Roy's instinct told him to get that glimmering spell tome from Farengar. The writing was incomprehensible to him, but he could Observe it.
'Spell Tome: Conjure Familiar
A record of Farengar's experience with this spell. Should you possess an aptitude for magic, you will acquire this spell after using the tome.'
That one was the cheapest in Farengar's collection of novice spell tomes.
"A hundred gold for one spell book. Are you sure that's a good transaction, Goldeneye?" Flynn shook his head in disapproval like he was the one spending the money, not Roy.
Farengar Secret-Fire held the lesser soul gem. "If you don't have the aptitude for magic, that tome would be a waste of money. But if you do have the aptitude for it, you should join the Mage's College in Winterhold. They'll teach you magic. Systematically."
"He can't understand you, wizard."
"Pity I don't have telepathy."
Roy ignored their advice. He tore the book in two, and a cloud of blue smoke rose into the air, brushing across his face. Roy inhaled all of the smoke through his mouth, and a tingly sensation coursed through his head. A mountain of words, sounds, and scenes welled in his mind. They weren't shown in the language of this world. Instead, they were shown to his heart. No understanding of language was needed.
Farengar was standing in the void, his hands and legs split apart, and he assumed a bizarre stance. His robe and locks billowed in the winds of magicka, but the mage was unfazed. With his hands, he made a gesture in the air, and magicka converged on his fingertips.
The explanation for the moves Farengar was making boomed through the void over and over again, but the witcher—who had never learned this world's magic—did not understand.
But he could understand Farengar's gesture, how magicka flowed in his body, and most importantly, the translucent rune covered in spindly patterns. It resembled a door of green flames, and three numbers were engraved on it.
Roy saw it all, and he injected magicka into that rune, much like how Farengar did. It felt like he was opening a door leading to a world hitherto unknown to him. And his soul entered the door, just like his mana did.
For one moment, he saw countless balls of light shining beyond the door, responding happily to his call like lively creatures.
Farengar and Flynn didn't see anything just yet. All they saw was Roy standing with his eyes closed, and they felt his breathing slow. All of a sudden, the witcher extended his left hand and pointed at the clearing in the center of the room.
Magicka gathered before him. Five seconds later, a spinning blue sphere scurried forth out of nowhere. At first, it was but the size of a fist, but it quickly expanded and enveloped the room. Then, finally, that ball of blue light disappeared.
What took its place was a bizarre black wolf the size of a calf. Its muscles were sturdy, and its eyes burned like flaming rubies. Its teeth were sharp and dangerous, strips of flesh dangling from them, and its rancid drool dripped onto the rug of the room. The monster looked as if it had just returned from a hunt.
'Hell hound
Age: Eight years old
Gender: Male
Status: Familiar, Daedroth (Resides in the Planes of Oblivion)
HP: 80
Magicka: 80
Strength: 5
Constitution: 6
Dexterity: 9
Perception: 9
Will: 5
Charisma: 4
Spirit: 6
Skills:
Fire Spit Level 2: Costs a minor amount of magicka. Combines magicka with a sulfuric gas within its body to produce a stream of flame. Can inflict burning.
Daedroth (Passive): Hell hounds reside in a plane that has more magicka but is also more brutal. +20 to magicka and HP.'
***
"I… I did it?" Roy's gaze flickered quickly between his familiar and his fingertips. Back in the witcher world, he could never cast any spells. At most, he could use Signs, but those didn't count. But that limitation didn't seem to exist in the world of Tamriel. The special attributes of magicka and Conjuration seemed to have closed the gap between Roy and a real mage.
Aside from spending fifty points of mana on the summoning, Roy also lost five EXP. The mana was used to open the door, while the EXP was payment for summoning the hell hound. After performing that spell, the rune for it seemed to grow a bit more solid in form, as if it had just gone through a bit of training. Every time Roy cast the spell, the rune would grow more solid, and the spell would eventually level up.
And there was a new skill in the character sheet.
'Conjuration Level 1: Currently mastered Conjure Familiar. (Conjured Familiar: Most basic Conjuration spell. Expends 50 Mana and 5 EXP [pure soul]. Summons a hell hound from Oblivion that follows your every command. Can hunt down your target or join you in battle. The familiar lasts for five minutes. You may only have one familiar at a time. You may banish it before its time is up. The more proficient you are with this spell, the less mana you will expend, and the longer your familiar can linger.
Note: Do not hurt your familiar. Constant abuse of your familiar will eventually render this spell useless.'
***
A bluish-purple light glowed around the hell hound, weakening little by little. Once that light was fully extinguished, the hell hound would return to the plane called Oblivion. Roy could feel a connection between him and the hell hound. The creature was submitting to him and would follow his every command.
"Come here and lie down."
The hell hound stuck its barbed tongue out and lay beneath Roy's feet, licking his boots. And then it got up, turned around, and barked a little. All on Roy's orders, of course. It performed everything perfectly like a good little lackey. And it made Roy happy.
Realization shone in Flynn's eyes. "So Goldeneye is both a good warrior and a mage. No wonder he picked The Mage."
"Congratulations on your first successful Conjuration. You're a born Conjurer." Farengar nodded approvingly at the delighted witcher. He then pointed at the hell hound, and a stream of magicka poured forth.
A flash of light surrounded Roy's hell hound. It let out one last howl of frustration before disappearing into thin air.
Roy's lips twitched. Was that an exorcism?
"Conjurers are looked down upon by the Nordlings in Skyrim, Goldeneye. Some of the more short-tempered ones won't hesitate to beat you up if you perform a Conjuring. Do not, under any circumstances, show anyone this skill. Unless absolutely necessary." A hint of melancholy filled Farengar's eyes. "And Dragonsreach has a no-magic rule. But I won't punish you for your first offense. Flynn, do remind him constantly."
"I'll do my best." Flynn said, "I don't look down on mages, though."
Farengar nodded. Then to his surprise, that Goldeneye fellow was whipping out a small pile of herbs. Common herbs seen everywhere, however. "Ah, it seems I have misjudged you. You already have a storage bag. No wonder you managed to master a Conjuration spell. But what are you doing? Trying to sell me this garbage?" Farengar's lips twitched, but Roy only shrugged. "Fine. I can use these. Two gold. An offer made to friends."
Despite the low offer, Roy nodded. Two gold wasn't enough for another spell tome, but he could always save up. Farengar had a lot of items Roy really wanted. And these herbs were just common things Roy found by the roadside. He could use Observe to get some valuable things to sell.
"That's all for business. You have your task and location. Chop chop," Farengar was chasing them off. "If you're fast, you might make it back by tomorrow. I'm open to doing business if you have any soul gems or valuable spoils. Common herbs don't count."
"Wizard, did the Jarl give you permission to send out some soldiers with us?" Flynn asked nervously. "Or better yet, did he give you permission to come with us?"
Farengar slowly scanned the two of them, and he sighed. Then the wizard whipped out a couple of crimson bottles from his rack, the liquid within glimmering beautifully.
"One healing potion for each of you, on the house. That's the most I can do."
'Potion of Minor Healing.
Heals 20 HP upon usage. Can heal minor wounds.'
Roy handed both potions to Flynn. Activate and Swallow were a lot more potent than these potions, after all.
***
Roy and Flynn left the city almost as soon as they came. When they arrived back at Riverwood, Irileth and her soldiers were already patrolling the area. They asked around and got the exact location of Bleak Falls Barrow, and the duo set off for their mission. Through the stone bridge in the west of Riverwood did they cross, and then, they passed a small hill.
***
A bolt flew through the air, hitting the wolf hiding behind the bush of thistles. It leaped out of its hiding spot, howling in pain. The bolt destroyed its left front ankle, but it valiantly hobbled backward, leaving a trail of blood behind.
It was then, a burly, honest-looking man in leather armor charged right at it with a steel sword, cutting away at its rear and torso. And then, the wolf fell, taking its last breath in a pool of its own blood.
Flynn heaved a sigh of relief, wiping off a drop of sweat from his forehead, but a look of excitement flared openly in his eyes. He wasn't skilled enough to fight a soldier, but what skill he did have was enough to handle a beast.
Roy went past his companion, holding a hand crossbow. He nodded at Flynn before they resumed their journey to the mountaintop. The higher they went, the fewer plants they saw, and the temperature dipped fast.
Snow was starting to cover the ground, and barely any beasts were prowling around this area. But even though he was wearing sleeveless leather armor, Flynn was unfazed. Nordlings were born with a thick hide and great resistance to cold weather, after all.
Roy was a lot sturdier than most people, so the cold failed to affect him as well.
Once they reached the mountainside, a structure made of gigantic black stones began unfurling before them. It was a temple seemingly made in ancient times. Roy curled up a little, resembling a cat on high alert. He came to a stop, giving Flynn the signal to stay quiet.
They tiptoed to the wide, ancient stairs and hid in a bush beside it, observing the temple. A few men in furry armor, arm guards, and boots stood beneath the temple's pillars. Some had warhammers strapped on their backs, some were equipped with swords, while some had shields on their arms.
Another man with a bow on his back stood atop the temple's roof, staring at his surroundings sharply, much like a falcon.
The witcher patiently surveyed his enemies, confirming that there were six of them guarding the place. All possessed similar stats of those Imperial soldiers in Helgen.
"They're the bandits?" Flynn held the hilt of Gwyhyr—he borrowed that from Goldeneye—tightly, his body shivering, his eyes gleaming with anxiety and excitement. If this were the old him, Flynn would've run as far away as possible from any bandit, but that line had long since been crossed.
The Dragonborn had taken a path hitherto unimaginable to him. For my home in Whiterun!
Roy produced an exquisite hand crossbow and stared at the roof of the temple. He pointed at the bandit on the right—the one with an axe—and pointed at Flynn's chest.
The Dragonborn nodded and tensed up, preparing for what was to come.
A bolt hurtled through the air and bore a hole through the bowman on the roof. Blood splattered everywhere, his body flying backward.
The remaining bandits shouted and roared as they unsheathed their weapons and charged at the intruders.
Two more bolts were fired. Two of the bandits were sent flying backward, a hole boring through their bodies. The moment they fell to the ground was the moment they drew their last breath.
Flynn was awestruck. I haven't even drawn my sword yet, and he's already taken out half the enemies? He's a swordsman, a mage, and an archer?
But there was no time to indulge in his thoughts. A gust of wind came as the bandit with a warhammer swung his weapon down at him.
Flynn swung Gwyhyr up, clashing with the warhammer's metal, and the blade was swatted away. The Dragonborn felt a great surge of power coursing through his hand. He almost lost his grip on the weapon, but for some reason, he held on. And the Dragonborn quickly retreated.
Yet the bandit did not relent. To Flynn's horror, the warhammer was brought down on him once more.
***
A blue rune shone in the air. The gust of air that darted out of it slammed into the chest of the bandit trying to swing his greatsword down on the witcher, and the bandit fell backward.
Roy took a half step back, easily dodging the shield bash of another bandit. He quickly made a rune in the air and shoved it into the bandit's eyes, plunging him into a stupor. Then Aerondight drew an arc across the air, beheading that bandit.
A headless corpse with a shield and sword in its hands fell before the witcher.
Once again, the bandit with a greatsword leaped back into the fray, swinging his sword up diagonally. Roy took one step forward, evading the blade easily.
The bandit, all of a sudden, lost sight of the witcher, and then he felt his calves being severed by the witcher's blade. He lost all balance and fell forward, and the last thing he felt was a sting on his nape, then he fell headfirst into the snow. And he stopped moving.
The bandit with a warhammer was still engaged in battle with Flynn. Despite his lack of experience with weaponry, Flynn was talented with them. He was growing at a blistering speed. With Ralof's teachings and Roy's demonstration, the young Dragonborn already had a vague grasp of the basics of swordplay, his movements slowly becoming more streamlined, though only barely.
And he had higher stats too. Even though it might look like the bandit was overpowering him, he had yet to injure Flynn even a little. On the other hand, Flynn would dish out counterattacks of his own every time the bandit showed an opening. Gwyhyr easily cut open his leather armor and left deep wounds on the bandit.
The bandit's movements became slower and slower as he lost more blood, yet Flynn remained healthy, and his eyes were gleaming. His strength was still abundant. Then, for one split second, there was an opening Flynn could exploit, and exploit it he did. The Dragonborn cut the warhammer's handle in two, stunning the bandit.
And that was his fatal mistake.
Flynn swung the blade across his neck, slitting his throat. Blood spurted out into the air, and the bandit gurgled as he fell to the ground.
"That felt good." Flynn wiped off the blood from his cheeks, a smile of delight curling his lips.
"He's improving. Fast." Roy was a little surprised. Barely two days had gone by, and Flynn already had Basic Swordplay among his repertoire. Is he actually a genius?
They cleaned up the battlefield and looted the bandits for everything they had. And then they found a wooden crate in the bandit's nearby lair. Roy swung his blade down on the lock and opened the crate, revealing fifty gold and a Potion of Minor Healing within it. Alchemical items are really widespread here, huh?
"You basically took all of them out yourself. Take the gold." Flynn took the potion and turned his head away after glancing at the gold coins for a moment.
Riches and wealth. Wars were waged over less, and yet Roy still shared the gold with Flynn, and he would not take no for an answer.
Flynn was grateful for that gesture, but unbeknownst to him, Roy had already taken all the bandits' weapons. He could sell them all to the blacksmith in Whiterun and spend his gold on Farengar's merchandise.
Flynn cracked a smile and opened the doors to the temple.
***
***
