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Wayfarer 05: The Nordic Tomb Run
🕑 Added 2025-03-05 16:00:41 +0000 UTCDisclaimer:
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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The tomb loomed over them, its ancient Nordic architecture half-buried in snow, ice creeping along the stone like the cold hands of the dead refusing to let go. Miguel exhaled, his breath forming a small cloud in the frigid air as he took in the scene. A small part of him—the gamer part—felt like he had just stepped into one of those dungeon delves from Skyrim, except this time, there was no quicksave, no reload button. Real stakes. Real consequences.
From their vantage point, they could see shambling undead scattered around the entrance—reanimated corpses moving in that eerie, unnatural way that made Miguel's skin crawl. Classic necromancer play. Vareth, the Dunmer destruction mage, clicked his tongue. “Market day for the necromancers,” he muttered, voice low.
Sigrun, the Nord restoration specialist, tightened her grip on her staff. “Not for long,” she hissed, her usual cheery tone absent. Miguel could see the tension in her jaw. Desecration of Nordic tombs was always a sore spot for Nords, even for progressive ones like her. Faralda shot them both a warning look. “Save the moral outrage for after we deal with them. Focus up.”
Miguel had no complaints there. He was mostly focused on not making a fool of himself in front of Faralda, especially with the new spell he had up his sleeve. But he was also still rattled from that spell she cast earlier—Fireball. In the game, it was a standard mid-tier destruction spell, good for crowd control. But in real life that thing boomed, the explosion might have explosions. The shockwave alone had rumbled in his chest, and the explosion left a crater where a small group of draugr used to be. Miguel knew about perks like Augmented Flames and Impact, but seeing them translated in action was another thing entirely. The reality of magic in Skyrim—Tamriel, he reminded himself—was much more visceral. More powerful. And way more terrifying.
Faralda, ever the professional, was already forming the plan. “This is a small tomb, nothing like Saarthal or Ustengrav. We’ll take it slow and steady, stick together. No splitting up. We’ll leave rune traps at the entrance in case any of them try to bolt.” She gave them all a look, making sure they were paying attention. “Remember, necromancers are dangerous because they don’t fight alone. They’ll throw corpses at us to wear us down before engaging themselves.”
Vareth smirked. “Good thing corpses burn easy.”
Faralda ignored that and turned to Miguel. “You got a summon ready?”
Miguel nodded, already feeling the familiar pull of conjuration magic at his fingertips. “I can drop an atronach in first, let it take the initial aggression.”
Faralda gave an approving nod. “Good. Sigrun, keep your wards up, and be ready to heal if we need it. Vareth, I want you on offense with me. Miguel, you do what you do best—support and control.”
Miguel felt a twinge of excitement. Support and control was his bread and butter. Between illusion spells, alteration buffs, and his knack for conjuration, he was more than ready to be the team’s tactical backbone. And, of course, there was that spell he’d been saving—his little wildcard.
The group moved forward, silent as shadows. The only sound was the faint whisper of the wind and the distant, hollow groans of the undead within. As they reached the entrance, Miguel watched as Faralda casually weaved a spell, her hands flickering with heat. This wasn’t Fireball that he saw earlier—this was something different. It feels more precise.
“Fire Rune,” she murmured as she placed the glowing sigil onto the ground near the entrance. The magic sunk into the snow-covered stone, vanishing from sight but undoubtedly deadly to anything that stepped over it. Vareth followed suit, placing a Shock Rune on the opposite side. Sigrun, instead of laying a trap, raised a small ward, preparing for any magical retaliation.
Miguel took a deep breath, focused, and extended his hand. The air shimmered as he channeled his conjuration magic. “Alright, let’s see how this works in a real fight,” he muttered. With a flick of his wrist, his latest spell took form.
A small, icy-blue sprite materialized in the air, about the size of a torchbug but shaped like a tiny atronach, crackling with elemental energy. Its form flickered like frost forming on glass, and when it opened its eyes—two glowing pinpricks of azure—it let out a small, echoing chime, like the wind howling through an ice cave.
Faralda blinked, caught off guard for the first time since they set out. “What… is that?”
Miguel grinned. “Conjure Elemental Spell Sprite. My own custom spell.”
Vareth raised a brow. “And what’s it do?”
Miguel smirked. “Think of it like a walking spell scroll. Instead of me casting the destruction spell, it does. Uses my reserves, but it aims, it fires, and it moves independently.”
Faralda gave him a long, scrutinizing look, then sighed, rubbing her temple. “Of course you’d find a way to outsource destruction magic.”
Miguel just grinned. “Efficiency, not laziness.”
Sigrun gave a small laugh. “I like it.”
Faralda shook her head but didn’t argue. “Alright, then. Let’s see if your little ice sprite can handle necromancers.”
With that, she turned back to the tomb entrance and motioned for them to move in. Miguel felt a thrill of anticipation. This was it—the real deal. No more simulations, no more practice dummies. Just them, the dark corridors of a tomb, and a bunch of necromancers who were about to have a very bad day.
Time to test some spells.
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Miguel could only sigh in frustration. How was he supposed to test his spells when everything in front of him got blown to Oblivion before he could even lift a finger? It wasn’t that Faralda, Vareth, and Sigrun were rushing into spellcasting like green apprentices trying to show off—it was actually the opposite. They simply knew when and where to cast, as if anticipating the enemy’s movements before the fight even started and made it look effortless. That kind of precision, that level of awareness, he could tell it wasn’t something you learned overnight. Experience in hunting rogue mages had sharpened their instincts to a razor’s edge, making Miguel feel more like a spectator than an actual participant.
Still, while he struggled to get a word in spell-wise, this trip was proving valuable in another way. Seeing adept-level spells being used in live combat was leagues different from studying them in books or practicing on stationary targets. The crackling arcs of Chain Lightning, the freezing gusts of Ice Storm, and the explosive fury of Fireball—each spell left a lasting impression on Miguel. He was growing more confident that he could modify his spell sprite to cast them soon, especially Ice Storm. Thanks to his water affinity, he had an easier time understanding it, but the spell’s wide, indiscriminate spread still made it tricky. That was something he’d have to work out.
Thankfully, he finally got his moment. A draugr, one that had gone unnoticed in the heat of battle, managed to slip past their offensive and raise its rusted greatsword over Sigrun. Miguel’s instincts gained from countless hours of practice kicked in. With a flick of his wrist, his summoned his unique familiar—a wolf imbued with a shock enchantment—lunged at the undead warrior, sinking its ethereal fangs into its leg. At the same time, Miguel activated his recently prepared fire-element spell sprite, which shot a Firebolt straight into the draugr’s chest. It was a weak one, barely armored, and crumbled into a smoldering heap before it could finish its strike.
Sigrun turned, nodded in appreciation, and then went right back to slinging spells. No time for chit-chat in the middle of a fight, after all.
As they delved deeper, the group finally reached the tomb’s main chamber—the heart of the resting place, where a warlord of old was entombed. Miguel didn’t need to be an expert to tell this was the final stretch. The air was thick with the stench of decay and the unmistakable aura of death magic. Faint, pulsating runes glowed on the stone walls, necromantic energy keeping the draugr bound in unnatural rest.
Faralda surveyed the scene with a critical eye.
“I’d wager we’re dealing with at least one senior necromancer,” she murmured. “Likely adept level. That’s the bare minimum needed to rouse a nord warlord from their grave.”
Vareth scoffed. “So just another market day, then.”
Sigrun, still on edge, tightened her grip on her staff. “Desecrating the honored dead is unforgivable.”
Faralda shot her a look. “Keep your temper in check. We do this smart.”
Miguel, meanwhile, was going over what he could contribute. His conjured atronachs could keep some of the draugr at bay while he supported with illusion and restoration magic. Maybe he’d finally get to properly test his spell sprite, provided the battle didn’t end before he could get a chance.
Faralda turned to him. “I’ll open with Fireball and focus on the necromancers. Can you handle the draugr?”
Miguel didn’t hesitate. “I got this.”
Faralda nodded. “Good.”
With the plan set, the mages readied themselves. The air grew tense, magic crackling between their fingers. This was it—the last push.
Faralda stepped forward, her hands ablaze with gathering magicka. Then, with a practiced motion, she unleashed the first strike—a searing sphere of flame that hurtled toward the gathered necromancers.
The battle had begun.
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Miguel honestly felt a bit cheated. Faralda’s opening Fireball had done most of the heavy lifting, obliterating a good chunk of the draugr and assorted undead before he even had a proper chance to get involved. The sheer force of the explosion left only a handful of the shambling corpses standing, and even those were more than halfway to Oblivion.
His eyes darted toward the necromancers—six of them in total. One stood out from the rest, maintaining a level of composure the others lacked. That had to be the senior necromancer Faralda had mentioned earlier. Miguel couldn’t help but wonder where they had come from. There wasn’t any known major necromantic organization in Skyrim, at least not to his knowledge. But then again, this wasn’t some video game where necromancers just randomly spawned in caves waiting for adventurers to stroll in and wipe them out. In this world, things had more depth, and the idea of organized groups of necromancers felt more plausible than just a handful of rogue practitioners with no real ties.
Not that it mattered much right now. The few draugr that survived the initial blast were barely holding themselves together, and Miguel didn’t even need to worry about them too much. Faralda and the others didn’t waste time with witty remarks or dramatic proclamations—they simply attacked.
While Miguel focused on cleaning up the stragglers, Vareth and Sigrun took on three of the necromancers who had the sense to band together. Meanwhile, Faralda, being the powerhouse she was, squared off against the leader and the remaining two. Miguel knew how this was going to end before it even started. A master-level mage against adepts wasn’t a fair fight in any sense. Even if they had numbers on their side, Faralda’s mastery of Destruction magic meant this was going to be a massacre.
And sure enough, she made short work of them, finishing her battle just as Miguel was landing the final blow on his last draugr. The fight hadn’t been satisfying for him. Sure, he had contributed, but it didn’t feel like much when his opponents were already on their last legs before he even raised a spell. Vareth and Sigrun wrapped up their own battle shortly after, the duo proving to be more than a match for the lesser necromancers.
With the immediate threat eliminated, Faralda gave the order to investigate the tomb more thoroughly. It wasn’t large by any means, so the search didn’t take long. From what they could tell, the necromancers hadn’t been here long enough to fully establish themselves. They hadn’t had the chance to set up wards or reinforce their position, which explained why they went down so quickly. That was good—it meant the College had acted fast enough to stop them before they could become a real problem.
With nothing else of interest left to find, the group made their way back outside. The air was sharp and cold, the sky painted in hues of orange and purple as the day neared its end.
“Back to the College, then,” Faralda said, dusting off her robes. “We’ll send word to the Jarl about the job being done.”
Miguel let out a sigh, part exhaustion, part relief. He had hoped to get more practice in, but at least he’d learned a few things. If nothing else, he now had a better understanding of how high-level Destruction magic functioned in real combat. That alone was valuable.
Still, next time, he’d make sure to get a proper chance to test his own spells before everything was blown to pieces.
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The trek back to the College was a welcome reprieve after the flurry of spells and combat they had just endured. Miguel, like an ever eager scholar, found himself running through the spells he had observed being cast by the others, mentally breaking them down and contemplating how they could be woven into other schools of magic. Granted, he had already analyzed these spells earlier, but the difference between theory and application was as vast as the Sea of Ghosts. Still, for now, these were just passing thoughts—fancy ideas that would need proper testing and refinement before becoming anything close to a tangible advancement. After all, trying to revolutionize magical study while trudging through the snow was hardly practical.
That said, Miguel had resolved to finish mastering the standard spells before fully committing to altering the framework of Tamrielic magic. He needed a solid foundation before he could start modifying spells to fit his own understanding. The 'Conjure Elemental Spell Sprite' was an exception, of course—it was his first true success in crafting a unique spell, and he wasn't about to let it be a one-off fluke.
The journey was quiet, the only sounds being the crunch of snow beneath their boots and the occasional gust of the frigid northern wind. No one felt the need for chatter; the job was done, and there was a certain satisfaction in that. It wasn't until the College came into view, its towering structure standing defiantly against the elements, that Miguel felt a true sense of homecoming.
Upon their return, the group made their way to Mirabelle Ervine to report on the successful elimination of the necromancer threat. The Master Wizard listened attentively, nodding at key points before offering a satisfied hum. “Good work. I’ll have an errand boy deliver the report to the Jarl,” she stated, leaning back slightly. “No need to send mages for something so trivial—we’re not trying to ruffle any feathers. The less the locals have to see of us, the better. No need to give them a reason to start preaching about ‘dangerous wizardry’ again.”
With that, they were dismissed. Miguel wasted no time in heading straight to the Hall of Attainment, his quarters promising much-needed rest before diving back into his studies. As much as combat experience had its place in a mage’s education, he wasn’t about to neglect the slow, meticulous practice that built true mastery. Like the other students, he had a schedule to maintain—study, practice, refine, repeat. But unlike most, Miguel had one additional obligation: the teachings of his first master, Thalanor. The practices and principles he had learned under his first teacher would not be forgotten, nor would they be overshadowed by his new studies.
Miguel flopped onto his bed, letting the warmth of his quarters seep into his bones. His eyelids grew heavy, but his mind continued racing with ideas.
Tomorrow, he would refine his spell sprite further. Tomorrow, he would push himself closer to the level of a true Tamrielic mage.
Tomorrow, he would take one step closer to mastering magic in this world.
Today, he and the pillow will snuggle.
