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Wayfarer 06: Trials of the Arcane
🕑 Added 2025-03-13 14:05:20 +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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For the next four months of diligent study within the hallowed halls of the College of Winterhold, Miguel found himself far ahead of his peers in the Hall of Attainment. His efforts had been relentless, unwavering in his pursuit of knowledge, and unlike before, he resisted the temptation to delve too deeply into experimental applications of spells. Instead, he focused entirely on mastering the established schools of Tamrielic magic, dedicating himself to rigorous practice and study. The results spoke for themselves—in four months, he had achieved more than in the previous six since first setting foot in the College.
But to claim that Miguel had only buried himself in books and spellcraft would be a lie. He also participated in the College's academic excursions, though these were limited to the nearby holds of Winterhold and Eastmarch. Still, such ventures allowed him to gain field experience and observe the more senior mages in practical applications of their craft. That, however, was soon to change. His growing proficiency meant that he would soon be allowed to travel farther, to explore locations rich in magical significance and danger alike.
Now, Miguel was preparing for what would be a defining moment in his time at the College: the trial to prove his mastery over the highest tiers of magic. Before him lay the challenge of demonstrating his competence before the "master-rank" mages, a feat that would elevate him beyond the rank of student and allow him to take on apprentices of his own. The College was well-known for its strict adherence to tradition in this regard—only those who could command Master-level spells with confidence and control were considered worthy of such recognition.
There was, however, one glaring obstacle: the Destruction school of magic.
For all his mastery over Alteration, Illusion, Conjuration, and Restoration, Miguel had been unable to fully grasp the depths of Destruction magic. It wasn’t for lack of effort; he had spent countless hours honing fire, frost, and shock spells, yet something always felt... off. His recent studies had revealed the truth of the matter: his spell sprite, the very construct that had assisted him in shaping his magical repertoire, was not a mere conduit for Destruction magic but a half-formed Atronach in its own right. In essence, the spells he had believed himself to be casting were, in fact, abilities that the Atronach already knew. He had never truly mastered Destruction magic—he had merely relied on his summon to wield it in his stead.
This revelation had been a bitter pill to swallow, yet Miguel was not one to despair. If Destruction magic remained out of his grasp, then he would settle for an alternative, at least for now. His proficiency in manipulating water had allowed him to create spells that mimicked the effects of frost magic, granting him a pseudo-Destruction arsenal that, while not true mastery, was enough to suffice. Ice spears, frozen walls, and chilling gusts of wind—all shaped from the raw manipulation of water rather than through conventional Destruction spellwork. It was a workaround, but it was one that served him well enough.
And so, with the trials before him and his ambition burning as bright as ever, Miguel prepared to prove himself. The path to mastery was long and arduous, but he had come too far to falter now. With or without Destruction magic, he would carve his place in the annals of the College of Winterhold.
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Miguel's first trial in proving his mastery over the arcane arts brought him before none other than Drevis Neloren, the College’s own master of Illusion magic. A Dunmer of peculiar disposition, Drevis was known for his... eccentricities. Many an apprentice had walked away from his lectures more confused than enlightened, and if one were to eavesdrop on his mutterings about the “true nature of Illusion,” one might suspect he was more lost in his own head than in the depths of his craft.
That being said, Drevis was no mere conjurer of cheap tricks. His grasp of Illusion magic was unmatched within the College, and those who sought to master the school had no choice but to prove themselves under his watchful gaze—half-lidded and, at times, seemingly unfocused, but sharp nonetheless.
Miguel had witnessed Drevis fumble with his own invisibility spell more than once, watching as it flickered into being only to unravel mere moments later. A mistake that might lead one to question the Dunmer’s status as a master... if one did not understand the nature of true magical experimentation. Miguel kept those thoughts to himself. It was not his place to judge the methods of one who had spent decades refining his craft.
However, Miguel was not without confidence. His affinity with blue mana had given him a natural edge in understanding and manipulating Illusion spells, making the complex weavings of perception magic come to him with greater ease than most. His spells were more potent, his illusions more refined, and his ability to deceive the senses far surpassed what was expected of a mere student. Now, it was time to prove it.
Standing before the master Illusionist in the Hall of the Elements, Miguel straightened his robes, feeling the weight of the moment settle upon him. He had spent months honing his magical skills Illusion spells included, shaping the flow of magicka to bend perception itself—making the unseen visible, the audible silent, and the weak willed easily swayed. Now, it was time to prove it.
Drevis, standing with his arms crossed, studied Miguel with an amused smirk.
“So, you fancy yourself an Illusionist of masterful skill now, eh?” The Dunmer’s crimson eyes gleamed with curiosity. “Very well. Let us see if your confidence is warranted. I’ll not make this easy for you.”
Miguel gave a respectful nod, already preparing himself for whatever trial Drevis had in store.
“First,” Drevis began, pacing in a slow circle around Miguel, “cast Invisibility upon yourself and maintain it while moving through the hall. And none of that novice-tier nonsense—true invisibility, sustained even while in motion.”
That was easy enough. Miguel had practiced the spell countless times, perfecting the delicate control needed to keep it from flickering with every step. He let his magicka flow, weaving the spell with practiced precision, and in an instant, his form melted into the air.
Drevis hummed in approval. “Not bad, not bad at all. But I’m not finished.”
Miguel heard a faint incantation, and suddenly a ripple of magicka pulsed through the room—a detection spell. The kind meant to reveal hidden foes.
A test of counterplay.
Miguel remained calm, channeling his magicka into a secondary Illusion—one to distort detection itself. Shadowcloak of Nocturnal was a known spell - but only the champions of the Daedra Nocturnal are ever awarded use of such magic, but Miguel had crafted his own variation, one that muddled the senses in a way most mages weren’t prepared for. As Drevis’ detection spell expanded outward, Miguel wove his countermeasure.
Drevis squinted, frowning slightly. “Hmph. Clever.”
Miguel smirked to himself.
“Very well,” Drevis conceded. “Let’s take it a step further.”
With a flick of his wrist, Drevis conjured an Illusion of his own—a swirling mass of phantasmal shapes that twisted and turned, distorting the space around them. “Break this illusion,” Drevis challenged.
Miguel had anticipated something like this. The illusion before him wasn’t real, but it was designed to confound the senses, making it difficult to focus. Without hesitation, Miguel reached deep into his reserves of magicka, calling upon Muffle to silence his footsteps, then casting Clairvoyance in a subtle fashion—not to guide his own movement, but to detect the weak points in Drevis’ illusion.
A faint shimmer betrayed the anchor of the spell.
With a decisive motion, Miguel cast Dispel Magic - a magic Miguel is sure not found in the video game version of this world, unraveling the phantasmal construct with ease.
Drevis let out a hearty chuckle. “Oh-ho! Well done! You’ve been studying properly, I see. And here I was thinking the new blood lacked creativity.”
Miguel let out a slow breath, lowering his hands. The trial had gone better than he expected.
Drevis clapped him on the shoulder. “Congratulations, lad. You’ve earned your place among the Illusionists of the College. I’ll have your mastery acknowledged officially.”
Miguel gave a respectful nod, but inwardly, he knew—this was only the first of many trials. One school down. Several more to go.
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Becoming a Master of a school of magic within the College was a prestigious achievement, enough to grant one the authority to take on apprentices of their own. But for Miguel, simply earning the title wasn’t enough—for he has a vision, an image of him in his future self as the enigmatic and powerful mentor, the kind of mage spoken of in whispers and revered for his wisdom. If he was to reach that goal, he's going to need more than just mastery over a single school of magic.
His affinity with Blue mana had already given him a considerable advantage in Illusion, allowing him to grasp and refine its spells with ease. Now, it was time to turn his attention toward another school—Restoration.
Miguel made his way through the halls of the College, seeking out Colette Marence. A Breton woman with an unwavering dedication to her craft, she had a reputation for being, shall we say, overly defensive when it came to her chosen school of magic. Many within the College dismissed Restoration as a lesser art, something more suited for healers and temple clerics than true scholars of the arcane. That attitude had left Colette constantly on edge, always prepared to argue the worth of her discipline to anyone who so much as hesitated in their words around her.
Miguel, of course, was not so ignorant. He understood the importance of Restoration, both from his studies and from the games he remembered. Healing, warding, and even defying death itself—Restoration was no lesser art. It was a force just as potent as any Destruction spell, and in the right hands, just as dangerous.
He found Colette in her usual spot, nose buried in one of her books on magicka flow and divine intervention. Before he could say a word, she sighed dramatically and closed the tome with a thud.
“If you’re here to tell me Restoration is just glorified temple magic, you can save your breath,” she said, crossing her arms. “I’ve heard it all before.”
Miguel held up a hand in a calming gesture. “Quite the opposite, actually. I recognize Restoration’s importance, and I seek to prove my mastery of it.”
That got her attention. She arched an eyebrow, clearly intrigued. “Oh? A young mage who actually respects the school for what it is? That’s a rarity. Very well, I suppose I can humor you. But be warned, I take this test seriously. If you think you can simply wave your hands and cast a basic healing spell, you can turn right back around.”
Miguel smirked. “I wouldn’t expect anything less.”
Colette studied him for a moment before nodding. “Good. Then let’s begin.”
The test of Restoration magic was far different from Illusion. It wasn’t about deception, misdirection, or breaking perception—it was about endurance, resilience, and the ability to mend what was broken. Colette’s trials would push Miguel’s understanding of Restoration to its limits, testing his ability to wield its magic not just for healing, but for survival.
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The test began in one of the College’s training chambers, a large circular room reinforced with defensive wards to prevent damage to the structure. The dim blue glow of magicka-infused walls cast long shadows across the cold stone floor, giving the room an almost sacred atmosphere—fitting for a test of Restoration magic, a school deeply tied to the very essence of life itself.
Colette stood across from Miguel, her expression a mix of appraisal and challenge. “Restoration is not just about mending wounds,” she lectured, pacing slightly. “It is the school of preservation, resilience, and even control over life and death itself. To master it, you must understand the flow of magicka as more than just a tool—it is the force that binds all living things.”
Miguel nodded, already familiar with the philosophy, but he kept his mouth shut - he wasn't confident in avoiding making Jedi jokes. He also knew better than to interrupt Colette when she was in the midst of defending her school’s reputation.
“For your first trial,” she continued, coming to a stop in front of him, “we will test your ability to endure. Healing is meaningless if you fall before you have the chance to cast it.”
She lifted a hand, and before Miguel could react, a bolt of golden energy lanced from her fingertips, striking him square in the chest. His body tensed as the Turn Undead spell rippled through him—not enough to harm, but enough to be extremely uncomfortable, like a deep itch clawing at his very being.
Miguel clenched his jaw, forcing himself to resist the spell’s influence. He wasn’t undead, but the magic still tried to reject his presence, as if the world itself was momentarily confused about what he was. He focused, channeling his own magicka to stabilize himself, calling upon Healing to steady his body’s natural balance. The moment he did, the sensation faded, and Colette gave an approving nod.
“Good. Many underestimate how restoration magic interacts with the body beyond just healing wounds. The next trial will be about actual healing.”
She gestured to a nearby table, where a dagger lay next to a wooden training dummy enchanted with reactive properties. “You will wound yourself,” she said plainly. “Then, you will heal it before the injury becomes serious.”
Miguel arched an eyebrow. “You just want me to stab myself?”
Colette crossed her arms. “You’d be surprised how many so-called ‘adept’ restoration mages hesitate when faced with real injury. If you cannot handle even minor wounds, how can you expect to heal others in the middle of a battle?”
Miguel sighed but relented. He picked up the dagger, turned his hand over, and made a shallow cut across his palm. A sharp sting flared as blood welled up from the wound, but he was already channeling his magicka. Soft golden light emanated from his hand as the Fast Healing spell took effect, the cut sealing itself within seconds as if it had never been there.
Colette watched closely, nodding again. “Efficient. But healing yourself is easy. Healing another person however is quite different. That is where things become unpredictable.”
She stepped forward and, before Miguel could react, snapped her fingers. The training dummy beside them glowed for a brief moment before suddenly shattering into several jagged pieces, scattering enchanted wood across the floor.
Miguel blinked. “...Right. I assume I’m fixing that?”
Colette smirked. “Oh no, you’re fixing me.”
She stepped back, then lifted a hand to her chest. A brief pulse of magicka flared around her—and in an instant, she staggered, clutching her side as a deep gash formed beneath her robes. It wasn’t lethal, but it was severe enough that Miguel’s breath caught. He could already see the blood seeping through the fabric.
“What in Oblivion—”
“Time is ticking,” Colette interrupted, her voice steady but strained. “Heal me before I pass out, Apprentice.”
Miguel didn’t hesitate. He extended both hands, golden light flaring as he reached out with Grand Healing, a spell far beyond the basic novice and adept-level recovery spells. The energy flowed into Colette, closing the wound with visible speed. Within moments, she was standing tall again, inspecting her robes with an approving hum.
“Well done,” she said, adjusting her sleeves. “Many panic when healing others, unsure how much magicka to use or how deep the injury truly is. You applied just enough, no wasted energy.”
Miguel exhaled, shaking his head. “You could’ve just used an illusion to make it look like you were hurt, you know.”
She smirked. “Where’s the fun in that?”
Miguel stared at her for a moment before sighing in resignation. He should’ve expected that.
Colette clasped her hands together. “Now, for the final trial—you must defy death itself.”
Miguel tensed. “...You’re not going to stab yourself now, are you?”
She chuckled. “No. But I am going to drain your magicka and see if you can survive.”
Miguel barely had time to react before Colette cast Circle of Protection, followed immediately by a Drain Magicka spell aimed directly at him. He felt his reserves being siphoned away, like an icy grip pulling at his very essence. His vision blurred slightly as his magicka drained faster than he expected, leaving him dangerously close to magical exhaustion.
But Miguel wasn’t just any student. He had studied extensively, not just Restoration, but the fundamental flow of magicka itself. He tapped into his deeper reserves, calling upon Respite—a Restoration technique that converted healing energy into stamina and, in turn, allowed him to stay conscious and fight against the drain.
Golden light pulsed around him as he countered the effect, slowly regaining control of his own energy flow. When Colette finally ended the spell, Miguel remained standing, only slightly winded but very much still alive.
She observed him for a long moment before nodding in approval. “You understand the essence of Restoration—balance, resilience, and the power to push past even the brink of collapse.”
A small smile tugged at the corner of her lips. “Congratulations, Miguel. You have proven yourself a Master of Restoration magic.”
Miguel let out a breath and straightened himself. Two schools down. A few more to go.
And with each step, his goal of becoming a true magical mentor grew closer.
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Miguel exhaled, feeling the lingering traces of exhaustion from Colette’s grueling—borderline insane—trial. As much as he respected her dedication to Restoration, there was no denying that the Breton woman was a little crazy. Forcing herself to bleed just to test his healing abilities? Draining his magicka to the brink of collapse? That wasn’t a test; that was more like a battlefield drill.
But, of course, Miguel was smart enough to keep those thoughts to himself.
Instead, he focused on the positive side of thins. Thanks to his affinity with Green mana had made learning and mastering Restoration much easier than it should have been. The spells had come naturally, as if they were an extension of himself. The way magicka flowed through him, the way it interacted with life force—it all felt instinctual, second nature. His connection to this Plane’s magic, his spark which connects him to this Plane's natural mana is unique only to him - he reminded himself, allowed him to recover quickly, far beyond what an ordinary mage could manage.
That said, even with an accelerated recovery rate, he wasn’t foolish enough to push himself too soon. He needed rest.
Miguel found his way back to his quarters within the College, a modest room filled with stacks of books, parchment, and an assortment of magical trinkets he had gathered during his studies. He collapsed onto his bed, allowing his body to absorb the ambient magicka of the College, his spark naturally accelerating the healing process. Fatigue melted away at an impressive rate, his stamina replenishing as if he had slept for hours within mere minutes.
Still, he chose to take his time. There was no rush. Mastery was a journey, not a sprint.
After some well-earned rest, Miguel sat up, stretching before making his next move. Two schools down, more to go.
His next target is the Alteration school of magic.
Alteration was the school of manipulating the fundamental rules of reality—reshaping matter, reinforcing the body, bending the very forces of nature. It was a school often underestimated, much like Restoration, but Miguel knew better. With mastery over Alteration, he could harden his skin into an impenetrable shield, bend light to render himself unseen, or even alter gravity itself.
And if there was one mage at the College who could truly push his mastery of Alteration, it was Tolfdir.
The old Nord was perhaps the most respected and experienced mage in the College, a stark contrast to the eccentric Colette. Wise, patient, and incredibly skilled, Tolfdir was known not only for his deep understanding of Alteration but also for his unconventional teaching methods.
Miguel smirked to himself as he stood, gathering his robes and adjusting his gear.
It was time to find Tolfdir. But this time, he was mentally preparing himself for whatever madness the next trial would bring.
