Skyl: Stuck in another world, just became a demigod, and now I have to moonlight as a village doctor. How do I convince the villagers they're sick? Please advise, urgently.
Skyl thought through the problem in front of him. His goal was to bring the people of Riverwood into the Tower of Tomes so he could purge the remnants of Mora's influence from them. The whole process was basically no different from selling health supplements to elderly folks. Nords, as a rule, were wary of spellcasters. If he wanted them to docilely walk into his "trap", he'd have to be clever about it.
The tricks of those "celebrity doctors" on twenty-first-century TV were more than enough for Skyl to crib from. The key was one word: bluff.
He only had to think for a short while before a plan came to him.
That night, Skyl slipped quietly back to Riverwood. At that hour, every household's candles were out. Only the night-shift guards were patrolling; even the dogs were asleep.
The mass fainting earlier that day had everyone deeply unsettled. The townsfolk had spent the entire afternoon in the inn worrying over it, but no one had managed to reach a conclusion. As the sky darkened and the inn prepared to close, the captain of the guards and the owner of the sawmill, Gerdur, made a joint decision.
First, they would report the incident to Jarl Balgruuf of Whiterun. He was the lord of this land, protector of his people; when trouble came, taking it to him was never wrong. Second, they would keep a close watch on the foreign mage named Skyl. He was the one who had lured those cultists here and then vanished without a trace. His movements were far too suspicious.
The young guard who liked Skyl spoke up in his defense, but he couldn't change the decision. Riverwood was no longer welcoming to Skyl.
While that same guard was resting at the watch post, he heard someone calling his name. It was Skyl, asking him to come alone to the riverbank on the west side of town.
"It's you. Are you all right? Everyone's saying you used evil magic to kill those cultists and that you're the reason we all fainted. But I don't believe you'd do something like that."
Skyl still wore the same cloak and pajamas as ever. His sixteen-year-old face was smooth and youthful; in the starlight and the glow of the twin moons, his eyes shone. There was simply no way a boy this gentle and sincere could be mistaken for a murderer.
"Kliman, I'll be honest with you," Skyl said. "What happened today was an accident—for you and for me. I never meant to bring disaster to Riverwood. Those men were controlled by the Daedric Prince Mora. It was His descent that caused their deaths and your collective fainting."
"By Shor! That's… hard to believe."
"It's the truth—and the problem doesn't end there."
Skyl explained to the young guard about Mora's lingering taint.
The loyal, simple, and brave Nord stared into his eyes, as if trying to see through him from head to toe. Skyl met that scrutiny with an equally firm and serious gaze.
"You know," the guard said at last, "you don't look like someone who's lying. I'll trust you this once. What do you need me to do?"
A Nord's promise carried weight. Their people had ancient traditions of faith and honor. They revered warriors and heroes, loved fiercely and hated openly, preferring everything direct and simple. Many of them would gladly lay down their lives for dignity and honor, and after death their souls would return to Sovngarde—their heaven, much like Valhalla of the Norse myths.
"That's great," Skyl said. "It's simple, really. I have a spell that can drive out the Prince's influence. I need your help to convince the people of the town to let me cast it on them."
"Ah. Magic."
Kliman's face scrunched up like he'd spotted a soggy, reeking sock—something he knew he had to deal with but really, really didn't want to.
Skyl spread his hands helplessly. "Yes, magic. I know how hard it is to get Nords to trust magic. So I won't make things too awkward for you. Just tell everyone that what happened this morning wasn't directly my fault. I'll prepare a feast at my hut. Tomorrow I'll come around with invitations. When the time comes, you help persuade everyone to attend."
"All right… but I can't make any promises."
"Guests at the feast will get free food and drink," Skyl added, "and a dozen fresh eggs."
"Mm." Kliman's eyes lit up, then narrowed again in suspicion. "But you're poor as dirt. How are you going to afford all that? You're not going to turn stones into bread and cheat people, are you?"
Skyl waved his hand, full of confidence. "Relax. I have plenty of time to prepare this feast. Kliman, make sure you tell everyone that guests get eggs! Oh, and if they have dogs, they can bring them too. If a dog comes, the dog's household gets eggs as well."
After saying goodbye to the kind-hearted guard, Skyl returned to his wooden hut.
Riverwood was a very small settlement, and its history was short—only a few generations. It had begun when Gerdur's ancestors took a liking to this spot beside the mountain and river and built a water-powered sawmill here. Workers were hired, and then more people came: a blacksmith to repair logging tools, farmers to till the nearby land, merchants to trade odds and ends. Slowly, a tiny village took shape.
Even now, Riverwood's population was less than two hundred—roughly the size of a countryside banquet back in a rural village. Putting on that sort of feast wouldn't cost much. In modern terms, a few hundred pounds would buy everything he needed.
Right now, Skyl was still flat broke. He had only twenty Galleons to his name.
He thought about using Transfiguration to turn stones into gold. Every wizard had probably had that thought at least once, but the number who had actually succeeded could be counted on one hand. In the Harry Potter world, the Philosopher's Stone created by the grand alchemist Nicolas Flamel could transmute base metals into gold, and that was viewed as an unrepeatable pinnacle of magical achievement. In The Elder Scrolls world, there was a special Alteration spell that could turn ordinary ore into gold ore.
Skyl didn't need to make a Philosopher's Stone, and he didn't need to learn a new Alteration spell either. He went down to the river, picked up a few smooth pebbles, carried them into the Tower of Tomes, and waved his instant-noodle fork. The pebbles turned into pure gold.
It was real gold—nothing a Finite or any other counter-spell could dispel. Its properties matched natural gold in every respect.
Such was the power he wielded inside the Tower of Tomes. In his own realm, a god—so long as he had enough energy to burn—could do anything. Creating matter from nothing was perfectly ordinary.
Strictly speaking, he could have turned those pebbles into sausages, smoked ham and loaves of bread. But that would have taken time and effort, and a single bean-sized nugget of gold was already enough to pay for all his supplies. Besides, any food he conjured up this way could only imitate the flavors he remembered. The taste would probably be nothing special.
With gold in hand, Skyl returned to World I to go shopping.
First he went to Gringotts in Diagon Alley to open an account. The goblins there didn't bother checking your background. If you had money, you were a valued client.
The counters at Gringotts were always a flurry of activity. Hundreds of goblins sat on tall stools behind them, dressed in crisp uniform suits, every inch the picture of tidy respectability—while their expressions all carried, to varying degrees, an air of arrogant superiority. In that sense, they were exactly like London's financial speculators: greedy, vile, and convinced of their own cleverness.
"Hello."
The bespectacled goblin behind the counter was bent over his ledger. He glanced up at Skyl, and before the usual cool, dry greeting could tumble from his shriveled lips, the gleam of gold on the counter made his mouth curve into a servile smile.
"Oh! Good day, good day, esteemed customer. How may we be of service?"
"Exchange this, and by the way, does your bank accept private commissions? Payment is negotiable."
Skyl reached into his open burlap bag and took out a chunk of gold, nudging it lightly across the counter. The goblin's eyes followed the gold as it slid toward him, and then: gulp. That was the sound of him swallowing his drool—and of his conscience being quietly stolen.
"But of course," the goblin said smoothly. "Fulfilling our clients' requests is this institution's proudest tradition. Larwan, take over this station for me."
Larwan was another goblin, whom he waved over to replace him.
At Gringotts, Skyl exchanged enough gold for a thousand Galleons, opened his own vault, and then hired the goblins to purchase all the food and drink he would need for the feast. Life with money really was a different world.
Who would have imagined that, when he first arrived in this strange reality, Skyl had to walk from Surrey to London on foot just to throw himself on the mercy of someone he barely knew—and in the blink of an eye, he had become a half-god?
So really, he had two people to thank: timely-rain Dumbledore, and old man Mora for that rocket booster he'd gifted him…