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Made in Cyrodiil, Forged in Skyrim #7
🕑 Added 2025-10-20 14:05:25 +0000 UTCHaving finished forging and tempering all the pieces for the strange drill, Eorlund took his time assembling them, his thick fingers handling the small gears and pins with a surprising delicacy.
It was an attempt to better understand the tool's function through its form.
Once it was fully assembled, he held the finished product in his hand, hefting its solid weight. He turned the wheel with the crank, watching the pointed tip spin with a satisfying, low whir.
He hummed thoughtfully, his craftsman's mind intrigued.
He picked up a scrap iron ingot and carried it over to his main workbench. Placing the ingot securely on the worn wood, he then positioned the drill's tip against it.
Slightly unsure of the best grip for such a novel device, he tried a few different hand positions before settling on one that felt both stable and allowed for good torque.
Then, with equal measures of apprehension and curiosity, he began to turn the crank.
His eyes soon began to widen. The process was slow, requiring steady pressure, but it was undeniably working. The hardened steel bit was chewing into the solid iron, grinding out a small, precise hole and ejecting a steady stream of metallic shavings.
It was a far cry from the violent pounding of a punch and hammer, a method of quiet, controlled penetration.
Eorlund turned to look at Torin, who was practically vibrating on the spot. The boy looked like he was a moment away from lunging forward and snatching the drill from his hand.
Perhaps that's exactly what he would have done if he were a bit taller and bolder.
After a brief, intense moment of eye contact, Eorlund frowned, his bushy eyebrows drawing together. He stopped cranking, the drill falling silent. "Be honest, boy," he said, his voice low and serious. "What do you wish to do with this? Do you intend to empty the Jarl's safe?"
Torin couldn't help but freeze at those words. It wasn't because of the accusation itself, but because of how quickly the old artisan's mind had leaped to such a… practical, if illicit, application for the tool.
He let out a nervous, slightly strained chuckle. "Surely, you jest, Master Eorlund. The guards would throw me into the stream below Dragonsreach if they so much as saw me approach the keep."
He cleared his throat, adopting an expression of wounded innocence. "Besides, I'm as well-behaved as children come. Ask anyone in Jorvaskrr, and they'll tell you that."
Eorlund gave Torin a long, suspicious look, his eyes narrowed to slits. "Your flattery only makes me doubt you more, boy..." he trailed off, the weight of his own responsibility settling on his shoulders.
He let out a short breath. "But I'll trust in Kodlak's upbringing. Know that any wrongdoing you commit with this will stain my name and his, not yours."
Torin raised a hand, placing the other over his heart with grave solemnity. "I do solemnly swear to the Divines not to misuse the precious tool you forged for me."
Eorlund scoffed, a rough, dismissive sound. "What do you even know of the Divines, boy? Your breath still stinks of goat milk." He shook his head, the stern expression finally cracking into one of weary resignation. He thrust the drill toward Torin. "Quickly. Take it and go, before I change my mind."
Torin didn't need to be told twice. He eagerly snatched the drill from the old smith's hand, clutching the cold metal to his chest as if it were a treasure of incalculable worth. "I promise not to betray your trust," he said, his voice suddenly small and sincere.
Eorlund's face finally softened, the last of his suspicion melting away into a sort of baffled, grudging affection. "Run along, then. And those pins you wanted are easy enough to make, but to get them the exact size you specified would take time I don't have today."
That was all the dismissal Torin needed. He instantly turned on his heel and basically started sprinting toward Jorvaskrr, his small legs pumping as he shouted a final, "Thank you!" over his shoulder, the drill held aloft in his triumphant fist.
Eorlund sighed, a long and heavy sound, as he watched the boy disappear down the steps. He felt a peculiar sensation, as if a weight he hadn't even known he was carrying had just slid off his shoulders.
He leaned against his anvil, staring at the empty space where the boy had been. He didn't know what the future had in store for Torin, but he was suddenly, profoundly certain of one thing: it would be worth watching over, for better or for worse.
Holding my prized drill tightly against my chest, I made my way down to Jorvaskr's living quarters, my mind already racing with plans for the spider's boiler core. On the way, I passed by Tilma the maid's room.
The old woman was sweeping the floor, and she offered me one of her usual, gentle smiles. This time, though, her smile felt kind of weird… a little too knowing, a little too pitying.
Not in the mood to overthink things—well, things besides the Dwarven spider waiting in my room—I just nodded at her and continued on my way.
I quickly navigated the familiar corridors, past the training yard, past the closed doors of the Inner Circle's quarters, and straight to my own door.
Eagerly, I pushed it open, my drill held high like a warrior's banner, prepared to finally continue my dismantling work.
And froze.
Everything was exactly where I had left it. Well, everything except for the addition of a blank-faced Kodlak, sitting on the edge of my bed with his arms crossed over his broad chest. His expression was utterly unreadable.
I blinked. I stared at the half-dismantled Dwarven spider, its guts spilled across the floor. I stared at Kodlak.
Then, I quickly took a step back into the hallway and began to look around. Sure enough, down the corridor, Tilma was poking her head out from around the corner.
My eyes met hers, and with a profoundly guilty look, she quickly bolted out of sight.
'That old demon woman!' I mused furiously. 'It's not enough that she swaddled me like a burrito when I was younger, now she's even snitching!'
So much for her being a good keeper of secrets.
Taking a deep, steadying breath, I schooled my features into my best, most innocent smile and turned back to face the future Harbinger.
"Old man," I said, my voice dripping with feigned cheer. "Fancy seeing you here... What a complete, unexpected, but pleasant surprise..."
Kodlak didn't return my greeting. His gaze was like granite. Instead, he pointed a thick finger at the drill still clutched in my hand. "What's that in your hand, boy?"
I smiled sheepishly, holding it up. "This? It's a tool Eorlund made for me..."
Kodlak's voice was flat. "To what purpose?"
I tried not to gulp as I pointed a trembling finger at the disemboweled Dwarven spider. "It's to... dismantle this thing."
Kodlak's frown deepened, the lines on his face carving canyons of disapproval. "To what end?"
I put on my most earnest expression, summoning a confidence I didn't even know was in me. "This machine is clearly evil! It has powers to tempt people into uncertain, shadowy paths!" I then added, lowering my voice conspiratorially, "At first, I wanted to simply dispose of it, but I quickly realized that someone else might find it and be corrupted by its... metallic wiles. And so..."
I trailed off slightly for dramatic effect before finishing with a flourish, "...I decided it would be better to break it down into many smaller pieces and bury each one separately, so that its evil would not tempt anyone ever again!"
Kodlak slowly brought a hand up to rub his forehead, his eyes squeezing shut as if he was getting a powerful headache. "That," he said, his voice weary, "is rather clever of you."
He opened his eyes and pinned me with his gaze. "But wouldn't it be easier to just throw it whole into the Skyforge?"
I opened my mouth to retort, to produce another excuse, but no words came out. My jaw worked soundlessly.
He definitely had me there.
Kodlak slowly stood up, his large frame uncoiling until he was towering over me, blocking the light from the doorway. He raised his hand, and I honestly thought I was going to get a firm smack on the head for my lies.
I flinched instinctively.
But the blow never came. After a moment, I felt a heavy, calloused hand gently pat my head.
Kodlak then kneeled, getting down on the same eye level as me, his expression softening from sternness to a deep, weary understanding.
"There's no need to lie to me, boy." He paused, then gestured toward the Dwarven spider. "If... such things move your passion, then I will not stop you."
I just stared at him, my mind reeling with both shock and confusion. "You... won't?"
Kodlak shook his head, his gaze steady. "I won't claim to understand your fascination with this... thing," he said, gesturing to the spider's carcass. "But I will not deny it either. A man's passion is his own."
Before I could begin to mentally celebrate and present Kodlak with the 'Best Adoptive Father of the Era' award, he continued, his tone leaving no room for argument. "However, these studies must not impede your warrior education."
I couldn't help but scratch my head in genuine bewilderment. "My warrior education? What warrior education?"
Kodlak smiled at me then, and I could swear I felt a faint, teasing thread of malice woven into it. "The one you'll soon receive." He pointed a firm finger at my chest. "One of your parents was a Nord, from a long line of warriors if your build is anything to go by. That blood is in you, a legacy you carry."
He reached out and grabbed my shoulder, his grip firm but not unkind. "If not for yourself, for the Companions, or for me... you do it to honor the family you lost. Live in a way that makes them proud. So that they can brag about siring you to the heroes in Shor's Hall."
I grew quiet at those words. The image of Helga, axes in hand as she charged out of the room, bleeding and exhausted from birth, instantly flashed in my mind with painful clarity.
I had never been a believer in my past life, but the soul was as real as the air I breathed in this world, and so were the gods. It meant that Helga, if the tales were true, should indeed be in Sovngarde right now, feasting and fighting... if the gods had any wit about them, that is.
I was not her son, not really. I was an intruder in her child's flesh. But if I were... if the soul that should have been here was the one she died for... she'd probably want the same thing Kodlak wanted for me.
She'd want her son to be strong, to be able to stand his ground, to live a life worthy of song. A life worthy of her sacrifice.
Finally, I let out a long, slow sigh, the weight of a duty I hadn't asked for settling onto my small shoulders.
It wasn't a burden of guilt anymore, but one of respect.
"I understand."
Kodlak's expression instantly eased at my words, the stern lines of concern melting away into something warmer and more proud. His smile widened, reaching his eyes this time, and he gave my shoulder a firm, final pat as he stood.
"Good," he said, his voice a low rumble of satisfaction. "I know you will make us proud, boy. Your old family, and the Companions both."
With that, he turned and left the room, the door clicking shut behind him and leaving me alone in a sudden, heavy silence.
I stood there for a long moment, the cool metal of the drill still gripped in my hand. My gaze drifted from its intricate, promising form to the scattered, mysterious pieces of the Dwarven spider.
Just minutes ago, they had represented a thrilling puzzle, a gateway to understanding wondrous secrets.
Now, they just felt like pieces of metal.
The weight of Kodlak's expectations, and the ghost of Helga's sacrifice, settled around me.
The path ahead seemed to have forked in an instant.
I'll need some time to think. A lot of time.
Comments
Potato
I hope his passion for figuring shit out dont go away
