Wicked_Fiction
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Made in Cyrodiil, Forged in Skyrim #40
🕑 Added 2025-11-25 19:56:45 +0000 UTCAs he strolled back through the quiet streets of Falkreath with Echo padding along behind him, Torin found his thoughts circling back to the Altmer priest.
For a High Elf, Runil had been surprisingly easy to stomach. He was polite without being obsequious, and his kindness hadn't felt like a performance. The fact that he hadn't put on any airs and had readily accepted Torin's coin in exchange for tending to Camilla's grave from then on had only improved the impression.
Yes, that's exactly what Torin had done after leaving the cemetery—found Runil and pressed a heavy pouch of septims into his hand with a simple, direct request. He didn't plan for this to be his last visit, but in a world as unpredictable as Skyrim, it was a simple precaution.
The idea of Camilla resting in a neglected grave was a profound disrespect, a fate worse than death for many Nords, symbolizing a soul utterly forgotten.
Shaking off the somber thoughts, Torin focused on his next destination: the guard barracks. He found the building quickly, a sturdy, functional structure near the Jarl's longhouse.
Surprisingly, the door was neither guarded nor locked. He didn't overthink it; this wasn't Solitude. He gave the heavy wood a few solid knocks before pushing it open and stepping inside.
The interior was warm, lit by a central hearth. The smell of stew and woodsmoke filled the air. Two guards, their helmets off and their armor loosened, sat at a rough-hewn table sharing a meal.
They looked up as he entered, their expressions more curious than hostile.
One of them, a man with a thick brown beard, spoke around a mouthful of bread. "This is no place to wander into, young man. Do you have something to report to the guards?"
Torin offered a disarming smile. "Sorry to interrupt your meal. I don't have anything to report, but I do have an inquiry."
The guard who had spoken first raised a bushy eyebrow, setting his spoon down. "An inquiry, you say? What about?"
Torin shrugged, playing the part of the casual professional. "I heard there's a bandit camped near town that you want gone. The innkeeper's daughter mentioned the Jarl's men are offering coin to get rid of him."
He gestured at himself with his thumb. "I'm with the Companions, you see."
The guard looked him up and down, his expression shifting from curiosity to frank skepticism. "The Companions? Aren't you a bit too young for that?"
Torin's smile didn't falter. Instead, he simply shifted the wolf-fur collar of his armor, revealing the distinctive Wuuthrad knot seared into the leather pauldron beneath—the mark Eorlund himself had put there. It was a symbol that carried more weight in Skyrim than any letter of recommendation.
The guard's suspicions evaporated instantly, replaced by a look of respect and a hint of chagrin. "I see. Forgive me for doubting you. I just... I couldn't in good conscience send a youngster after a dangerous cutthroat like Aesrael without being sure."
Torin's own brow raised in interest at the name. It sounded distinctly Elven. "An elf, eh?" he hummed. "What kind?"
The guard let out a short, humorless chuckle. "Aye, a High Elf bandit, if you can believe it. Fancy himself a renegade, I suppose." He shook his head in disbelief. "Imagine being able to live for hundreds of years, and choosing to spend those years in banditry, sleeping in the grass like a common beast..."
Torin let out a dry chuckle of his own. "People do all kinds of strange things. But I have to ask..." He trailed off for a moment, his tone turning pragmatic. "If he's just one bandit, why waste coin on a mercenary like me? Two or three of you could easily put him in the ground. I don't imagine a lone highwayman would be too skilled, elf or not..."
The guard sighed, the sound heavy with frustration. "It isn't his skill with a sword and bow that's stopping us, though believe me, he's no pushover."
He gritted his teeth, the memory clearly fresh. "It's because he knows the woods around here better than we do. He melts into the trees like a ghost. And he's got a hunting hound with him that can sniff us out a mile away."
Torin crossed his arms, thinking it over. "So he'll see me coming, too. It'd be a waste of a trip if he just ran..."
The guard quickly interjected, shaking his head. "The bastard only runs when there's more than two people coming for him. He's cautious, but confident."
He trailed off, then reluctantly added, "And... I hate to admit it, but the elf knows his way around a blade and a bow. He came dangerously close to killing one of our own three days ago. That hound of his is surprisingly ferocious, too. Took a chunk out of Dren's leg before we could drive it off."
A slow, predatory grin spread across Torin's face. "As long as he doesn't run, taking care of him won't be a problem. Though bringing him in alive might be a bit difficult."
The guard gave a dismissive wave. "As long as you get him out of our hair, it's fine. Dead or alive, the Jarl doesn't care. The bounty's the same."
"Fair enough," Torin said. He leaned against the doorframe, his curiosity piqued. "By the way, do you have any idea what a lone bandit, especially a High Elf, is doing way out here? His kind usually prefer to work in groups."
The guard nodded, his expression turning grim. "Oh, we know. He's a part of a notorious band of brigands from Cyrodiil—the Crimson Dirks. Nasty bunch. We don't know what he's doing here exactly, but our best guess is he's scouting the area. Either the whole group is planning to move in, or they just want to expand their raiding range north."
He met Torin's gaze squarely. "Either way, they need to be stopped before they get a foothold. We don't need that kind of trouble in Falkreath Hold."
Torin paused for a moment, turning the information over in his mind. He definitely didn't remember an elf named Aesrael or a contract like this from the game, but that was to be expected.
The events he remembered were years, maybe decades, in the future. The important thing was that he had a job, and it was a good one.
The fact that the target was both a High Elf and a bandit made the job that much better. He wouldn't go out of his way to hunt an innocent Altmer, but he couldn't deny the deep-seated prejudice that made the prospect of this particular hunt… a bit more satisfying.
Finally, he nodded. "As long as the bastard doesn't run, then you won't have to worry about further trouble from him." A sharp, predatory grin widened just slightly on his face. "Well, that, and the coin needs to be worth my time."
The guard chuckled, a dry, knowing sound. "No one works for free, shield-brother. Not even us guards." He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a more official tone. "Five hundred septims. Not one coin more or less, as long as you bring that damned bandit to Falkreath—or at least his head. That's how much the Jarl is worried about those Crimson Dirks getting ideas."
"Five hundred sounds like a deal," Torin agreed without hesitation. "Now I just need to know where to find him."
The guard finally stood up from the table and walked over to a worn map hanging on the wall.
He pointed a thick finger to a rugged, mountainous area north of the town. "You'll find him loitering in this stretch of wilderness, between Moss Mother Cavern and Fort Sungard. He moves around, but he always sticks to that general area. Likes the thicket."
Torin committed the location to memory, visualizing the terrain. "Alright. I'll depart as soon as possible." He turned toward the door, then glanced back over his shoulder. "I'll be back by tomorrow at the latest with a fresh head."
Without waiting for a reply, he pushed the door open and stepped back out into the cool air. Echo, who had been patiently waiting outside, lifted her head. Torin smiled and beckoned her with his head.
"Come on, girl," he said, his voice low and steady. "Time to go hunting."
...
The crisp air of the Falkreath woods filled Torin's lungs as he walked, the town's walls shrinking behind him. A small, private smile touched his lips. This area felt strangely familiar.
Wasn't this roughly where the Dragonborn was supposed to meet that dog? Barbas, that was it.
He remembered that quest vividly. A talking dog was weird enough, but for it to lead you through a vampire-infested cave only to reveal it was the pet—or was it a fragment?—of a Daedric Prince... it was one of those quests one doesn't forget.
Just as he was lost in the bizarre nostalgia of the game he now lived in, a sudden rustle came from the thicket beside the road. Torin froze instantly, his hand going to his hammer.
A part of him, half-expecting some cosmic joke, thought Barbas might come trotting out of the bushes.
Fortunately, the figure that emerged was neither a dog nor an animal. It was a young man with smooth, tanned skin, dressed in elegant, if now slightly disheveled, black robes with a dark cloak draped over them. A curved sword hung at his hip.
Torin frowned for a moment, puzzled, before Valga's gossip from the inn resurfaced: this one should be the Redguard mercenary who had taken the spriggan contract.
Looking at him now, Torin had to agree that the young man didn't look like a seasoned fighter. His features were refined, almost noble, and undeniably handsome.
However, the story his refined appearance told was contradicted by the evidence: the fresh, glistening green ichor splattered across his robes and clinging to the blade of his sword.
This noble-looking youth had not only faced a spriggan and survived, but he quite possibly slew it, and without much trouble.
As the Redguard fully emerged and began dusting leaves from his cloak, he finally noticed Torin. He offered a small, polite smile and a subtle, respectful nod before moving to continue down the path toward town.
Torin merely returned the nod and stepped aside, giving him room to pass.
He watched the young man's retreating back for a moment before muttering to himself, "Seems like an interesting fellow."
Finally, he shook his head, physically dispelling the stray thoughts. He had his own quarry to hunt. With a renewed focus, he turned back to the winding road and resumed his stride, Echo falling into step behind him, her nose already testing the wind for new scents.
Comments
Bishop7053
I wonder, theres one particular Redguard who dressed in black near falkreath. A certain brother of the the dark brotherhood maybe
Potato
Noice
