Crookback bog

The first light of dawn cast sharp shadows across the mountain peaks surrounding the College. Calion stood at his chamber window, observing the unfamiliar terrain with detached interest. The air carried the crisp scent of stone and pine - nothing inherently dangerous, just foreign. His fingers moved through precise arcs as he murmured the summoning incantation:

"Nirnensel ven ahst mora,

Feyn alok-dov nid bala..."

Blue energy crackled along his fingertips as the spell pulsed through the College's stonework, seeking only the senior faculty. The magic wasn't subtle - it didn't need to be.

Behind him, the bed's occupant stirred with a displeased grunt. Serana emerged from the blankets like a specter rising from a tomb, her crimson eyes glowing faintly in the dim light.

"If you're going to keep waking me at this hour," she said, voice rough with sleep, "I'm going to start draining you each morning to compensate."

Calion didn't turn from the window. "You'd have to actually leave your quarters before noon to get me."

A dagger embedded itself in the wall beside his head. He plucked it free, examining the edge. "Dull. You're slipping."

Serana swung her legs over the bed's edge with predatory grace. "Try me after I've fed."

The senior faculty arrived with varying degrees of promptness. Tolfdir first, smelling of alchemical reagents and old parchment. Faralda next, her sharp gaze immediately assessing the room for threats. The others trickled in behind them - Colette with her ever-present notes, Phinis rubbing sleep from his eyes, Drevis already muttering about disrupted research schedules.

Calion didn't bother with greetings. He tapped the map spread across his desk. "Inventory reports show two months of supplies remaining at current consumption rates."

Phinis blinked. "That can't be right. The storerooms-"

"Were empty when we arrived," Faralda interrupted. "Because this isn't Winterhold."

A beat of silence. Not shocked - just calculating.

Colette scribbled in her notebook. "The mountain terrain appears barren but stable. With proper-"

"Unproductive," Calion cut in. He pointed to a marked location on the map. "Crookback Bog. One day's travel north. Controlled by three entities known as the Ladies of the Wood."

Tolfdir stroked his beard. "Some manner of local hag coven?"

"Effectively," Serana said from her perch by the window. She tossed a weathered journal onto the table. Pages fell open to sketches of twisted figures and accounts of disappearances. "They control the region's food supply through a combination of magic and terror."

Faralda examined the drawings with academic interest. "Fascinating morphology. The extended digits suggest ritual mutilation rather than natural evolution."

"Can they be reasoned with?" Drevis asked.

"Doubtful," Serana said. "And impractical. Their power structure relies on absolute control."

Calion watched his faculty process this. There were no gasps of horror, no moral quandaries - just the quiet assessment of professionals evaluating a problem.

"Elimination seems the obvious solution," Faralda said finally. "But the logistics are problematic. Unknown territory, unknown capabilities..."

"Serana and I will handle it," Calion said. "The College remains secured. Odahviing and the constructs can maintain perimeter defense."

Tolfdir nodded slowly. "A sound approach. Minimal risk exposure."

"Define 'handle it'," Phinis said, pushing his glasses up his nose. "Complete eradication? Selective removal? Are we preserving their agricultural systems?"

"Termination with asset acquisition," Calion said. "Their food production methods appear magically based. Worth studying."

Colette made another note. "And if they're more powerful than anticipated?"

"Then we burn the swamp and find another solution," Serana said simply.

The meeting continued with methodical precision. Rationing protocols were established, research priorities adjusted, contingency plans drafted.

The meeting concluded with the same efficiency it had begun. Calion watched as his faculty dispersed - Faralda already muttering about optimizing combat spells for wetland environments, Phinis calculating probable alchemical yields from swamp flora. Only Tolfdir lingered, his aged fingers tracing the map's edge.

"The apprentices won't take well to extended confinement," he observed mildly.

Calion didn't look up from his notes. "They'll adapt or they'll starve. The fundamentals of education remain unchanged."

A dry chuckle escaped Tolfdir's lips. "Spoken like a true Archmage." He turned to leave, then paused. "The dragon... it won't..."

"Odahviing understands restraint." Calion finally met the old master's gaze. "Mostly."

As the door closed behind Tolfdir, Serana materialized at his shoulder, having moved with that unsettling vampiric silence. "They're taking it better than expected."

Through the window, they observed the courtyard below. A cluster of senior apprentices had cornered Phinis, their heated debate carrying faintly through the glass:

"-can't just lock us in like-"

"-said the Archmage's scouting-"

"-not even proper research subjects-"

Calion's lips twitched. "Define 'better.'"

Serana snorted. "No one's set anything on fire yet. By College standards, that's practically harmonious."

A sudden gust of wind preceded the arrival of Odahviing, the dragon's crimson scales gleaming in the morning light as he settled onto the highest spire. His voice rumbled through the stonework:

"Dovahkiin. The stone watchers patrol. None approach unseen."

Calion inclined his head. "Keep them contained. No exceptions."

"They are safe beneath my wings." The dragon's golden eyes gleamed. "These... Crones. They will learn fire?"

Serana bared her fangs in something too sharp to be a smile. "They'll learn several things."

With a final glance at the ordered chaos below - apprentices being herded back inside by animated statues, masters preparing for lockdown - Calion turned to his preparations. The Archmage robes were exchanged for practical leathers reinforced with dwarven mesh. The Staff of Magnus remained, but now joined by an ebony dagger at his belt and a bandolier of carefully selected potions.

Serana watched with clinical interest as he checked each item. "You're expecting resistance."

"I'm expecting incompetence," he corrected, slotting a paralysis poison into its sheath. "But prepared for anything."

She nodded approvingly, running a finger along the edge of her own blade. The steel gleamed with a faint blue sheen - frost enchantment, perfect for slowing fleeing targets. "Shall we test that theory?"

The teleportation circle flared to life beneath their feet, its runes glowing with increasing intensity. As the magic gathered, Calion took one last look at the College - not with sentiment, but with the cold assessment of a commander surveying his defenses. Everything was in place. Every variable accounted for.

The world dissolved in a flash of blue light.

When it reformed, they stood at the edge of a vast swamp, the air thick with the scent of rotting vegetation and something darker beneath. The trees stood twisted into agonized shapes, their branches clutching at the mist like skeletal fingers.

Serana inhaled deeply. "Oh, they're definitely eating children."

Calion's magic pulsed outward in a diagnostic wave. "Three distinct signatures. Northwest. They know we're here."

"Good." Serana's dagger slid free with a whisper of steel. "Let's not disappoint them."

Their boots made no sound as they moved through the bog, Calion's wards deflecting the stagnant water, Serana's vampiric grace carrying her over the unstable ground. The wildlife had fallen silent - not in fear, but in that terrible quiet that comes when predators recognize something more dangerous has entered their territory.

The first sign they were expected came when the path ahead twisted in on itself, forming a perfect circle of dead trees. At its center stood three figures - not hiding, not ambushing, but waiting with the calm of creatures who had ruled this land for centuries.

The tallest spoke first, her voice like wet bark splitting. "Visitors. How... rare."

The second giggled, a sound that set teeth on edge. "So polite to come to us."

The third simply stared, her too-many eyes blinking at random intervals. "He smells of dragonfire," she observed.

Calion didn't waste time with threats or negotiations. His staff flared to life, its energy ripping through the Crones' illusions like parchment. Serana moved in the chaos, her blade finding flesh where there should have been none.

What followed wasn't battle. It was dissection.

Spells meant to terrify peasants shattered against wards forged in the College's deepest vaults. Claws that had ripped out a thousand throats scraped harmlessly across dwarven-forged armor. The swamp itself rose against them - and found itself frozen, burned, and electrocuted in rapid succession.

The last Crone's head struck the bog water with a wet thump, her body dissolving into the same black ichor that had sustained her for centuries. Calion watched the remains sink, the swamp's unnatural stillness giving way to the first natural sounds he'd heard since entering—the tentative croak of frogs, the rustle of reeds in a faint breeze.

Serana wiped her blade clean on a tattered scrap of the Crone's cloak. "They were weaker than I expected."

"Complacent," Calion corrected. "They ruled through terror, not strength." He knelt beside the largest of the bone-strewn huts, prying open a chest bound in tanned flesh. Inside lay rows of glass jars, each containing a severed ear floating in murky liquid. Names had been carved into the lids—Marta, Jerek, Lilia—dozens of them. Beneath them lay a ledger, its pages detailing dates and locations.

"Third Moon, 1273. Taken the girl from Downwarren. Left the father one ear. The village will remember."

Serana peered over his shoulder. "Charming."

Calion snapped the ledger shut. "We'll need to visit Downwarren."

Downwarren

The path out of the swamp grew firmer beneath their boots, the stink of rotting vegetation giving way to the cleaner scent of pine and wet earth. The trees here still bore scars of the Crones' influence—grooves cut into bark to collect sap, bundles of twigs tied with human hair dangling from branches. But the deeper they traveled from the bog, the more the forest returned to something resembling normalcy.

A child's laughter echoed ahead.

They emerged from the treeline to see Downwarren nestled in a shallow valley, a cluster of two dozen thatch-roofed homes surrounding a central square. Unlike the swamp, life here looked... ordinary. Women kneaded dough outside open doorways. Men repaired fishing nets stretched between posts. Children chased each other through the mud, their shouts ringing loud in the clear air.

Then someone spotted them.

A woman carrying a basket of eggs froze, her face draining of color. The basket slipped from her fingers, eggs smashing against the hard-packed earth. One by one, the villagers turned. Conversations died. A child whimpered.

The village elder—a gaunt man with a missing left ear—stepped forward, his hands visibly shaking. "You... you come from the swamp." It wasn't a question.

Calion held up the ledger. "The Crones are dead."

Silence.

Then chaos.

A woman screamed. A man collapsed to his knees. Children were dragged inside, doors slamming shut. The elder staggered as if struck, his remaining ear turning red. "Dead? But—the protections—the bargains—"

Serana snorted. "What protections? The occasional child not taken? A few less ears cut off in a bad year?"

The elder's mouth worked soundlessly. Behind him, a young woman clutched a toddler to her chest, both of them missing their right ears. A scarred man gripped a rusted axe, his face a mask of terrified fury.

Calion set the ledger down on a nearby stump. "The Crones took your children. Your ears. Your fear. We're offering different terms."

He flipped the ledger open to a random page, revealing the meticulous records of atrocities. "Taken the blacksmith's daughter. Left the mother one ear. The village will obey."

"Now," Calion continued, "you will send your sick and injured to Bald Mountain's base. We will cure what we can. In return, you will deliver fifty percent of your harvest to the village below our mountain."

The elder blinked. "Fifty percent? But the Crones never took crops—"

"And what did that gain you?" Serana interrupted. "You still starved when the fishing was poor. Still lost children to fevers that could have been cured with basic potions." She nodded to a coughing boy hiding behind his mother's skirts. "That lung rot? A simple draught would fix it. The Crones let it fester so you'd beg harder for their 'mercy.'"

A murmur ran through the crowd. The young mother touched her missing ear, then looked down at her wheezing son.

The scarred man with the axe stepped forward. "And if we refuse?"

Calion met his gaze. "Then you can explain to your children why the cough that could have been cured now takes half the village. Why the bandits the Crones kept away now burn your homes." He closed the ledger. "The terms are simple. We protect. You provide. No more ears. No more children taken in the night."

The elder swallowed hard. "How... how do we know you'll keep your word?"

Calion unsheathed his dagger. The villagers flinched—then stared as he sliced a shallow cut across his own palm. Blood welled, dark against his skin. "By my blood. Break the terms, and the protection ends."

It was a show, of course. The cut would heal within minutes. But rituals mattered to peasants.

The elder hesitated, then reached out with his own knife—a rusted, pitted thing—and nicked his finger. A bead of blood joined Calion's on the ledger. "We accept."

One by one, the villagers came forward. The scarred man. The young mother. The blacksmith with three fingers missing. Each added their mark, their fear giving way to something more complex—hesitant hope.

As they turned to leave, the elder called after them. "What... what do we call you now?"

Calion didn't look back. "Call us nothing. The Crones needed names to inspire fear. We don't."

The elder of Downwarren hesitated as Calion and Serana turned to leave. "Wait—the other villages. Under the Crones' rule... they won't believe us if we tell them the Ladies are dead."

Calion paused, considering. He reached into his satchel and withdrew a cloth-wrapped bundle. Unfolding it, he revealed a gnarled, blackened finger—one of the Crones', severed during the fight. The nail was long and yellowed, the skin cracked like old leather.

"Show them this," he said, tossing it to the elder, who caught it with a shudder. "And tell them the terms."

Serana smirked. "And if they need more convincing... tell them to look to the swamp. The water runs clear now. The trees no longer whisper. The Crones' magic is broken."

The villagers murmured among themselves. The elder swallowed hard, clutching the severed finger like a holy relic. "We'll send riders at first light. But... what if some refuse your terms?"

Calion's expression remained impassive. "Then they will learn what happens to those who cling to the old ways."

The threat hung in the air, cold and unshakable.

The elder nodded quickly. "We'll spread the word."

By the next evening, riders from Downwarren had reached the nearest villages—Blackbough and Lindale. The reactions were much the same: disbelief, then dawning horror, then cautious hope.

In Blackbough, the village headwoman—a stout, one-eared woman with a permanent scowl—stared at the Crone's finger in revulsion. "You expect us to believe this?"

The Downwarren rider, a young man missing his right ear, shrugged. "Come see for yourself. The swamp doesn't stink anymore. The trees don't move on their own. The Crones are gone."

A murmur ran through the gathered villagers. A child—one of the few with both ears still intact—tugged at her mother's sleeve. "Does this mean they won't take me next winter?"

The headwoman's face darkened. She turned to the rider. "And these new... protectors. What do they want?"

"Fifty percent of your harvest," the rider said. "In return, they'll heal your sick. Protect you from bandits. No more ears taken. No more children stolen."

The villagers exchanged glances. The terms were better than the Crones had ever offered.

-author-

i can only make 1 chapter a week i have less time 

i started writing after final exams so update was fast 

but new term start cant upload more 

ps. descrete math so hard wanna die

anyone have advise feel free to comment here. :)