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Made in Cyrodiil, Forged in Skyrim #9
🕑 Added 2025-10-21 13:52:28 +0000 UTCThe familiar, rhythmic clank of Farkas’s armor echoed through the stone corridors of Jorvaskr as they made their way toward the training yard. Torin followed, the weight of his hammer and shield a comfortable, familiar burden.
As they passed the Harbinger’s quarters, however, he slowed. The heavy oaken door was shut tight, a rare sight.
“Is the Harbinger out?” Torin asked, a note of curiosity in his voice.
Farkas didn’t break stride or glance back. “Ulf came by a couple hours ago. They went out to hunt.”
Torin stopped completely. “Hunting? At his age?” The words were out before he could filter them. Harbinger Askar was ancient, his face a roadmap of wrinkles, his movements slow and deliberate. “I thought he was… unwell.”
This time, Farkas did stop. He turned, his expression one of pure, unadulterated Nordic bafflement. “What else would he do?” he grunted, as if explaining the most basic truth of the world. “Sit in that chair and rot?”
Torin felt his eyebrow twitch. 'Right. Skyrim. Nords. Warrior culture. I’m the weird one here.'
Harbinger Askar was a figure woven into the very fabric of Jorvaskr. The old man—the one who, according to the tales, had found a young, wandering Kodlak in the deserts of Hammerfell and brought him into the fold—was a near-constant presence.
Torin’s own interactions with him had been limited to fetching a bottle of mead or delivering a dinner plate on Tilma’s behalf. The day-to-day leadership had long since fallen to Kodlak’s capable shoulders.
Yet, Torin had grown accustomed to the ritual of it all. Every morning, without fail, the door to the Harbinger’s quarters would be open, and the old man would be there in his great chair, a silent, watchful sentinel.
A nod, a slow wave of a gnarled hand—it was a part of the morning as reliable as the dawn.
His presence was as fixed a part of the mead hall’s interior as the great fire pit or the carved pillars. Almost like part of the furniture, Torin thought, then immediately winced, glad the thought had remained internal.
Voicing that would undoubtedly earn him a clout on the head from someone.
Farkas' voice quickly snapped Torin out of his thoughts. “Stop dragging your feet, or Vilaks will have both our asses.”
Shrugging off the unusual silence from the Harbinger’s door, he quickened his pace to catch up with Farkas. “Right. Let’s go. Wouldn’t want to keep Vilkas waiting. His face might freeze in that eternal scowl again.”
They exited Jorvaskr through the back door, the crisp Whiterun air a welcome change from the smoky, mead-scented halls. The training yard was a patch of hard-packed earth, scarred by decades of combat drills.
Vilkas was already there, a picture of impatient readiness.
He leaned casually on the pommel of his greatsword, a massive slab of steel that was lodged point-first in the ground. The sight would have been awe-inspiring, if not for the fact that the sword stood nearly as tall as he did.
Swoosh-thud.
The sound drew Torin's eye. A distance away, Aela stood, her form a study in focused grace. She drew her bow, the motion fluid and practiced, and let the arrow fly. It struck the center of a straw target with a definitive thump.
She turned, her fiery braid whipping around, and her gaze swept over the new arrivals. Her eyes, sharp as the arrowheads in her quiver, locked onto Torin for a split second.
An immediate, profound scowl darkened her features before she pointedly turned her back on him, nocking another arrow.
Torin offered a faint, internal sigh. Well, I suppose I had that coming. His campaign of retaliatory pranks—replacing her iron arrows with practice ones, strategically placing burrs in her armor—might have been a tad excessive.
These days, she’d still grudgingly answer a direct question about tracking or the creatures of the wilds, but her interactions otherwise consisted solely of that signature scowl.
The era of cheek-pinching was over; the era of glacial disdain had begun.
"You two sure took your sweet time," Vilkas called out, his voice cutting through the yard. His glare was a tangible force, shifting from his brother to Torin.
Torin immediately thrust a finger toward Farkas. "His fault. He insisted on stopping to 'inspect' the pantry. I think he was hoping for a sweetroll."
Farkas, who had been ambling toward a bench, froze. He turned, his usually placid face a mask of stunned betrayal. "Why, you little—!"
"Enough," Vilkas snapped, his patience clearly as thin as a razor's edge. He fixed his gaze on Torin, a predatory glint in his eyes. "Since you're so eager for training, unlike my distracted brother, we'll start with you. Come. Raise your weapon."
Torin rolled his eyes internally but knew better than to voice his complaints. He hefted his hammer, settled the heavy shield firmly on his arm, and stepped forward onto the worn training ground.
Farkas, his moment of fury passing into grim amusement, dropped onto the bench with a clatter of armor. "Good luck," he rumbled, not without a trace of sympathy. "You'll need it. He looks angrier than usual today."
A comment about Vilkas possibly having his monthly visit from the "Fury-Maiden" was at the tip of Torin's tongue, but he wisely bit it back. Antagonizing the man holding a six-foot slab of sharpened steel was a special kind of stupid, even for him.
Instead, he rolled his shoulders and gave the warhammer a practiced, one-handed twirl, settling his grip. "Alright then, 'Wisdom of Ysgramor'. Let's see what you've got for me today."
Vilkas didn't grace the taunt with a verbal response, only a derisive snort. He lifted the greatsword from the earth as if it were a willow switch, the massive blade coming to rest in a high guard, held steady in both hands. The air around him seemed to still.
Torin knew better than to wait for an invitation. He exploded forward, closing the distance in a few quick, heavy-footed strides. He was a boulder, not a dart—his charge was about momentum, not finesse.
Seeing him come, Vilkas remained a statue, his entire being focused on the descending arc of his sword. As Torin came within range, the greatsword fell. It wasn't a wild chop, but a precise, devastating guillotine drop.
THUUUUD.
Torin bent his knees, grounding himself, and met the blow with his shield. The impact was colossal, a concussive force that traveled from the reinforced wood and steel, up his arm, and down his spine, making his teeth rattle and his knees threaten to buckle.
Splinters flew from the shield's rim. But he held. Gritting his teeth, he put his weight into a sharp, outward flick of the shield, deflecting Vilkas's blade to the side and creating a sliver of an opening.
With a grunt of effort, he swung his hammer in a tight, powerful arc aimed at Vilkas's ribs. The older Companion didn't panic; he simply flowed backward, the hammer's head whistling through the air a mere finger's breadth from his armor.
In the same fluid motion, as Torin was slightly over-extended, Vilkas recovered his sword and sent the point lunging forward in a piston-like thrust aimed at Torin's gut.
Torin reacted on instinct, twisting his shield and slamming its metal-bound edge down onto the sword's blade, forcing the tip into the dirt. Now! He took a determined step forward, his own weight driving Vilkas's weapon down, his hammer already coiling for another strike.
It was a feint.
Before Torin's weight could fully settle, he felt a sharp, stinging impact on his ankle—not the blade, but the unforgiving broadside of the greatsword. Vilkas had used his own weapon as a tripwire.
Torin's leg was swept out from under him, and the world tilted. He landed flat on his back with a heavy oomph, the air driven from his lungs.
The first thing he saw, blinking stars from his vision, was the porch. Farkas and Aela were now seated side-by-side on a bench, having abandoned all pretense of their own training.
Farkas was chuckling, a low, rolling sound, while Aela watched with a smirk of pure, unadulterated satisfaction.
What blotted out the sky next was Vilkas's blank, unimpressed face.
"That wasn't half bad," Vilkas stated, his tone as dry as the dust now coating Torin's back. "But we're not nearly finished." He extended a calloused hand. "Get up."
Torin muttered a string of curses under his breath, the words lost in the dirt and his own ragged gasp for air. He took the proffered hand, and Vilkas hauled him to his feet with effortless strength.
As he brushed the dirt from his tunic and retrieved his hammer, he knew with grim certainty that today's session had only just begun.
...
Five brutal hours later, the training yard was steeped in the long shadows of late afternoon. Vilkas stood over Torin’s prone form, his arms crossed. The boy lay sprawled in the dirt, a perfect picture of total exhaustion.
His chest heaved with dramatic, ragged breaths, and his limbs twitched sporadically. To any untrained eye, he was a fallen warrior, pushed beyond his limits.
But Vilkas was not an untrained eye. He’d seen this performance before.
“On your feet, boy,” Vilkas said, his voice flat and unamused. “Even the ‘unconscious’ don’t look this pitiful. You’ve still got five laps left.”
A pained groan was the only response. Torin’s twitching intensified.
Vilkas opened his mouth to deliver a scathing critique on the boy’s pathetic attempt at malingering when a sudden, loud commotion erupted from the main plaza on the other side of Jorvaskr.
It wasn't the usual din of the market; it was a rising tide of concerned shouts and hurried footsteps.
Across the yard, Aela, who had been methodically shredding a straw target, and Farkas, who had been practicing forms with a training dummy, both froze mid-motion, their heads snapping toward the noise.
Vilkas’s training-focused annoyance instantly evaporated, replaced by a warrior’s alertness. His frown deepened. “Enough,” he declared, his voice carrying a new, grim authority. “Training’s over. Let’s see what that’s about.”
The effect on Torin was nothing short of miraculous. The twitching ceased. The ragged breaths evened out. In one fluid motion, he pushed himself up from the dirt, brushing the dust from his tunic with the energy of a man who had just enjoyed a refreshing nap, not five hours of grueling combat drills.
Vilkas shot him a look that promised this would be addressed later, but the urgency of the moment took precedence. He gestured sharply for the others to follow and led the way at a quick march, rounding the corner of the great mead hall.
They found a large, murmuring crowd gathered at the foot of the stone steps leading up to Jorvaskr’s main entrance, all eyes fixed on the scene above. Vilkas’s gaze followed theirs, and his blood ran cold.
There, at the top of the steps, Kodlak and Ulf were kneeling over a figure lying on a makeshift stretcher of cloaks and branches. The figure was armor-clad, but the steel was rent and stained with dark, wet blood.
Without a word, Vilkas bolted up the steps, taking them two at a time. Aela, Farkas, and a now-sobered Torin were right behind him, the day’s grievances already forgotten.
As they closed the distance, the identity of the bloodied figure became horrifyingly clear. It was Harbinger Askar. His face was pale as milk, a stark contrast to the three deep, savage gashes that had torn through his armor and into his stomach.
The rich furs he always wore were now dark and sodden with blood.
Vilkas’s face, already grim, darkened into a mask of cold fury. “By Shor… what happened?” he demanded, his voice tight.
Ulf, kneeling beside the old Harbinger, looked up, his own face a storm of grief and self-recrimination.
“We spotted a great sabre cat, stalking the herds near the Whitewatch,” he bit out, the words tasting like ash. “A massive beast. Askar… he insisted on facing it alone. Said it was a hunter’s right.”
He shook his head, his gaze dropping back to his fallen leader. “He got in close, dodged its first pounce… managed to get his arms around its neck and snap it.”
Ulf’s hands, clenched into fists, trembled slightly. “But not before it raked him. I was drawing my bow, but… I couldn’t get a clear shot. I couldn’t get to him in time.” The admission was a raw wound.
Kodlak, who had been kneeling on Askar’s other side, placed a steadying hand on Ulf’s shoulder. His voice, though heavy with sorrow, was firm. “Do not carve a tomb of guilt for yourself, brother. It will not honor him.”
He looked down at Askar’s still face, his expression one of profound respect. “He spoke to me just a few days past. Said he felt the weight of his years, that his end was nearing. He did not wish to meet it in a bed.”
Kodlak then slowly, deliberately, rose to his feet. He turned to face the gathered crowd, his presence expanding to fill the space. When he spoke again, his voice was a clear, carrying baritone, meant for all to hear.
“Today, our Harbinger has met his end! He did not fall to sickness or to age, but in battle against a savage beast, as he would have wanted!” He paused, letting the words hang in the hushed air. “He lived a long and storied life, a life of glory and song. All stories must end, and his… his is an end worthy of every Nord's envy!”
His gaze swept over the crowd, a silent command that instantly stilled the last of the murmurs.
“We will now give him his rites,” Kodlak declared, his tone brooking no argument, “as befits a Harbinger of the Companions, a warrior of Ysgramor’s line. Those who are not of his blood or his shield-brothers, take your leave. Let us mourn in peace.”
As if his words were a gust of wind, the crowd scattered, melting away into the city until only the grim-faced circle of Companions and a few grieving old friends remained, standing vigil around their fallen leader.
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