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The Wizard’s Tower

wizards tower

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After Morrowind went to shit, Divayth Fyr built his second tower in the mountains beyond Solitude.

Tel Fyr—his original sprawling island fortress on Vvardenfell—had been a living thing. The overgrown, enchanted mushrooms of the Telvanni forming a luxurious and ethereal structure. And yet, when the Red Mountain blew itself open and vomited lava over the landscape, Tel Fyr burned along with everything else.

The Great Wizard was dead, but his intent with the tower in Skyrim was clear to anyone with a half-decent pair of eyes: to be everlasting.

In place of soft mushrooms and graceful chambers, there was just a single indestructible spire. It rose four hundred feet in the air, molded into a perfect cylinder by the enigmatic means available only to a Dunmer who measured his life out in centuries instead of seasons.

The citizens of Solitude called it the God’s Spear.

Narova stopped the wagon a few hundred yards away from the tower and gazed upwards, her mouth hanging open against her will. It was hard not to be impressed.

Beyte woke from yet another temporary coma in the back of the wagon.

“Take me to Solitude and stop doing—”

Narova twisted around and punched the bitch square in the face. Beyte’s head knocked backwards, and blood started running from her left nostril and into her mouth.

“I’ve taken you to Solitude, you stupid cunt.” Narova massaged her fingers—more hurt from the days of travel than the cheap shot to Beyte’s face. “You going to rejoin the sensible folk of the world?”

Beyte stared at her for a handful of silent heartbeats. Opened her mouth, closed it again.

“The exploding head trick isn’t funny anymore!” she yelled.

Then passed out.

Narova did nothing. A hawk passed by overhead—its shadow looking like a miniature dragon roaming across the rocky ground.

“Fuck!” Narova yelled.

Neither Beyte nor the hawk responded.

It took the better part of an hour to haul Beyte’s comatose body up the overgrown path and into the base of the tower. For such an imposing structure, Narova found it surprisingly easy to pick the lock on the massive ebony door. It was as if Divayth had spent so much effort creating the spire, that the idea of a smart lock was so insignificant that it became superfluous.

And perhaps it was. Inside was a large, empty room and a shaft that rose upwards into the darkness. No stairs. No doors. Nothing.

Narova cursed again, then dragged Beyte to the center of the room. Slapped her once. Twice. Three times.

The Dunmer woke up with a gasp.

“Mention a syllable about exploding heads, magic, or Solitude,” Narova hissed. “And I will kill you in this room.”

Beyte’s eyes kept that milky-red glaze of stupidity, but a purple mist gathered around them—leaking its way from the floor and walls.

“The fuck?” Narova looked around, eyes narrowed.

And then they were rocketing upwards, as if Vivec himself had flicked them with an enormous finger.

A few moments of weightlessness, and then Narova and Beyte crashed in a heap on the floor of the upper levels of Divayth Fyr’s tower.

Narova skimmed the room—old thief instincts kicking in. There were shelves and shelves of books with expensive bindings. Glass cabinets filled with blue and red and yellow potions. Two state of the art enchanting stations. Soul gems everywhere. Chests. Safes. Weapon racks.

The place must have been worth 100,000 Septims. More, maybe.

Narova grabbed Beyte by the throat and drug her over to a chair made of molded wicker. Slapped her until she opened her eyes.

“This is it, Beyte,” Narova said. “My patience is all burned up.”

Narova watched the Dunmer’s hazy red eye wander around the room. Drifting. Lost.

Then the walls shuddered—as if the entire place was alive, and had been holding its breath the entire time—and a wind came from nowhere.

“The door opens,” the wind whispered. “And the Bosmer walks through.”

Beyte’s eye turned a burning shade of crimson. The murky pupil finally making an appearance in that sea of red. She looked around for a few moments, and then her face screwed itself into her familiar frown.

“Narova Black Hair,” she said. “We have much to do.”

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2 comments on “The Wizard’s Tower

  1. Pingback: Revenge in the Summerset Isles: Part I | Bus Ride Fantasy

  2. Pingback: Five Hundred and Two Dead Imperial Soldiers | Bus Ride Fantasy

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This entry was posted on July 22, 2013 by in Skyrim Fiction, Tales of Narova Black Hair.
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