This is my first story that I've posted on the forums, it's not finished, so I'll probably be posting updates a bit sporadically throughout the year. It entails the story of young apprentice mage at the Arcane University, thrown into a world of mystery, murder and threat as the past returns and he is plunged headlong into it. I hope you like it...


Prologue

Have you ever considered taking the dark and thorny path?

The voice was so sultry and alluring it made Magnus retch. Mysteriously dark, ominously sinister, like liquid poison running through his ears. The rich sound echoed off the thin walls of his house and filled the room with a soft, reverberating boom. Magnus shuddered.

It chuckled.

I know your type, boy, I know it well, but in a thousand years of painful existence I've never seen someone with so much…potential, as you.

Magnus did not dignify the compliment with a response. He was way past speaking, or even breathing for that matter. Abject fear had rendered him beyond speech or any comprehension at all of what was happening. He was utterly paralysed.

The thing chuckled malevolently again, a deep, sonorous rumble. It sensed his fear.

Speak! Only the foolish would summon me to their whim and not have the bravery to command me!

The voice rose suddenly and thunderously in volume, shaking the floor as if each syllable had the power to crush worlds at mere expression. The words echoed inside Magnus' head long after the monster had finished speaking, chilling him to the very core as icy trepidation laced the pit of stomach and his blood ran hot under his veins.

A low chuckling sounded once again.

I can feel your fear boy, your anxiety. It warms my essence, feeds my soul. Yet I can feel your power. I foresee great things for you, boy, great things.

Magnus remained silent, staring hard at the wooden floor beneath him and sweating feverishly.

Hmph. You have summoned me, and in return for the sacrifice of your soul, I shall see your ascension to greatness and immortality, if you should so accept my divine guidance. What say you, boy?

Finally, Magnus, roused from his terrified stupor, managed to stammer a few words out.

"Th-thank you, m-my master..." Magnus winced slightly as he noticed with great discomfort how weak his voice sounded, how insignificant it was compared to that of the monster.

The thing grunted, as if sizing him up. For a moment silence gripped the room, choking and stifling.

Hmm. Yes, indeed, you will do well. Come, young Magnus Dawncaster, I have much to teach you…

***

She was miles away, but the flames were still there. The pain still lingered like a terrible after-image, haunting and chilling, flashing every time on the backs of her eyelids whenever she closed them. She wished them away in frantic desperation, but the insatiable blood-thirst of the red flames couldn't be quenched, couldn't be stopped.

They burned brightly, burnishing the night-sky a tarnished red.

No matter how hard she tried, she could not shut them out. Their fiery gaze burned through anything, destroying, ruining, killing.

And still they burned. Never to cease, visions of fire and destruction, of vivid redness and anger. Elsa watched her world burn in her eyes over and over again. An eternal nightmare she could not wake from.

Hot tears stung her eyes as she ran, the dancing embers hot on her heels, their heat prickling and their roar terrifying, cackling and howling with malicious glee.

Pain engulfed her, clouding her mind with agony. She had no strength to scream, every iota of her energy spent entirely on just keeping awake. Yet she couldn't stop running. The flames chased her.

Branches and leaves whipped her face, but she ignored their sting. Roots and stray logs threatened to trip her, but she persevered, scrabbling quickly to her feet when she fell, a new, fresh gash on her person whenever she got up again.

All the while, the incessant burning continued in her ears. If only she could get away, escape, just anywhere where the flames could not reach her and her precious, precious cargo. In her heart she knew there was nowhere, the illusory flames that cursed her mind would stay with her to the abyss and back. They would burn in the darkness, in her dreams and sleep, they would smoulder on until death took her, and even then they would follow in her the afterlife, haunting her spirit.

She kept running, and fatigue dragged at her like an iron weight strapped to her soul, though she had lost the feeling in her wearisome legs a long time ago. She knew she couldn't keep it up forever, and already she felt her pace slowing, her feet falling heavily and stumbling amongst the dark undergrowth. She could tell she was at the end of her limits, her strength drained and her willpower spent. She knew soon she would fall, and the flames would catch up with her, devouring her in a swirling inferno of suffering and agony.

She ignored the icy pain that clawed at her consciousness and pressed on, finally breaking through the shadowy woods, forcing herself onwards on sheer determination alone.

She was nearly there. So close to being liberated from her haunted life, freedom from the ravenous flames at last. She only had to make it.

Through the writhing and hissing flames that consumed her mind's eye, the Arch-Mage's Tower loomed in to view. Its steep grey walls promised salvation and release from the pain.

Deep within the dark fire that raged inside her, a shadow of hope flickered, and with renewed vigour she fought away the flames for one last time, stumbling through the giant iron gates and scrabbling helplessly at the door.

Blackness began to seep into the corners of her eyes, and the flames began to deaden. Her breath slowed, and everything went into a time lapse, her movements sluggish and her vision blurred like a misty window.

She fought it, struggling to keep the flicker of hope in sight. She knew she was living on borrowed time. Any second now, death would take her, siezing her in it's inescapable grasp.

Through bleary eyes she saw the heavy wooden door creep open, and the Arch-Mage stood there, silhouetted in the yellow light that spilled from the open gap. Not able to keep herself up any longer, she slumped to the floor with a cry of supressed relief. The Arch-Mage ran to her immediately, holding her head in his hands and uttering inaudible words.

Darkness. It was beginning to consume her, her gaze narrowing as death prepared to embrace her, to finally make the flames stop. She beckoned the release.

With her last dying breath, she pushed something into the Arch-Mage's arms and whispered a final word before her world was plunged into blackness.

"Nathaniel..."

As he watched the life seep out of Elsa's eyes and her motionless body settle against the cold stone floor, Arch-Mage Honorius Greymane stood frozen in shock and grief, and in his hands a newborn baby began to cry.

As with all your work I've read, excellent! I await more.

Anyway, no major problems with spelling or grammar etc, so nothing to crit. Job's a good 'un.

Thanks Bean

Part 2 is on its way! I really do hope that unlike my other hundreds of stories I don't lose interest in this and it never gets finished...

Probably jinxed it now

18th rule of writing, my friend. Never, ever say that.

Here's the next part, sorry it's so late.

The main reason it was delayed is because, like a fool, when I had written the first half of this post I didn't save it, and like an even bigger fool, my dad came in and deleted the whole thing without saving. But anyway, I suppose it's worked out for the better and instead of wallowing in self-pity (which I did anyway for a good day or so) I decided to write it all again from memory, and even though I still don't think it's better that the original version it's done now and can't be solved. Plus I got ten quid from my dad as compensation because I pestered him for so long.

Also, while we are on the subject of delays, the reason I havent posted on BL for so long Bean is because my account is not working. I can't sign into it, even though I've tried retrieving and changing my password. Why don't I make another account you ask? Well the answer I can't be really bothered and plus I've kinda lost all interest in W40K now since I got TES. Though I still have enough to enjoy your Grey Knight story, .

Chapter I: A Decision to Make

“Nathaniel! Pay attention!”

The austere voice cut across the classroom like sharp iron scraping horribly against rock, piercing and shrill. The walls waned at the mere sound, and many of the students clapped their hands to their ears in evident pain.

It was made worse by the fact that the gloomy room was completely enclosed, only a single shaft of light penetrated the pall of murkiness, spearing down from a window high up on the tall-beamed roof. This made the terrible shriek echo loudly and horribly, reverberating from within the shadowy corners of the chamber and cawing like a crow’s birdcall around the sombre classroom.

When the culprit didn’t pay heed, it was quickly accompanied by another screeching noise, even more horrendous than the first, as sharp nails were painfully dragged across the blackboard in an agonisingly deliberate motion. They scored deep grooves across the black surface, and it squealed in response as if it were alive.

The pupils shuddered at the horrific sound. A coal-black raven crouching on a perch beside the single window winced, ruffling its feathers in protest.

“Do you not respect the arts of our past?” Miss Harpfeather inclined in a high-pitched tone, rapping so harshly on her dark wood table that a quill fell out of its inkpot and spilled a vivid inky spider across the worktop. She ignored it, and with an audible snort of frustration began to walk slowly through the classroom to the wrongdoer, her extravagant plumed headdress bobbing like an apple in water as she did so.

The whole classroom withdrew as if not to disturb her. They knew better than to get in her way.

She stopped halfway at one of the tiny desks, peering down at a rather unruly boy with an unkempt mane of dark hair, slumped across the desktop unnaturally with his head resting in between the pages of a large textbook. He snored quietly to himself, each time blowing a piece of dust to and fro, like a game of cat and mouse.

Another sharp rap on the table. This time, Nathaniel awoke.

Though when he saw what was waiting for him on the other side of his eyelids he sorely wished he hadn’t. His gaze was met by the furious pinched face of Miss Harpfeather the history teacher, her hooked noise pointed accusingly at Nathaniel face.

Uh oh, thought Nathaniel. He was definitely in for it now. To be caught catnapping during the lesson was one of the most punishable offences in Miss Harpfeaher's class, Nathaniel had found to his displeasure too many a time. It was true, he had been sleeping, but who could blame him when the lessons were just so… mindlessly boring?

Every feature of her face seemed to narrow down into one centre point, aimed directly at Nathaniel. Her lips were tightly pursed and seemed to protrude from her mouth; her conical, beak-like nose sharper than an arrowhead. He could even feel her steely gaze boring into him like two icy needles, crow-black and imperceptible through her anger. Involuntarily he gulped nervously; she was not in a good mood today.

“Tell me, young Nathaniel, what it is so boring about my lesson that provokes you into catching forty winks every time my back is turned? Hmm? Come on, out with it!” She scowled, cocking her head to the side in a very pigeon-like manner and tapping her foot impatiently on the floor beside Nathaniel’s desk.

“I was merely resting my eyes, Miss Harpfeather…” His feeble excuse fell on deaf ears, and the foot-tapping increased.

Nathaniel could feel his brow sweating nervously. Miss Birdie was already at stage two of her fury, the irritated tapping of her foot and the bobbing of the head. Another stage and Nathaniel’s eyes had a very good chance of getting pecked out by her ridiculously elongated nose – he had to choose his words very, very carefully.

“Actually, Miss Harpfeather, it was more like forty hundred winks – Natty has been asleep from about ten minutes into the lesson, miss.” A snide voice sounded from the back of the classroom, accompanied by a chorus of sniggers and spiteful whispers. Nathaniel shot Patrickus Grinlime a venomous glare.

“Oh really, Patrickus? Thank you for your honesty, extra portions of sweet-roll for you come lunchtime. So, Nathaniel, what is it? What makes my lessons so extremely boring? Spit it out!” Miss Harpfeather demanded, adopting her horrible screechy voice once more. Nathaniel eyes averted to the floor, as his mind worked overtime trying to think of a legitimate excuse.

“I-I…” He stammered over his words. Miss Harpfeather cheeks began to flush red in impatience. The third stage.

“It’s not that I find your lessons boring, Miss Harpfeather, it’s just that… I don’t understand the importance of them. Why do we need to know about our past when it’s the future or the present we should be concerned about?” Nathaniel explained cautiously, not really knowing what he was saying.

“Importance! Importance! History is the most important subjects of all, Nathaniel. Do you think Arch-Mage Greymane got to his position without studying the stars of his past? The present and future is shaped by our past, Nathaniel, we need to have knowledge of the history of our people in order to succeed in life! Do you know nothing of your heritage, you insolent little boy?” Miss Harpfeather shrieked, the numerous feathers on top of her head shaking furiously, as if mimicking her outrage. Nathaniel cowered.

“I cannot believe you disregard history as an unimportant lesson,” She shook her head brusquely, causing a feather to fall out from her diadem and float slowly to the floor. “Is that why you don’t pay attention Nathaniel? Because you don’t believe in the past?”

Nathaniel thought hard for a second.

“Well that, plus your voice is really annoying and in truth, your lessons are pretty boring…”

Ah, he thought. He’d meant to say the second part in his head.

Miss Harpfeather’s face was motionless for a few still, uncomfortable moments. The feather continued to drift slowly to the floor, and the whole classroom was gripped in a deathly silence. Even the raven stopped in its preening to observe, cocking its head to look down in a sort of hopeful expectancy.

Nathaniel could feel the air around him peal with the anticipation of impending doom. He was a dead man, folly for the executioner’s black blade – or in this case, Miss Harpfeather’s dangerously sharp nose, which was just as deadly.

The morbid silence and motionlessness of the room seemed to go on for so long that it occurred to Nathaniel that Miss Harpfeather could have possibly frozen in anger. Her eyes bulged at Nathaniel with unrepressed shock and fury, and her hands, curled into claw-like fists, trembled with rage. She barely breathed, and her face was transformed into a mask of pure contempt. Nathaniel found he could not meet her gaze, for it pained him to do so.

When she finally spoke, it was but a whisper.

“Get out, you filthy little fetcher of a boy. I shall be seeing to you personally after this lesson. Get out before I tear out your eyeballs and pin them to your desk so next lesson you have to pay attention. Get out.” She fumed, her voice audibly shaking with unbridled anger.

Nathaniel gulped, but remained sitting, too afraid to move.

“You don’t deserve to be in this university, get out!”

Nathaniel didn’t hesitate any longer; he gathered his belongings and quickly exited the classroom. But when he got out he didn’t stop there, he ran, sprinting through the winding corridors, past the History classrooms and the dormitories, running until his legs burned and his chest heaved, Miss Harpfeather’s insults still echoing painfully in his mind, stinging a little more each time.

She was right. He didn’t deserve to be here.



Nathaniel leant against the back-alley wall panting, hands on his knees and staring hard at the cobblestone floor. He was afraid, afraid to face his predicament and afraid to run away any further, knowing it would just follow him. He remained there for a good half-hour, deep in his thoughts before he finally stirred.

He stood up, straightening his student’s uniform and trying to make himself look at least a little presentable when he faced his fate at the hands of his professors, who were know doubt already deciding on what degrading and horrible chastisement to inflict on him when he returned. He was just about to make off to the professors' quarters when an old voice rasped beside him.

“Hello Nathaniel.”

He jumped in surprise, and spun around to see a blue-robed figure concealed in the darkness. He stepped forward, and the darkness receded to reveal his face and identity. His features were deeply wizened and proud, like that of an old lion, and though his skin was aged and wrinkled his blue-grey eyes shone with a look of cunning wit and razor-sharp intelligence. A silvery mane of grey hair sprouted from atop his head, giving him a sense of a stone statue, looming above Nathaniel and fixing him with an equally stony stare of disapproval.

It was the Arch-Mage.

Nathaniel groaned and tried to escape, but a hand shot out and gripped him, vice-tight on his shoulder.

“Do not patronise me, boy. Face me.” Arch-Mage Greymane growled sternly, his voice coarse and unforgiving. His bushy eyebrows, which sat atop his forehead like two grey and hairy caterpillars, descended into a pointy frown.

“I heard of the incident in Miss Harpfeather’s History class. This is not good, Nathaniel. Your records of behaviour are fuller than any other student’s in the whole university. You have more black marks than a forgetender’s apron.” The Arch-Mage spoke quickly and austerely, his voice completely unsympathetic.

Nathaniel hated old Whiskerface more than any other teacher. Nathaniel had no reason to, for he had found only one explanation; because the Arch-Mage had hated him first. Ever since he could remember, Arch-Mage Greymane had despised him, neglected and rejected him, and when he did acknowledge him, it was with the utmost disapproval. Nathaniel had never understood why the old fool had hated him so, but for that reason, and that reason alone, Nathaniel had hated the old man back for all his worth. He had nothing but resentment for Greymane.

Their relationship was not helped by the fact that Nathaniel insisted on pulling all sorts of pranks and tricks on the Arch-Mage, mostly failed and unsuccessful ones. But the attempts that did succeed produced spectacular effects. It had earned Nathaniel weeks, even months of punishment, but it was all worth it in the long run, Nathaniel had compromised. It made the victory all the sweeter.

“Listen to me boy,” the Arch-Mage fixed him with a merciless stare; his incredibly bushy eyebrows deepening into an even steeper frown, if that were even possible. Nathaniel reckoned he could rotate them in a full circle if he wanted to.

“None of your punishments seem to be working, Nathaniel, no matter how arduous or harsh they may be. You return with yet more vigour to disobey the rules and undermine the professors' authority. This is not the actions of a future mage at this university, do you agree?” At this rhetorical question one of the thick eyebrows rose with a sudden swiftness, like a furry worm trying to wriggle and escape his forehead altogether. After a few moments it sank down again, and Nathaniel abruptly realised he had been observing his eyebrow’s movements a tad too much.

“Thus, Nathaniel, I have decided that if you fail tomorrow’s Mysticism examination I will have to detain you a year. You will not ascend to be a university apprentice, and will be held back another term to continue your associate-level studies until you have proven yourself worthy of acceptance into the mages society.” Arch-Mage Greymane glowered at him, removing his hands from Nathaniel’s shoulders and clasping them at the small of his back. A faint smile escaped the corners of his mouth.

“That is, if you fail. I hope this is a necessary amount of incentive to get you to start acting like a proper mage, and not some young scoundrel barely civilised enough to become a bandit. And don’t think your actions are to go unpunished Nathaniel, you are assigned to an afternoon’s cleaning of the University stables. Go, rejoin your lessons, I will see you tomorrow to give you an apprenticeship. Or not. It's your choice boy.”

And with that the Arch-Mage left the alleyway, whistling a merry tune, leaving Nathaniel confused and shocked rigid in the empty passageway, frozen with distraught at the Arch-Mage’s words.

Edited. Does anyone think the first paragraph is too wordy? It's really bugging me .

First paragraph seemed fine to me, not to wordy at all. And Miss Harpfeather seems an excellent character too.

This may just be me being dense, but Honorius seems perfectly pleasant towards Nathaniel. In fact he doesn't seem to hate him at all.

And for some reason I imaginf him to look just like Elder Lyons from Fallout 3.

Ah the real reason Nathaniel hates the Arch-Mage is because he doesn't give him the attention he desires, and Nathaniel is annoyed that he doesn't get any recognition from him. More about their tenuous relationship shall be explained in the next post and further on in the story, so don't worry Beansterino .

I'm afraid I don't have Fallout 3 so I wouldn't know who Elder Lyons is, but in god's honest truth I don't know who I based Greymane on. I just thought of a frowning grey lion

This is shaping up well. I don't have any particular crit just now. First paragraph seemed fine to me.

You portrayed the teachers well, especially Harpfeather. I liked the continued bird metaphor.

Thanks Olen, comments greatly appreciated . Here's chapter two.

Chapter II: A New Arrival

By the time Nathaniel had finally left his position in the secluded alleyway it was raining heavily. The University’s courtyards were full to the brim with hurrying apprentices and scholars, dashing through the rain whilst holding outspread scrolls above their head to deflect the worst of the downpour. Nathaniel bustled through them, shrugging his collar up and tightening it around his neck as he felt cold shivers crawl down his spine.

He found out it somewhat difficult to catch his breath; but Nathaniel knew that it wasn’t because of chilling weather. He was struggling to comprehend the implications of the Arch-Mage’s threat. Nobody in the history of the University had failed their Apprentice Testing. A whole year! Nathaniel said to himself for the hundredth time, clenching his fists as his distress slowly turned into fearful anger.

He couldn’t bare the thought of taking all those same lessons again, the same teachers, the same limitations. He had been looking forward to his apprenticeship more than anything, finally a chance to have some freedom and some respect from his fellow colleagues. To have it taken away at the very last moment was heartbreaking.

Nathaniel felt a single tear roll down his cheek. No-one noticed it in the pouring rain.

He pushed his way through the crowds as the rain fell in thick sheets, blanketing his red face with a film of icy water. Raising an arm to shield himself from the stinging gale, he struggled to make out a wooden sign through the grey thrash of the downpour, a crude bed painted on its surface, swinging wildly in the wind. Shuddering again, he made for the dormitories, the clouds above brewing darkly as the violent storm continued.



Nathaniel pushed open the heavy oak door with some difficulty, its wooden frame swollen with rain and soaked dark. Nathaniel stepped in quickly to escape the swirling rainstorm; but moans of displeasure and callous jeering still arose from within the common room as a cold chill swooped in from the open gap. Nathaniel scowled, but shut the door anyway before removing his leather shoes, shaking his hair of the rainwater like a ragged dog. When that proved unsuccessful he took a random robe from the cloakroom and ran through his hair with that, sincerely hoping it was that smug fetcher Patrickus Grinlime’s robe.

Satisfied with his drying attempts, he trudged to the middle of the common room without greeting or acknowledging anyone, flopping himself into a large armchair by the fire and shrinking into its warm embrace. Nobody seemed to notice him – though they hardly ever did anyway – and seemed to be engrossed in some heated discussion over some lame topic. Nathaniel sneered; probably something about how well prepared they were for the examinations tomorrow, or what reward they would get for passing them.

“…haven’t you heard – some say he’s travelled all over Cyrodiil, and that he carries a staff of amazing power…”

At this Nathaniel pricked up his ears, realising that it was evidently not one of the normal conversations. He sat up in the armchair and leaned slightly into the conversation, the fire’s heat was beginning to prickle him anyway, he consoled himself.

The debate continued, the students forever coming up with new and interesting rumours about this mysterious person to topple the previous one.

“Apparently he’s met with the Emperor, and has even done errands for the Fighter’s Guildmaster! He’s even been into a plane of Oblivion!” The note of awe in each person’s voice confused Nathaniel. Who was this incredible, legendary new someone? Why was everyone so hyped up about him? Nathaniel had no clue what a plane of Oblivion was, but he was sure if he’d been listening in Miss Harpfeather’s history class he would have.

It sounded like a load of poppycock to Nathaniel. Whoever this new person was, he was sure that he wasn’t as incredible and remarkable as he was made out to be. Nathaniel doubted that he’d ever even been to the Imperial Palace to see the Emperor; nobody but the palace guards and the council were allowed in there.

Yet the matter frustrated Nathaniel. Whenever the endless rumours got tiresome and his intrigue would wane, a new speculation would pop-up and draw his interest right back again. He found himself wanting, needing to know who this person was. He waited patiently for his answer.

“…do you think the University will… change when he arrives?” A straw-haired girl sitting nearest to Nathaniel asked coyly, fiddling with her braids. A young Redguard student from across the room answered, peering up from his book.

“I suppose so – and hopefully for the better… if any of those tales are true then he’s definitely going to be popular, certainly moreso than the one we’ve got now. It’ll be great to have a new Arch-Mage who’s so interesting, I for one…”

Nathaniel zoned out from what he said afterwards, he was too busy gasping and gawping with shock. A new Arch-Mage? Old Whiskerface was retiring? Questions flittered through Nathaniel’s mind like moths round a lamp.

He had known Greymane to be old, but he had never once thought the wrinkly Arch-Mage was anywhere near resigning. Nathaniel was stunned, struggling to decide whether this dramatic change was for good or bad. From what he had heard, this Arch-Mage would probably be even more arrogant and domineering than the previous one; as well as being much more as likely to ignore him and disregard him.

Nathaniel suddenly gained a strong desire to hate this new arrival, even though he hadn’t even set foot in the University yet. Angry and confused, he blurted out his thoughts into the conversation.

“A new Arch-Mage? Pah! I bet you ten septims that this one is as boring and hackneyed as lion-face up there.”

The inhabitants of the common room turned to face him, fixing him with wide-eyed stares of frightfulness at his sudden outburst.

“But Nathaniel, the rumours say–“

“Those stories are nonsense, gobbledygook, scamp-twaddle – probably just made up by scared students. Trust me; I’ll have that Arch-Mage begging to leave in less than a week, he’s no better than the current one.” Nathaniel interrupted the straw-haired girl, who frowned and made to retort again before Nathaniel spoke over her again.

“What’s his name? Something stupid I bet – Like Honorius Greymane.” Nathaniel jibed; adopting a ridiculous sing-song accent when he said the name of the Arch-Mage.

“Illydoor. His name’s Illydoor. Sounds exotic doesn’t it?”

Nathaniel snorted.

“I bet he’s never even been outside the city. He won’t last a day here if I see to it; he won’t be able to handle my old potion-switch trick.” Nathaniel said, his mind already working on different kind of pranks to pull.

“I wouldn’t say that Nathaniel, he’s arriving today at the stables any minute now. Arriving in style too I hear. He’s arriving in his own coach, pulled by his own horse. A classy one too, purebred Chestnut all the way from Chorrol – so he must’ve been outside the city, Nathaniel… Nathaniel?”

Nathaniel had frozen at the mention of the stables, remembering his afternoon detention that Greymane had given him earlier this day. He’d almost forgotten!

Cursing himself inwardly for his own stupidity, he quickly left the common room, almost forgetting to put his shoes on as he rushed out of the doorway, more moans roused from within the dormitories as another cold gust was sucked in.

Slamming the vast wooden door shut; Nathaniel turned into the storm once more, the painful chill of the air hitting him like a fist as he ran towards the University stables.



Luckily for Nathaniel the worst of the storm had subsided by the time he had left the common room, though a good amount of rain still fell from the skies at a steady pace, drenching his just dried clothes and hair. A greying mist had descended on the University as well, enveloping the cobbles with a film of vapour. Nathaniel passed the crooked raven again, who was as bedraggled a fowl as ever hunched on one of the unlit lamps by the side of the road. It cawed dejectedly at him before flying off into the mist.

Nathaniel ran without abandon, not caring when he slipped on the wet flagstones, bruising his knees and scraping his elbows. While he ran, he had a lot of time to think about his current predicament, the excitement of the new arch-mage having subsided like the storm in Nathaniel’s mind.

He had wanted to study for his examinations in preparation for the bid day tomorrow, but with this detention he could never hope to have enough time to revise. Greymane had known this; otherwise he wouldn’t have given me this detention, Nathaniel thought, gritting his teeth with frustration.

If he didn’t pass the examinations, then what was the point of trying to become a Mage? What if he failed the next year? And the year after that? Nathaniel shuddered at the prospect. He couldn’t help but remember Miss Harpfeather’s words earlier this morning, her shrill voice replaying in his mind on its own accord.

You don’t deserve to be in this university…

Nathaniel found himself believing her every word. Maybe he just didn’t belong in the Arcane University. Maybe he was cut out for something else. She had asked him about his heritage, yet Nathaniel knew nothing of his. He had no parents or relatives; his mother and father had been killed during an important guild operation, or so he had been told. He didn’t even have a second name. On all the registers and charters, his title was just Nathaniel. It felt like he was half a person, incomplete.

Disturbed, Nathaniel shook his worries out of his head and concentrated on running, the rain still pouring around him and pattering on the cobblestones, playing out an odd rhythm. Above him, the raven soared, a black smudge amidst the endless grey.

By the time Nathaniel reached the stables he was breathless, and sweating despite the downpour and storm’s after-chill. Situated just outside the Arcane University’s stone walls, the stables were a refuge for the countless visitors that the University paid homage to. A ramshackle wooden shack, shaking rather precariously in the wind, filled with hay and horse-dung. Nathaniel’s detention venue for the next few hours.

He grimaced, the wind blowing his hair across his face, and walked slowly towards the stables. Fortunately there didn’t seem to be many occupants today; probably the storm seeing to that, Nathaniel reckoned. When he arrived at the wooden pen he saw a piece of parchment pinned to one of the supports, a broom and bucket leant against the wooden pillar beside it. Nathaniel plucked it off and read it with difficulty in the drizzle.

Nathaniel

In response to your despicable actions this morning, you are to clean the entire stables for two hours and a half. Make sure you clean all the dung out and move the rotten hay to the back of the shelter.

No magic!

Nathaniel shrugged. It was not the worst punishment he had, but neither was it the easiest. And as for the magic prohibition, Nathaniel wouldn’t be as stupid to try it. He had once, though, and it produced less than desirable results. The stables had been left in more of a mess than before when he had tried it; and when Greymane had finally arrived to relieve him of his punishment, he received a magicked clump of dung to his face as a result of Nathaniel’s attempted cleaning spell.

Amusing thought it was, it had earned him another two hours of cleaning, so Nathaniel knew better than to try again.

Sighing despondently, he grasped the brush, taking out a nose-peg he had especially made for this punishment and clipping it onto his nostrils. Without hesitation he set about to clearing out the first stable, trying not to gag as he separated the waste from the hay. As he began to settle in to a routine, he fell gradually more and more into his own deep thought stream, and before he knew it time began to flitter by all too quickly.

About halfway into his allotted detention time, he was woken suddenly from his musings by the distant sound of clipping hooves on the cobblestone road. He looked up from his work – which by now he was quite proud of, having already reached the fourth stable out of ten – along the direction of the straight road, peering through the greying mist to see if he could discern the arrival. When he couldn’t, he gave up and set about to work, the clacking of the horse’s hooves getting gradually louder and closer.

Soon when the clipping had become so loud it was an annoyance to Nathaniel, he looked up from his post and saw a horse dragging a coach compartment along the road. A golden, chestnut horse.

Nathaniel gulped. Could this be the very Arch-Mage they had been talking about in the common room? He was suddenly overwhelmed with a sense of fear and anticipation as one by one the different rumours of the new arrival’s history came back to him.

The horse continued to trot slowly along the lengthy road, and even in the drizzle Nathaniel could see that its coat was definitely chestnut – glossy and sleek in the rain, its rich brown colour not dampened or tarnished in any way by the downpour. A single white streak ran down its elongated nose.

Okay, thought Nathaniel. One rumour is true. That doesn’t mean all the rest are. And what good is a horse anyway when you just ride in the back of a coach?

The horse drew up near the stables, whinnying at Nathaniel and shaking its brilliant mane. Nathaniel shrank back a bit, holding the broom tightly to his chest defensively. He waited and the horse continued past the stables, drawing the black, gold-trimmed coach along with it.

As it drew past, a lone figure within its cabin caught Nathaniel’s eye. Through a small gap in the curtained window, Nathaniel saw a man, enrobed in garbs of a deep red; his face darkly hidden by the cowl’s concealing shadow. Slowly and terribly, the black maw of his hood turned to face Nathaniel, fixing him with a blank, imperceptible stare like one single deathly eye. Nathaniel found he couldn’t move at all, his eyes seem to be hypnotised, fixed on the inky blackness within the mysterious arrival’s hood.

A second passed and never once did the man break his stare. Not until the coach drew out of view and rolled slowly through the cast-iron gates of the University did Nathaniel’s eyes avert from the coach and its occupant.

Nathaniel shook, quickly turning back to his work at the stables, his palms sweating and his throat suddenly tighter than before, sweeping a little quicker than intended.

Well developed, you're getting this where its going quickly but without forcing it which is good. The introduction of the new archmage was almost seemless, so good stuff there, the commonroom scene definatly added to the flow and helped develop the character of Nathaniel. I also find myself quite interested to find out what happens next.

My main criticism is that the occasional sentence didn't work or had some strange word choice. A couple of examples are:

but he never once doubted that he was anywhere near resigning -- this is a bit convoluted and clumsy to read, partly because 'he' is used for two different people with context saying which is which but mainly because it doesn't mean what you intended I think. 'he never doubted', to me at least means that he thought it was going to happen where I think you meant 'he never thought'. At least that's how I read it.

Whenever he got tiresome of the endless rumours -- I think this might have suffered in editing, either 'whenever the rumours got tiresome' or 'whenever he got tired of the rumours' would be more correct. It's not much but it just hurt the flow a bit.

streak ran down its elongate nose

Mainly just small gramatical things which hurt the flow a little. I don't know to what extent you do this (so if you do ignore me) but it can help to iron these out if you leave a piece to sit for at least a night before posting as read it over (possibly out loud) to see what flows and where the flow isn't so good. Having said that it does flow very well, there's pleanty of hooks to hold the reader and the structure is very good. I'll be reading the next part.

Thanks very much for the crit, Olen, when I wrote it last night I was pretty tired so I guess a number of things coulda' slipped past the nets.

Nothing another quick proof-read won't solve, I'll be right on it .

I've got to revise for a french exam that's on friday, so the next post won't be up til' the weekend, but on the other hand the good news is I got an A* for my graphics c.w!

Chapter III: The Exam Begins

It was dark by the time Nathaniel had finished cleaning the stables. A calm evening chill had swept in, blowing away the mist and drizzle, leaving the midnight sky pure and crisp. Nathaniel, exhausted and sweating from his labour, drank it in like a cool beverage, the soothing breeze doing wonders to his fatigued and work-weary limbs.

Arch-Mage Greymane had not even bothered to visit Nathaniel to relieve him of his detention duties. He had merely sent one of his messenger imps, Lumsnug, to deliver the message once his allotted time was up – accompanied with a brief but painful kick to Nathaniel's shins for good measure. Nathaniel, thankful but irritated, gave the evil pet a mild shock in revenge before sending it on its way, the electrocuted sprite muttering spiteful curses under his breath as he left, still twitching slightly.

Nathaniel exhaled a long sigh of relief into the midnight sky, jadedly grateful that he had finally finished his work and could return to his warm bed. Though he knew in his mind it was a needless victory. He still didn’t have enough time to prepare for tomorrow’s examination. By giving him this detention, Greymane had practically made sure that Nathaniel was going to fail tomorrow morn.

Nathaniel hoped with all his heart that he could prove him wrong; that he could finally see the stern, condemning face of the old fool replaced by one of shock and regret, that he could finally get some measure of approval from him. He wondered idly whether it was indeed too much to wish for.

Throwing the brush down miserably, Nathaniel rolled up his sleeves and ran a hand through his matted tangle of brown hair, stretching his worn out arms into the sky. After one last check that everything was spotless in the stables, Nathaniel left the University Boulevard, so tired he could barely push the iron gates open.

Overhead, the moon was full and bright, casting long shadows on the ground and creating rippling pools of darkness on the cobblestones beneath Nathaniel as he reached the dormitories at long last. Its beckoning bed sign – swinging slightly in the soft breeze – was a welcome sight to Nathaniel as he opened the thick oaken door as silently as he could, careful not to make the age-old rust-coated hinges creak as he entered.

Shutting the door as quietly as he had opened it, he crept upstairs past the common room, the crackling inglenook still blazing hotly near the armchairs. He noticed some students curled up amongst the thick cushions, books and lengthy tomes still in their hands from revising.

Once he entered his dormitory, he immediately sprang for his bunk, its soft pillows heaven to Nathaniel’s weary head. Though it pained him dearly to reject a good night’s sleep, especially one so needed, he lit some tallow candles beside him, took out a dusty tome from the bedside table and began to read into the midnight, the looming anxiety of tomorrow’s trial pressing constantly on his mind.

Half an hour passed, then an hour, and his concentration became weaker and weaker, like all the willpower had been sapped from him. As the lines began to merge and the words began to falter under his gaze, he felt his eyelids drooping and before he knew it, Nathaniel’s world was plunged into dreamy darkness. And for a blissful moment, all the troubles and cares that he possessed dissolved into nothing…



Nathaniel woke abruptly, to the sound of a dreadful bird cawing. He yawned irritably, annoyed at being woken in such a sudden and rude manner, screwing up his face against the light that streamed in from the oval window above his bed. Outside it he saw the pesky Raven again, shouting its existence to the rest of Cyrodiil with not a care in the world.

Feeling something weighty on his lap, he looked down, surprised to find an opened book resting on top of his quilt. A few idyllic moments passed before he realised what day it was and why the book was there, and like a dam being opened, all the angst and fear of the imminent examinations flooded back to him, weighing him down with sudden dread. Desperately he looked to his bedside table and his ticking clock.

He was almost late.

Growling at his own bad luck he threw off the bedsheets, pulling on his clothes in such a hurry he barely knew what he’d put on. He cleared the table, frantically searching for a comb to smooth his ruffled hair, though he snarled once again as he knocked the leftover wax from the candles lit last night onto his newly changed shirt.

Deciding he had no time whatsoever to dawdle, he ignored the wax stain and donned a brown blazer jacket, hoping it would cover it up enough for him to get away with it. Thrusting his feet into his shoes and burrowing his ankles into them furiously until they went over his heels, he grabbed his tome at the page he’d left it and made his way downstairs to the common room, still tying his tie on whilst trying to read through the last pages of his book.

Downstairs in the common room he was met by a scene of utter chaos.

Students everywhere were busy preparing themselves for the examinations, the common room filled to the brim with bustling pupils and vigorous activity, the raucous so loud Nathaniel was duly surprised he hadn’t been woken up before by the incredible din. Associates inhabited every corner and space available, catching up on last minute revision, drowned by multitudes of scrolls and papers and manuscripts, others trying to make themselves look presentable, admiring themselves by the various mirrors in their smartest attire, clean white doublets or blouses and dark grey trousers, with long ashen-grey socks and mirror-black glossy shoes.

Every so often gasps and exclamations of wonder would arise when a student released some particularly complex spell into the air to show what they had prepared for the judges. Meanwhile, heated discussions were taking places in large groups that had congregated round the swarming room, conferring revision tactics and last minute tips, or just general excited buzz about the examinations.

It was all a bit overwhelming for Nathaniel. To see everyone so excitable and animated for the examinations just made Nathaniel even more nervous. He knew that in a single cohesive sense everyone was expecting everyone to pass.

Every student had made a generous effort to look their best for the examination day. Hair was slicked back and shined to an oily gleam, whilst the girl students had put on their best dresses and even small pieces of jewellery to make themselves look extra pretty for the big day.

Nathaniel looked down at his drab jacket, his wax-stained shirt and wrinkled trousers and sighed glumly. He descended the stairs amidst the tempestuous bedlam and settled himself into a corner, trying to read his revision in book in peace as students around him buzzed and hummed with uncontainable excitement. To any sane person that walked in it would seem the associates had already passed their exams and were already celebrating, thought Nathaniel, casting an eye through the crowd.

It caught Patrickus Grinlime’s, who was sitting amidst a throng of gabbling and admiring girls, looking delightfully smug and arrogant as they offered him good luck charms and various praises to him. He looked the best presented and well-dressed out of everyone, with his perfectly fastened tie, and stitched leather shoes that were almost a shiny as his oiled hair, which shone like glass amidst the rabble of other students.

He sneered at Nathaniel distastefully, curling his upper lip as if looking upon a beggar before turning to one of the girls and whispered something in her ear, at which she began giggling hysterically.

Hatred welled up inside Nathaniel like a volcano, and deep inside him he felt his stomach coil in anger like a clenching fist. He shot Patrickus a murderous glare and gripped his book so tightly his knuckles went white, threatening to tear right through the thick leather binding. It was even more infuriating for Nathaniel when Patrickus outright ignored his challenging stare and returned to his mob of fans.

Rage still boiling inside him, Nathaniel tried to subdue it, knowing he had bigger problems and he couldn’t let his concentration wane because of a petty feud – he had revision to do. Grumbling to himself and muttering unrepeatable curses under his breath, Nathaniel retreated to his corner, turning his back to the hubbub in the common room and reading silently through his book again, determined to pass and then rub Patrickus’ snooty face in it once he did.

Suddenly there was a hard, sharp knock at the door, loud enough so that it could be heard clearly above the terrible racket created by the mayhem within the common room. Like a candle snuffed out in the wind the noise inside ceased immediately, and an irrepressible silence enveloped the chamber.

Nathaniel stopped reading his book and turned to face the oaken door, his breath caught in his throat. Even Patrickus Grinlime halted in his lavish preening and snapped his gaze around in the direction of everybody else’s, his proud, overconfident expression now replaced by one of fear and anxiety. Despite the looks of shock, like one unified mind, every student in the room knew what was about to happen.

It was time.

The heavy door opened with surprising force despite its age-old hinges, and before it had even stopped moving in stepped a trio of Evokers, the exam’s invigilators. They were resplendent in their blue mage robes as they strode inside; their faces strong and square-jawed with a steely look of determination and wizened experience. To the awe-struck associate students, these were god-like in status. Every pupil at the university aspired to be one, every pupil wanted to succeed as a student and become a fully-fledged mage.

The prospect that one day they could earn the right to wear those same robes seemed to stun the students into silence, and when the foremost Evoker began to speak not a move was made throughout the entire crowd. His voice was resolute and without conviction.

“Good morning students. As you well know, your apprentice-level examination begins today. You have been given enough time to practice, so if you would now kindly follow my colleagues here to your respective subjects tests and they shall sit you in your correct order for the exams. Focus, believe in yourselves, and you shall all be great mages one day. Good luck to you all.”

With that, the Evoker gave a short, controlled smile and left through the oak door, leaving his associates to step forward.

Nathaniel waited patiently. One by one, the subject exams were called out, and groups left with the different Evokers. Destruction went, Conjuration, Illusion and Alchemy, then Alteration. All the while, the apprehension and dread of the situation threatened to make Nathaniel black out, yet he remained steadfast, determined not to show any weakness.

Finally, his subject was called.

“All students currently taking Mysticism, please stand up and form single file behind me.” One of the Evokers called, an Imperial woman with an impassive face standing at the front. She held out an arm to indicate where the line should form. Nathaniel hurriedly gathered himself, leaving his book on the floor and scrambling to his place in the line, biting back the brain-addling nausea that suddenly rushed to his head with the nerves.

It was to Nathaniel's sheer annoyance that he ended up in front of Patrickus Grinlime, but he ignored it, instead concentrating on the female Evoker’s every word.

“Right. Students, follow me. Your exam is awaiting you.”

She turned briskly on her heel and exited the common room, the procession of students marching out behind her onto university plaza. Outside, the midday sun was shining dazzlingly bright in the cloudless blue sky. Nathaniel took it as a good omen.

He would need it.

Chapter III up, sorry for the delay again .

For a story this great? Don't worry, a little delay is fine!

Have to agree with Silver, a little delay won't matter as long as we do get an update. Great story, I check for it everytime I get on.

I can wait if it's this good, don't worry about that.

Many thanks to all for your comments, they're greatly appreciated .

I've edited all parts now (there was some howlers in there - hopefully you guys didn't notice ). Fourth part up soon.

I should hope it is Illy. I'm enjoying this.

Parts have been edited; the next section where Nathaniel tackles the exam should hopefully be up tonight .

Chapter IV: Pass or Fail?

The sun shone hotly on the student’s backs as they marched out to the examination room, the unusually cloudless day doing nothing to heighten Nathaniel’s spirits as he kept pace with the long procession of examinees. He scratched the nape of his neck in irritation as the heat began to prickle, shielding his eyes and peering into the dazzling brightness.

The weather didn’t seem to mirror Nathaniel’s mood.

The storm that had raged last night seemed more appropriate, he speculated, blinking and returning his attention to following the Evoker’s course without putting a foot wrong. However his shoes were oddly uncomfortable on the cobblestones beneath him and for some reason his mouth was parched and dry, his throat like a desert.

He knew, with some reluctance, it was the apprehension of the exam that was a constant threat on his mind –his nerves were shot. Despite his last-minute revision last night he knew it was no way near enough to be fully prepared for the exam. Try as he might, he couldn’t help thinking how much the odds were stacked against him.

Blocking out the pessimistic thoughts from his mind; he composed himself and tried to recall what he’d learnt during his various lessons and lectures. Yet whenever he tried to grasp on something in his memory, it slipped away and his mind went blank again, only to be replaced by the condemning face of Arch-Mage Greymane, hovering into view along with Miss Harpfeather’s. The same words ran across his mind time after time again.

You don’t belong here…

It was useless.

Nathaniel was as clueless as when he first started at the Arcane University. He’d yet to even cast a single successful Mysticism spell in all the disastrous practical lessons he’d endured, and now, when his entire career as a mage was on the line, he cursed himself furiously for not paying attention in lessons.

The only reason he’d chosen Mysticism as a subject was because he thought it would be easy; that he could flunk the lessons no problem. He was sadly mistaken.

What Nathaniel wouldn’t give to be taking an exam for Illusion, Alchemy, or even Conjuration right now. During the first week of Mysticism lessons with Miss Harpfeather, his hopes of an easy and hassle-free ride to an apprenticeship had been completely buried under the mountainous piles of tedious textbook work and brain-addling note-taking.

Struggling to take in the enormity of his task, Nathaniel realised this was the day that would change his life. It was up to him and him alone. He would either pass or fail.

Which one would it be? Nathaniel found himself asking. The answer was waiting just round the corner.

Above, a black soaring shape silhouetted in the sun’s dazzling rays, a raven cawed majestically into the clear blue sky.

Nathaniel stopped for a moment to look at the familiar pest, losing concentration as he was momentarily blinded by the sun. He stumbled and tripped on a jutting flagstone piece, giving an involuntary yelp of surprise. Nathaniel felt an arm grab him just before he fell, and hoping nobody else had noticed, quickly returned to his position in the line of examinees – gathering his jacket together to hide the wax-stain on his shirt from this morning. He turned to say thank you to his saviour.

Somebody snorted behind him.

“Nervous, Nathaniel?”

The snide voice of Patrickus Grinlime slithered coldly in Nathaniel’s ear, making him shudder. The 'thank you' caught halfway in his throat.

“Don’t worry; I’m sure you’ll pass… someday.” Patrickus sneered, and Nathaniel could imagine his stuck-up face, with its sly, unpleasant smile, upturned nose and eyes full of derision and mockery. Nathaniel’s lip curled at the thought.

Nathaniel kept walking, biting his tongue to prevent himself from retaliating. Despite the broiling anger in his stomach, he promised himself he wouldn’t sink to Grinlime’s level. Nathaniel was better than that. Patrickus' underhand taunts were the least of his worries, he had the exam to worry about.

“You’ll see, Patrickus, I’ll pass this exam no problem. Just you watch.” Nathaniel whispered back with barely suppressed rage, still facing forward and keeping pace with the line whilst adopting a stern grimace, clenching his fists and grinding his teeth viciously. He meant what he said in every sense of the word. Behind him he heard Patrickus snigger.

“You, an apprentice? Don’t make me laugh, Natty. You have less intelligence than a scamp on moonsugar. You don’t belong here.”

Nathaniel winced as the last insult hit home.

He felt fury boil in his veins once more, hotter and more intense than ever. He balled his fists so tight the knuckles went white, and he threatened to grind his teeth down to the gums. But Patrickus’ jibes just made him even more determined to pass this exam, to defy the odds, and Nathaniel channelled his hatred into pure, unbridled willpower.

He was going to pass this test. No matter what.



“That’s enough associates, we have arrived at the examination room.” Nathaniel heard the Evoker’s voice yell out over the empty courtyard they had just entered, and after a moment’s hesitation she hovered into view, walking out to the side to address the column of students from where they could all see her.

Above, the midday sun continued to beat remorselessly down on the courtyard, baking the air cinder-dry and making it haze and waver like ripples of liquid in the distance. Nathaniel, in his heavy blazer jacket, was being roasted alive in the incredible heat, sweating feverishly under the sweltering warmth - thought he guessed it was far more down to his nerves rather than the increasing temperature. Swallowing hard, he turned his attention to the Evoker. She appeared completely unfazed by the scorching weather and stood before the line of associates with an impassive expression, her hands clasped smartly at the small of her back.

“Students, your Mysticism test is waiting beyond the door facing you,” She addressed the students confidently, gesturing towards the building they had arrived at, and like one unified mind, each student peered round to take a good look.

On appearance it looked like any other building in the Arcane University; two storeys high, made of bleak, grey stone, a pillared roof jutting out grandly to hide a square wooden door within its shade. However on closer inspection, Nathaniel noticed the sign of the Mage’s Guild was etched perfectly onto the door’s grainy surface, catching what little sunlight that came through the shadow and glimmering brightly amidst the darkness.

Nathaniel gulped, and to what it sounded like, every other student did so too.

“Remember what you were taught, and relax, don’t let your nerves get to you – you are all capable and talented students of Magic, and I am adamant that you will all pass this examination.” Her gaze wandered over to Nathaniel. He shied away.

“Blessings of Mara upon you all. You may now enter.” The Evoker finished, fixing them with a beaming smile and walking towards the engraved door. She opened it and led them in, the students shuffling and fidgeting uncontrollably with nerves.

He found himself entering a long, unimpressive room – not that much dissimilar from Miss Harpfeather’s classroom. Like every other building in the Arcane University, numerous shelves, bookcases and cupboards lined the walls, filled to the brim with manuscripts and weird-looking potions. However unlike Nathaniel’s classroom there were no desks or chairs, and no blackboard at the front of the room.

A large space had been cleared in the middle, leaving the stone floor strangely empty and bare compared to its surrounding walls. A trio of ordinary wooden tables had been placed in a horizontal line in the centre of the room, one in the middle, and another on either side, each at least five metres apart. Along with them three, clear glasses of varying sizes had also been arranged on the tables, one on each, from big to small. On the table with the biggest glass a polished silver carafe stood, its slender form glinting sharply in the brightness.

Light streamed in from a series of thin alcove windows on the left side of the room, creating an odd, striped effect on the uncovered stone floor. At the head of the room where the teacher’s desk would be, sat three grim-looking professors, motionless like statues in the slim beam of light that speared down from their adjacent window. Nathaniel instantly recognised one as Miss Harpfeather, who glared back at him with an venomous, indicting gaze.

His heart sank – that was already one judge who was against his favour.

Amongst the others was Professor Parsedew, an old, bearded wizard, wearing a wide-brimmed conical hat that bent backwards at the middle, and Mistress Wicklefick, a rotund woman whose doughy face reminded Nathaniel of a roll of sweet-cake. Neither were teachers that Nathaniel knew very well or had dealings with in the past, so he hoped that if it came to an all-out decision between the trio as to whether he passed or not, at least two out of the three would be unprejudiced. However if it was up to Miss Harpfeather alone, Nathaniel knew he would be out that door faster than he could say ‘bird-beak’.

Of course, if he actually passed the test he wouldn’t need to worry at all.

Swiftly the students entered the exam room in silence, the Evoker ushering them in with occasional words of encouragement. Nodding once to the professors when all the students were present, she left without a word, slamming the door behind her. The clunk of the heavy door closing echoed long around the empty, silent room, and suddenly, everything was still. The tension was so thick it was choking. The oppressive and blinding brightness continued to stream sparsely through the windows into the stifling room, the only sound permeating the heavy atmosphere was the nervous panting of the students as they examined the room from head to toe with wide, apprehensive eyes.

It was a minute before Miss Harpfeather eventually stood up, her chair squeaking on the floor as she did so, and broke the silence.

“Examinees.” Nathaniel winced as her screeching voice echoed round the stuffy chamber. “Your Mysticism exam begins as of now. Test conditions are required form this point forth. This means no speaking or conversing with your fellow associates, and certainly no use of magic until you are permitted to do so. Any jewellery – magical or not – must be removed immediately.”

She stopped to allow the rules to sink in – or maybe it was to frighten the students, Nathaniel couldn’t tell.

“Arrange yourselves into alphabetical order. Once your name is called up, walk to the centre of the room to perform the examination. You will be graded on your knowledge, execution, accuracy and flair. The rest of you, wait at the back of the room quietly until it is your turn. Remember any violation of the rules aforementioned results in immediate disqualification from the exam, no exceptions.” She hesitated again, eyeing each and every student with cold, piercing eyes.

“Any questions? Good. Then let the Mysticism Exams begin!” With that, she clapped her hands rigorously and sat back in her seat, giving a curt nod to the other two professors to begin.

“Norma Ardatroke, step forward…” The hoarse voice of Professor Parsedew began to fill the room, and slowly but surely, a shuffling blonde girl emerged from the mass of sitting students and began to walk toward the centre of the room, illuminated by a shaft of brilliance that speared from one of the thin windows. Despite the distance Nathaniel could see that the girl’s eyes were wide with fear and she held her hands against her stomach to stop them from trembling – it didn’t help ease Nathaniel’s nerves much, either.

The droopy face of Professor Parsedew smiled weakly, and beckoned Norma Ardatroke to begin. Nathaniel watched with attentive eyes, as with every other student, but all the time aware of his own predicament. He felt so nervous he was afraid he might throw up, his stomach queasy and his head nauseous, but he knew he had to concentrate. Saying he felt ill was not an option; he just had to buckle down and pass this test once and for all.

He sounded so confident in his head, yet deep inside the worry remained, like an immovable black lump. He tried to shake the feeling, trying instead to discern what the exam would be and how difficult it was.

The test was simple; the student had to come up, answer a couple of questions – one delivered by each professor, and then perform a routine Mysticism spell to demonstrate their talents. The candidate had to fill a glass of water using Psychic Motion (a weaker form of Telekinesis) from the carafe on the foremost left table, and then maintaining the spell, move the glass of water across the short distance to the middle table.

The student then had to then pour the water into the smaller, thinner glass on the centre table, and repeat the spell again to move the water to the last table, where the smallest and thinnest glass stood. Once that was completed, the student had to finally use Psychic Motion again to move the thinnest glass of water all the way back to the carafe with all the water still inside. The idea was that as the glasses got thinner and smaller, the harder it was to control with telekinesis. If the candidate spilled a drop of water or dropped a glass, they would fail.

In reality, it was easy. If you had revised.

Nathaniel watched Norma Ardatroke perform the test with ease, upon which she was dismissed and returned to the throng of students with uncontained happiness and relief spread across her face, a skip in her step.

He gulped. She made it seem so easy.

Since Nathaniel had no second name, he reckoned he’d be last to be called up, so breathing heavily and shifting in his seated position to get more comfortable, he relaxed and tried to recall any information that he might need. There was nothing to do but wait.

Hours passed, and names continued to be called up, and each one sat back down as an apprentice, passing with flying colours. Praise was awarded to those that showed especial talent and originality, such as Patrickus Grinlime, who performed several loop-de-loops with the glasses – with the water still in. Nathaniel disregarded his charlatanic display with a sneer of discontent.

Finally, after three tedious hours and all the other student’s names had been called up, all eyes were on Nathaniel. His palms slippery and heart beating painfully against his chest, his name was at last rasped out by Professor Parsedew across the airless chamber.

“Nathaniel... Oh, it's just Nathaniel. Yes, please step forward.”

His legs shaking, Nathaniel stood.

This was it.

Sorry, it's a bit of a long one this time. Hope you like it . It's unedited at the moment because I'm quite tired, though come tomorrow it shall be polished up a bit.

A fine update, enjoyable to read and I'm left interested. However, you might want to consider condensing things a little - it was fine but might have benifited from some suggestion of what is to come in the long run or the fleshing of something important as it very much dealt (as far as I noticed though I could be wrong) with what was happening there and less on the overall arc of the story.

Having said that it is very much a matter of taste and pleanty of successful authors don't write like that.

There was some good description in there.

A couple of comments:

entering a small, unimpressive room ... Three single tables had been placed in a line in the centre of the room, one in the middle, two on other either side, each at least five metres apart. - so the room was more than ten meters long, I wouldn't call that small. Also there was a bit of countersinking; if the tables were in a line then one was going to be ni the middle with one on either side. It just jarred a bit.

doughy face - excellent. Those two words gave an instant impression of the person.

clapped her hands shrilly - you might want to reconsider the use of shrilly here, I'm not sure how well it applies to clapping.

Good stuff.

Thanks Olen. I do agree with your point about condensing, this post was supposed to cover Nathaniel actually taking the exam as well, but you could say I went a bit overboard with the writing .

Ah. I realise that's a logical mistake now.

I did think this didn't fit when I wrote it, yet the only adjective I could think of to replace it was 'harshly' which doesn't quite fit. I'll think of something later.

Thansk for commenting .

Okay, a large portion of this text has been edited and some paragraphs have been added or deleted, because I didn't feel this post was as good as my last ones. Hopefully it's much better now .

The next chapter will hopefully be up tonight !

Well, I've finally got it up, after much deleting, re-editing, re-deleting and so on. Here it is, please tear it apart I'm still not that happy with it:

Chapter V: A Raven’s Luck

“Please take a couple of steps forward, Nathaniel, where we can see you better.” Professor Parsedew croaked across the room, his hoarse voice like rustling leaves, beckoning forth with a bony hand and a feeble smile. Shyly, Nathaniel obeyed.

“That’s it, much better.” Parsedew rasped, glancing up from his notes to examine Nathaniel through a pair of round, diminutive glasses that were rather too small for his nose. Nathaniel felt like a prize animal put on show, suddenly aware that almost every person in the room as well as Professor Parsedew had their eyes on him, scrutinizing his every move, his every breath.

After a few uncomfortable moments, the Professor finally stirred. Slowly and very deliberately, he pulled down his gold-rimmed spectacles with thin fingers, peering over to address Nathaniel with a stern, shrewd look.

“Now, Nathaniel, the exam is quite simple. You will be asked a total of three questions; one by myself, one by Mistress Wicklefick, and a final by Miss Harpfeather to my right here.” He gestured to both with a skeletal hand. Neither of the other professors bothered to notice. “Answer each correctly, and you shall proceed to the next stage, the practical test, which I shall explain in more detail once you pass the first part of the exam. Do you understand?”

“Yes sir, of course sir.” Nathaniel nodded hastily, eager to impress. Having seen the thirty other associates go through the exact same procedure before him, Nathaniel knew exactly in his mind what to do. But knowing, wasn’t half as hard as doing.

Professor Parsedew smiled with wrinkled lips, replacing the undersized pair of spectacles back on the bridge of his nose.

“Right then, we may begin. Mistress Wicklefick, the first question, if you please.” He said to a bored-looking Mistress Wicklefick, who jumped at the sudden mention of her name, causing her tiny chair to creak and groan in protest from the added weight. She gave a short, embarrassed cough, glancing round at her peers and then at Nathaniel before turning her attention to a broad, leather-bound tome, lying open already on the desk.

She began to flick through the pages in a vigorous motion, her small, chubby arms working like overfed mice across the yellowing pages of the book. Beside her Nathaniel thought he saw Miss Harpfeather's eyes roll in evident annoyance, though her spindly posture remained stock-still.

After a few moments of furious whipping through the large tome, Mistress Wicklefick stopped abruptly at a page, scanning down with one fat finger. She looked up at Nathaniel with piggy little eyes and delivered her question.

“What are the five effects that the spell ‘Dispel’ will not influence, in alphabetical order?”

Nathaniel felt his shoulders sag with relief – this question was easy. He’d read up on Dispel and its traits a thousand times last night during his speedy revision session.

“Dispel is not capable of affecting or manipulating in any way theses five characteristics: abilities, blessings, curses, diseases or magical items.” Nathaniel replied swiftly, confident in his answer, and to his pleasure he saw Mistress Wicklefick beam jovially at him in an excited sort of manner – her plump round cheeks making her lips seem much too small for her mouth.

“The boy is indeed correct. Proceed, Professor Parsedew.” She exclaimed in a mousy, high-pitched voice. Miss Harpfeather exhaled sharply, turning her nose up at Nathaniel. She was evidently not impressed. Nathaniel could only hope that whatever she had in store for him come her turn wasn’t too difficult, though he knew for sure that she wasn’t going to go easy on him.

First, however, he had to deal with Professor Parsedew’s question.

Being a renowned Mysticism wizard of mastery level, Professor Parsedew needed no book or resource to conjure up his question. The elderly mage removed his crooked blue hat, and placed it with care on his desk, leaning back against the wooden backrest and scratching his chin in deep thought. Nathaniel waited patiently, watching the wisps of silvery hair that sprouted from the Professor’s balding crown waft in the light breeze.

After a few minutes of silent contemplation, Professor Parsedew shot his question out of nowhere.

“Name the six prime ingredients that could be used to create a potent reflect damage potion, in order of availability.”

Nathaniel found his mind suddenly working overtime; he’d been taken aback by the quick-fired question at first, but once had composed himself, he remembered back to his revision workbook with ease, recalling the page of Alchemical Mysticism Potions. Remembering the ingredients wasn’t a problem; luckily he’d committed them to memory the night before. All that was left to do was arrange them in order of availability.

“Errm, the first, most common ingredient would be flour…then the Green Stain Cup Cap…” Professor Parsedew nodded and smiled an encouraging grin. He got no such encouragement, however, from Miss Harpfeather. Nathaniel continued regardless, confidence growing. “Then the strawberry, the salvaged skin of a scamp…the venom of a Spider Daedra…and finally the rarest ingredient of them all, which cannot be obtained by any legal means, the flayed skin of a live human.” Nathaniel finished proudly, and Professor Parsedew beamed just as Mistress Wicklefick had done at his perfect answer.

“That, dear boy, is correct. Well done! Now for your last question – Miss Harpfeather, do continue…” He clapped his hands together once to show his approval, as his eyes turned to Miss Harpfeather, along with Nathaniel’s.

“Thank you, Arthur.” Miss Harpfeather said coldly, uncrossing her spindly elbows and placing them curtly on her lap in one smooth, mechanical motion. Her calculating eyes rested on Nathaniel as he braced himself for what was coming.

“According to Tetronius Lor’s infamous book, Mysticism: The Unfathomable Voyage, what is the ancient term for Mysticism used by Psijics of the Isle of Arteum?”

Nathaniel’s heart sank. Miss Harpfeather knew Nathaniel had always disliked Magic History, and he could have sworn he saw her give a slight satisfied smirk as she delivered the question. She was trying to make him fail.

Mind swimming as he racked his brains for an answer, his thoughts wandered back to yesterday’s history lesson where he’d fallen asleep; and found himself dearly wishing he could travel back in time to change what had happened. For the second time today he cursed himself inwardly, if he’d paid more attention during that lesson he could have answered this question with a breeze.

He grunted in self-inflicted annoyance at his own stupidity, desperately trying to remember what had been on the board behind Miss Harpfeather’s ridiculous plumed headdress. His attempts were to no avail however, whenever he had a lead on something or an idea sprung to mind, the memory would suddenly slip out of his grasp and squirm away, leaving his mind blank and irritatingly empty. It was like he was looking through a misted window, he could see the answer, but he just couldn’t reach it.

“Ahem.” Miss Harpfeather coughed. “Do you have an answer, Nathaniel?” She asked politely, though Nathaniel noticed the discreet tinge of conceit in her voice.

Frustration turned to alarmed panic as he struggled to say anything, and his fright, he blurted out an answer, a wild stab in the dark.

“Could it be…the Old Way?” Nathaniel winced and shut his eyes in anticipation. He waited with bated breath for the words he dreaded, thinking what a loser he had been to fail the exam before even getting to the second stage.

To his surprise, none came. The voice he heard was that of Professor Parsedew’s.

“Bravo, boy! That was evidently the hardest question we’ve had today, wouldn’t you say so, Miss Harpfeather?”

Nathaniel opened his eyes cautiously, thinking himself to be dreaming. He saw Professor Parsedew and Mistress Wicklefick nodding with commending looks at each other and at Nathaniel, clearly impressed by his lucky answer. Miss Harpfeather however looked slightly taken aback and subdued, unmistakably shocked that Nathaniel had answered her question.

Nathaniel felt a measure of relief wave over him. He’d been lucky, but he’d done it, and that’s what counted. He could finally relax-

“Well then, young Nathaniel, you’ve answered all our questions correctly and accurately – very well, if I may say so – so now without further ado the second stage of the exam can begin.”

Nathaniel gulped, and what confidence he’d gained from completing the first exam suddenly melted away as the dread of the upcoming stage two of the test overcame him.

He forced himself to concentrate. He’d passed the first stage of questioning by the skin of his teeth, but that had been the easy part. Now it was time for the truly difficult test: the practical. If Nathaniel was ever going to complete a successful Mysticism spell, by the lost gods it had better be now.

“Please make your way back over there in front of those three tables, Nathaniel, and I shall explain what you have to do.”

Heart pounding, Nathaniel turned around nervously and approached the three tables, walking between one of the gaps to stand in front of the middle one, positioning himself on an already drawn-out mark painted on the floor. His shoes gave an awkward squeak as he walked; his palms slippery with sweat and his forehead misty. He wiped the moisture away from his brow with the sleeve of his jacket, trying not to look into the fierce sunlight that streamed in through the window beside him.

“Okay. Now for the second stage of the exam, Nathaniel.” Professor Parsedew croaked, smoothing down a stray wisp of grey-white hair. “You will find that the silver carafe sitting on that table over there contains a small measure of water. Your task, using a spell of Psychic Motion, will be to move the water into all three glasses and back to the carafe again. Spill but one drop of water, and you will be disqualified.”

He hesitated, allowing Nathaniel to take a good look at the tables and the three glasses. Normally, a mage would weigh up the distances, taking into account the wind and all sorts of different factors, but Nathaniel had done all those routine things ages ago, almost as soon as he’d entered the room. He wasn’t about to let anything go wrong. If he did, his apprenticeship was as good as gone.

“Take enough time as you need to prepare Nathaniel – you may begin.”Professor Parsedew stated, drawing out a quill from a nearby inkpot to take notes, as did the other examiners.

Nathaniel nodded his acknowledgement, taking a deep breath to calm his nerves. He felt strangely nauseous and queasy, vulnerable, like all the eyes in the world were about to watch him fail.

Come on Nathaniel, he forced the words into his brain. You can do this.

The dazzling light from the thin window slits seeped into an oblong pool around him, bathing the stony floor at his feet in a pale brightness. It glinted sharply off the silver carafe and the three solitary glasses, each standing like a formidable tower on their respective table, the light giving everything an illusive, false sense of grandeur.

Ignoring his thoughts, Nathaniel shut his eyes and pretended he was the only person in the room, no professors, no students, no stupid exam, just him. Everything else was irrelevant, non-existent. It was just him, the tables, and the glasses.

And tentatively, like a child about to touch water for the first time, he reached out a hand towards the silver carafe.

Focusing every iota of his energy into his mind and through his body, he cast the spell, feeling the magic pulse out of him like a throbbing spear, coursing pure and tingling through his veins. A strange sensation took over Nathaniel, as if his arm was being stretched, out and towards the waiting carafe. It passed over the wooden table, feeling the grainy contours and grooves of the surface, as if he were touching it with his own fingers.

He waited, allowing the magic to reach and stretch out until he felt the smooth, cold surface of silver touch his illusory hand.

Without hesitation he grasped it, the spell making contact with the carafe and holding it fast. It wobbled ever so slightly as the transition was made, but Nathaniel held it steady, cold beads of sweat forming on his brow from intense concentration.

Slowly, but surely, he began to tip the edge of the jug toward the glass on the table beside it, as if an invisible person was pouring the carafe. After a few tense moments, Nathaniel felt and heard the first few droplets of water trickle out and patter gently on the bottom of the glass. Soon the trickle widened to a steady dribble, until the carafe was almost elevated horizontal by his spell and the water ceased to pour.

Nathaniel breathed a steady sigh of relief, but didn’t lose concentration. His collar was itchy and the hairs on the back of his neck rigid, but still he kept focused. Losing awareness at this crucial point would be fatal.

Allowing himself a few moment’s respite, he cast out his imaginary arm again and this time grasped the circular shape of the glass. It was more slippery and elusive than the roughened metal surface of the carafe, but was still captured securely by the spell.

With great care he began to move the glass sideways, feeling the base scrape smoothly across the wooden surface of the table as it slid in the direction of the next desk. Soon the roughness of the table surface fell away, and the glass was suspended in mid-air, floating ghost-like in a horizontal path across the room. Nathaniel remained attentive, careful not to break the connection between his hand, the spell and the glass. One slip and the glass would be gone, along with his apprenticeship.

He sensed the next table coming up, and slowing his hand, made the floating glass of water come to a gentle halt next to the second glass, which was noticeably thinner and smaller. Wary of dripping any water, he rotated the spell and the glass tipped just as before with silver carafe, spilling the liquid smoothly into the next glass at a controlled pace.

Good, thought Nathaniel. I’m halfway there.

He didn’t allow himself any rest this time, repeating the step to move the now thinner glass to the third table. The water now filled two thirds of this glass, making it more unbalanced and difficult to grasp with telekinesis. The thin shape threatened to elude his control on several occasions, wobbling precariously and making Nathaniel’s heart leap with fright, only to settle once again as he retained his composure.

Reaching the third and final table, he carefully poured the water into the thinnest glass, concentrating so hard he threatened to pass out.

Now it was the time for the last step.

Nathaniel wondered seeing how it had taken so much energy to get the glass to the third table if he’d ever get back to the first one without breaking his focus, the distance almost a full width across the room. It would take all the willpower and determination he had.

He breathed hard, and for the final time, cast his spell once again, feeling the magic clasp around the last glass. It was no thicker than his forearm and no taller than the span of his hand. Its curved, flawless surface felt smooth and clean in the spell’s touch, uncomfortably strange and odd after holding the carafe and the two larger, wider glasses.

The liquid nearly filled the smaller glass to the brim now; the water’s edge just a centimetre or so below the lip of the glass. Nathaniel had to be extremely cautious if he didn’t want any to spill. He tried to keep it level as best as he could as he began to move it across the room, above the tables, levitating it slowly at head height until glided level with Nathaniel. His levels of concentration were now so high his muscles had gone completely rigid, and cold beads of sweat traced a sticky route down his forehead.

He ignored them, not allowing anything to break his focus. He was nearly there. So near. The silver carafe stood, but a metre away now, shimmering resplendently in all its glory. Nathaniel’s heart leapt as he realised his goal was so close, relief and elation already beginning to wash over him. He was going to make it!

Then, out the corner of his eye, Nathaniel watched as a single, coal-black raven swept down towards the thin window next to him, perching deftly on the sill and peering into the room with one ebon eye. It glared at him suspiciously, giving a discordant, piercing caw whilst it pecked at the pane of glass with a sharp black beak.

At that very instant Nathaniel’s concentration broke. The spell split abruptly and dissipated from his hand, dissolving in front of him, the connection severed. He felt the magic withdraw, the energy wasting away before his very eyes. He knew what was going to happen before he even saw it.

The glass was suspended in thin air for a few, precious moments, before the inevitable happened and it began to fall towards the floor as if in slow-motion. Nathaniel could only stand and watch helplessly as the cup shattered on the stone ground into a thousand glimmering pieces, with a sound like rainwater on a window pane, shards of glass skittering on the floor and sparkling like gems in the rays of sunlight. The water inside exploded outwards, throwing a spider-shaped puddle that rapidly began to spread like a miniature tide, catching the sunlight on its liquid surface and gleaming like a mirror.

Nathaniel saw his own, bewildered face within it.

For a moment he was speechless. He opened his mouth to say something, but nothing came out, only inaudible noises of despair as he watched the pool of water begin to swell around his feet. The row of students sitting behind him gasped, as Nathaniel struggled to make sense of what had just happened. He looked pleadingly at three professors sitting at the desk, still in shock, searching for some measure of sympathy or mercy from any of the teachers. He found none. Only grim, frowning faces stared back at him, disappointment and anger etched clear in their scalding glare.

Nathaniel’s mouth opened silently to form words that weren’t there, as he looked to the window where the Raven had perched. It gave him a blank look and fluttered away silently, leaving Nathaniel alone with his despair, distraught at what had just happened.

As the bird flew off the solemn figure of Arch-Mage Greymane stood into view behind it, framed in the slim window, his hands clasped behind his back. He regarded Nathaniel with a piteous look, shaking his head in clear disappointment before turning his back to the window and walking off into the sunlit courtyard, leaving Nathaniel to stare with hopelessness at the back of his ash-coloured robes.

A flurry of emotions fought to overwhelm Nathaniel in seconds, but one stood out clear amongst the rest, like an iron red-hot poker in his mind.

Anger.

He was angry, at himself, at Greymane, at the Raven and his own misfortune, at everyone. It felt as if the whole world was against him, isolated and alone, like swimming in a vast ocean.

You don’t belong here.

The words echoed in his mind, striking pangs of pain and agony into his heart each time they repeated, and for each syllable that reverberated within him his anger lessened, subdued by his despair at failing. He heard Miss Harpfeather screech his name, but he wasn’t really listening, fury and fear clouding his mind.

“…Nathaniel…you are hereby disqualified from the exam…”

Bemused and shocked, Nathaniel couldn’t believe his own ears. He had been so close, so near to proving that he really did belong in the University, that he really was cut-out to be a mage. But he had failed to prove anything, and worst of all, he had failed to prove it to himself. He had been a fool to think he could’ve passed this exam.

Hot tears stung his eyes as a sudden sensation of terrible emptiness overcame him. All he could think about was what the future held in store for him, would he leave the University altogether? Where would he go? What would he do?

They were all questions he held no answers to. Silently he walked back to the throng of students, now apprentices, who muttered between themselves as he approached. Some had looks of pity and sympathy on the faces, others callous amusement, others just stared at him silently as he retained his position amongst them all, gazing blankly into space.

Miss Harpfeather stood and began to walk over to the group of students, leaving Professor Parsedew and Mistress Wickfickle to clear the desk. Her shoes clacked on the stone floor as she carefully avoided the spilt water. When she arrived she addressed the crowd with the same shrill, strident voice.

“Okay students, that is it! The Mysticism Exams are over, and you’ve all done extremely well. I am very proud to call you apprentices.” She glared at Nathaniel with a cold, uncompromising stare. “Well, most of you.”

“Arch-Mage Greymane will be hosting a graduation party in the hall in two days time for all you students, in celebration for your ascension to apprenticeship. All are welcome, so prepare you best clothes, but most of all relax, your studies are now over!”

The excitement and joy of the school year’s end was lost on Nathaniel, though the pupils around him cheered and cried out in clear relief at not having to work next term. Nathaniel, however, shied into the corner, still staring with a glassy look into thin air. He was still struggling to comprehend what had just happened.

The examinees were dismissed by Miss Harpfeather, and one by one, they left the hall in single file, most of them cheering in high spirits and buzzing with excitement and happiness.

Most, but not all.

Nathaniel walked alongside the procession of joyful students in seclusion, reluctant to join in with the revelry, thinking how he could have been celebrating with them right now if it wasn’t for the stupid crow and Greymane’s devastating threat. The midday sun glowered in his eyes as he walked, beginning to dry the tears that traced from them.

“Don’t worry, Nathaniel.” A smarmy voice jibed by his ear, and Nathaniel didn’t have to turn around to know it was Patrickus Grinlime. “There’s always next year…and the next year… and the year after that. Like I said, I’m sure you’ll pass one day.” He gloated, chuckling to himself in unhidden malice before running on to join the rest of the travelling celebrations.

Nathaniel ignored Grinlime’s goading words and stinging insults, though deep within him, he felt them awaken something, like a dangerous fire being ignited. As the sun continued to stream hot light onto Nathaniel’s reddened face like a merciless and baleful eye, the twisted seeds of revenge began to grow inside him, and in his anguished mind he began formulating a plan of vengeance…

He’d show them.

Oh dear...

That was really well done, you know, and very tense. An extremely enjoyable read indeed.

Have to echo Colonel Mustard there, oh dear... I hope Nathaniel doesn't do anything to drastic...

Very tense, I was almost holding my breath with the glasses. Stupid raven, it did a bad thing.

Anyways, keep up the good work, waiting anxiously for the next update.

Thanks Bean and Seerauna .

I'm going to France for a week, so in my absence, here's the next chapter for you guys to chew on while I'm gone .

Chapter VI: The Seeds Are Sown

The sun was already beginning its dreary descent toward the horizon by the time Nathaniel awoke, lifting his weary head from the pillow to the beam of light that poured in from his oval window. Having already reached its zenith, the brilliant circle was now slowly drifting west as midday came to an end, though its bright rays were still enough to make Nathaniel shield his vision from the dazzling brightness.

He yawned in a sluggish manner, his head throbbing and mouth bone-dry; running a hand through his dark-brown hair in a practiced fashion. With his other he rubbed his sore eyes, which felt itchy and raw from his outburst of tears that had just occurred hours before.

When he had cleared his vision, Nathaniel listlessly blinked away the sleep and saw the state of disarray his room was in.

In his apparent anger and frustration, Nathaniel had stormed into his dormitory, throwing off his shoes and blazer jacket in a fit of rage across his room, and then proceeding to fling a number of other items randomly around the chamber has he sort to unleash his anger on absolutely anything. Jackets hung from on top of his wardrobe. Vases and cups lay smashed and broken on the floor, their spilled contents like the blood of murder victims.

Amongst the ruin, he had also tossed his revision booklet to join his clothing on the floor, where it lay haphazardly amidst the mess of his destruction, the pages bent and creased. All sorts of clutter littered the floor, quills and empty inkpots, various pieces of clothing, even a few paintings. His tall, ticking horologe clock, its pendulum still oscillating in perfect motion despite its upending, whirred meticulously on the floor.

To Nathaniel it felt like a bad dream. A bad, terrifying dream he could never wake from.

Not long after his frantic rage and frenzied destruction, Nathaniel figured he’d worn himself out, and subsequently curled up on his bed beneath the covers to hide from the world and his fateful predicament, sleep a welcome relief from all the distress he had endured since this morning. He dearly wished he could return to that state of blissful ignorance, oblivious to all the pains and miseries, his back turned to the universe and everyone else in it as he slept on in peace.

The failure of the exam still hung heavy on his mind, and at every moment Nathaniel felt his spirits suddenly dip and new tears threatened seep from his already tear-drained eyes.

A chorus of shouts sounded from outside, and shaking his dazed head, Nathaniel walked with weary tread to his circular window to see what the commotion was.

Outside, as Nathaniel had reluctantly expected, the celebrations were still continuing, as various students gathered on the plaza in the hot afternoon sun to rejoice and congratulate each other on their graduation. Laughter and songs could be heard in abundance, as various spells were cast into the air, exploding in brilliance like fireworks over the students’ heads for the special occasion in the calm and beautiful weather.

An assortment of cakes, fruits and sweetmeats amongst other treats were being passed around in great amounts, students gorging themselves on the well-deserved luxuries. The smell of sweet cordials and fragrant desserts could reach Nathaniel even from his window, as the new apprentices had a miniature feast in the courtyard. Other festivities crowded the region, including an old water fountain that had been tapped by some of the alteration pupils, spraying clear refreshing water across the stone square whilst students played underneath it, dancing and singing each other like the day would never end.

Nathaniel saw students sending entire fleets of various messenger imps, fat and short, to their parents and relatives to inform them of their success, just as others were receiving messages and packages, most filled with congratulatory rewards and prizes. The courtyard was full to the brim of exuberant noise and cheerful partying, the atmosphere one of great joy and delight as merry jingles and chants filled the energetic day with a bubbly tune, not one student without a smile on their face.

Nathaniel looked upon the scene in disgust, though he knew in the back of his mind he dearly wished to be a part of the celebrations, wishing even more that his parents were alive to tell of his success, if he’d passed. His heart sank, longing to go outside and join in with the rest of his classmates, but he was too ashamed. How could he celebrate when he was Nathaniel, the only student in history to fail his apprenticeship, the small orphan boy who couldn’t pass the easiest test of his University career?

Nathaniel turned, anger fiery in his veins at his own words as his self-pity changed into a righteous sense of injustice once more. He thrashed out, kicking the heavy clock on his floor across the room.

He only succeeded in a painfully stubbed toe, and instead muttered a spiteful oath under his breath – not for his pain, but for realising his anger had once again got the better of him.

He turned back to his window and placed his elbows on the slim windowsill, resting his chin on his hands, observing enviously as the party progressed into the afternoon, letting the enraged thoughts that flittered round his mind run over. He couldn’t help thinking that he’d been robbed, cheated out of his success by the interfering bird and his untimely detention given to him. Even when he had answered Miss Harpfeather’s ridiculously hard question, the other two professors gave him no mercy when it came to the practical test, despite his pleading and the unfair distraction of the wicked bird.

It was just so… unfair, Nathaniel mused, picking idly at a grain whorl in the wood of his frame.

A loud rapping sounded at his door, but Nathaniel didn’t move from his position. He was in no mood to talk to anyone.

“Come on, Nathaniel. Come downstairs and join in with the celebration, we’re all having jolly good fun together.” A voice said considerately, followed by much agreeing and consent from the other students, and then silence as they waited for an answer.

“Look, Nathaniel, failing the test ain’t so bad. You answered Miss Harpfeather’s question. I doubt any of us would have been able to answer that one without some difficulty – you did well.”

Nathaniel stirred, surprised by the sudden show of kind-heartedness and compassion. The sympathetic voice of the student seemed to calm him. Maybe somebody did have the consideration to understand how undeserved his failure was. Warmed by their words and eager to join the celebrations, he got down from the windowsill and stepped a complex path through the sea of clutter to his door.

He was about to unbolt the lock on his door when he heard a few sniggering voices outside.

“Quick he’s coming… get the glass of water.” He heard one whisper, suppressing a fit of giggles. “Come on! He’s about to open the door…”

His hands froze on the lock.

Nathaniel’s skin crawled with fury, and his eyes burned hot with anger. How could he be so stupid, as to think they’d be sympathetic? They were just as wicked and malevolent as Patrickus Grinlime, every single one of them, about to play a cruel trick on him after winning his trust. It was they who deserved to fail.

He turned on his heel brusquely, biting his lip so hard it drew a bead of blood, ignoring the deceitful comments of the conniving students outside.

“Come on, Nathaniel, we’re all waiting – let’s celebrate! Just open this door…”

Nathaniel didn’t have time to celebrate. He had to plot his revenge.


The desire for vengeance imprinted fiercely into his mind, Nathaniel cleared his desk without a thought, sweeping scrolls and quills to the floor with an angry swipe of his arm. He plonked himself down on his chair, noticing with irritation the dried, spilt wax from this morning was still there, caking half of the desk in a hardened coat of the translucent substance. After a few moments of frantic scratching and peeling, the majority of it was scraped off, leaving Nathaniel with an empty space just large enough to begin his work.

He yanked a piece of yellowing parchment from the drawer beneath, drew a new quill, and dipped its sharp point into the various inkpots until he found one that still contained some ink.

The nib scratched at an incredible rate as Nathaniel began to scribble and scrawl like a person possessed, racking his brain for ideas to spur on his plan of revenge. He wrote down the names of his victims, pressing down too hard and breaking the nib of his quill. He threw it away with a curse and drew another, and resumed scratching on the piece of parchment.

Hundreds of ideas and schemes formulated in his head, swimming round like fish in a pond as he struggled to make anything of them. They were all too small, too difficult, too elaborate or too time-consuming. This wasn’t just like any prank he’d pulled; it was a full-scale operation to claim his vengeance – it needed planning, it needed preparing and exact calculations. Nathaniel wasn’t going to leave anything to chance; he wanted to humiliate the rest of the school just as they did him, even if it meant breaking every rule in the University.

Nathaniel worked well into the afternoon, until sunset arrived and the sun’s light was reduced to a thin strip of deep yellow that could be seen disappearing under the horizon. He ignored the other student’s calls and condolences, not opening his door for anyone at all, consumed entirely by his desire for revenge. He stopped for nothing, not even to eat or drink, his fingers blistering from writing so with such intense rigour.

Time ticked by, and the sky turned a rich, soft magenta, a gentle pink shade amidst swirls of golden-tinged clouds and orange hazes, the first pinprick shimmers of the closest stars beginning to twinkle amidst the mellow backdrop of merging colours. Nathaniel barely noticed the stunningly beautiful sunset outside his window as he wrote, his notes extended to three or more pages now, as his ideas became increasingly desperate and far-fetched. He’d even gone as far as to thinking up punishment for the Raven by placing poisoned food around the Arcane University.

However, by the time the sun had completely disappeared from the sky and darkness began to creep in across Cyrodiil, his inkpots nearly empty and five of his quills snapped, Nathaniel had well and truly decided upon his course of action. He had a location, a system and a time sorted out, arranging everything in perfect precision, planning everything down to the last detail. Nothing could go wrong; all he had to do was wait.

In two days time, when the graduation ceremony was scheduled to be held in the great hall and apprentices and professors alike would gather under its grand roof for a momentous, glorious celebration, Nathaniel would be there.

In two days time, Nathaniel would take his revenge.

Good update, I like the extra time you're taking in the build up, it makes it all more convincing. And I'm most interested to see what he does next.

Commentwase not much really, some slightly odd word choices threw me a bit, 'region' was a prime example of this though there were a few others.

Good stuff on ending with the cliffy, but I would like to know more...

Hellooo people, I'm back and well which means I can start writing again .

Thanks for your comments Olen, I'm glad you enjoyed it - I'll check up on those odd words that you mentioned.

*breathes in* Feels good to be home...

Aha, you're back.

*Rubs hands together*

Eeexcelent...

Can't wait for an update...

I am in concurance.

Hehe, guess I need to start writing more then. Here's a fresh batch cookies posts for you guys

Chapter VII: The Gloomy Corridor

It was almost noon by the time Nathaniel woke next morning; his dreams had been twisted and extensive, like a labyrinth of nightmares, making his much-needed night of sleep one of agitation and feverish hallucinations. He roused from his restless slumber in a cold sweat, but when he tried to recall what had plagued his mind only moments before he found he had no recollection of the events whatsoever.

Deciding to forget about his mystery dream, Nathaniel yawned and turned his attention to the pile of scrolls that lay on his ink-splattered desk. Yellowing pages and crumpled pieces of parchment cloaked the table like a make-shift cover of paper, and Nathaniel knew that somewhere amongst the heap of scrolls was his plan, his ultimate scheme for revenge. He had no need to retrieve it. It was all in his head, committed to memory, it was impossible for Nathaniel to forget.

He had roughly 48 hours to prepare before the celebratory banquet was hosted in the Great Hall, and Nathaniel’s just revenge would be exacted. The mere thought of it made Nathaniel’s mouth go dry with anticipation – he couldn’t wait to see their faces, Arch-Mage Greymane’s, Miss Harpfeather’s, all the other students who had wronged him. It was their turn to be humiliated. Nathaniel would show them that he didn’t need to pass some stupid test to be a great mage.

Revenge is sweet, Nathaniel mused.

Two days was all he had to get ready for the momentous day, but Nathaniel knew that was more than enough time to prepare. His plan was relatively simple and needed few items, most of which he already had in possession, one of the reasons why he had chosen this scheme over the countless others. During the forthcoming days Nathaniel could find out as much information as he could on his required topics, namely the patrolling routes of dormitory wardens and other, more important research.

In the meantime however, Nathaniel had to act like the perfect student at the University. He went around school as if nothing had happened, even when other pupils questioned him about his welfare or, even worse, threw cruel jibes his way about his failure and embarrassment. Inside, Nathaniel noted each person individually, knowing that after his scheme succeeded, they wouldn’t be laughing then. He would have the last laugh.

The hours went by in this routine without falter, whilst the other students were relaxing after their exams, Nathaniel would sit in a secluded area, silently watching from the shadows. He ate breakfast, lunch and supper in silence at the dinner tables, making sure he finished his food quicker than the rest so he could go and explore the routes of the university, planning his every step and movement in preparation for the big day. In the slow evenings he would sit idly in the armchair beside the hearth fire and read quietly, his stories filled with episodes of rival magicians upholding their pride and exacting swift justice on those who had wronged them.

He would be one of them mages, Nathaniel adamantly vowed. He had tried his hardest to pass the exam, despite the Arch-Mage’s and the other students interventions. To fall at the last hurdle because of some stupid bird was disheartening, but to be still called a failure despite his efforts by the other students and even his teachers was the final straw for Nathaniel.

Nathaniel’s mask of contrition and acceptance never slipped, and before he knew it, the two days passed with surprising swiftness, and the great banquet was imminent…



It was late evening in the dormitories, the day before the banquet. A crescent moon provided a wan source of light for the dining students, sitting round a rectangular wooden table centred at the back of the dormitory common room. The pallid silver light of the moon contrasted with the waxy yellow glow of the candles, painting half the students with a golden trim and the other with a luminous, whitish outline.

Nathaniel sat at one corner of the long table, stabbing absent-mindedly at a piece of lettuce with his pewter fork, separated from the commotion that took place in the centre of the table over the steaming arrangement of various meats and fruits. Students were whispering excitedly about the forthcoming celebration, discussing what they would wear and what food they would eat tomorrow at the banquet. The table rocked as occasional jokes were made and the students shook with laughter, clearly still in high spirits after passing their exams. In all the fuss and noise, nobody had noticed that Nathaniel had barely touched his generously-piled plate of food.

He was way too nervous to eat.

Before long, dinner had finished, and Nathaniel scraped his plate into the fire without anyone noticing. He climbed the stairs to his bedroom in silence after the other students had paraded up to theirs, cheering all the while in anticipation for the day tomorrow. Nathaniel too, was anticipating what tomorrow would bring with great anxiety, but a whole different kind of eagerness shook him with an excited fear that he drank up like a well.

His room had been cleared hours before the night of the clutter and mess, Nathaniel didn’t want to risk causing any noise or clamour in the dead of night when he was sneaking about. His eyes weary and craving sleep, Nathaniel pushed away his yearnings for rest, knowing that he couldn’t afford to sleep through this night.

Climbing into bed, he waited for a good ten minutes for the sound of the fire-lit sconces outside being snuffed out by the wardens, and then for their footsteps to die away as they paced the corridors, ushering any students that were still out back into bed. Confident that all was well and going to plan, he felt the apprehension of his night of revenge run through him like an electric thrill.

This was it. The night that he had been plotting for two days. This was the night when Nathaniel proved to Arch-Mage Greymane, Miss Harpfeather, the rest of the school – and most importantly, too himself, that he did in fact belong here in the University.

Dreaming of that so-near achievement, he turned to his oval window, seeking to occupy himself with intricate patterns that the sparkling stars wrought against the inky midnight sky.

All he had to do was wait.



Distantly, Nathaniel heard the bells of the Imperial Temple toll in harmony as the time struck midnight, and within an instant he snapped out of his somnolent stupor, immediately aware of his surroundings. His room was lit only by the silvery light of the moon, which glistened outside his window closer than ever, a curving sickle that shone against the ebon backdrop.

He carefully rolled his bedsheets off himself in the darkness, and then groped blindly for his shoes that he’d set beside his bed beforehand. He felt his hand brush against something leathery, and without a sound he slipped his linen shoes on, the laces already taken out so he didn’t have to endure the tiresome struggle of fitting his feet in.

Glancing to his thin, clicking horologe clock that stood on his desk to verify the time, Nathaniel silently slipped off the bed and crept across his room to the door, placing the balls of his feet before the heels so they wouldn’t clack on the tiled floor.

Sweat beaded on his forehead despite the night-time chill, and drying his palms on his linens, he grasped the brass doorknob and turned it, ever so slightly, comforted by its cooling metal touch. He winced as the mechanism clacked, but then pushed the door ajar about an inch forward. With a wary eye, he peered down the corridor through the slight gap, expecting at any moment for a warden to appear and reprimand him.

Fortunately however, the corridor was completely empty, strangely bare in comparison to the daytime where it was normally bustling with students. The majority of the lamps that ran the length of the passageway were snuffed out, though a few of the bracts were still lit and spread waxen, sallow light through the darkness to see by. Satisfied that the coast was clear and he was free to move, Nathaniel opened his door with a soft creak and left his room, shutting it behind him with the slightest of clicks.

His footsteps made small, muffled rustles on the floor as he sneaked down the corridor, carefully to avoid the light of lamps and sticking to the relative concealment of the veiling shadows.

His skin tingled and buzzed with a sort of fearful exhilaration. Nathaniel found it was a sort of thrilling, heart-pounding fear that he thirsted for, the excitement and apprehension almost too much to bear. It jolted through his veins and made his spine shiver.

He forced himself to concentrate. Nathaniel hadn’t come this far to fail for a second time.

Silently he made his way across the corridor floor, having never before noticed how damnably long it was. He wished quietly for it to end and to reach his destination, and seconds later he realised he was nearing his target.

Palms slippery with sweat, he pressed on, now concerned to looking at each door he crossed in the corridor walls to glance at the name inscribed on a bronze plaque set into the wood, searching for a specific room.

Just five metres short of the end of the extensive corridor, Nathaniel stopped, having finally reached the correct room. The sign on the door, barely legible, read ‘Damyond Modroggle’. It was the Redguard associate that Nathaniel had talked with in the common room only a few days before about the new Arch-Mage's arrival. Nathaniel knew scarcely anything of him, although rumour had it that he aced his alchemy exam with the best grades in the school, such was his skill in potion-brewing. It was that talent that Nathaniel sought to exploit from Damyond Modroggle tonight.

Nathaniel did one last sweep of the dark, shadow-wreathed corridor around him to check if there was anything amiss – and froze.

Almost right behind him, hidden from glancing eyes in the corridor’s gloominess, a warden sat in a small chair against the wall, his face unreadable...

*gasp* You can't leave us with this cliffie! You must update it! Please?

No other comment other than that was pretty suspenseful. Keep up the good work!

Ok then seerauna, I won't leave you waiting much longer .

Okay, the next part will be up tomorrow I promise, but in the meantime, I've got an exam to prepare for .

Okay then, here it is, the last part is unedited, so as always crit is welcome:

Chapter VIII: A Narrow Escape

Nathaniel was paralyzed to the spot, every muscle rigid, abject fear jolting through his veins as his mind raced and his heart pounded against his ribs, so loud he almost raised a hand to stop it beating lest it cause anymore noise. The gloom-veiled corridor was eerily silent, permeated only by the regulated, timid breath of Nathaniel, quickening with each second.

He stared wide-eyed at the motionless figure of the Warden, his features obscured by the concealing shadow, drab and undistinguished like cold stone amidst the darkness.

Had the Warden seen him? What would he do if he had? Questions raced through Nathaniel’s mind. If the Warden had indeed seen Nathaniel he gave no sign of acknowledging him.

Maybe he was just watching, waiting until Nathaniel acted, at which point he would spring from the gloominess and capture him. The prospect sent a stab of fear into Nathaniel’s chest.

Nathaniel was at disbelief as to how he had missed him, so engrossed in finding the right door he must have completely overlooked the warden, sitting statuesquely in the dark corner, shrouded in shadow.

Consciously, he cursed himself for his lack of concentration.

The warden still hadn’t moved. A flicker of denial – and hope – crossed Nathaniel’s mind. Perhaps, just like the warden, Nathaniel too was cloaked in the all-consuming shadow of the corridor and thus the reason why they had not spotted each other as of yet.

Jolts of adrenaline rushed through Nathaniel, leaving an electrifying tingle his skin. It was a sort of exhilarating, thrilling fear that he found himself craving despite the danger of his situation. Nathaniel realised all too fast that the success of his mission was on a knife-edge.

Silently, breath caught in his lungs, Nathaniel leant forward towards the Warden, into the small patch of light that occupied the middle-ground of the passageway.

A quiet, whispery rasp emitted from the Warden’s direction, like an intake of air being breathed in and out – so faint it was barely audible – punctuated every moment or so by a soft ululation of air.

Snoring. The warden was asleep!

Relief washed over Nathaniel like a bucket of icy water, though the adrenaline in his blood didn’t fade as easily, leaving him practically shuddering with excitement. He was safe!

Nathaniel knew that if he had set out but a moment earlier, the warden could have been awake and he would have been captured before he even left his room. The realisation of how much influence luck and chance had over things frightened Nathaniel to the very core.

Waving a wary hand under the Warden’s nose to check that the he wasn’t just feigning sleep as a clever ruse, Nathaniel sighed with a certain measure of relaxation. Satisfied that the coast was at last clear again, he returned his attention to his original goal, the door to the room of Damyond Modroggle.

Placing a wary hand on the cool brass doorknob for support, Nathaniel put his ear to the ingrained surface of the door in an attempt to discern the lock’s difficulty.

He was about to test the lock but yelped as suddenly the tension in the handle slacked and he felt it twisting beneath the weight of his hand, and too late, he realised to his folly that the door wasn’t locked at all. The side of his face still pressed to the surface, the door swung violently into the room on its own accord, dragging Nathaniel with it.

By some otherworldly miracle he’d managed to keep his hand firmly on the door handle as it had burst inwards, preventing him from falling onto the floor and creating any unwanted noise. Grunting quietly with effort, he hauled his legs up to a more comfortable couching position, quite impressed with himself for his little stunt.

He almost let out a nervous laugh at his own misfortune, but composed himself quickly and stopped himself. The Warden was still outside, and could wake up at any moment. He couldn’t afford to go by on luck alone; Nathaniel knew that more than anyone.

He closed the door silently on the sleeping warden and the gloomy corridor, and what little of the waxen, shallow light that spilled in through the gap diminished into shadow, leaving the only source of light for Nathaniel to go by a single tallow candle flickering in the darkness by Damyond’s window.

Taking a cautious step forward, Nathaniel finally had chance to examine the spacious interior of the Redguard associate’s room.

It was true what the other students had said, it seemed Damyond was truly and utterly devoted to alchemy. There was not an inch in his room that wasn’t occupied by some kind of alchemical equipment. Peculiar phials, tubes and flasks filled every flat space available in the room along with a myriad of oblong-looking glass containers, the colourful, viscous liquids inside reflecting the wan moonlight and the sallow glow of the candle, glimmering like a thousand coins in the darkness.

Nathaniel wondered how he was ever going to find the right potion amongst all those; it would take him hours to sift through each and every bottle. With some apprehension of his task to come, He took another step into the dark room, admiring the rows upon rows of potion bottles while they twinkled like a backdrop of stars in the silvery moonlight, as if there were no walls at all and they were in the open-air under a night-sky.

Regaining focus, Nathaniel glanced down, and noted with a small measure of contentment that it wasn’t only his room that was cluttered and disorganised. Various paraphernalia littered Damyond’s floor in careless abandon, mortars and pestles and retorts, strange calcinators and curved alembics, and many more twisted, bizarre tools that Nathaniel knew would have names he wouldn’t be able to pronounce properly.

All sorts of different ingredients lay in dusty casks around the floor, and Nathaniel tread with a wary step around them, making sure not to disturb anything. Even on the bed, where Damyond slept in peace, snoring gently, there lay discarded and crumpled pieces of paper, recipes and notes and lists of ingredients.

Nathaniel crept forward silently, as above him in the various alcoves of the shelves, the potion bottles still glimmered and pulled at his eyes with a rapturous delight.

Cautious talking and skirting persuasion with Damyond Modroggle the day beforehand had revealed that the Redguard kept his best, most potent potions in the wooden cabinet by his bedside table, so Nathaniel decided to start his search there. With a careful eye on the floor, he made a pathway to the bed, towards the slightly askew cupboard beside it, all the time watching the sleeping Damyond as well as feet.

After a few tentative steps Nathaniel had reached the cabinet, only having to stop once to allow Damyond to snort, lie still for a suspenseful, heart-stopping moment, then to Nathaniel’s relief shift to a more comfortable position and settle into sleep once more. After Nathaniel had checked that there was indeed no chance of Damyond waking, he proceeded in his attempts to open the worn cabinet. To his surprise he found it again unlocked, though its rusted hinges and badly-fitted door meant it took Nathaniel a good few heaves to get it to open.

To Nathaniel’s annoyance the age-old hinges squeaked noisily as the brittle wooden door flung open, and he took a quick glance at the slumbering Damyond to ensure he hadn’t been disturbed. Luckily, the noise hadn’t seemed to waken him from his calm sleep, so Nathaniel relaxed, returning his attention to what lay inside of the cabinet. It contained only two shelves, each packed with at least a dozen potions each, of varying size, colour and shape. Ragged, shorn pieces of parchment had been attached to the surfaces to serve as labels, some in ominous, capital lettering, others in minute, secretive notes barely visible.

The candle flickered by the window, its yellow glow merging almost invisibly with the silver light of the moon as Nathaniel began to search for the right concoction, replacing each potion with exacting care in its previous position as to not arouse suspicion. Every moment or so he drew his hands out of the dark interior of the cabinet, wiping off the sweat that had accumulated on his palms before resuming his search with renewed vigour. Several tense seconds passed by before Nathaniel’s hand closed around the last bottle, no taller than his finger and no wider than his fist. He withdrew it with care, wincing at the clinking sound as it made contact with the other phials within the cabinet.

Judging by the weight, the bottle was full, and Nathaniel could feel the liquid sloshing around behind the glass in his hands. Hoping fervently that this was the potion he’d came for, he turned its label towards the faded moonlight that filtered through the window, where – scrawled hastily in thin ink – it read ‘Potion of Chameleon’.

Inwardly, Nathaniel grinned with satisfaction. His efforts and narrow escape had paid off, he had what he’d came fore, and now he was one step closer to gaining his revenge. Nathaniel only needed one more item…



Pocketing the small bottle of invisibility potion, Nathaniel realised he could waste no more time skulking around in the dormitories. He whispered a short and polite thank you to the peacefully sleeping Damyond for his services, closing the cupboard door and exiting the room without another sound, leaving not a thing out of place. The room was identical to as it was when Nathaniel had first entered, minus the missing potion from Damyond’s bedside cupboard.

Outside in the sparsely lit corridor, the warden still slumbered quietly in the shadows, oblivious as a young mage apprentice stole away right under his nose down the passageway, suppressing a mischievous grin all the while. The unknowing warden would never know he’d even been there, the only trace of his existence the rapidly diminishing whispers of his footsteps on the floor as Nathaniel sped away, heading for the common room.

Skulking amongst the darkness, Nathaniel descended the curved staircase to the living room at a wary pace, taking great care to avoid those steps that creaked or groaned when you stepped on them, having already made note of them during his secretive researching only days before.

He took the last steps two at a time, not daring to risk moving on the floorboards which were so warped and bent from overuse even the slightest of touches would make them moan loudly in protest. Using the spiralling banister, he swung himself down onto the rug with a deft leap, landing in complete silence, the fall of his jump muffled by the carpet’s fur skin.

A warden sat, completely oblivious to Nathaniel’s presence, by the still-crackling hearth fire that glowed warmly across the lounge, shading the midnight darkness of the room in a golden tinge. The flames had long since died out, leaving only the smouldering coals to burn and hot and spitting in the inglenook’s frame, glowing balefully like angry, red eyes.

Not wasting any time, Nathaniel crept underneath the shadow of the armchair’s towering backrest where the Warden reclined languidly, using the crackles and hisses of the waning fire to hide the sound of his movements. He could see what he needed on a small, rounded table, directly beside the bulky armrest of the huge sofa, where the greying sleeve of the Warden’s robe spilled over them like an ashen waterfall.

As he edged ever closer, the Warden’s gnarled fingers – wrinkled and somewhat shrivelled by the overexertion of spellcasting for many a year – came into view, tapping lazily on the lip of the armrest like some contented spider. Nathaniel’s heart-rate suddenly increased tenfold.

Nathaniel reached out with a tentative hand, holding his breath and wishing dearly for the luck that had been with him so far during this eventful evening to hold out for just a few more seconds. His hand was inches away from the Warden’s arm, but Nathaniel continued onward, placing his confidence that as long as the Warden’s eyes were fixed by the fire his intrusion would go unnoticed.

Almost directly under the Warden’s nose, Nathaniel reached towards the circular wooden table, silently plucking a dull brass key from its surface. He withdrew the weighty item with a quick motion of his arm, glad to be safe and unnoticed – until he knocked the edge of the table with his enclosed hand.

It clunked immediately, rocking to and forth on the floor beside the armchair on its three wooden legs. Nathaniel thought to fire out a steadying hand to stop its motion, but thought better of it. The warden had already noticed, his eyes immediately averting the rocking table at his side.

His heart hammering against his chest, Nathaniel curled up against the backrest of the armchair, trying to make himself as small and as unnoticeable as possible. He clutched the key in his hands with all his might, feeling its blunted blade edge dig into the skin of his palm in contrast to the smoothness of ring-shaped bow. For a few, stomach-quailing seconds, Nathaniel shut his eyes, waiting for something, anything to happen.

Nathaniel dared to open one eyelid, letting a small slit of vision appear in his focus, a rift of light in the blackness. He heard the chair creaking audibly as the Warden stood up, and a grey hook-nosed face suddenly peered over the lip of the chair, with sunken eyes redder than the coals in the fireplace. Nathaniel shrank even more into its darkness. One, quick glance down and it would all be over.

However, fortune seemed to smile upon Nathaniel; the Warden’s focus seemed intent on the staircase rather than anywhere else. Nathaniel watched the calculating eyes of the Dark Elf do a sweep of the room, before he muttered something in a harsh tongue, finally settling back into his armchair. He hadn’t seemed to notice at all that the one key to the dormitories had gone missing, right under his very nose.

Nathaniel relaxed his cramped muscles, suppressing a sigh of relief. Once again, he’d escaped by the skin of his teeth. It seemed luck was with him this night no matter what he did, however, he wasn’t about to stay any longer to test that theory.

Key in hand, he made his way noiselessly towards the front door, inserting it into the lock with a precise movement. Without a sound, Nathaniel turned the bow, feeling it click as the door opened, and soon he was outside under the crisp, midnight sky, the stars winking like tiny pinpricks of silver paint amidst the blue-black darkness as he made way for the towering building of the Mystic Archives…

Good couple of updates, his revenge is certainly a good hook, I want to know what he's planning which draws the reader into the story.

A couple of rough bits of writing there though,

Nathaniel realised he could waste no more time dallying around in the dormitories - this jarred because he hadn't really been dallying

After a few tentative steps Nathaniel had reached the cabinet in no time - something went wrong there.

Good update, I'm interested to see where this goes.

Thanks Olen, I'm glad you enjoyed it. I agree with you wholeheartedly on those two things, I'll go change em' straight away.

Okay, sorry about the wait guys, exams and crap have occupied my last week so the next update should be up soon .

I'm sorry about the wait guys, with all the end-of-term turmoil I suffered a temporary lapse in interest. You'll be pleased to hear it's back though. Here's the next part:

Chapter IX: The Corkscrew Staircase

Silvery moonlight danced amongst the paved promenade, lustrous and glittering as Nathaniel slinked through the University walkways. It panned off the drab grey stone and bejewelled the cobbles underneath until they appeared more like unhewn diamonds than coarse, worn rock. The midnight air was calm and still, cooling on Nathaniel’s sweat-misted forehead as he traversed the courtyards, sticking to the edges of the pathways and using what little scrub and shrubbery that presided in the dark garden alleyways to conceal himself.

Everything was eerily silent under the ebon skies; no noise disturbed the tranquil serenity of the University grounds except the soft murmur of Nathaniel’s own footsteps, padding gently through the undergrowth, his over-gown trailing behind him. He had twice thought about taking the unruly garment off, but decided against it after realising he neither had the time or patience to find a suitable place to hide it where he could find it again.

He moved noiselessly but at a swift pace across the promenade, avoiding the revealing yellow glows of any sconces hung upon the building walls and using the shadow to cover his movement. The claustrophobic fear that had possessed him inside the dormitories to look round every corner and passage had lessened now he was outside in the open, not constricted to the cramp confines of the corridors. The danger of being caught had pretty much passed over, he’d escaped from the two Wardens inside – albeit narrowly, but as far as Nathaniel was concerned the hard bit was over. However, he still kept a wary eye ahead of him just in case.

A faint musical clangour of ringing bells suddenly sounded across the University, permeating the midnight silence. It had been roughly one hour since he had woke up in his bedroom and set his plan for revenge into motion, Nathaniel speculated. He was making good progress. All that was left now was to get the last, final ingredient, and the plan would be set. It was so close now he could almost taste it.

The tolling of the bells soon faded away into quietness as Nathaniel continued to slink in the shadows of the night, the Mystic Archives, his destination, nearing with every passing second. He was about to round the final corner when all of a sudden, a new sound began to echo across the promenade. At first Nathaniel took it for the ringing bells again, but discarded the notion as he realised all too quickly that they only sounded every hour, and it was way too soon for them to be tolling again.

What in Zenithar’s name could be in the University at this hour? Nathaniel hissed under his breath. All the Wardens should be inside by now.

He quickly receded further into the relative darkness of the bushes, seeking to lose himself in the knotted leaves and branches of the vegetation, all the while listening to the noise as it steadily got nearer and nearer. It wasn’t long before the sound was more distinct, and Nathaniel could discern what it was. They were footsteps – but not the soft whisper of shoes on the ground, they were much heavier, a clinking and clanging sound like metal upon metal or steel striking stone.

Those weren’t the footsteps of normal Wardens. They were armoured.

Nathaniel gulped, feeling the trepidation blossom in the pit of his stomach as he reached forward and pried open a small viewing hole in the mess of twigs and brambles that served as his camouflage, eyeing the promenade with growing apprehension.

The noise drew ever nearer, soon followed by a pair of fully-armoured Imperial Battlemages rounding the corner and coming into view. They were resplendent in silver-steel plate armour, carapace-like cuirasses polished to a glimmering sheen that, even in the midnight darkness, shimmered like mirrors in the luminous moonlight. Long, blue-coloured hoods concealed their faces, while each carried a huge, menacing sword sheathed at their hip; the blade almost as long as Nathaniel was tall.

They patrolled the courtyards in grim silence, hooked steel-capped boots clattering on the cobblestones and playing out a staccato rhythm as they marched in unison, hands firmly grasping the wire-wrapped hilt of their weapons as if ready for any action.

What by Greymane's whiskers were they doing here, in the University? Nathaniel wondered, somewhat bemused. He hadn’t even expected a single warden to be out patrolling the grounds at this hour, let alone two, armed Battlemages. It looked like he’d certainly picked the right night to exact his revenge, Nathaniel joked ruefully.

The pair of Battlemages passed Nathaniel in seconds, oblivious to his presence, their noisome march fading to a distant echo that disturbed the silence of the night as they continued their patrol.

Nathaniel took a few, hesitant moments until they were out of sight, and checked the coast was clear again before setting off and resuming his surreptitious journey across the courtyards, fervently hoping that they weren’t any more Battlemages up ahead. Sneaking past the two wardens in the dorms was hard enough; he had no wish to go through the whole terrifying ordeal again.

Constantly on the path at all times, Nathaniel kept to the edge of the cobblestone promenade where the shadows were deepest and darkest whenever he could to avoid any chances of being seen. He was as stealthy as an assassin in the night, using the shrouding darkness as hidden passageways to his target.

So concentrated on staying invisible and unseen, Nathaniel failed to realise how quickly he had covered the distance, and in surprise, soon found himself standing in the shadow of a huge, foreboding building, at least four storeys tall and a testament to the might of Imperial Architecture. Its sheer, intimidating face was wrought in cold grey stone, painted with the silver hue of the moonlight, where illuminated by a single flaming lamp hung above a solid, iron-banded door there read – in clear black paint: ‘The Mystic Archives.’

Without hesitation, Nathaniel grasped the iron-cold handle of the door before any further doubt could cloud his mind and swung it inwards, slipping into the gloomy shadows within that were more than willing to embrace him in their veiling depths …



Having entered the Mystic Archives, Nathaniel found himself in peculiar-looking room filled with all-sorts of strange furniture and amenities. It appeared to be a long, rectangular shaped room, made cramped and small due to the furnishings arranged inside it. Tall, lengthy bookshelves lined the two walls like fortress barricades, crammed with different books of varying size, colour and language, each tome thicker and older than the last. Fixed in the far corner of the room was a semi-circular desk, sat alongside an assortment of various-shaped cabinets, cupboards and drawers, tall and short, that Nathaniel presumed were full to the brim with even more books. A spiral staircase, wrought in grim iron, spun round a stone pillar in the other corner of the room and disappeared above into the ceiling and an unknown darkness, like a stairway into the abyss. By the desk and littered on the floor piles of scrolls wafted gently in the breeze, lisping quietly in time with each breath of wind, their surfaces scribed with symbols and letters that Nathaniel had no hope of comprehending.

The room was eerily dark and the air strangely chill – suffused with a heavy, musty scent of age-old parchment and melted tallow. Expecting to be back inside the relative warmth of a heated room after traversing the Universities courtyards under the breezy midnight skies, Nathaniel was surprised to suddenly find himself in a deathly, bitter cold. The Mystic Archives’ walls apparently provided no protection at all from the night time chill and to Nathaniel, it seemed the temperature hadn’t changed at all; in fact it felt like he had become even colder since he’d entered the murky room.

How that was possible he didn’t know, but Nathaniel continued regardless, rubbing his arms under his sleeves and pleased with himself for having the foresight to bring his over-gown out with him. Suppressing a shudder, he walked through the unnervingly quiet library room, examining the hall from head to toe with wary, observant eyes.

Mirroring the tomb-like silence that choked the room around him, Nathaniel too was as quiet as a mouse as he walked, not wanting to disturb the unbroken stillness of his surroundings. He made his way noiselessly across the freezing stone floor, pulling on the collar of his gown to wrap it closer around his shivering body, whilst above him; the stuffed heads of different woodland animals hung upon wooden braces stared at him intently with blank, glassy eyes. Stags and boars and even wolves watched him in silence as he crossed the room, appearing strangely animate and aware despite their motionless state. Frightened, Nathaniel was quickly forced to avert his gaze somewhere else before an uneasy feeling of discomfort made his stomach quail.

Once he reached the rear of room Nathaniel noticed that there were three huge arches cut out of the grey stone of the back wall, that moments before he had thought to have been just windows. The three archways were big enough to be doors, and let a gentle breeze waft through the open niches and into the room, explaining why it was so cold in the Archives. Through the vista that was framed in the hollow Nathaniel could discern the stars against the midnight sky outside, sparkling like dewdrops upon black glass.

Casting a quick glance down, Nathaniel precariously reached over the large, curved desk beneath him, careful not to disturb the pile of manuscripts and empty inkpots scattered upon its smooth wooden surface. Breathing in to stretch his arm out to the longest possible distance, Nathaniel then plucked a small candle from the sill of the archway, and putting a hand to its tiny, flickering flame to protect it from the breeze, returned to the tall, imposing bookcases to begin his exploration.

Checking that nobody was around in the dark, gloomy room of the Mystic Archives, he began scanning the surface of the ceiling-high bookshelves, running a finger along the spines of the tomes as he read off the titles in the dim report of the candle, searching for his desired item in the weak yellow light it provided. He worked his away along the many rows and columns of books as quick as his eyes would allow him, stretching on his tip-toes as he inspected the uppermost rows and bending over double like a withered old man to check those on the bottom.

Despite his concentrated demeanour while he hunted, he found himself thinking hard about what he was about to do and whether it was worth it or not. If he got caught, he couldn’t begin to imagine what kind of punishment could be inflicted on him. Whenever he felt his resolve fail or his focus wane however, he only had to think of the harsh words of Miss Harpfeather and the leering face of Arch-Mage Greymane, and his resolve would return with renewed vigour.

Determined as he was, several minutes of frantic searching had passed but with no such success. Before long he had completely scoured the first wall of books, and it became annoyingly apparent to Nathaniel that whatever he wanted was not going to be on the first floor of the Mystic Archives. All the books and scrolls here provided no use to him whatsoever, what he needed was obviously more valuable to be put in the bookcases on the ground floor. He accepted the naked truth of the fact though; he wouldn’t have needed to steal Damyond’s chameleon potion if he thought it was going to be that easy.

It’s never that easy, Nathaniel mused ruefully, chuckling to himself before retaining his indomitable grimace.

To get the last component, the final item Nathaniel needed on his treacherous quest for revenge; he would have to go where no other student had ever gone.

Up the twisting, spiralling iron staircase, past the locked door and into the chamber where the Mystic Archives kept their most precious and important documents, barred to all but the curator and the most trusted scions of the University. Not even some of the teachers were permitted to set foot there; such was the significance of its purpose.

The highest, very topmost level of the building. The Restricted Library.

Nathaniel gulped as he accepted this ominous realisation. It was by far the most difficult part of his plan, mainly because unlike the corridor and the dormitories, Nathaniel had no clue what was up there on the secretive top floor, except strong warnings from the professors about what would happen if a pupil was caught up there. It was completely unknown what was kept on the highest level of the Archives, except that it contained the most valuable – and dangerous – items in the entire University. For all Nathaniel knew, there could be magical wards and all sorts of traps to deter unwanted thieves and invaders, let alone an associate student who was not even an apprentice yet, and could barely cast any spells above a novice level.

Nathaniel realised with a great degree of fear that when he broke into the Restricted Library, it was the point where he turned from just a revenge-fuelled student prankster into a true, genuine criminal.
There’s so many things that could go wrong, so many things that are uncertain, Nathaniel thought, and shook his head. It was a dangerous all right, there was no doubting that, but the question was whether Nathaniel would have the courage to do it.

Did he really want revenge that badly?

Heart beating loudly, Nathaniel set down the flickering candle back on the desk, where the flame wavered for a moment before diminishing. He walked over to the winding, iron staircase and placed a hand onto its thin rail. The metal was so cold it immediately sapped all the warmth from his bones. Cautiously, he peered upwards, blood hot in his ears and his heart pounding.

He could see nothing, only the warped ironwork of the stairs disappearing into the thin darkness above, consumed by a maw of shadow. Nathaniel gulped. Whatever was up there on the top floor, he would have to meet it head on.

Here goes. Nathaniel whispered to himself, setting a foot on the first rung of the staircase. The cold iron clanged loudly as he did so, echoing around the room and up the stairway. He waited for the clamour to die down before climbing the twisting flight of steps in the darkness, using the curved railing as a guide as he made his way to the awaiting chamber of the Restricted Library…

It has been edited .

I remain fascinated to discover what this plot for revenge is, and whether it will be successful. It's a good update, I sense the Battlemages may be more relivant than Nathaniel knows...

their noisome march fading - did you mean noisome? http://dictionary.reference.com/browse/noisome you might have, but it's a fairly odd use of the word (not that I have anything against odd uses of words).