I'm Really Not the Dragonborn.

"Wait a minute!" A sudden thought struck Loki, his earlier frustration replaced by a surge of renewed purpose. "Paarthurnax! There's a time wound on High Hrothgar, and that damned ancient lizard must know something about Chronomancy."

The idea lifted his spirits considerably. Paarthurnax, the ancient dragon residing on the Throat of the World, had witnessed countless ages unfold. If anyone possessed knowledge of manipulating time, it would be him. Without wasting a moment, Loki turned to begin the arduous trek back towards High Hrothgar.

But as he turned, his gaze fell upon a familiar sight: a Word Wall, etched with draconic script. However, his path was blocked. Two massive frost trolls, their thick fur matted with ice and snow, lay sprawled before the wall, snoring loudly. Their presence posed a significant problem. A direct confrontation, even with his enhanced abilities, would be risky and time-consuming. He needed to reach Paarthurnax quickly.

Loki decided to rely on his mastery of stealth. He focused his mind, channeling the power granted by Nocturnal. His form shimmered, then vanished, rendering him invisible. He moved with practiced silence, his footsteps muffled by the soft snow, his breath held tight in his chest. The air around him seemed to ripple slightly, a subtle distortion that was the only indication of his presence.

He approached the Word Wall cautiously, weaving between the sleeping trolls. Their snores echoed through the air, a rhythmic counterpoint to the soft crunch of his boots on the snow. He reached the wall without incident, his invisible form brushing against the cold stone.

As he examined the wall, he found what he was looking for. Scattered around the base, nestled in the snowdrifts, were several colored balls. Using his telekinesis, he absorbed all of them.

[Dragon Tongue +1]

[Mental +0.5]

[Mental +1.2]

[Dragon Tongue +1]

[Shout (Slow Time) - TIID] 

[Strength +0.5]

Loki wasted no time ascending High Hrothgar. The climb, though steep and buffeted by icy winds, proved far less arduous than it once would have been. His enhanced physique allowed him to move with a fluid, almost effortless grace, each step precise and purposeful.

He reached the imposing gates of the monastery, perched precariously on the Throat of the World. The Greybeards, cloaked figures with long, flowing beards, stood sentinel. Their usually serene faces were etched with weariness and suspicion. He was, after all, simply a stranger who had dared to intrude upon their secluded sanctuary.

"Stranger," Arngeir's voice rumbled, the air itself vibrating with the power of his Thu'um. "You trespass on sacred ground. State your purpose."

"No disrespect intended," Loki replied, his tone respectful but firm. "I seek knowledge, not conflict."

"Knowledge?" Arngeir said, his eyes narrowed. "What knowledge could you possibly find in this isolated place?"

Loki knew he couldn't reveal his true purpose. He needed to earn their trust, or at least their begrudging acceptance. 

"I've encountered the power of the Voice," he explained, gesturing vaguely towards the distance. "An energy unlike any other, one I believe is intertwined with the very fabric of time." He chose his words carefully, avoiding any mention of Dragon Shouts or his own unusual circumstances.

The Greybeards exchanged a silent glance, their skepticism palpable. "The flow of time is a river none may truly navigate," Arngeir murmured, his voice barely audible.

"Perhaps," Loki conceded. "But I believe your master, Paarthurnax, might offer insights beyond my own."

The mention of Paarthurnax's name brought a subtle shift in their demeanor. They held him in the highest reverence. After a long, tense silence, Arngeir spoke. 

"You claim to understand the Voice. Demonstrate it."

Loki inhaled deeply, focusing his will. He channeled the power within, letting the ancient word resonate through him. 

"FUS!" 

A burst of force erupted from his lips, a powerful gust of air that whipped snow around the courtyard but lacked the devastating concussive blast of the full Unrelenting Force Shout. The Greybeards were visibly surprised. They sensed the raw power of the Thu'um within him, undeniably present yet incomplete, lacking the characteristic resonance of the Dragonborn.

Sensing their hesitation, Loki pressed his advantage. He focused again, this time drawing on a different aspect of the Voice, a power he was only just beginning to understand. He felt the familiar tingling in his throat, but instead of force, he concentrated on the very essence of time. 

"TIID…" 

He whispered, the word imbued with an almost ethereal quality. The air shimmered subtly, and for a fleeting instant, everything seemed to slow. Snowflakes hung suspended in the air, the wind hushed, and even the Greybeards' movements appeared sluggish. The effect was brief, almost imperceptible to an untrained eye, but it was undeniable.

The Greybeards were visibly shaken. This was not the brute force of a physical Shout, but something far more subtle and profound. They exchanged stunned glances, their initial suspicion giving way to a mixture of awe and confusion.

After a long, heavy silence, Arngeir finally nodded slowly. 

"You… you wield the Voice in ways we have not witnessed before. This is… most unusual. Very well. You may speak with Paarthurnax. But tread carefully, stranger. His wisdom is not given freely."

The ancient dragon lay coiled on the summit, bathed in the ethereal light of the sky. He turned his massive head as Loki approached, his golden eyes filled with ancient wisdom and a flicker of curiosity.

"You are not Dovahkiin," Paarthurnax rumbled, his voice like the grinding of glaciers. "Yet you speak the Dovahzul, and… you touch the vennesetiid. A rare and curious thing, little one. Unslaad."

"What's so curious about it, Old Dragon? It's rudimentary at best," Loki replied, a playful smirk tugging at his lips. He adopted a tone of friendly banter, as if speaking to an old acquaintance.

Paarthurnax chuckled, a deep, resonant sound that vibrated through the mountain. "Rudimentary, perhaps. Like a hatchling testing its viing, discovering the Venneselok. But the fire… the Yol… it is there. You seek the mindok of Tiid. A dangerous path, stranger. Volaan, why do you walk it?"

"Well, you see," Loki began, leaning against a nearby rock as if settling in for a casual chat, despite the precariousness of their location on the Throat of the World. "I've stumbled across… let's call it a temporal anomaly. A bit of a… time hiccup, if you will. And it seems I've gotten myself a little… misplaced." He offered a wry smile. "Figured the resident expert on all things timey-wimey might have some pointers."

Paarthurnax's golden eyes narrowed slightly, a flicker of genuine curiosity replacing the amusement. 

"A… displacement? Volaan?" His voice rumbled with ancient power, the very air around them seeming to thicken. "Such things are not to be taken lightly, little one. The vennesetiid are tahrodiis, and those who tamper with them often find themselves swept away by forces they cannot mindok. Grah."

"Oh, I'm well aware," Loki chuckled, waving a dismissive hand. "Believe me, I've had a few close calls already. But this… this is different. It's not just about traveling through time. It's about… well, I think I might have gained the ability to… influence it." He paused, considering his words carefully. "I encountered a… relic. It merged with me, somehow. And now… well, let's just say I've got a beginner's grasp on Chronomancy."

Paarthurnax's gaze intensified, his eyes burning with a sudden intensity that made Loki feel as though he was being examined on a molecular level. "Chronomancy… a rare and dangerous art. It is the domain of Akatosh himself, the Dragon God of Time. Bormahu." A low growl rumbled in his chest. 

"To wield such Zul… without the blood of the Dov… this is indeed a most curious thing. Unslaad."

"Hence why I'm here," Loki said with a shrug. "I figured you, of all beings, would understand the… implications." 

"So," Loki asked, a hopeful glint in his eyes. "Any idea how I can… you know… use this Chronomancy thing? Or maybe… how to get back where I belong?"

Loki then explained his predicament in detail, describing his accidental displacement in time and his desperate desire to return to his own era. He spoke of the vision granted by the Elder Scroll, the fragmented images and the whispered word: Labyrinthian. He laid bare his hopes that this newfound ability, this Chronomancy, could be the key to his return.

Paarthurnax listened patiently, his ancient eyes filled with understanding. He had, after all, walked a long and winding path himself, from the bloodthirsty servant of Alduin to the contemplative master of the Voice. He understood the desire for redemption, the yearning for a different path.

When Loki finished, Paarthurnax remained silent for a long moment, contemplating the implications of his words. Finally, he spoke, his voice low and resonant. 

"Motmahus… You seek a difficult path, little one. Hin. But your intent… it is neither driven by malice nor paar, but by a desire to return to your rightful place. I will aid you. Geh."

A flicker of surprise, then immense gratitude, crossed Loki's face. "You will?"

Paarthurnax nodded his massive head. "The Thu'um is the language of creation, the very fabric of reality. Kaan. To understand Tiid, you must understand the flow of the Thu'um. You must learn to hon to the whispers of the past, the echoes of the future. Ven." He paused, his gaze fixed on Loki. "And you must be prepared for the price. For Tiid… Tiid krent, time always demands a payment. Geh. But with careful guidance, you may learn to navigate these ven without being swept away."

And so began Loki's tutelage on the Throat of the World. He remained there for a considerable time, immersed in the ancient dragon's wisdom. Paarthurnax imparted his vast knowledge of the Thu'um, guiding Loki through rigorous meditations and demanding exercises that honed his connection to the Voice. He taught him to perceive the subtle vibrations of time, to sense the echoes of past events and the faint whispers of potential futures. He stressed the inherent dangers of Chronomancy, the delicate balance of cause and effect, and the catastrophic consequences that could arise from its misuse.

While it appeared as though Loki was solely absorbing Paarthurnax's teachings, his progress was subtly aided by another factor: dropped colored balls. As Paarthurnax instructed him, these balls would occasionally drop, falling down from the old dragon. Loki, ever observant, would discreetly gather them, using his telekinesis. Curiously, the frequency of their appearance seemed to increase when Paarthurnax entered his periods of deep slumber, as if the dragon's rest somehow amplified their drop rate.

The mountain became his austere classroom, the howling wind his constant companion, and the ancient dragon his patient and wise, if unwittingly generous, mentor. But the true, unseen key to his rapid advancement, the hidden accelerator of his learning, remained the colored balls. They accumulated silently, their influence reflected in the subtle shifts on his status panel, each one a tangible improvement and a step closer to mastering the art of Chronomancy.

Finally, after what felt like an age of 'rigorous training', the moment arrived. Loki stood before the time wound on High Hrothgar, the swirling vortex of temporal energy a constant reminder of the delicate and dangerous nature of time itself. He focused his mind, drawing upon the knowledge imparted by Paarthurnax. He visualized the flow of time, not as a linear progression, but as a complex tapestry of interwoven threads, constantly shifting and reforming.

He worked meticulously, using the time wound as a focal point, a guide for his burgeoning Chronomancy. He sensed the echoes of past events rippling outwards from the wound, faint whispers of what had been. He reached out with his mind, trying to grasp those echoes, to understand the currents that flowed within the temporal vortex.

As he delved deeper, a sense of understanding began to dawn within him. He felt the subtle shifts in the flow of time, the minute variations in its rhythm. He could almost perceive the pathways that branched off from the present, leading to different moments, different possibilities. It was like learning to navigate a labyrinth blindfolded, guided only by the faintest of whispers.

Then, with a sudden surge of confidence, he knew he was ready. He had found his bearing, his connection to the flow of time solidified. He took a deep breath, focusing all his will into a single point. He raised his hand, not with a magical gesture or incantation, but with a simple, decisive movement. He slapped his hand against the air before him, as if striking a solid surface, tearing through the fabric of reality like opening a heavy, stubbornly jammed elevator door.

The air shimmered and cracked, a jagged tear appearing in the space before him, revealing a swirling vortex of colors and light. It was a pathway, a temporary conduit through the currents of time. The time path was open.

He turned to Paarthurnax, who had been observing his progress with silent intensity. 

"Thank you, Old Dragon," Loki said, a genuine gratitude in his voice. "For everything."

Paarthurnax nodded his massive head, a low rumble emanating from his chest. "The vennesetiid are ever shifting, little one. Dez mothmahus. Tread carefully on the path you have chosen. Erei mu grind."

With a final glance at the ancient dragon, Loki took a deep breath and stepped through the tear in reality, disappearing into the swirling vortex, leaving behind only the faint scent of ozone and the echo of his farewell.

The moment Loki stepped through the space tear, his senses were overwhelmed. It wasn't a smooth transition, but a jarring plunge into chaos. He felt himself being stretched and compressed, his body momentarily losing all sense of form. Colors swirled around him, not the familiar hues of the world he knew, but vibrant, otherworldly shades that pulsed and shifted like living things. Sounds echoed in his ears, not distinct words or noises, but a cacophony of whispers, screams, and roars, all overlapping and merging into an incomprehensible din.

He felt the passage of time not as a steady flow, but as a series of disjointed fragments. He experienced flashes of moments, glimpses of events that seemed to belong to different eras, different realities. He saw towering forests that predated recorded history, then crumbling ruins that hinted at civilizations long fallen to dust. He saw dragons soaring through skies of emerald green, then witnessed the same skies choked with ash and fire.

But amidst the chaos, he saw them: the same glowing, colored balls he often collected. They drifted through the swirling vortex of time, each one pulsing with a distinct energy. He instinctively reached out, his mind focusing on the familiar sensation of telekinesis. As he drew the orbs towards him, he felt a strange sense of resonance, as if they were drawn to him as much as he was to them.

[Chonomancy +0.5]

[Chonomancy +0.3]

[Chonomancy +0.4]

[Chonomancy +0.3]

As each ball was absorbed into his being, the chaos around him seemed to lessen slightly. The swirling colors became less intense, the cacophony of sounds softened, and the fragmented moments began to coalesce. He felt a deeper connection to the flow of time, a greater understanding of its intricate workings. He noticed a subtle shift in his perception; the disjointed flashes of time began to string together, forming a disjointed, but nonetheless perceptible, narrative of the past, present, and even glimpses of possible futures.

The orbs also seemed to have a direct effect on his Thu'um, specifically his "Tiid" shout. The brief moments of slowed time he had previously managed to conjure became longer, more pronounced. He could feel the very air around him thicken, the flow of time itself resisting his influence, but he could also exert more control over it, holding the slowed state for a few precious seconds longer with each absorbed orb.

Then, just as suddenly as it began, the chaos subsided. The swirling colors coalesced, the cacophony of sounds faded, and the fragmented moments merged into a coherent flow. Loki found himself standing on solid ground once more, his body whole, his senses returning. He gasped for breath, his heart pounding in his chest, his mind still reeling from the ordeal, but now also filled with a newfound understanding of the power he now wielded.

He looked around, trying to get his bearings. The landscape was drastically different from High Hrothgar. Gone were the snow-capped peaks and windswept slopes. Instead, he found himself in a dense forest, the air thick with the smell of damp earth and decaying leaves. Towering trees, their branches draped with moss and lichen, formed a dense canopy overhead, filtering the sunlight into dappled patterns on the forest floor. But it wasn't just any forest. The leaves, a distinctive blend of vibrant yellows and oranges, told him where he was. He recognized them instantly: the telltale autumn colors of the Rift. He was somewhere near Riften.

The air was still and quiet, broken only by the chirping of insects and the rustling of leaves in the gentle breeze. It was a stark contrast to the howling winds and the thin air of High Hrothgar. The change was so abrupt, so complete, that Loki felt a profound sense of disorientation. He had traveled through time, that much was certain, but it seemed he had also traveled through space. He took a tentative step forward, his hand instinctively resting on the hilt of his sword. He needed to be cautious. He was in an unfamiliar time, but at least he was in a somewhat familiar place. He had no idea what dangers might lurk in this ancient forest, or what awaited him on his quest to find his way home.

Suddenly, the tranquil silence of the Rift was shattered by a fierce war cry. The sounds of battle erupted nearby: the clang of steel on steel, the thud of heavy footsteps, the desperate shouts of men locked in combat. Ibnor instinctively drew his sword, his senses on high alert. He moved towards the source of the commotion, careful to remain concealed amongst the thick foliage.

Pushing through a dense thicket of trees, he found himself at the edge of a small clearing. The scene that unfolded before him was a chaotic melee. Imperial soldiers, clad in their distinctive heavy armor, clashed with Stormcloak rebels, their roughspun clothing and fur armor stained with mud and blood. But it wasn't the battle itself that caught Ibnor's attention. It was a figure caught in the crossfire, a figure that made his blood run cold.

It was himself.

He saw himself, or rather, a version of himself, stumbling back from the fray, several arrows protruding from his armor, dark stains blooming on his tunic. This other Ibnor, his face contorted in pain and confusion, looked disoriented, caught completely off guard. He was clearly an innocent bystander, caught in the wrong place at the wrong time.

A volley of arrows, launched from the Imperial lines, flew towards this other Ibnor, finding their mark. He cried out, his legs giving way beneath him. As he fell to the ground, his vision blurring, Ibnor watched in horror as the Stormcloaks, mistaking his doppelganger for a fallen Imperial, charged forward, their axes raised high, their faces grim with battle fury.

The scene played out in agonizing slow motion. Ibnor could see the terror in his other self's eyes, the utter helplessness as the Stormcloak warriors descended upon him. He tried to shout a warning, to intervene, but his voice caught in his throat. It was like watching a nightmare unfold, a horrific vision he was powerless to stop.

The Stormcloaks, their bloodlust heightened by the perceived victory, showed no mercy. They swarmed the fallen figure, their axes rising and falling in brutal, efficient strokes. Ibnor watched, transfixed, as his other self began to fall. Just as the first axe was about to fall, an instinctual, desperate scream tore from Ibnor's throat.

"STOP!"

It wasn't a Thu'um, not a word of power learned from dragons. It was a raw, primal cry of desperation, a plea to the universe itself. But something extraordinary happened. The world around him froze. The Stormcloak axes hung suspended in mid-air, inches from his other self's prone form. The falling leaves, the swirling dust, even the expressions on the faces of the frozen warriors, were locked in place, as if time itself had been paused.

Ibnor stood there, panting, his heart pounding in his chest. He stared at the frozen tableau, a mixture of shock and disbelief washing over him. He hadn't used a Shout. He hadn't even consciously tried to use his Chronomancy. The word, the intent, the sheer desperation, had somehow triggered something within him, a latent power he hadn't known he possessed. 

It wasn't the "Tiid" Shout, it was something else entirely, a more direct, almost instinctive manipulation of time. He had accidentally stumbled upon a time stop spell, a raw, untamed manifestation of his newfound abilities. He had saved his other self, for now. But what to do next? He was trapped in a moment outside of time, with no clear idea of how to undo what he had just done.