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Made in Cyrodiil, Forged in Skyrim #29
🕑 Added 2025-11-11 12:21:17 +0000 UTCLarethil stopped a respectful few paces in front of Torin, his practiced smile faltering only slightly as he took in the young man's thunderous expression. Clearly, the direct approach wasn't welcome.
He smoothly shifted his attention to the more neutral—or at least, less openly hostile—Skjor.
"Since we are taking a moment's respite," Larethil began, his tone congenial, "I had hoped to share a small taste of our homeland with you both."
He reached into a finely stitched satchel at his hip and produced a small cloth bag, pulling it open to reveal what looked like crystalline, golden strips. "It's a rather peculiar salted delicacy, made from sun-bleached shore fish. Unlike common road rations, its flavor is quite—"
"That's a no, thank you," Torin cut in, his voice flat and final. He didn't even look at the offering, instead giving a dismissive wave in Larethil's general direction. "Save it. Those sorts of 'delicacies' are a bit too sophisticated for us simple Nord folk. We'll stick to our salt beef and hardtack."
Larethil's smile froze solid on his face, a stiff mask of politeness. His eyes flickered as he turned his appeal back to Skjor. The veteran warrior just offered a noncommittal shrug, as if to say, 'Don't look at me. The whelp speaks for himself.'
Larethil let out a soft, awkward chuckle that didn't reach his eyes. "I... see. I think you give yourselves far too little credit, but I shan't insist if that is how you feel." He gave a stiff, formal nod. "We shall resume our places."
He turned on his heel and retreated through the snow, back to where Anariel waited, her own expression unreadable.
The moment he was out of earshot, Skjor shifted from his rock and moved to sit heavily beside Torin on the boulder. The wood creaked under the combined weight.
"Alright," Skjor grumbled, his voice low. "Out with it. What in Oblivion is it with you and these two? I can understand a man disliking elves. By Ysmir, I've got my own reasons. But this?"
He gestured with his chin toward the retreating Altmer. "This is excessive, boy. You're being downright rude, and I need to know what's got your breeches in such a twist."
Torin gave Skjor a flat, unblinking look. "I don't have a problem with High Elves," he stated plainly. "What I have is a problem with those two."
Skjor's brow furrowed in genuine confusion. "Why? They're milk-drinkers, that much is obvious. But they've kept their distance, paid their coin, and been nothing but polite. What's the crime?"
With an exasperated sigh, as if explaining something simple to a child, Torin leaned forward. "Exactly. That's the problem. I've dealt with High Elves passing through Whiterun before. Merchants, mages, even a few Thalmor justiciars. And not a single one of them was polite, amicable, or in any way pleasant."
He shook his head. "It's just how they are. Same as Nords being stubborn, close-minded brutes. It's a part of their cultural nature."
His expression darkened as he glanced back at the two figures further down the path. "Just look at them. What High Elf you know acts like a friendly innkeeper? It's not in their blood."
Skjor was silent for a long moment, processing this. A weary grin finally cracked his stern features. "I don't know any High Elves, boy. The ones I've met were either too busy bleeding on the tip of my sword or fleeing to stop and introduce themselves. I never got a chance to study their manners."
A chuckle, half dark amusement and half sheer disbelief, escaped Torin. "Well, I do. And they don't act like that." His face hardened, his voice dropping. "I don't know what their game is, but they're definitely hiding something. This 'humble pilgrim' act is a performance."
Skjor gave a low, thoughtful hum, his gaze drifting back to Larethil and Anariel with a new, more calculating intensity. "Alright. Since you're the expert on pointy-eared etiquette, I'll take your word for it. I'll keep an eye on them. To be safe."
He then pushed himself up with a grunt and extended a hand to Torin. "I take it you're ready to keep going?"
Torin nodded, gripping Skjor's forearm and letting the larger man haul him to his feet.
He turned to Echo, who was lounging in a patch of sun-warmed snow. "Come on, girl. Nap time's over. Let's get going."
With that, they resumed their trudge up the mountain, the crunch of their boots and Echo's padded footsteps the only sounds they made. But now, the two polite, amicable shadows trailing behind them felt a little more sinister.
...
Man prevailed, shouting Alduin out of the world;
Proving for all that their Voice too was strong;
Although their sacrifices were many-fold
As Torin’s eyes traced the fifth wayshrine’s inscription, the familiar pull tugged at his mind, but this time he was ready for it. The world around him dissolved, not into the soul-crushing despair of Alduin’s gaze, but into the thunderous chaos of an ancient battlefield.
The sky was a tempest of leathery wings and fire. Dragons swooped and roared, their Thu’um shaking the very foundations of the mountains. But this time, men did not just break.
The Nordic heroes of old stood firm, their faces set in grim determination. They met the mountain-shattering shouts not with helplessness, but with Voices of their own. The air crackled with the collision of unimaginable powers.
Torin saw warriors fall, consumed by flame or torn apart by raw force, but for every one that fell, another took his place, their unified Shouts rising into a crescendo that finally, defiantly, began to strike the winged tyrants from the sky.
The vision culminated in a cataclysmic blast of sound that silenced all others. The great black form of Alduin himself was thrown from the heavens, crashing to the ground amidst a field of the slain, both man and dragon.
This time, the vision didn't end with a jolt; it faded naturally, like the final note of a dying song, leaving behind an echo of hard-won victory.
Torin blinked, the crisp mountain air flooding back into his lungs. He breathed a quiet sigh of relief. This vision, and the one before it about Kyne and Paarthurnax, had been intense, but they lacked the personal, violating horror of the first.
They felt like histories, filled with hope and resolve, and not targeted psychic assaults.
He was surprised to find Skjor standing right beside him, his arms crossed as he studied the worn carvings with a deeply scrutinizing look, as if trying to wrest their secrets out through sheer force of will.
A slow grin spread across Torin’s face. "Well, well," he said, his voice a little hoarse. "Don't tell me you've developed a sudden interest in history, old man."
Skjor let out a dismissive snort. "No. I'm just trying to understand your fascination with it." He uncrossed his arms only to recross them tighter, his brow furrowed. "And I still don't."
Torin shot him a lopsided grin. "Those who don't know history are doomed to repeat it. Or so someone a lot smarter than me once said." His smile faded as he glanced around, his brow pinching in concern. "Hey, where's Echo? I don't see her."
Skjor gestured vaguely toward a thicket of frost-covered pine shrubs further up the slope. "Went that way. Took off after a snow hare a few minutes ago."
Torin's eye twitched. "And you just let her go?"
Skjor gave him a look of pure, unadulterated bafflement. "Yes, I did. Chasing rabbits is what bears do. It's in their nature, same as your nattering on about history."
He gave a dismissive wave. "Besides, we're heading that way anyway. The troll was last sighted in this area. She'll either catch her lunch and be waiting for us, or she'll get bored and come back. Either way, she's fine."
Torin let out a long-suffering sigh, but his gaze immediately sharpened as it fell upon their two Altmer shadows. "Well, at least this means we can finally shake off those pointy-eared bastards."
A small, grim smile touched Skjor's lips. "My thought exactly."
He strode over to where Larethil and Anariel stood waiting patiently. "This is where we must part ways," he announced, his tone leaving no room for debate. "The contract takes us off the main path. Following us any further will only put you in needless danger."
Larethil nodded, his expression one of understanding. "Of course. We would not wish to impede your work." He trailed off, his hand dipping into a pouch on his belt. He pulled out a small but heavy-looking coin purse and pressed it into Skjor's hand. "Please, take this as a token of our gratitude for allowing us the safety of your company this far."
With a final, polite nod, Larethil beckoned to Anariel, and the two turned to continue their pilgrimage up the main steps. As they passed Torin, Larethil offered that same, infuriatingly serene smile. "Farewell, young friend."
Torin said nothing. He merely offered a single, derisive snort, watching them until they vanished around a bend in the path, their pristine robes swallowed by the mist. The moment they were gone, he turned and walked briskly up to Skjor.
"The coin purse," Torin said, his voice low and intent. "Let me take a look at it."
Skjor gave Torin a deeply skeptical look, one eyebrow raised nearly to his hairline. But after a moment’s hesitation, he shrugged and tossed the small, heavy purse over. "Enjoy."
Torin caught it, but contrary to his own words, he didn't even glance at the coins inside. He didn't shake it, test its weight, or even turn it in his hand.
Instead, he turned on his heel and marched straight back to the ancient wayshrine. Kneeling in the snow beside the weathered stone, he used his hands to dig a small, deep hole.
With a final, decisive motion, he dropped the entire purse into the hole and shoved the snow back over it, patting it down to erase any sign of his work.
Skjor stared, utterly baffled. "What in Shor's name are you doing now, boy? Offering our pay to the gods?"
Torin stood up, brushing the snow from his knees. "I don't trust those elves," he stated flatly. "And I don't trust anything that comes from them. If the coin's clean, we can dig it up on our way back to Jorrvaskr. If it's not... well, it's not with us."
Skjor let out a long, world-weary sigh that plumed in the cold air. This was paranoid, even for a Nord with an unhealthy distrust of the Elves.
It was excessive by any account. But he saw the hard, unyielding set of Torin's jaw. Arguing would be a waste of breath, and if this little ritual made the strangely perceptive whelp feel more secure, then so be it. It was just a pouch of coin.
"Alright then," Skjor grumbled, finally conceding. He jerked his head toward the untracked slope ahead. "It hasn't snowed in a while. We should be able to find the troll's tracks without much trouble. Let's move."
Torin gave a curt nod, his eyes already sweeping the ground. But he wasn't searching for the broad, splayed prints of a troll. His gaze was locked on the smaller, familiar paw-prints of a bear cub, leading off into the pines where Echo had chased her rabbit.
The troll was the contract, but finding his wayward companion was the priority.
Comments
Zero2sanity
honestly coming from the perspective of someone that has played the game, fair and while this was said by someone else; great job on the dialog it's written very well and quite entertaining
Bishop7053
A perfectly reasonable amount of paranoia from what is probably two thalmor justicars in disguise.
A Bellator
Another good chapter... Bet the snow will be purple when they get back to the coins at the shrine
Potato
Moreeeee
