вЂњNo, in Veloth, these days, if you live to-to two hundred, two hundred and fifty, or thereabouts, you can count yourself blessed. вЂњNo,вЂќ he says, putting his pipe back in his teeth. The Dragonborn looks at him with grave surprise. Keeps them canting and chanting a thousand years or more.вЂќ Very, ah-very old, very steeped in their wizardry. If not, the Telvanni-вЂќ He pauses, remembering that the girl has no notion of what he means. The Archmage-looking scholarly and mysterious, he hopes, rather than troubled-leans on his staff. вЂњIf he canвЂ™t help me,вЂќ she says, her voice soft as snow, вЂњwhere should I go?вЂќ She glances behind her at the cave, or perhaps grotto, where an old man paces in the mad and muttering dark. The Dragonborn, stern and composed, stares back at him. Yes, a dragonвЂ™s dragged her by the sword-arm, shaken her like a dog with a doll. Yes, sheвЂ™s as scarred as the songs describe. Yes, the Dragonborn of legend is a girl his daughterвЂ™s age. He sneaks another look at her, tinderbox forgotten. On this errand, the Dragonborn of legend-storm-singer, sky-shaker-is his only company. But fierce-faced whatвЂ™s-her-name-Ladja, or Lydia, the DragonbornвЂ™s scowling second shadow-is swaddled in furs in her dormitory cell, sweating out a fever. He imagines what the housecarl would say, straight-faced, if she were here: more of a grotto, I thought. вЂњRude to smoke,вЂќ he says, вЂњin a manвЂ™s, ah-вЂќ He blinks and glances over his shoulder at the yawning chasm, open to wind and snow, where a scholar named Septimus Signus has spent his seven-year sabbatical.

The Archmage, in vague answer, gestures with his unlit pipe. вЂњWhat,вЂќ says the Dragonborn, squinting in the light, вЂњare you doing out here?вЂќ A mittened hand lands, brief and birdlike, on his shoulder. He stares at the tinderbox, willing it without much hope to jump into his hand, and wonders if the mage who first molded the spell for teleki-whatsit-teleki-Gnisis, or something, maybe the mage was from Samsi-had, like himself, contrarians for knees-Д«ehind him, footsteps crunch up from the dark. вЂњShit,вЂќ he says again, smiling his displeasure. The wind whipping across the frozen sea howls with something like laughter. HeвЂ™s standing on an island choked with sleet, in the mouth of a cavern fanged with ice, and heвЂ™s dropped his tinderbox in the snow. The Archmage of Winterhold, with great dignity, says, вЂњShit.вЂќ

Skyrim tinderbox