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Made in Cyrodiil, Forged in Skyrim #16
🕑 Added 2025-10-28 18:17:43 +0000 UTCThe air in Jorrvaskr’s training yard was still, charged with anticipation. Torin stood with his feet planted, his warhammer and heavy shield held in a ready guard.
His expression was a mask of intense concentration, his gaze locked on Vilkas.
The older Companion stood opposite him, his massive two-handed sword held in a high guard, his posture relaxed yet immovable as a mountain. As was their custom, he waited for Torin to make the first move.
Torin took a deep, steadying breath, then exploded forward. His charge was not a wild sprint but a controlled, powerful rush, his boots kicking up small puffs of dust from the hard-packed earth.
Vilkas did not flinch. He remained a statue, his eyes calculating distance and timing, waiting for the perfect moment to unleash the devastating arc of his blade.
The moment Torin crossed into his striking range, Vilkas’s eyes narrowed. His shoulders tensed, and the greatsword began its inevitable descent, a silvery blur aimed to cleave Torin’s advance in two.
It was then that Torin allowed himself a slight, grim grin. With a focused exertion of will that required no gesture, he activated a minor Haste spell. The world around him seemed to slow.
He surged forward with unnatural speed, closing the final distance before Vilkas’s blade was even halfway through its swing. He drove his shield forward not in a block, but in a brutal, full-force bash directly into Vilkas’s chest.
The impact was solid and jarring. A grunt was forced from Vilkas’s lips as he was thrown off balance, staggering backward several steps. Surprise flickered across his face, but it was quickly replaced by a warrior’s ingrained reflexes.
As Torin pressed his advantage, hammer raised high for a punishing blow, Vilkas planted his back foot firmly into the ground. Instead of trying to recover his heavy sword’s positioning, he used its momentum, swinging the massive weapon in a wide, desperate horizontal arc to force Torin back.
Torin, his senses still heightened, saw the telegraphed move coming. He dropped into a low crouch, the massive blade whistling harmlessly over his head. He continued his own motion, his hammer swinging upward toward Vilkas’s now-exposed side.
It was then Vilkas revealed his own trick. His left hand released the greatsword’s grip, and with practiced speed, he drew the heavy, one-handed mace hanging from his hip.
He swung it in a short, powerful arc from the opposite side, a move designed to catch an opponent who thought they had found an opening.
Torin’s surprise lasted only a heartbeat. There was no time to dodge. Instead, he trusted in the other spell he had woven over his skin before the fight began. The air around him shimmered faintly as the Oakflesh spell hardened his flesh to the toughness of bark.
THWUMP. CRUNCH.
Both blows landed almost simultaneously. Vilkas’s mace connected solidly with Torin’s ribs, while Torin’s hammer struck Vilkas’s armored thigh. A shared, pained grimace twisted both their faces. They staggered apart, breathing heavily.
Vilkas, his leg buckling, fought stubbornly to remain upright, his pride warring with the agony shooting up his limb. But the damage was too great.
His leg gave way entirely, and he fell hard onto his back, the air driven from his lungs in a defeated whoosh.
Even lying on the ground, winded and groaning, Vilkas’s eyes darted around the training yard, checking for witnesses. Torin limped over, a wry chuckle escaping his own bruised lips.
He offered a hand down to the fallen warrior.
“Relax, ‘Wisdom of Ysgramor’. The yard’s clear. No one saw your graceful descent.”
Vilkas swatted the offered hand away at first, his pride stung worse than his leg. “That wasn’t a fair fight,” he grunted, pushing himself up onto his elbows with a wince. “You used that damned magic of yours. Don’t think I didn’t notice the speed, or the way my mace bounced off you like you were made of ironwood.”
Torin shrugged, his expression unrepentant. “It’s not like I was trying to hide it. A tool is a tool.” Seeing Vilkas struggle to stand, he finally insisted, slipping a shoulder under the older man’s arm and hauling him upright. “Come on, you big lump. Let’s get you to a bench. And since you’re so offended by my ‘damned magic,’ maybe I can use a little more of it to fix what the first bit helped break.”
He helped Vilkas hobble to a nearby wooden bench, the warrior leaning heavily on him. With careful movements, Torin unbuckled and removed the segmented armor from Vilkas’s leg, then cut away the torn section of his breeches.
The skin beneath was a mess of angry purple and blue, already swelling into a nasty, distorted lump.
“Shor’s bones,” Torin muttered, his earlier smugness evaporating. “That looks… really painful. Okay, now I feel a little bad for not holding back.”
Vilkas said nothing, but the heat of his glare was a tangible force.
Torin held up his hands in a placating gesture. “Alright, alright. I’ll shut up and patch you up.” He took a steadying breath, pushing his own aches aside.
He hovered his right hand a few inches above the brutalized flesh of Vilkas’s thigh. His brow furrowed in concentration, and after a moment of intense stillness, a soft, golden light emanated from his palm, washing over the injury.
The effect was gradual. First, the livid discoloration began to fade, the purple and blue retreating like tidewater. After a minute, the swelling visibly decreased, the distorted flesh smoothing back to its normal shape.
Soon, only the memory of the injury remained on skin that looked whole and healthy once more.
Torin gave the newly healed thigh a firm, companionable slap, breaking the tension. “There. Good as new. But don’t go putting your full weight on it for at least a day. The bone’s still remembering what it’s like to not be cracked.”
Vilkas moved his healed leg cautiously, bending the knee and putting tentative weight on it. Satisfied, he took a full step, then turned to face Torin, his expression a complex mix of gratitude and stubborn disapproval.
"I will never understand," Vilkas began, his voice a low rumble, "why you waste your time with magic when the gods saw fit to give you the frame and the fury of a born warrior. It's a distraction." He paused, flexing his leg once more with a grudging nod. "But I suppose... it has its uses."
Torin offered a faint, knowing smile. "And I will never understand how you can so easily dismiss an entire branch of knowledge that can mend bones and alter reality, but here we are."
Vilkas sighed, the sound heavy with a fraternal concern that rarely surfaced through his usual stern demeanor. He shook his head, his gaze intent. "Truly, Torin. What are you trying to achieve? With your life, I mean. What is the goal of all this... this study?"
Torin gave him a sidelong glance, deflecting with practiced ease. "Don't you think that's a bit heavy for a Sundas morning? I just healed your leg, and now you want to talk about the meaning of existence?"
"For once in your life," Vilkas said, his voice dropping, devoid of its usual bite but full of a rare, earnest intensity, "just answer the damn question."
The deflection wouldn't work this time. Torin's chuckle was softer now, less assured. "Alright, fine. The truth is, I'm not trying to 'achieve' anything grand. Not in the way you mean. I just want to... understand. To sate my curiosity. And that curiosity doesn't involve spending the rest of my life solely swinging steel for coin."
Vilkas crossed his arms, his brow furrowed. "Then what are you still doing here? In case you haven't noticed, swinging steel for coin is the life in Jorrvaskr. It's who we are."
"One too many people died so I could live," Torin replied, his tone losing all its levity, becoming quiet and stark. "The least I can do is live up to their expectations, to be the Torin they envisioned saving." He looked away, toward the great hall. "And don't you dare tell Aela I said this, but... you lot are the closest thing to family I have."
He cleared his throat abruptly, as if embarrassed by the admission, and quickly shifted back to practicality. "Besides, I don't have nearly enough coin to get my own place."
This, at least, was not a lie. His financial state was a genuine concern, though not for the reason he implied. To truly begin his study of enchantment, he would need an enchanting table—a complex, rare, and prohibitively expensive piece of arcane apparatus that most certainly did not grow on trees.
And even if, by some miracle, he managed to acquire one, he highly doubted Kodlak would permit such a volatile and foreign object to be installed within the sacred, warrior-centric space of Jorrvaskr.
The thought was a constant, nagging pressure in the back of his mind. He truly, desperately, needed to start making money.
Vilkas’s stern expression finally broke into a grin, a rare sight that held a touch of genuine, almost paternal, approval. “Well, boy,” he said, his voice a shade softer. “Luckily for your empty purse, you’re finally ready.”
Torin raised a skeptical eyebrow, his mind immediately running through possibilities. “Ready for what, exactly?”
“Your first contract,” Vilkas stated, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “There’s a beast haunting the farms near the White River. Killing livestock, scaring the folk. Nothing a seasoned Companion can’t handle. I intended to give it to Aela, but you can go with her. Consider it your trial.”
Torin looked at him suspiciously. “Is that really your decision to make? I thought Kodlak handled the assignments.”
“It is,” Vilkas confirmed, his tone leaving no room for argument. “Kodlak put me in charge of the whelps before he left this morning.”
Torin was taken aback. “He put you in charge before leaving? Will he be gone for long?”
Vilkas gave a slow, solemn nod. “Jorrvaskr has been too empty for too long. The Harbinger said he wouldn’t return without at least two worthy souls to join our ranks. He’s gone to seek out new blood.”
He then waved a hand, dismissing the larger concern. “But that shouldn’t concern you. The question is, will you take the contract or not?”
A real contract. Real coin. A chance to step beyond Whiterun’s walls and test his skills beyond the training yard. The thought was both thrilling and sobering.
“I don’t see why not,” Torin replied, a determined glint in his eye. “I could use the coin, and frankly, some fresh air outside these walls would be welcome.”
Vilkas nodded, satisfied. “Good. Aela will be here soon to get the details. Go wait for her inside. And try not to annoy her before you even leave the city.”
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