Wicked_Fiction
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Made in Cyrodiil, Forged in Skyrim #46
🕑 Added 2025-12-05 02:49:54 +0000 UTCAfter a full day of picking their way across the Reach's unforgiving, stony ribs, they were all feeling it. Torin’s feet ached in his boots, Qasim moved with a quiet weariness, and even Echo’s usual boundless energy had faded to a slow, plodding walk beside them.
The sun was dipping behind the jagged peaks, painting the world in deep blues and purples, and they were more than ready to call it a day and make a cold camp.
That’s when they saw it—a warm, orange glow flickering in the distance, a defiant pinpoint of civilization against the vast, darkening wilderness.
Torin and Qasim exchanged a silent, questioning look.
Without a word, they adjusted their course, driven by curiosity and caution by equal measure.
A few minutes later, they found the source. Nestled in a crook of the river, surrounded on three sides by sheer, jagged rock protrusions with a road cutting through them, was a lone, sturdy building of timber and stone.
A sign hung from wooden pillars near the entrance, creaking softly in the evening breeze. In weathered paint, it proclaimed: Old Hroldan Inn.
Qasim blinked, genuine surprise on his face. "An inn? Here? In the absolute middle of nowhere?"
Torin was even more confused. Not only did he not remember an inn in this specific, godsforsaken spot from the game, but his mental map of Skyrim’s geography was far more detailed than Qasim’s.
The inn's location made no sense whatsoever, no matter how Torin thought of it. Sure, they had passed this way, but only because their series of bizarre detours had thrown them wildly off the main road.
This place was technically between Falkreath and Markarth, but it was nowhere near the main, well-traveled routes. It sat on a path that would see maybe a handful of desperate or lost travelers a month.
And that was the second strange thing: the inn itself.
It looked surprisingly well-maintained. The thatched roof was thick and even, the wooden walls showed recent repairs, and light spilled cheerfully from clean, glazed windows.
A place this remote shouldn't be able to afford such upkeep. It wouldn't get enough business.
"What’s even the point?" Torin muttered aloud, his hand resting on the pommel of his hammer.
A lonely, prosperous inn on a road to nowhere set off every wary instinct he had. It was like finding a fully-set banquet table in the middle of a draugr crypt.
Qasim let out a thoughtful hum. "Well, there is only one way to find out the nature of this place, would you not agree?"
Torin shrugged, his weariness overriding his suspicion. "Doesn't matter. At this point, I don't care if the innkeeper is Molag Bal himself. I just need a bed that isn't a rock."
Qasim shook his head, a faint look of disapproval on his face. "Suffering is but a whetstone for the spirit, my friend. Dullness is the consequence of running from its edge."
Torin gave him a flat, utterly blank look. The guy was solid in a fight, and seemed honest to a fault, but by the Nine, he was preachy. It was like traveling with a walking, sword-swinging book of proverbs.
He sighed, the sound heavy with exhaustion. "Come on. Let's just go inside. If I'm gonna listen to you preach, it might as well be somewhere I'm not freezing my balls off."
With that, he trudged towards the inviting glow, Qasim following with an exasperated shake of his head, and Echo padding curiously behind.
Torin pushed the heavy wooden door open and stepped inside, Qasim at his shoulder.
They both froze.
The inn wasn't just occupied; it was crowded. The large common room was a sea of bodies and noise. The warm air was thick with the smell of roasting meat, ale, and pipe smoke. Laughter and lively conversation filled the space.
Their sudden entrance drew a few glances, but for the first time, the bizarre trio of a heavily-armed Nord youth, a noble-looking Redguard, and a young bear didn't cause a major stir.
The reason was immediately obvious to Torin: the clientele was just as varied.
He spotted a grizzled Orc in chitin armor, likely a caravan guard sharing a drink with a bald Imperial merchant. A group of Nord hunters in hides huddled in a corner, speaking in low tones. Even a lone, watchful Khajiit was nursing a mug by the fire.
It was a crossroads for people who didn't use the main roads.
Before they could make sense of it, a harried voice called out from across the room, "Please, take a seat! I'll be with you shortly!" A young Nord woman was balancing three overflowing tankards, her face flushed from the heat of the hearth.
Torin scanned the bustling room and quickly spotted the only available space: a small, isolated table tucked into the far corner, half in shadow.
He jerked his head towards it. "Might as well get comfortable," he said, raising his voice to be heard over the din. "Looks like we're gonna be waiting a while."
As they settled at the corner table, Echo flopping down with a contented sigh by Torin’s feet, he continued to scan the room, his eyes narrowed. The longer he looked, the less the whole scene added up.
The paranoid, well-honed parts of his mind—the parts that had kept him alive through bandit ambushes and Thalmor assassins—began spinning wild theories. This wasn't an inn; it was a front.
A neutral meeting ground for smugglers, fugitives, and the entire bottom rung of Skyrim’s shadowy society, all hidden away where no lawful eye would think to look. And they, two clueless strangers, had just wandered right into the middle of it.
Wrong place, wrong time. In his head, it was the only possible explanation for such vibrant life in a spot where even the birds would think twice before taking a shit.
Qasim, ever observant, seemed to sense the storm of suspicion brewing beside him. "What is the matter, my young friend? You seem troubled."
Torin turned to him, crossing his arms over his chest. The worn leather of his bracers creaked. "I'm having a debate with myself," he said, his voice low. "Trying to decide if a warm bed and a hot meal are worth the risk of getting a knife in the ribs while we sleep."
Qasim raised an eyebrow, a wry smile touching his lips. "And? How is the debate proceeding?"
A sharp grin split Torin's face. "I'm leaning towards 'yes.' I can always sleep in my armor."
Qasim glanced down at his own elegant, if now travel-stained, robes—garments that wouldn't stop a spoon, let alone a knife. "A prudent strategy," he conceded. "Do you happen to have any spare armor on you?"
Torin chuckled. "No. But a little stab wound is a price I'm willing to pay."
Qasim gave him a flat, unamused look. "You are not the one who would be paying that price."
"Exactly," Torin said, his grin widening before he shook his head, the humor fading. "Jokes aside... I don't like the feel of this place. It's too neat, too busy. Something's off."
He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping further. "But whatever it is, we should be fine as long as we keep our heads down, don't ask questions, and don't stick our noses where they don't belong."
He fixed Qasim with a pointed stare. "And by 'we,' I just mean you, hero-pilgrim-man. No atoning or enlightening on anyone else's behalf tonight, understand?"
Qasim looked like he’d just swallowed a particularly old and fuzzy sweetroll. He remained silent for a long, tense minute, his gaze fixed on the worn tabletop.
When he finally looked up, his expression was one of quiet stubbornness.
“I can promise you that I will not seek trouble,” he said, his voice calm. “But…” He trailed off, his dark eyes sharpening as they swept the crowded room. “If I see a crooked edge that needs to be straightened, I will not shy away from the task of straightening it.”
Torin stared at him, a look of pure, unadulterated exasperation on his face. The man and his metaphors would be the death of him. And then there was his nose, which had an uncanny talent for finding its way into other people’s business.
Truth be told, Torin had been ready and willing to walk past half the problems they’d “solved” in the last month. But Qasim, the moment he heard a hint of someone in danger, would get that look—the one that said ‘This is my atonement, and you’re part of it now.’
It was like traveling with a one-man, self-appointed vigilante force.
In the end, Torin just rubbed his forehead, feeling a headache coming on. “I suppose,” he muttered, the words dragged out of him, “I can’t ask for more than that.”
Qasim gave a single, solemn nod, as if they’d just sealed a sacred pact. The conversation lapsed back into silence, Torin’s mind sinking once more into the murky waters of conspiracy.
He cataloged the patrons—their weapons, their furtive glances, the way that Orc kept a hand near his axe. He was calculating the odds of a midnight throat-slitting when the young Nord woman from before finally made her way over to their table, wiping her hands on her apron.
“Sorry for the wait, travelers,” she said, her voice cheerful despite the harried look on her face. “What can I get for you?”
Torin snapped out of his grim calculations and offered her a polite, if tired, smile. “We were hoping to stay the night. But, uh…” He gestured vaguely at the bustling common room. “Place looks surprisingly busy. You got any rooms left?”
The woman’s smile turned knowing. “Heh. That’s what every first-timer at the Old Hroldan says.”
She shrugged, her shoulders rolling with the motion. “But you’re in luck. We have two rooms available. The only problem…” she hesitated, her smile turning a bit sheepish, “…is that one of them is somewhat special.”
Torin raised an eyebrow. "Special? How so?"
The Nord woman’s expression turned sly. "It's special in that it's double the price of the other rooms. Twenty septims."
Torin couldn't help but snort, a mix of amusement and disbelief at her audacious, cryptic reply. "And I suppose there's a reason for that hefty fee? Is the bed stuffed with swan feathers? Does it come with a personal masseuse?"
She gave a firm nod. "Aye, there's a reason. There's an entire story behind it, one I'll be happy to tell when I'm not drowning in the shouts of people demanding more ale and less gristle in their stew." She fixed him with a no-nonsense look, one hand on her hip. "So... you want the rooms or not?"
Torin felt a sigh escape him. They were exhausted, it was dark, and the alternative was the rocky ground. It didn't look like they had much of a choice.
He reached for his coin purse. "Fine. We'll take both rooms. But," he added, fixing her with a stare of his own, "you have to promise to tell me that story before the day's end. No 'I'm too tired' excuses."
The woman’s face split into a pleased grin. "You've got yourself a deal, lad." She snatched the coins from his hand with practiced speed. "Now then," she said, her tone shifting back to business, "can I get you anything in the meantime? Something to eat? To drink?"
Torin glanced at Qasim. The Redguard merely gave a slight shrug, his expression one of serene detachment from worldly concerns like menus.
Torin turned back, his mind already chastising itself for even trying. "Might as well. Two meals then, whatever's fresh and warm."
He gestured a thumb down at Echo, who was now sniffing hopefully at the woman's boots. "And something raw for the bear to sink her teeth into."
The woman beamed. "Very well! I'll bring your order as soon as it's ready."
With that, she turned and melted back into the crowd, a woman on a mission.
Silence settled over their corner table again, now underlined by the raucous noise of the inn. Qasim seemed to have shut down the outside world completely, his eyes closed, his breathing slow and even, likely meditating on the teachings of his gods or the mysteries of the Shehai.
He looked as peaceful as a statue.
Torin, meanwhile, leaned back in his chair, his mind spinning like a cart wheel in a ditch. The 'special' room, the double price, the cryptic story... it all fed back into his paranoid theories.
Was it a room with a hidden exit? A room that was soundproofed for… private meetings? A room with a spyhole into the common area? Each possibility was more concerning than the last.
He mentally inventoried their gear, planning escape routes from the second floor, eyeing the other patrons for hidden weapons.
Beside him, Echo let out a massive, jaw-cracking yawn, then rested her head on his foot with a contented huff, utterly unconcerned with conspiracies, crooked edges, or special rooms.
The floor was warm, the scents in the air promised food aplenty, and her human was nearby.
That was more than enough.
Comments
Definitely not a racoon
Sounds like daedra shenanigans are afoot. Specially one of the testing gods, Herma-Mora
AntaeusTheGiant
Well, this is one adventure that should be fine regardless of the time.
