Cycle of the Serpent

An alembic filled with some sort of garish, green fluid bubbled over a flame, bottles of alchemical experiments in progress set off to the side. The court wizard was engrossed in his work, his hands busied as he ground up various herbs he'd tossed together, mortar and pestle in iron tight grasp.

The dragonstone sat nearby on the table, always near him, always glancing to it in a moment of absent action.

Whatever he planned to do with it, or whomever wanted the information on the dragon burial sites, Wyndrelis only hoped it would bring an end to the sky-scowling creatures. The mage had decided to spend his noon with Farengar. He was either going to get answers or not, but at the very least, he'd be enjoying the company of someone who held the respect of the court, a fellow scholar who worked with intense dedication to all he did.

He stood in the doorway for a few moments, before clearing his throat and catching the other's attention. "Ah, Wyndrelis, come in," he motioned for the other to approach, "I was just thinking, I have some spell tomes that you may be interested in. Why, a man of your talents should take any opportunity to learn what he can, right?" He offered with a small wink, the hood of his robe sliding half the way off his scalp, revealing sprigs of his shockingly red hair.

Perhaps thats where his name came from, Wyndrelis thought.

Farengar spoke up again, sweeping away Wyndrelis' thoughts with the cadence of his voice, skepticism lacing his tongue. "Or, have you come to Dragonsreach to discuss the ongoing hostilities, like the rest of the 'great warriors'?"

"No, I was actually hoping to discuss something of arcane matters." Wyndrelis stepped closer, looking around the room with the same, level-headed boredom he always bore on his face. His fur-lined boots barely made thuds on the wooden flooring, his freshly washed tunic stiff on his shoulders. The smell of bergamot and tea lifted off the fabric only faintly now, and his dark cape draped over his shoulders kept him warm when the evening temperature set in. Still, it was a bit warm for the late Last Seed heat in Whiterun Hold, but he shrugged it all off. Wyndrelis' attention latched again to the court wizard, who looked over to a set of soul gems he'd been organizing before he made a brisk return to his work, tugging his hood back up until the shadows caressed his brow bone.

"What do you need?"

The Dunmer surveyed the room, drinking in every detail of the space, from the slight cracks in the flooring from centuries of wear and weathering the shifting of the earth, to the walls high with diagrams, charts, notes scrawled here and there and nailed in place. He returned his eyes to Farengar.

"There's a certain tome I'm looking for," Wyndrelis tapped the shape of his belt buckle, the silver star that stretched in its sharp points, "I lost it during the attack on Helgen. I was wondering if you would know where something like that could end up?"

Farengar scratched his bearded cheek, thinking as he shifted from foot to foot, rethinking the way he'd organized his soul gems. Grand, greater, petty. He made a disgruntled, startled sound in his throat as he rushed to his alembic, turning down the flame below it and cursing to himself quietly, scrutinizing the potion brewing within as though expecting an error to make itself apparent. He set his attention on the Dunmer with a shake of his head. "I'm sorry, but I don't think I've seen anything like that around here," he finally answered, watching from the corner of his eye as Wyndrelis' shoulders lowered in defeat, "but if it turns up, I'll be sure to let you know. What is this book, some sort of family heirloom?"

Wyndrelis thought over how to answer the question. Family was a charred taste on his tongue. "It was a gift."

"Well," Farengar rested his hands on his hips, stretching backwards, his spine cracking in a way that made Wyndrelis wince but left Farengar completely unfazed, "something like that might be worth a lot of coin to the right buyer, so I would keep an eye out for any shops that buy from the Thieves Guild. Maybe you should head to Riften, check with someone there?" He offered the suggestion plainly, and as Wyndrelis mulled it over, he offered another. "Or, maybe it would have wound up at the Arcaneum, in the College of Winterhold?"

At this, Wyndrelis froze, the gears of his mind churning at the thought. "Yes," he mumbled slowly to himself, "yes, that sounds like it's possible," he looked to the other wizard, his usually blank face bearing the faintest etching of a smile. "Thank you, Farengar."

The pair spoke for a while longer, Wyndrelis finally getting the chance to ask about the other wizard's various experiments. Farengar explained quickly that he mostly did work for the Jarl, but since the Jarl had no use of his talent at the immediate moment, he was allowed to do as he pleased in his laboratory. The dragons were still a bitter taste deep in his throat, but with no current news of any immediate danger, he merely spent his time on theorizing about them or experimenting with new ways to combat spreading fires. So far, he'd turned up little, but he had potions in the works which should help, using them on braziers and torches and watching the mixture spread into the ground or vessel or wall around the flame, climbing up any heat it could find. He worked most days on various salves and tinctures, sometimes going into town to purchase any arcane artifacts or items that came in from shipments to Belethor, the pair chatting and haggling, a fact that made Wyndrelis raise a wary brow.

"So tell me, is Belethor always...?"

"Ah, you've met him." Farengar grinned. "Yes, but I wouldn't take anything he says to heart. He's a bit... Sleazy would be putting it lightly, but he's a damn good shopkeeper, and can be asked to keep a secret when needed."

Wyndrelis gave a small, slow nod, drinking the information in with a curious glint in his eyes. "Is that so?"

"He's got a bit of an interesting history, but that's not my story to tell. Besides, wouldn't want to rob you of the chance to hear him tell it himself. When he gets drunk, he gets talkative. Anyways," he waved a hand, motioning for the Dunmer to follow him to the far end of the room, various magical items laid about, books stacked as tall as a Cathay-Raht, with their covers and spines engraved in their emblems. "Since you and I share a scholarly interest, would you mind helping me with something? I need at least two people for this, and no one in this castle will... contribute to my research."

Initially, his ears perked up, but caution bid them back. "Is that so? Why would that be?"

Farengar rolled his eyes. "They seem to think my work is too dangerous. Nords are very suspicious of magic. Though, that never stopped me from becoming a wizard, nor did it stop Jarl Balgruuf from taking me into his court, either."

He hummed thoughtfully, before asking, "Why do you need two people for this?"

"Runes, they can be tricky things. I'm going to try and disable one from an artifact I acquired, and I'll need you to hold it while I work."

The Dunmer stepped over, trepidation following the motions of his feet. Farengar reached into a drawer and retrieved an old, weathered brass staff. The staff itself was unimpressive; shorter height than the average, no obvious engravings - magical, decorative, or otherwise - and a soul gem neatly cradled by a cage of thin metal bands. It glowed with the smallest hums of magicka, recently charged by the wizard, but it seemed like any other old staff. Upon closer inspection, the line of well-carved, well-worn runes that circled it's length gave him pause. He traced a grey finger along them, unable to read the script, his hand working it's way up the brass from it's midsection to the gem.

"It looks... Daedric." He finally surmised, giving Farengar a careful glance as the other wizard handed him the artifact. Wyndrelis wrapped his hands around the cold metal, ensuring several times with tight glances that it was not directly in front of his body as the other began the process. His palms dampened. He swallowed hard and ignored it.

"There's one particular rune that's my problem," the Nord scratched at his chin, "the one nearest the soul gem. It looks newer, like it was carved into the staff recently. I tried sending an etching to Urzha gra-Batob up in Winterhold, but she hasn't gotten to me. Couriers take longer, these days." He explained with a scowl as he drew closer, running his palm over the carving.

"Right, so what do we...?"

"The staff won't work with this here, is what I'm guessing. I've tried to make it do just about anything, but... Well, again, this rune- I think it's blocking the enchantments, if that's even possible."

Wyndrelis listened as the wizard worked, Farengars fingers tracing the image of the rune in small circles, magicka focused into the tip of his finger. It swirled into soft veins of cerulean, filling the crevices, attempting to disarm or deactivate them, Wyndrelis figured. He'd seen similar processes done by other mages in the early days of his studies whenever an artifact proved too troublesome, or when a student had performed the wrong enchantments. Instead of destroying the item altogether, a new soul gem was placed into the staff, and the enchantment was forced into it with the use of another mage's magicka. He wondered if Farengar had learned from his same mentors, with the swirling motions and careful concentration all too familiar. With a start, the artifact warmed in the Dunmers palm, thrumming between his fingertips. Farengar's grin inched higher and higher, as though the experiment were going as planned, eyes sparkling.

"I think that's-"

The metal staff clattered to the ground, Wyndrelis hissing loudly in pain. He grasped his palm with his other hand, Restoration magic pouring as fast as he could force it to soothe and mend the blistering skin. The staff rolled with clattering noises, the floor brightening. Orange filled his periphery. His head pounded with an ache long-buried. He swallowed hard and tried to push it all back, breath fuming against his lungs, heart battering against his ribs as though making a desperate escape.

"Quick, before it-" Farengar ignored the other's injury and made a feeble attempt to force the words out, but stopped himself short. The soul gem within the staff crackled, fissures forming along its surface. Farengar pulled magicka into a ward, the light storming in the court wizards veins, but the Dunmer could only stare into a horizon long-gone. Night skies. Darkness surrounded the pair as the flames rose higher, Farengar working with his other hand to stifle the inferno with frost magic. A staff he'd enchanted, held in other hands. Wyndrelis' body moved on it's own as he set wards around the artifact. A clocktower that would never chime the same. He wrapped his palms in frost and grasped the brass, ignoring the pain battling against his nerves. An empty bed in his family home.

When he returned to the room, he found himself seated, shaking form opposite Farengar. He could feel his palms trembling. Cold sweat soaked his tunic. The room was somewhere else. The place was here, here in Dragonsreach, and as he drunk in his surroundings and the details and the scrawled notes of the wizard and the charring along the floor, surprise flooded him, brows flitting up against his forehead as he realized the damage was much less than expected. In fact, in a few hours, it would likely be scrubbed off the floors and the staff would be contained somewhere safer, and no one would be the wiser. The Restoration spell had reversed the effects of the burn, but a subtle, stinging ache remained, something he knew would, too, disappear in an hour or so. The alembic that once held the bubbling mixture contained only a few drops left of the potion, Farengar having tossed the contents onto the fire, the mixture igniting in a harsh chill that stifled the flames as well as any Frost magic and clung to the inferno, stuffocating it.

"Gods," Farengar exhaled roughly, "we're lucky, or that could have been much worse."

Wyndrelis swallowed nervously, "I think I... I think I need to get going."

Farengar gave him a curious look, watching the trembling figure of the Dunmer. He gave a solemn nod. As Wyndrelis turned to leave, the other called out, "Good luck to you, the road out there is brutal in this petty conflict."

The work day drew to a close, with farmers somewhere out in their fields heading inside for dinner with their families, patrons filing into the Bannered Mare. Wyndrelis had come back from Dragonsreach with shaking hands, tight-lipped and distant. Neither of his companions asked, but handed him a tankard of ale. The Dunmer drank from it for a while, saying nothing, gaze a thousand horizons away.

Athenath, seating himself next to Wyndrelis, chatted with Hulda and Saadia with his usual, bright voice, Mikael tuning his lute in preparation for a long night of playing and joking and singing of the glory of Whiterun Hold and ancient heroes long-deceased. Emeros spoke with a gaggle of travelers who'd arrived in town a few hours prior, his sarcasm dripping off his mouth at several questions he was asked by some bright-eyed, nosy figure, the kind of sarcasm that left Athenath stifling a laugh as they eavesdropped here and there. Wyndrelis sipped his drink again. He rubbed his temples. Athenath finally turned to him, concern fixing itself to his brow.

"Rough day?"

"Mhm," Wyndrelis, in a haggard voice, exhaled. He removed his glasses and set the tankard aside. He skirted the hearth most of the night, back to the walls or far from the warmth. It had taken him years to get used to being near flames again, and as though one thread could have the power to unravel an entire tapestry, Helgen had plucked the loose embroidery, and today had pulled. He palmed absently at a spot on his shoulder, and hoped the drink would knock back the fear in him.