It took two weeks of hard studying before Olria could enchant a pair of wearable mage’s robes. She could already feel them bolstering her magicka. However, even then her powers still ran dry as Farengar gave her spelltome after spelltome of destruction magic to practice.
When he handed Olria her nineth spell, she almost dropped it with dismay. “Sparks,” she said. “More destruction magic?”
Farengar had already turned away. He was grinding leaves with his stone mortar and pestle at his alchemy station. He barely spared her a glance. “Destruction magic is invaluable,” he said. “You want to be able to defend yourself, do you not? Skyrim is a dangerous place.”
Olria shut her mouth and left the workroom. She headed for the keep exit so she could practice outside. She hated this. She hated the magic he was making her learn. But if she quit now, he would dismiss her and all her parent’s gold would go to waste.
While Farengar had been more polite to her lately, she knew he cared little for his apprentice. He’d made it painfully obvious he had more important things to do. If the man hadn’t already squandered his payment on his research, he would have shoved the gold back into Olria’s hands and sent her home days ago.
Olria had no choice but to learn Sparks. She would add that spell to her growing repertoire of magics that would inflict pain upon others, or even kill them. With enough practice, she would be able to burn down entire buildings and punch holes through stone walls.
Learning one more destruction spell wouldn’t be so bad. At least, that’s what she tried to tell herself.
***
Around noon the day after Farengar had given Olria the Sparks spelltome, the court wizard decided it was time he assess his apprentice’s progress. They met that afternoon outside Dragonsreach, in the empty space where she practiced her spells. Without comment, the court wizard watched Olria perform spell after spell at his command.
Farengar was honestly shocked at how terrible her performance was.
She’d learned every spell he’d given to her seemingly overnight. Obviously, she didn’t lack for ambition. She could cast any spell at will. However, where there should be an inferno, there was a sputtering of flames. Where there should be lightening, there was a weak flash of light. Where there should be frost, the air wasn’t even cool enough to freeze the leftovers of his dinner.
Olria was a miserable, miserable mage. The mental aptitude was there, but she clearly lacked the skill.
Mages that couldn’t cast destruction magic usually didn’t survive long in Skyrim. The woman would never be able to defend herself once she left Whiterun and returned to her home. He was surprised she’d even made it as far as Dragonsreach without something killing her. Perhaps it had to do with her Bosmer blood.
Farengar imagined how bad he’d look to the Jarl if his apprentice died only a day outside Whiterun, from a sabre cat or a couple of bandits.
“Try again,” he growled. “You have known Flames since your second day here. I think you can do better than that.”
Olria did as he asked. The air rippled with the heat emanating from the palms of her hands. There were small tongues of flame, but they were no better than the first time she’d cast the spell for him.
Farengar smoothed a hand over his face. “Keep practicing,” he sighed. He waved her away as if he were wiping old papers off his desk. He turned and marched back into the keep, leaving his apprentice outside. She could practice or she could go waste her time at the tavern. At this point, he didn’t care. There wasn’t much hope left.
For the next two hours, Farengar studied in wonderful peace in his workroom. When he looked up next, an unexpected guest awaited him. A colleague from the Collage. “Hallod,” Farengar greeted the Breton mage. “I am surprised to see you. I thought you had frozen solid after all your time spent in Winterhold.”
The young man chuckled. “Apparently not. I’m travelling south on some Collage business and I thought I stop by to see an old friend.”
“The Spring Wind That Blew Through Dragonsreach” F!OC/Farengar Secret-Fire, 1e/?
It took two weeks of hard studying before Olria could enchant a pair of wearable mage’s robes. She could already feel them bolstering her magicka. However, even then her powers still ran dry as Farengar gave her spelltome after spelltome of destruction magic to practice.
When he handed Olria her nineth spell, she almost dropped it with dismay. “Sparks,” she said. “More destruction magic?”
Farengar had already turned away. He was grinding leaves with his stone mortar and pestle at his alchemy station. He barely spared her a glance. “Destruction magic is invaluable,” he said. “You want to be able to defend yourself, do you not? Skyrim is a dangerous place.”
Olria shut her mouth and left the workroom. She headed for the keep exit so she could practice outside. She hated this. She hated the magic he was making her learn. But if she quit now, he would dismiss her and all her parent’s gold would go to waste.
While Farengar had been more polite to her lately, she knew he cared little for his apprentice. He’d made it painfully obvious he had more important things to do. If the man hadn’t already squandered his payment on his research, he would have shoved the gold back into Olria’s hands and sent her home days ago.
Olria had no choice but to learn Sparks. She would add that spell to her growing repertoire of magics that would inflict pain upon others, or even kill them. With enough practice, she would be able to burn down entire buildings and punch holes through stone walls.
Learning one more destruction spell wouldn’t be so bad. At least, that’s what she tried to tell herself.
***
Around noon the day after Farengar had given Olria the Sparks spelltome, the court wizard decided it was time he assess his apprentice’s progress. They met that afternoon outside Dragonsreach, in the empty space where she practiced her spells. Without comment, the court wizard watched Olria perform spell after spell at his command.
Farengar was honestly shocked at how terrible her performance was.
She’d learned every spell he’d given to her seemingly overnight. Obviously, she didn’t lack for ambition. She could cast any spell at will. However, where there should be an inferno, there was a sputtering of flames. Where there should be lightening, there was a weak flash of light. Where there should be frost, the air wasn’t even cool enough to freeze the leftovers of his dinner.
Olria was a miserable, miserable mage. The mental aptitude was there, but she clearly lacked the skill.
Mages that couldn’t cast destruction magic usually didn’t survive long in Skyrim. The woman would never be able to defend herself once she left Whiterun and returned to her home. He was surprised she’d even made it as far as Dragonsreach without something killing her. Perhaps it had to do with her Bosmer blood.
Farengar imagined how bad he’d look to the Jarl if his apprentice died only a day outside Whiterun, from a sabre cat or a couple of bandits.
“Try again,” he growled. “You have known Flames since your second day here. I think you can do better than that.”
Olria did as he asked. The air rippled with the heat emanating from the palms of her hands. There were small tongues of flame, but they were no better than the first time she’d cast the spell for him.
Farengar smoothed a hand over his face. “Keep practicing,” he sighed. He waved her away as if he were wiping old papers off his desk. He turned and marched back into the keep, leaving his apprentice outside. She could practice or she could go waste her time at the tavern. At this point, he didn’t care. There wasn’t much hope left.
For the next two hours, Farengar studied in wonderful peace in his workroom. When he looked up next, an unexpected guest awaited him. A colleague from the Collage. “Hallod,” Farengar greeted the Breton mage. “I am surprised to see you. I thought you had frozen solid after all your time spent in Winterhold.”
The young man chuckled. “Apparently not. I’m travelling south on some Collage business and I thought I stop by to see an old friend.”