Wicked_Fiction
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Made in Cyrodiil, Forged in Skyrim #20
🕑 Added 2025-11-02 01:00:05 +0000 UTCInside the cramped, damp cave near the White River, a man named Rorik watched in abject horror as the last of his men was crushed. The wet, final thud of the warhammer was followed by a silence more terrifying than any scream.
Only ten minutes ago, he had been asleep, lulled by the river's murmur. Then came the anguished cries from the cave mouth, shattering the night. He’d barely had time to snatch up his chipped axe and rouse the three men not on watch before it appeared.
A boy. No older than twelve by the look of him, yet drenched in blood from head to toe, a fresh crimson mask over his features. He stood silhouetted in the cave entrance, a demon summoned from some Nord hell. Rorik had yelled for his men to attack, and all five had surged forward.
Two never made it three steps. Arrows, fired from the darkness behind the boy, took them in the throat with unerring precision. The other three fell to the boy’s hammer, their bodies broken before they could even register his unnatural speed. He moved like a devil straight from Oblivion.
Now, Rorik stood alone, his back to the cold stone wall. He glared at the blood-soaked child, a tempest of fear and rage warring within him.
"Just... why?" Rorik choked out, his voice cracking. "Why are you doing this? What did we ever do to you?"
The boy—Torin—tilted his head, his calm demeanor a stark contrast to the carnage around them. "Trauma. Stress relief. Because you're a piece of subhuman filth preying on decent folk." He gave a small, chilling shrug. "Take your pick."
Rorik’s face twisted, his fear momentarily burned away by sheer, indignant fury. "You think you're better than us? Is that it, you little monster?!"
"Of course I do," Torin replied, his voice flat and devoid of boastfulness, as if stating a simple, irrefutable fact.
"Otherwise, I wouldn't have been able to slaughter your friends without so much as a flinch." He shook his head slowly, his eyes, old and cold, fixed on Rorik. "You think I'd butcher you like animals if I saw you as anything but that?"
Rorik’s grip on his axe tightened until his knuckles were white. His hand began to shake, a tremor born of pure, undiluted horror at the absolute disregard in the boy's eyes and the chilling certainty in his voice.
He meant every word.
Realizing that pleading or reasoning was futile, Rorik hardened the last of his resolve into a final, desperate act of defiance. If he was to die, he would at least leave a mark on the little demon, a scar to remember him by.
With a ragged cry, he charged.
He managed only two stumbling steps before an arrow sprouted from his throat with a sickening thwack. His charge dissolved into a clumsy collapse. He crumpled to the cave floor, his body spasming as a dark, expanding pool of his own blood soaked the stone beneath him.
A final, wet gurgle escaped his lips, and then he was still.
The cold, detached look on Torin’s face instantly dissipated. He turned to see Aela stepping fully into the cave, lowering her bow. She raised a single, questioning eyebrow.
"And here I thought you'd be upset that I stole your prey," she remarked, her voice echoing slightly in the sudden quiet.
Torin shrugged, the motion loosening the tension in his shoulders. "As long as they're dead, it doesn't matter much to me how, or by whose hands." He let out a short, dry chuckle. "Besides, I had a feeling you wouldn't let me shed any more blood while I'm technically your guest on this contract. The twins would never let you hear the end of it."
Aela rolled her eyes, though a hint of a smirk played on her lips. "You're nothing if not clever." Her gaze then swept over the cave, her hunter's efficiency taking over. "Come on. Let's search this den. See if these filth had anything worth carrying back."
She didn't wait for an answer, immediately moving to a pile of ragged bedrolls and overturned crates.
Torin, however, didn't move instantly. His eyes lingered on Rorik's corpse, and a faint wince crossed his features.
It wasn't born of guilt or disgust. It was a reaction to the chilling void he felt within himself—the absolute nothingness that had settled in his chest as he watched the man die.
Was this numbness the legacy of helplessly watching Camilla die? Or was it the result of years steeped in Jorrvaskr's culture, where bloodshed was a sport and a profession? Perhaps it was a poisonous mixture of both.
He quickly shook his head, physically dispelling the stray, unsettling thought. There was no point in dissecting it now. One thing he knew for certain: the world outside this cave was a slightly better place than it had been ten minutes ago.
With that pragmatic conclusion, he pushed his introspection aside and joined Aela, his eyes scanning the shadows for anything of value.
...
Thirty minutes later, they stood over their spoils.
A small, unlocked chest revealed a modest haul of about one hundred and fifty septims. Scattered around it were an assortment of relatively serviceable iron weapons and a few pieces of patched leather armor—nothing remarkable, but it would all fetch a decent price from the right merchant in Whiterun.
All in all, they had just doubled their pay for the contract.
Aela gave a satisfied nod. "This is it. Everything else is either worthless junk or too heavy to bother with. Let's get this packed up and head back. I can already taste the mead."
Torin was just about to agree when a low, exhausted growl echoed through the cave. It was a weak, pathetic sound, but it was unmistakable. Both their heads turned toward a small, shadowy chamber at the rear of the cave—a place they had both pointedly avoided.
The horrendous, eye-watering stench emanating from it had been evidence enough of its purpose: the bandits' latrine.
Seeing the calculating look on Torin's face, Aela visibly recoiled. "Oh, no. Don't you dare. I'm telling you right now, if you want to check that pit, you're going in alone. I value my sense of smell."
Torin's eyes twitched in annoyance. The smell was offensive on a spiritual level, a tangible miasma that seemed to cling to the air. For a moment, he seriously considered just pretending he hadn't heard anything. But the nagging hook of curiosity was set too deep.
He fixed Aela with a glare. "Fine. But if I find something of value in there, you're carrying it all the way back to Whiterun."
Aela's face contorted in pure disgust. "Not even in your most fevered dreams, whelp. I wouldn't touch anything from that hole with Vilkas's sword."
Grumbling a string of creative curses under his breath, Torin took a deep breath of the marginally cleaner cave air, pinched his nose shut with one hand, and marched resolutely toward the foul chamber.
As Torin reached the foul chamber, his initial assessment was confirmed. It was, indeed, a latrine, and the smell was even more potent up close. What made him freeze, however, was the sight huddled in the far corner, away from the worst of the filth.
It was a small, furry creature lying on the cold stone, its limbs splayed out and bloodied. A bear cub. Its tiny chest rose and fell in rapid, shallow breaths. The cub’s dark eyes, wide with pain and fear, met Torin’s, and it let out a low, rasping growl that was half-terror, half-defiance.
Torin’s eyes widened. His first instinct was to call for the only other person here. "Aela!" he shouted, his voice echoing in the cramped space.
The immediate reply came from the main cavern, laced with pure disgust. "I already told you, I'm not going anywhere near that pit!"
"Just shut up and come look!" Torin yelled back, not taking his eyes off the cub. "You have to see this!"
There was a moment of stubborn silence, followed by the sound of grudging footsteps and muttered curses. "I swear to the Divines, Torin, if this is another one of your pranks, I'm emptying my entire quiver into your backside."
Torin didn't offer a retort, his attention completely absorbed by the pathetic sight. A moment later, Aela was beside him, her own nose wrinkled in distaste. Her gaze followed his and landed on the cub. She raised a single, unimpressed eyebrow.
"It's just a bear cub," she stated flatly. "A bit small. Nothing unusual about it."
Torin turned to her with an exasperated look. "Obviously. But why is it here?"
Aela shrugged, her practicality unwavering. "It's probably the cub of the bear we killed. The bandits must have found its den, chased off the mother, and took the young one."
Torin let out a frustrated sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I don't know if you're just being deliberately obtuse, or if you're trying to prolong this conversation because you've developed a fondness for the aroma."
Aela responded by jabbing a sharp elbow into his side, making him grunt. "The bandits probably kept it as emergency food supplies," she said, her voice losing its flippant edge and turning grim. "Or maybe they thought they could sell it to some fool in a city who wants an exotic pet. Who knows? Men like that don't need a good reason for cruelty."
Torin finally turned from the pathetic creature to fix Aela with a hard look. "So, what are we going to do about it?"
Aela gave him a long-suffering sigh, as if he'd asked how to stop the rain. "What else is there to do? The practical choices are simple. Put it out of its misery, or leave it. Nature will find a use for it as a meal for something hungrier. Such is the way of the wild."
Before Torin could even draw breath to scold her for her cold-hearted pragmatism, she cut him off with a dismissive wave. "Whatever you decide, make up your mind and find me outside. I'm leaving. This stench will be the death of me if I stay here a moment longer." With that, she turned on her heel and strode out, leaving him alone with the cub and the overwhelming odor.
Torin watched her go, a frustrated sigh escaping his lips. He turned back to the cub. Unconsciously, he found himself walking closer and squatting down before it, ignoring the filth on the ground.
In a way, the bear was a mirror of his own past. Robbed of its mother, left helpless and at the mercy of cruel, selfish scum. He remembered the depth of his own despair as an infant, the profound helplessness that had made him wish for an end.
If not for Kodlak's stubborn refusal to let him give up, forcing sustenance and purpose upon him, he would have withered away.
His face softened, the anger and frustration melting into a deep, resonant empathy. He reached a hand slowly toward the cub's head. The little creature flinched, baring its tiny teeth and emitting a raspy, terrified growl. Torin didn't pull back.
As the cub snapped, sinking its needle-like teeth into the meat of his hand, he didn't even flinch. A sharp pain lanced up his arm, but he simply adjusted his grip, holding the cub's muzzle gently but firmly to keep it still.
With his other hand, he hovered over the bear's bloodied back. He closed his eyes, focusing past the pain in his hand and the foul air. A soft, golden light emanated from his palm, washing over the small, trembling form.
Slowly, the deep gashes on its limbs began to knit together, the bruised flesh returning to a healthy hue. The cub's frantic struggles weakened, its terrified growls subsiding into confused whimpers as the healing magic seeped into its body, mending bone and sinew.
The exhaustion of its ordeal and the soothing warmth of the spell finally overwhelmed it; its heavy eyelids fluttered shut, and it fell into a deep, magically-induced sleep, its tiny body going limp in his grasp.
Standing outside the cave in the crisp pre-dawn air, Aela had their spoils neatly bundled and ready for the trek back to Whiterun. The sound of footsteps from the cave mouth made her turn, expecting to see Torin empty-handed and finally ready to leave.
What she saw made her freeze mid-motion, her hands still on a bundle of tied-up weapons.
Emerging from the foul darkness was Torin, cradling a small, furry form in his arms. The bear cub was curled into a tight ball, fast asleep, its sides rising and falling with steady breaths, looking impossibly small and vulnerable against his chest.
Aela’s eyes widened, then narrowed into a disbelieving glare. "By the Hunt," she breathed, her voice a mix of exasperation and sheer disbelief. "What in Oblivion do you think you're doing?"
Torin adjusted his grip on the sleeping cub, meeting her glare with a defiant lift of his chin. "What's it look like I'm doing? I couldn't just leave it to die in that literal shit hole."
Aela threw her hands up in frustration before crossing them tightly over her chest. "And what difference does it make, whelp? It's a newborn with no mother. It won't last a week on its own out here. You're just prolonging the inevitable."
Torin looked down at the sleeping cub for a long moment, then back at Aela, his expression shifting from defiance to a flat, unyielding finality.
"That's why," he stated, his voice leaving no room for argument, "I'm taking it with me."
Comments
A Bellator
Ohh maybe it will enjoy ale like Wotjek a Companion to the Companions
Wicked_Fiction
Yeah, but I figured that's a bit overkill since he's not even 10 yet, and nords are already tall and big... besides there's a lot of difference between 8 year and 12 in terms of size and looks, but the difference is less obvious between 12 and 14.
Potato
Hell yeah bear comanion, also bandit said he looks 12 but i think i remember previous descriptions saying he looks more around 14ish considering how abnormally big he is 12 sounds off
