Wayfarer 07: The Path of the Arcane

Disclaimer:

Magic: The Gathering and all it's related Intellectual Properties is owned by Wizards of the Coast.

Elder Scrolls Skyrim and all it's related Intellectual Properties is owned by Bethesda Game Studios.

I do not claim any ownership of the original material and acknowledges the rights of the original creators. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Enjoy the journey through the multiverse!

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As Miguel made his way through the halls of the College, searching for Tolfdir, his mind wandered to the nature of Alteration magic and how it compared to the two schools he had already proven his mastery in. Illusion had come easily to him compared to others thanks to his affinity for Blue mana making the bending of perception, the weaving of unseen energies, and the shaping of minds second nature. Restoration, on the other hand, had been deeply tied to his Green mana affinity, though primarily in its healing aspects Restoration is truly associated with White mana if in terms of affinities, but Green mana is also a good substitute. Death-related magic, while present within this particular school of magic, had proven to be something else entirely—which is quite understandable, with necromancy being the opposite aspect of what represent Green mana and mostly the death related spells present in this particular school of magic is mostly to counter it.

But Alteration… now this was where things got interesting in terms of affinity.

It wasn’t as straightforward as the others. In many ways, it was a mix of both Blue and Green mana. Green, with its dominion over nature, growth, and the manipulation of the physical world, was undoubtedly the dominant aspect of Alteration. The ability to reinforce the body, manipulate natural forces, and shape the environment all aligned perfectly with the essence of Green mana. But Blue had its place as well. The way Alteration twisted reality, how it bent natural laws rather than simply enforcing them—in subtlety was where Blue mana crept in.

Some might argue that Alteration was purely Green mana in its truest form, but Miguel knew better. And fortunately for Miguel, he has an affinity for both mana affinities.

It was something he had taken full advantage of in his studies, allowing him to shape Alteration spells with an incredible ease that most mages would surely envy. He had learned to strengthen his body with Stoneflesh, to manipulate the flow of energy with Equilibrium, to bend the rules of gravity with Telekinesis. And now, it was time to prove his mastery.

He found Tolfdir in the gardens of the College, tending to the plants with the slow, deliberate care of a man who had lived long enough to appreciate patience. The old Nord mage was a stark contrast to Colette, carrying an air of calm wisdom rather than paranoia or self-importance. Despite being a master of one of the most practical schools of magic, he remained one of the most humble members of the College—perhaps because he knew his magic spoke for itself.

When Miguel explained why he had come, Tolfdir smiled, his old but sharp eyes gleaming with interest.

"Ah, another young mage looking to test their mettle," he mused, stroking his beard. "But I suspect especially with your personality, you aren’t just here for titles, are you?"

Miguel smirked. "Titles are nice, but knowledge is better. I want to push my limits and I will."

Tolfdir chuckled. "A good answer. Very well, let’s put that to the test, shall we?"

With a wave of his hand, the old mage motioned for Miguel to follow. They left the gardens and moved toward a more appropriate space for testing—a wide, open courtyard shielded from the worst of Skyrim’s biting winds.

Tolfdir turned to face him, his demeanor shifting from that of a kind mentor to that of a true master.

"Alteration," he began, "is not the simple act of making things tougher or lighter. It is about understanding why things are the way they are—and then deciding if they should stay that way." He tapped the ground with his staff. "You must show me that you can shape the world, and not just reacting to it."

Miguel nodded, already preparing himself.

"The first test: Resilience."

Tolfdir suddenly lifted a hand, and the air around him shimmered. Miguel barely had time to react before a barrage of sharp stones lifted from the ground and launched toward him at frightening speed. Instinct kicked in, and his magicka surged as he cast Ebonyflesh, his body instantly wrapped in a protective layer of hardened energy. The stones shattered against him, barely leaving a scratch.

Tolfdir nodded approvingly. "Good. You have the strength. But Alteration is not limited to just about defense. Let’s see how you handle making change."

The second test was Manipulation. Tolfdir waved his hand, and suddenly, Miguel felt the weight of the world shift around him. Gravity itself twisted, pulling at his body as if he had suddenly been made of stone. The old mage had altered the very rules governing his body’s movement. Honestly Miguel is just being poetic about being hit with a combination of the Paralysis spell and Telekinesis.

Miguel gritted his teeth, focusing his energy. He reached into his pool of magic and cast Equilibrium, carefully balancing the forces pressing down on him, counteracting Tolfdir’s alteration with one of his own. He wasn’t supposed to just resist—he must adapt.

Tolfdir chuckled. "Excellent. You understand that Alteration is not merely about forcing things to your will—it’s about knowing when to flow with the current and when to break it."

Then came the final test: Mastery.

Tolfdir raised his arms, and the very air around them shifted. The ground beneath Miguel’s feet softened unnaturally, the walls around them warped, and even the sky above seemed to ripple. This was Deep Alteration, a full scale transmutation—a full restructuring of reality within a controlled space. Miguel was dumbfounded, astounded and tongue-tied. Seeing a spell not limited by the rules of a video game.

Miguel knew what he had to do, or so he hopes

Closing his eyes, he reached deep within himself, drawing on the wellspring of his dual mana affinities. He cast Paralyze in one direction, Telekinesis in another, and Transmute in yet another—reshaping metal, halting movement, and bending objects all at once. He has learnt on not to just using Alteration—he was applying himself into commanding it.

With a final surge of power, he reached out and stabilized the altered space Tolfdir had created, matching the master mage’s raw force with sheer precision.

And then, as quickly as it had begun, the space around them snapped back to normal.

Tolfdir lowered his hands, watching Miguel with a wide, satisfied grin. "Now that… was quite impressive."

Miguel exhaled slowly, feeling the rush of energy settle.

"You have proven yourself, Miguel," Tolfdir said, clapping him on the shoulder. "From this day forward, you are no mere student of Alteration—you are now a Master."

A smirk tugged at Miguel’s lips, and taking deep breaths. Three schools down. More to go.

And he was just getting started.

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Miguel moved through the halls of the College with purpose, his mind already turning toward the intricacies of Conjuration magic. Three schools down, yet this one would demand a different kind of mastery—a command over forces not of this world.

As he walked, he reflected on the nature of Conjuration and how it related to his mana affinities. It was a school of magic often dismissed by the ignorant as mere summoning, but Miguel knew better just as any learned mage. Conjuration was the bridge between Nirn and the other planes of existence, a mastery over Oblivion itself. It was both a scholar’s art and a warlock’s weapon.

Its strongest association was with Black mana if in terms following the teachings of Thalanor, and that was no surprise—necromancy fell under its domain, after all. The act of wrenching souls back from the void, bending the dead to one’s will, and shaping lifeless husks into instruments of battle—this was power of the darkest persuasion.

But Conjuration wasn’t just about the dead.

There was also the art of summoning beings from Oblivion, an aspect of the school that leaned toward Blue mana, with a touch of Green. Miguel had found learning these spells surprisingly natural, his affinities in both colors giving him an edge. Blue governed the understanding of summoning itself, the knowledge of how to call forth daedra, atronachs, and bound weapons from their realms. Green played a minor role, but its influence was still present—after all, once summoned, these creatures became physical, real, bound to the natural world, even if temporarily.

It was through this combined affinity that Miguel had accelerated his studies, mastering the art of summoning atronachs, wielding bound weapons with ease, and even dabbling in soul binding. Yet he had not neglected the darker side of Conjuration—while he lacked an innate talent for Black mana, he had studied necromantic practices although only at the same pace as any other apprentice. If he was to claim the rank of master, he would have to leave no aspect of the school unchecked.

But first, he needed to find Phinis Gestor.

It took some time—Phinis was not as predictable in his habits as the other Masters. But eventually, Miguel found him near the Hall of the Elements, peering over the bridge toward the Sea of Ghosts as if expecting something—or someone—to rise from its depths.

Miguel approached, making his intentions clear.

Phinis turned to him, a knowing glint in his eye. "So," he said, his voice carrying the dry amusement of a man who had seen many ambitious mages before, "another young spellcaster thinks himself worthy of the rank of Master. And what, pray tell, makes you think you are ready?"

Miguel met his gaze evenly. "I’ve mastered every aspect of the school—not just summoning the daedra, and not just necromancy either, but all of it." But inwardly Miguel is saying "My Green mana affinity has a great dislike for the necromantic side of conjuration though."

Phinis chuckled. "Well now, that is a claim. Very well, let’s put it to the test, shall we?" He motioned for Miguel to follow.

They ascended the College, passing through halls of ancient stone, their footsteps echoing as they climbed toward the open space atop the Hall of Attainment. The sky above was a dark, swirling canvas, heavy clouds rolling in from the sea, as if the very world sensed the magic about to be woven into its fabric.

Phinis turned, his face serious now. "Conjuration is about control. You are not just a summoner, nor a necromancer—you are a conductor of Oblivion’s forces. Let’s see if you can prove it."

The first test: Command of the Void.

With a flick of his wrist, Phinis summoned a Flame Atronach. The fiery daedra emerged in a burst of heat, floating ominously, its form shifting like a living inferno.

"Dispel it," Phinis ordered.

Miguel didn’t hesitate. He gathered his magicka and cast Expel Daedra. The atronach’s form wavered, then burst apart in a swirl of embers, banished back to Oblivion in an instant.

Phinis nodded approvingly. "Good. But can you do more than just banish?"

The second test: Control Over the Summoned.

Phinis raised his hands, and this time, a Frost Atronach materialized beside him, its hulking form radiating cold as it loomed over Miguel.

"Now, take control of it," Phinis said simply.

Miguel reached deep into his reserves, his mind honing in on the creature’s very essence. With a sharp breath, he cast Command Daedra. The atronach shuddered, its icy limbs locking up for a moment. Then, with a low rumble, it turned to face Phinis, standing at Miguel’s command.

"Excellent," Phinis murmured. "Now, let’s see how well you can fight with what you summon."

The third test: Battle of the Bound.

Phinis stepped back, raising a hand. Miguel knew what was coming even before the old mage spoke.

"Summon your champion."

Miguel wasted no time. He cast Conjure Dremora Lord, and in a flash of violet fire, the daedric warrior appeared before him, clad in blackened armor, wielding a greatsword that hissed with raw energy.

Phinis did the same. Another Dremora Lord emerged beside him, its jagged weapon raised in challenge.

And in the words of Dr. Serizawa

"Let them fight."

The two daedric warriors clashed, their weapons ringing against each other in a violent dance of skill and brute force. Sparks flew as blade met blade, and Miguel watched, analyzing his summon’s movements, its reactions, ensuring it was using its full strength. When he saw an opening, he cast Conjure Bound Bow, summoning an ethereal weapon into his own hands.

With precise aim, he loosed an arrow straight at Phinis’ Dremora, striking true. The creature staggered, just enough for Miguel’s own summon to land a finishing blow.

The rival Dremora let out a final, guttural growl before vanishing in a swirl of energy.

Phinis clapped his hands together. "Very well done. But we have one final test."

The last trial: The Master’s Calling.

Phinis gestured to the sky. "Summon something worthy of a Master."

Miguel knew this was it. The final proof of his skill. He drew in a deep breath, feeling the weight of the moment. Then, with a surge of power, he cast Summon Storm Atronach.

Lightning split the sky as the massive atronach descended, its form crackling with raw energy. The very air hummed with power as the storm-wreathed entity floated above them, waiting for its master’s command.

Phinis let out a low whistle. "Hah! Now that is a summon worthy of a Master of Conjuration." He turned to Miguel, a wide grin on his face. "You’ve earned it, lad. From this day forth, you are no more a mere conjurer—you are a Master of the art."

Miguel exhaled, feeling the satisfaction of another victory. Four schools down. More to go, much much more - in other worlds.

And he was far from finished.

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With four schools mastered and recognized by the College, Miguel knew he stood among the most powerful mages in Skyrim. Yet one final challenge remained—the school of Destruction.

It vexed him to no end.

Had his progress in the other schools not been so divinely swift, he might not have noticed. But compared to how he had devoured the intricacies of Illusion, bent Restoration to his will, reshaped reality with Alteration, and commanded the very forces of Oblivion through Conjuration, Destruction felt... sluggish. Unnatural. Like he was wading through the Sea of Ghosts in full steel plate.

Even now, after countless hours of practice, he had only just finished mastering adept-level spells. Adept! By this point, he had expected to be hurling thunderbolts with ease, calling forth blizzards that could freeze mammoths solid, and conjuring flames that would make even dragons wary. Instead, he still had to focus when channeling Incinerate.

That was unacceptable.

It wasn’t that he lacked talent—far from it. His control was excellent, his grasp of theory unmatched. No, the problem lay in his very essence. The brutal, destructive nature of Destruction magic was at odds with how he processed magic itself. Unlike Illusion and Conjuration, which aligned with his affinity for Blue mana, or Restoration and Alteration, which thrived under his affinity for Green mana, Destruction had no such advantage. It was raw, untamed, and demanded sheer force of will.

If he had an affinity, it would have made things easier. But Miguel had long since accepted that he was not the type to be favored by Red mana—the color of unbridled passion, chaos, and instinct. It simply wasn’t him. And if he wasn’t naturally gifted in Destruction, then he would do what he always did—study, train, and force his way through.

He had work to do.

But first, he needed to live.

For almost a year, Miguel had buried himself in books, trials, and mastery. He had made the College his home, but that was all it had been—home. He had not yet lived in Skyrim. Not truly.

And that was a damn shame.

What was the point of being in this world—this land of legends, dragons, and heroes—if he did not explore it? It was time to fix that.

And so, with his affairs at the College settled for now, Miguel packed his belongings, secured his satchel, and stepped onto the great bridge that led away from Winterhold.

Skyrim was a big place, filled with all manner of folk, beasts, and mysteries. There were strongholds of orcs, hidden covens of witches, Daedric shrines lost to time, and ruins where the undead slumbered. There were cities that reeked of politics and towns untouched by the wars of men. There were people to meet, foods to taste, sights to see, and maybe—just maybe—a fine lass or two to keep him company along the way. Wink wink.

Yes, it was time to travel.

And, if he could manage it, he would also master Destruction along the way.

Faralda would no doubt put him through the ringer when he returned to claim his final recognition. The Master of Destruction was not one to accept half-measures. If he showed even a hint of hesitation, she would laugh in his face and tell him to keep practicing.

And Miguel refused to be laughed at.

As much as he had struggled with Destruction, he knew he would get there. He just had to go about it differently. Maybe the issue was that he had only studied the theory of the school rather than lived it. Perhaps he needed to learn from true masters of Destruction—battlemages, warlocks, even the Dunmer refugees who still held the secrets of their Ashlander magic.

Perhaps he needed to fight.

Combat had a way of forcing magic to flow. Out in the wilds, where magic meant the difference between life and death, he might just unlock what had been missing all this time.

And besides, he was a completionist.

No gamer worth his salt would leave a game unfinished. No scholar would abandon a thesis half-written. And no self-respecting mage would walk away with only four schools mastered when a fifth was within reach.

He would travel Skyrim.

He would adapt Tamrielic magic into his Planar magic.

He would seek out wisdom, mystery, and adventure.

And when he returned?

He would be a Master of Destruction.

And with that, Miguel set forth into the world—ready to live, ready to learn, and most of all... ready to burn.