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Made in Cyrodiil, Forged in Skyrim #27
🕑 Added 2025-11-09 09:46:00 +0000 UTCTorin opened his eyes and immediately winced, squinting against the low, golden glare of the morning sun. As his vision adjusted, he became aware of a warm, heavy weight pinning his thigh. He looked down, and a slow, soft smile spread across his face.
Echo was curled up beside him, fast asleep, her head resting trustingly on his leg. Her sides rose and fell in a steady, peaceful rhythm. Seeing a rare opportunity—one usually met with a warning growl and a batting paw—Torin’s smile turned mischievous.
Moving with the caution of a man disarming a trap, he lifted his hand and gently, ever so gently, laid it on the top of her head.
Her fur was incredibly soft. He held his breath.
Echo’s eyes snapped open.
Torin’s smile froze. Her dark, liquid gaze was locked directly on his. An awkward, tense silence stretched between them, broken only by the chirping of birds. He braced himself, fully expecting to feel the sharp pinch of her teeth on his palm.
Instead, Echo let out a massive, jaw-stretching yawn, her little pink tongue curling. She blinked slowly, almost lazily, then closed her eyes again, nuzzling her head more comfortably against his leg and settling back into sleep as if his touch were the most natural thing in the world.
A wave of quiet triumph washed over him. "Progress..." he muttered under his breath, a genuine warmth spreading through his chest.
His mind drifted back to their departure from Jorrvaskr. He hadn't planned on bringing her. It was a fool's errand, taking a bear cub on a troll hunt. But when he was packed, armored, and ready to march out the gate, she had simply planted herself at his heels and refused to be left behind.
No amount of shooing or reasoning—not that she could understand—had worked. In the end, he’d just sighed and accepted his furry shadow.
He was just about to savor the moment and maybe doze off again when a shadow fell over him, blocking the sun. Skjor’s scarred face came into view, his single good eye looking down at him.
"You're awake. Good," Skjor grunted, his voice rough with the morning. "No time to waste. Sun's not getting any younger, and neither is that troll."
Torin let out a long, weary sigh—the official sound of a comfortable moment ending—and pushed himself up into a sitting position. He gave Echo's head a few more gentle, deliberate pats, reinforcing the newfound truce.
She opened one eye to give him a look that was more resigned than annoyed, yawned once more for good measure, and then clambered off his leg.
He watched her amble over to investigate a particularly interesting patch of moss before reaching for his waterskin. He took a quick swig to rinse the sleep from his mouth, spat it out, then drank deeply.
The cold water was a bracing shock to his system. Tossing the skin aside, he finally stood, his joints popping in protest, and stretched his arms toward the sky.
Skjor had already finished bundling his bedroll and was checking the straps on his pack. He jerked his head toward the path. "Let's move. We find the troll, kill it, and we can be back down the mountain before noon."
He grunted, slinging the pack over his shoulder. "Then we can put some real distance between us and this place. Make camp tonight without listening for that damned howl."
Torin, who was in the middle of strapping his own gear together, didn't look up. "Actually," he said, his voice casual, "I was thinking we'd climb all the way up. Make camp near High Hrothgar and start back tomorrow."
Skjor, who had been taking a long drink from his waterskin, stopped mid-gulp. He lowered the skin, water trickling down his stubbled chin, and fixed Torin with a flat, questioning stare. "Why?"
Torin shrugged, finally looking over as he cinched a strap tight. "We're already here. Why not?" He offered a pragmatic grin. "Besides, that new alchemist in Whiterun—Arcadia—is paying good coin for Ice Wraith essence. If we climb high enough, we should be able to bag one. Extra coin never hurt anyone."
Skjor was silent for a moment, his brow furrowed in thought. The prospect of extra gold was always a good one, but the climb was no small thing.
Finally, he gave a slow, decisive nod. "Alright. And if we're even luckier, by the time we climb back down, those 'special guests' at the inn will be long gone. We might actually get a decent night's sleep under a roof before heading back to Whiterun."
Torin returned the nod and went back to his packing, hiding a small, private smile. The truth was, he didn't really care about the Ice Wraith or the extra gold, not enough to justify the grueling trek up the Seven Thousand Steps, anyway.
His reason was far simpler, and utterly inexplicable to anyone else.
In his past life, through countless playthroughs of the game called Skyrim, he always found himself heading to High Hrothgar.
Sometimes he'd do it to follow and finish the main storyline, sometimes just to trigger dragon attacks in the peaks. A Skyrim without dragons just never felt right. But he'd never, not once, taken the proper path.
He'd always found a snowy slope and spammed the sprint and jump buttons, hopping and glitching his way up the mountain in a frustrating, time-consuming, yet weirdly traditional ritual.
This time, he was here. For real. The mountain was no longer a polygoned texture but a colossal, breathing entity of stone and ice. He wanted to feel the burn in his legs, to see the world spread out below him, step by laborious step.
He wanted to make the climb properly, just to see what it was really like. The Ice Wraith was just an excuse. This was for him.
...
The path out of Ivarstead led them right through the heart of the sleepy settlement.
As they passed a small cluster of houses, Torin’s steps slowed. A young girl, maybe sixteen or seventeen, was talking urgently to one of the town guards, her voice tight with worry.
“...are you sure you haven’t seen him? He didn’t come home last night,” she pleaded, wringing her hands. “My brother, Narfi, you've likely seen him before.”
The guard, an older man with a tired face, shook his head. “I’m sorry, Reyda. I haven’t seen him. I’ll keep an eye out, I promise.”
Reyda and Narfi.
The names hit Torin with the force of a faded, unpleasant memory. His recollection of the game wasn't perfect, but some things stuck. A dark contract.
A grieving, deranged begger living in ruins. An assassination that felt less like a job and more like a mercy killing for a soul already dead. He let out a low, thoughtful hum, his conscience giving a faint, uncomfortable twinge.
He forced himself to look away and upped his pace to catch up with Skjor, Echo trotting to keep pace.
Whatever fate had in store for that girl and her brother, it was none of his business. He had his own path to walk. Still, a cold suspicion settled in his gut.
'Missing since yesterday night…' The same night a werewolf had been prowling dangerously close to town. It was grim, and all too likely, connected somehow.
Before he could dwell on it further, Skjor’s voice cut through his thoughts. The warrior had stopped and was pointing a thick finger toward the base of the mountain, where the first of the Seven Thousand Steps began its ascent.
“Looks like we’re not the only ones with high ambitions today,” Skjor grunted. “Pilgrims.”
Torin followed his gaze. Two figures stood near the first wayshrine, their backs to the village. They were tall and lanky, dressed in traveling robes that seemed just thick enough for the mountain chill.
Even from a distance, their distinctive platinum hair was visible, and two long, pointed ears poked through.
Torin’s expression instantly darkened, his good hand curling into a fist. “High Elves,” he muttered, the words tasting like ash. “What in the hells are they doing here?”
Skjor instantly gave a dismissive wave, as if swatting a fly. "The war's over. For now, at least. And even if it weren't, this," he gestured vaguely at the two figures, "is none of our business. They're just pilgrims."
Torin shot Skjor a strange, sidelong look. Here was a man who had, by his own admission, just retired from a war defined by slaughtering Altmer and Bosmer, a man who had probably lost count of the lives he'd taken. Yet he could look upon the faces of the enemy with such detached practicality.
Torin didn't know what to make of that kind of compartmentalization. Was it wisdom, or just a profound weariness?
Still, Skjor was right. Torin’s own deep-seated prejudice against the Mer, especially the High Elves, was intensely personal, born from a stormy night, golden armor, and a mother's final, defiant roar.
He had to constantly remind himself that there were good and bad people in every race. These two appeared to be nothing more than pilgrims, maybe even tourists. He would treat them as such until they give him a reason to reconsider.
He let out a sigh, the tension leaving his shoulders. "You're right. Let's just take a quick look at the wayshrine and continue on our way."
A spark of his old curiosity returned, and with it, a small smile. In his past life, he remembered reading that if you read all the emblems etched on the wayshrines in the correct order, you'd receive a blessing. He couldn't help but wonder if there was a real-life equivalent to that bit of game lore here.
As they closed the distance, with Echo occasionally lagging behind to sniff at an interesting root or a suspicious-looking rock, the two pilgrims heard their approach and turned around.
Both were young, or at least appeared to be. With Altmer, who could live for centuries, it was impossible to tell. Their features were sharp and elegant, their posture carrying an innate haughtiness that seemed bred into their bones.
The male elf offered a smile that was a little too polished, a little too perfect. "Ah, there you are, esteemed warriors," he said, his voice smooth and melodious. "We were hoping we would stumble upon you."
Skjor and Torin exchanged a brief, puzzled look. They were just two Companions on a contract; they weren't exactly public figures.
"What business could you possibly have with us?" Skjor asked, his tone neutral but his posture subtly shifting into something more guarded.
The female elf spoke this time, her expression a carefully crafted mask of contrition. "We wished to offer our most sincere apologies," she began, her voice like chiming bells.
She gestured gracefully toward Echo, who was now investigating a beetle near Torin's feet. "We learned that the innkeeper of the Vilemyr Inn barred your... beast companion... on our account. We are deeply sorry for the inconvenience this caused you."
The male elf let out a theatrical sigh, shaking his head in apparent dismay. "We most certainly would have had no objection if the man had simply asked us. But it seems he has become overly cautious."
"One patron got rather deep into his cups a few days ago and let slip something rather unflattering about our... ears. I didn't respond as rationally as I should have, and that might have given the man a bad impression."
The woman nodded in solemn agreement. "And then we heard you were assailed by a wild beast during the night! We feel just terrible that our presence contributed to such an unpleasant experience."
Skjor shook his head, a gesture of finality. "It's all water under the bridge. No harm done in the end." He clearly had no interest in prolonging the conversation. "Either way, we'll just take a quick look at the wayshrine and be on our way."
Torin didn't know if Skjor truly meant that, but he, for one, was still annoyed by the whole ordeal. The elves' apology felt slick and insincere, a neat way of deflecting the blame onto the innkeeper's drunken bigotry rather than whatever part they played in creating this so-called misunderstanding.
How much the elves talked didn't help their case either. Not the one presented to Torin, anyway.
He was certain the innkeeper wouldn't have been so adamant if he didn't get the distinct impression these two would throw a high-born fit at the mere idea of sharing a roof with an animal.
Without a word, Torin turned his back on the Altmer and moved past them toward the ancient stone wayshrine. He'd had his fill of their polished words and feigned concern.
The cold, silent history of the stones was far more appealing. He leaned in, his eyes tracing the first of the etched emblems, searching for any hint of the blessing he remembered from another life.
Comments
Phantom knight who can’t think of a better nicknam
Nice hope he try’s going in
Potato
Noiceee
