The Elder Scrolls

A Scryer’s Journey: Travels of a Psijic Monk through the Isle of Alinor in the 4th Era.

Nelarin pulled his cloak in closer among him, his eyes still adjusting to the evening light, a cold wind blowing in from the nearby waters and the sky casting a warm glow shrouded behind the peak of Eton Nir, the receding sun causing the intricate runes upon his ashen cloak to emanate a faint shimmer that fled as soon as you made any concerted effort to observe it. The wizened sage secured his garment in place, now prepared for the mission ahead, with a delicate silver chain, upon which was suspended over the Altmer's sternum a white-gold talisman; an open eye seeing all around, it's pupil a brilliant cobalt blue. Painfully aware of the mages and patrols that could now be investigating the mystic disturbances now rippling across the land, Nelarin squared his shoulders and began the long trek west then to the north of the isles, to the hillside city of Lillandril.

The night air was an unusual type of cold, one rarely felt in the travelling sage's homeland, one that felt distant until you came to be used to it, then advanced suddenly, reaching into every part of you, idly chilling you to the bones before retreating again, as regular as the waves, though also bizarrely surprising. The wind whistled through the valleys of western Summerset, brushing past the many-coloured leaves that dotted the countryside, each given a cold and unfeeling hue from the lights of Masser and Secunda above, hanging far in the sky. The cobbled path was, thankfully, firm enough to allow a brisk pace, though as the road became more open, the sage broke into a light run, the better to avoid the waiting eyes of the Thalmor, doubtless combing the woods for any sign of hiding dissidents or 'undesirables'.

So he continued for an indeterminate number of hours, a faint painful heat coursing through his shins as he wound his way up the hills past Ebon Stadmont, and south towards the city, reaching it in the half light before dawn. A thin, wiry gentleman of around two centuries age, clad in ornate bespoke robes denoting his status as a member of the nearby college of Sapiarchs greeted him some two hundred metres before the gates. While it was true that he was a great many years younger than the near eight-hundred-old Psijic that stood before him, his frame appeared weathered, his skin like a ship's sails following a violent storm, with a complexion to match, his eyebrows furrowed into a hardened frown, a relic of the presumably formidable Mer he was in ages past. The younger of the two gave a small cough, and began to speak: "Take this, your people will know what to do with it I trust?" The question was merely a formality, as this was not the first time the two Sorcerers had met, "Of course" came the grey-cloak's inevitable reply. A small satchel changed hands, the contents of which Nelarin could faintly make out, though he dared not look within until such time as it was safe within the Vaults, protected by the ancient spells and safeguards of the Order.

"Those damn justiciars came round last week looking for the fetching thing, can't even begin to imagine what they'd do with it. Best in your hands, thank Xarxes." The old man fidgeted, picking at bits of his robes, the Psijic placed a reassuring hand upon his arm, and closed his eyes, scrying into the Sapiarch's mind, and to the thoughts of war, and of longing for a return to the peace before the Thalmor that swirled within.

Without any further words, a small look showing an intrinsic understanding between the two gentlemer being exchanged as they parted, the Psijic set off returning to the ruined keep he had emerged from some hours previous, taking care not to exactly retrace his steps from the evening before, the relic whispering to him, a subtle calling, urging him to fall victim to whatever dark magic rested upon it. Yet to him it was no more distracting than a spring breeze, light, noticeable of course, but in no way oppresively so, it's mystic murmurings falling on deaf ears.

It was around midday that Nelarin returned to the ancient ruins, going down the ruined steps leading into the old temple, and placing his fingers upon the talisman around his neck, uttering an incantation that caused a portal to open before him, and the lapis eye on his sternum to glow, channelling the magicka of it's wearer into the stones around him. Before he left, he said a small prayer of thanks to the ancestors for his safety that night, and stepped into the light, to the vanished isle of Artaeum.


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