Late at night in Winterhold, a strangely dressed person burst into the tavern.
He was draped in a foul-smelling brown bear hide, with the twisted, deformed bear head hanging over his left shoulder, and a long, ill-fitting Walrus hide skirt, reeking of the sea, wrapped around his lower body.
Underneath the bear hide was a black hooded robe, with an extra strip of white bear fur sewn around each sleeve, long enough to almost touch the ground.
His overall appearance had transcended mere strangeness, entering a terrifying, non-mainstream barbaric heavy metal romantic iron-blooded style—in short, it was like watching a bizarre haute couture fashion show, if he didn't smell so bad, someone might even appreciate it.
The stench, which had been suppressed by the cold wind, now suddenly permeated the warm indoors, making people want to gag.
Simon, with his shockingly bad fashion sense, carried a heavy wooden barrel and walked straight to the counter, leaving wet footprints behind him.
The owner initially thought he was a hunter selling his game, but as soon as he spoke, he realized it was an acquaintance.
The Troll's "magnetic" voice was still very recognizable.
"A room, please." Simon set down the barrel, then flung his sleeve onto the counter—like a dead fish—and after the dirty white bear fur left the greasy tabletop, a stack of eight silver coins was neatly arranged.
The owner nodded, then mentioned that the bottle of mead the Troll had ordered last time he brought the child hadn't been finished, and he had hidden it in the cellar; he could retrieve it if he wanted to drink it.
Simon hesitated for a moment, then nodded, and ordered two more bottles of the same mead, spending ten silver coins.
He counted money slowly but paid quickly, making him a customer the owner appreciated.
It was still early, and the tavern offered free soup, but bread cost eight copper coins a piece—it was very dense, and the Troll ate three pieces of bread and drank soup in his room.
The cellar was in the basement behind the counter.
Simon's two and a half bottles of mead were ready, the dark green, bubbly, low-quality glass bottles covered in dust, some of which was wood ash from being heated by the fireplace earlier.
The Troll carefully wiped them clean with his cuff, then tucked them into the inner pocket of his coat; they were scorching hot, like three small irons.
Simon then left.
He carried the wooden barrel, which was full of gold coins—tuition fees prepared for that boy, and he also needed to remind him to buy Frost spells.
The Pure Land was nearing stability, and time within it might soon begin to flow—an unknown, but at least there was a premonition.
Arriving at the stone bridge's arch platform, Faralda hadn't started her shift yet, and it was empty, which made it convenient for him to go directly to the College entrance.
They had originally agreed to meet in the wilderness outside Winterhold, but after that incident of falling into the water, Simon no longer felt comfortable letting Jonas risk crossing the stone bridge.
The Troll was agile; although he was carrying a heavy barrel, he still had the grace of his younger days, when he could walk on water.
He lightly stepped on the stone railing posts with his bare feet, and in a few bounds, he reached the high wall of the College, in front of the hollowing out black iron gate.
The wind and snow were still blowing; on one side of the gate, it was warm as spring, while on the other, the frost was bone-chilling.
Simon squatted on the handrail like a gargoyle, a position that he found comfortable.
Thinking that he would see that little brat soon, the Troll quickly got down from the College's railing, stood silently, and turned to look at the endless waves of the Sea of Ghosts.
The murky, chaotic world, stripped of its usual colors, gave a sense of unreality.
The sea level was obscured by mist, the horizon shrouded by dark clouds; besides a strong sense of suffocation, no trace of benevolent poetry could be discerned from the distance.
Half an hour passed, the gate opened, and Faralda walked out, yawning.
Seeing Simon's back as he gazed out, she was startled, "Who are you?"
"It's me." Simon turned and greeted her, lifting his sleeve.
"Oh, I remember you. Your child is excellent, very impressive. He's only been here a week and is already liked by many mages. You've come to see him, haven't you? That's very good. Children his age need the comfort of family..."
The Dark Elf mage chattered on, while Simon secretly hesitated for a moment, deciding not to entrust the nine hundred antique gold coins in the wooden barrel to Faralda.
He still planned to let Jonas decide how to spend the money himself once he saw him.
Although he trusted her character, it was, after all, a hassle.
Faralda chatted with him for a few more sentences, then gracefully went to her workstation, casually twisting a fireball in her hand, her steps quite steady.
Look, what a mage's style! You'd never guess that in the game, these people in the College of Winterhold were all AI idiots who only knew how to cast Flames, weakling pugilists.
The Troll felt a sudden reverence for the slender, tall figure of the Dark Elf.
Then, he continued to turn his head to look at the scenery.
The wine in his arms, if he didn't drink it soon, would truly get cold.
Out of a certain frugality, Simon drank the half bottle of wine in one gulp, exhaled a comfortable warm breath, and then, with no regard for public morals, tossed the empty bottle into the sea current.
He watched the bottle tumble, rapidly shrinking, like some screaming, dying animal, noisy and terrifying, finally disappearing into the wind and glimmer, even the sound of it hitting the water drowned out.
Watching this scene, Simon was reminded of the sensation of his legs breaking the moment they hit the water—a reflex made his right toenail itch, and he subtly scratched it with his other foot.
The door opened again, and Simon turned to see a pile of books walking out.
Jonas carefully carried a towering stack of books, his face completely hidden, and he was dragging a small wooden trolley behind him.
He came out alone, apparently intending to brave bringing books for Simon to see.
Simon stood by the door.
The boy, head tilted back, swayed precariously as he walked to the edge of the platform, set down the books, then pulled the wooden trolley over, stacked the books onto it, and tied them with a rope, looking well-organized and diligent.
Watching his excited yet nervous little actions, Simon kept shaking his head, unable to help but chuckle.
"Who?! Oh, it's you! How did you come?!"
The little brat, in his excitement, rushed straight into Simon's arms.
Before the Troll could even pretend to push him away, he saw the wooden trolley slowly begin to slide off the bridge.
???
This won't do!
Simon picked up Jonas, took two steps, wanting to hook his foot around the precarious knowledge.
Then he failed.
Then the wooden trolley with the books began to slide rapidly.
"Sigh."
With a sigh, Simon grabbed the wooden barrel, then suddenly leaped up, flung the little brat onto the wooden trolley in mid-air, shouted, "Hold tight!" and then, stepping on the handrail, he plunged down at high speed, reaching out to push the wooden board at each corner.
Amidst Jonas's joyful shouts, they sped across the arch, the strong wind carrying snowflakes smacking Faralda in the face.
They landed safely.
"Don't do such dangerous things next time." The Troll smiled, "Come on, let's go eat something."
The Breton Boy's face was flushed with a healthy glow; he had gotten a little plumper in the few days they hadn't seen each other.
"Sir, you smell so bad."
"Yes."
"Aren't you going to wash?"
"It's the clothes that smell."
"Why don't you buy a new one?"
"The ones I buy don't fit."
"True."
"What do you want to eat?"
"Soup and steak."
"Alright."
Soup and steak.
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