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Made in Cyrodiil, Forged in Skyrim #48
🕑 Added 2025-12-07 06:53:07 +0000 UTCThe innkeeper gave Torin a strange, sidelong look as his laughter finally died down. “Oh? And what did you imagine this place was, then? A den of cutthroats? A coven of witches?”
Torin’s laughter cut off instantly, replaced by an awkward clearing of his throat. He straightened his posture, trying to look dignified. “Never mind that. It’s not important.” He waved a dismissive hand. “Now that I’ve heard the story, I can sleep in peace. So, where are these rooms?”
The woman slowly stood up, the chair scraping on the floorboards. She jerked a thumb towards a sturdy wooden staircase at the back of the common room. “Right up those stairs. The first door on your right is the… special room. The other available one is the last door at the end of the hall.”
Torin offered her a nod of thanks, then turned to Qasim. “Alright, pick your poison. Which one do you want?”
Torin, of course, had absolutely zero interest in the tourist trap. The bed was clearly a fake, a piece of clever theater. And even if, by some miracle of preservation, it was real… so what?
Sleeping in a bed a famous figure used a thousand years ago, even if that figure was now a god, held no appeal. Talos’s divinity wasn’t going to rub off on him in the night.
He’d be more likely to get splinters or bedbugs. He was more than happy to let the pious pilgrim have his moment.
Qasim, however, seemed just as uninterested. He shook his head, his expression serene. “Either is acceptable. Or neither. I am content with what is provided.”
Torin let out an exasperated sigh. He had no doubt Qasim meant it. The man’s brand of asceticism was so thorough, he’d probably cede the room to Echo and then sleep on the hard dirt outside without complaint, only to wake up and calmly announce that the resulting chest cold was a “purifying trial” sent by the gods to test his humility.
Before Torin could formulate a response that wasn’t just frustrated screaming, the innkeeper’s voice cut back in, practical and amused.
“I should mention—the special room is also the larger one. Whoever ends up keeping the bear company,” she said, nodding at Echo, who was now sniffing the stair banister with intense interest, “is gonna need the extra space. The other room’s a tight fit for a man and his armor, let alone a growing beast.”
Torin quickly shrugged, trying to sound casual. “Well, I guess that settles it. I’ll be sleeping in Tiber Septim’s bed toni—”
He paused halfway through the sentence, the words hanging in the air. His brain caught up with his mouth. He let out a low groan, pinching the bridge of his nose. “That… came out completely wrong. Forget I said that. I’m just going to head up now.”
Qasim merely gave him a solemn nod. “You do that. I shall stay here a while longer, then retire to my room.”
Torin’s steps, already heading for the stairs, instantly froze. He turned on his heel, fixing the Redguard with a glare. “Qasim. Listen to me. If I come down for a midnight piss and catch you sleeping outside, or on the floor of your room instead of the bed we already paid for, you and I are going to have a very, very serious discussion about the value of coin.”
Qasim just offered him a half-wry, half-amused smile that gave no promises.
"I swear, this guy…" Torin grumbled the rest under his breath as he turned and stomped up the creaky wooden stairs, Echo’s claws clicking on the steps behind him.
They made their way to the first door on the right. Torin didn’t hesitate, pushing the heavy oak door open and stepping into the dim room, illuminated by a single candle left burning on a small table. Once Echo had padded in after him, he closed the door and leaned against it, letting his eyes adjust as he scanned the space.
It was a simple room: a small table, a washbasin, a thick fur rug on the floor. And in the center, against the far wall, was the bed.
His gaze landed on it and stuck. A frown creased his brow. He’d been expecting a wooden frame, maybe ornately carved. What he saw was a solid, rectangular slab of dark, local stone, about the height of his knees, with a thick straw mattress and woolen blankets laid atop it.
It looked less like furniture and more like a… well, like a tomb slab repurposed for sleeping.
Curiosity got the better of him. He crossed the room and knelt beside the stone bed, setting his candle on the floor. He lifted the corner of the mattress, peering at the stone beneath. He ran his fingers along the edges.
It was worn smooth in places, not by tools but by countless touches and the slow grind of time. The stone itself was cool and ancient-feeling. It could very well be from the Second Era, just as the innkeeper had claimed.
A soft chuckle escaped him. The idea that it was a stone bed had never crossed his mind... perhaps his common sense from another lifetime still refusing to fade away.
He let the mattress fall back into place and sat back on his heels. It was old. Maybe even authentically ancient. But was it Tiber Septim’s bed?
He looked at the impersonal stone slab and shook his head.
The idea of a future god-king getting a good night's sleep on this thing was almost funnier than the tourist trap he’d imagined. He wasn’t convinced, but for twenty septims, it was a decent enough place to rest his head, not to mention an amusing story to tell.
A massive, jaw-cracking yawn tore from Torin, and it was instantly contagious. Echo, lying on the fur rug, mirrored him with a wide, toothy gape of her own.
The long day, the heavy meal, and the miles of stony ground were finally catching up to him, a pleasant, leaden weight in his limbs. But old habits, born of trauma and sharpened by Aela’s training, died hard. He didn’t just throw himself onto the bed.
First, he eyed the door. He picked up the small, sturdy table with the candle still flickering on top and wedged it firmly against the bottom of the door.
It wouldn’t stop a determined kick, but anyone trying to push the door open silently would have to shift the table first, and the scrape of wood on wood would be as good as a shout. He nodded to himself, satisfied.
His gaze then drifted to the single, shuttered window. He dug into his belt and pulled out two of his smaller, silver throwing axes. Moving quietly, he balanced one upright on each side of the window’s interior frame, leaning the blades precariously against the wood.
If the shutters were pushed open from the outside, the axes would clatter to the floorboards with a noise fit to wake the dead—or at least himself and a very grumpy bear.
His doubts about the inn being a den of villainy might have been dispelled, but a little caution and healthy paranoia had kept him breathing this long.
Helga and Camilla had paid for his life with theirs. Kodlak went through a lot of trouble to raise him.
He’d be damned—literally, if the myths were true—if he lost it because he got cozy and careless in a strange room. Satisfied with his makeshift ‘fortifications,’ he finally allowed himself to relax.
He began the methodical process of removing his armor, unbuckling straps and setting each piece—pauldrons, chestplate, greaves—neatly on the floor beside the bed, within easy reach. Finally, clad only in his tunic and trousers, he slowly lowered himself onto the stone slab, the straw mattress crunching softly beneath him.
It was unforgivingly firm, but after weeks on the ground, it felt like a cloud. Echo, with a contented sigh, flopped onto the fur rug at the foot of the bed, a shaggy, living guardian.
One more day, he thought, staring at the dark ceiling.
They’d reach Markarth tomorrow if they set out early. Hopefully find lodestone, maybe explore a Dwemer ruin, get Qasim pointed toward his haunted Forsworn king…
The thoughts drifted, unfinished.
It didn’t take long for the deep, solid quiet of the ancient room, the steady rhythm of Echo’s breathing, and the sheer weight of his exhaustion to pull him down into a deep, dreamless sleep.
Torin’s eyes shot open in the pitch-dark room, his body already moving before his mind fully registered the sound that had woken him—a raw, terrified scream that ripped through the inn’s wooden bones.
Instinct took over. He rolled off the unforgiving stone slab, hitting the floor and scrambling towards the dark lump of his gear. His hands found the familiar shape of his shield and the solid haft of his warhammer in the darkness.
He came up in a crouch, his heart hammering against his ribs, his gaze snapping first to the door—still blocked by the table—then to the window. The throwing axes were still balanced against the frame, untouched.
His shoulders relaxed a fraction. Whatever was happening, it hadn't come for him first. He was just starting to wonder if the scream had been a fragment of a nightmare, a trick of the ancient stone, when another one echoed up the stairwell.
Shorter, sharper, it came from downstairs.
He only paused for a single, frantic heartbeat. The calculus was simple. An inn this remote, this prosperous, was a fat target. Bandits were the most likely answer.
Staying holed up in his room was the wrong choice; it would ultimately lead to being outnumbered, cornered, and isolated from potential allies capable of aiding him in the fight.
If the inn was under attack, the time to act was now, while there were still other fighters alive and the chaos was fresh.
He didn’t bother with his armor; there wasn’t time. He rushed to the door, already whispering the guttural syllables of a Stoneflesh spell. As he shoved the heavy table aside with a harsh scrape, he felt the magic settle over his skin like a second, invisible hide.
He threw the door open, the final words of a Haste spell already leaving his lips. The world seemed to slow around him as a surge of green energy crackled through his veins.
He burst into the dimly lit hallway just as the spell took full effect. From the corner of his eye, he saw the door at the end of the hall fly open. Qasim emerged, his noble features set in a mask of grim focus, his curved sword gleaming in the low light.
Their eyes met for a split second—no words were needed. Torin didn’t break stride, already thundering down the wooden stairs, his grip on the hammer so tight his knuckles ached, the stone-like magic hardening his flesh.
Whatever was down there, it was about to meet a very angry, very accelerated Companion.
Torin hit the bottom of the stairs with his hammer raised and shield forward, his magically-hastened blood roaring in his ears, ready to meet a tide of violence.
The scene that greeted him made him skid to a halt.
There was no battle. No clash of steel. No bandits ransacking the place. The common room was empty of patrons—they’d either fled out the back or barricaded themselves upstairs.
The only person in sight was the innkeeper, the stout Nord woman, lying sprawled on the floor near the bar. She wasn't hurt, but her face was pale as milk, her eyes wide with pure, unvarnished terror as she stared, transfixed, at the closed door of the pantry.
Torin felt a frown of deep, profound annoyance crease his brow. A nightmare? A rat? He’d thrown caution to the wind and charged down here, magic blazing, for… this?
He lowered his hammer, the Stoneflesh spell still prickling on his skin, and walked over to her. He cleared his throat, the sound unnaturally loud in the silent room.
“Alright,” he said, his voice tight with suppressed adrenaline. “What in Oblivion happened? What scared you half to death?”
The woman didn’t take her eyes off the pantry door. She lifted a trembling finger and pointed. “A… a spirit,” she whispered, the word cracking with fear. “There’s a spirit in there! It just… appeared!”
Torin’s eyes narrowed. A spirit. In the inn that supposedly housed the bed of Tiber Septim. Of course. It was too perfect. Was this part of the show? A cheap theatrical trick to spook guests and sell more “special room” stays?
His annoyance curdled into anger. He’d been woken from a dead sleep, had his fight-or-flight reflex yanked for nothing, and this woman was trying to sell him a ghost story?
He opened his mouth, ready to unleash a torrent of curses that would blister the paint from the walls and question the honor of her last thirteen generations of ancestors.
He never got the chance.
An intense, cold blue light suddenly bled through the cracks around the pantry door, painting jagged lines on the floorboards. The air grew several degrees colder, raising goosebumps on Torin’s arms. And then a voice echoed out, hollow, ancient, and full of a lonely, searching grief.
“Hjalti… Hjalti Early-Beard… my friend… where are you…?”
The voice didn’t come from the pantry. It seemed to come from the stones themselves, from the foundation of the vanished fort.
Every hair on Torin’s neck stood straight up.
This was no trick.
Comments
Potato
Noice kinda hoping if he does start praying to a god or atleast acknowledging one its kyne considering his visions
