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Made in Cyrodiil, Forged in Skyrim #14
🕑 Added 2025-10-26 17:35:22 +0000 UTCFour parts amused and six parts deeply apprehensive, Torin closed the book.
'So even Alteration, which I thought would be the safer, more academic option, can get you killed if you don't know what you're doing,' he mused.
The story's purpose, however, was to instill caution, not paralysis. Torin had already decided to proceed, but he would do so with the respect such power demanded.
He stood, intending to retreat to his room and finally attempt one of the basic Alteration spells, to test his theory of "applied physics" on a small, safe scale. But as he turned, the great doors of Jorrvaskr groaned open, and a figure stood silhouetted against the afternoon light.
The man who entered was a Nord who looked a decade older than Kodlak, his face a roadmap of hard years and harsh sun. He wore the heavy, practical plate of an Imperial legionary, scarred and dulled from campaign.
His helmet was tucked under his arm, revealing a scalp fringed with steely gray hair and a beard to match. His eyes, pale and sharp, scanned the mead hall with the expectation of a homecoming, only to find it largely empty. His gaze, disappointed and weary, finally landed on Torin.
Torin raised an eyebrow, his plans momentarily forgotten. "And who might you be?"
The old Nord's head snapped around, his expression instantly affronted. "That," he declared, his voice a gravelly rumble of displeasure, "is what I should be asking you, boy."
He cast another dismissive glance around the silent hall. "A man returns from a long war expecting a welcome, or at least a familiar face, and finds his home as quiet as a tomb... occupied by a stinking brat asking impertinent questions."
Torin just stared, his mind working to place the man's familiar, grizzled features. Then it clicked. His eyes widened. "You must be Vignar Gray-Mane," he said, the pieces falling into place. "Kodlak and Eorlund have spoken of you."
The old Nord—Vignar—frowned, his bushy eyebrows drawing together. "Aye, that I am," he confirmed, his tone losing none of its edge. "But I still don't know who you are, boy. And I don't like strangers making themselves at home in my hall."
Torin offered a nonchalant shrug, used to the scrutiny his size provoked. "Name's Torin. Kodlak brought me in. I was just a few months old when he found me, not long after the war began."
Vignar was visibly taken aback. His sharp eyes gave Torin a slow, deliberate once-over, from his sturdy boots to the top of his head. "A few months old when the war started?"
He calculated aloud, skepticism dripping from his words. "That would make you seven, at most. By Shor, boy, you look at least twelve. You're built like a young draft horse."
Torin gave a dry chuckle. "I'm just on the taller side, that's all. It runs in the family, or so I'm told."
Too weary from the road to argue the point, Vignar grunted and finally moved fully into the hall. He threw his helmet onto the long table with a heavy clatter that echoed in the quiet space and sank into a chair with a groan of leather and plate.
He spotted a dusty bottle of mead, popped the cork with a practiced twist, and took a long, deep swig. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he fixed his gaze back on Torin. "Alright, Torin. Where is everyone? Where's Kodlak?"
"Ulf's in the wilds, as usual," Torin reported, leaning against a nearby pillar. "Kodlak, Vilkas, and Farkas went out on a contract. They should be back by nightfall. Eorlund's probably at the Skyforge."
Vignar hummed, a low, thoughtful sound. "So the twins are finally old enough to swing steel for coin, are they?" A rare, genuine smile, weathered but warm, briefly surfaced through his gruff exterior.
It faded as his thoughts turned to the past. "And Askar? Is that old fossil still rotting in his chair downstairs, complaining about his joints?"
Torin shook his head, his expression turning somber. "He passed. About a year ago. Kodlak is the Harbinger now."
Vignar let out a short, sharp scoff. "Harbinger, huh?" He took another pull from the bottle. "Well, the old coot can have that thankless job. More politics than glory these days."
He fell silent for a long moment, staring into the middle distance before his eyes, now shadowed with a veteran's understanding, returned to Torin. "How did he go?"
"He died killing a sabre cat out on the tundra," Torin replied, his tone respectful. "Took the beast down with him."
Vignar let out a sharp, approving bark of laughter. "Hah! Good for him. A warrior's death. And here I was, worried I'd have to drag him out of that damned chair and put him out of his misery myself if he'd lingered any longer."
Torin could only offer a bitter, understanding smile. Nords.
Vignar took another long sip of mead, his gaze lingering on Torin with a veteran's assessment. "And what about you, boy? Are you training to join the Companions? To earn your shield?"
"That's the plan," Torin replied.
Vignar raised a skeptical eyebrow. "'The plan,' you say? That's a rather vague answer for a simple 'yes' or 'no' question. A man either is, or he isn't."
Before Torin could formulate a response, the great doors of Jorrvaskr swung open, admitting three figures silhouetted against the fading daylight.
Kodlak, Vilkas, and Farkas stood there, their armor and weapons spattered with fresh blood and gore, the scent of a hard-fought contract clinging to them.
Kodlak's eyes, sharp and weary, instantly found Vignar. A slow, genuine smile spread across his face, erasing some of the battle's fatigue. "You're back."
Vignar grunted, setting his bottle down with a thud. "Aye, that I am. And I have to say, I expected a warmer welcome than... this." He made a vague, dismissive gesture in Torin's direction.
Kodlak's chuckle was a warm, rumbling sound. "A proper welcome can be arranged, you old badger. Welcome home, brother." He stepped forward, arms opening for a familiar embrace.
But before he could take two steps, Farkas suddenly bolted past him. The younger twin stopped directly in front of Vignar, his face a raw canvas of hope and dread. He didn't ask a question so much as he pleaded a single name.
"Jergen?"
The name hung in the air. Vignar's face, which had just begun to soften, darkened. The lines around his eyes and mouth deepened with a sorrow he made no effort to hide. He slowly, solemnly, shook his head.
Farkas didn't cry out. He didn't speak. He just stood there, his broad shoulders slumping as the hope in his eyes shattered into a thousand pieces, leaving behind a blank, hollow stare.
After a long, painful moment, he turned on his heel and bolted from the hall, his heavy footsteps echoing toward the living quarters.
Seeing this, Vilkas let out a heavy sigh, his own face a mask of controlled grief and frustration. "Damned fool," he muttered, the words thick with a brother's shared pain.
Without another glance, he turned and followed his twin into the depths of Jorrvaskr.
Kodlak watched the twins disappear down the staircase, the silence they left behind heavier than any door slam. He let out a slow breath, the weight of leadership settling back onto his shoulders, then found a seat opposite Vignar. His gaze was steady, knowing.
"The fact that you're back, and not just on leave... means it's done?" Kodlak asked, his voice low.
Vignar's grin was a fierce, triumphant flash of teeth in his grizzled beard. "Aye. The war is over. Well, the fighting is, at least. The talking and the treaty-signing has only just begun, and I'd rather face a dozen Orcs than another hour of that political drivel."
Kodlak gave a slow, solemn nod. "Tell me. How did the tide turn?"
"It was the Emperor's plan, from the start," Vignar began, his voice gaining the resonant tone of a man recounting a legendary tale. "The man proved every one of his doubters wrong, myself included. After they took the Imperial City, the Thalmor thought they'd won. They grew arrogant, overextended. Titus Mede let them believe it. He goaded them, made them think we were broken."
He leaned forward, the fire of the campaign still in his eyes. "What those pointy-eared bastards didn't know was that the Hammerfell legions had already swung north. General Decianus, may Talos bless his cunning, had left a core of his veterans behind to help the Redguards, and the rest marched hard for Cyrodiil. It gave us the edge we needed."
Vignar waved a hand, as if to brush aside the complex strategy. "I won't bore you with all the details of the march and the positioning. But the heart of it? The Emperor himself led the charge. He united the main army with the Redguards and slammed into the city gates, surrounding the Elven command."
He puffed out his chest, a deep, prideful breath filling his lungs. "And we Nords... our legion, under General Jonna, we were given the honor of the rear guard. We dug in on the high ground and held the line against the bulk of the Thalmor reinforcements. We were the anvil, brother. They broke against our shields while the Emperor's hammer retook the Imperial City."
Vignar calmed at Kodlak's endorsement, but the skepticism remained etched on his face like a scar. "Oh? Is that so?" he rumbled, turning his full attention back to Torin. "Then enlighten this old soldier. Why utter such an ominous warning now, when the scent of victory is still in the air?"
"It's a matter of logistics and leverage," Torin replied, his tone analytical.
"The Aldmeri armies in Cyrodiil were destroyed, yes. But the Summerset Isles themselves remain untouched. They have reserves, enough to launch another fleet, another invasion. If the Empire pushes too hard, the Thalmor could recklessly throw everything they have left at the Imperial City. They could burn it to the ground, and the Empire with it."
Vignar's eyes narrowed, his strategic mind engaging despite himself. "Then why wouldn't they? They're proud. They'd want vengeance."
"Because Skyrim and High Rock still stand," Torin countered. "Hammerfell is united for the first time in living memory and is already pushing the Thalmor out. Even if the elves scorched Cyrodiil, they wouldn't have the strength to hold it. They'd be surrounded by three hostile, unbroken provinces. They'd only bleed themselves dry for a ruined prize."
Vignar uncrossed his arms, a grudging nod of understanding. "So it's a stalemate, then. A bloody draw. That's not so bad."
"That's the problem," Torin said, shaking his head. "High Rock, Hammerfell, and Skyrim aren't the ones in immediate danger. The Empire itself is. The Thalmor know this. They'll use that fear to their advantage at the negotiating table."
He let the implication hang in the air for a moment, ensuring they grasped the core of the issue. "Can you imagine being the Emperor who presided over the loss of an empire? Titus Mede's legacy would be ash. He'll sign almost any treaty, no matter how humiliating, if it buys him the time to rebuild his power and salvage his name."
Kodlak and Vignar's expressions darkened in unison. The boy's cold, political logic cut through their warrior's perspective, revealing a far grimmer truth than a simple battlefield victory.
Vignar's voice was low, the earlier triumph gone. "When you say 'any treaty,' boy... what do you mean?"
Torin met his gaze squarely. "I can't even begin to guess the specifics. But if you consider the initial terms the Thalmor demanded before they ever invaded Cyrodiil... the ones that were so insulting they started a war... anyone can make an educated guess. The terms will be harsh. They will be designed to cripple the Empire from within, not without."
Vignar's face had completely soured, the triumphant fire in his eyes extinguished and replaced by the grim shadow of political reality. He stared into the middle distance, already envisioning the chains of a diplomatic surrender being forged from the hard-won links of their victory.
Torin seemed to finally sense the heavy atmosphere his words had created. He cleared his throat awkwardly, the sound loud in the tense silence. He rose to his feet with deliberate slowness.
"Then again," he began, his tone shifting to a forced nonchalance, "what do I know? I'm just a whelp who's read one too many books. You really shouldn't take the ramblings of a child too seriously." He took a careful step backward, then another, edging toward the hallway. "I'll... I'll just go now. I have... ah, things to do. Yes. Lots of things."
With that, he turned and made a strategic retreat toward the living quarters, his walk brisk and his pace just shy of an outright jog, eager to escape the grim future he had just painted.
The two old warriors sat in silence for a long moment, the only sound the crackling of the hearth. Finally, Vignar turned his head, fixing Kodlak with a look of profound, weary bitterness.
"So," he grunted, gesturing with his mead bottle toward the doorway where Torin had vanished.
"You've been dealing with that for the past seven years, have you?" He shook his head, a dry, humorless chuckle escaping his lips. "And here I thought I had a hard time fighting a war."
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