A Skeleton's Guide to Mundus

[SaintJibblies]

Okay, I do get that, I understand CHIM, The God Head, mantling Gods, Pelinal Whitestrake being a time traveling War Fractal cyborg from the future and avatar of Shor, the fact that the Eye of Magnus is actually a robot, and Michael Kirkbride's use of LSD when designing lore.

My big question is, how would using English cause these things to happen? I understand the idea, I just don't see how the English Language would cause so much chaos. Sure its a fucked up mess of a language, that beats up other languages, and rifles through their pockets for spare vocabulary. But why would it start altering reality, as opposed to being just a new way of reading words or potentially speaking (If they aren't already speaking it)?

Is it because our Protagonist is some kind of Godlike being, and they would start mantling him?

Click to shrink...

It's mostly the whole "Belief = Power" thing that's sometimes shown in TES, people see the MC writing in English about magic, he mentions it's probably beyond their understanding, he tries explaining it, it goes over their heads, they believe it to be a higher form of literatural architecture and then things snowball until English is basically used by really top tier mages to wreak havoc which further solidifies the fact that English is the language of higher beings.

I have this whole arc planned out about it.

 

[Fire_Fox]

It's mostly the whole "Belief = Power" thing that's sometimes shown in TES, people see the MC writing in English about magic, he mentions it's probably beyond their understanding, he tries explaining it, it goes over their heads, they believe it to be a higher form of literatural architecture and then things snowball until English is basically used by really top tier mages to wreak havoc which further solidifies the fact that English is the language of higher beings.

I have this whole arc planned out about it.

Click to shrink...

Wow that sounds amazing and I totally believe it. Sheogorath is going to be having a BALL. And Hermaeus Mora is going to have a fucking aneurism.

 

[SaintJibblies]

AUTHOR'S NOTE!!!!: I wanted feel good stuff, I got some feel good stuff, yay! As always, comments are greatly appreciated, let me know if you spot any mistakes and all that jazz.

I'd barely gotten used to not being stared at like a cursed relic when the day took a turn.


"Today," Mirabelle had said, loud enough for the hallway to hear, "you'll be attending a guest lecture on basic alchemical principles. You're overdue, this is Ervok Shadebrew visiting us from Evermore for the remainder of the year to hopefully get you all up to speed on Alchemy."


I almost said I don't have a stomach, but decided against it.


The classroom didn't smell like death. It smelled worse—like someone had tried to bottle the concept of fermentation and accidentally summoned a Daedra instead. Every surface was cluttered. Pots, vials, dried fungi, a mortar made from what looked suspiciously like a human skull.


And in the center of it all stood the guest lecturer: Ervok Shadebrew, a Breton alchemist who looked like someone had tried to pickle a wizard and left the jar open. Wild grey beard, crooked spectacles, a mass of fabrics that could be called something between a scarf and a robe along with a red-stained apron that hadn't seen a wash since the Oblivion Crisis.


"Welcome, students!" he chirped, voice far too enthusiastic for someone elbow-deep in troll fat. "Today, we shall explore the sacred union of matter and madness!"


He paused when he saw me. Eyes narrowed.


"Ah. You must be the... unusual one."


I gave him a dry thumbs-up with a clattering of phalanges.


"Excellent. You'll make a perfect test subject—I mean, assistant."

SYSTEM NOTIFICATION

You are now attending: Alchemy: Introduction to Organic Transmutation


Instructor: [Ervok Shadebrew, Certified Alchemical Lunatic]
Difficulty: Moderate
Risk of Accidental Explosion: 71%


[Skill Check Available: Alchemy – Untrained]
✴ Opportunity to learn a new discipline detected.
✴ Caution: Skeletal physiology may cause unpredictable reactions.

Click to shrink...

"Your humble assistant, here to...assist you." I said, executing a dramatic, rattly bow, arms wide like a stage actor who had just finished a monologue about rotting leeks.


A few students snickered. Someone groaned. Tolfdir—bless his patient soul—just rubbed the bridge of his nose and muttered something about "Winterhold attracting only the most dramatic undead this year."


The man I was actually addressing, however, did not look annoyed.


Ervok tilted his head like a curious bird, lips twitching into what might've been a grin or a scowl or something in between. Hard to tell beneath the elaborate layers of scarf and embroidered patchwork robes that he wore like a walking tent of conflicting color theory.


"Undead and cheeky," he said, voice rich with amusement. "How wonderfully inconvenient. Right. Take your seats, all of you. You're here to learn how not to poison yourselves."


He limped to the center of the room and thumped a gnarled walking stick against the floor. It didn't need thumping. It was more of a statement.


"Alchemy," he began, "is not cooking. It is not gardening. It is not mixing troll fat with random flowers and hoping your dick doesn't fall off. If you want to play with fire, join Faralda. If you want to play with death, see Phinis. If you want to play with your own bodily functions—by all means, visit the tavern. I'm sure someone there has a jug of skeever rot and no sense of personal hygiene."


I liked him already.


He paced in a slow circle, letting the silence stretch just long enough to create discomfort. A few of the newer students looked like they were reconsidering their academic paths. One actually raised a hand, then lowered it.


Ervok ignored them. Instead, he pulled something from his belt pouch.


A vial.


Clear. Unmarked. Filled with a thick, swirling orange liquid that shimmered with flecks of green.


"This," he said, holding it up to the sunlight pouring through the frost-rimmed window, "is not magic. Not in the way your Destruction spells are. Not like Alteration. It is not cast. It is brewed. Concocted. Distilled."


He passed the vial around. When it reached me, I tilted it gently.


The contents clung to the glass like sap. It smelled faintly of citrus, vinegar, and copper. The alchemical equivalent of 'caution.'


"Guess the effect," Ervok said casually. "You. Boneboy."


I perked up.


"Uh… hangover cure?"


He squinted. "Close. It does cause vomiting."


"Lovely."


"Pain suppression with regenerative stimulation. Useful for battlefield triage. Useless if you're already dead. But—" he tapped his staff again, "—what matters is how it was made. What was extracted and what was preserved."


He waved his hand toward a large slate at the front of the classroom. Chalk floated up, drawing diagrams in a jagged but oddly elegant script.


"Alchemy is a balance between three things: Essence, Resonance, and Binding. You need to know what a thing is, how it interacts, and how to trap that interaction before it fades. Most of you only know the basics: wheat for healing, frost salts for cold, daedra hearts for… well, poor life choices."


The room chuckled.


He went on, faster now, clearly enjoying himself. "Let's say you're working with a Nirnroot. Anyone here stupid enough to try chewing one raw?"


I very slowly raised my hand.


He stared.


"…Good gods. And you're still here. Do you remember what happened?"


"I… screamed a lot." Not to mention that shit hurt my soul to even think about.


"Correct response. Nirnroot's resonance is volatile. Sonic, even. The plant screams when harvested because its energy disperses rapidly—too rapidly to bind without a proper stabilizer. That's why it's usually paired with ectoplasm or deathbell. One tempers decay, the other encourages it. Alchemy is less about the ingredient and more about what part of it you're using—and why."


A message pinged behind my eyes.

---

Skill Increased: Alchemy (Untrained → Novice)

You are beginning to understand that alchemy is more than random mixing. The language of reagents, the rhythm of extraction—it's becoming clear, like how water would be after you sifted all the dirt out.

• New Concept Learned: Resonance
• New Subskill Unlocked: Stabilizer Identification

Click to shrink...

---

I blinked and grinned like an idiot. No one else noticed. Probably for the best.


Ervok clapped his hands once. "Pairs, now. Each of you. We'll be running a test batch. You'll find one uncommon reagent and one stabilizer in your tray. Your goal is to extract one usable property without turning it into colored soup."


I looked down.


Bone meal.


Fire salts.


A flask. A mortar and pestle. One chance to make it not explode.


Let's get cooking.
Bone meal and fire salts. The high school chemistry class equivalent of, "You will absolutely blow something up, and we absolutely will not help."


Fine.


Bone meal: powder-fine, brittle-smelling, faint magical resonance. Probably from the lingering essence of what it used to be. Death made edible.


Fire salts: bright, granular, crackled with heat even though they didn't burn to the touch. Like crushed embers soaked in sunfire. Dwemer liked using it in engines. Mages used it in tea.


I tapped the pestle against the side of the mortar and muttered, "Right then. Let's ruin the lab."


But the moment I began to grind them together, something clicked.


It didn't feel like mixing ingredients in a menu. It wasn't some idle click-click-click and wait-for-the-animation-to-play nonsense. No—this was real. I could smell it. Feel the texture change. Hear the way the powder hissed faintly as the fire salts dissolved into bone ash.


I wasn't crafting an item. I was teasing a secret out of two ancient things and hoping they liked each other.


Ervok drifted past me, sharp eyes scanning. "What are you attempting?"


"Uh… thermal application of necrotic resonance to create a vitality enhancer?"


He snorted. "You mean you're hoping to make something that won't kill you."


"Well yeah. But I figured if bone meal has Fortify Conjuration and fire salts enhance Destruction…"


"...Then you're gambling on a hybrid that could do either. Or neither. Or both. Or—gods help us—blow your jaw off."


"So. Science?"


He grinned. "That's the spirit."


I added a drop of water. It hissed like I'd offended a snake.


I reached for the stabilizer: powdered tundra cotton. Mild. Clingy. Known for muffling magical volatility.


The moment it hit the mixture, the whole thing bloomed. Not violently—just… suddenly. Color shifted from ash-gray to smoky gold. The vial in my hand grew hot—not burning, just alive.


I stared at it. My reflection danced across the surface like a flame on a glass eye.


This feels right.


Not just the potion, but the act of it. This wasn't crafting. It was discovery.


A soft chime whispered at the edge of thought.

Potion Created: Vial of Ember-Soul (Experimental)

Effect Unknown – Requires Testing (SET MY SOUL ON FIRE)

You have begun forging a deeper connection to the principles of Resonance and Binding.

• Alchemy Skill Progressed
• Subskill: Volatile Synergy Unlocked
• Trait Gained: Experimental Brewer
  - Slightly increased chance to create unique effects when combining rare or unstable ingredients.
  - Slightly increased chance of… unintended consequences.

Click to shrink...

I held the vial up to the light, watching it pulse faintly.


My thoughts drifted.


Potions… potions are broken as hell, aren't they?


I remembered the Morrowind trick. Fortify Intelligence. Make potions. Drink. Repeat. Until you could brew something that let you punch Vivec into next week with a wooden spoon.


Could I still do that?


Probably.


Should I?


...


Maybe later.


If things get really desperate.


For now, there was something satisfying about the mystery. Not knowing exactly what the brew would do. Not exploiting the system just yet. I wanted to learn the rules before I broke them.


Besides, what would be the fun of skipping ahead when the process was this fun?


The potion burbled gently in its glass prison. I swirled it. It flickered violet for a moment—just a glint—and I swore I saw my own skull grin back at me.


"…You're either going to kill something important," I whispered to it, "or save someone I shouldn't."


Behind me, Ervok cleared his throat.


"Results?"


I held it up.


"Professor, I have created a potion of maybe."


He chuckled, then moved to the next student—one whose mixture had curdled into a stinking puddle of shame.


I set my potion down with care.


I wasn't good at this.


But I was getting good.


And for the first time since waking up as a skeleton in a draugr crypt, I didn't feel like a walking accident.


I felt like a scholar.

---

"Alright," Ervok said, clapping once. "We've successfully avoided death by combustion. Mostly."


A few students laughed. One didn't. His cauldron was emitting a low-pitched whine and smelled faintly of burned fur and moral failure.


Ervok drifted toward him. "And what do we call this, Elthim?"


The Altmer straightened up, visibly sweating. "A… Fortify Magicka draught."


"It looks like a melted sabre cat and smells like one of my ex-husbands. Tell me—where did you get your recipe?"


"…I improvised."


"You tried to poison the concept of taste. Congratulations. Brew it again. This time, with fewer crimes."


He turned toward a Bosmer who looked far too smug for someone brewing a bright green liquid.


"Lina."


"Fortify Sneak, Professor!"


"Ah. So that's what betrayal smells like."


"I added beehive husk and vampire dust."


"Noted. Next time, try not to inspire existential dread in your peers. But points for the glow."


Then, without warning, he was behind me again.


"Skeleton. You've got a second tray."


"Yeah," I muttered. "Trying something milder. Something with… uh, calming properties."


"A sleeping draught?"


"No, more like…" I paused, searching for the right phrase. "...Less 'put you to bed' and more 'take the edge off the world for a moment before it comes crashing back in.'"


"Hah." He leaned closer. "That's how I used to describe my third marriage."


This one was mountain flower, lavender, and jazbay grapes. Not exactly revolutionary, but something about the mixture soothed the senses. The mortar's contents turned into a deep violet sludge with gentle luminescence.


I added a single snowberry. The glow dimmed. Calmed.


And just like that, I knew it was ready.


I decanted it carefully and set the vial down.

Potion Created: Veilbrew Draught

Effects: Minor Fortify Calm, Slight Restoration of Magicka, Faint Glow in Darkness

You have gained insight into the interplay of Emotionally Aligned Essences.

• Alchemy Skill Progressed
• Subskill: Emotive Distillation Discovered
• You feel a slight warmth in your chest. It's not real, but it's not fake either.

Click to shrink...

Ervok picked the vial up and turned it gently between his fingers. "Hm."


I waited.


"Well?"


"This," he said, eyes narrowing, "is drinkable."


I blinked. "That's it?"


"I've been teaching alchemy for forty-two years. I've seen more students blow themselves up with pickled horker glands than I care to remember. You just brewed something that won't cause vomiting, screaming, or hallucinations. That's a win."


He handed it back with a wink.


"And frankly, that's the nicest thing I've said to anyone in three months."


Another student shrieked. Ervok turned just in time to duck as a cork shot past his head.


"Ysolda, why is your potion trying to escape?"


The Nord girl looked horrified. "I don't know! It started moving!"


"It's a potion, not a pet. Contain it!"


I leaned in closer to mine, whispering to the soft-glowing draught. "Thanks for not doing that."


Somewhere across the room, a flask shattered.


"WILL YOU STOP ADDING TROLL FAT TO EVERYTHING—"


"I just wanted to see what would happen!"


"WHAT HAPPENS IS I LOSE MY SANITY, CAELUS!"


Ervok stomped over to deal with it. The potion lecture veered momentarily into a monologue on magical grease fires and why we respect ratios, leaving the rest of us to either work or watch.


I worked.


A third attempt: Nordic barnacle, wheat, blisterwort. I had no idea what I was doing—but something about the combination felt like healing. I trusted it.


The smell reminded me of salt and loam and something older.


The potion came out pearlescent and faintly shimmery. Almost pretty.

Potion Created: Tonic of Patchwoven Flesh

Effects: Restore Health (minor), Minor Resistance to Disease, Unidentified Secondary Trait

You feel a ripple of familiarity—like an old song hummed under the breath.

• Alchemy Skill Progressed
• Mastery Threshold: Novice → Adept
• Passive Perk: Hollow Apothecary
  - Healing potions restore slightly more health to the undead.
  - Brewing restorative draughts improves your clarity and emotional awareness.
  (Yes, even without nerves.)

Click to shrink...

I blinked.


Okay.


So I wasn't just brewing for fun anymore. Something about this was starting to stick. Something was clicking.


Ervok returned, slightly singed, hair smoking just a bit.


He looked at my third vial.


He tilted his head. "You have the look of someone who has either just understood what they've been doing wrong their whole life or made a potion that will cause irreparable changes to your soul."


"Both?" I offered.


He nodded solemnly.


"Excellent. That means you're learning."

I had a few ingredients left.


Crimson nirnroot. Netch jelly. A slice of pale taproot crusted in dried sap.


Nothing conventional. Nothing safe. All of it twitching faintly on the tray like it remembered being alive.


I hesitated.


The last potion I brewed had a nice, reliable green glow and made the guy next to me sprout eyebrows again. This?


This was something else.


I ground the taproot, slow and unsure. It oozed like burnt sugar and tar. The jelly I folded in next, and it hissed against the bowl, frothing as if it resented being touched. The crimson nirnroot—singing gently in a pitch I couldn't hear but felt in my molars—went in last.


The mixture flared red, then pink, then settled on an uncomfortable fleshy tone that made my nonexistent stomach turn.


Then the system screeched.

[ALERT: SYSTEM INTEGRITY ERROR]
You have created: [Unstable Draught of Recollection]
→ Primary Effect: Restores Health (Moderate)
→ Secondary Effect: [Illicit Form Recall] — ???
→ Warning: This compound should not exist. Report to Overseer immediately.
→ Note: Phantom Self is an illegal state. Anchoring protocols breached. Consciousness desync imminent.

Click to shrink...

"Oh," I said, blankly. "That's... not good."


The potion pulsed faintly in its vial, the color shifting like muscle under skin. My grip tightened. I looked around—Ervok was harassing someone's cauldron like it owed him money. No one saw.


I should've thrown it away.


Instead, I flicked the cork off and drank it down, with a small gulp.


Because of course I did.


It tasted like ash and metal and something heartbreakingly familiar.


For a second—less than a second—I felt something.


Warmth. Pressure. Breath.


My bones weren't bones anymore. My hand—flesh. My ribs—moving. My chest—full. And it hurt. It hurt. Everything felt loud and alive and too close. Like being born face-first into a thunderstorm.


I looked down.


A hand. My hand. Five fingers, scarred and calloused.


A heartbeat, pounding like it had never stopped.


I brought my hand to my throat—


—and it was flesh. Skin. Warm. Real.


And then—


Gone.


The flesh sloughed away like melting wax. The heartbeat stuttered and vanished. The hand was bone again. Cold and dry.


I gasped—or tried to.


And then the system whispered:

[PHANTOM SELF: UNSUPPORTED STATE TERMINATED]
You are not alive. You are not supposed to remember.
Form Reversion: Complete.

Skill Increased: Alchemy Novice → Adept
Discovery Logged: "Echo Reaction" — Personal Soul Feedback with Illusory Form

You've learned a little too much about yourself.
That might be dangerous.

Click to shrink...

I sat there, hand flexing and unflexing, jaw slack.


Ervok wandered past. "Did your potion just scream at you, or was that my imagination?"


I shook my head. "Nope. Totally normal healing potion. Definitely not a crime against metaphysics."


"Hm. Six out of ten. Try again with more purpose next time."


He moved on, apparently satisfied that I hadn't exploded.


I stared at the still nearly full vial.


The afterimage of my own flesh still lingered in my thoughts. I could remember what skin felt like. What it felt like to breathe. It had hurt, but not in a bad way. Just… too much.


But I didn't miss it.


That was the scary part.


It felt like a life I'd read about, not one I'd lived. And honestly? In a world full of talking lizards, dragon words, magic and mushroom trees—being a regular guy again just sounded kind of boring.


So I corked the memory away.


Filed it under: Do Not Think About Too Hard Unless Everything Is On Fire.


And I started prepping the next potion.


Because fuck it.


I was still learning.


And apparently, I was good at this.

---

The next conversation happened an hour later, behind one of the faculty tower's locked doors, muffled by wards and incense.


"Let me see it," Mirabelle said, stepping into the quiet chamber, robes still damp with mountain mist.


Ervok handed the phial over without a word.


Only a third of the viscous potion had been consumed, and even that single swallow had left the glass tinged with pale shimmer. Not gold. Not silver. Something between.


Mirabelle held it up to the candlelight. The liquid shifted like oil in water, colors never quite resolving. "That's not a healing draught."


"No," Ervok said. "But it should have been."


"List the reagents again."


"Standard base, two stabilizers, and—" He hesitated. "Netch Jelly. I saw him use it. Shouldn't do anything that volatile. At worst, a failed mix. At best, a minor Fortify Health blend."
"And what happened instead?"


Ervok's mouth twitched. "He changed."


The others were already seated: Tolfdir, Urag, Drevis, Colette, and Savos Aren himself. The College's true minds, gathered not for ceremony, but necessity.


Colette tilted her head. "Changed how?"


"Skin," Ervok said. "Flesh. Color. Not glamour, not projection—briefly, he had a body. And then it vanished."


"Gone?"


"Like mist in the sun. No scorch marks. No residue. Not even magical displacement. Just... reverted."


Tolfdir exhaled through his nose. "Illusion wouldn't explain it. And it wasn't Restoration. No known spell in that school builds flesh from nothing."


"It didn't," Drevis said softly. "It didn't build anything. It called it back."


That earned a look from Mirabelle.


"Something inside him answered," Drevis went on. "For just a moment. Not conjured. Not fabricated. Recalled. Like the memory of a body, trying to wear itself again."


Urag's voice was dry. "So we're assuming he had a body once."


Savos's gaze lingered on the potion, his thoughts unreadable. "We know he's undead. But not reanimated. Not puppeted. He learns. He reacts. He improvises. And now, this. A potion that makes no sense by known alchemical laws."


"It's not alchemy," Ervok said, voice low. "Not entirely. I've seen journeymen mess up worse and get nothing but broken glass and bad breath. But this? This didn't fail. It bent."


Mirabelle set the phial down on the center table. It pulsed faintly, not with light, but potential.


Colette stared at it. "So what does it mean?"


"I think it means," Tolfdir said, folding his hands, "that he doesn't need to remember how to be alive."


Savos turned his eyes toward the windows, toward the glacier-lit horizon. "He only needs to decide if he wants to."

---

I closed my journal, or notebook or whatever you want to call it with a soft thunk, trying not to think too hard about the nearly full phial that the teacher took from me to examine. Just one gulp had been enough to bring me back, even if only for a few seconds — skin, warmth, the dull throb of a heartbeat like some dusty bell tolling in my chest. And then, gone. The potion hadn't worn off so much as reality had just snapped back like a stretched band.


It had left me feeling... hollow.


Not in a sad way, just — weird. I hadn't realized how quiet the world was until it wasn't. How heavy my bones didn't feel until they did. There had been color. Smell. My voice had sounded like mine.


Still. Being flesh again? Just a guy? Eh. A little overrated, maybe.


I wasn't exactly in a hurry to go back to being some sweaty pink lump scraping for scraps in a world full of dragons, gods, and flame-throwing wizards. Being a spooky skeleton with a magic HUD had its perks.


Like right now.


"—and then he trips over the rat and lands ass-first into the pile of spider eggs!"

Laughter erupted around the stone bench we'd commandeered near the courtyard. Snow fell gently through the archways of the College, and someone had stolen a bottle of spiced mead from the kitchens. I was reasonably sure it was Elvaldir, the Dunmer with zero impulse control and a love for practical jokes. I liked him already.


"Okay, but you're leaving out the part where you screamed louder than the rat," a blond Nord named Brynja grinned, elbowing him.


"I was startled!" Elvaldir huffed. "It was an aggressive rat!"


"You cast Lightning Storm at a rat," another student wheezed.


"And missed," I added dryly, pushing my head down, eyes still looking at him and raising my imaginary eyebrows.


More laughter.


It felt... good. Normal. No one was asking why I clanked when I walked or why I wore gloves despite having no flesh. No whispered rumors or pitying glances. Just a bunch of half-trained mages freezing their asses off and making each other laugh to keep warm.


One of the younger students — a Redguard boy named Faadil — leaned over and nudged me. "So what did you actually make in class? Ervok looked like he swallowed a lemon when he saw your cauldron."


I shrugged. "Healing potion, I think. Minor bug in the code."


"Bug in the what?"


"Nevermind," I said quickly. "Alchemy's weird. Might've used the wrong pearl."


Brynja squinted at me. "Didn't you turn pink for like thirty seconds?"


"Nope," I said with the confidence of a man who absolutely turned pink for thirty seconds.


Elvaldir raised his bottle in salute. "Well, whatever you made, I want three. I've been trying to grow a beard for two years."


"Drink this and you might grow an existential crisis instead."


He considered that. "I'll take two."


We collapsed into another round of laughter, and for a while — just a little while — I forgot about skeletons and dream fragments and daedric alphabets carved into my throat.


I was just... here. One of them.


Not the walking mystery.


Just a sarcastic asshole with a brewing proficiency and good aim with an axe.


I could live with that.


The laughter died down just long enough for the cold to settle back in.


Elvaldir stared up at the sky, snowflakes catching in his eyelashes. "Shor's balls, it's freezing."


"You're the one who insisted we hang out outside," Brynja said, rubbing her arms. "We could be in the study hall where it's warm."


"And crowded," Faadil pointed out. "Besides—"


A snowball hit him in the side of the face with a wet splat.


"…I'm going to kill you," he said calmly, turning to face Elvaldir, who was already cackling and shaping another orb of packed snow between his hands.


"You'll have to catch me first!"


He didn't wait for a reply. A quick Frost Rune under his feet sent him zipping across the courtyard like a giggling maniac on an ice rink. Faadil bellowed and gave chase, hurling snowballs enhanced with Weak Fury enchantments that caused minor, momentary emotional meltdowns.


Brynja scooped up her own ammunition and turned to me. "You in?"


"Always," I said, rising with the crunch of joints that weren't joints.


She tossed me a snowball. I caught it easily. It didn't melt in my hand — obvious perks of being the world's most efficient personal cooler.


Moments later, the entire courtyard was a war zone.


Snowballs soared overhead, exploding into clouds of harmless but dramatic Frost Cloak bursts. Someone — I think Faadil — conjured a magical wall as cover, only for Elvaldir to vault over it with a mid-air Featherfall and pelt him square in the back.


A Khajiit student named S'rashi dual-cast snowballs like some kind of wintertime machine gun, cackling with every direct hit. A few more daring idiots (read: all of us) tried weaving Alteration into their throws, adding effects like Slow Fall, Sparkle Trail, or Delayed Launch for maximum chaos.


Brynja took a hit to the leg, dropped, and immediately started crafting a Summon Snow Atronach spell — which was just a badly shaped lump of enchanted ice that flailed its arms like a confused toddler.


I got blasted in the face by something that definitely wasn't just snow. A Magelight-infused projectile detonated with a radiant flash that scorched the inside of my skull.


"BRYNJA!" I shouted, staggering blindly. "YOU FLASHBANGED ME!"


"I DON'T KNOW WHAT A 'FLASHBANG' IS BUT I CALL THIS THE LUXBALL!" she yelled triumphantly.


Snow exploded next to me. I yelped — or tried to — and flung a retaliatory snowball with the rage of a thousand frostbitten skeletons.


[Alchemy: +1]

[Alteration: +1]

[New Recipe: Chilled Alchemical Binding – 'Luxball']


Oh great. Even the System was getting in on the joke.


Eventually, someone called a truce, and we collapsed in a heap of steaming breath, bruised pride, and frozen gloves. The sun had set entirely by now, stars flickering above Winterhold like shy eyes peeking through the void.


"Right," Faadil said, pulling out a bottle of cheap Honningbrew Reserve. "Time to defrost from the inside."


They passed it around, others contributing their own smuggled bottles — meads, wines, something that smelled suspiciously like moonshine but I'm pretty sure it's Sujamma...


"Hey," Elvaldir said, holding out a cup to me. "You drinking?"


I held up both hands. "I literally do not have a liver."


"Suit yourself," he said, and immediately chugged half the bottle. "More for me."


The bench became a tavern. Drunken spellcasting followed — nothing harmful, just minor illusions and glowing lights shaped like chickens. S'rashi kept trying to make his tail levitate. Faadil told a story about nearly blowing up a goat with a poorly-made potion. Brynja started a limerick war that got increasingly obscene. At one point, someone mistook my skull for a cup holder.


"You're... you're a good skeleton," Elvaldir slurred later, leaning heavily on my shoulder. "Like, spooky... but solid. Not like those jerks in Labyrinthian."


"I appreciate that," I said. "And I'll try to haunt more respectfully."


He gave a heartfelt nod and then passed out.


I looked around the circle — some still laughing, some too drunk to move, others leaning on one another under the clear, cold stars. Magic crackled faintly in the air. Someone had set a small Flame Rune under the bench to keep the snow at bay. The wind had died. The sky was infinite.


For a night, it was enough.


No system notifications. No dreams of gods or broken towers or bleeding stars.


Just warm lights in the cold and laughter on the wind.


And me, bones and all, grinning like a bastard.
The night was calm again.


Too calm.


I should've known something was up when Brynja started whispering.


We were all still lounging on the steps outside the Hall of Attainment, most of the students either asleep or snoring through a mead-induced haze. I was enjoying the rare moment of peace — no spell mishaps, no potion disasters, no system windows blinking ominously at me — when she leaned in close with that particular sparkle in her eye.


"You ever heard the story about the Arcanaeum ghost?"


I groaned. "Please no."


"I'm serious," she said. "They say there's a spirit that walks the upper stacks at night. Always just out of sight. Sometimes you hear books falling, or quills scribbling on their own."


Elvaldir perked up. "Wait, is this the one where it's actually the ghost of a student who vanished during a forbidden ritual? And they say if you find his notes, you go mad?"


"No, no," Faadil said, already on his feet. "You're thinking of the Old Magister's Curse. This is different. It's a helpful ghost. Supposedly."


"That's a contradiction," I said. "Helpful ghosts don't exist. That's like saying 'ethical necromancer.'"


"Hey," S'rashi said, mildly offended. "My uncle practices soul-binding and fair trade."


"Regardless," Brynja pressed, "we should check it out. Midnight's almost here."


I shook my head immediately. "Absolutely not. You want to sneak into the library after hours, fine. But I'm not risking getting vaporized by Urag's wards for a Scooby-Doo moment."


"Too late," Elvaldir said, grabbing my wristbone. "Come on, what's the worst that could happen?"


"I get disassembled?"


"You're already dead, what more could they take?"


"You'd be surprised."

---

We snuck into the Arcanaeum just past the midnight bell.


It was darker than I expected. The usual sconces were extinguished, only the faint blue glow of magelights casting long shadows across the tall shelves.


"Okay," Faadil whispered. "Everyone split up. Keep an eye out for ghostly activity. S'rashi, no fake howling this time."


S'rashi raised both paws. "This one makes no promises."


I lurked near the Divines section, muttering under my breath. "This is so dumb. I could be meditating. Or reorganizing my potion kit. Or—"


CLACK.


Something hit the floor two aisles over.


Everyone froze.


Brynja mouthed, Did you hear that?


I nodded. So did my spine, with a faint creak.


We crept toward the sound like idiots in a horror story. There, on the floor, was an open book. Still gently fluttering, as if something unseen had just dropped it.


"I don't like this," I whispered.


A quill scribbled on its own in the air next to it.


We all screamed.


Okay, correction — they screamed. I rattled.


The quill froze mid-air, paused… and then slowly scrawled across the page in neat, shaky letters:


"Please keep it down. Some of us are studying."


"…Urag?" Brynja whispered.


The quill underlined the sentence.


A moment later, an illusory image appeared — a faintly transparent outline of a very annoyed orc librarian, arms crossed, glaring at all of us from midair.


"GET. OUT."


We fled.

---

Fifteen minutes later, we were back outside, breathless and laughing. Faadil looked like he'd aged five years. Elvaldir had a piece of parchment stuck to his boot. I still wasn't sure if the image was an illusion or an actual ghost Urag summoned just to scare people off.


Brynja wiped tears from her eyes. "Totally worth it."


"I almost shed a tibia," I muttered.


"You don't have skin."


"I don't need skin to feel terror, Brynja."

---

[Illusion Resistance: +1]

[New Trait Gained: Cursed Curiosity – You attract trouble when you really shouldn't.]


"Oh come on."

---

We lingered on the bridge long after the laughter died down.


Winterhold's nights had a kind of stillness to them — not just quiet, but vast. Like the sky above wasn't just empty space but a velvet shroud pressing down, filled with unspoken thoughts.


The College glowed softly behind us. The ruined town below was swallowed in darkness.


Faadil and S'rashi had gone to sleep. Elvaldir was still insisting he hadn't screamed. Brynja stayed behind with me, sitting on the railing with her legs swinging over the void like it was a summer dock and not a wind-blasted crevice leading straight to the Sea of Ghosts.


"You know," she said, "for someone who keeps trying to say no, you're very good at getting roped into things."


"Yeah," I said. "It's a curse. Cursed Curiosity or something."


She laughed — a low, warm chuckle that echoed just enough to sound magical.


"Seriously though," she said. "Thanks for not ditching us."


I shrugged, bones clicking faintly. "I figured if someone had to be bait for a vengeful book ghost, it might as well be the guy who doesn't bleed."


"Practical. I like that."


She paused, pulling her cloak tighter against the wind.


"…Hey. Can I ask you something weird?"


I hesitated. "That depends. On a scale from 'do ghosts exist' to 'are you actually just a glamoured Daedric Prince in hiding,' where are we landing?"


She smirked, but her voice softened. "You ever wonder why you're here? Like — not here-here, I mean... why you came to the College? What you're chasing?"


I went quiet.


The wind tugged at my hood. I stared out over the sea.


"…Every day," I said finally. "Only I don't think I'm chasing anything. I think I'm remembering something I forgot."


"Something important?"


"Yeah. I think it might've been my name."


She blinked. "You don't remember your name?"


"Not my real one. Not the one that came with… whatever this is." I gestured vaguely at my skeletal form.


She turned back to the void, thoughtful. "You know, I think a lot of us came here because we were running. Or maybe hoping to become someone new. You might've just skipped the middleman."


I chuckled. "That's one way to look at it."


Silence settled in for a while. Comfortable this time.


Stars above. Ice below. A girl with fire in her eyes and a skeleton wondering if maybe, just maybe, this time he'd get it right.


She stood, brushing off her robes. "C'mon, mystery man. Let's get inside before we both freeze. Even if you can't feel the cold, I can."


"Fine, fine."


I followed her back across the bridge, the College's lights flickering like old memories.

And as I stepped through the archway, I couldn't help but think that maybe, for now, this strange little life — with its ghosts and chaos and inexplicable second chances — was worth lingering in a little longer.

---

The Arcanaeum. Morning.


A grim silence settled over the ancient stone chamber, broken only by the occasional groan or muffled cough from the group of very tired, very guilty students lined up in front of Urag gro-Shub's desk.


The orc stood with arms crossed like a disappointed father and a particularly pissed-off librarian rolled into one. His eyes swept over the ragged assembly: S'rashi, fur fluffed from sleep deprivation; Faadil, looking very much like he wished he'd stayed invisible; Brynja, trying not to smirk; Elvaldir, still swearing they hadn't screamed; and me — a skeleton in borrowed robes who'd been dragged into a midnight ghost hunt against his better judgment.


On the desk sat the evidence: a cracked lantern, a spilled inkpot, a scorched copy of Sload Biologies: A Comparative Anatomy, and an empty sujamma bottle (which no one would admit to sneaking in).


Urag didn't speak for a long time.


Then, slowly, he turned to me.


"You," he said.


I straightened slightly. "Me?"


"You were the lookout."


"That's an extremely generous interpretation of what I was doing."


"You failed. Miserably."


I shrugged. "Skeleton. No eyelids. Can't really blink. Kind of just... stared into the abyss."


Urag did not laugh.


"The Arcanaeum," he said, voice low and gravelly, "is not your playroom. It is not a proving ground for dares. It is not where you go when you want to chase ghosts, get drunk, and knock over priceless tomes while shrieking about poltergeists that turned out to be the wind."


Elvaldir opened their mouth to object. Urag held up one finger. They wisely closed it.


"You want to play adventurer?" he continued, glowering. "Go join the Companions. You want to chase ghosts? Find a priest. You want to learn something? Then maybe, just maybe, try respecting the one place in this frozen north that still holds the written memory of our world!"


S'rashi raised a trembling paw. "Technically, the memory of the world spilled out of the shelves onto us—"


Urag slammed a book shut. "Detention. All of you. Until further notice."


A collective groan echoed through the Arcanaeum.


"Colette needs help sterilizing cauldron spatulas," he added. "And Tolfdir's got a fresh shipment of soul gems that need cataloguing. You'll each take turns. One week minimum. No exceptions. No complaints."


I raised my bony hand.


He narrowed his eyes at me, voice dry. "Yes, Dreamer?"


I blinked.


"…What?"


Urag's expression didn't change. He raised a thick brow. "I said, 'Yes, you overly-engineered bag of bones?'"


My mouth opened. Closed.


"…Right. Thought you said something else."


"Not unless you've gone deaf and daft. Which wouldn't surprise me at this point."


The moment hung strangely in the air, like a word caught halfway between languages. I couldn't quite grab onto what had felt off, only that something had skipped. Just a step out of rhythm. A blink too long. A beat too late.


Gone now.


I cleared my throat—well, metaphorically—and shrugged. "Question. If I don't have a stomach, can I be excused from mop duty? Because last time I slipped in something that looked like healing potion and turned out to be—"


"Finish that sentence and I will have you sorting moldy scrolls until the next era."


"Copy that. No more details."


Urag pinched the bridge of his nose. "You'll be helping me with soul gem inventory. No complaints. Just don't absorb anything you shouldn't."


"Absorb is a strong word. More like… ambient siphoning."


"Out. Now."


As I turned, something itched behind my eyes. Not pain. Not thought. Just… the ghost of a word I couldn't remember hearing.


Dreamer.


I shook it off.


Just a weird moment. Probably nothing.


Probably.

---

As we shuffled out of the Arcanaeum, Faadil whispered, "Worth it."


Brynja nodded. "Absolutely."


S'rashi groaned, "My fur still smells like ink…"


I didn't say anything.


But as we stepped into the snowlit hall and the door shut behind us, I allowed myself a dry, rattling chuckle.


Repercussions or not — this place was starting to feel like home.

 

[CreepyUncleLuke]

It felt like a life I'd read about, not one I'd lived. And honestly? In a world full of talking lizards, dragon words, magic and mushroom trees—being a regular guy again just sounded kind of boring.

Click to shrink...

Damn, this is so refreshing. Dude gets a warning from the system, feels like he's good as is and doesn't poke that problem anymore. This skeleton has more wisdom than almost every Gamer protag ever.

 

[Fire_Fox]

Okay, so he is either the embodiment of the God Head, stole Dagoth Ur's idea and became the NEW God Head, or he is doing some kind of CHIM related nonsense. Although the last part is basically a catch all term, since whatever he is doing is absolutely CHIM nonsense no matter how you look at it.

 

[Pietersielie]

I greatly enjoyed the chapter, thanks for sharing!

 

[lopsigon]

I'm Commander Shepard, and This Is My Favorite ScrollsFic on the Citadel.

 

[Deneir]

I think i love you man. This is gold.