Wayfarer 09: Tales of Valor **WIP**

Disclaimer:

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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Miguel watched the scene unfold with a keen eye, his instincts honed for both battle and theatrics. The ugly bandit had the pretty lady in his grip, likely thinking he had an easy prize. That is, until a well-aimed rock, launched by a flick of Miguel’s Telekinesis, clocked him right in the shoulder. The bandit grunted, looking around in confusion, and before he could so much as growl, Miguel followed up with a well-cast Paralysis spell. The brute stiffened mid-turn, locked in place like a statue waiting for the chisel.

Miguel stepped forward, preparing to deliver the finishing blow and claim his moment of heroism, but the pretty lady beat him to it. Without hesitation, she drove a blade right into the bandit’s ugly mug—straight between the eyes. Miguel blinked, momentarily stunned. Not at the sight of death, but because his picture-perfect hero’s entrance had been thoroughly ruined, where the pretty lady got the blade Miguel was unsure but perhaps the pretty lady was fighting back earlier before he arrived. Divines take it, that was supposed to be my moment!

Jokes aside, the important thing was that the pretty lady was safe. Shaking off his minor disappointment, he approached her cautiously. She was catching her breath, blade still in hand, and looking him over with a mixture of curiosity and gratitude.

“Miss, are you hurt? Need a healing spell?” Miguel asked, maintaining his composed, mystical air.

The woman shook her head, offering a small smile—pretty, or maybe Miguel’s imagination was embellishing things. “No need, but thank you, mage. You saved me.”

Miguel gave a short nod, noting that her hands had stopped trembling. “Good. Hide for now. I’ll deal with the rest.”

The pretty lady didn’t argue, just nodded and stepped back, still gripping her weapon. With that handled, Miguel turned to the rest of the battle, rolling his shoulders as he summoned his Dire Wolf familiars. The spectral beasts materialized beside him, their massive forms prowling forward, glowing eyes locked onto the nearest bandits. Miguel didn’t waste time; with a sharp gesture, he sent them forward.

The bandits barely had time to register what was happening before chaos erupted. The wolves pounced, tearing into the nearest thugs, while Miguel himself unleashed his magic with ruthless efficiency. Telekinesis sent loose debris flying at skulls, knocking a few bandits off their feet before he followed up with Paralysis spells, freezing them in place. The townsfolk, emboldened by his aid, began fighting back with renewed vigor.

The moment a bandit went rigid from one of Miguel’s spells, the townsfolk descended on them with blades, axes, and whatever weapons they had. No mercy was given—these were their tormentors, after all. The ones still looting and pillaging realized too late that they’d been outmaneuvered. The retreat started in earnest, but the town had no intention of letting them get away. The remaining bandits were cut down before they could flee into the wilds.

By the time the dust settled, the town stood victorious. The elder, a gray-bearded Nord with a presence as solid as an old stone keep, approached Miguel. “You’ve done us a great service, mage. I am Jorik, elder of this town. Who might we be thanking for this?”

Miguel inclined his head slightly. “Miguel, mage of the College of Winterhold. I’m traveling Skyrim on a journey to see its wonders.”

Jorik clapped him on the shoulder, a sign of respect. “Then know that you have friends here, Miguel. You fought like a true Nord.”

Miguel barely stopped himself from chuckling at that but accepted the compliment with a simple nod. “I am also a healer. If any of your people are wounded, I can tend to them.”

Several townsfolk stepped forward, taking him up on the offer. As he worked, he mentioned his need for a horse. Jorik stroked his beard, then grinned. “You’ll have one, no charge. A hero should not walk when he can ride. We’ll also provide supplies—consider it a reward for saving our town.”

Miguel knew better than to refuse outright; Skyrim’s culture valued generosity, and rejecting it would be an insult. Still, he made sure to point out, “That’s a generous reward. Are you certain it won’t strain your supplies?”

Jorik laughed. “Nonsense! Those bandits stole from us. We’ll just be taking back what’s ours. No harm done.”

Miguel found himself with no argument left. He was about to take his leave, but Jorik stopped him with a knowing look. “You’re not going anywhere just yet, mage. We’re throwing a feast in your honor. It’d be rude to leave before the mead is poured and the songs are sung.”

Miguel sighed in good-natured defeat. “I suppose I have no choice.”

Jorik let out a hearty chuckle. “That’s the spirit.”

While the town prepared for the party, Miguel helped with repairs. Using Telekinesis and a few Green mana spells, he lifted fallen beams, reinforced damaged structures, and generally made the rebuilding process far easier. By afternoon, the town was in far better shape, and the townsfolk ushered him to the inn, offering him a free bed to rest and refresh himself before the night’s festivities.

Miguel accepted and took the opportunity to bathe, sighing as the warm water worked the weariness from his muscles. Just as he was beginning to relax, a pair of fair hands settled on his shoulders. Startled, he turned to find none other than the pretty lady from before—now without the battle grime, and wearing a sly smile.

“You startled me, miss,” Miguel said, trying for a confident smirk.

The woman—now properly introduced as Elira—chuckled, her expression turning a touch more predatory. “I came to thank you properly, mage.”

Miguel, an introvert but not an idiot, swallowed the lump in his throat and tried to maintain composure. The situation was definitely one of his fantasies, and for once, it was unfolding in real life.

He smirked—or at least, he thought he did. Elira’s grin widened, amused by his attempt. And so, while the rest of the town prepared for the feast, the only sounds coming from their hero’s room were of a far more intimate celebration.

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The festivities kicked off just as the last torches were lit and the sun sank behind the mountains, casting the village in a warm golden hue. Tables heavy with roasted venison, hearth-baked bread, and tankards brimming with mead were laid out across the center of town. Miguel, now rested and cleaned up, found himself seated among a crowd of spirited villagers who were clearly no strangers to merriment.

Despite his wearied bones from the earlier scuffle and the unexpected… exertion with Elira, Miguel kept a bright smile on his face, raising his tankard whenever someone toasted in his honor—which happened more often than he could count. Every time someone shouted “To the mage-hero!” or “To the wolves o’ Winterhold!” he lifted his cup and nodded with polite charm, careful not to let on just how drained his magicka—and stamina—had truly become.

Elira, for her part, was more than a little proactive in showing her thanks. She never strayed far from Miguel’s side, doting on him like a bard chasing a new tale, keeping his plate full and his cup fuller. She leaned close when speaking, always with that sly smile that tugged at the corners of her lips and made the other villagers smirk and nudge each other knowingly. Miguel caught more than a few winks sent his way from the older townsfolk, to which he could only respond with an awkward grin and another long sip of mead.

As the moons crept higher in the night sky, the village was filled with the sounds of laughter, song, and the occasional drunken stumble. Some of the townsfolk retold the story of the battle, each time with a few more bandits and a bit more flair. Even the local blacksmith claimed to have “shoved a blade right through a bandit’s arse” though Miguel was quite sure the man never left the forge. Still, he let them have their fun. It felt right. These people had something to be proud of—and so did he.

By the time the sun began peeking over the treetops, casting soft rays over the worn cobblestone paths, most of the villagers had either passed out, wandered off with a partner, or were still staggering around singing age-old tavern songs. The celebration had lasted from sundown to sunrise, and while the hero of the hour had managed to stay on his feet the whole time, he was running on little more than magicka fumes and sheer willpower.

He intended to leave come morning, with his new horse and supplies packed up and ready… but Elira had other plans.

Claiming her gratitude had yet to be “properly” expressed, she once again pulled Miguel into the inn, locking the door behind them with a grin that made the mage wonder if he was the hunter or the prey.

It wasn’t until well into the next afternoon that Miguel emerged, a bit sore, a lot tired, and with a lopsided smile he couldn’t quite shake off. Elira kissed his cheek as she helped him strap his pack onto the saddle of his new horse—an energetic chestnut mare they’d named Sable—and gave him a wink that made his heart beat a little faster despite the exhaustion.

The town elder, known as Old Gannor, gave Miguel one final firm pat on the back. “You’re welcome back here anytime, lad. You saved our hides—and gave us somethin’ to sing about for moons to come.”

Miguel nodded, sincerely grateful. “Thank you, ser. The hospitality was more than I could’ve hoped for. I’ll remember this place.”

With one last glance at Elira, who was waving with a satisfied, knowing smile, Miguel climbed into the saddle, adjusted his robes, and gave Sable a light nudge with his heels.

As he rode off toward Dawnstar under the afternoon sun, he muttered to himself with a chuckle, “Skyrim’s got more side quests than I remember…”

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Having a mount—gods bless Sable, fast-footed lass that she was—made Miguel’s journey from Winterhold to Dawnstar much quicker. But just because his feet weren’t dragging through snowdrifts didn’t mean he was in any rush. No, the mage took his time, weaving a wandering path through the holds like a true scholar-adventurer. Every time a crumbling Dwemer ruin peeked from the snow-covered hills or a strange temple loomed from the fog, Miguel veered off the road like a horker chasing fresh salmon.

There was just too much to see.

The villages, many too small to even show up on an old cartographer’s map, welcomed him with varying levels of suspicion and awe. One place called him “Elfspawn” ‘til he zapped a frost atronach into being midair—then it was all “apologies, ser” and offerings of stew and lodging. Another tiny hamlet insisted he was a “spirit-blessed” due to his glowing magelight bobbing around his head at night. He let them think so—helped with the bartering.

The Dwemer ruins though? By Ysmir’s beard, those were a different beast. Full of skittering spider bots, steam traps, and the kind of weird glowing metal contraptions that would make any scholar wet themselves with excitement or fear—sometimes both. Miguel managed to snag a few cogs, soul gems, and a nearly intact dwarven gyroscope, which he swore he’d tinker with later. Maybe turn it into a coffee machine. Or a bomb. Jury's still out.

And the temples—oh, the temples. From crumbling shrines of Talos tucked in mountain caves to a temple of Kynareth overgrown with vines and wild birdsong, each one pulsed with old magic. He’d meditate, mutter old chants he barely understood, and sometimes—just sometimes—felt something answer back. Not a voice. Just... awareness. Presence. Skyrim’s gods were definitely listening, even if they weren’t always keen on chatting.

Of course, the road wasn’t without its dangers. Two separate bandit camps had the poor luck to think they could outfight a full-blown mage. One group tried an ambush with arrows and shouts; Miguel left their camp smoking and quiet, save for the crackle of fire and the odd groan. The second lot were smarter—almost clever—but even clever bandits burn all the same when firebolts start flying.

“Twenty bandits total,” Miguel muttered to himself after the second scrap, brushing soot off his sleeve and healing a nasty gash on his arm. “Still not even a bloody quest marker in sight.”

He chuckled as he leaned on Sable’s saddle, gazing out at the road ahead that twisted through a frozen valley. “Back in the day, Winterhold to Dawnstar was, what, ten minutes tops? Couple of wolves, maybe a dragon if you’re lucky. Now it’s like the whole hold is stuffed full of hidden nooks, gods-forsaken cults, and drunken Nords trying to arm wrestle every outlander they see.”

But even through the fatigue, the long nights under Skyrim’s twin moons, and the occasional existential dread of nearly being turned into a human pincushion, Miguel couldn’t help but grin. If this was just the journey between two minor holds… what the Oblivion was the rest of Skyrim going to be like?

Part of him was terrified.

A bigger part?

Thrilled.

Because this wasn’t just sightseeing. No. Miguel had a mission. He had to map out the land, understand its pulse, study the weavings of this plane’s magic, and prepare for the moment the Dragonborn would finally step into their story.

And when they did, they’d find Miguel waiting. Cloaked in mystery, eyes glowing with arcane knowledge, probably sitting on a rock pretending he hadn’t just face-planted into a snowbank an hour earlier.

“I better come up with a proper mentor voice,” he muttered as he mounted up again. “‘The world is changing, Dovahkiin… and your path is shadowed in prophecy…’ Yeah. That’ll do. Maybe add some echo.”

And with that, Miguel nudged Sable into motion once more, heading toward the frosted cliffs of Dawnstar, with danger behind, destiny ahead, and a whole lot of Skyrim still to uncover.

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To be continued..........