Wicked_Fiction
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Made in Cyrodiil, Forged in Skyrim #6
🕑 Added 2025-10-20 14:04:25 +0000 UTCSitting cross-legged on the cold stone floor of my room, surrounded by a chaotic nest of paper rolls I’d “borrowed” from the temple of Kyne, I stared wide-eyed at the Dwarven spider laid out before me.
Its internal parts, the ones I’d managed to carefully pry from its interior with a stolen dinner knife and a lot of stubborn persistence, were now lined up neatly beside the dead construct’s hollow shell.
I picked up one of the paper rolls and began to compare the rough, charcoal sketch I’d drawn to the actual components. Dwarven craftsmanship was, to put it mildly, mind-blowing.
The sheer complexity and miniaturization were... I didn't even know what to compare it with.
Though I couldn’t dismantle the spider entirely—thanks to a severe lack of proper tools and, well, being stuck in the body of a two-year-old with not much brute strength to speak of—after a whole week of obsessively studying it, I felt I was finally getting a basic idea of its architecture.
From what I could piece together, the Dwarven spider was built from several complex systems. I’d categorized them in my notes as best I could:
First, the Framework: This was the skeleton. The main carapace, the back plate, the gear housing, and the belly plate. It was all made of that strange, golden-bronze metal, incredibly tough and surprisingly light.
Then, the Locomotion System (a fancy way of saying the legs and the gears that moved them). This was a masterpiece of engineering. Each leg wasn't just a simple jointed rod; it had integrated steam pistons that, when activated, would provide the powerful up/down and forward/backward thrust for each limb.
And as you’d expect from a murder-bot, said legs ended in wickedly sharp, articulated claws.
The gears were a whole other level of fascinating. There was the Main Gear, or what I called the 'Heart Gear.' It was the largest central cog, positioned right where a power source should be. It was the 'first gear,' the one designed to put the entire mechanical symphony into motion.
And then there was the piece that truly baffled me: the Gyroscopic Stabilizer, or just 'Gyro' for short. It was a heavy, rapidly-spinning wheel housed in a brass cage, designed to keep the whole thing balanced on its spindly legs.
It was basically an internalized tail, a self-correcting mechanism of pure genius. Even powered down, its precision was breathtaking.
But all of this—the pistons, the gears, the gyro—just led me back to the same, burning question. The one Kodlak and Ulf had so unhelpfully dismissed with ‘it’s magic.’
What makes the Heart Gear turn?
Mind you, I had played Skyrim. I thought I had a basic, game-logic understanding of how this thing worked, which was essentially 'it's magic' with extra steps. I knew that soul gems were used as a power source of sorts in this world, so I’d figured the Heart Gear would be directly attached to one, and the gem would just… magically make it spin. A simple, clean, fantasy solution.
Boy, was I wrong.
The thing connected to the Heart Gear wasn't a simple gem socket. It was a whole, miniaturized boiler core—a system that was somehow both more and less complicated than a modern power generator.
On one side, it was an old-fashioned mechanical construct.
I could see the regular release valves, the intricate piston shafts designed to transfer the force of expanding steam directly into the gears, and a network of finely crafted bronze tubes to ferry said steam from point A to point B. It was a perfectly logical, steam-powered system.
On the other side, it was covered in softly glowing, etched runes. And suspended in the middle of this mechanical heart, held in place by nothing but the air itself, was a small, pale soul gem.
So, this Dwarven spider clearly worked on steam power. But that’s exactly where the real problem began. You need water to make steam. The Dwemer have been vanished for thousands of years, yet these automatons are still found fully functional in their ruins.
That meant one of two terrifyingly advanced things: either these spiders were programmed to somehow seek out and refill their own water reserves autonomously, or they had an inbuilt function to gather water from the environment, most likely powered by the soul gem.
I couldn't even begin to understand how either option was possible with the technology I was looking at.
It had to be the runes.
They either acted as the machine's 'brain,' giving it a semblance of programming to perform maintenance, or they were part of some enchantment designed to passively condense atmospheric moisture directly into the boiler core, creating a self-sustaining cycle.
Either way, it's far too early to make solid conjectures.
I can't dismantle the boiler core itself without proper tools, and for all I know, there's another entire compartment hidden behind it, housing whatever passes for a Dwarven CPU.
'Eorlund Gray-Mane, prepare to have your ass kissed,' I mused as I began sketching designs for the tools I needed.
...
It was a regular day for Eorlund Gray-Mane. The morning air was crisp as he walked with his family past the Temple of Kynareth, the ancient Gildergreen, and the defiant statue of Talos.
His wife, Fralia, walked beside him, while their three children trailed behind. Olfina would usually break off to find that Battle-Born boy, Vignar, and his two sons would either be teasing them or beating each other senseless in some corner of the Wind District.
With both his brother, Vignar, and his usual drinking buddy, Olfrid of the Battle-Born clan, away fighting in the war, Eorlund found himself with no sparring partners for his wit and an excess of time, which he poured into working the Skyforge.
Even then, there was only so much work to be done. The war hadn't yet reached Skyrim's heartland, and by the Nine, he prayed it never would.
He bid Fralia a quiet farewell at the steps, watching her head down toward the market district to occupy her jewelry stall. He offered a silent prayer to Talos for her safety and the city's peace before turning to make his way toward the forge.
On the path, he found the twin boys, Vilkas and Farkas, already in a heated argument about their caretaker, Jergen.
"...he never cared for us, you oaf, that's why he ran off like that!" Vilkas spat, his young face a mask of fury.
"Maybe he had a reason!" Farkas retorted, his defense clumsy but earnest. "He wasn't all bad!"
Eorlund sighed and shook his head, striding past them without a word. Some troubles, especially those of the heart, couldn't be hammered out on an anvil.
His eyes, as always, were fixed on the sacred stone of the Skyforge ahead, the familiar anticipation of fire and metal settling in his bones.
He climbed the worn stone steps, mentally preparing for a day of maintaining tools and perhaps crafting a few simple nails, as there were no new weapon orders.
However, he quickly froze at the top.
A child stood near the forge, a small, sturdy boy with sharp grey eyes that stood out against features too fine for a pure Nord. And he was grinning at Eorlund, a wide, disarming expression of pure, unadulterated delight, as if Eorlund was just about the greatest thing he had ever seen.
It took a moment for the memory to surface through the morning's mundanity, but recognition finally dawned on him. Kodlak's foundling.
He offered a small, cautious smile. "Torin, right? The boy Kodlak brought back from a contract? What are you doing up here?"
Torin nodded earnestly, his grin not faltering for a second. "As expected, you have a fine memory befitting your wise visage."
His words caused Eorlund to freeze again, his smile stiffening. The phrasing was… polished. Too polished.
It was the kind of smooth, flattering tone he usually heard from merchants or young nobles trying to haggle down the price of a sword—the tone of someone about to ask for a significant favor.
Unperturbed, Torin continued, his voice bright with feigned admiration. "I've been curious about the noble art of shaping metal, and I've heard Eorlund Gray-Mane is the best there is. I'm here hoping to see you work, and maybe learn a thing or two in the process."
Eorlund just stared at the boy for a long, silent moment. He'd heard from Ulf and Kodlak over mead that the boy was 'strange,' but he'd always assumed they were just exaggerating the quirks of a quick-learning child.
As it turns out, 'strange' was a profound understatement. The child spoke like a courtier.
Amused despite himself, Eorlund shook his head. "The forge is no place for a child. It's all fire, sharp metal, and heavy hammers. You could easily hurt yourself here." He crossed his arms over his broad chest, the picture of finality. "Go back to Jorvaskrr, boy. Find the twins to play with."
Undeterred, Torin firmly shook his head, his expression one of absolute, unwavering conviction.
"That may be true in other forges, under the supervision of lesser artisans," he declared, as if it were an established fact. "But I have no doubt that the great Eorlund Gray-Mane is perfectly capable of keeping a humble observer like myself perfectly safe. Your legendary skill surely extends to ensuring a safe workspace."
Eorlund opened his mouth to retort, to firmly shoo the boy away, but no words came out. The sheer, shameless eloquence was a wall he wasn't prepared to scale. It was like arguing with a particularly stubborn and flattering bard.
Seeing the blacksmith's hesitation, Torin only pressed harder, his eyes wide with feigned innocence. "I promise to just watch from a distance without touching anything. You won't even know I'm here."
Eorlund finally let out a long, weary sigh, the sound of a man who could bend steel but was baffled by a toddler's wit. "By Ysmir... I'm getting a headache just thinking of the headaches you're probably giving Kodlak."
Torin's grin didn't falter for a second. "The old man's already developed a resistance."
A snort of laughter escaped Eorlund before he could stop it. He shook his head in defeat. "Fine, boy. You can watch," he grumbled, pointing a thick, soot-stained finger at a large, flat-topped stone well away from the anvil and the fire.
"You sit there. You don't move. You don't touch. You breathe too loud and I'll reconsider." He fixed the boy with a stern glare that made seasoned warriors nervous. "You break your promise, and I'll throw you into the Skyforge myself and use you as kindling."
Torin nodded with utmost solemnity, though a triumphant gleam shone in his eyes. "I'll be as silent as a ghost," he vowed, "and as scarce as one."
He scurried over to the designated stone and perched on it, folding his hands neatly in his lap, the very picture of perfect obedience. Eorlund watched him for a moment, a strange mixture of annoyance, amusement, and a dawning curiosity settling over him.
This, he suspected, was going to be anything but a normal day at the forge.
Three hours later, Eorlund was finished with the day's work. He slowly stood up from the whetstone, holding the newly sharpened axe up to the light, inspecting its edge with a critical eye.
He hadn't had much to do—just sharpening Kodlak's greatsword and adjusting the fit of Farkas's oversized armor. The small axe, however, was something he had decided to forge solely for Torin, a simple but sturdy practice weapon for when the boy was older.
Satisfied with the razor-sharp gleam, he turned, expecting to see an impressed, or at least grateful, child. "Well," he grunted, "what do you think, boy?"
Instead, what he found was Torin staring at him with an expression of complete and utter disappointment, as if his entire day had been ruined.
"That was it...?" Torin asked, his eyes squinted in profound dissatisfaction.
Eorlund was taken aback for a moment. He was more confused than offended. "What else did you expect? To see me summon a Daedra and quench the blade in its blood?"
"You just pour molten steel into a mold, and then you hammer it," Torin stated, as if describing the most mundane process imaginable. "I expected more..." He paused here and cleared his throat before adding, with a deliberate tone, "...craftsmanship."
Eorlund raised a bushy eyebrow, a spark of irritation finally cutting through his bewilderment.
"Hammering isn't as easy as I make it look, boy. It's in the heat, the angle, the rhythm. It's knowing the metal like it's your own flesh. Besides," he said, his voice gaining an edge, "who do you think created that mold to begin with? Do you think they grow on trees?"
Torin smiled a sheepish, disarming smile. "I didn't mean to offend. Maybe I just came on a bad day. There doesn't seem to be much work."
He hesitated for a moment, his gaze drifting to the blocks of raw iron and the clay for making molds. "I would have liked to see you forge something without using a mold... start to finish. Or maybe even see you create a mold itself. That's where the real art is, isn't it? The beginning."
Eorlund sighed, the sound rumbling from deep in his chest. "You're not wrong there, boy. The beginning is where the shape is born."
There was silence for a moment, and Eorlund was just about ready to shoo Torin away and get on with his now-empty day.
However, the fact that he genuinely didn't have much else to do, combined with the way Torin was now looking at him—not with disappointment, but with the hopeful, wide-eyed anticipation of a lost puppy—made him hesitate.
The boy was a nuisance, but he was a curious nuisance.
After another long bout of silence, he finally gave in, the words feeling both weary and strangely amused. "Fine, boy. Let's say I do forge something for your... pleasure. What is it exactly you want to see forged?"
Torin's eyes instantly lit up with a triumphant fire. He immediately stood up and bolted toward the workbench where he'd left his small satchel. He quickly retrieved it, rummaging through the paper rolls with frantic energy.
It didn't take long for him to retrieve two of them, hastily presenting them to Eorlund.
Eorlund, shocked by the speed and preparedness, took one of the rolls by instinct and began to study it. It was a detailed sketch of a strange tool, the likes of which he'd never seen before.
It had a pointy, strangely-shaped end, a central wheel, and a crank handle.
What was more, every component of this tool—the gears, the chuck, the bit—was sketched separately for clarity, with notes scribbled in a messy, childish hand that somehow conveyed precise dimensions.
After a moment of stunned silence, he spoke, his craftsman's mind piecing it together. "I assume this is... something used to open holes in hard material..."
He turned his gaze back to Torin, his brow furrowed. "Where did you get these drawings?"
Torin's grin widened impossibly as he patted his own chest. "I drew them myself. It's something I really need."
It was at these words that realization finally dawned on Eorlund. This little brat had played him like a lute. Or at least, that's what he would have thought if he was dealing with an adult.
The flattery, the feigned interest in the craft, the specific request to see a mold being made or a piece forged from scratch—it was all a carefully orchestrated performance to get him to make this... this tool.
As clever as the boy was, it just didn't make sense for him to go through so much trouble just to trick Eorlund. The desire for the tool seemed genuine. However, the method bothered him still.
He glared down at the boy, his voice a low grumble. "If you wanted me to make something for you, boy, you could have just asked."
Torin looked up at him, his expression one of genuine, artless confusion. "I have no idea what you're talking about, sir."
Comments
Potato
What sort of class is he? Would like for him to be a warrior considering well he's literally in the companions but bigger Brain
