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Made in Cyrodiil, Forged in Skyrim #11
🕑 Added 2025-10-23 15:03:14 +0000 UTCThree days later, the great hall of Dragonsreach was alive with the low hum of conversation and the flicker of torchlight. The banquet in honor of Harbinger Askar was a somber yet grand affair.
The Companions, veterans and whelps alike, stood shoulder-to-shoulder with the ruling class of Whiterun.
Jarl Balgruuf the Greater held court, flanked by his brother Hrongar, the ever-watchful Steward Proventus Avenicci, and his Dunmer housecarl, Irileth, whose sharp eyes missed nothing.
The talk swirling through the hall was a single, pervasive theme: the war in the south, and the shadow it was casting over Skyrim. Speculations and concerns were traded like currency between sips of honningbrew mead.
Torin, however, was absorbed by a different, far more ancient shadow.
His attention was utterly captured by the massive, bleached-white skull mounted high above the Jarl's throne.
An actual dragon's skull.
In the game, it had been a piece of set-dressing, impressive in scale but ultimately just a static model. The NPCs around it had delivered their lines with a generic lack of awe, the world-building feeling more like a checklist of lore than a living history.
But this… this was different.
He could feel the weight of it in the air, a palpable sense of age and power. This wasn't a prop; it was the remains of a creature of myth, a beast that had been captured, chained, and had died in this very hall.
The sheer, visceral reality of it sent a thrill down his spine. How cool was that?
Kodlak, standing beside him, followed his gaze. A knowing smile touched the old Harbinger's lips. "This is the first time you've seen it, isn't it?" he said quietly, his voice cutting through the ambient noise. "The bones of a dragon."
Torin dragged his eyes away from the formidable relic to look at Kodlak, nodding slowly. "Yeah," he breathed, the word full of genuine reverence. "It's… awe-inspiring."
Kodlak's expression grew thoughtful, his own eyes lifting to the skull as if seeing the ghost of the beast that once was. "You're not alone in seeing them that way. Once, long ago, our ancestors didn't just fear them. They worshipped these beasts as gods."
His voice took on the rhythmic cadence of a skald telling an old tale.
"That reverence lasted until they could no longer tolerate the tyranny. This one was called Numinex. A fearsome creature that turned villages to ash and cities to funeral pyres, slaughtering countless of our people." He gestured with his tankard towards the skull. "It took the Voice of a true hero, Olaf One-Eye, to shout the beast from the sky and drag it back here in chains. He held it captive in this very keep until the day it died."
The story, told in this place, under the gaze of the dragon itself, made the history feel less like a legend and more like a testament carved in bone.
A wry smile touched Torin’s lips. “And then Olaf, in turn, became just as tyrannical as the dragons he hunted. To the point where the bards in Solitude still ceremoniously burn him in effigy every year.”
Kodlak let out a low, rumbling chuckle. “I tend to forget your fondness for those dusty old books,” he said, though his tone was more approving than dismissive. “But even then, we must strive to remember our forefathers as we ourselves would wish to be remembered. For the good they did, not the shadows they cast in their later years.” He shook his head, a somber look in his eyes. “Power always comes at a price, lad. Olaf was consumed by his. It has a way of corrupting mortals.”
“If it can corrupt creatures as mighty as dragons,” Torin replied thoughtfully, “then it’s no surprise it can twist men.”
“That is one way to look at it, I suppose,” Kodlak conceded with a slow nod.
Before Torin could offer any further thought, a clear, authoritative voice cut through the murmur of the hall, echoing off the ancient timbers.
“Brothers and sisters! If you would lend me your ears for a moment!”
The conversations died instantly. All heads turned toward the high table where Jarl Balgruuf now stood before his throne, his expression graver than the occasion seemed to warrant. Torin swallowed his words, his full attention fixed on the Jarl.
“First,” Balgruuf began, his hands clasped before him, “I wish to offer my sincere apologies to the Companions, and to their honorable new Harbinger, Kodlak.” His gaze found Kodlak in the crowd. “For while this gathering is to honor the departed Askar, my intent in calling you here was also to rally defenders for the Hold in these uncertain times.”
A ripple of understanding, not surprise, passed through the Companions. Proventus Avenicci and Irileth remained stoic, having clearly been privy to the plan. Kodlak himself merely folded his arms across his chest, his face a mask of stoic acceptance that seemed to say, I figured as much.
But then Balgruuf’s voice dropped, taking on a new, more severe tone that commanded absolute silence.
“At least… that was my intention three days ago,” he declared, his words heavy with implication. “But so much has happened since then.”
Kodlak’s head instantly swiveled, his gaze locking onto Torin. The boy met his look with a faint, knowing grin that was there and gone in a heartbeat. Swallowing his own surprise, Kodlak turned back to the Jarl, his voice cutting through the stunned silence.
“You have received word from Cyrodiil?” Kodlak’s question was more a statement, sharp and direct.
Balgruuf gave a grim, solemn nod. “Aye. Not one, but three messengers have arrived since we last met.”
He paused, allowing the gravity of that to settle. “The first came just hours after Askar’s funeral. He bore news that the Imperial City was days, perhaps hours, from being completely surrounded. The Emperor… the Emperor made the decision to abandon it rather than mount a final stand within the walls.”
A collective, sharp intake of breath echoed through the hall. Irileth’s hand went to the hilt of her sword, her knuckles white. Proventus Avenicci looked as if he might be sick. This was not the glorious last stand of legend; it was a strategic retreat, a admission of staggering defeat.
Balgruuf continued, his voice heavy. “The Eighth Legion fought a desperate, doomed battle on the walls to cover the retreat. Their sacrifice allowed the Emperor and the main body of the army to smash through the northern front of the Dominion’s blockade and break free.”
Shock and disbelief were etched on every face in the hall—every face but one. Torin simply listened, his expression one of calm analysis, as if receiving a confirmed battlefield report he had long anticipated.
“The second messenger arrived yesterday,” Balgruuf went on, his expression twisting with a mixture of grim satisfaction and profound sorrow. “He confirmed the Emperor was successful. He linked up with the reinforcements from Skyrim and other provinces. They are now dug in, fortifying Bruma.”
He took a deep, steadying breath, the next words clearly painful to utter.
“But the capital… the Imperial City… has fallen. The Imperial Palace was put to the torch. And those Aldmeri bastards…” his voice dropped to a venomous whisper, “…they looted the White-Gold Tower itself and committed unspeakable atrocities upon the citizens...”
The hall was utterly silent, the very air seeming to curdle with the magnitude of the defeat. The heart of the Empire had been torn out. The fall of the Imperial City was not just a military loss; it was a spiritual one, a wound to the very idea of order in Tamriel.
Finally, Kodlak’s voice, rough and low, broke the heavy silence. “So. We must prepare to fight the elves here in Skyrim, then. We will be the next front.”
Jarl Balgruuf, however, shook his head. A strange, new light—a flicker of grim hope—was in his eyes. “That is what I believed, Harbinger. I had already begun drafting the mobilization orders. But then… a third messenger arrived just this morning. He carried news from Hammerfell. And for the first time, it was not news of defeat.”
He let the implication hang for a moment, ensuring he had every person’s absolute attention.
“General Decianus,” Balgruuf announced, the name spoken with newfound respect, “somehow managed the impossible. He led his shattered legions through the heart of the Alik’r Desert and has regrouped. But more than that—the Crowns and the Forebears have set aside their feud. They have united, and together, they have already driven the Altmer from Sentinel!”
A murmur of stunned awe rippled through the hall. The ancient rivalries of Hammerfell were the stuff of legend; for them to unite was a sign of how dire the threat truly was.
“As we speak,” the Jarl continued, his voice gaining strength, “General Decianus is preparing for a decisive battle at Skaven, with fresh reinforcements sailing in from High Rock. The Dominion is caught between the Emperor’s forces in Bruma and a resurgent army in Hammerfell.”
Kodlak’s eyes widened. Slowly, almost involuntarily, his gaze once again drifted to Torin. The boy met his look, and this time his grin was not fleeting; it was a small, confident smirk of vindication.
Kodlak turned back to Balgruuf, stroking his beard thoughtfully. “So… there is a spark left in the old beast yet? There is still hope?”
Balgruuf nodded, his expression resolute. “Yes. If the legions in Hammerfell can push back, or even just cripple the Dominion forces there, they could swing north and join the Emperor. They could pinch the Aldmeri between them and drive them out of Cyrodiil.”
He then tempered his own optimism with a warrior’s pragmatism. “But do not mistake this for certain victory. It is a chance, Harbinger. A single, desperate coin toss for the fate of Tamriel.”
Kodlak gave a slow, considering nod. "A coin toss is better than a headsman's axe. But where does that leave us here in Whiterun, Jarl?"
]
Balgruuf's shoulders relaxed a fraction, the immediate, existential threat seeming to recede. "It leaves us with the problems we had before the world caught fire," he replied pragmatically.
"Most of our capable warriors have already left to join the Legion. We can only pray to Talos for their victory and their return. However, their absence has left a void. Bandit activity has grown bolder in the last few years, preying on travelers and outlying farms."
He looked at Kodlak, his request now clear and direct.
"I had hoped the Companions might be able to take on a few more worthy souls, to help bolster our local defenses. Or, at the very least, I would pay generously from the treasury if you would consent to train some of our younger guards. They have enthusiasm, but they lack the skill of your shield-brothers."
Kodlak's response was measured, honoring the Companions' traditions. "We can only enlist those who prove themselves worthy, Jarl. I will not lower our standards. But training your guards?" He glanced at Vilkas and Aela, who both gave curt nods. "That can be arranged."
"You have my thanks, Harbinger," Balgruuf said, genuine relief in his voice. He then raised his hands to the assembled guests. "Please, everyone, let us not let grave news overshadow the memory of a great warrior. Continue to enjoy the banquet."
As the tension in the hall eased and conversations cautiously resumed, Torin fixed Kodlak with a look of pure, unadulterated "I told you so." The old Harbinger met his gaze, a reluctant grunt of acknowledgment his only reply. But before Torin could even think about gloating, a figure detached itself from the shadows near the Jarl's court and moved toward them with quick, purposeful steps.
The man was draped in dark robes, his long chin and distinctive, thick black sideburns unmistakable even in the flickering torchlight. It was Farengar Secret-Fire, the Jarl's court wizard.
Torin’s eyes narrowed in recognition, a familiar mix of frustration and determination surfacing. He hadn't just met Farengar before; 'stalked' was a more accurate term for his efforts. After finally dismantling the Dwarven spider to its last screw, his progress had slammed into an immovable wall: his utter lack of magical knowledge.
The runes on the spider's core were a language he couldn't read, a power source he couldn't comprehend.
Naturally, he had sought out the most accessible source of arcane knowledge in Whiterun.
The problem was that the guards at Dragonsreach's doors saw only a child, and a persistent one at that. They refused him entry and couldn't be bothered to relay messages to a busy court wizard from a "pesky brat."
Left with no other option, Torin had resorted to a campaign of patient, frustrating surveillance. For an entire week, he had loitered near the entrance to Dragonsreach, on the off chance Farengar would emerge.
The wizard was a creature of habit, rarely leaving his quarters, but on the seventh day, his patience had been "rewarded."
Torin barely managed to stammer out the words "Dwarven enchantment" before Farengar had waved a dismissive hand, his expression one of profound boredom.
"The arcane arts are not a child's plaything, boy. Run along and bother the stablemaster."
The dismissal had been absolute, and the sting of it had lingered for years.
Now, Torin watched with thinly veiled resentment as the wizard pestered Kodlak, peppering the new Harbinger with esoteric questions. "—and the records from the era are so fragmentary, you see, but the Companions' ledger mentions a 'creature of shifting smoke and shattered light' defeated near the Dragontail Mountains two centuries ago. I was hoping your oral traditions might have preserved more details..."
As Farengar droned on, a spark ignited in Torin's mind, and his eyes lit up with a dangerous, cunning gleam. A plan, audacious and simple, began to form. He stood up smoothly and sidled over to where Farkas was methodically working his way through a roasted pheasant.
"Cover for me for a while," Torin whispered, leaning in close. "I need to do something."
Farkas didn't look up from his meal. "I'm not going to—"
"Do it," Torin interjected, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial hiss, "or I'll have a very detailed chat with Kodlak about your nightly 'research missions' to the Bannered Mare. I'm sure he'd be fascinated to know exactly how you're spending your contract earnings on 'interviewing' tavern wenches."
Farkas froze, a drumstick halfway to his mouth. He slowly lowered it, turning a wounded and slightly panicked look toward Torin.
He let out a long, defeated sigh, his broad shoulders slumping. "Fine," he grumbled. "Just go. And if you get caught, I never saw you."
"Knew I could count on you," Torin said, giving the larger youth a light, patronizing pat on the shoulder. His gaze then slid across the hall, past the oblivious Farengar, and up the shadowy staircase that led to the wizard's private quarters.
The door was unguarded, the wizard distracted.
'If the pompous bastard won't share his knowledge willingly,' Torin thought, a determined set to his jaw, 'then I'll just have to "borrow" a few of his books.'
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