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Made in Cyrodiil, Forged in Skyrim #50
🕑 Added 2025-12-12 07:12:42 +0000 UTCEyes narrowing against the spirit’s ethereal glow, Torin spoke up, his voice cutting through the spectral chill. “Alright. Who are you? And what is it you want?”
The massive, armored spirit seemed to ponder, the blue light of its form flickering like a dying flame. “I… I have forgotten my name,” it rumbled, the sound full of ancient sorrow. “The years in the dark have worn it away. But I could never forget my friend’s. Hjalti. I am Hjalti Early-Beard’s friend.”
It paused, the weight of centuries pressing down on the room.
“As for what I want… I want only what was promised to me.”
Torin’s frown deepened. That just made everything a thousand times more complicated—for the innkeeper, at least. It was clear this ghost wasn’t going to just fade away.
It was anchored by a debt, a promise unfulfilled.
And considering it had probably died sometime in the late Second Era, that ‘something’ could be anything. A long-lost sword, a plot of land, a forgotten toast over a campfire… Torin didn’t envy whoever had to go digging through a millennia of history to find it.
He cleared his throat. “And… might I ask what was promised to you?”
The spirit warrior seemed to straighten, its chest puffing out with spectral pride. “I fought in campaign after campaign at Hjalti’s side. I saved his life in battle once… and he saved mine more times than the stones remember.”
The ghost’s voice grew quieter, almost wistful. “It was he who made the promise. A vow of sworn brotherhood, to be sealed with a gift. But the gift was never delivered. The battle came too soon… I fell. And the promise remains.”
The spirit’s gaze, though featureless, seemed to lock onto the hawk amulet at Torin’s throat. “Unless it is fulfilled, I cannot move on. I am bound.”
Torin let out a slow, thoughtful hum. This ghost had a very high opinion of this ‘Hjalti’ character. And the name itself was tickling the back of Torin’s mind, a vague itch of recognition.
Hjalti Early-Beard… a historic figure, clearly. Nordic in origin, given the name.
He was clearly connected to the Reach, given where they were standing. He sifted through the memory of countless dusty tomes he’d read in Jorrvaskr’s library, trying to place it.
It was on the tip of his tongue, a piece of a larger puzzle he couldn’t quite see yet.
Torin continued to squeeze his brain, trying to force the memory loose. The innkeeper said the ghost was a soldier of Tiber Septim. So this ‘Hjalti’ character had to be connected to the God-Emperor. But how?
He mentally began flipping through the books he’d read again, dismissing the ones on Dwemer engineering and general history.
He focused on the volumes about Tiber Septim’s conquests, the Rise of the Third Empire. He scanned the lists of famous generals and subordinates he could recall: Cuhlecain, Zurin Arctus, the Battle of Sancre Tor… No ‘Hjalti Early-Beard’.
The name wasn’t ringing any bells from the official histories.
Frustration began to gnaw at him. It was right there, on the edge of his awareness, a piece of knowledge he’d learned long ago and filed away as useless trivia.
And then, it clicked.
He was suddenly one and a half years old again, sitting cross-legged on the floor of his room, his recently acquired reading skills devouring everything in sight.
He’d been reading a dense, scholarly tome on the Early Life and Rise of Tiber Septim. The entire book referred to its subject as ‘Tiber Septim’ or ‘the General’.
However, in the final chapter, a single, throwaway line had confused his younger self immensely: “...and so, he took the name Tiber Septim and ascended as Emperor.”
Took the name. That meant it wasn’t his original name. Perplexed, he’d marched straight to Kodlak, book in hand. ‘Old man,’ he’d asked, ‘what was Tiber Septim’s birth name? Do the Companions’ records say?’
Kodlak had given him one of those slow, thoughtful looks, the kind that saw right through him. ‘A curious question for one so young,’ the old man had said. ‘But yes, some of my predecessors kept such records. The man who would become Talos was born in High Rock. His name, given by his parents, was Hjalti. Hjalti Early-Beard.’
Torin’s gaze snapped down to the amulet resting against his chest. His fingers traced the outline of the silver hawk.
The spirit had called it Hjalti’s token.
A cold, electric thrill shot down his spine, completely unrelated to the ghost’s chill.
Did that mean… this simple, tarnished piece of metal he’d traded a chest of furs for in a gloomy Falkreath shop… had once belonged to Talos?
Then, Torin slowly turned his gaze back to the spirit. The massive, shimmering figure was still staring wistfully at the amulet, a silent longing etched into its ethereal form. The pieces were falling into place with a weight that felt both thrilling and terrifying.
His eyes widened slightly. “Did he… promise you this amulet, per chance?” The unspoken second half of the sentence hung in the icy air: Because I’m not giving it to you.
The spirit shook its horned head, the motion stirring the cold air. “No. The token was too dear to him. A gift he received, I believe. He wore it always. He would never have promised it away. He simply… refused to part with it.”
There was no resentment in the ghost’s voice, only a profound understanding of a friend’s sentimentality.
Qasim, who had been observing the exchange in stunned silence, finally found his voice. “Then, honored spirit, what did he promise you? What gift remains ungiven?”
The spectral warrior’s posture straightened with renewed purpose. “A sword. His sword. The one he carried when we first met, before he came into his greater power. He vowed that when our campaigns were done, he would gift it to me, to seal our brotherhood in steel.”
The ghost’s voice grew distant. “But then… he left with the remainder of our brothers to uproot the last remnants of the savages in the high crags. He stood over my pyre and said he would return. He did return… but he did not have the sword with him. He said it was lost. And the promise was forgotten by all but me.”
Qasim let out a slow, weary sigh, the sound full of genuine sympathy. “Then it will not be an easy thing to find. A single blade, lost for an age…” He pressed on gently. “Do you… at least know where they went? Where the sword might have been lost?”
The spirit grew silent. It brought a massive, translucent hand up to clutch its helmeted head, as if trying to grasp a memory that kept slipping away. “I… I do not remember. The paths are blurred. The names of the stones are gone…” Its voice broke into a mournful wail. “Ah, Hjalti… my friend, my brother… where are you?”
Qasim could only sigh again, this time with helpless frustration.
Torin, meanwhile, was watching Qasim and the innkeeper with a carefully neutral expression.
They didn’t seem to know. The name ‘Hjalti’ meant nothing more to them than the ghost’s fallen comrade.
They hadn’t connected the dots. They didn’t realize the ghost was basically asking for Tiber Septim’s personal sword. A relic of unimaginable historical—and potentially magical—significance.
He had absolutely no intention of educating them.
If such a sword could be found… the possibilities made his head spin. It could be a weapon of legendary power. And even if it was just a well-made blade with a famous name, its value to collectors, to the Empire, to the Thalmor, to anyone, would be astronomical.
It would be enough money to fund a lifetime of research. He’d never want for another arcane tool or rare tome again.
It was just a damned shame the ghost couldn’t remember where it had been lost.
His curiosity satiated and the secret safely tucked away in his own mind, Torin was ready to write the whole thing off.
The sword was definitely valuable, but he wasn’t crazy, or desperate enough, to comb through the entire jagged, Forsworn-infested Reach on a ghost’s thousand-year-old vague promise.
Not without even knowing what the blasted thing looked like, or a hint of its location beyond “somewhere up there.”
He took a step towards the stairs.
The innkeeper’s voice cut through the spectral chill, halting him in his tracks.
“I… I might know where Tiber Septim’s troops headed after they left Old Hroldan,” she said, her voice shaky but clear.
Torin’s gaze snapped to her, sharp and intent. “Where?”
“It’s… it’s a place called the Sundered Towers. Northeast of here, deeper into the mountains. It’s a Forsworn ruin now, but the old tales say that’s where the last great stand of the Reachmen happened, just before Tiber Septim marched south.”
Qasim’s eyes instantly lit up with a fervent, almost frightening intensity. “The Sundered Towers…” he breathed. “That is the very place where Red Eagle was born, where he first rallied his people. I knew it. I knew the gods had set me on this path for a reason!”
Torin crossed his arms and let out a derisive scoff. “You need to learn to take responsibility for your own choices. Not every coincidence is the divine finger of Akatosh messing with your itinerary.”
Qasim merely smiled, a small, knowing curve of his lips. “Perhaps not. But this… this is clearly Their work. You would realize it too, if you allowed yourself to see it.”
He sounded utterly, unshakably convinced. “Two perfect strangers, meeting in the most unlikely of places. Now, both in search of swords lost to time, our destinations converging on the same ancient ground. This is not random chance.”
Torin gave him a dismissive wave. “Don’t lump me in with your holy scavenger hunt. I’m interested in a lot of things. A dusty old sword that probably rusted away to nothing a few centuries ago isn’t one of them.”
Qasim let out a weary but perceptive chuckle. “I may not read as many books as you, young Torin, but I am not a fool. I can see the interest in your eyes when the spirit speaks of the blade. It is not indifference.”
He let out a sigh, his expression turning more serious. “Whether that interest stems from a desire to help this tormented soul find peace, or from other, more… personal ends, I do not know. But it is there.”
Torin was about to fire back a retort, to deny Qasim’s assessment with every fiber of his being, when another surge of intense blue light erupted in the center of the room.
It wasn't the focused beam from before, but a sudden, blinding flash that washed out the entire common room. Torin and Qasim both threw their hands up, shielding their eyes.
The innkeeper let out another short yelp.
By the time the searing afterimages faded and Torin slowly lowered his arm, blinking away spots, the room was dim again, lit only by the guttering candles and the dying embers in the hearth.
The spirit was gone. The oppressive chill had lifted, leaving behind only the normal, damp cold of a Reach night.
The innkeeper was the first to break the stunned silence. “Is… is he gone?” she whispered, her voice trembling with hope and fear. “For good? Will he come back?”
Torin shook his head, his practical nature reasserting itself. “Unlikely he’s gone for good. His wish is still hanging out there, unfulfilled. He’s tied to it.”
He shrugged, a gesture that felt heavy in the quiet room. “As for when he’ll be back… who knows? Eventually. Maybe next week, maybe in another ten years when you’ve almost forgotten about him.”
She stared at Torin, her eyes wide and pleading. “Will you… will you help me? Find the sword? You seem to know about these things…”
Torin just shook his head again, more firmly this time. “Lady, the Sundered Towers aren’t a picnic spot. They’re a Forsworn stronghold. It’ll be crawling with them—tens, maybe even hundreds, all hopped up on hagraven magic and a deep, abiding hatred for anyone with a Nord accent. What do you think the odds are of me waltzing in there, finding a specific thousand-year-old sword, and waltzing back out?”
He gave her a dismissive wave, already turning back toward the stairs. “That said… I am a bit interested in the sword. For my own reasons. And I will get my hands on it someday.”
The words were a promise to himself as much as to her. “But it could take years. It’s not a priority. When I do find it… I suppose I can swing by this way again and show your resident ghost. Give him a look on my way home. That’s the best I can offer.”
The innkeeper’s shoulders slumped, but she nodded eagerly, grasping at the thin straw he’d offered. “That… that is all I can hope for. I would be ever so grateful. Truly.”
Torin just shrugged, the movement weary. “Don’t thank me yet. Like I said, could be years.”
He glanced over at Echo, who had watched the entire spectral chain of events with a mix of deep curiosity and a tiny, bear-sized hint of awe at the now-gone glowing man.
“Come on, Echo. Enough excitement for one night. Let’s go get some sleep.”
He trudged back up the stairs, the bear padding after him, leaving Qasim and the innkeeper in the quiet, haunted dark of the common room.
Comments
jbli
Oh man I bet hes not just dragonborn but tiber septims last Descendant
