After a brief but warm introduction, Tolfdir didn't linger on pleasantries. He was a man who appreciated order and progress, and he'd been given a task. He cleared a space on the cluttered workbench, setting the now-functional brass box gently aside.
"Right," he began, his tone shifting into that of a practiced instructor. "I was informed you have focused solely on Alteration and Restoration. A wise, if cautious, foundation. We shall begin with my specialty."
He gave Torin another one of those thoughtful, appraising looks, as if measuring the depth of a well. "Tell me, my boy, what Alteration spells have you mastered? From the most basic to the most complex. Be thorough."
It took a minute. Torin closed his eyes, mentally walking through the library of his own mind, past the trauma and the bloodshed, to the quiet, determined hours of study by candlelight.
He began to list them, starting with the ones he used the most: "Oakflesh. Stoneflesh. Ironflesh. Ebonyflesh. Telekinesis. Candlelight. Magelight. Enlarge. Gigantize. Lesser Haste. Haste. Greater Haste."
He paused, then added the more niche applications: "Feather. A few detection spells tuned to life and death energy. A rudimentary Paralyze, though it's more of a 'full-body stagger' that lasts about three seconds."
Tolfdir, meanwhile, had produced a piece of parchment and a charcoal stick, jotting each one down with quick, neat script. He didn't react, didn't praise or question. He just recorded.
As Torin finished, Tolfdir continued to study the list in silence, his brow furrowed in concentration. The quiet stretched. Torin shifted his weight, the stool creaking beneath him.
"Is... naming them enough?" Torin finally asked, a hint of uncertainty in his voice. "Wouldn't you like to see me perform them? Verify the list?"
Tolfdir didn't look up from the parchment. "What good would that do?" he said mildly. "I will take your word. Lying about your capabilities would not benefit you here. Quite the opposite, in fact. It would waste your time, my time, and could lead to a very embarrassing—or dangerous—situation later."
Torin couldn't help a small, wry smile. "What if I didn't know any better? What if I think I can cast Ebonyflesh, but it's really just a bad case of indigestion and wishful thinking?"
At that, Tolfdir finally paused. He looked up, shooting Torin an amused, knowing look over the top of the parchment. "Then you wouldn't be here," he said simply. "That is the beautiful thing about this College, my dear boy."
He set the list down and leaned back, his gaze taking in the vast, busy hall around them—the crackling novices, the debating masters, the solitary researchers lost in their own worlds.
"You can find all manner of people under this roof," he continued, his voice softening with a kind of fond weariness. "The greedy, seeking power. The boastful, seeking fame. The quiet and truly talented, seeking understanding. The broken, seeking solace."
"And they all share one thing in common: they know what they want, and they believe they know how to get it. The rest... is merely a matter of capability. And time will reveal that to all of us, truthfully or otherwise. No demonstration needed."
Torin just nodded. He wasn't here long enough to fully understand the College's peculiar ecosystem, but Tolfdir's logic was sound. In a place built on knowledge, a lie was a faster route to failure than any flawed spell.
The old mage picked up the list again, tapping it with his charcoal stick. "Your repertoire is impressive, and it tells me much. It tells me you are self-taught, pragmatic, and defensively minded. It also tells me there might be holes in your theoretical foundation. We will start there."
"Fair enough," Torin said, settling in. "Where do we begin?"
Tolfdir's reply was as simple as it was swift. "Waterbreathing and Transmute Ore."
Torin just stared. Of all the things he'd expected to hear—a critique of his Ironflesh matrix, a lecture on the philosophical underpinnings of Telekinesis, maybe even a pop quiz on magicka conservation—this wasn't even on the list.
"Pardon?" he said, genuinely confused.
Tolfdir didn't blink. "The Waterbreathing and Transmute Ore spells, my boy. We shall begin there."
He saw the bewilderment on Torin's face and smiled, a patient, crinkling-at-the-eyes sort of smile.
"If you are to someday reach the rank of Master within the School of Alteration, you require the utmost understanding of the world around you. Not just its physical properties, but its spiritual and essential nature. The breath of life in water. The sacred potential sleeping within common stone."
He leaned forward, his tone shifting from instructor to something closer to a guide. "Mastering those two spells is not a suggestion; it is a necessity. They are foundational in a way the combat applications are not. They teach you to converse with reality, not just demand things from it. There are, of course, other requirements—historical theory, ethical frameworks, synergistic principles—but we will start with this."
Torin paused, absorbing the explanation. After a moment, he simply offered a shrug. Not of defiance, but of acceptance. He didn't mind this at all.
The truth was, most of the magic he'd clawed and scratched to learn had a very specific, brutal purpose: survival. Its purpose had been purely utilitarian, born from the contract-driven, coin-pinching reality of an independent scholar.
Transmute Ore had always been dismissed as a fool's errand—too much magicka for too little return, a distraction from more profitable work. And Waterbreathing? Mere novelty. A potion cost ten septims and saved hours of study. Efficiency had always been his god.
But this… learning magic for the sake of understanding it? Not to survive a bandit camp, but to comprehend the whisper inside a riverstone or the silent song of the sea?
It felt… indulgent. Peaceful, even. Like sharpening a blade not because there's a war tomorrow, but for the simple, satisfying sake of a perfect edge.
A slow smile spread across Torin's face—one of genuine, unburdened curiosity. It was the look of a man presented with a puzzle box, not a weapon.
Tolfdir couldn't help but be infected by it. It was a smile he saw too rarely these days: the smile of someone who simply loved magic. So many came to the College with a purpose—power, fame, vengeance, security.
Tolfdir didn't fault them for it; knowledge was a path, and all destinations were valid. But his old heart always gave a warmer beat for the rare soul whose eyes lit up at the how and the why, not just the what.
His own smile lingering, Tolfdir selected a fresh piece of parchment from a stack. With quick, sure strokes, he wrote out a short note in a flowing script.
Then, he murmured a few words under his breath and passed a hand over the paper. A soft blue light shimmered across its surface, settling into the shape of a complex, glowing rune—the College's seal of authorization.
He handed it to Torin. "Take this to the Arcanaeum. Give it to Urag gro-Shub. He is our… particular… librarian. He will provide you with the necessary tomes for your study. Do not be alarmed by his demeanor; he guards his books more fiercely than a dragon guards its mountain."
He waited until Torin's large hand had closed around the paper before adding, "Given that you've already mastered the principles of essence-transfer with your Ebonyflesh spell, grasping the theory behind Transmute Ore shouldn't take you more than a week of dedicated study. Come find me when you have."
Torin stared at the enchanted paper, blinked once, then turned his calm gaze back to Tolfdir. "Very well."
With that, he offered a single, respectful nod—a warrior's gesture of acceptance to a new commander—and turned, his broad back disappearing into the shifting tapestry of robed figures and magical light.
Tolfdir was left alone at his bench. He absently ran a finger over the now-singing Dwemer contraption, but his thoughts were far away.
He hadn't expected that. Not at all. He'd anticipated pushback, maybe a flash of that famed Nord temper, at the very least a question about the relevance of it all.
To be handed what amounted to a library slip and told to figure it out himself, after the trouble he went through to get into the college… most would have been outraged.
He knew he would have been, in his younger, more impatient days.
So what did that calm acceptance mean?
Was he that confident? So sure of his own intellect that a week with a book was a trivial hurdle?
Or was he simply meek? Unwilling to challenge authority, even when it sent him on what seemed like a fool's errand?
Better yet… Tolfdir's eyes twinkled. Did he recognize this for what it is—a test of temperament, diligence, and trust? And decided, shrewdly, to simply go with the flow?
The old master leaned back, a chuckle rumbling in his chest. The halls of Winterhold were rarely dull, but this particular endeavor promised to be more interesting than most.
He couldn't wait to find out.
...
Stepping into the Arcanaeum was like walking into the ribcage of a sleeping, book-obsessed giant. Torin froze just past the archway, his head tilting back as he tried to take it all in.
The word "room" didn't apply. It was a cavernous, multi-tiered labyrinth of knowledge. The walls weren't walls—they were soaring cliffs of dark, polished wood, each shelf stretching up into shadowy heights, crammed with more books, scrolls, and strange, locked cases than he'd seen in his entire life. Ladders on rails stood ready to scale these literary mountains.
The air smelled of ancient parchment, old leather, ozone from protective wards, and a faint, earthy hint of mushroom.
Between the towering shelves, numerous sturdy oak tables formed islands of study, each occupied by figures hunched in intense silence. Some were perfectly still, lost in tombs. Others moved with the frantic, precise energy of hunting hounds, scurrying down aisles or carefully re-shelving volumes with trembling reverence.
Overhead, the ethereal, shifting forms of several storm atronachs hovered silently, their crackling, blue-white bodies casting moving shadows. They weren't guards so much as… living surveillance, their hollow eyes sweeping the room with impersonal, elemental watchfulness.
Despite the undercurrent of frantic searching and the literal storm-creatures floating about, the library was profoundly, almost unnervingly silent. The only sounds were the soft rustle of a page, the distant click of a latch, the faint hum of magical barriers. It was a silence that demanded respect.
Unconsciously, Torin found himself moving slowly, placing his boots down with care to avoid the groan of a floorboard or the scuff of leather on stone.
After a while of navigating this silent, vertical city of words, he found what passed for its beating heart: a massive, fortress-like central desk, built like a barricade against chaos.
Behind it stood Urag gro-Shub.
The Orc wore robes of sensible brown and faded yellow, practical for long hours among dust and ink. A pair of small, round glasses perched on the broad bridge of his nose, a comical contrast to the fierce, green-skinned contours of a face that had clearly seen its share of brawls before it ever saw a bookshelf.
His hair, white and thinning on top, was pulled back into a severe, scholarly bun at the back of his head. He was meticulously stamping a due-date into a ledger, his movements sharp and efficient.
Before Torin could even open his mouth to speak, the Orc's head snapped up. His eyes, sharp and dark behind the glasses, instantly locked onto Torin. They narrowed, darkening with immediate, proprietary suspicion.
"You there."
The voice was a low rumble, like stones grinding deep underground. It wasn't loud, but it carried through the quiet with the force of a command.
"I haven't seen you before," Urag stated, setting his stamp down with a definitive thump. "That means you don't know the rules. Unacceptable."
Torin offered a polite, disarming smile. "Ah, yes. I was recently admitted to the College. My name is—"
"I don't care who you are," Urag interjected, cutting him off with a chop of his hand. "I only care that you know the rules of the Arcanaeum and follow them. Ignorance is a transgression here, a sin. Not an excuse."
He beckoned with a thick, green finger. "So. Get your hide here. And listen."
Torin didn't argue. He didn't roll his eyes. He just maintained his calm smile, closed the remaining distance to the desk, and prepared to receive his first true lesson in Winterhold.
Ironically enough, it wasn't even on magic.
...
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