Wicked_Fiction
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Made in Cyrodiil, Forged in Skyrim #38
🕑 Added 2025-11-22 15:22:46 +0000 UTCBy the time Torin pushed open the door to the Sleeping Giant Inn, any thought of the lunatic and the blood-red book had been forcibly scrubbed from his mind.
During the short walk back to Riverwood, he had performed a masterclass in mental gymnastics, thoroughly convincing himself the entire encounter had been a bizarre, stress-induced hallucination.
Nothing to see here. Just a weird guy who left.
He scanned the common room and quickly located Delphine standing behind the bar, methodically polishing a tankard. He walked up and leaned against the counter. "The job's done."
Delphine stopped mid-wipe, a damp cloth in one hand and the mug in the other. She raised a skeptical eyebrow. "Did he give you any trouble?"
Torin gave a dismissive wave, the picture of nonchalance. "No, not really. He was… surprisingly reasonable. Once I explained he wasn't welcome, he just packed up his things and left."
Delphine let out a short sigh, a mix of relief and mild annoyance. "Then it seems we'll be overpaying for a simple conversation. But a deal is a deal." She reached beneath the counter and retrieved a small but heavy coin purse, placing it on the bar with a soft clink. "There. Two hundred and twenty-five septims."
Torin took the purse, the weight of the coins a satisfying, tangible reality. "Thanks."
Delphine gave a curt nod and resumed drying the mug. "So, what's next for the wandering Companion? Will you be gracing us with your presence for another night, or moving on?"
Torin shook his head. "I don't think there's any more work for me here, and I've concluded my other business. I'll be moving on."
"Where to?"
"Falkreath. To visit an old friend," Torin said.
Delphine let out a thoughtful hum. "The dead or the living kind?"
The question was so blunt and unexpected that Torin was momentarily taken aback. Then he remembered: Falkreath was essentially one giant graveyard with a town awkwardly built around it. A bitter, wry chuckle escaped him.
"The dearly departed kind," he confirmed, the humor not quite reaching his eyes.
Delphine finally set the dried mug down and picked up a wooden bowl instead, giving it the same methodical wipe. "I see. You have my condolences, then."
Torin shrugged, the gesture a little too casual. "It happened a long time ago." He shifted his weight, eager to be on his way. "Either way, I ought to get going if I want to have any hope of reaching Falkreath before it gets dark."
With that, he turned and started for the door.
He'd only taken two steps before Delphine's voice cut through the inn's ambient noise. "Wait. Before you go..."
He turned back with a puzzled look, only to feel a cold knot tighten in his stomach. Delphine was bending down behind the bar. When she straightened up, she was holding an eerily familiar book with a blood-red cover. She placed it on the counter with a soft thud.
"You forgot this in your room when you cleared out this morning," she said, her tone matter-of-fact. "Don't go littering my inn with your belongings."
Torin's brow twitched ever so slightly. He had definitively hurled that damned thing into the thickest part of the riverside undergrowth not half an hour ago. What in the seven hells was it doing here, looking like it had just been sitting neatly on a shelf?
He forced a tight, strained smile. "You... really shouldn't have gone to the trouble."
Delphine gave him a flat, puzzled look. "What are you talking about? Hurry up and take your book."
The twitch in his brow intensified into a full-blown muscle spasm. He had no choice. With a grumbled curse swallowed behind his teeth, he snatched the book from the bar. The leather was cool and unnervingly supple, exactly as he remembered.
"Come on, Echo. Let's get going," he muttered, his voice low.
He turned and strode toward the door, but as he passed the large, crackling hearth, he didn't break his stride. In one fluid, almost casual motion, he tossed the blood-red book directly into the heart of the flames.
He didn't even glance back, pushing the door open and stepping out into the daylight as if he'd just discarded a piece of common trash.
From behind the bar, Delphine watched the book blacken and curl in the fire, her frown deepening. She had a thousand questions, but the set of the young Companion's shoulders and the finality of that toss told her now was neither the time nor the place to ask any of them.
...
By the time Torin trudged up the final hill into Falkreath, the sun had long since vanished behind the mountains, leaving the world bathed in the deep blues and purples of twilight. He offered a tired nod to the guards at the gate, who grunted in return, and stepped into the town.
And immediately, he felt it.
In the game, Falkreath’s residents always complained about it being gloomy and depressing, but to him, it had just seemed like any other pine-forested corner of Skyrim. Seeing it now, in the fading light, he understood.
It wasn't just the omnipresent gravestones nestled between the houses. There was a weight to the air itself, a damp, quiet sorrow that seemed to seep from the very soil. The greenery was lush, the houses were built of familiar wood and straw, but everything looked muted, as if viewed through a thin, gray veil.
A low-hanging mist coiled around the bases of the ancient pines, deepening the sense of isolation.
After a moment of taking in the somber atmosphere, he just shook his head and walked deeper into the town. It was far too late to seek out the priest of Arkay and ask about Camilla's grave. Instead, he started looking for the local inn, the Dead Man's Drink.
He found it quickly after getting a direction from a local who’d pointed with a silent, weary gesture. Pushing the door open, he found the interior as quiet as the town outside.
It was nearly empty, save for a couple of off-duty guards nursing their drinks in a corner, an old woman with a severe expression behind the counter, and a younger woman sweeping the floor, her movements slow as she listened intently to the guards' murmured conversation.
Both women had the same tan skin and dark hair, though the elder's was streaked with silver. A mother and daughter, most likely. They were the only splash of warmth in the otherwise somber establishment.
The older woman behind the counter instantly noticed Torin’s entrance, her sharp eyes flickering from his armored form to the young bear at his heels. She paused for only a heartbeat, her expression unreadable, before calling out, "Take a seat and make yourself comfortable, young man. My daughter will be with you shortly."
Torin gave a tired nod. "Alright." He found a secluded table in a shadowy corner and sank onto the bench with a soft groan, Echo flopping down beside him with a contented sigh.
True to her word, the younger woman—Valga—was at his table in moments, a practiced, friendly smile on her face. "My name's Valga. What can I get for you?"
"Whatever's fresh and warm," Torin said, his voice weary. He gestured toward Echo. "Two servings. One cooked, one raw."
Valga’s smile didn't falter. "Alright. I'll tell Mother. It shouldn't be long." She hurried over to the older woman, relayed the order, and the innkeeper gave a curt nod before disappearing into the kitchen.
Ready to settle in for a wait, Torin reached into his satchel for his book, but he paused as Valga, instead of leaving, slid onto the bench opposite him. She leaned forward on her elbows, her dark eyes alight with curiosity.
"So," she began, her voice a conspiratorial whisper. "What brings you to Falkreath?"
Torin raised an eyebrow. Unlike Whiterun or Riverwood, he hadn't spent much time in Falkreath during his "playthroughs." The details were hazy. But he did remember the innkeeper here had a notorious love for gossip. This must be her, a much younger and more energetic version.
He offered a small, noncommittal smile. "I'm here to visit the dead." He then turned the question back on her with a grin. "What about you? What brings you to Falkreath?"
Valga seemed taken aback by his question, her eyes widening. "That's a strange question to ask someone working in an inn..."
Torin chuckled softly, his eyes scanning the quiet, near-empty common room. "An inn that doesn't have a bard, where the furniture looks like it hasn't been used much..." He shrugged, leaning back against the worn wood of the bench. "It clearly hasn't been long since this place opened its doors."
Valga looked at him blankly for a moment, then let out a genuine, surprised laugh. "You're right. Sharp, aren't you?"
She leaned in closer, her voice dropping. "My mother and I came here from Cyrodiil to avoid the worst of the war. We only recently saved enough to buy this place and open the inn."
She let out a wistful sigh, her gaze drifting around the quiet room. "It sure is... lively here these days. We've been getting all kinds of interesting passersby. Just like you."
Torin raised an eyebrow, his interest genuinely piqued. "Interesting passersby? How interesting?"
Valga nodded eagerly, happy to have a captive audience for her gossip. "First, there were those traders... the cat-folk. Khajiit, I think they're called." Her tone shifted to one of clear disappointment. "Too bad the Nords here don't have a high opinion of them. Turned them away at the gate before they could even set up a stall."
Torin let out a thoughtful hum. "I saw them at Riverwood. The people there didn't welcome them either. Seems to be a theme."
Valga's smile returned, bright and conspiratorial. "And that's not all! There was even that Redguard mercenary. Acted like he'd seen a fight or twenty, but didn't look like it. He left in the afternoon after getting some work from the Jarl's men."
She nodded toward the door as if he might walk in at any moment. "He should be back by tomorrow, if he doesn't get himself killed out there."
Torin let out a weary sigh, the long day finally catching up to him. "A mercenary snatching up all the work? Just my luck. I was hoping to make a bit of coin here before I moved on."
Valga quickly shook her head, her dark hair swaying. "Oh, there's still work to be done! The Redguard took a contract that the Jarl's men were planning to send to the Companions in Whiterun. Something about a spriggan causing trouble up in the woods." She leaned in closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. "And get this—he offered to do it for half the price the Jarl was going to pay the Companions."
Her expression then turned genuinely puzzled. "What's really strange is that he ignored a bounty on a lone bandit who made camp nearby. The pay was better, and it would've been much easier than tangling with a nature spirit." She shrugged, as if the logic of it was beyond her. "Doesn't make much sense, does it?"
Torin couldn't help but smile. She certainly loved to gossip, but she was right. It was strange. Why would a mercenary pass up an easier, more lucrative job to hunt a dangerous magical creature for half the pay?
The fact that it was a contract originally meant for the Companions pricked at his pride a little, but not enough to actually do anything about it.
With the twins, Aela, and Skjor actively rebuilding their reputation, work was flowing steadily into Jorrvaskr. There was even a trickle of hopefuls trying to join, though none had yet met Kodlak's exacting standards.
Seeing that Torin had fallen into a thoughtful silence, Valga cleared her throat softly. "So, how about it? Want me to go ask those guards over there about the bandit bounty for you?"
Torin shook his head, giving her a tired but grateful smile. "Thanks, but there's no need. I'm too road-weary to even think about work right now. I'll visit the barracks tomorrow, once I'm done with my business here."
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