The food in Skyrim, if a Troll were to taste it, would still be quite palatable; after all, he could even eat carrion. Simon's pursuit of culinary pleasure had become very faint, but he knew in his heart that this was not a delicious taste he recognized.
Everyone has a deeply ingrained taste system in their memory, which often includes their heritage. Simon naturally had one, and many at that.
Sitting in the tavern room, Simon chewed on roasted mutton, charred on the outside and dry on the inside, while flipping through a book with one hand.
This was an introductory book to the common tongue, an elementary-level reference. He flipped through it quickly, reading ten lines at a glance. Jonas held a wooden soup bowl in his hands, bringing his mouth to the rim to sip gently. His posture was a bit slumped, with faint dark circles under his eyes, and his brown eyes were full of joy.
Simon read it once, and since there was no teacher to instruct him on pronunciation, he could only guess at the words.
Such books were very crude, with extremely undetailed content, not even having phonetic symbols, which would surely make any learner miserable.
More interestingly, Simon saw many of Jonas's own annotations, which were simple descriptions of the meanings of words, a very useful learning method.
The pile of books Jonas prepared for Simon were all good things. Although there were only three spellbooks, the rest were linguistics books, simple histories, spell overviews, and so on, but they were all top-grade, information-dense items.
One Destruction spellbook, Frostbite, which was for spraying cold air.
One Alteration spellbook, Ward, for creating a magic shield, essential for mages fighting each other.
One Restoration spellbook, Healing Spell, for treating injuries; for illnesses... it really couldn't cure them, but it could help you last until you could pray at a temple, where usually the Divines would heal you.
The beginner's magic starter pack, Simon was quite satisfied. Then he rubbed his nose through his face mask; it was a little itchy.
"Sir doesn't like it?"
"I like it very much. Haven't you been resting well lately?"
"How could that be? I sleep soundly every day."
Jonas actually helped his senior brothers and sisters every day, running errands for various mages, constantly busy, and also studied on his own at night, working hard late into the night.
"Sleep for a while first. When you wake up, I'll see if your swordsmanship has improved."
The smile on the Breton Boy's face froze.
"Of course it has... improved..."
"That's good!"
It's over.
Next, Jonas stiffly finished his soup, then stiffly lay on his side on the bed under the Troll's suspicious gaze, facing the wall, motionless.
It was really over.
He felt like he was going to the execution ground.
He had been so focused on studying that he forgot to practice martial arts. Wouldn't he be exposed now?
The wooden patterns on the wall were greasy, the sharp, glaring splinters from where the edges had been split by an axe. Darkness lurked in the cracks between the two wooden boards, as if shadows had been crammed in like mud. The dim, yellow light flickered, and in every room of the tavern, as dawn approached, there were noisy yet soft murmurings, mixing with the madness in the wine bottles and the wood and stone flames. Everything became warm and comfortable. The Troll's shadow on the wall was a huge, heavy blob, stretched and bent. This scenery was actually quite nice.
Jonas comforted himself, even if Sir gets angry, he would never break my legs...
Then he fell asleep peacefully.
When he woke up, two bowls of soup and two steaks were freshly placed on the table.
Clear and refreshing tomato and egg drop soup, with yellow, crumpled green onions floating on top, and a bit of chopped pickled vegetable roots.
The steak was cut, with juices flowing, and a little brown-red sauce poured over it, seeping into the crevices of the meat.
"Eat. When you're full, go out and practice."
Jonas nodded slowly, his expression both happy and pained.
"Don't make faces. Eat properly."
"It's so delicious!"
"I know."
"Sir, did you make this?"
"Mm."
"Sir is just that amazing!"
"Usually, I am that amazing."
Simon finished his portion, silently putting down his small knife and wooden fork.
The taste was naturally good, but the ingredients and tools were really poor. The finished product was not the taste he remembered.
The entire cooking process was observed by the hotel owner, who now knew how to make it himself. The owner was, of course, a generous man; from now on, the tavern would always reserve a room for Simon, free of charge, valid for life.
By the time the Troll led Jonas out, many guests were already enjoying the juicy steaks. They, however, were not accustomed to the light soup. Well, differences in dietary structure are a very common phenomenon. The owner cheered, "The Foodie has arrived!"
Everyone applauded and cheered for Simon, then toasted him, and then began a new day of revelry. The whole process was just finding some excuse for everyone to have fun, start drinking heavily, and get drunk.
Interesting, the Troll grumbled, "Let's go."
Leaving Winterhold, looking as far as the eye could see, the main road stretched north and south. To the west were steep cliffs and the Sea of Ghosts, and to the east were layers of high mountains. Winterhold was actually situated halfway up a mountain, at a considerable elevation. It was hard to imagine the colossal power of the tsunami that destroyed this place back then.
"Run for a bit first, warm up." The Troll's steps were light; he rushed into the snow in a few strides. Jonas gritted his teeth and followed, running.
Simon took the opportunity to teach him how to regulate his breathing and pace, and how to deal with uneven terrain. Many things he said might not be useful, but he still had to say them; accumulation is always a process.
After running a few miles, Jonas was sweating profusely, completely warding off the biting cold. Simon was about to suggest stopping when a large white bear rounded the mountain path ahead.
"Well, well, seeking death." Simon took off his great axe, then threw the bearskin from his back to Jonas for warmth, and charged forward, gripping the axe handle.
The Troll's hood flew in the wind, revealing his fierce three eyes. The chilling, malicious killing intent was innate. The white bear had just woken from hibernation and was ravenously hungry, in a frenzy, otherwise it wouldn't have been so bold as to challenge such a strong person.
As expected, the white bear was dizzy with hunger and had its belly ripped open on impact.
The taste of slaughter made Simon feel incredibly calm.
"Sir is really amazing."
"I know."
Looking to the right, there was indeed a mountain pass, leading to a higher slope, where a majestic archway cast a colossal shadow in the wind and snow.
The tavern mentioned that there was an altar nearby. Many foreign tourists came here, either for the College of Winterhold or for the altar.
"I know this place, Azura's Altar!"
Simon narrowed his eyes. I remember too.
Azura, one of the Daedric Princes, is most famously known as the Prince of Dusk and Dawn among her many titles.
Also, the emergence of the Dark Elves was precisely because Azura was enraged by the actions of their predecessors, the Chimer, and cursed them into their current form.
Interesting.
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