Chapter Text
It was a turning out to be a very strange day. Upon receiving reports of an odd magical incident in Kolskeggr Mine, Jarl of Markarth, Igmund, sent his housecarl Faleen along with a small detachment to investigate. The court wizard, Calcelmo, sent along his nephew Aicantar as a consultant and observer. Another observer sent along was Queyan, an agent of the Thalmor working under Ondolemar. The party massed at the gates and began the march through the Reach.
The sun was high in the sky when they crossed the bridge that led to the mine. Aicantar made sure to inform Faleen that he could feel the magicka in the air at that time. Everyone was starting to feel on edge, the mer of the group especially. This was no ordinary magic, neither had ever felt anything of the sort before. The air around the mine was buzzing with it, a shimmer visible to even the least magically capable of the party.
It was at this point that Aicantar and Queyan joined the redguard woman at the front of the pack. Both mer had spells ready in their hands, and Queyan had drawn her short sword. The mine itself was eerily devoid of the usual bustle one expects of the most profitable gold mind in the Reach. No clatter of metal to stone and ore, no footsteps, no chattering of miners. Their own feet made echos that reverberated down the tunnels and back, a dripping of distant water, the occasional loose stone clattering to the ground, dust settling on abandoned equipment. The home guards shifted uneasily, weapons drawn.
The tunnel twisted deeper into the mountain, and the scent of magicka grew thicker. Ozone mingled with stale air and metallic dust, becoming more and more choking as they went. The buzzing in the air turned into audible humming, like that of a charged conjuration spell. Like something big was about to be summoned. Faleen’s face twisted into a grimace when Aicantar told her as much. Queyan rolled her shoulders back and insisted that they continue with the lure of a favorable review when she wrote her report later. Neither man nor mer cared much for what she had to say.
Around the bend, they could see the light burning in a large cavern. Violet magicka swirled in the center of the floor, pulsing like a heart beat. Aicantar was voicing a proposal to study the phenomena when the tempo increased. Less than a minute later, the magicka condensed, then shattered. The cave system trembled, then it went dark and silent. A couple of candlelight spells and some lit torches later and they approached the epicenter of the magic event, where an organic looking lump sat. Then it lifted its head.
Before them sat a small human woman, likely of breton origin, wearing fabric across the lower half of her face. She had a wild mass of curls that puffed off of her head and came to rest at her shoulders. She seemed to scowl at them, squinting with surprising intensity. She was on the fatter side of human commoners, and dressed very oddly. A thin shirt clung tight to her skin, the neckline cut low enough to give ample view of her cleavage. Definitely a grown woman, despite her stature, no mere girl would be so… Endowed. She wore a skirt that began at the narrowest part of her generous waist and fell to the middle of wide thighs. Her footwear was a simple sandal, with two leather thongs that connected the side of the sole to between her first two toes and a third to connect the two behind her ankle. The woman frowned even deeper, blinking slowly in the torchlight.
“Have you seen my glasses?” She asked, muffled ever so slightly by her cloth mask. The cave was quiet, except for the crackling of the torches. “You know, glasses?” She lifted her hands and made circles with her fingers, which she then held in front of her eyes. “Unless y’all don’t speak English, in which I’m fucked.”
“Do you mean… Spectacles?” Aicantar hedged, obviously boggled by her manner of speech.
“Yeah sure,” the woman said, beginning to pat around the cold stone floor. Then she stopped, put her hand into a pocket in the folds of her skirt, and withdrew thick black framed spectacles. She unfolded them, settled them on her mask covered nose and turned to look back at the group from her seat on the rocks. Then she just stared.
“I am Faleen,” Faleen started, likely eager to end the awkwardness of the introductions sooner rather than later, “Housecarl of Jarl Igmund of Markarth.” The woman blinked at her several times. Then she inhaled deeply and exhaled. Inhaled, then exhaled. Then pinched her arm.
“Ouch!” She hissed, rubbing the spot on her arm. The eclectic group behind Faleen exchanged confused glances, and one twirled a finger near their helmeted temple. The woman looked up at everyone and sighed. “Well this is definitely not a dream.” She stated as though it was in question.
“It is considered polite to exchange names when one first meets another,” Queyan said, feeling her temper growing short. The woman turned to her and adjusted her spectacles with wide eyes. “I am Queyan, I serve the Thalmor and Aldmeri Dominion. And you are?”
“Oh!” The woman said, “Sorry, I’m Gisela. Hello.” And she waved from where she sat on the floor.
“Pleasure, my name is Aicantar, assistant and nephew to the Jarl’s court wizard.” The altmer lifted his hand to wave back, if slowly and clumsily, to mimic her greeting. “If I might ask, is there a reason you’re still sitting on the dirt floor?” Gisela looked down at the grimy stone and her brows furrowed again.
“Well,” She began, looking rather long suffering for a woman who appeared out of thin air in a summoner-free conjuration spell, “I would love to stand up, but I’m a bit light headed and if I try I will definitely fall down again.” She blinked a couple times and rubbed the back of her head, “Where am I, by the way?” Faleen offered Gisela a waterskin and began to explain the events as she was aware of it. Gisela tugged down her mask and poured water into her mouth without letting the vessel touch her lips, looking more uncomfortable as the story continued.
“Do you have any idea what may have brought you here?” One of the assorted nord men asked, “Some kind of ritual maybe?”
Gisela shook her head, swayed in her seat with a crease between her brows and blinked again. Then she tugged her mask up and handed the waterskin back to Faleen, “No. I was getting ready to go see my friends at the park, then I felt dizzy. I must have blacked out because the next thing I know-” She made a popping noise with her lips, “I’ve been isekai’d.” It answered none of their questions and only made everything more confusing, strange words aside.
“Is there anything you can tell us? Anything at all?” Aicantar asked hopefully, “Or is there really no explanation.”
Gisela shrugged, “I’d give my left tit to know more than I do now,” someone choked and coughed, “But I’m going to assume divine fuckery until proved otherwise. Or I’m hallucinating, maybe I’ve cracked and I’m in a nuthouse somewhere lost in delusions.” The bizarre breton glanced at Queyan, then at Aicantar, “But somehow that seems less likely.” Once again, more questions raised than answers given.
“Divine fuckery?” an imperial hedged, Queyan didn’t care for frontline guards much. Fodder for Reachmen, no sense learning their names. Gisela nodded, then swayed again.
“Well yeah,” She said, “Loki’s pranks are legendary, and even Odin All-Daddy gets up to his own shenanigans.” This woman wasn’t just incredibly foreign apparently, she believed in a completely different pantheon. The group from Markarth watched as she began to use her hands to reposition her legs, rubbing feeling back into her practically bare feet. She huffed and looked back up, “I’m going to need help to stand up and someone may need to catch me.”
Faleen grasped Gisela’s forearm and hauled her to her feet, only for Gisela to wobble on her legs like a newborn foal. She squeaked when a nord woman wrapped her arms around her for stability, then what was visible of her face turned red. “Ah, thanks. Sorry.”
Aicantar watched in poorly disguised intrigue as Gisela’s feet and legs began to turn deep red and the skin swelled slightly. “Is this something that normally happens to you?” He asked. The woman blinked up at him, tiny thing she was. Shorter than the average breton.
“Oh yeah,” She said casually, as though she wasn’t being held upright for risk of collapse, “All the time. Every time I stand up, blood goes from my head to my feet. ‘S why I’m so dizzy. By the way, if you want me to go anywhere I’m going to need a good walking stick and a lot of time to get there or someone needs to carry me.” It barely took a few minutes for the most pack horse like of the lot to be decided upon and Gisela was helped to his back. She clung to him, muttering apologies for the inconvenience.
“Don’t worry about it,” the nord said, “Easier than fighting mages or forsworn. Gods know we thought we’d find daedra worshipers, not a strange lass.” Gisela balled her hands in his cloak.
“Just you wait,” She teased, a smile in her eyes, “I’m more trouble than I’m worth by far.” The man laughed. Queyan made sure to follow the pair as closely as she could without being overtly obvious, gathering information that she would need when she reported to Ondolemar later.
The march back was much more lighthearted, Gisela was curious about Markarth and the Reach. She asked questions about Skyrim, and about Tamriel as a whole. She asked about politics and religion and social relations. Questions that implied she was somewhere far far away from Tamriel. When asked about her home, on the other hand, she clammed up. When she wasn’t dodging questions, her answers were vague, and she had to pause and consider her words with care. It was suspicious, and Queyan didn’t like it at all.
“May I ask why you cover your face?” Queyan asked, something the altmeri woman felt should have been brought up earlier.
“I don’t want to catch the plague,” Gisela said casually. Of course at the mention of a rampaging disease, everyone grew tense, but the woman didn’t lose a moment “There’s a big global panini going on, and I’m vulnerable enough as it is. Shit’s dangerous if you’re healthy, worse if you’re as fucked up as I am. Fuck.” She shrugged her shoulders and huffed. The steam of her breath fogged the glass of her oddly thick rimmed spectacles.
“That is… very concerning,” the nord carrying her said slowly, “What do you mean you’re fucked up?” Queyan was already reassessing her first impression of the strange breton. Not only was she ridiculously foreign, foreign in a way the Dominion had never seen before, but she was likely touched in the head as well. Gisela was too nonchalant about her situation, about her homeland’s current problems, and her own claim to lameness. ‘Disabled’ she said. It was downright bizarre.
When they approached the gates of Markarth, Gisela went quiet and wide-eyed. “Impressive, yeah?” the nord whose back she was carried on asked her. She nodded and looked about with a tension in her body that had Queyan questioning whether or not the woman had ever been in a city before. The way her eyes darted around and took in her surroundings with something akin to fear was reminiscent of a cornered beast.
The climb up to Understone Keep was no more troublesome than it usually was, though made more amusing by the irate mutterings of Gisela. The breton seemed to have decided sometime long ago that stairs and slopes were among the worst inventions in existence. A claim that Queyan was rather entertained by. Useless as the woman seemed to be physically, she had a talent for being funny in her own strange way.
Gisela cowered ever so slightly as the door guards let the group into the Keep. Her prior bluster gave way to a more situationally appropriate fear under the watchful eyes of the guards patrolling the stone halls. The Jarl was seated in his throne, his court, with the addition of Ondolemar, waiting for their arrival.
“Faleen,” Igmund said, his back straighter in his seriousness, “That didn’t take nearly as long as we feared. Report.” It wasn’t a question. As Faleen explained what they’d found in the mine, Gisela was gently lowered to the floor where she proceeded to balance herself carefully with a hand on her pack mule of a nord’s arm. At the mention of the mysterious summoning, all eyes turned to the breton.
“Uh, hello.” She waved awkwardly, “I’m Gisela. I, uhm, I’m not from around here.” There was a round of huffed chuckles. Igmund quirked a smile of his own.
“I think we’ve gathered that, girl. What can you tell us about this… Incident?” He prompted her. Gisela swayed ever so slightly, her legs a dark red that contrasted dramatically against the pale color of her sandals.
“Uhm,” She said, eyes big and wet, “Your people know more about this than I do I think,” there was some murmuring amongst the thanes and between Aicantar and his uncle Calcelmo. “Teleportation is scientifically impossible as far as I know.”
Calcelmo spoke up, “Not exactly,” All eyes turned to the old altmer, “Portals exist, though they take a vast amount of magicka to sustain. Without them, the Champion of Cyrodil would not have been able to kill Mankar Camoran. In the old days before the eruption of the Red Mountain, the Mages’ Guild had specialists who could connect their guild houses through portals.”
“The cake is a lie,” Gisela muttered, far too quietly for the court to hear, though a few of the people nearby raised eyebrows at the statement. Then she spoke up, “We don’t have anything like that in America.” That set the thanes tittering.
“And where is this… America that you’re from?” Ondolemar asked then, “I have never heard of such a place. Is it across the sea from Tamriel?”
Gisela stiffened, “Well, funny story,” she began, “The United States of America is the-” she counted her fingers, “One of the biggest nations in the world. And most of the world has been discovered. I’ve never heard of this place in the little bit of geography included in social studies. So as far as I can guess, none of the-” she stopped to count again, “seven continents on my planet includes a Tamriel.” Several people roared in outrage.
“The girl must be mad!” shouted Thongvor Silver-Blood, representative from the Silver-Blood family “How is such a thing possible?”
“Calcelmo, what do you make of her claims?” asked Raerek, Igmund’s steward. The wizard inhaled deeply, then sighed.
“It is rather outlandish and improbable,” he said, “But it is possible. We know for a fact that there are other planes of reality. Oblivion, Aetherius, the Void. Perhaps there is more we have yet to discover. Madness or not, we mustn’t discount her. Not now.” Calcelmo then turned to the Jarl, “I would study her, but I am already overworked as it is. I have precious little downtime that I can devote to researching this possibility. I cannot take her on full time.”
Jarl Igmund’s posture relaxed and he settled into his usual feline lounge, “It is indeed a mystery, one that I find myself fascinated by. Gisela,” The woman was swaying on her feet, despite the arm she held for support, “I offer you a place to stay here in Understone Keep as a guest. In return, I will assign a minder, as you are likely unfamiliar with our customs and frail of body. In return, I want Calcelmo to study you, try to understand what brought you here and what the effects of this summoning are or will be.”
“Works for me,” Gisela said weakly, “I’m honestly looking forward to sitting down. Any longer and I’ll just sit where I’m at.” Igmund laughed at that.
“Then I shan't keep you much longer, as for who will act as your guardian...” His eyes wandered those assembled, “Ah, yes. You’ve been awfully idle of late, Ondolemar. Perhaps this, ah, pet project, will keep you from getting too bored here. The Thalmor headquarters still have plenty of space for more guests after all.” The Justiciar grit his teeth, but forced a smile at the nord.
“Of course, if that is what you wish. I too, find myself rather intrigued as well.” He turned to stare at the aforementioned breton, who shrank under his eyes. “I will take very good care of her.”