In Progress Skyrim: Daughter of the Magna Ge

[Black Yoshi]

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Notes:
-This takes place in 4E 199, two years before the return of Alduin
-These are short chapters. I write short chapters. That's just how I am, I'm sorry if you like long ones. Maybe they'll come later.
-I do not consider myself a good writer, so please go easy on me if I made a few mistakes. .__.
-Inspired (and pestered to actually post) by Ash, because her writing is daaaaghiloveit.
-If this first chapter is uninteresting, whoops, my bad, but I'm pretty sure it'll get better later on. I hope.
-Let's get on with it.

CHAPTER 1
Students of History​

Middas, the 7th of Second Seed

Dear Father,

We have progressed well in our journey thus far. Ataf and I have stopped in Helgen, and he immediately fell in love with the Mead. His drunkenness has slowed our journey, though, since we must now wait for him to recover after a night of what he calls, “a celebration of a fine brewmaster.”

Tomorrow, we begin the stretch to Whiterun. Since departing Falkreath, I have felt an invisible rope tugging at my heart and clenching my throat. I will miss you, and everyone else, sorely in the years to come, and I fear my visits will be far and few between. I promise again, as I did when I departed, that I shall write you as often as I can.

I know you do not necessarily advocate my pursuits, but I am happy you can see this is what I want. I expect that the College of Winterhold will have much to teach me, and I will have much time to learn it all in, but I still eagerly hone my abilities while we travel. The casting of Spells continues to prove difficult, but with time, I believe it will become easier. For now, I will strengthen my understanding of Magical Theory. Ataf is making it difficult to read while we walk alongside our pony, but I should have expected that much.

Please, take care of yourself. Play me a song in Dead Man’s Drink. You can send a reply to Whiterun, as I expect Ataf and I will rest there for a couple of weeks before we part ways.

Always with love,

Luciana

--∞--​

Ataf moaned and turned over on the floor. The Redguard pulled at an invisible blanket, trying to get back to sleep. He’d spent the entire day prior sleeping off a hangover, but he wasn’t entirely sure it was gone yet.

Luciana rolled her eyes. She gave him a sharp kick in the ribs, and he went off into a coughing fit. “We need to get moving if we’re going to get to Whiterun.” She told him, quickly pulling her hair back and tying it off into a ponytail.

“You- you kick really hard… For a Breton…” Ataf managed between coughs. She just ignored him and continued packing what they’d brought into the inn.

After running their supplies to the pack pony, she dragged Ataf to his feet, and paid for the room for the two nights they’d used it. Ataf grumbled all the way to the edge of Helgen, mostly about the fact that the sun was only just beginning to rise.

The walk, as it had been since they’d left Falkreath, was mostly silent. Luciana attempted to read while they walked, while Ataf usually played with the sword that he’d been given when they left Falkreath. The few times Ataf actually spoke, it was to complain he’d likely not taste the Juniper-Berry Mead from Helgen for some time. Luciana kept her eyes on her book, The Black Arts on Trial.

“Argument by Master Karlyss: Necromancy is inherently dangerous. One cannot ‘dabble’ in it. The simplest spell requires the spilling of blood, and immediately begins to corrupt the caster's soul. This is not conjecture, but simple fact. It is irresponsible of the Guild to teach and thereby encourage a sort of magickal study which has proven itself, time and time again, to bring nothing but terror and misery on the practitioner and world.

Counter-Argument by Master gra-Kogg: All Schools of magicka are dangerous to the uninitiated. A simple fireball spell from the School of Destruction can cause great harm when cast by a-”

“I should have bought some before we left.” Ataf moaned. He rubbed the neck of the pony between them, and the horse snorted and shied away from him. He looked at the horse, then Luciana. “Well that was rude.” He said.

“He doesn’t like you.” Luciana snapped her book shut, deciding she would get no further reading today. Ataf took note of it.

“What, no more reading? You actually planning to hold a conversation for once?”

Luciana glared at him. “And why don’t you ever read? I haven’t seen you ever once reading a book since I’ve known you, but you say you can read fine.”

Ataf shrugged. “I read letters if I get them.”

“Bards should know history better than anyone, not…” She sighed. Ataf passed her a bright and childish smile as his only excuse. “You don’t know any history, do you?”

He scoffed, offended. “I know plenty of history!”

“What happened almost two hundred years ago?” She asked sternly.

“The Oblivion Crisis.” He said smugly.

“How did it start?”

Ataf was silent, pretending to be deep in thought.

“Uh… The Daedra… Attacked Kvatch, I think.” Luciana rolled her eyes at him.

“Uriel Septim was murdered. As were three of his sons.” She told him.

“… That was a trick question.” He said defensively.

“No, it wasn’t! If you want the bards in Solitude to accept you into the college, you have to know history, read the Poetic Edda.” She looked at him with concern. The Bard’s College had been his dream for so long, and she now worried that he would not be permitted entry based on his lack of historical knowledge.

Ataf chewed on his tongue and gave no response. He didn’t seem at all worried and just stared forward lazily. Luciana sighed, and the subject was dropped. The silence returned, with nothing but the shuffle of their own feet, and the clap of hooves between them.

It was near three in the afternoon when they arrived in Riverwood. They decided to finally rest for a late lunch, or an early supper, to hear Ataf tell it. Luciana didn’t want to go to the tavern, since that was sure to lead to Ataf needing another day to sleep off another hangover, so they sat and talked on a large tree stump near the lumber mill. They overheard the woman who managed it complaining that her only decent worker had up and left on account of owing someone a favor.

Luciana tried to pick up another book, A Beginner’s Guide to the School of Conjuration. It was written by a Synod Mage from the Imperial City. For the most part, they weren’t very reliable as far as teaching magic, but for the early and basic things, their writings were sufficient, not to mention low-cost. Ataf was trying to read over her shoulder since she wasn’t talking much.

After a few minutes he spoke up. “I don’t suppose you can actually cast any spells, can you?” He grinned at her.

“I can cast spells just fine.” She spat at him.

“Show me.” He gave her a challenging stare.

“No.”

“Why? Cause you can’t?” He laughed.

“Because I don’t want to.” She lifted the book between them, and tried to focus on reading. Ataf’s hand crested the book, and shoved it back down in a moment, though.

“Come on, Lucy.”

Luciana stood up and jammed her book into their bags before scooping them up. “We’re losing daylight, Ataf. We need to reach Whiterun tonight.” She said.

“Alright.” He shrugged. “If you want to be like that…”

 

[Black Yoshi]

Notes:
-Oh boy! Yoshi's still writing that crappy little story! 8D
-This one is longer than the first one. Yaaaaay progress. Not much longer, though.
-These letters at the start of each chapter are just ridiculous. And cheesy. Not the good kind of cheesy, with nachos and such.
-Delacourt doesn't date his letters. Lazy bard.
-Can you say 'Timeskip?'
-WHO EVEN READS NOTES ANYWAY, LET'S GET TO THE STORY.

Chapter 2
Whiterun​

My dear Luciana,

I only wish you were still here in Falkreath. But if I forced you to stay, you would only be miserable. Already, I feel like an old fool, talking to the townsfolk about you now that you are gone.

Despite all the prejudice against the magic that has captivated you, I am proud of you. You are standing for what you believe, and living as you see fit. Your mother, Divines bless her soul, would have been proud of you.

I would rather keep this letter short, so as not to keep you from your studies. Know I am thinking of you, and praying to the Divines for your safety. And remind Ataf that I’m only loaning him that lute of mine. He gets one scratch on it, and I’ll get him tossed into the Falkreath Dungeon with that monster.

With love,
Father

--∞--​

Luciana folded the letter carefully and slid it into her bag fondly. She gave the Courier some coins for his trouble. He thanked her and hurried off, pushing his way through the other people in the Marketplace. “… Would your pa really throw me in the dungeons with Sinding?” Ataf asked, still peering over Luciana’s shoulder.

“Oh, please. He’s just trying to sound like a grumpy old man. He wouldn’t leave anyone at the mercy of a Werewolf. Not even you, Ataf…” She stopped, as though thinking. “Then again…” Ataf promptly punched her shoulder and she giggled.

“You made a funny.” He mused, then said, “I don’t suppose you know who in Whiterun could just use an extra pair of hands?”

Luciana stopped and looked at him. “We’ve been here for three days! And you haven’t found any way to make extra Septims?”

“I’ve been trying, but there’s another Bard already working the inn at the market, and nobody seems to want my help with anything!” He said defensively. Someone walking past looked at him when he raised his voice, but after Ataf nodded to them, they returned to browsing the market stalls. “Besides,” He said. “I don’t see any coins dripping from your fingers.” Luciana promptly raised a bag of about 30 coins and waved it in Ataf’s face, and he immediately swiped at it.

He opened the sack and stared at its contents in awe. “Where did this come from, Lucy?”

“Well, I’m not sure Farengar really views me as an apprentice. Mostly he just sends me to deliver things. Rings and weapons that he’s been contracted to enchant, or sometimes just to grab things from around the palace. The servants seem to think I’ve become one of them, too, because one of them kept trying to get me to sweep the front entrance.” She took back the money from Ataf. “Anyway, the money is from all the people who have been getting the deliveries. They think I’m just a Courier.”

Ataf took a step back and examined her for a minute. “… What?” She asked, worried.

“You need to make yourself look like a mage.” He nodded decisively.

“… What?” She repeated.

“You don’t look like a mage. If you want Farengar to think of you as an apprentice, you should dress for the role. Other people will notice, too.” He smiled with satisfaction.

Luciana stared at him, then said, “I can’t afford robes! Besides, this money needs to be saved so one of us can take a carriage while the other can buy rations for the trip. I can’t go around buying clothes because I’m not viewed the way I want to be in a town I may never see again!”

Ataf shrugged it off. “How much money do we have, anyway?”

“Well, with my thirty or so from working for Farengar, plus what we have left after all the meals so far…” She did some counting in her head, tapping her chin thoughtfully. “I’d round it off to about eighty or ninety Septims.”

Ataf began pacing back and forth, counting on his own fingers and mumbling aloud to himself. “A carriage to Winterhold is fifty, and most loaves of bread are between three and five…”

Luciana cocked an eyebrow. “I’m not taking a carriage.”

The Redguard looked up at her, surprised. “But then… Surely you don’t want to walk?”

“There’s a pretty plain path to Winterhold. To get to Solitude means going through the Reach, and everyone knows how many bandits are skulking around there. A cart will be cheaper and safer, assuming you find a sizeable group who will split the cost with you.” Luciana sat down on the well in the Market’s center. Ataf opened his mouth to respond, but nothing ever came out, and after a moment, he sighed and mumbled that he was going to look for a job again.

Luciana wasn’t needed by Farengar for the rest of the day (he claimed to be on the verge of something great, and absolutely could not be disturbed by her presence), so she remained on the well for a little while longer, chatting with passersby and reading a few books. She read her father’s letter six or seven times.

Finally, she decided to get a drink, but when she went to the inn she was staying at, it was packed. Apparently Sundas was a big night for drinking. Hulda, the Innkeeper, didn’t have any clean mugs left. Luciana sat in the tavern for an hour or so before a fight broke out.

The bard had said something that offended one of the off-duty guards. The guard was a dark-haired woman, while the bard was rather small for a Nord. When he commented on her body, she punched him in the stomach, and after he caught his breath, he took a swing at her. She caught his fist easily, and then shot her foot into his chin. The entire tavern full of people just cheered, as if this was a normal occurrence. The bard lay bleeding on the floor, unable to gather the strength to move. Blood trickled from his nose and lips, caking onto his face. The guard picked him up, and a path ceremoniously opened before her, leading to the door. Two men opened the doors with a laugh, and everyone roared with laughter when she hurled the bard outside.

“Lydia doesn’t care much for flirting.” Hulda told Luciana, seeing the questions written on her face. “I like to think perhaps one day a man will earn her respect, but he’ll have to be very courteous, and very, very strong.”

The woman, or “Lydia,” as it seemed, came and sat on the stool beside Luciana. She sighed, and said, “I dropped my mug when that bastard picked a fight with me. Don’t suppose you have one for me?” She looked at Luciana, who quickly shook her head. “Damn it.” Lydia leaned forward.

A guard came in the door, in full uniform, and approached Lydia. She sighed again when she saw him. “Lydia, I’m going to have to ask you to come with me.” He said.

“Do we really need to do this?” She asked.

“Unfortunately. The Captain’s warned you enough times. We have to detain you for assault, and suspend your authority as a Town Guard.” Lydia let out a third sigh at this. “If you’ll follow me to Dragonsreach, we might be able to get you a good cell. One with a real bed.”

Lydia wouldn’t leave until she had a drink, so she swiped another patron’s flagon. The man didn’t complain, having witnessed what happened to the bard, and she drank the ale quickly before the Guard escorted her to the palace.

Luciana watched her go with wonder. She was a very strong, capable woman, but it didn’t seem as though she’d be working with the guards for long. The whole “suspension” thing seemed pretty routine to her.

“Does Lydia always get into fights?” She asked Hulda.

“That would be an understatement.” Said the Innkeeper. “She gets suspended once or twice a month, and into fights almost daily. The Captain would just get rid of her entirely, except she’s good at… ‘dissolving’ situations. Really good.”

That night, Luciana lay awake, thinking about her father, Lydia, and wishing she’d had a bit of ale.

--∞--​

Morning came with Ataf on the floor, grumbling that it was too bright. Luciana kicked him in the ribs to get him moving, and he groggily followed her into the now empty tavern. Hulda sat at the bar, cleaning off cups from last night. She smiled at them and asked if they wanted anything to eat, and they paid for a plain meal of dried meat. Halfway through their meager breakfast, Ataf noticed an oddity.

“… It’s very quiet in here. Where’s your bard?” He asked, chewing on a mouthful of meat.

Hulda rolled her eyes. “The milk-drinker told me he was in too much pain to work today. His beating yesterday was bad, but Lydia didn’t rip his tongue out.” Ataf raised his eyebrows at this.

“Well, I can play. And sing. What if I worked here for now?”

Hulda looked him over. “… Sure. I’ll give you ten Septims a day, plus a free dinner of bread and mead each night you work.”

“That sounds fantastic!” He slapped his hand on the table, and Luciana smiled at him. At least he had a job, now.

Ataf stayed at the inn to prove his musical talent to Hulda, while Luciana headed up to Dragonsreach to meet with Farengar. He was a night owl, and often slept in, but she liked to look around his study while he slept in the morning. She entered the palace with the usual nod to the guards posted at the door.

Farengar’s study was to the right of the Main Hall. She could see the Jarl of Whiterun seated on his throne, speaking to his steward quietly while his Housecarl, a Dark Elf woman, watched her walk to Farengar’s. Her name was Irileth, and she had badgered Luciana every day prior. She was suspicious of anyone who could even give the Jarl a mild cough, and Luciana was no exception.

When Luciana walked into Farengar’s study, she found him resting his head on his desk, drooling into a book, which upon closer inspection, Luciana discovered to be about a Noble and his affair with his Argonian Maid. Luciana wiped the information from her mind, deciding it was better to not think about it.

She browsed through his other tomes and a few research notes for a while, and stared into the Crystal Ball on his Enchanting Table for a while. When Farengar showed signs of life, she quickly exited his study. After a moment, he was fully awake, and she pretended to have just walked in, and he became flustered, quickly slamming the book shut and jamming it into his desk drawer.

“Ah, yes! There you are, my assistant!” He said as if he had been doing something important just a moment before.

Luciana folded her arms. “My name is Luciana.”

“Yes, yes, of course it is. Now,” He began, and started rifling through his notes. “I have another delivery for you to make. First,” Farengar handed her a satchel. “Take these Frost Salts to Arcadia, and then come back here.” He went to one of his tables and began weaving an enchantment into a blade.

She left without a word. She went down to the market, and made the delivery to the alchemist quickly. But she didn’t return to Farengar just then. She sat down on the edge of the well, and after watching the clouds for a time, once more pulled out the letter her father wrote her. She thought of home, and sat quietly for a few more hours, holding the letter close.