Let me introduce myself properly.
My name is Magni Titanborn.
And yes, that is a ridiculously epic name.
I didn't come up with it, but it's mine, so I'm taking full credit anyway.
Let's break it down.
Magni is short for Magnus. That part happened because the priest present at my birth wasn't an idiot. He saw my eyes, felt the blessing, ran his diagnostics, and came to the correct and frankly unavoidable conclusion that the God of Magic himself had personally signed my soul like an artisan marking a masterpiece.
My parents, being sensible Nord nobles who very much wanted to stay on the good side of he who made the sun, decided naming their son after Magnus was a solid life choice. Thus: Magni.
Subtle. Respectful. Also makes me sound like I could bench-press a mammoth by age twelve, which I appreciate.
Now, the fact that I'm also blessed by Sithis is something unknown and that I'm absolutely not advertising. When the priest scanned me with the diagnostic spell he only checked what my eyes were instead of checking me for all possible blessings since the thought never crossed his mind that I might have multiple. That would be insane or so he thought. Hehehehe. But I won't announce the Sithis blessing. Not now. Not later. Not unless I want the entire province to collectively scream, grab pitchforks, and summon the Penitus Oculatus, essentially the secret police and spies of the Emperor who would ghost me away to some secret facility to figure out what Sithis was up to with me. Seriously, I dodged a bullet there.
Sithis does not have good branding.
What with the whole primordial void thing. And the murder. And the Dark Brotherhood. Mostly the murder from the Dark Brotherhood, a group of murderhobos who worship him killing everyone from emperors to peasants in his name without distinction.
So yes. Magnus blessing out in the open. Sithis blessing locked in a box, buried under another box to trick people from finding said box, and is not only located underground but also underwater in the Sea of Ghosts metaphorically speaking.
Moving on.
Titanborn is my family name, inherited from my dad's side. And oh boy, that name carries weight.
The Titanborn clan traces its lineage back roughly a thousand years back to Lyris Titanborn from Elder Scrolls Online.
Insert image of Lyris Titanborn here
Yes. That Lyris.
The half-giant woman built like a siege engine who could bench press Tamriel itself.
At some point in her ancestry a coupling happened.
There was a father who was a normal human.
And there was a mother who was a giant.
I want you to pause for a moment and really think about that.
Some absolute madman of a human looked at a giant and said, "Yes. She has legs for days. That. I'm going to climb that mountain."
The sheer confidence. The audacity. The raw, unfiltered courage. He created a child who we could term as the Elder Scrolls Hagrid but that doesn't even begin to cover it.
Back to the point.
Lyris Titanborn was one of the Five Companions, standing alongside some of the most influential figures in Tamrielic history during the Planemeld. One of those companions was Mannimarco.
Insert image of Mannimarco here
Yes.
That Mannimarco.
The Necromancer.
Not a necromancer. THE Necromancer.
Say what you want about him, and trust me, history has said a lot, but the man had vision. Insane, evil, apocalyptically ambitious vision.
The Planemeld itself? Horrific. Molag Bal and Mannimarco endeavored to fuse Coldharbour with Nirn in an attempt to swallow the world into Molags personal realm? Very bad. World-endingly bad.
But Mannimarco's real plan?
Soul-trapping Molag Bal himself in an attempt to use a Daedric Prince as a battery to fuel his ascension to godhood.
That's not just evil. That's bold.
Did it work? No.
Did he give up? Also no.
He eventually did ascend during the Warp in the West event which was a Dragon Break (when multiple timelines happen and fuse together in the end causing all of them to be true). He used the Numidium's (a giant Dwemer magic gundam/robot) power source via the Mantella (a massive soul gem) to achieve godhood becoming a divine entity known as the Revenant or Necromancer's Moon.
A failed godhood speedrun followed by a successful run later.
If at first you don't succeed, try and try again.
Honestly? Respect.
Anyway.
Back to my bloodline.
For over a millennium, the Titanborn clan has carried diluted giant blood. Over time it thinned, leaving most members simply taller, stronger, and tougher than the average Nord.
Which is already pretty great, honestly.
But me?
I seem to have triggered an atavistic reaction.
That's a fancy way of saying the giant blood in me woke up and chose violence.
I am a big baby.
And I don't mean "aww chunky cheeks" big.
I mean nursemaids whispering and comparing me to bear cubs big.
At this rate, I'm probably looking at at least seven feet tall fully grown. And not the tall-and-lanky kind either.
Broad shoulders. Thick bones. Built like a walking battering ram.
Think Andre the Giant, who stood at 7'4" ft tall or The Mountain at a height of 6'9" ft otherwise known as Hafthor Julius Bjornsson, the world's strongest man in my past life.
Insert image of Andre the Giant here
Insert image of Hafthor Julius Bjornsson here
Except, respectfully, I plan on being prettier… At least I hope I do but I doubt it at this rate
Andre was a legend, but let's be honest. I'm a divine soul reincarnated into a noble bloodline. I'm not going to look like Andre… probably a bit like Hafthor who's from Iceland though if my guess is true.
A majestic juggernaut, maybe. Like an Astartes (genetically engineered giant supersoldiers) or a Primarch (the Astartes genetic parent) from the Warhammer 40k franchise if I roll a win in the looks lottery.
Insert image of an Astartes and Primarch here
Let's hope I get lucky.
Next, an important thing to take note of is I was born under the Mage Sign star constellation. This means I get an extra 50 points of magicka and an ability to learn magical skills 20% faster. I was essentially born to be a Witch-king hehehe.
Now here's a fun bit of trivia.
In the game, we never learn Jarl Korir's full name. He's just… Jarl Korir.
Turns out his full name is Jarl Korir Titanborn.
And that makes perfect sense.
Winterhold isn't just an "old" hold. It's the oldest hold. One of the capitals of Skyrim. A center of power before the other holds even mattered.
Of course an ancient warrior bloodline would seek to rule it.
Unfortunately…
The Great Collapse happened.
A number of decades ago I'm not sure exactly when since I'm still a baby, about ninety percent of the city slid straight into the Sea of Ghosts. Buildings. People. History. Gone.
Everyone in that 90% died. Tens of thousands at least.
Everyone except the College of Winterhold.
Because Archmage Shalidor and his successors warded that place like it was the last bastion of sanity in an insane world. When the earth broke and the sea swallowed the city, the College barely cracked.
Insert image of Archmage Shalidor here
Naturally, the survivors looked at that and thought:
"Hmm. Suspicious."
And since no official cause was ever declared, blame went to the closest, weirdest, least understood group available.
The mages.
Nords are a superstitious lot. When something goes wrong and there's no explanation, they will find one.
Preferably one with robes.
I learned all this both from my old memories and from listening to my father over the last few days. Because while I may only be capable of baby speak—
a sophisticated linguistic system I have scientifically classified as Baby Babble—
my comprehension is fully operational.
And yes, I have heard my father openly admit to using the College as a scapegoat.
Bad harvest? Mages.
Cold winter? Mages.
Town falling apart due to decades of neglect and lack of trade? Definitely mages.
It redirected anger away from the ruling family.
Politics 101.
But now?
Now he wants to fix relations.
Because of me.
And honestly? Good. That works out perfectly.
Because in a few years, I plan on being a mage.
A very good mage.
Every competent Witch-King is a master of magic. That's just common sense.
Now let's talk about my mother.
Her full name is Thaena Ravencrone Titanborn.
Ravencrone is her maiden name, and yes, that is exactly as ominous as it sounds.
The Ravencrone clan hails from Hjaalmarch, and their most famous member is Jarl Idgrod Ravencrone, a powerful mystic and diviner who could read portents, dreams, and futures.
Mysticism runs in that bloodline.
Which means there is a very real chance my mother has divination abilities.
And an even higher chance that I do.
Combined together: A Titanborns physical might. A Ravencrone's mystic potential. A Dragonborns soul. Don't forget the blessings from Akatosh, Magnus, and Sithis
Yeah.
This was not random.
Akatosh absolutely min-maxed my starting build. I'm a character built for a specific goal - hunting dragons.
Though I do find it funny that he dropped me into the poorest, most destitute hold in Skyrim.
"Here," he probably said. "You get everything. Also, good luck fixing this mess."
Thanks, time dragon.
Now, onto my actual experiences since being born.
First of all: being a baby is humiliating.
I can't walk. I can't talk. I can't cast spells YET. I can't even scratch my own nose properly.
I can, however, see everything.
The Eyes of Magnus are online.
Which means I can see magic everywhere.
The priest glows faintly with restoration energy. My mother has subtle threads of latent mysticism coiled around her like sleeping snakes. My father? His muscles are seeping with magical energy, and his body hums with raw physical vitality.
And the College.
Oh, the College.
Even from inside the keep, I can feel it.
A massive, stable lattice of wards and enchantments humming across the bridge. Ancient. Layered. Maintained with obsessive care.
It's beautiful.
I want it.
Badly.
Also, side note: babies get picked up constantly.
It's very annoying.
On the upside, I've discovered that if I stare directly into someone's eyes with my blue orbs long enough, they get uncomfortable and stop talking.
Useful.
Very useful.
Right now, I'm wrapped in blankets, cradled by my exhausted but smiling mother, while my father argues quietly with the steward Malur Seloth about celebrations and announcements.
Apparently my birth is already political.
Fantastic.
I yawn. Or rather, I attempt to yawn and instead make a noise that sounds like a distressed goat.
The world is big, dangerous and broken on a power scale.
But I've got time.
Plenty of time.
And this time?
I remember everything.