As a lad John had always been half again as tall as—and several stones heavier than—his peers. He was picked first for tug-of-wars and caber-tossing competitions, last for sprints. He had an almost preternatural understanding of the uses and abuses of an axe—first when chopping wood for the kitchen fire, but later adapted to more bellicose purposes.
In secret, however, John always desired a different path for his life than his physical stature seemed to indicate. Alchemy, enchanting, and the Magickal arts were his obsession, and he read everything about the arcane that he could get his giant meaty hands on. Despite his love of the mage’s life, robes were never his thing. A good plate armor just felt right on his shoulders, and the way the chain mail jingled underneath as he walked was his companion on the long road. “That’s alright,” he thought. “I can be a sorcerer in the best of armors—iI’ll smith it myself, and then weave complex enchantments into it to protect me even further, or to lighten my load, or restore my magicka even faster!”
As soon as the opportunity presented itself to begin the long journey to the Mage’s College in Winterhold, John packed a lunch, strapped his best axe to the back of his iron breastplate, and started walking north—to Winterhold!
