Shortage
A cold wind whispered along the stone corridors of the college, catching at Calion's fur-lined cloak as he moved with purpose. The echo of his boots was soft, deliberate—no longer the unsure steps of an apprentice but the steady stride of a man burdened by command.
Frost clung to the corners of the arched windows, casting patterns like runes of warning along the walls. Somewhere below, students were beginning their morning practice, voices rising like distant birdsong. But Calion's mind was far from lectures or incantations.
He reached the end of the hall and paused before a heavy wooden door bound in iron. A soft crackling sound filtered from the room beyond—the telltale shimmer of arcane energy and the mutterings of a mind deep in study.
He knocked twice.
The voice inside was muffled. "Hold on—one moment!"
A few seconds passed before the door creaked open to reveal Tolfdir, his eyes magnified absurdly behind crystalline lenses and his long white beard trailing like enchanted smoke.
"Archmage," he greeted with a warm smile. "What brings you to my dusty den this morning? "
Calion stepped inside. The room smelled of old paper, ink, and faint brimstone. Shelves sagged under the weight of ancient tomes. Alchemical instruments simmered on a side table, giving off periodic puffs of green smoke.
"I need to know something," Calion said quietly, his eyes scanning the cluttered quarters. "How long will the college's supplies last at current rates? "
Tolfdir blinked, then nodded thoughtfully. "Yes, of course, of course. Let me fetch the latest inventory. Just a moment." He shuffled to his desk, opened a carved drawer, and rummaged through a series of leather-bound folders.
"Ah—here we are." He flipped through pages filled with meticulous notes. "According to the latest reports… if consumption remains consistent, and if we don't take in any more refugees or students, we can stretch what we have for roughly two months."
"Two months…" Calion echoed, his tone unreadable.
Tolfdir glanced up, frowning slightly. "It's not ideal, I know. And the roads south are still too dangerous for regular trade convoys. Bandits, creatures, worse…"
Calion's jaw tightened. He nodded once. "Thank you, Tolfdir."
He turned to leave, his mind already racing. The halls seemed darker on the walk back, the shadows longer.
As Calion walked through the dimly lit corridors of the College of Winterhold, the weight of their predicament pressed heavily upon him. The ancient stones, usually a source of comfort and stability, now felt cold and unyielding, mirroring the uncertainty of their situation. The flickering torchlight cast elongated shadows, dancing eerily along the walls, as if whispering the challenges ahead.
The revelation from Tolfdir was sobering: their supplies would last no more than two months. This stark reality demanded immediate action. As Archmage, the responsibility to ensure the survival and well-being of the college's inhabitants rested squarely on his shoulders. The need for a sustainable source of food was paramount.
Calion's mind raced through potential solutions:
Pillaging Nearby Villages: A swift and direct approach. Sending adept mages to raid local settlements could replenish their stores temporarily. However, this would undoubtedly draw unwanted attention and foster animosity among the local populace. Such actions could lead to retaliatory attacks, jeopardizing the safety of the college.
Confronting the Crones of Velen: The swamps of Velen are ruled by the enigmatic and malevolent Crones, also known as the Ladies of the Wood. Eliminating them could destabilize the region's dark grip, potentially allowing the college to establish control and utilize the area's resources. This approach, while ambitious, posed significant risks. The Crones were ancient and powerful entities, deeply intertwined with the fabric of the land. Confronting them would require meticulous planning and considerable strength.
Self-Sustained Farming: Transforming the mountainous terrain surrounding the college into arable land was another consideration. This would involve extensive use of magic to alter the environment and the apprentices dedicating time to agricultural endeavors. While it promised long-term sustainability, it risked diverting focus from their magical studies and could be detrimental to morale.
Weighing the options, Calion recognized that each path carried its own set of challenges and consequences. The urgency of their situation demanded a decision that balanced immediate needs with long-term stability.
As he approached his quarters, the heavy wooden door creaked open, revealing the modest chamber within. The room was sparsely furnished, a testament to Calion's ascetic lifestyle. A sturdy desk sat against the far wall, its surface cluttered with tomes and scrolls. A single window offered a view of the desolate landscape beyond—a stark reminder of their isolation.
Seated at his desk, Calion unfurled a worn map of Velen, its edges frayed from frequent use. His fingers traced the contours of the land, pausing over the ominous expanse of Crookback Bog—the domain of the Crones. The flickering candlelight cast shadows over the map.
Determined, Calion reached for a nearby bell and rang it, the soft chime resonating through the quiet corridors. Moments later, a gentle knock echoed from the door.
"Enter," Calion called, his gaze still fixed on the map.
The door creaked open, revealing Serana. Her long, dark hair cascaded over her shoulders, and her crimson eyes held a hint of drowsiness. She stretched slightly, suppressing a yawn.
"You rang?" she inquired, her voice carrying a trace of fatigue.
Calion offered a slight smile. "Apologies for disturbing your rest, Serana. Please, have a seat."
She moved gracefully across the room, settling into the chair opposite him. Her eyes flickered to the map spread before them.
"Late-night cartography?" she teased, arching an eyebrow.
Calion chuckled softly. "Something like that. I've been contemplating our current predicament."
Serana leaned forward, her interest piqued. "Go on."
He tapped a finger on the section labeled 'Crookback Bog.' "As I explained earlier, this area is home to the Crones, malevolent beings who exert significant influence over the region. Our supplies are dwindling, and we need a sustainable solution."
Serana's eyes narrowed as she studied the map. "You're proposing we kill them?"
"Precisely," Calion affirmed. "By eliminating the Crones and seizing control of their territory, we can secure resources and establish a foothold in this unfamiliar land."
Serana's lips curved into a sly smile. "I do appreciate a good challenge. When do you propose we make our move?"
"Tomorrow at dawn," he replied. "We'll head there and kill them."
She stood, her demeanor shifting to one of determination. "Then I suggest we both get some rest. We'll need our strength."
Calion rose as well, offering a nod of agreement. "Indeed. Thank you, Serana."
As she moved toward the door, she paused, glancing over her shoulder. "Sleep well."
With that, she exited, leaving Calion alone with his thoughts and the flickering candlelight.
-Author-
short chapter need to sleep