Riding at breakneck speed, a journey that usually took a full day was now completed in less than two hours. The muddy ground was wet and dotted with loose stones, the terrain undulating and uneven. If Simon hadn't added enough springs, his backside would have been ruined.
Thanks to the barrier spell that blocked the strong winds, otherwise, this ride would have been torture.
He braked, the tires skidded, and the turbine stopped working, yet it still slid for over ten meters before coming to a complete stop.
Simon jumped off the Necromantic Motorcycle, bending down to inspect the mudguards. The road conditions were so bad they were a headache; the mud had almost completely filled the tire grooves, and a thick layer had accumulated on the mudguards. The Troll sighed, first throwing the Necromantic Motorcycle into the Sea of Ghosts to wash it, then retrieving it and storing it in his Pure Land. He would walk the rest of the way.
This time, he had departed half a day late but arrived half a day early. He had set off in the evening, and it was not yet midnight. The tavern owner was very surprised to see him. Simon was even more surprised by the scene inside the tavern; there were a huge number of people in the middle of the night, happily drinking and eating roasted meat. When they saw the black-robed Troll, they immediately cheered.
Simon ignored the idle crowd and went straight to the counter to greet the owner. After asking why it was so lively, he learned from the owner that it was because it was the end of the month, and basically all the able-bodied people in Winterhold had come.
Turning his head, the Jarl, who was quietly drinking in the corner, smiled at Simon. The Troll nodded in return, having no desire for small talk, and went to his exclusive room to rest.
There was no soundproofing in the tavern at all; the chaotic noise poured into the room without reservation. These drunken Nords were simply cursing the Empire for its treachery and denouncing the insidious High Elves of the Thalmor. Once the alcohol took hold, they would sing and dance loudly in the hall. The Troll sat on the bed, leaning against the wall, his arms crossed, quietly closing his eyes to doze.
For him, falling asleep was easy no matter what. He could pretend that everything happening outside didn't exist. However, he didn't sleep for too long, waking up a few hours later. Without opening his eyes, Simon pondered magic.
In the latter half of the night, the tavern quieted down. Midnight marked the beginning of a new month. The tavern owner came and knocked on the door. Simon had slept enough, so he simply opened the door to welcome him.
"The Second Seed has arrived! May the Nine Divines bless you with eternal happiness and joy. Let's have a drink!"
Simon said thank you, took the pewter tankard, lifted his face mask, and took a deep drink of the excellent mead.
Sweet, mellow, and not at all harsh on the throat, this mead was better than any he had drunk before.
"Delicious."
The owner chuckled upon hearing this, raising his tankard, "Black-Briar mead, the best in all of Skyrim. The only mead that can compare to it is the kind produced by the Whiterun winery, both are very hard to get. I only have one bottle."
Simon smiled, "In the future, I will also brew mead, and I'll bring some for you to try then."
"My pleasure, Foodie Mr.."
The two sat in the room, slowly finishing a bottle of mead. They chatted for a few moments. Simon said he wouldn't stay to cook today. Although the owner was regretful, he didn't try to persuade him to stay. After the bottle was empty, Simon stood up to say goodbye, "Good night, and sweet dreams."
"Good night to you too."
The tavern fell silent, with only faint snores coming from a few guest rooms. As lively as it had been, it was now just as desolate.
Winterhold is a village shrouded in snow. Beneath this white layer, one can see the residents' fiery passion, but truly delving into that scorching red reveals a genuine pallor beneath.
Decline, decay, bitter cold. Like a model in a crystal ball, people burn their passion, using alcohol and songs as accelerants, striving to release a little light and warmth, so that more people can see hope, even if it's insignificant.
Simon had also thought about saving this once glorious city, but he had no way. No one could defeat winter, and thus no one could save Winterhold.
Unless there was a large influx of immigrants, Winterhold, with its current old, weak, and sick population, would have no chance of survival.
These were concerns for the Jarl of Winterhold Hold, unrelated to the Troll. Ultimately, he was just an anomaly now.
The effects of the mead came and went quickly. Simon stopped his galloping thoughts, stood up, and went out. He turned to look at the counter; the owner was sleeping soundly, his snores low.
More firewood had been added to the hearth, burning brightly, making the room warm. Simon gently pushed open the main door. Wind and snow poured in, rushing through the gaps in his robe, making even the Troll feel a slight chill. He tightened his clothes, stepped out into the desolate street, and turned to close the door.
Today was the first day of the Second Seed, and Winterhold was still freezing cold.
The good thing was that the night sky was clear tonight, with no snow, though the wind was still strong. The layered clouds were blown open by the strong winds at high altitude, creating huge holes. Looking up, one could see a corner of Masser and the full view of Secunda. It was still early, so Simon found a stone by the roadside and sat down to watch the stars for a while.
After sitting for a long time, a blue-purple aurora suddenly lit up from behind the clouds, exquisitely beautiful, like a flowing river of light in a heavenly kingdom, rippling and swaying back and forth.
After sitting for a while longer, estimating that enough time had passed, Simon stood up, patted his numb cheeks, and strolled towards the College.
Jonas was waiting for him under the arch of the stone bridge, accompanied by the diligent Faralda.
"Hello, Mage." Simon greeted the High Elf lady, then took the boy's hand and walked out of Winterhold.
"Sir, aren't we going to the tavern this time?"
Simon smiled mysteriously, "You've been in Winterhold for so long, don't you want to go explore a bit?"
"Yes!"
They walked down the mountain to the coast. Simon took out the Necromantic Motorcycle. The boy immediately fell in love with its cool and punk appearance. "How beautiful! What is this?"
"A motorcycle." Simon mumbled a new word. He patted his right hand on the ram's skull at the front of the Necromantic Motorcycle, and Number Four rushed from the Pure Land into the Necromantic Motorcycle. Eerie blue necromantic energy burned like flames on the Necromantic Motorcycle's surface, two pillars of fire spewing from the ram's skull's eye sockets, then burning lowly.
"Wow!" Jonas was stunned.
"Come on, get on!"
The Troll sat in front, gripping the ram's horns, while the boy sat behind, looking left and right.
"Hold my waist, or you'll be thrown off!"
"What do you mean?" Although Jonas didn't understand why he would be thrown off, he still obediently clasped Simon's waist tightly. The Troll was almost choked by the boy's strength, but he didn't utter a sound. The Necromantic Motorcycle's brutal metal tires began to spin, accelerating with the engine's power. In just over ten seconds, it transformed into a streak of exotic lightning.
The barrier spell blocked the strong wind. The boy watched the mountain wall on his right turn into a blurry long line, and the coastline of the Sea of Ghosts on his left also constantly twisted. Everything was quiet and silent. Jonas couldn't help but shout aloud.
For the boy, at this moment, it was as if his body had dissolved, and the world was reborn.
For the Troll—he was almost choked to death!
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