniture that immediately draws my attention. Seeing and sensing no one around, I make my way to the light source and stop before what looks to be a... circular portal, of some kind.

The entire thing is made of stone, the same stone that aligns the rooms and floors. It spans half the length and width of the room, lined with numerous candles mounted on metal centerpieces that outline the portal's perimeters inside and out. A short set of small steps are on the left and right side. There's a smaller circle in the middle, glowing icy blue and emblazoned with the Daedric letter for 'O', a symbol I immediately recognize due to its association with the Oblivion Crisis. A concave half-crescent shape is attached to the bottom edge of the portal, propped up by a huge troll skull adorned with elaborate, braided horns. Embers and coals are pooled into the dip, with a small set of bronze doors off to its side. Right at the crescent's lip, directly in front of me, is a small pulley. The whole thing looks ominous, and yet...

The Oblivion Crisis has been over for a long time. Not even beautiful Summerset was spared from the barbarity that was pure, unfiltered Oblivion unleashed. And every Altmer remembers where they were when the Crystal Tower fell to the Daedra. The foul beasts couldn't resist the allure that the Tower provided, being so similar to the spires that were seen in the Deadlands inside their Gates. I remember it as if it happened merely a few days ago. The abrupt change in the weather, the angry red skies, the sheer heat coming from each door like a massive oven. To say nothing about the utter abominations that came pouring out of the gates in droves, killing everything that moved without pause. As odd as this may sound, the Crisis was the last time I truly felt that the Summerset Isles were united after the Sapiarchs ceded their power to the Dominion. While not all were happy with the shift in power, the Thalmor proved their worth in the eyes of every Aldmeri citizen at their handling of the Crisis. And to this day, for our efforts, we are still heralded as Summerset's saviors. But truly, every corner of Tamriel suffered, with the exception of Black Marsh. The lizards zealously took to reverse invading the Oblivion Gates, to the point where the Daedra and their worshippers closed them and never opened new ones out of desperation, and a sense of their lives being of greater value. This hardly seems like the kind of portal that a gate would open from, and I sincerely doubt such a gate could be sustained within such a small space as this. Despite the sprawling nature of this dungeon, everything has a sense of containment that would make breaching difficult.

Though I've never been near one myself, those who have claimed that they radiated a truly evil aura. An energy so suffocatingly oppressive, it was difficult to approach and even painful to pass through if you were not a Daedra or one of its worshippers. It felt like it was shredding you alive and choking you at the same time. And the smell was described as... nothing short of horrendous. Rotting flesh put to flame, sulfuric and nauseating to breathe in. There's nothing but pure magicka emanating from this thing, whatever it may be. And whatever has been burning is not coming from this portal, nor is it in the room behind me. The presence of the bronze doors and pulley indicate this is more of a machine than a portal, but I haven't the faintest idea of what's supposed to go inside the doors, and why. Perhaps there's a manual or a note of some sorts, detailing what this is and how to use it. Perhaps something on the table or the wardrobe behind me will-

I'm startled by a low groaning coming from somewhere far behind me, my ears picking up the sound effortlessly as it carries throughout the empty hallways. Snapping around, I at first see nothing. I'm eerily reminded of the zombies that would prowl Cyrodiil's countryside, although it was incredibly rare for them to wander from the dungeons and ruins they usually inhabit. It was good practice to patrol through them, familiarize yourself with what to expect in the countryside of the province and the seemingly abandoned fortresses that dotted its landscape. In that regard, Skyrim was no different. Skyrim's version of zombies were draugr, and they were much deadlier than their Cyrodiilic kin. The Nords saw fit to outfit their dead as if they were going to battle instead of the afterlife - usually in a primitive precursor to today's iron armor and armed to the teeth with weapons ranging from bows and crossbows to swords and shields. I saw quite a few of them scattered around the Midden as I made my way through its endless hallways, as dead as they should stay. Yet their bodies were broken, limbs shattered and weapons cast aside, struck where they stood. Could this have been the source of their demise?

I step away from the room with the portal and move through the threshold of the makeshift bedroom when I see a dark shape approaching from a corridor to my left. It's on the brink of my mind to cast an invisibility spell, but I think better of it. I will catch whoever is here by surprise, but I am fairly certain I already know who this dark shape is. It silently moves through the hallway, at last stepping into view. I do not see her face at first, covered by a cowl, but I know it's her. She walks lazily into the threshold and gingerly climbs down the steps, not seeing me at first. Her back is hunched ever so slightly and her gait is equally off-balance. She almost looks to be in pain. The hardened expression on her face is off-putting, clashing with the calm and collected composure I had become used to seeing on her. I involuntarily sniff, and freeze. My senses have not betrayed me before, and they have no reason to now. The smoke that I've been following in here... it's coming from her.

She starts at the sound and finally looks up to see me. Surprised is etched onto her face, quickly replaced by open suspicious and dare I say a small amount of fear. I was clearly the last person she was expecting to see down here, and it should go without saying that she has no idea why I'm here to begin with. Coincidentally, I could say the same of her presence here as well, and now that she has shown herself, I will have my answers soon enough. "Well, well," I cross my arms over my chest, fixing the Redguard with a stern look. I try to ignore the feeling that I am about to scold a child and not a grown woman, dismissing it as an acute awareness of our age gap. "Is the Archmage aware that his star pupil is traipsing through dungeons filled with Daedra paraphernalia in her spare time?" I loosely gesture to the portal behind us. Truthfully, I'm bluffing. I'm quite certain none of these mages have what it takes to harness the power of Oblivion in any capacity, but the existence of the portal itself as well as its Oblivion symbol can only be interepreted so many ways.

The Redguard makes an exaggerated show of rolling her eyes and sighing as she places both of her palms squarely on her hips, locking her legs to cock her body to one side. She looks more bored than irritated, though I'm familiar enough with both emotions to know that they can look quite similar on certain people. "Well, I suppose that depends," she replies. "Does the Archmage know you're down here doing the same thing? Or did he send you to come looking for me like some errand boy?" My eyes narrow and I'm about to tell her to hold her tongue when speaking to a Justiciar, when something about her robes catches my attention. They are the same ones she's been wearing for the past few days, but they're damaged. Completely tattered in many places, even. Almost like... she'd been singed. It's hard to tell since the damned things are dark in color, but I can see parts of her skin peaking out from underneath. Indeed, the fabric hanging loosely in front has nearly been seared clean off, and her midriff is almost entirely exposed. What I thought was a cowl is actually the tattered remnants of a hood, large holes throughout show her hair hiding underneath. The gloves covering her wrists and forearms are actively falling apart as we stand here, leaving the skin exposed. The front of her left shoulder has a significant wound on it, and I wouldn't doubt if she was aching in several areas of her body. For a moment, I'm distracted by the deep, saddle-brown skin clashing with black and muted grey. Either the light is creating illusions in this dim space, or I can see thick, painted striations where her shoulder meets her neck. Meaning she has body paint as well as face paint.

A sudden movement on her part releases me from my temporary distraction. She mirrors my stance, firmly crossing her arms over her chest and angling her body away from me. A vicious cold shoulder tells me I was caught ogling for too long, and she isn't comfortable or appreciative of it. I'm... unsure how to proceed, so I say what is on my mind: "I could smell whatever it was you were burning since I got here." Her eyes widen and her mouth opens slightly for a milisecond before closing shut. She groans, swearing under her breath as her hands massage her forehead. I don't catch everything she says, save for a name I'm familiar with. I'm having a hard time believing what I've heard, as well as the conclusion it brings me. "Am I to believe that cat is responsible for this much damage?" J'zargo, so far, has come across as self-serving in his interests and single-minded in his pursuit for anything that will grant him personal gain, or at least a leg up from the rest of his colleagues. A sickening feeling rises within me. Did he attack her? I suppose it is possible for him to have done the deed and came back up to the training area to feign innocence, but I do not want to give the cat too much credit no matter how skilled he may be in destruction magic. But his sabotaging the rest of his colleagues to further his own pursuits is definitely within the realm of possibilities.

She stills. I can sense her hesitation, unsure of whether to share her answer with me. After a moment, she unfolds her arms and sighs again, much heavier this time. Her shoulders sag and she nearly doubles over. "In a manner of speaking, yes, he is," I can tell she is choosing her words carefully. She shuffles past me to the table behind me, the chair creaing slightly underneath her weight as she takes a seat, and it is there that I notice something I hadn't before. Two neatly rolled up scrolls, both blood red in color. Scrolls were dyed certain colors to depict the nature of the spells and incantations written within. The restoration scrolls tended to be softer, pastel-like colors, and the illusion scrolls had an alluring shimmer to them. Destruction scrolls had bold, vibrant colors, and they were typically reserved for the strongest of spells. She picks up one scroll and opens it, a faint look of disgust on her face. Eager to hear her explanation, I step closer. I can't properly explain why, but the idea of her being attacked by one of her colleagues is bothering me. It should not concern me what these sorry excuses for mages do to themselves or each other, it doesn't impede my work here in any-

The red scroll is tossed onto the table in a fit of irritation. She leans her elbows on her knees, using her hands to continue massaging her temples in a smoothing motion. "A few days ago, before you showed up, J'zargo approached me for...", she mimics the signs for quotations in the air in front of her, "'assistance' in something he was working on. He told me he developed a fire spell that was particularly effective against the undead, and needed help testing it. This place is home to lots of ice wraiths and frostbite spiders, they always manage to find a way in from the outside. Not to mention the errant draugr and skeletons the conjuration students leave behind. I could think of no better targets or location for testing a fire scroll." She rubs her neck and looks to her right, at a spot on the wall behind me. "If I didn't know any better, I'd say he was trying to kill me," she straigtens, wincing slightly. She's definitely in pain somewhere. Whatever spell this scroll cast hurt her in some way. My jaw clenches and flexes before I can stop myself, but I continue to listen. "The spell is an apprentice-level flame cloak," she continues, "but he clearly failed to alter the incantation so that the spell won't self-inflict onto the caster. He gave me three of these scrolls, and I used only one. Needless to say I will not be using the rest."

This woman's lack of self-preservation astounds me. "Am I to understand, Redguard," I stalk to the table next to her, intent on examining the scroll, "that Winterhold's star pupil is willing to risk hide, hair and even personal injury to help out any of her colleagues? No matter how dubious their request, no matter how questionable their character or whether they're capable of helping themselves?" I stop just short of her, glowering down at her with my arms behind my back. To my amazement, I feel as disappointed as I sound. This woman, who is proving herself to be smarter than the rabble she insists on surrounding herself with, should have known better than to place her trust in an already untrusthworthy cat who is only in this institution for himself. In the Dominion, we were taught a simple doctrine, meant to foster self-preservation and independence within each of us. Trust no one, not even yourself or those around you. Trustworthiness was proven to each other and oneself much later, but this prevented us from getting into situations like these. Risking our lives and sticking our necks out for things and people undeserving and unworthy of it. I can't even think of why she would agree to such an asinine request, even from a colleague. He should have been more than capable of testing the scrolls himself, since he supposedly authored them. I scoff inwardly. I wouldn't put it past the cat to get someone else to do his work for him, as this woman has clearly done.

She looks up at me with a frown. "Believe it or not, I am," she says matter of factly. Then she stands to face me, crossing her arms as well. How universal the body language has become, especially between the both of us. "Unlike you and your Dominion friends, we don't believe in leaving others behind in Winterhold, even if they're weak and slow down progress. We work for a common goal - the advancement of the understanding of magic. The work we do is shared with all of us, regardless of whether it serves this greater purpose or not. That way the knwoledge shared and earned uplifts and benefits us all." My eyes narrow. Not many outside of the Dominion are familiar with our mentality, our way of thinking. But helping weaker colleagues slows everyone down. I mull over her words as I pick up a scroll to read. Unfurling it, I'm greeted with primitive writing in non-straight lines that immediately hurt my eyes to look upon. I can't help the grimace that makes its way to my face. I clearly see why the spell backfired on her. These scrawled claw marks that apparently pass for khajiiti handwriting make it impossible to know what the incantation is supposed to be or even do. By the Aedra, it's a miracle the spell even worked, and perhaps that in itself is a testament to this woman's intellect, that she was able to decipher this illegible rubbish. I open my mouth to ask her if she even thought to open one of the scrolls when the cat dumped them on her, to read the incantation herself before attempting to use them, when the look on her face stops me. My eyes are either playing tricks on me, or there's a ghost of a smile on her face.

"What's the matter with you now, girl?" I'm feeling agitated. Not knowing the reason for this look is giving me growing unease. I begin to suspect that perhaps she suffered a head injury while she was down here, although she's been quite lucid so far. Of all the humans I've encountered here, she's showing herself to be the most difficult to read. She shakes her head, but her expression does not change. Now I am very much not amused, but then I remember what I found shortly before I arrived to this part of the Midden. Returning the scroll back to the table, I smirk down at her. "If you will not tell me, fine," I start, making a show of pulling her amulet out of my pocket and not the other amulet, mentally willing myself not to think about the latter's owner. Not now. "I suppose I shall never know how this got here, then." Her eyes bulge when she sees the amulet dangling from my hand. She gasps at the same time she tries to reach for the amulet, while I lean back to prevent her from grabbing it. "Ah-ah-ah, not so fast," I tell her, stepping back to give space between us. I watch her face morph from disappointment to something that resembles worried anticipation. Although I hold her gaze, I still catch her right hand twitching at her side from the corner of my eye. She is practically itching for this back, this amulet clearly has some sentimental value. A feeling I can empathize with, considering the weight of the other amulet in my pocket. Heavy as a stone and burning hot with memories I have to will away by force, yet as light as a feather and as cold as the air around us. Perhaps I could use her desperation to my advantage. Bargain for knowledge about this place, the Daedric portal behind us, information about Winterhold, about herself, anything that could be useful to me in the long-term. But in this instance, there is only one thing I want to know, and it is completely and utterly worthless in the long-term. I settle for the one thing that is most pressing on my mind in the current moment.

"I'm willing to return this amulet to you in exchange for something..." I begin. Something flashes across her face, replaced by sheer and open disgust. I nearly ask her, for the second time, what's the matter with her when she answers for me, the disgust just as palpable in her voice. "Unbelievable. Men really are the same, no matter the race." I freeze, understanding its meaning and implication in her words uncomfortably well. I'm appalled. No, more than appalled. I'm fucking offended. Where on Nirn did she get this assumption that I would think to proposition her? And here, of all places? Worse yet, I cannot decide which is more offensive - the assumption she made about me, the implication it carried about my character, or my reaction to it. Perhaps a mix of the three. Perhaps all three. But it is enough to twist my stomach and make me feel physically ill. I instantly remember the stories my colleagues came back with, from their campaigns in Hammerfell, boastful and prideful. It sounded like they were on a hunting expedition and not a protracted conflict with another human race, in a province freshly abandoned by the Empire. This abandonment meant that they didn't need to abide by any rules of law, except their own. And in Hammerfell, anything went. I remember the violence they spoke of and laughed about inflicting onto the Redguards of all ages. Tortures, murders, disappearances, lynchings, rapes. You name it, my colleagues in the Dominion did it, and much, much worse. As did my own father, a barrage of horrific deeds and decisions that robbed him of his compassion and empathy, and haunted him until his last day on Nirn. The historic undertones parlaying between me and the female in front of me in this very moment are not lost on me at all, as much as I may want them to be. Ancient echoes of war crimes long past creeping up to watch this spectacle unfolding between us. A Redguard mage from hardy and resilient Hammerfell, and a Justiciar of the great and mighty Aldmeri Dominion. That she thinks I will stoop as low as those did before me, even outside of war and conquest, is unconscionable. I don't know what I look like to her in this moment, but she takes a half step back as she gives me a guarded, cautious look.

"And just who do you take me for exactly, girl? Do you think I'm one of those Thalmor? The ones who pillaged and raided the countrysides we invaded for fun?" I all but spit the words out at her, and they taste like venom. Our Bosmeri cousins were said to shapeshift into beasts of all sorts on top of speaking to them, including reptiles like snakes and lizards. I wonder if I inherited an ancient trait passed down from an ancestor who had a similar ability. I feel like I could breathe fire in this moment and steam would come from my ears and nose. To her credit, the Redguard doesn't appear afraid. But she seems confused, as if not understanding why I'm upset about this particular matter. After a moment, she says, "Well... a man," so matter-of-factly. As if that answer should have been obvious, as if that was reason enough for what I thought she was implying. Deflating, the irritation leaks out of me like a held breath. No doubt she is familiar with the violence my people wrought against hers, past and present. Perhaps she has seen or heard of it happening here and now, somewhere within the province or in Cyrodiil. Lady Elenwen is fully aware of all the prisons we operate in the Imperial-controlled regions of Skyrim. There are even some on the outskirts of Stormcloak territory and in neutral territory, illicitly run and highly illegal that only a select few of us know about. She's been known to participate in the interrogation procedures herself, either at the Thalmor Embassy in the snowy foothills west of Solitude, or at these same illegal prisons. Her instructions when it came to handling most of the prisoners that we apprehend have always been clear - as long as they remain alive and able to speak, anything goes. I've heard of specific methods my male colleagues have used to make female prisoners in particular more cooperative, methods that have made me hollow upon hearing of them, and I have silently prayed to the Aedra that they were false. Fictional boasts to make themselves superior to their colleagues and intimidating to the prisoners. A fool's prayer, for I know they are true. I've heard and seen the aftermath of these methods myself, many times over, here and at every stronghold we maintain in Tamriel. But I have never tried these methods myself, and I never intend to. The hollow look on my father's face when he returned from Hammerfell, all those decades ago, was proof enough that it would not be worth it in the end.

While I ruminated on a cursed, bloodsoaked past, she stayed rooted at the spot, silent. She's currently staring at a spot on the ground between us, slight off to my left. Lost in thought herself. Neither of us thought to return to the present. I take a deep breath, feeling the last of my irritation dissipate with my exhale. It is entirely possible that she has first-hand experience of the accusations she's just implied me of being capable of. Whatever she is thinking of me in this moment needs to be dispelled immediately. "Perish whatever foul, reprehensible thoughts are running through your mind, girl," I sound much harsher than I intend, but this point must be made and it needs to stick. She needs to know that whatever she's thinking - I know what she's thinking - does not align with who I am or why I'm here. She looks up at me in mild surprise, and I hate that my stomach dips ever so slightly. I was on the mark when it came to what she was implying. Or, I've simply brought her back from her trance, separated her from whatever was really on her mind. I barely stop myself from asking her exactly what it was, settling instead on what I meant to ask in the first place. "I meant simply to ask you why you looked at me with that peculiar expression a moment ago." I'm much calmer now, the irritation gone and agitated uneasiness melted away. That accusation made my skin crawl in a way I was neither comfortable with nor accustomed to. Even worse is how I nearly lost my emotional control in front of her, something that hasn't happened since... I swallow thickly, hoping she doesn't notice.

Her mouth opens, but she says nothing. Instead, she sighs, her shoulders sagging once again. This has been a long day for her, and it is likely close to evening already. "I'm not sure why it matters to you, but," she chooses her words carefully, "I thought the way you looked at J'zargo's scroll was funny. You looked disgusted and offended at the same time. I only ever see that look in the professors, whenever someone does or says something outrageously stupid." Now it is my turn to feel a ghost of a smile caress my lips, the proposed scenario being entirely believable given the hopeless state of these students and their equally hapless professors. Her eyes hone in on the amulet I'm still dangling in my hand, subtly reminding me that her end of the bargain has been fulfilled. In my internal emotional turmoil, I had completely forgotten that I was still holding it. She easily catches the careless toss I throw at her, and wastes no time attempting to put it back on. I turn away from her and leave her to figure out how she became separated from the amulet in the first place. "You will also tell me what this contraption is here," I make my way to the room with the strange-looking portal, examining it once more as my hands find my hips. "I would hate to report to the Archmage that his institution is home to a secret cult of Daedra worshippers." A noise that suspiciously sounds like the beginning of hearty laughter starts up behind me, immediately followed by coughing. I shoot a suspicious glare at the woman from my shoulder, and she's holding her chest as she coughs. She stops, and is able to loosely gesture between herself and the idiot cat's discarded scrolls still on the table. From what I gather, the smoke its flames produced have been agitating her lungs to some degree.

"That's the Atronach Forge," she walks up to stand behind me, off to my right. Her answer indicates I'm supposed to know what that is exactly. After an awkward exchange of blank stares, she elaborates some more. "It's used as part of Master Phinis' final examinations for conjuration magic. Those who manage to match or even surpass him in skill are instructed to come down here to summon an item or entity of his choosing from a recipe he gives you. From what I remember, you place the recipe ingredients into the offering chamber," she points to the bronze doors, "and something is summoned onto the platform there," her finger moves up to indicate the Oblivion symbol. She lowers her hand as her gaze lingers on the forge. "Very few people know of the Forge's origins, myself included. Phinis is the only one I know of who does, and it isn't something he shares with everyone." She adjusts her tattered and scorched robes as best as she can, while I am left with more questions than answers. Before I can ask any of them, light footfalls behind me make a slow retreat to the tunnel that led me here in the first place. "I don't know about you, but I've had enough of this place. And scrolls, at least for today." She begins to leave, and it does not escape my notice that the khajiit's useless scrolls are left on the table. Considering what she has likely gone through down here already, I do not fault her for leaving. She stops for a moment, turning slightly to me. "I guess I'll be seeing you around."

I could stop her, keep her here for more questioning. But after the awkward exchange we had just moments ago, and the tidal wave of emotions that coursed through me, I too am eager to leave this place. While I have learned much, I have also spent too much time here. As I watch her retreat, a thought comes to mind. "Very well, Redguard, but allow me to give you a piece of advice," I turn to her retreating backside, which stops almost to the entrance of the corridor at the sound of my voice. She stands still, not turning to acknowledge me. I can see the faintest traces of bruising on her left shoulder, where her robes have tattered. "Do not be so eager to help your hapless colleagues next time, especially those below your skill. You'll get yourself hurt again or even killed before you know it. And there is no 'uplifting or benefiting from the advancement of magic' in death." It was harsh, especially to throw her own words back at her, but the Dominion believed cruelty was the best way to get their doctrines across. Only the strongest made it to the very end, while the weak were cast aside or killed. Of course, the College of Winterhold is not the Aldmeri Dominion. And the students and professors alike would certainly crumble under Dominion leadership. But the lessons we learned could benefit her and the rabble around her. And the sooner she learns this herself, the better. Perhaps she could even teach the others, with whatever good that would do.

The Redguard turns halfway to face me, giving me a long look. Every so often I see subtle movements in her jaw. After a long moment where I did not think she would speak at all, she turns away and leaves. I watch as her figure rounds the corner of the tunnel's entrance, as her shadow disappears, and as the sound of her footsteps recedes into nothing. I am left alone, with the Atronach Forge and the sounds of the Midden that never left. I heave a sigh, feeling weight lift off my shoulders that I did not realize was burdening me. I have no explanation for what took place moments ago. I have not had to think of such vile acts and deeds in a while, and I foolishly thought I could escape them in the northernmost province of Skyrim. But that is neither here nor there. I'm quite confident that I made my point crystal clear to her, and she will not repeat the mistake she made. She has so far shown smarter than that. Needing something to distract me, I make quick work of jotting down everything I remember from what the Redguard told me about the Atronach Forge, including a rough sketch of it, in my journal. The embers in front of the offering chamber provide a surprising amount of warmth, restoring feeling to my long-numbed hands and fingers. My accompanying notes are sparse, but I add a reminder to seek out the conjuration master for more information on this Forge. If what the Redguard said was true, he may need some... persuasion.

##########

After a final once-over of the place, including the room that the Redguard emerged from, I pocket my journal and follow the Redguard's footsteps out of the room, rubbing my hands vigorously against my upper arms. I hope to never see this wretched place again, at least not any time soon. I see why its entrance is boarded up so tightly. After traversing the same set of stairs that led me here, I come across a wooden door on my right, relieved to have found the way out. However, instead of stepping into the training area beneath the Hall of Elements, I find myself still somewhere in the Midden. A short set of stairs leads to an open, icy area I am positive I haven't crossed before. There is a short bridge in front of me, a hulking figure at the end. It's pale white and tall, standing on two legs with its back facing me. At first it doesn't move, then it grunts, and the sound immediately tells me it is a frost troll. I swear, belatedly wishing I had left with the Redguard so that I would be out of this place. I did not think backtracking would be this difficult. The troll hears me and turns its head in my direction, all three eyes hyper-focused once it sees me. With a roar and a short series of leaps in place, it begins lumbering in my direction. Having dealt with frost trolls before, I knew what would make short work of the creature. I cup my hands together and position them to my left, firing two well-timed fireballs at the troll as it continues across the bridge. The first fireball makes it stagger, and the second puts it down for good. It came within five paces of where I stood before going limp and falling sideways, sliding off the bridge lifelessly.

Following its body, I look beneath the bridge. The ice-covered ground below is littered with bones of all kinds. I spot a shield and a sword among them, a brown knapsack long since discarded by its equally dead inhabitant. They were no doubt a meal for the troll at some point, along with the ice wraiths and spiders and Lorkhan-knows-what else is down here. Skyrim's trolls and their frost kin were not picky eaters, and were known to strip bones completely bare of meat. But I've seen enough bones in this one area to last me a lifetime, and waste no time crossing the bridge. It leads to a corridor etched out in the ice, an incline with no steps leading upwards and turning right. I follow the tunnel as it winds to the left, and come across another open area. Ahead of me, stone pillars support a small platform, in between them is an altar with offerings that make no sense to me at all. A goat's head, next to a small wooden bowl with an assortment of precious gems, a garlic bulb, soul gems of various sizes and some lavender stalks. I spend a moment analyzing the items, trying to draw a connection between them to discern what this could possibly be an offering to or for.

"Your duplicity will only lead to your downfall."

A voice, loud and sudden and verberating all around me, startles me so severely that I slip in the process. Landing hard on the icy ground beneath me, I groan as the dull pain sets in and slowly sit upright. The scare was made more severe in that I did not see or hear anyone approach, and prior to hearing it I did not feel the presence of another person in here with me. I still for a moment, waiting to hear it again and studying what I noticed in its aftermath. The voice was male, deep and gravelly. He sounded maybe a decade older than the Redguard mage, with an accent I wasn't familiar with. And there was something off about the quality of his voice, like he was speaking from somewhere else. If someone was here, by now they would have made their presence known one way or another. "Who's there? Identify yourself," I clamber to my feet, righting myself and my uniform. My Justiciar voice is at full volume, rivaling the most seasoned Imperial general. It commands with the authority of the Aldmeri Dominion, in places that respect no such authority. In places such as this. I hear nothing at first, except my own solitary echo returning to me, and I begin to move further into the cavern to investigate when the voice speaks again.

"Time is your companion. And it is generous with its abundance. It is not too late to choose a different path."

Whoever he is, he doesn't comply with my orders. And his speech is nonsensical. Undoubtedly a result of having been exposed to this wretched cold for far too long. Still, I see and hear no one, not even sensing the presence of another living being in this little cavern with me. But given how loud he is, I'm surprised the ground and the walls aren't shaking with its force. It is then that I notice a wooden door opposite of me, tucked neatly into the ice wall and accompanied by a small set of stairs. I wouldn't have seen it had I not taken the time to look, it blended in remarkably well. This voice's owner must be in there, but that doesn't explain why he's so damned loud. Or why it sounds like he's speaking from the bottom of a deep well, or some other space with very poor and peculiar audio acoustics. With a subtle flex of my hands, I poise a fireball in each one. Had I known the Midden was this dangerous and unpredictable, I would have come well-armed. I wish I had the foresight to bring a dagger or some other weapon with me. I regret not taking the sword I saw below the bridge. Without reason, I remember how badly the Redguard mage was injured down here, just from using poorly crafted scrolls. I wonder if she found the way out, I wonder if she made back to the College safely. I shake away my thoughts straying to well-being the one person I seem to be thinking of too often and swallow, feeling uneasy. I begin a slow approach of the wooden door on the other side.

I step to the door and I'm about to tell whoever is on the other side that they have one final chance to reveal themselves before I barge in, when I see its iced-over handle. My breath fogs in front of me, a miniscule respite from the uncompromising cold, and I come up short of any action. Given all that I've seen in this Midden so far, I'm not even sure what I'm about to find in here. So far, just in this area, the College of Winterhold has proven to be more than what it seems just from looking at it on the outside. It would not surprise me to find a troll or ice wraith or even a draugr capable of speech, trapped in here for Lorkhan only knows how long, or perhaps a simple ghost. I try the handle, as frigid to the touch as it looked, and the door won't budge forwards or backwards. It feels like something is blocking it from the other side, but the ice encrusted along its hinges and its handle indicate it has been a long, long time since it was last opened. It's frozen shut. I position myself several paces away from the door, resorting to using the fireballs I have at the ready to either blast it open or at least melt the ice encasing its hinges. The voice speaks again before I can launch a single one.

"Still you persist? Very well. You may enter."

Ice shatters and breaks around the door's hinges, the sound deafening in the stillness of the cavern. Before I have a chance to prepare myself, the door forcibly swings open on its own, an invitation inside. I stumble backwards, tensing for an attack or an abmush from someone or something. It takes my eyes a moment to adjust to the sheer darkness inside. The windowless room is empty with no one in sight, save for a stone structure in the center. A circular well, similar to the ones I've seen on the bridge leading up to the College but much bigger, taking up nearly the entire room itself. Above the well is a large circular opening of similar size, the ceiling of which extends higher than the ceiling of this room. It seems like this room was built specifically to house this well, but there is space enough for me to step inside. I lean forward to see if I can see anything inside the well, but all I see is a pit of darkness. The strength of it makes it impossible for me to determine how far down it goes. I look above the well's opening expecting to see a window or even the sky outside, but I only see more darkness instead. For a wild moment, I'm stunned into silence. The voice was indeed coming from a well. I had seen everything. I had the College figured out as an institution where anything goes and nothing was considered out of the ordinary, including trapping people in wells deep below the College's foundations. I could hardly believe I was right.

I was not expecting to be right twice in a row.

I'd made up my mind to cast a light spell to reveal the contents of the well and what is above the well too, when abruptly the room fills with light. Something huge and deep blue in color materializes into existence above the well itself, the intensity of its shine momentarily blinding me. Instinctively, I take several steps backwards, turning away as I shield my eyes. It is no use. Even squeezing my eyes shut doesn't dim the sheer amount of light emanating from this thing. When I hear nothing happen, I make a slow turn to face it. I cannot help but stare at it in fearful wonder, my jaw absent-mindedly working on its own to form words I can't even think of. Thick bright blue beams pulsate and dance around the light's perimeter. It's silent and shimmering, with a color I immediately recognize from around the College. This is it. This is the source of the light that's in every building. It spans nearly the width of the entire room, floating between the well's bottom and the ceiling above, with no visible tethers or source. As if this room was made specifically for it. Smaller particles of light float all around it, making its otherwordly glow even more ethereal. It speaks, confirming it to be the source of the mysterious voice once and for all.

"Welcome to the Midden."

I have had many, many brushes with death. Yet I have had fewer brushes with fear, death's faithful and ever loyal companion. The Dominion made us immune to it by teaching us that fear was a distraction, a weakness meant to rob us of our focus. The only time I have known the proud and fearless Aldmeri Eagles, my predecessors, to have been culled by fear in its most crippling sense, was in the late second era. When Tiber Septim, in his quest to conquer all of Tamriel, unleashed the Numidium against Aldmeri forces in Elsweyr. It was a monstrous and gargantuan Dwemer creation resembling a giant made of pure metal, only one ha thousand times bigger. So colossal that it made even our Crystal Tower look miniscule in comparison. I never saw it myself, but I remember the descriptions of it well, along with the reactions my ancestors had to it. They stood in shock, trembling with a fear they likely experienced for the first time in their lives and careers, made acutely aware of their mortality and diminshment in the face of such a beast. It is a feeling and sensation I share with them now, across millennia, across oceans, across conflicts, although much milder. I feel my legs shake in the presence of this light of unknown origin, unknown strength and unknown capabilites. For all I know, it could kill me where I stand, vaporizing me into a pile of ash and reducing my life to nothing but dust. It could turn my mind against me, make me hallucinate and see things that aren't there. But wht I do know for certain is that it is capable of speech, and it clearly possesses the intelligence of a sentient being. I manage a shaky breath, and with incredulity mixed with no small amount of fear, I ask the light one simple question:

"What... are you?"

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AUTHOR'S NOTE

OOF this one took me at least a month to write, maybe more. I really stalled on this one, and I think it's my longest chapter yet. I know there's no wrong way of doing this, but I may revise this in time when I go back and look it over. The scenes with my character and Ancano feel awkward and stiff to me, gotta learn how to polish that up.

This chapter's ending was inspired by a little tidbit that is severely overlooked during the College of Winterhold questline that has always bothered me. During the Good Intentions quest, we learn about the Augur of Dunlain from the Psijic monk Quaranir. He knows who the Augur is, but not where he is, only that he's somewhere in the College (but he cryptically tells us the Augur used to be a student here like us and is "now something else", without elaborating or sharing how he knows of this Augur), and we are tasked with finding him. After he resumes time, Ancano loses his patience with him suddenly playing dumb, and stalks Quaranir out of the College. We then have a chance to ask around about the Augur, and an easy way to find out more is to talk to the (still dazed and confused) Archmage standing next to us. He immediately gives up Tolfdir telling stories he shouldn't be (meaning he knows more than anyone), which leads us to Tolfdir telling us the story about the Augur and that he's currently down in the Midden. When we get to the Midden, the Augur is just as cryptic as Quaranir was, but he mentions something very interesting - we are not the first ones to visit him.

Asking for clarity reveals that Ancano had been down here before us, but this is never referenced again or explained during the quest. Naturally, that raises some questions; how did Ancano know about and find the Augur before we did? Where did he find out or learn about him? How did he know to seek him out in connection to what was found during the CoW quest? Huh???? This chapter was my attempt at tying that loose end. Ancano has a dialogue option to ask him if he's heard of the Augur of Dunlain (though many choose not to do this as he's already proven to be shady and up to no good, and most players want to avoid him). He nearly clams up, suspiciously tells you he doesn't know what you're talking about, and to mind your business. To me, his dialogue implies he not only wasn't expecting you to ask about the Augur, but that he found and spoke to the Augur before the Good Intentions quest even started! And sure, his response could segue to him seeking the Augur out himself afterwards, but that still isn't explained and leaves it up to the player's imagination. (And it wouldn't be immersive if we were to go straight to Tolfdir and find the Augur ourselves within the same 5 minutes, it would have been better if Ancano confronted us in the Midden afterwards, implying he followed us down there)

Anyway, I'll start the next chapter soon. Hopefully it goes a lot smoother than this one! I feel like once we get to Saarthal and beyond, it's gonna be much easier since the scenes and ideas I have the most of are after the Saarthal excavation.