13 - Victoria - The Roots of a Warrior:

Resting until late morning, I finally forced myself to rise. Healing magic may restore broken bones and bind torn flesh, but a dull ache can continue for some time thereafter. No on is quite sure why this occurs, perhaps it is simply the body's memory of the events, or maybe the magic only caters for the visible symptoms of an injury. Magic itself is a violent form of healing, restoring wounds at unnatural speeds. Perhaps the toughness of veterans results from the loss of sensation extensive exposure to healing magic causes. I tried to press this from my mind - but it didn't matter that much anyway; I was no veteran, and it would take years of such punishment before such a state of events could occur.

My mind felt slightly muddled, and not simply from tiredness – and it was then that I remembered my current affliction; 'Witbane'. Perhaps this was also, in part, to blame for my continued fatigue. Either way I wished the condition gone as soon as possible, and made my first stop 'All Things Alchemical' – the alchemy shop across from the mages guild. Here I immediately bought a potion of cure common disease, for the rather elevated price of two hundred and thirty gold; I wanted all my wits about me before I got into selling my stock, and until I was adept in the curative forms of restoration, potions would have to suffice.

While there I asked Falanu whether she could tell me anything regarding the unidentified root, but she to directed me to 'Sinderion', claiming I could find him at the West Weald Inn. Perhaps he was a permanent resident? Bidding Falanu farewell I decided to track him down before I got to the business of selling my gains.

I found Sinderion in the basement of the West Weald Inn, he was an Almter, senior in years, and tall – as is characteristic of all High Elves. The basement appeared to serve as both a bedroom for Sinderion himself, and as a laboratory for his experimentation, for ingredients and alchemy equipment could be found carefully set around the room. I decided not to investigate too closely, fearing I might give him cause for alarm – an alchemists greatest fear is a clumsy stranger ruining their experiments. I was hardly a stranger, to alchemy that is, and neither was I clumsy – but as ever I preferred to hide what knowledge I had, letting others underestimate me.

Presenting him with the root, I carefully studied his face – I was intent on reading him correctly, for I did not want him to lie to me. His reaction was one of surprise, but also of recognition and pleasure; for he claimed this was 'Nirnroot', a rare plant with powerful magical properties. Nothing new there, but I held my temper in check; the respect shown to him by the Alchemists I had asked, and the state of his residence, all suggested that he was extremely knowledgeable – and at last my patience was rewarded.

His first encounter with Nirnroot had apparently been upon buying a rare tome of ancient potions from a traveller, in which it was listed as the key component in what Sinderion referred to as the “ultimate dungeon delver's brew” - which certainly caught my attention. I became a little suspicious at this point however, for my own analysis had revealed only detrimental effects – and hardly mild ones at that. Could he be lying, or perhaps the tome itself was inaccurate? I decided to hold judgement for now, for he seemed genuine, and my alchemy skills had some way to go before I could consider myself unequivocally a master in the field. Further, upon completing his analysis he returned the root to me, so I shall wait and see what transpires upon completing his task.

The task he gave me was to seek out and gather a number of Nirnroot samples, from which he could presumably grow more – for he said the variant was in danger of extinction. For this he would give me a free sample of the potion, and sell me any further potions at a greatly reduced price. I would have attempted to collect more samples for myself even without his request, and so him providing specific pointers regarding where he believed it could be found was very useful. Even if what he said turned out to be true I would still desire to keep a sample for myself to develop into my own poisons, and I hoped that I would find sufficient quantities to provide for both our needs, unless I could somehow replicate what I found. He suggested I investigate Shadeleaf Copse, some distance north-east of here, and with that I left him to his work.

I now entered the general trading shop of Anvil, ran by Gunder. He was pleased to see me, due both to my prior patronage, and doubtless my prior ingratiation. I sold at only a little over half an items true value, for despite my efforts I was yet relatively unskilled at mercantile – how I wished for a good charm spell. Illusion was one of my favourite fields...

The staff itself was sold for four hundred and fifty gold, while the Varla stone achieved a sale price of five hundred and fifty. The remaining items were, when taken individually, no where near as impressive, yet in total my sales took me to four thousand seven hundred; this including the sale of those pathetic scrolls provided for me by the Anvil guild head (which sold for forty five gold, in total), and a batch of thirty nine potions I created on the spot. I felt my skills in that field advancing – soon I suspected I would make a breakthrough, just as I had in conjuration in the ruins of Miscarcand, and perhaps then I could study the Nirnroot in greater depth.

My work here done for now, I exited Skingrad via the east gate, turning now towards the Imperial City - I would postpone my investigation of Shadeleaf Copse until a more opportune time; for now the Arena called to me, along with the acquisition of a valuable steed. The path was steep, winding upwards into the hills. At first I would occasionally pass Imperial patrols, but these became vanishingly rare as I moved further from civilisation – being replaced instead with encounters with highwaymen, bandits, and wolves. None proved a major obstacle, at least in comparison with the challenges the Lich had provided.

Indeed it was the Lich that occupied much of my thoughts for the earlier part of this journey. From the folklore I had heard they were supposed to be intelligent – or at least originally have been, having been created through a dark ceremony of transformation by a powerful and power hungry mage. Perhaps immortality had lain too heavily upon this one, or the ceremony had gone amiss (from what little I knew of such ceremonies, this would not be unusual – even a single flaw can have far reaching consequences) – for the Lich had not stopped to attempt communication. Neither had the ruins themselves seemed like a fitting place for such a being – with no collection of tomes, or even of treasure. What then had drawn the Lich to that dark and lonely place? I rather suspected the answer was with me in my pack; the very stone whose removal had triggered the encounter. I felt the pull of it even now, which required a great deal of willpower to resist; the temptation being to stare into the light until you yourself faded, and were but a shadow. Perhaps such a light had formed an irresistible beacon to the undead Lich, drawing it like a candle draws a moth. Or perhaps my theories were all for nothing, I had little to go on, yet even now I felt the tug of the stone upon my mind. It was dangerous, of that I was certain, too dangerous to carry – yet too dangerous to leave. I shall bear it for now; my will is strong - and I will not be broken.

Reaching the top of the hill, my thoughts were disrupted for a time as I saw the Imperial City looming in the distance. The forest stretched league upon league between us, yet the tower stood tall and in plain sight - visible for miles around. I must find a way to ascend to the peak, for I am sure the view would be incredible, not to mention the sensation.

The path downwards was easier to follow than the ascension, but proved harder to walk, for at every turn I seemed to encounter hostility. Wolves and bandits again tried to take advantage of me, yet now I was also assaulted by Imps – who concealed themselves in bushes besides the path, announcing their presence with bursts of lightning. Wondering at the sudden concentration of the creatures, I soon found the cause; Graystone Cave, a veritable hive of the beasts located just off the path. Deciding it wouldn't hurt to investigate, I pulled aside the tracked wooden door, and ventured into the gloom.

The name was apt to the point of banality, although it occasionally appeared green under the lighting. Stalactites hung from the ceiling, accompanied by a floor the mushrooms and, of course, stalagmites. As might be expected considering the formative process of these two structures, the cave was damp – echoing with the constant dripping of milky water, rich with minerals. Rich with little else however, for upon surveying it I was a great deal less optimistic of finding anything of value here. Nevertheless, with a barely restrained sigh, I began to search the caverns.

After fifteen minutes of searching the inauspicious start had become a dull exercise in covering ground. Besides some scattered coin and bonemeal, the most I had claimed was a rather disgusting mess of Imp Bile, which had congealed into a single lump. The Imps themselves had proved tiresome, and while none had been any real danger to me, their persistent petty bursts of lightning had left my nerves frayed. It was at this point - when I was seriously considering turning back - that I stumbled across a skeleton. This alone was nothing special – for the cave was littered with them – however this particular exemplar of the human frame was accompanied by a light shield, whose enchantment glowed softly in the shadows. Reaching out I placed my hand upon the face of it and concentrated upon a advanced cantrip of identification. The sensation it returned was like nothing I had experienced from an inanimate object before, and I leapt back, startled – for it felt alive, albeit faintly. Summoning illumination with my starlight spell I regarded it carefully; it certainly didn't look alive. Once again I placed my hand upon it, again receiving the same feeling...something familiar.

I laughed, my voice echoing hollowly around the caves, of course, so simple! The enchantment was not of life, but a minor form of reflection – what I had sensed had merely been the mirror of my own life force. That certainly explained the familiarity, and besides simply humouring me, the shield further raised my spirits through the knowledge that the search had not been in vain – I had known equipment of that type sell for over four thousand gold before, and while it was unlikely I could find such a generous buyer, I was certainly looking at a good couple of thousand. It was fortunate that I had found this when I did, for the remainder of the cave contained nothing of note, and I returned to the road; the day now having passed into late evening.

Pressing onwards now without pause – for I was keen to return to the bustle of the Imperial City – I made swift progress. The cave had held little challenge, and my thoughts ranged once more over the events of the past couple of weeks. Although I had been subtle in action and speech, I realised that my magical arsenal was rather limited – predominantly consisting of the conjuration of daggers and undead servants, and the raw application of destructive magic – besides of course from my usage of the spells of light, night eye and detect life. My magic was too overt, too loud and unabashed – and I yearned for the refined powers of illusion. Opening my copy of the mages guild charter I scanned the guild halls respective entries. It appeared that Cheydinhal specialised in the school of alteration, while it was Chorrol which held favour on conjuration, and Bravil of Illusion. I decided upon purchasing my steed that I would visit these places, and, funds permitting, expand upon my current range of spells. It would also doubtless double as a good way to test my new steed.

I was now approaching the Imperial City, for I began to recognise local landmarks – before finally encountering the drowned ruin where I had found the archer in the lake. Standing upon a tall rock for a time, I admired the moon light reflecting from the pale marble, and the Imperial City standing proud before the mountains in the distance – the reflection from the lake creating the apparition of a mirror city submerged beneath the surface.

Passing the Wawnet Inn - doubtlessly still housing the lady with the wine request – I proceeded swiftly into the city; and there, stopping only to to question a guard regarding the Gray Fox (apparently either a grandiose thief, or a myth), I proceeded directly to the Arena. The sounds of bashing swords and the hiss of arrows greeted me as I entered the Bloodworks; training continued throughout much of the night – but I refused to let that deter me, collapsing at last into the welcoming blankets of a vacant bed.

The following day was rewarding but bloody, passing swiftly despite my never leaving the Arena, for I had decided to ascend the ranks, and cast aside my current 'Bloodletter' title.

The fights were not easy, but neither were they desperate – for I knew now that I always could fall back upon my Welkyd stones if all went ill. This precaution proved unnecessary however, and ultimately I prevailed without wasting any of the precious stones. The fights were many and varied; I began by fighting a Redgaurd - whom Owyn had warned me was known to be capable of fighting with both a mace and a sword. Perhaps this garnered him some respect from the spectators, but I personally felt it to be a waste; rather than becoming a master with either weapon he was merely competent with either, and competent wasn't good enough. At last his silver mace slipped from his nerveless hands and I walked out of the arena, the cheers of the crowd shadowing me.

All the combatants had one flaw of other which I exploited, a Breton lady proved too weak to survive using combat alone; despite her heavy armour. A dark elf came armed with sword and bow, but, favouring the latter, fell easily to my minion as I provided a continual hail of fire from behind a pillar. This very fight claimed me the rank of 'Myrmidon', yet I continued on, hoping to grasp the coveted title of Warrior before the day was up.

A Bosner with an enchanted blade was my next opponent, however it transpired that his reach was too short, and he too weak – for he fell to my attacks within moments, and I surprised Owyn with my swift return; him thinking that I had perhaps forgotten something. My next foe was a female high elf; where before I had been concerned by the enchanted blade, now I feared that I would finally have magic used against me. Astonishingly, this was not to be, for the Altmer appeared to have snubbed her races magical advantages. This was fine by me, for while she could ignore her strengths, I would not ignore her weaknesses – and high elves are famous for their frailty to elemental magic. If any in the audience had not known this useful fact before now, they did by the time I had left the Arena – each of my spells having exacted a devastating toll upon the Altmers health, until she finally fell to the floor, and moved no more.

Realising at this point that I need only win one final fight to claim the rank of Warrior, I approached Owyn to arrange the final match of the day. The defeat of the Altmer had put him in high spirits, yet he cautioned me to be careful – for I was facing a heavily armoured Orc wielding an Axe, not something to be taken lightly.

The fight lasted longer than any prior matches, however this was due more to the Orcs natural resistance to magic rather than any particular difficulties I faced, for I used my speed to great advantage, avoiding the devastating swings of his Axe, until at last he fell before me.

Returning to the Bloodworks, Oywn awarded me my title, and two hundred and fifty gold – before I returned to my bed. While I had barely moved further than thirty metres from this spot, I had achieved much today. Come the dawn I would sell the shield and any other spare valuables in the city shops, before continuing upon my way to Cheydinhal. As my mind drifted into unconsciousness I considered the irony of the Arena; 'Bloodletter', 'Warrior', and indeed the whole set up seemed to speak only of valour in arms; yet my magic was forging me a path through their ranks. Why did they neglect it as a weapon? Laying my hand upon my pack to secure the stone of Miscarcand, I drifted into an uneasy rest.