Every city in Skyrim has good points and bad; among the merits of Solitude, for example, are its excellent shops, its beautiful location, and its colorful local personalities, including the instructors and students at the Bards’ College, the sailors that crew the Red Wave, and the Argonian prostitute who can generally be found leaning on a wall in the middle of town and who keeps calling out to me to come see him if I get bored. On the negative side, I have to go all the way to Dragon Bridge whenever I need to refill my waterskins and then invade someone’s home in order to cook.
Still, I wake up the next morning with the cheerful prospect of puttering around the city all day, making up for my inability to do any productive work in Dawnstar. First things first, though: I’m running low on arrows and really need to replace them before I forget. Thinking to make some of my own, I walk down to the sawmill to fetch some firewood (my supplies are getting low). The weather turns thoroughly miserable as soon as I’m out of the city gates: a furious storm rises up and rain pelts down so thickly that I could just as well jump into the ocean and swim to my destination. And of course I discover, upon actually reaching the mill, that there’s no axe handy and I haven’t brought one with me. I chat with Hjorunn, a Nord, and Kharag Gro-Shurkul, an orc, who run the place together. Kharag tells me that he likes working with Hjorunn, who treats him much better than the city folks do; the only problem is that Hjorunn is sometimes too drunk to go anywhere, so Kharag has to conduct their business in town.
I trudge back up to Solitude—that’s the entire morning wasted—and go through Snowberry’s saddlebags. I could have sworn I had an axe, but I can’t find it; perhaps I left it at Lakeview. I visit the local merchants, including Ma’Dran in the camp outside the gates, but none of them have one for sale. The smith doesn’t have one either, so I consider making one—but it turns out that despite having learned to smith many different weapons and armor pieces from various materials, I somehow haven’t picked up the technique of making a simple woodcutter’s axe. I make some arrows anyway, dipping into my firewood supply—I probably won’t run out if I continue to do my cooking in other people’s houses. I’m very pleased with the new arrows: they’re Bosmer-style, greatly superior to the iron arrows I’ve been using until now.
After lunch, I mix potions and sell them to the three merchants who are interested—the apothecary Angeline, Sayma at Bits and Pieces, and Ma’Dran. I’m able to do quite a bit to make up for my recent dry spell. (Sales of Nona’s All-Natural Conjuring-Enhancing Magic-Suppressant continue to be impressive.) The weather clears in the afternoon, and as I go out into the marketplace I see hawks soaring over the rooftops, tracing languid circles against the clear blue sky—a sight so beautiful that I am overcome with the desire to shoot down these magnificent creatures and pluck out their feathers. I head down to the docks—shooting at hawks within city limits seems wildly antisocial, even if I will be firing my arrows into the air—where I discover that I have enough trouble just hitting these small, moving targets, let alone ensuring that they fall in places where I can easily reach them. I use all of my remaining iron arrows and hit only two birds, both of which plummet into the sea. But then they bob to the surface and float there, retrievable after all. Why not? I strip off my armor and jump in to get them.
After swallowing a hawk’s beak for educational purposes, I return to the Winking Skeever with my little retinue. Over the noise of the usual crowd I can hear Nythriel, the incorrigible Blue Palace gossip, asking a woman named Veralene how her search for a spouse is going. Curiosity piqued, I chat with Veralene myself—I’m not sure what I want out of this conversation other than a little shared venting about the frustrations of trying to get married in Skyrim—but Veralene is incapable of expressing anything but pity for herself (she used to be rich, but lost everything when the dragon attacked Helgen) and contempt for everyone else. And yet I continue speaking to her even after she tries to drive me away with personal insults: her naked interest in marrying for money (and it appears that, for all her hostility, Veralene would be willing to marry me for that reason alone) amuses me no end. Even I was never that desperate. Neither was I ever so rich, of course; Veralene is clearly accustomed to a certain lifestyle, and considers death to be but a tiny step down from living on an inferior income. I doubt that Nona could afford to keep such an expensive wife, even if she found one worth keeping.
I’ll be leaving Solitude tomorrow, and my next destination will be Winterhold. I’ve wavered over this decision for some time; Winterhold, from what I’ve heard, has only two points of interest—its College, a school for wizards, and the Shrine of Azura, which is said to be well worth seeing. The former tempts me not at all, the latter only somewhat, and I’m not entirely sure that the sightseeing is worth the risk—Winterhold is one of the snowiest parts of Skyrim, and snowy areas mean snowy cats, snowy bears, and snowy trolls. And yet I want to make the journey, if only so that I can say that I’ve visited every hold in the province. (And there’s always the possibility of discovering something exciting and new—an alchemical reagent that grows nowhere else, an attractive single gentleman in want of a better place to live, etc.)
We head out the next morning, reaching Morthal with a few hours of daylight left; I gather ingredients in the marsh while Vorstag and Meeko fend off the spiders. We go on to Dawnstar the next day and stay only long enough to find out whether Frida’s shop is open—it isn’t—and then take the road south. I once more attempt to bypass Fort Dunstad by riding around it at a full gallop, but this time one of the the local bandits takes an interest in one of my followers, and I turn around to find that both Vorstag and Meeko have become embroiled in a chaotic melee. While I’m hesitating—reminding myself sternly that I am paying Vorstag to protect me, and shouldn’t feel obligated to protect him—Meeko comes running out of the fort, pursued by two bandits. I make a brief and foolish attempt to fight them, but they are far too tough for me to fend off alone. Mustering my inner reserves, I command them with every ounce of authority in my being to leave me be. They cannot resist the Voice of the Emperor, and immediately sheathe their weapons, but the sounds of battle from inside the walls continue—most of the bandits are out of range of the Voice—and I can’t afford to hang around waiting for Vorstag forever, as the two I’ve calmed down will recover eventually. I mount up again and ride away from the fort. Vorstag, to my relief, catches up a few minutes later.
We stay at the Nightgate Inn, continuing east in the morning. Not far past the inn, a snowy path splits off from the main road, leading up to some sort of monument. I’m normally a lover of broad, clear, trustworthy roads with reassuring signs endorsing them, and distrustful of unmarked side-paths; but this one looks wide and inviting, and the view promises to be spectacular. I make the climb and find a small Nord burial site which my uncanny instinct for naming things tells me is called Yorgrim Overlook. Peering at one of the coffins is a tall man in College robes; before I can offer any sort of greeting we are surprised by a couple of animated skeletons clattering over with weapons at the ready. The stranger whirls around and shoots one with an arrow fired from a glowing bow; Vorstag smashes the other with his battleaxe.
The stranger turns out to be an affable high elf with a few daubs of paint marking his cheeks. Putting away his fantastical weapon, he introduces himself as Rumarin, an “adventurer, bladebinder, and grave-robber,” and invites me to partake of whatever valuables the Nords have carelessly left lying about. I tell him primly that I prefer not to steal from the dead, and his wise response is that I might do better as a priest, and steal from the living. He speaks in a steady flow of almost hysterical good humor, such that I am hardly surprised when he suggests traveling together—no man this entertaining could possibly be happy with only himself for company. As usual, I’m reluctant to accept, for fear of disappointing him with my complete lack of intrepidity, but it occurs to me that if he’s a member of the College of Winterhold, as his outfit suggests, we might visit it together. He is quick to correct my misapprehension, cheerfully explaining that his robes are fake—he knows a crafter with a talent for creating such counterfeits—and that he only wears them to impress people; he doesn’t know any spells other than the ones he uses to conjure weapons from Oblivion. “That would require … ugh … studying,” he explains in a dismal tone. I actually find his conjured weapons more impressive than his robes, but I suppose that’s proof of my ignorance.
Letting Rumarin go his own way, we continue our journey into the mountains, only to be confronted with a military fort that takes up almost the entire valley. The road passes so narrowly around its northern side that there is little hope of getting by without attracting attention, and I haven’t recovered enough yet to use the Voice of the Emperor again. I get on my horse and ride very slowly closer, just to get a better look, and someone or something I haven’t yet spotted starts shooting at me; I wheel Snowberry around and ride away in a panic. When nobody emerges to give chase, I dismount and turn back again, only to discover that Vorstag and Meeko have rushed into the fort and are now engaged in a vicious fight with what sounds like wizards—I can hear the crash of magical icicles hitting the walls, the tinkling as they splinter into shards. As I wait, tensely, for the noise to die down, I catch a glimpse of Vorstag running along the battlements in pursuit of an enemy mage, an enormous icicle protruding from his head. Any lingering notions I might have had about the proper relationship between an employer and her hireling are suddenly extinguished, and I gulp down a potion of frost resistance and run into the fort in helpless anxiety for my bodyguard’s safety. My efforts turn out to be entirely unnecessary—the only remaining enemies are skeletons with bows that are easily finished off; Vorstag has slain all of the wizards. He’s also used a couple of the healing potions I made, which brings me some small comfort—I am taking care of him, in my own way.
Past Fort Kastav, we run into a couple of Alik’r warriors on their harassment tour of Skyrim. They’ve just finished threatening some random woman as we approach, and as they’re heading towards Winterhold, we walk along with them—I’m always glad for extra company on the road. A few minutes later, a snowy sabre cat charges us; I’ve lagged a little behind by then, distracted by the scenery (the weather is very clear), and before Vorstag can catch up or I can decide which poison to use, both of the Redguards have fallen to a few lazy swipes of the beast’s claws.
I’m a little stunned; fortunately, someone else arrives to help Vorstag and Meeko with the sabre cat. He’s dressed like a Vigilant, which is unusual—I’ve never seen a Khajiit Vigilant before. The three of them together dispatch the cat, and the newcomer introduces himself as Qa’Dojo, a simple monk on a pilgrimage to the Shrine of Azura. He’s an interesting fellow, with a religious philosophy that finds an agreeable balance between the stability of the Divines and the change wrought by the Daedra—a philosophy that would most likely be considered heretical by the Vigilants. I ask him about his future plans, and he tells me a parable of a wealthy Count who hired a carpenter to hang a painting in his castle. The painting looked very good in the place that was initially chosen for it, but the Count insisted that the carpenter move about the premises, hanging the painting up and then taking it down. Only after the painting had been seen in every conceivable spot did the Count decide that its first placement had been best after all.
He ends the story by asking me to be his carpenter: by following me in my utterly pointless wanderings, Qa’Dojo seems to be saying, he will realize that some place that he has already visited—or some other companion he has previously had—is, by comparison, greatly preferable. I love it! Providing a balancing contrast with more interesting people and places could well be my calling. I’m eager for further conversation with Qa’Dojo, but it feels terribly disrespectful to get acquainted over the bodies of these two unfortunate Redguards, so I invite him to travel with us and we continue on towards Winterhold.
Winterhold barely qualifies as a town at all: collapsed and broken-down buildings almost outnumber the functional ones, and of those there are few--an inn called the Frozen Hearth, a large house that most likely belongs to the Jarl, a much smaller house, and what appears to be a general store. There’s no smithy, no mill, no mines, no farms; no signs of productivity other than a few chickens pecking at the frozen earth and a horse that someone has left near one of the ruined buildings. The road leads up to a precarious stone bridge that passes over a dizzying drop and into a massive fortress. A lone Altmer woman named Faralda stops me at the bridge, barring my way; it leads to the College of Winterhold, she tells me, and members of the College don’t care for casual visitors. With nothing more pressing than mild curiosity urging me to enter, I turn back and go into the Frozen Hearth.
There’s not much of a crowd, so I settle in near the fire and take the opportunity to get to know Qa’Dojo a little. I’m especially curious about his association with the Vigilants: he explains that he trained as a priest of Stendarr, but his distaste for the more militaristic aspects of the religion led him to contemplate converting to Julianos. As he was packing to leave, he saw a book that he had been searching for, Aedra and Daedra, on top of a high shelf, and imprudently attempted to climb the shelf to retrieve it. The shelf tipped over, causing him to fall and hit his head, and at that moment he had a powerful vision in which he saw all of the Gods—Aedra and Daedra—as integral parts of the same constellation.
I’m no expert, but I see no reason to assume that a heavy blow to the head is inferior to any other source of divine inspiration; surely people have received religious visions in many a sillier fashion. I’m actually rather excited to be traveling with this monk, who asks only that I go wherever I feel like going. (I can do that!) Tomorrow, therefore—because I’m just full of surprises—we’ll head for the place that Qa’Dojo was going to visit anyway: the Shrine of Azura. I don’t want to stay in Winterhold for long—the place is a depressing and not-so-scenic ruin, I have not exactly been overwhelmed by the attentions of attractive single gentlemen, and I’m not sure whether I can even fetch water or cook here—so we had best do our sightseeing as soon as possible.