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Forged in Skyrim #52
🕑 Added 2025-12-15 10:59:19 +0000 UTCThe Nord smith, his argument with the Orc woman apparently spent for the moment, finally seemed to notice Torin’s presence. His eyes widened slightly, and a flicker of something like alarm crossed his florid face. He quickly pulled the frustrated miner aside, bending his head to whisper something urgent in the young man’s ear.
The miner’s expression, already displeased, darkened further. He shot a resentful look at the smith, then at the broken pickaxe still in his hand, before finally stomping off into the winding streets, muttering curses under his breath.
Whatever the smith had said, it hadn’t been an offer to fix the tool.
Still, Torin didn’t overthink it. City smiths had their own politics and problems. He stepped forward, clearing his throat, preparing to offer a standard greeting and state his business.
Before he could utter a word, the smith—Jorvan, as he’d soon introduce himself—turned to him with a wide, practiced smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
“Welcome, welcome, young friend!” he boomed, wiping his hands on his apron, though they weren’t dirty. “I’ve been expecting you. I do apologize you had to witness such an… unsightly display. Help is so hard to find these days, you understand.”
Torin raised an eyebrow, his guard instantly going up. “You were… expecting me?”
Jorvan nodded eagerly, the motion making his jowls wobble. “But of course! Bruvorn, the guard at the gate—he and I share a mug from time to time. He mentioned a young Companion passing through, one who might need a skilled hand to mend his shield.”
He let out a hearty, hollow chuckle. “Though I must admit, I didn’t expect you to appear quite so early in the day.”
Torin hummed, recalling the brief exchange at the gate. He had indeed mentioned needing a smith. It wasn’t impossible for word to travel, especially in a city built on gossip and tight spaces.
He gave a slow, noncommittal nod. “I see. Well, introductions are still in order. I am Torin. And you are?”
The man gave a slight, performative bow of his head. “Jorvan, at your service. Though…” He paused, his smile turning a touch strained as his eyes flicked over Torin’s person. “Forgive me if it’s rude to note… but I see you didn’t bring your shield with you?”
Torin shrugged, letting his arms hang loosely at his sides. “Obviously not. I don’t hand my gear over to just anyone.”
He crossed his arms, his gaze sweeping over the messy, disorganized forge, the filthy quenching trough, the weak, wheezing bellows the Orc woman had raged about.
His eyes lingered on Jorvan’s soft, uncalloused hands. “My weapons and armor are usually tended to by the great Eorlund Gray-Mane himself, up at the Skyforge in Whiterun. You might have heard of him.”
He let that name hang in the air for a moment, a standard against which all other smiths were measured. “I came here first to inspect the smithy, and I'm not exactly pleased. And if you can’t even forge a decent pickaxe for a local miner, then I'm better off mending my own shield... or even making do without it…”
He trailed off, leaving the damning implication hanging in the soot-filled air.
Jorvan let out a nervous, unconvincing chuckle.
“That? Oh, that was nothing more than a minor mistake, I assure you. A flaw in the ore, most likely. My assistant, Ghorza—” he jerked a thumb towards the Orc woman, who was now hammering with such ferocity that sparks flew like angry insects “—she’s still learning the finer points. But I will mend your shield myself. Just leave it with us for the day. My personal guarantee.”
As he said the word ‘assistant,’ a particularly loud, ringing BANG echoed from behind him as Ghorza brought her hammer down on the glowing metal with enough force to make the anvil shudder. Jorvan flinched, a bead of sweat trickling down his temple that had nothing to do with the forge’s heat.
Torin’s gaze darkened as he looked between the two of them. The truth was as obvious as the difference between iron and silver. One was a soft, sweating lump who looked like he’d get winded pumping the bellows.
The other was a sculpture of pure, functional muscle, moving with the powerful, economical grace of a true artisan. Jorvan was probably so eager for his business just so he could boast in the taverns about how he fixed a Companion’s gear.
It was pathetic. The man was a disgrace to the craft as a smith and a disgrace to his ancestors as a Nord.
But in the grand scheme, it didn’t really matter. His shield had a few new scratches, and one of the steel reinforcement bands was a bit loose from blocking a troll’s club.
It was far from critical.
He could easily wait until he returned to Whiterun and let Eorlund’s expert hands take care of it.
No, the real reason he’d come was standing over there, hammering her frustrations into a piece of steel.
Torin rubbed his chin thoughtfully, playing the part of a customer being swayed. “Well… I might be convinced to reconsider leaving my gear here. But first,” he said, his voice carrying over the din of the forge, “I need to have a word with your ‘assistant.’”
He paused, making sure Ghorza could hear him. “I’m in search of a rare metal. A lodestone. I was told the local Orc stronghold might have some, or know where to find it.”
Hearing those words, Jorvan’s eyes shifted, a sly, calculating glint entering them. “I’m sure Ghorza would be happy to assist you with any… information,” he said, his tone oily.
“But as you can see, we are simply drowning in work. The Jarl’s orders, miners’ tools, guard patrols…” He let out another chuckle, this one full of false regret. “Still, for an important customer of our smithy… I’m sure I could convince her to spare a moment. Once our business is settled, of course.”
Torin couldn’t help but smile, a cold, amused twist of his lips. Was this idiot actually trying to hold the information hostage? To strong-arm him into leaving his shield—and his coin—as a toll for a simple conversation?
His gaze drifted past Jorvan to the thunderous waterfall plunging into the chasm beside the smithy. He idly wondered how deep the pool at the bottom was, and precisely how many of Jorvan’s flabby bones would snap if he just gave the man a little, helpful nudge toward the edge.
He quickly quashed the satisfying fantasy. Stirring up that kind of trouble in Markarth would do him no good. The City of Stone was ruled with an iron fist, and the guards dealt with troublemakers swiftly and ruthlessly, often making examples of them.
His status as a Companion might offer some protection, but at the very least, he’d be kicked out of the city, his search for lodestone cut short before it began.
Still smiling that thin, dangerous smile, he simply gave Jorvan a polite nod. “I’ll… consider your offer,” he said, his voice flat. “But for now, I must get going. Places to see.”
He turned on his heel without another word.
Letting out a sharp whistle, he beckoned for Echo, who had been sniffing at a pile of scrap metal. “Come on, girl. Let’s go take a look around. See what else this city has to offer.”
He walked away from the forge, not looking back, leaving Jorvan standing there with his empty sales pitch.
From the corner of his eye, he saw Ghorza pause in her hammering, watching him depart with a sharp, thoughtful expression on her strong face. She’d heard every word.
The sky had deepened to a velvety indigo, the first stars prickling the narrow strip of sky visible between Markarth's towering stone walls, by the time Torin returned to the Silver-Blood Inn.
He was carrying a heavy, clanking satchel slung over one shoulder, the distinct sound of metal-on-metal scraping with each step.
The bag was stuffed with Dwemer junk. Not treasure, but useful scrap: tarnished brass gears of various sizes, small, intricately patterned plates, and even a few segmented, broken spider limbs, their sharp points carefully blunted.
It was perfect raw material.
Back in his room at Jorrvaskr, the reassembled shell of the Dwemer spider he’d tinkered with for months was gathering dust for a few years now. These parts could bring it one step closer to… well, he wasn't sure what yet, but it was a step.
As for where he’d gotten them, the source was obvious: the vast, labyrinthine Dwemer ruins that burrowed into the mountain beneath Understone Keep, where the Jarl held court. Not that he’d been allowed to set one boot inside the ruins themselves.
The entrance was barred by heavy gates and even heavier guards, under strict orders. No, he’d merely purchased the scraps.
The Altmer court wizard of Markarth, Calcelmo, had already firmly established his scholarly monopoly down there, hoarding knowledge and artifacts like a dragon with a book fetish.
The old elf had more excavated debris than he knew what to do with, and was apparently willing to sell off the “worthless” bulk to fund his more delicate acquisitions.
It had chafed Torin to no end, having to buy scrap from the very person blocking his access, but he’d somewhat expected it. In a world of living history, the academics got there first.
Still, the day wasn’t a total loss. He had his parts. And a new idea was forming. Maybe he could talk his way past the guards. Convince them—or better yet, convince Calcelmo himself—to grant him access.
The grumpy old elf was the foremost expert on the Dwemer in all of Skyrim, possibly all of Tamriel. There was much Torin could learn from him, too much.
Still, that was a problem for tomorrow. Right now, he was too hungry and road-weary to scheme about buttering up a cranky old Altmer. He quickly found an empty table in a quiet corner of the bustling inn, and Echo curled up on the floor beside him, her dark eyes following the patrons as they drank, argued, and laughed in the smoky light.
Soon enough, the same young server girl who had woken him that morning approached, a friendly smile on her face. “Back for the night? What can I get for you?”
Torin ordered a simple stew and bread for himself and a platter of raw meat and root vegetables for Echo. The food arrived quickly. It was nowhere near as surprisingly good as the meal at the Old Hroldan Inn, but it was hot, filling, and had no obvious bugs in it, which in Skyrim counted as a win.
When he finished, the girl returned to clear the plates. “Anything else for you, sir? Another drink, perhaps?”
“I do have one question,” Torin said, sliding a few extra septims into her palm with a discreet motion.
Her eyes lit up with practiced cheer. “Ask away!”
“The Redguard Qasim. Have you seen him around today?”
She nodded eagerly, pocketing the coins. “Oh, him! He woke up much later than you did. Came down looking like he’d wrestled a ghost, had a bit of bread and water, then left. Didn’t come back.”
She leaned in conspiratorially. “I saw him heading for the city gates around midday. Had a pack with him, looked like he was ready to spend the night outside the walls...”
Torin thanked her and said that was all. She gave him a bright nod and bustled off to her other customers.
Torin stood from the table and headed for the hallway, Echo rising to follow.
He probably found a clue about Red Eagle’s sword and ran off after it, he mused as he walked with leisure. Probably got some direction from a local...
It made sense. The guy had a one-track mind, and he was charming enough to get that much information from the locals, granted, they didn't spend too much time around him. Not that it was any of Torin’s business anymore.
He was finally, blessedly, free of the preachy pilgrim.
He reached his rented room, pushed the door open, and stepped inside.
He froze. Echo, right behind him, let out a low, surprised rumble.
Sitting calmly on the edge of the narrow bed, her powerful arms crossed over her chest, was Ghorza. The female Orc smith from Jorvan’s forge. Her dark eyes were fixed on him, sharp and calculating in the dim candlelight.
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