Wicked_Fiction
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Made in Cyrodiil, Forged in Skyrim #8
🕑 Added 2025-10-20 14:06:28 +0000 UTCOne week later, Torin sat in his room, yet again surrounded by a sea of paper rolls he’d “borrowed” from the Temple of Kynareth.
At this point, he had to wonder if the priests even cared for them, or if they just generated an endless supply for aspiring vandals like himself. But that was neither here nor there.
The contents of these scrolls, this time, were markedly different. Gone were the carefully drawn schematics of Dwarven components and the tools needed to study them.
Instead, the parchment was covered in a messy, hastily scribbled script, filled with names, short quotes, and what looked like a very rudimentary survey.
Kodlak: "A true warrior picks his battles with a wise heart, not a clever mind."
Farkas: "Strength. You hit them until they stop moving."
Aela (annoyed): "A warrior is the hunter, not the prey! Now go away!"
After that conversation with Kodlak, Torin had spent two full days in solemn deliberation, the old Harbinger’s words echoing in the silence.
The more he thought of the sacrifices made for his mere existence—Helga’s last stand, Camilla’s final breath—the more his newly developed fascination with Dwarven engineering seemed like a selfish, insignificant indulgence in the grand, bloody scheme of things.
And yet, Torin couldn’t bring himself to discard it entirely. To abandon that spark of curiosity felt like he was throwing a part of his very soul away. It was the one thing in this world that was purely his, a connection to the mind he’d once had.
As much as he wanted to honor Helga and Camilla, there were parts of himself he couldn't sacrifice, no matter the obligation.
And so, trapped between chasing his passions and honoring the dead, Torin had finally come to a conclusion: he would do both.
Training to be a warrior fit for the Companions was a lifelong endeavor, but so was studying the Dwemer’s legacy.
Luckily for Torin, he wasn’t even two years old, and he possessed the mind of an adult seasoned by years of project management and working under tight deadlines. One would be surprised by the number of applications there were for such experience.
Torin, for example, decided he would begin to study ‘the path of the warrior’ before he even stepped onto it. His first step was to conduct a feasibility study and gather requirements.
In simpler terms, he was going out to interview as many ‘warriors’ as possible and ask them a single, deceptively simple question: What do you think makes a "warrior"?
Beyond the few who'd just given him joking answers due to his age—like the guard who'd said "a big lunch and a bigger sword"—most took the question rather too seriously, which said a lot about Nordic culture.
The answers were as varied as the people giving them, forming a spectrum from the deeply philosophical to the brutally practical.
The older generation, like Kodlak and Eorlund, offered answers that felt like they'd been tempered in the fires of long experience. They spoke of honor, of protecting the weak, of tradition, and the fine line between a noble warrior and a common cutthroat.
Their definitions were less about the act of fighting and more about the spirit in which it was done.
Younger warriors, especially the whelps in the Companions like the twins and Aela, and even some of the city guards, were a lot more direct, though just as varied.
Vilkas had scowled and muttered about "discipline and knowing your enemy's weak points," while Farkas had simply shrugged and said, "You stand your ground. No matter what."
Aela, once she'd stopped trying to pinch him, had declared it was all about the thrill of the hunt.
In the end, after compiling his notes, Torin cut through the philosophy. To qualify as a warrior in the most basic, functional sense, he figured he needed to start with two fundamental things: a strong body, and a weapon he could wield competently.
Torin wasn't one to toot his own horn, but he wasn't ignorant of his physical advantages either. He was growing at an alarming rate, his frame already solid and promising significant strength.
So, he probably wouldn't need to waste too much time to attain the baseline physicality fit for a warrior; his body seemed determined to get him there whether he liked it or not.
As for a weapon, that was where Torin was stumped. Swords were immediately out of the question. They were finesse instruments, requiring years upon years of dedicated practice to handle with any real skill.
He needed a weapon that had a lower barrier to entry, one that was easier to master in a shorter time frame.
More importantly, it needed to be a weapon that emphasized the natural advantages of his build—raw power and reach. Something that translated sheer strength into devastating impact.
His eyes scanned his notes again, landing on the practical suggestions. A mace. A hammer. An axe. These were tools of brute force. They didn't require intricate footwork or subtle blade angles.
They required you to be strong enough to lift them and determined enough to bring them down on your enemy. It was a starting point he could work with.
Still, Torin was not under the illusion that a strong body and a simple weapon would elevate him to the caliber of warrior someone like Kodlak—or maybe even Helga—would find passable.
They were the foundation, the absolute baseline. To truly excel, to survive in a world where giants, dragons, and magical abominations were real, he would need an edge.
Whatever shortcomings he had from a training routine that might lack the single-minded dedication of a true, lifelong warrior, he would compensate for them with magic.
The thought was not as foreign as it might have been. Dwarven engineering was magical engineering. He already knew, with the certainty of a scholar staring at a complex equation, that he would have to study some aspects of magic to unravel its mysteries.
Enchantment was at the top of that list; understanding how to imbue a soul's power into an object was fundamental to the Dwemer's creations.
As for the more involved schools of magic, his "previous life's" understanding, however game-logic-based, provided a framework.
Alteration seemed like the kind of thing one would need to master to truly study Dwarven constructs—the ability to manipulate the physical properties of matter, to understand the fundamental laws that the Dwemer so blatantly twisted.
Conveniently, it was also one of the more subtle schools of magic, dealing in protective buffs, paralysis, telekinesis, and transmutation. These were ideal for a "warrior" archetype.
A sudden burst of hardened skin in the middle of a fight, or the ability to paralyze a key opponent, could turn the tide without a single flashy fireball.
The fact that they were subtle, not flashy like Conjuration or Destruction, was a huge plus. Given the Nords' general distrust of magic, these kinds of utility spells were less likely to attract scorn or accusations eating babies.
Speaking of Conjuration and Destruction, those were two subjects Torin didn't want to touch, not even with a very long pole. Besides being openly shunned by most people, they were also incredibly, personally dangerous.
Vivid, game-born memories surfaced: the charred corpse in a burnt-down house near Winterhold, a spell tome for 'Flames' lying nearby; the reckless summoners torn apart by the very Daedra they sought to control.
Those paths led to power, yes, but they were paved with hubris and ended in self-immolation or damnation. No, for a man who valued control and careful planning, those roads were closed.
He would walk the path of the warrior, but he would pave it with the hidden stones of Alteration and Enchantment. It was a compromise between his old self and his new life, a synthesis that felt not just practical, but right.
In the end, Torin had to acknowledge that this grand, multi-faceted plan was little more than optimistic speculation on his behalf. Magic could easily prove to be more complex, nuanced, and dangerous than the simplified skill trees he remembered from a game.
He would need to carefully study it from the ground up to determine what matched his meta-knowledge and what was terrifyingly, fundamentally different. This, after all, was real life, and real life was infinitely more complex, unpredictable, and unforgiving than any game could ever be.
As of now, however, he wasn't even ready to start physical training due to his young age, so both warrior drills and magical theory would have to take a back seat to the one thing he could do immediately.
With that, Torin scribbled down a few final notes—"Alteration? Enchanting? Find a tutor? Library?"—and began to tidy up the paper rolls.
Before long, they were neatly tucked away in a corner, replaced on the floor by the dismantled Dwarven spider and his now-complete set of perfectly sized taper pins and the prized drill, all masterfully forged by Eorlund.
He rubbed his hands together, a familiar thrill of anticipation pushing aside the weight of future obligations. He picked up the drill, hefting its solid, comfortable weight, and eyed the stubborn rivets on the spider's main back plate with a sort of focused malice.
"Time to see what you're hiding..." he muttered to the silent, inanimate husk, positioning the sharp bit against the first rivet.
The whirring sound of the drill filled the small room, a quiet promise of discovery, one tiny, metallic shaving at a time.
...
The weak afternoon light of Skyrim slanted through the high window of Torin’s room, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. Sprawled on his bed, Torin absently turned the page of a heavy tome titled Saint Alessia: The Slave Queen.
His brow was furrowed, not in concentration, but in mild exasperation. He reached the chapter’s concluding paragraph and let out a soft, derisive snort.
“…and while the Dragon-Fired Covenant remains the enduring legacy of the Blessed Saint, we must not overlook the pivotal inspiration provided by the victories of King Harald. His conquest of Skyrim and the establishment of the First Kingdom of Man provided the crucial spark of hope, proving the Elven dominion could be broken, thereby galvanizing the hearts of the Cyrodilic slaves.”
"Of course," Torin muttered to the empty room. "The Nord literally conquers his own homeland, and it's just 'inspirational' for the Imperial who actually frees the continent."
It was the typical, subtly chauvinistic undercurrent he'd come to expect from histories penned by Nordic scholars. He tossed the book onto a precarious pile of scrolls and reached for another volume—an Imperial perspective on the same subject, hoping for a slightly less biased account.
His fingers had just brushed the leather binding when the door to his room swung open with a familiar, unoiled groan.
Farkas stood in the doorway, a mountain of fur and steel that nearly filled the frame. "Come on, you little freak. Kodlak says it’s time.”
Torin didn't look up, instead letting his head fall back against the wall with a dull thud. A long, theatrical groan escaped him. "By the Nine, already? The sun's barely moved."
"Your whining won't move it any faster," Farkas grunted, his voice a low rumble. He gestured with a gauntleted hand. "Up. Now."
With the profound weariness of a soul facing a deeply unpleasant chore, Torin slowly pushed himself upright, stretching his arms over his head with a series of pops and a wide, groaning yawn.
Farkas just stood there, arms now crossed over his chestplate, his glare as solid and impatient as a brick wall.
"Give me a minute, you big oaf," Torin grumbled, swinging his legs off the bed and fumbling for his boots. "Some of us have intellectual pursuits, you know. It's taxing."
"Looks real taxing," Farkas deadpanned, watching him struggle with a lace.
Finally, Torin stood, shaking out his limbs. Farkas’s squinted eyes tracked him up and down, a flicker of assessment in their usually placid depths.
"You've grown taller again," he stated, as if announcing a minor but inconvenient fact of nature.
Torin sighed, a sound of genuine indignation. "Don't remind me."
At six years old, Torin was a head taller than any child his age in Whiterun, his frame broad and solid enough that strangers often mistook him for a stout ten-year-old.
This rapid, relentless growth was a constant source of frustration.
His hands kept outgrowing his carefully crafted tools, forcing him to endure Eorlund’s long-suffering sighs each time he had to request new ones.
Worse were the clothes; he was outgrowing tunics and breeches at a rate that made Kodlak mutter about the financial insolvency of the Companions every six months.
It was, in a word, inconvenient.
The only consolation Torin had in this relentless physical expansion was that, at the very least, the breakneck pace had finally slowed. Otherwise, he mused darkly, he might very well have been looking Farkas in the eye by now.
The prodigious strength that came bundled with his build was a welcome, if sometimes clumsy, companion. And the fact that merchants in the market were less likely to shoo him away, mistaking his size for a few extra years of age, certainly didn't hurt.
Hefting his one-handed warhammer—a solid, no-nonsense weapon that felt like a natural extension of his arm—and scooping up his heavy, bossed shield, he turned to the impatient figure in the doorway.
"Alright, alright. Come on, let's get this over with."
Farkas snorted. "Finally." He didn't wait, turning on his heel and starting down the corridor with a rhythmic clank of armor.
Torin moved to follow but paused at the threshold, his gaze drifting across the room to the far corner. There, standing on a low table, was the Dwarven spider. It was fully reassembled, its bronze carapace gleaming dully in the light, every piston and gear housing meticulously cleaned and restored.
It was a perfect, lifeless replica, minus the enchanted soul gem that had once given it purpose. Now, it sat inert, a complex and beautiful trophy, like some exotic stuffed animal from a forgotten era.
He had taken its mystery as far as his engineering skills and available texts could carry him. The rest of its secrets—the whispers in the runes, the logic of its enchantments—were locked behind a door for which he did not yet have the key.
It was a project shelved, not abandoned.
"Sooner or later," he muttered to the silent machine, a quiet promise to himself. Then, he stepped out, pulling the door shut and hurrying to catch up with the echoing footsteps of his future.
Comments
Potato
Dudes gonna be a beast
