Wicked_Fiction
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Made in Cyrodiil, Forged in Skyrim #43
🕑 Added 2025-11-29 22:38:22 +0000 UTCThe small, hidden camp felt hollow now, its owner nothing but a cooling corpse wrapped in a spare cloak a mile back. Torin sat on a mossy log, the dead bandit's journal open in his hands.
He’d found it tucked in a small, lockbox under a pile of furs that served as a bed, the cheap lock yielding easily to a swing of his hammer.
The fire crackled, casting dancing shadows over the neat, elegant script. It was a strange feeling, sifting through the final thoughts of a man he’d just killed. He’d expected boasts of loot, plans for ambushes, or tallies of stolen goods. What he found was something else entirely.
According to the entries, Aesrael’s story wasn't one of a scout for an expanding gang. The Crimson Dirks were finished. They’d gotten too cocky after the war, thinking the chaos was their playground, and had been brutally shattered when the Imperial Legions finally started sweeping the wilds of Cyrodiil clean.
The survivors had scattered to the winds, with most, like Aesrael, slipping over the border into Skyrim—the closest and most lawless refuge from Bruma, their old stomping grounds.
They hadn't fled empty-handed, though. Not exactly. Their real treasure was a collection of rumors, whispered tales of lost relics hidden across the holds. Each surviving Dirk had apparently picked a legend to chase, a desperate gamble to find enough treasure to either retire in obscurity or fund a new crew.
Aesrael’s chosen myth was a piece of his own heritage: a suit of legendary armor, supposedly belonging to some long-lost Altmer hunter of renown.
A dry, humorless chuckle escaped Torin’s lips. The elf had come all this way, only to die, and for what? A fairy tale.
He’d failed miserably. The journal detailed his belief that the hunter was buried in Moss Mother Cavern. But the place was, as Torin knew from Valga's gossip, "infested with Spriggans." Aesrael had tried to sneak in, but the ancient nature spirits had detected him instantly.
His writing grew frantic, almost illegible, as he described being driven out, wounded and terrified. The final, chilling entry spoke of a specific spriggan—one that hadn't been content to guard the cave.
It had actively pursued him, hunting the hunter, forcing him to keep moving and making any further attempts at the cavern impossible.
An image of the Redguard mercenary, splattered with spriggan ichor, flashed in Torin's mind. A slow grin spread across his face. So that was the contract the pretty boy had taken. He’d gone and killed the very thing that had been hunting Aesrael.
The irony was almost beautiful.
If the Jarl knew he was effectively paying two bounties for the same problem—one for the cause, and one for the symptom—he’d probably chop up the elf's corpse personally just to feed it to the dogs.
Still, that was the Jarl’s problem, not his.
He skimmed the last few entries. They were a mix of petty arrogance, mocking the "lumbering oafs" of the Falkreath guard, and the increasingly desperate hopes of a man getting sick of sleeping on the ground and eating charred rabbit.
The final entry was short, the handwriting quick with anticipation. 'A bonfire to the north. Some fool, lost or rich. Either way, a score. My luck is finally turning.'
Torin shook his head, a dry, humorless sound escaping his lips. The elf’s luck had turned, alright. Right off a cliff. He closed the journal and tossed it aside onto the bedroll. It landed with a soft, final thud.
It was a pathetic end, but at least the bastard had chosen to die on his feet. There was a shred of honor in that, he supposed.
His attention turned to the larger, more battered chest sitting against a rock. Aesrael had clearly been living lean, but a man had to eat. He’d have had to hunt, which meant pelts. Even low-quality furs could add up to a decent bit of coin.
Deciding that speculation was useless, he knelt and pried the lid open. The familiar, musky scent of cured hides filled the air. Sure enough, the chest was packed tight with a variety of pelts—fox, wolf, bear, etc.
"Not bad," he mused aloud. "These should fetch a good price in town."
He began to rummage, pushing the furs aside to see if anything of more immediate value was hidden beneath. A pouch of coins, maybe, or a piece of decent jewelry.
His fingers had only been digging for a few seconds when they brushed against something unnervingly familiar. It wasn't the rough texture of leather or the cool smoothness of metal. It was that specific, unnervingly supple feel of a book's binding.
He froze, a cold knot tightening in his stomach. With a growing sense of dread, he carefully pushed the layers of fur aside.
And immediately wished he hadn't.
Nestled at the very bottom of the chest, as if it had always belonged there, was a book with a blood-red cover.
It was the same one. The exact same one he’d hurled into the Riverwood undergrowth, then tossed into the heart of the Sleeping Giant's hearth. It looked pristine, without so much as a singe or a water stain. It was just… waiting for him.
"For fuck's sake..."
...
The pale, grey light of early morning did little to lift the gloom of the Falkreath woods. Torin stood, the weight of the bandit's chest resting solidly on one shoulder, his hand gripping a strap to keep it steady.
In his other hand, a coarse cloth bag hung, heavy and damp. The contents within needed no explanation.
He took one last, long look at the patch of freshly turned earth at his feet. It was a shallow, hasty thing, but deep enough. He hadn't buried Aesrael with this much care. No, this grave was for something else. Something that felt far more dangerous than a dead bandit.
The blood-red book was down there, six feet under dirt and rock.
Satisfied, or at least as satisfied as he could be, he turned his back on the spot and began the long trudge back towards Falkreath, Echo falling into step behind him, her nose sniffing at the interesting scents on the bag in his hand.
His mind, however, was a stubborn loop. This was the second time. The second time that damned thing had found him after he'd definitively gotten rid of it. He'd thrown it away, he'd burned it, and now he'd buried it. But a cold, sinking feeling in his gut told him it wouldn't be the last.
It doesn't matter, he told himself, his boots crunching on the frost-kissed leaves. Even if it pops up in my damn stew tomorrow, I'll just toss it in the privy. As long as I don't open it, it's just a creepy book. A paperweight. A weird, annoying rock.
He clung to that thought, repeating it like a mantra. As long as the cover stayed shut, the words inside were just ink. Whatever curse or demonic nastiness was bound within couldn't get out if he didn't invite it. Right?
It was like a locked door. He just had to keep refusing to turn the key.
Brainwashing himself with that fragile logic, Torin pushed on, already looking forward to the silhouette of Falkreath's walls.
The head in the bag was his ticket to five hundred septims. The furs were a nice bonus. And the book… the book was just a problem for another day.
...
The afternoon sun was casting long, lazy shadows by the time Torin trudged back through Falkreath's gates. Delivering the grisly proof of his work to the guards was a straightforward, if grim, process.
The guards took their time, carefully comparing the severed head to a wanted sketch, muttering to each other and poking at the distinctive pointed ears.
When they were finally satisfied, the looks they gave him changed. The casual dismissal they’d shown a young traveler was gone, replaced by a wary respect and a healthy dose of caution. He’d just done what their whole squad couldn’t, not that Torin cared.
He got his heavy pouch of five hundred septims, the clink of coin a satisfying sound, and that was all that mattered.
His next stop was the Gray Pine Goods store. The name triggered a flicker of a memory—a vague recollection of blip his map that he’d never bothered to enter despite the many hours he'd sunk into the game.
Shaking off the useless thought, he pushed the creaky door open and stepped inside.
The place was a monument to organized chaos.
An elderly Nord with a beard like a tangled thicket stood behind a worn counter, polishing a horn mug. Behind him, shelves stretched to the ceiling, packed to bursting with a bewildering assortment of… everything. Potions of dubious quality sat next to bundles of dried herbs.
A rack of simple iron daggers was wedged beside a display of cheese wheels that smelled stronger than the alchemy ingredients. He spotted ingots, rolls of cloth, and even a few pieces of mismatched armor hanging from hooks.
Well, Torin mused silently, this place definitely lives up to the name... general goods, indeed.
This was the Skyrim equivalent of a general store that also sold hardware, hunting supplies, and probably a bit of contraband on the side.
He stepped up to the counter, the floorboards groaning under his weight. "Hail, elder," he greeted, heaving the chest of furs onto the counter with a solid thump that made the old man jump. "Got some things to sell. Pelts, if you're buying. All butchered decently and in good shape."
The shopkeeper, whose name he vaguely recalled was Solaf, gave Torin a long, appraising look, his eyes lingering on the Companions' insignia. Then his gaze dropped to the chest. He gave a slow, deliberate nod.
"Let me take a look," he rumbled, his voice like gravel, and unlatched the lid.
As the old shopkeeper rummaged through the chest, his gnarled fingers testing the thickness of a snow bear pelt and muttering numbers under his breath, Torin let his gaze wander.
The shop was a cluttered treasure trove of the useful and the useless, and he scanned the crowded shelves with a casual eye, not really expecting to find anything of interest amidst the common iron daggers and wheels of aged cheese.
Then his eyes landed on a small, standalone display case perched on a rickety table behind the counter. It was clearly meant for more valuable items. Inside, resting on a scrap of faded velvet, was a strange amulet.
The cord was simple, braided leather, but the pendant itself caught the dim light. It was made of a silver-ish metal, tarnished with age. The circular frame was imperfect, its edges uneven as if hammered out by hand rather than cast.
And in the center was the carved silhouette of a hawk in mid-flight, its wings swept back, its form stark and elegant.
Torin hummed softly in recognition. A hawk. The ancient Nords didn't use the dove or the butterfly for their warrior goddess. They used the hawk. Kyne. The Mother of Men herself. He'd even read that one of her old, now scarcely used names was "Sister Hawk."
After his and Skjor's pilgrimage up the Seven Thousand Steps, his interest in the goddess Kyne had been deeply personal.
The visions on the Steps, the Greybeard naming him "Stormborn"... it had sent him digging through every text he could find in Jorrvaskr.
Though he found no mention of a Stormborn of any kind within the available books, what he learned solidified what he already knew of the goddess.
She wasn't just a mistress of the abstract sky; she was the patron of humans, a protector, the one who gave Nords their very souls and the voice to shout them into the world.
This amulet felt like a piece of that raw, ancient faith, and he was intensely interested.
The elder finally looked up, clearing his throat. "Alright, lad. For the lot, considering the quality, I can offer you—"
"How much for that amulet?" Torin interjected, his voice cutting smoothly through the old man's offer.
The shopkeeper followed Torin’s pointing finger. His bushy eyebrows drew together, and he shook his head with a sigh. “Ah, that. I’m afraid that’s a show piece, lad. Not for sale. Won it in a wager long ago from an adventurer who swore it came from a barrow near—”
“I didn’t ask for its story, elder,” Torin interrupted, his voice calm but firm, his gaze still locked on the silver hawk. “I just want to know how much it would cost to take it off your hands.”
The elderly man let out another, deeper sigh, the sound of a man dealing with a stubborn customer. He turned to look at the amulet himself, a faint frown on his face.
“You don’t understand. Even if I wanted to sell it, I wouldn’t know what to charge. It’s not silver, but it doesn’t tarnish. It’s light, but doesn’t bend. I even took it to the blacksmith, and the old fool just scratched his head and said he’d never seen its like.”
Torin simply raised an eyebrow and crossed his arms over his chest. “How much?”
The old man gave him an exasperated look. “Lad, this isn’t a good idea. Selling it means either unwittingly cheating you or cheating myself. It’s a headache either way.”
He scratched his chin through his thick beard, his eyes flicking from the determined young man to the chest of high-quality furs on his counter. A speculative glint entered his eye.
“I’ll tell you what,” he said, his tone shifting to that of a man making a concession. “If you want it so badly, I can part with it. But not for coin. In exchange for these furs. The whole chest. How about it?”
A slow smile spread across Torin’s face. The old merchant was clever. Those furs were worth a solid hundred and fifty septims, maybe more. The value of the amulet, on the other hand, was a complete mystery.
It could be a worthless trinket, or it could be something far more. He was trading a sure thing for a question mark, and after all the warnings he offered, Torin would have no excuses later.
But as he looked at the hawk, a symbol of the goddess who had taken a big interest in him, the choice felt simple. If the goddess was really fond of him, as that Greybeard had suggested, shouldn't he reciprocate?
He met the shopkeeper’s gaze and gave a single, decisive nod. “You have yourself a deal.”
Comments
Potato
Noice
Phantom knight who can’t think of a better nicknam
Honestly the stormborne title is really not helping the atmorian allegations
AntaeusTheGiant
That.. sounds like an Amulet of Kynareth.
