Wayfarer 08: A Mage's Departure

Disclaimer:

Magic: The Gathering and all it's related Intellectual Properties is owned by Wizards of the Coast.

Elder Scrolls Skyrim and all it's related Intellectual Properties is owned by Bethesda Game Studios.

I do not claim any ownership of the original material and acknowledges the rights of the original creators. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Enjoy the journey through the multiverse!

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Miguel set forth from the College of Winterhold, his boots crunching against the frostbitten ground as he began his grand tour of Skyrim. The College had served its purpose—providing him the knowledge he sought and the means to sharpen his craft—but true mastery was earned through experience. Magic was not just something studied in dusty tomes or refined in controlled environments; it was alive, intertwined with the land, shaped by the world itself. And so, he would walk Skyrim’s roads, learn its secrets, test his magic against its dangers, and carve his name into the histories of this land, not as a mere student of the arcane, but as a mage who had lived his craft.

His journey was planned with purpose. The major cities could wait—there was little sense in striding into the great holds without first earning a name for himself. He needed to establish a reputation, even if it was a minor one, before appearing in the halls of Jarls and courts of power. Instead, his first destinations would be the small settlements, those that had not existed in the game but thrived here in reality. Skyrim was vast, and its people were hardy; not all of them would have settled in the same places as the digital recreation he once knew. Hidden fishing villages on the northern coast, isolated mining camps deep in the mountains, scattered farmsteads surviving in the wilderness—each one was a chance to learn more about the land, the culture, and the way magic was perceived outside the College’s ivory towers.

But Miguel’s thirst for knowledge was not limited to people. He sought the ruins of the past, though with care—this was not the game, and plundering Nordic tombs would only bring trouble. The Nords held their dead in reverence, and he had no desire to provoke their wrath by disturbing their sacred barrows. Dwemer ruins, on the other hand, were another matter entirely. The lost technology of the Deep Folk intrigued him, their constructs and arcane mechanisms hinting at a magic unlike anything practiced today. If the Dwemer had once bent the very laws of nature to their will, then perhaps there was something within their ruins that could expand his own understanding of Alteration, or even his Planar magic.

Temples would also be a focus of his journey. He had studied the Divines in passing, but now he wished to see how their blessings truly functioned. Were the amulets of the gods simple enchanted trinkets, or did they carry the direct influence of the Divine themselves? Did shrines grant their blessings in the same way as the game suggested, or was there something deeper—something more real—about the boons they provided? If divine power was something that could be studied and understood, then perhaps it could be adapted, woven into the very framework of his Planar magic.

And then, there were the Standing Stones. He had long suspected that they were more than what they seemed. The game had presented them as simple conduits of power, granting passive abilities upon activation, but that explanation felt too simple, too mechanical. No, these stones held secrets, and Miguel intended to uncover them. Were they remnants of an older magic? Did they tap directly into the Aetherius, or something else entirely? He would find each one, test its effects, and compare them against their game counterparts. If they truly did alter the nature of magic or fate itself, then understanding their power could be the key to expanding his own.

Of course, all of this required resources, and there was no better way to gain both wealth and experience than through combat. Skyrim was infested with bandits, their numbers seemingly unending, and Miguel had no qualms about hunting them down. Each battle was a chance to refine his spells, to push his limits, to test the boundaries between his Planar magic and the structured, rigid spellcraft of Tamriel. The coin he earned from their bounties would sustain him on his travels, but more importantly, the experience would prepare him for far greater threats than common brigands.

And there was something else. Something deeper. The comparison between Tamrielic magic and his own Planar magic had become an obsession. The difference was fundamental—Tamrielic magic was crafted from within, shaped by the individual, channeled through schools that defined their limits. Planar magic, on the other hand, was drawn from the environment, shaped by external forces rather than internal will. It was fluid, adaptable, unrestricted by the rigid classifications of Destruction, Conjuration, or Restoration. He wanted to know—could he replicate the spells of this world using only his magic? Could he craft a Destruction spell fueled purely by Blue mana? Could he create a Restoration spell through Green mana’s essence rather than through Tamrielic magicka?

These questions filled his mind as he walked the frozen tundra, the wind biting at his cloak as he traveled from one destination to the next. The more he thought about it, the more he realized that this journey could be more than just about exploring Skyrim. It was also bridging the gap between two worlds of magic. If he could adapt what he learned here into his own understanding, then perhaps he could transcend the limits of both.

With every village he visited, every ruin he explored, every fight he survived, he would grow stronger. By the time he returned to the College of Winterhold to showcase his mastery over Destruction, it would not be as the same mage who had left. It would be as a fellow master—but not just of one school, not just of Tamrielic magic either, but of something entirely new, maybe even capable of the same magic that the Dwemer had or the same blessings of the stars that the Standing stones give. And when the time came to step into the grand cities of Skyrim, he would not do so as a mere unknown unremarkable traveler.

He would walk through their gates as a name already spoken in hushed tones. A name tied to power, to wisdom, to mystery.

A name worth remembering. Hopefully just in time for when the Dragonborn shows up.

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Miguel shook himself from his daydreams of future glory just in time to catch the unmistakable sounds of something creeping through the underbrush. A quick flick of his eyes to the side and the telltale glint of animal eyes in the dim light told him all he needed to know—a small pack of wolves, hungry and prowling, sizing him up as potential prey. He almost wanted to laugh.

Five wolves against a master-level mage? A Planar wizard with tricks beyond their comprehension? Against two dire wolf familiars conjured with a mix of Tamrielic and Planar magic? If Miguel believed in fair fights, he might have considered holding back, but fairness was for suckers. Even odds, in his book, meant overwhelming force to the point of absurdity.

Without hesitation, he reached into the wellspring of his magic, weaving together the structured Conjuration of Tamriel with the boundless potential of Planar energies. The air shimmered as two monstrous wolves, larger than any normal beast of Skyrim, faded into existence with a flicker of blue energy. Their eyes glowed with an unnatural light, muscles rippling beneath ethereal fur as they bared fangs that gleamed like silver in the dimming sunlight.

The real wolves hesitated. Smart enough to recognize a sudden shift in power, but too desperate or too territorial to back down completely.

Miguel sighed theatrically. "Well, you lot had your chance." A flick of his fingers and the wolves collapsed as if their strings had been cut, a wide-reaching paralysis washing over them. He gestured lazily, and his familiars pounced, the fight ending before it had truly begun. It wasn’t even satisfying—just a minor delay on his road to adventure.

A flicker of magic later, and the remains were set ablaze, their corpses quickly reduced to ash. No need to attract more scavengers to this stretch of road.

With that, he pressed on, his enchanted cloak keeping the cold of Skyrim’s wilderness at bay. The bitter chill of the province was nothing to him now—his original anti-cold protection spell had long since been refined into something even better. His magic now adapted passively, shifting to counteract extreme temperatures, whether from the biting frost of the Pale or the sweltering heat of a volcanic vent in Eastmarch. A minor convenience, but one that made long travels far more tolerable.

Hours passed, the road stretching endlessly ahead, until the scent of smoke and the faint outline of canvas tents in the distance caught his attention. A camp. Hopefully not a bandit camp—he wasn’t opposed to a warm-up fight, but dealing with the aftermath was always tedious. Bandit loot rarely sold for decent prices, and their camps smelled like rancid meat and failure.

A closer look revealed figures moving about, their silhouettes distinct even from a distance. Tall, but not quite as bulky as Nords or Imperials. Then he caught the glint of firelight against furred faces, the subtle shine of feline eyes reflecting the dying sun.

Khajiit.

Now this was interesting.

He had read about the Khajiit caravans, but he hadn’t expected to run into one so soon. A traveling merchant camp was the perfect opportunity to both learn and establish a reputation. And if he played his cards right, he might even get some rare goods out of the encounter.

Rolling his shoulders and straightening his posture, Miguel strode forward with the confident air of a mage who knew far more than he let on. If he was going to sell the image of a mysterious traveler with arcane secrets, he had to play the part from the moment he stepped into view.

The reaction from the Khajiit was immediate. Their ears flicked toward him, their sharp eyes tracking his every movement. A few tensed, hands drifting toward hidden weapons—natural caution for those who lived on the road and dealt with Skyrim’s xenophobia on a daily basis.

Miguel, ever the showman, raised a gloved hand in greeting, a small, harmless pulse of magic rippling through the air like a phantom breeze. Just enough to be felt, not enough to be threatening.

"Hail, travelers," he called in a smooth, friendly tone. "May your wares be plentiful and your road free of trouble."

A few of the Khajiit exchanged glances. Suspicion lingered, but curiosity now warred with it.

One of them, an older male with sleek black fur and an assortment of trinkets woven into his braids, stepped forward, eyes narrowing slightly. "And what is it that brings such a one as you to this camp?"

Miguel smiled. "Curiosity, trade, and the search for knowledge. Is that not reason enough?"

A beat of silence. Then the tension eased, if only slightly.

"Hmph." The old Khajiit gave a slight tilt of his head. "Perhaps this one and his kin may have something of interest to you, then. Come, stranger, let us speak."

With that, Miguel stepped fully into the firelight, the warm glow reflecting off his enchanted robes as he prepared to weave another thread into his growing legend - well, as soon as he spreads it of course.

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The Khajiit were delightful company, their sharp wit and warm hospitality making for a fine evening. They spoke with the ease of those well-traveled, sharing tales of distant lands—of Elsweyr’s golden sands, the bustling markets of Cyrodiil, and even the harsh but vibrant streets of Hammerfell. Yet for every tale of adventure, there was a shadow of hardship. Skyrim was proving a bitter road for them, colder in spirit than even the frost-choked winds of the north.

They told Miguel of the mistrust they faced, of doors shut in their faces and accusations of thievery even when they dealt in honest trade. They had offered kindness only to have it cast aside, and though they were used to the prejudices of men and mer alike, Skyrim’s brand of suspicion was especially stubborn. It was not an unfamiliar tale—Miguel had seen enough to know that the world was rarely kind to outsiders—but that did not make it any less bitter to hear.

Still, the conversation was not all gloom. As they spoke of their travels, Miguel asked carefully chosen questions, guiding the discussion with the practiced ease of one who wished to learn without revealing too much of himself. He inquired about the lands beyond Skyrim, pressing for details on magic, on old ruins, on any curious oddities they had come across. The Khajiit, for their part, were more than happy to share, so long as the coin flowed.

Miguel obliged, purchasing small trinkets—nothing extravagant, but enough to show that he valued their words. A few baubles of carved bone, an intricate amulet of silver and onyx, and a handful of dried herbs said to ward off misfortune. He did not expect all of them to hold true power, but even the simplest charms carried a story, and that was worth something.

It was only after the exchange was made, after they had spoken long enough for suspicion to fade, that one of the caravan members—a lively young Khajiit with fur the color of burnt sienna—offered him a meal. "For one who travels far, a full belly is a wise companion," she said with a flick of her tail.

Miguel, keeping to his air of quiet mystique, accepted with a polite nod. "A kindness I will not forget."

What began as a simple meal soon turned into something far grander. When the Khajiit learned that Miguel had only just begun his journey across Skyrim, their eyes lit with mischief and excitement. "Ah, but this calls for celebration!" one of them declared, clapping him on the shoulder with enough force to nearly unseat him. "No adventurer should set forth without a proper sendoff!"

Miguel, amused and perhaps a little too willing to indulge, did not argue.

The night grew lively. A fire burned bright at the center of the camp, casting long shadows as the Khajiit brought out their instruments. The rhythmic thrum of drums filled the air, accompanied by the high, reedy sound of some strange flute-like contraption. Laughter rang out as the Khajiit shared stories of their past journeys, some real, some perhaps exaggerated for effect, but all entertaining.

Miguel, for his part, played his role well. He was polite but reserved, offering just enough of himself to remain interesting while keeping the air of mystery firmly intact. When asked of his own origins, he gave answers that were true but carefully worded, shaping his story into something that sounded just distant enough to be intriguing.

And, of course, he could not leave without offering a small display of magic. Nothing grand—just a flick of illusion here, a conjuration trick there. Enough to make the firelight shimmer unnaturally, to make the shadows dance in ways they should not. The Khajiit, ever appreciative of good showmanship, purred their approval, their eyes glinting with interest.

The night stretched on, the air filled with music and the scent of spiced meats and sweet wine. For all the trials he expected to face on his journey, Miguel could not deny—this was a fine way to begin.

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With the warmth of the Khajiit sendoff still thrumming in his chest, Miguel left them a few of his earliest enchanted trinkets—simple things, but useful nonetheless. Small rings imbued with minor wards, a pendant that softened the chill of Skyrim’s harsh winds, and a bracelet that granted a whisper of agility to its wearer. The Khajiit accepted them with curious glances, eyes gleaming with the appreciation of those who knew the worth of true craft. Miguel had dabbled in Enchanting, enough to grasp its fundamentals, but he had never devoted himself to the art. That was a task for his travels, a skill best honed while exploring rather than being cooped up in the College. The real treasures, after all, were out there—waiting to be found, studied, and perhaps even improved upon.

His first milestone was clear: reach Dawnstar. A long journey on foot, and while Miguel enjoyed a good walk, he wasn’t eager to spend weeks trudging through Skyrim’s wilds when a horse could cut his travel time considerably. That meant finding a town—one that had stables willing to part with a horse for a fair price.

Relying on the Clairvoyance spell, he let the shimmering thread of magic pull him toward civilization. The spell wound through the trees, a faint blue glow stretching ahead like an unseen guide, and Miguel followed without question. Skyrim’s roads were rarely safe, but if trouble lurked ahead, he was more than ready.

And trouble, as fate would have it, came sooner than expected.

The first sign wasn’t what he saw, but what he heard—shouts, the unmistakable clash of steel, and the sharp crackle of destruction magic. Quickening his pace, Miguel crested a ridge and took in the scene below. A small town, the kind that likely didn’t even make it onto the maps, was under attack. A band of bandits, clad in mismatched armor and armed with crude weapons, tore through the settlement like wolves through a flock. Townsfolk scrambled to fight back, though it was clear they were outmatched.

And then Miguel’s eyes landed on her.

A striking woman—blonde, if the dim light didn’t deceive him—locked in a struggle with an ugly brute of a bandit. She fought, but the bandit was stronger, shoving her back as he sneered something vile.

Miguel sighed, rolling his shoulders as his magic thrummed to life. "Ah, so it’s time to play the hero then?” he mused, smirking to himself.

With a flick of his wrist, his hands ignited in raw magical power. The town had bandits to deal with, but now… the bandits had him to deal with.