This was the fourth element Simon created.
The first three were relatively active, but this fourth one was truly inexplicable.
Fortunately, Simon had a general understanding of how he was able to achieve this.
In short, it required romance, enough emotion, and magical energy to resonate and synchronize, which could imbue magical energy with a soul and logic, creating elements. This process should be inseparable from the Pure Land; something had always been hidden beneath the Pure Land, a treasure Simon had yet to discover.
The Troll rubbed his face—clean, thick, tough, warm. He imagined his hands were like a peculiar mask, hiding all his emotional expressions behind it, in the darkness, very safe… He was getting a bit of a feeling, but it wasn't enough to get into character. Simon smiled, knowing that he didn't lack a sense of security, so this kind of imagination was difficult to immerse himself in.
But what exactly is romance? This question was profound enough.
The Life Element, floating in the void, spread its wings and soared high, flying into the sky. In an instant, the pure white firmament turned a pale gold, and the sunlight was filled with Life magical energy. The growth of plants became more vigorous; rows of small apple tree saplings shivered with spirit, their roots piercing deep into the soil, almost touching the ice sheet beneath. The beans, ramie, rapeseed, and so on, all ripened prematurely.
This solved the fertilization problem.
A faint fragrance diffused in the air, making one feel as if they were in an illusory sea of flowers, with each breath moist and cool, like a bamboo forest shrouded in mountain mist on a clear morning.
In the latter half of the year, Simon would likely find it difficult to spare time for magic research. He had many things to do: weaving linen, making clothes, making sugar, pressing oil, brewing wine. Each task required his full dedication.
Life passed slowly. High Sun and Moon were spent in harvest, Last Seed saw another batch of crops sown, Hearthfire shared his food with the Winterhold people, Frostfall was still busy with farming, Sun's Dusk saw a large accumulation of supplies in the warehouse, and Evening Star brought Jonas back for the New Year.
Happy New Year!
Simon made mutton dumplings, large longevity peaches, fried crispy meat, fried sugar cakes, and everything festive and delicious for Jonas, the Wolf Pack, his friends in Winterhold, offerings to the Nine Divines, to the various gods in heaven, and to nature. He harvested much and shared much, like a complete cycle.
The festivities lasted a full month, from the latter half of Evening Star in 184 to the first half of Morning Star in 185. Winterhold had never been so lively. People raised their glasses to the generous Simon, blessing him, welcoming him, worshiping him, as if he were the embodiment of joy.
The Wolf Pack's newborns loved him, and Winterhold's newborns loved him too.
The Troll was tall and broad-minded, called the Happy Foodie, and some called him the White Mountain, because his cloak was white. Simon never expressed his likes or dislikes for these nicknames, so over time, people became bolder and called him all sorts of things. Some children especially liked to call him Big White Ball, no one knew where they got the inspiration.
Currently, Simon wore several newly made linen clothes underneath, with a linen headscarf covering his third eye and bone spurs, and a hood, revealing a bit of his ugly and fierce face. The linen was a blend of flax and ramie, sturdy and refreshing, good for everything except wearing in winter.
Outside the linen clothes was still a bearskin cloak. The old one had long rotted away, but during Frostfall, Simon encountered a wandering white bear that was about to hibernate and was already plump. The Troll conveniently killed it. Its hide was tanned into clothing, its flesh made into delicacies, its bones crushed for smelting, and its soul transformed into an undead to be commanded, not a single bit wasted.
People regarded Simon's change in appearance as a great trust in them, because a mysterious person willing to share his privacy was a symbol of friendship. Even though Winterhold residents were astonished by the Troll's ugly appearance, no one disliked him for it. Among the Guards were healthy, tall, agile, and brave Nord women who looked favorably upon Simon and often sought him out for drinks.
The new Jarl, Collier, was also very close to Simon. He was a young, red-haired Nord with a proper and resolute face, a broad nose, and a circle of green stubble around his lips. He often wore a heavy fur coat and a ruby-brass circlet, speaking with a loud and steady voice. He could be heard pontificating at the street corner even from the end of the street. He was enthusiastic, having previously traveled and trained abroad, and upon his return to his hometown, he gained the trust of the residents within a month.
He always spoke ill of the Mage College, holding conspiracy theories about the Great Collapse years ago. Other than that, he was a regular at the tavern, always fond of drinking. Once he drank too much, he would laugh heartily, his unrestrained demeanor very approachable. But then again, Winterhold was now just a small village, a dozen households, without even independent governance and sufficient territorial prestige. No one would care if he tried to put on airs as Jarl.
He often said that he wouldn't leave this time, that he would settle down in Winterhold, find a wife, have a child, and live a peaceful life.
When Simon came to the tavern, he would bring his homemade vodka, which was very popular with the barbarians. In the new year, the wine brought by the Troll was enough for everyone to enjoy.
Jarl Collier, after drinking it, immediately said he would grant Simon the title of Baron of Winterhold. The residents in the tavern cheered, with no one opposing. Before the Troll could refuse, Collier shoved a finely patterned steel hand-axe into his hand. The drunken Jarl grabbed Simon's hand, raised it high, and shouted to those around him: "Look closely! This axe is the symbol of our new Baron of Winterhold! If anyone has an objection, speak now!"
The men and women in the tavern laughed heartily. No one voiced an objection, only urging the bard to quickly sing a song.
Our bard was an eccentric Breton man. He came to Skyrim three years ago, traveling north, seemingly fleeing disaster, arriving in the poor and remote Winterhold. He was short—Bretons often had to look up slightly when facing Nords—but he was quite handsome and lived with a local Nord woman without marrying. He could sing many ballads, including those of the Empire, Skyrim, or his homeland, all performed with his skilled lute playing.
All this is just to let people know that he was an eccentric poet who always loved to sing against the grain—sometimes quite dramatically, which made people like him.
In such a joyful moment, he played a heavy and resilient tune.
Everyone's laughter gradually faded, and silence like the cold wind filled the place. Only a few muddled drunks were still muttering, the rest recognized the song and showed their respect.
The Breton began to sing softly: "Our hero, oh our hero, has a brave heart!"
The Nords in the tavern were already stirred by this line, and emotional people had tears in their eyes.
"Let me tell you, tell you, the Dragonborn has returned!"
The bard's gaze was fixed on the flames in the hearth, his nimble fingers still plucking the strings. Was he plucking the strings, or plucking heartstrings? All the men, women, and children in the tavern began to softly echo.
"Using the power of the Thu'um, an ancient Nord art!" The melody was so deep, yet their voices were so firm.
"Believe my words, believe it, the Dragonborn has returned!"
"Evil will meet its end, driving out Skyrim's foes!"
"They beware, beware! The Dragonborn has returned!"
"The dark age is over, a hero's legend continues!"
"Do you know, do you know? The Dragonborn has returned!"
The Dragonborn was the archetype of the Nord people. This song was called "The Dragonborn Comes," and in times of dark suffering, it gave courage to warriors and hope to the populace.
The Troll applauded, exclaiming loudly: "Long Live Skyrim! Long Live the Dragonborn! Long Live the Nords!"
Then people shed tears and shouted: "Long Live Skyrim! Long Live the Dragonborn! Long Live the Nords!"
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