FAIRWAY AN ALPHAS TALE

S'maash always had an affinity for magick—enchanting especially—his natural talent was rivaled only by his love for the art. In his days as a child of Morrowind, he ran about with his friends and siblings stirring up all sorts of trouble. While they tried to stow away on silt striders, large insects utilized for the purposes of traveling long distances, S'maash normally found himself in trouble for different reasons, such as skulking into a mage's workshop to catch a glimpse of a master spell craftsman at work.

Most of his endeavors ended with a slap to the back of the head followed by the derogatory you s'wit, but that did little dissuade him.

Upon reaching adulthood in the year 4 E 221, S'maash, a striking, young, dark elf with a shock of gray hair on his head, and a gray-blue complexion, took a job as an inventory manager for a local union of mages in the town of L'Thu Oad. It was a small settlement southwest of Narsis, and his home town.

Working with the Mages' Coalition consisted of little more than taking notes on their studies and cataloging their findings. Other, menial tasks involving the organizing of reagents, soul gems, and magickal equipment kept him busy enough. Although he did learn a great deal about enchantments, the dunmer's curiosity was never satiated. His knowledge of over fifty enchantments was a testament to the fact that knowledge led only to more curiosity, and that led him to speak to one of the elder mages, an old altmer—or high elf—named Rosoleola, the head of the Mages' Coalition in L'Thu Oad. Ancient and surly with a shimmering, gold hue to his skin, he was not an easy person to approach.

"Master?" S'maash called.

The old altmer was stooped over an arcane enchanter, a malevolent-looking table adorned with the skull of a three-eyed beast, several candles, and a misty, green bauble. Rosoleola turned to the young dunmer while flipping through the pages of a journal.

"What now?" he barked.

"I couldn't help, but notice you're attempting to enchant that steel dagger with fire damage, " S'maash stated the obvious. Rosoleola winced as he returned his steady gaze to his journal. He remained quiet, absorbed, so S'maash stirred nervously before breaking the silence. "Why is it that we can imbue a weapon with fire damage, but not a shield or gauntlets?"

"S'wit…must you ask such a foolish question?" The altmer's voice was raspy and condescending.

"I'm afraid, I don't understand, Sir. I've been watching and taking notes for these past, seven years. Along the way, I have realized many truths, but some of them seem to have no logical base."

Rosoleola turned to the youngster with contempt. He pushed an errant strand of silver hair behind his ear.

"What are you babbling about now, boy?"

"Sir, a flame cloak spell can be cast by a mage. This provides him the ability to damage an opponent by merely standing adjacent him without so much as warming his own skin. Why not can a piece of iron armor be enchanted as such?"

Rosoleola was taken aback. He stared at the youth for a moment longer, squinting. The boy stood under torchlight with his feet firmly planted on the stone floor. The fires of passion and knowledge burned brightly in his red eyes.

The old elf adjusted his burgundy robes before answering. "Well now that is a question, isn't it…?"

His tone had changed as he looked up to the ceiling. S'maash detected a hint of ancient wonder, of memories long forgotten. The torch fires wavered with the forces of magicka in the workshop, casting shadows of the banners and tapestries depicting the progression of arcane studies, yet the elf kept his gaze on the old altmer, still awaiting a response; unnerved, he tugged at his faded, blue robes. Rosoleola took a pensive inhalation before providing insight.

"I can't really answer that, " he said and paused. The furrow in his brow was indicative of wonder, something rarely experienced by the aged. "Get back to work. You have better things to do than question magickal theory. Go make sure all the reagents are accounted for. Last time I looked for comberry, it took me twenty minutes to find where Naralia put them!"

The response given was less impressive than he had anticipated, or perhaps, it was less inspiring. Rosoleola eyed the boy, who nodded and left. Truthfully, the old elf was impressed, but altmer were not given to displaying such emotions, especially not to non-altmer.

Since the duty of reorganizing reagents was a tedious task, S'maash was still in the storage room when the argonian, Barters-with-Whispers, walked in. "Dunmer, fetch me the tome, The Studies of Wards, " the green, lizard-woman hissed.

He stood from his crouching position as he turned a jar of bone meal so the label faced out. He looked upon her. Barters-with-Whispers was ancient and decrepit; faded, yellow robes draped off her wiry figure. Still, her demeanor was rather imposing.

"Yes, Ma'am."

S'maash traveled through the short hallway over bronze carpeting to the study. While the floor of the workshop was of cold stone, its walls were gorgeous mahogany with darkened hues of deep brown. Massive, wooden shelving lined the walls of the library. Each shelf was filled from one end to the other with timeworn tomes. A mental segue took S'maash from his intended task. Dwemer Magick of Old, caught his attention; a leather-bound book.

Gingerly, he took it. The leather creaked as he opened it. While scanning over the pages, he saw the name Volendrung, an ancient war hammer. The dwemer knew quite a bit about forging magick items.

"What are you doing, you lazy layabout?" Barters-with-Whispers shouted from across the room.

Startled, S'maash dropped the book. It fell to the floor with a heavy thud. He gave a weak smile, picked the tome from the floor, and replaced it on the shelf before grabbing what he was supposed to have grabbed in the first place. He handed the book over.

It was difficult to read argonians. Their scales made it nearly impossible to detect emotional cues in their faces; although, that day it was obvious she was not pleased.

"Apologies, " S'maash said.

"S'wit."

Narrowing her eyes, she blinked then left the young elf. A new curiosity brewed, and he immediately ran out of the study, down the hall, and back to the arcane enchanter, where Rosoleola was picking soul gems for his next task. The magickal gems were shades of blue and purple.

"Master, " S'maash called.

"Mmm? What now?" The old elf didn't turn from his work.

"Which is the closest, dwemer ruin?"

"Oh, let's see, should be Damlzthur. Why?"

"I need to study their artifacts. I have to know how they were able to create Volendrung."