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Made in Cyrodiil, Forged in Skyrim #12
🕑 Added 2025-10-24 16:28:01 +0000 UTCTorin’s approach to Farengar’s quarters was a masterclass in misdirection. He didn’t simply slink into the shadows; he weaponized his own perceived innocence.
Before even glancing at the staircase leading down, his eyes swept the area, identifying the key individuals closest to the entrance: a pair of off-duty guards sharing a drink, the steward admiring a tapestry, and a servant refilling a wine jug.
He began his operation.
“Excuse me, sirs,” he began, approaching the guards with wide, curious eyes. “If a giant’s club is made of a whole tree, but a tree is alive, is the club alive too? Or does it die when it’s picked? And if it dies, is it murder or harvesting?”
The guards blinked, their conversation derailed. One opened his mouth to retort, found no easy answer, and simply shook his head in confusion.
Satisfied, Torin moved to the steward. “Pardon me, sir. That tapestry depicts the founding of Whiterun, correct? But if Jorrvaskr was a ship, and it sailed up the river, how did it get over the waterfall? Did the Nords carry it? That seems very inefficient. Were there pulleys?”
Proventus sputtered, his aesthetic appreciation shattered by logistical nitpicking.
By the time Torin turned his attention to the servant with a question about the metaphysical implications of pouring the same wine back into different bottles, all three had developed a Pavlovian dread of making eye contact.
They pointedly looked anywhere but at the small, inquisitive figure in their midst.
Taking one last, surreptitious glance to confirm he was effectively invisible, Torin slid down the shadowed staircase like a ghost.
The air in Farengar’s workshop was thick with the scent of dried herbs, charged ozone, and old parchment.
The room was a chaotic symphony of the arcane: bunches of frost mirriam and glowing mushrooms hung from the ceiling, soul gems of varying sizes pulsed with captured light on a cluttered shelf, and the twin foci of the room—an alchemy station and an enchanting table—hummed with latent power.
A few books lay open on a central workbench, but Torin didn’t give them a second glance. Those were in active use; their absence would be noticed immediately.
Resisting the powerful, almost magnetic urge to touch everything—to feel the thrum of the enchanting table or inspect the strange components—Torin moved with purpose.
His goal was the wizard’s private chamber on the far side of the workshop.
Pushing the door open, he found a space that was small but dense with knowledge. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves bowed under the weight of countless tomes. A simple bed was shoved into one corner, all but forgotten.
The true heart of the room was a heavy oak desk, upon which sat a single, open book, an inkwell, a scattering of quills, and several rolled-up scrolls.
Moved by a pure, burning curiosity that momentarily overrode his caution, Torin found himself drawn to the desk. Logically, he knew anything left out here was in active use, but the temptation was too great.
What arcane project consumed the court wizard's hours? If it was important enough to occupy his private desk, it had to be something profound.
His hand reached out, his mind already painting pictures of glorious, forbidden knowledge. An advanced treatise on Conjuration? A historical analysis of the Falmer's fall from grace?
His fingers were inches from the cover when his eyes finally focused on the title, and his entire body froze.
The Lusty Argonian Maid, Volume 3.
The garish, slightly worn cover seemed to leer at him in the dim light. Torin’s gaze, moving with a slow, mechanical dread, shifted to the nearby potion bottle. It was filled with a suspiciously viscous, transparent liquid. The pieces clicked into place with horrifying clarity.
"Eeew," he breathed, snatching his hand back as if the book itself had grown teeth. A full-body shudder of revulsion ran down his spine. "You dirty, dirty old man."
What little scholarly respect he might have harbored for Farengar evaporated in an instant. He decided he wanted absolutely nothing to do with the desk, the chair, or—with another wary glance—the disturbingly rumpled bed.
Shaking his head to clear the mental image, he turned his full attention to the bookshelves. He immediately eliminated the shelves closest to the door and the desk. Even if the tomes there weren't currently open, they would be the most advanced or frequently referenced.
His eyes scanned the rows, searching for the sweet spot of neglect.
There—the middle shelves, where the leather bindings were faded and cloaked in a respectable layer of dust. These were the books Farengar had acquired but likely hadn't touched in years.
He quickly began reading the spines, his finger tracing the gold-leaf lettering through the dust. A slow, triumphant smile spread across his face. He had struck gold.
How to Wield Magicka for Dummies. Breath Water. Basics of Alteration. How to Restore. Enchanter's Primer.
Most were self-explanatory, perfect foundational texts. But Breath Water was a specific, delightful find—a skill book for Alteration he remembered from the game.
This was exactly the kind of practical, overlooked knowledge he needed.
Wasting no more time, Torin unshouldered his satchel and began to carefully but swiftly stuff the chosen volumes inside, the weight of stolen knowledge a comforting burden against his hip.
Once the last book was securely in his satchel, Torin allowed himself a moment of pure, unadulterated glee. He had done it. He shouldered the bag, its weight a promise of future understanding, and turned to make his escape.
His hand was reaching for the door handle when the sound of footsteps on the stone stairs outside froze him in his tracks. They were firm, measured, and getting closer.
Oh, for the love of— He cursed under his breath, his mind racing. There was no other exit. In a panic, he dropped to the floor and scrambled under the bed, the dust tickling his nose as he pressed himself as far into the shadows as possible.
He watched, holding his breath, as the door swung open. A familiar pair of polished boots strode into the room, their owner humming absently. The boots moved with purpose straight to the bookshelves.
"Now, where did I put it...?" Farengar's voice echoed in the small chamber. Torin heard the sound of fingers trailing over leather spines, followed by a soft grunt of annoyance. A few moments later, there was a sound of satisfaction. "Ah, there it is. Daedra of Skyrim. This ought to jog the old Harbinger's memory."
The boots shifted, heading back toward the door. Torin felt a wave of relief so powerful it made him lightheaded. He just had to wait for the wizard to leave.
But then the boots stopped. They turned. They moved toward the desk.
"Might as well hide this," Farengar muttered to himself, "in case of... uninvited company."
No. No, no, no— Torin’s internal scream was cut short as a hand descended toward the floor.
The garish cover of The Lusty Argonian Maid, Volume 3 slid into the darkness under the bed, landing alarmingly close to his face. The corner of the book almost pressed against his cheek. He could smell the cheap ink and old paper... and other things.
Luckily, the court wizard didn't bother to push it further back or, by the Nine, glance under the bed. The hand withdrew. The boots turned and strode out of the room, the door clicking shut behind them.
Farengar's final, chuckling words drifted back from the workshop. "I'll see you again tonight, my dear."
As for Torin, he lay frozen under the bed, his body twitching violently. It was a desperate, silent battle—half of him was dying of suppressed, hysterical laughter at the sheer absurdity, and the other half was dying of pure, unmitigated disgust.
The conflicting emotions warred within him, leaving him paralyzed in a state of utter, horrified mirth.
...
Late that night, long after the sounds of Jorrvaskr had faded into the gentle creaks of a sleeping longhouse, a single candle flickered on the desk in Torin's room. He sat with his chin propped in his hands, the slim volume titled Enchanter's Primer lying open before him.
He had just finished reading it, and a profoundly disappointed sigh escaped his lips.
The book was, quite literally, about the absolute basics of enchanting. It might as well have been titled Enchanting for People Who Have Never Held a Soul Gem. I
t stated the obvious: to learn an enchantment, you needed an already enchanted item and an enchanting table. To apply one, you needed an unenchanted item, a filled soul gem, and, again, the table.
The only marginally useful tidbit was a note on durability—that armor enchantments were permanent fixtures, while weapon enchantments drained with use and needed to be recharged.
It was information Torin had already internalized from a lifetime of... well, not this lifetime.
He had hoped for so much more. He wanted to understand the why and the how. How did the first mages bind a soul's energy to cold metal? How could one study and decipher the enchantments, to peel back the layers of magical code that kept a Dwarven spider functioning for millennia?
This book offered no such insights. He should have known, judging by its thin spine and simplistic title.
With a frustrated grunt, he shoved the Primer aside, sending a small cloud of dust motes dancing in the candlelight. His hand fell upon the next book in his pilfered stack: How to Wield Magicka for Dummies.
He opened it with a sense of dwindling hope, expecting more platitudes. But from the first chapter, his eyebrows rose in genuine interest.
This book was different. It started not with instructions, but with theory. It explained what magicka was: not just some internal energy, but the raw stuff of Aetherius, the realm of the gods. It seeped into Nirn through the sun and the stars, which weren't just celestial bodies, but... holes?
Punctures in the fabric of reality?
He read on, his disappointment forgotten, replaced by a scholar's rapt attention. According to the text, the sun was the greatest of these holes, created by the god Magnus himself as he fled the flawed mortal plane during its creation.
The stars were smaller tears made by the other Magna-Ge who followed him.
"Crazy," Torin muttered to the silent room, a slow grin spreading across his face. This wasn't just a instruction manual; it was a cosmology lesson.
It was the fundamental physics of this universe, and it was infinitely more fascinating than the mechanical drudgery of the Primer. For the first time, he felt he was looking at the real engine under the world's hood.
Beyond the heady mixture of cosmic theory and creation mythology, the book finally delved into more practical, grounded knowledge. Torin leaned closer, the candlelight glinting in his intent eyes.
The text explained that while magicka flooded the world from Aetherius, every mortal being—man, mer, or beast—acted as a living vessel, containing a personal pool of this energy.
The key, however, was not just having it, but being able to wield it.
The amount of magicka available to any individual was as varied as the people of Tamriel themselves, influenced by lineage, race, and even upbringing.
The book offered a startlingly mundane analogy: just as a son of a long line of blacksmiths might have a natural strength and feel for the hammer, so too did the child of a mage often possess a deeper well of magicka to draw upon.
It even posited that a lowly mudcrab possessed a flicker of magicka, though it would live and die without ever sensing it, lacking the intelligence and, more importantly, the will necessary to shape it.
Then came the crucial distinction that captivated Torin: the difference between capacity and efficiency.
The book laid out a clear example.
Consider a young Altmer (high-elf) novice, born of a centuries-old dynasty of sorcerers. He might possess a magicka pool as vast as a lake, a tremendous natural inheritance.
Now, compare him to a Nord with no magical lineage, who through sheer study and discipline has reached the rank of adept.
"If these two were to duel," the text explained, "it would be a mistake to assume the Altmer's victory is assured based on his reservoir alone."
The Altmer, with his clumsy, novice-level understanding, might expend his entire lake of magicka in a single, frantic, and ultimately failed attempt to cast a complex adept-level spell, draining himself to the point of unconsciousness.
The Nord adept, meanwhile, with his refined skill and efficient technique, could cast that same powerful spell using only a fraction of his own, likely smaller, magicka pool.
It wasn't just about how much fuel you had in the tank; it was about the engine's design. A master mage wasn't necessarily the one with the most magicka, but the one who could achieve the greatest effect with the least waste.
This ranking—from novice to master—was fundamentally a measure of precision and control, not just raw power.
The text was careful to affirm, however, that a superior magicka pool was far from insignificant. It was a formidable advantage.
"Should the Altmer in our example also attain the rank of adept," the book clarified, "his combination of vast innate power and refined skill would make him a formidable opponent indeed, likely overwhelming the Nord through sheer endurance and versatility."
This presented a sobering reality for those not born under the magically-gifted stars of the Summerset Isles or into a dynasty of sorcerers. Yet, the book offered a thread of hope.
Magical capacity was not a static, unchangeable trait. Like a muscle, it could be strengthened. Through the mere passage of time and consistent exposure to the magicka that saturated the world, a mortal's spiritual vessel could become more attuned, its capacity gradually expanding.
Constantly practicing spells, and even just being in environments where magic was frequently used—feeling the thrum of a ward or the ozone-sharp tang of a destruction spell—could, over time, deepen one's own connection to the arcane.
This, the text concluded, was the primary reason it was highly advisable for aspiring mages to seek out reputable colleges and organizations that specialized in teaching magic.
It wasn't just about learning spells from a scroll; it was the constant, guided immersion in a magical environment that truly cultivated one's potential. Exposure and guidance were the twin pillars upon which magical prowess was built.
Finally, the book transitioned from theory to the first, crucial step of practice, the foundation of all that followed.
It explained that to wield magicka, one must first learn to feel it. Not as an abstract concept, but as a tangible presence, both within the core of one's own being and as a pervasive force in the air, the stone, the very world around them.
It was the first and most important lesson for any who would walk the path of the arcane.
Torin closed the book, the soft thud loud in the quiet room. The candle had burned low, casting long, dancing shadows.
He wasn't holding a simple instruction manual anymore; he was holding a key.
And now, it was time to see if it would fit the lock.
Comments
Potato
Noice, my respect for the jarls mage wouldve sky rocketed hes a cultured man
