Wicked_Fiction
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Made in Cyrodiil, Forged in Skyrim #42
🕑 Added 2025-11-28 20:38:50 +0000 UTCTorin’s fingers wrapped around the haft of the silver throwing axe, the cool metal a familiar comfort. His world narrowed to a single point: the golden-skinned elf staggering back, swatting frantically at the embers smoldering in his hair and furs.
The idiot was stationary, half-confused, and completely blinded by pain and surprise. At this distance, it was less a throw and more a formality. A grim smile touched Torin's lips. This was over.
He raised the axe over his shoulder, muscles coiling for the kill. The elf wouldn't even see it coming.
His throwing motion initiated, a smooth, powerful arc—and was violently interrupted halfway through.
A brindled blur slammed into his side with the force of a battering ram. The air left his lungs in a pained whoosh. "Damn it!" he snarled, the curse torn from him as his balance vanished.
Even as he was thrown sideways, his sheer stubbornness took over. He kept his eyes locked on his original target. As he keeled over, he completed the aborted throw, his body twisting with the fall.
The silver axe spun through the fire-lit air, a glittering, deadly disc.
He hit the ground hard on his shoulder, the impact jarring his teeth. He caught a fragmented, frustrating glimpse of his axe finding a mark—but it was the elf's shoulder, not his head or throat, with a solid, meaty thunk.
A cry of fresh pain echoed his own.
Then he had no more attention to spare for the elf. The world became a whirl of dirt, snarling, and hot, foul breath. He rolled, the heavy weight of the hound, Fenrir, scrambling and clawing on top of him.
They settled with the beast standing over his chest, its powerful jaws snapping down towards his face.
Instinct took over.
Torin's left hand shot up, not to block, but to grab. His fingers dug into the fur and muscle under the hound's jaw, forcing its mouth shut from below, his arm shaking with the strain of holding those powerful neck muscles at bay.
With his other hand, he yanked another throwing axe from his belt, holding it like a dagger. The silver edge gleamed, poised to plunge into the beast's exposed throat.
"Get off!" he grunted, ready to drive the point home.
A roaring, brown mass of fur and fury answered instead.
Echo hit the hound like a living avalanche. There was no finesse, just pure, youthful bear momentum. The impact tore Fenrir off of Torin, sending both animals tumbling away in a chaotic, snarling ball of limbs and rage.
Gasping, Torin shoved himself to his feet, his eyes instantly searching for the elf. The groan that escaped him was one of pure, unadulterated frustration.
The clearing's edge was empty, save for a single, dark splash of blood on the leaf litter. Aesrael—or Larethion, or whatever his name was—was gone, clutching his wounded shoulder as he vanished into the deep, waiting shadows of the treeline.
Torin gritted his teeth, the frustration of his prey's escape a bitter taste in his mouth. He turned from the empty treeline to the immediate problem: Echo and the hound were a writhing, snarling mess of fur and fury just a few feet away.
The bear cub was holding her own, all clumsy weight and wild swipes, but the bandit's dog was a seasoned fighter, all muscle and sharp teeth.
Gripping the silver throwing axe like a dagger, he stalked toward the brawling animals. His knuckles were white, the weapon raised high, a killing blow ready to plunge down and end the fight.
He found an opening, the hound's flank exposed as it tried to twist away from Echo's bulk.
However, Torin hesitated.
The dog wasn't some monster or a mad wolf. It was just an animal, loyal to a fault, protecting the bastard who fed it. A memory, sharp and unwelcome, flashed in his mind—Echo, small and helpless in a bandit's shit pit.
This beast didn't choose its master.
"Ah, hells," he muttered with a sigh, the fight going out of his arm.
He reversed his grip, flipping the axe so the flat of the blade was against his wrist. As the hound lunged again, Torin brought his fist down in a short, brutal arc. The weighted pommel of the axe haft connected with the beast's skull with a sickening thock.
The hound let out a sharp, cut-off yelp and collapsed onto the leaf litter, completely motionless.
Torin gave the unconscious animal a brief, almost apologetic look. "Bad mutt," he grumbled, but there was no real heat in it. A dog just doing its job didn't deserve a slit throat.
It would wake up in a few hours with a killer headache and, hopefully, better prospects.
He quickly turned to Echo, running his hands over her fur, checking for bites or deep cuts. She was panting heavily, her sides heaving, and she had a nasty scratch over one eye, but she was otherwise unharmed.
She nudged his hand with her wet nose, a low rumble in her chest that was more pride than a growl.
"Good girl," he said, giving her a solid pat. "You saved my hide."
Only when he was sure she was okay and healing the minor wounds she had with magic did he finally scan the area properly. He didn't take long to find the first silver throwing axe. It was lodged into the log where the elf was sitting, covered in blood.
He wrenched it free, wiping the blood on his trousers. Then he saw it: a trail of dark, glistening droplets leading from the center of the clearing and into the deep shadows of the forest.
A grin spread across Torin's face. The hunt wasn't over. He might not be half the tracker Aela was, but even a blind man could follow this. The arrogant elf had kindly left a painter's trail of his own lifeblood for him to follow.
"Let's go finish this," he said, his voice low and steady.
...
Shield in one hand and a flickering torch held high in the other, Torin pushed his way through the dense undergrowth. The trail of blood was a macabre breadcrumb trail, dark and glistening against ferns and fallen leaves. Echo moved like a shadow at his heels, her nose constantly testing the wind, a low growl rumbling in her chest every few steps.
He’d been at this for what felt like half an hour already, a fact that was equal parts annoying and impressive. Even bleeding and on the run, the elf was proving his tenacity and his deep familiarity with these woods, taking a path that twisted through the thickest brush. But the blood was getting more frequent, the splashes larger.
The bastard was slowing down. Torin would bet every septim to his name that Aesrael was holed up nearby, not fifty feet away, either hoping for one last ambush or just praying Torin would give up and pass him by.
Well, he wasn't in the praying mood.
With a grim grin, he stopped and raised his voice, letting it cut through the oppressive quiet of the forest. "I thought you said you were a woodsman!" he called out, the words dripping with mock sympathy. "But look at this mess. What kind of woodsman gets so hopelessly lost in his own backyard?"
He listened, hearing nothing but the crackle of his torch. He pressed on, his grin widening.
"And as if that wasn't bad enough," he continued, louder now, "you let your guard down around a complete stranger in the middle of the wilderness. Almost got yourself killed on the spot. You'd be cooling on the ground right now if it weren't for that hound of yours."
He paused for effect, letting the reminder of the hound's loyalty sink into the wounded elf's mind. Then he layered on the cruelty, his voice taking on a smug, conversational tone.
"Speaking of which... you just left that mangy mutt to die after he saved your life, didn't you? Real noble of you. The poor thing kept yelping and shaking for a whole minute after I broke its neck. Quite the pathetic way to go."
The lie had barely left his lips when the night was split by a sharp whoosh.
Torin reacted on instinct, heaving the heavy shield up.
A jarring thud vibrated up his arm as an arrow slammed into the center of the laminated wood, its shaft still quivering from the impact. He lowered the shield just enough to peer over the rim, a cold satisfaction settling in his gut.
"Found you," Torin murmured, his eyes scanning the dark tapestry of trees ahead.
He broke into a run, shield forward, torch held out to the side. His little performance had worked perfectly. Not only had he provoked the elf into giving away his position, but the arrow itself told a story.
The fact it was stuck shallow in the shield, lacking the punching power to even threaten to go through, spoke volumes about the archer's condition. That shoulder wound was robbing his draw of all its strength.
He closed the distance, his boots pounding a steady rhythm on the forest floor. Another arrow whistled out of the darkness, then a second, and a third. They thudded harmlessly against his shield, their impacts feeling weak and desperate.
It was exactly what he’d expected. Running around with a torch made him the most obvious target in the woods, but between the shield and the elf's injury, he was anything but an easy one.
He burst into a small clearing to find his quarry. Aesrael was slumped against the trunk of a massive pine, his back to the bark. The golden hue of his skin had faded to a sickly, pale waxen color.
He held his bow, but his hands—both of them—were shaking violently, the fine tremor of shock and blood loss. Seeing Torin, his face twisted in a mask of pure hatred, but he seemed to know the weapon was useless in his hands now.
With a final, venomous glare that could have curdled milk, he let the bow clatter to the ground.
Torin slowed to a walk, his shield still raised. "What's this?" he asked, his tone lightly mocking. "You're going to surrender? Smart move."
The elf let out a ragged, contemptuous scoff. "I will die before I surrender to the likes of you, you little brute."
With a pained grunt, he drew his slender longsword with his left hand, the movement awkward. He held it up, the point wavering unsteadily in the air.
Torin actually chuckled, the sound harsh in the tense quiet. "I was hoping you'd say that."
He came to a stop a dozen feet away, his eyes giving the elf a slow, deliberate once-over. The dark stain on his furs had spread, and a small pool of blood was gathering at his feet.
"But are you sure you want to do this? Really? You've lost enough blood to paint a mural, and I can tell you're not holding that pretty sword with your dominant hand. This won't be a fight. It will be a slaughter..."
The elf’s only answer was a weak, but determined, shift of his feet into a fighting stance.
A flicker of genuine, grudging respect passed through Torin. He offered a slow, acknowledging nod. He was genuinely impressed. To fire a bow with any accuracy in the dead of night, using a ruined shoulder... and now, cornered and bleeding out, the elf wasn't begging or bargaining.
He was choosing to meet his end on his feet, with a dignity Torin wouldn't have expected from a common cutthroat. There was a story here, a life that had taken a very wrong turn, but the core of it had some steel.
His appreciation, however, began and ended with that nod. It wouldn't stay his hand.
With a raw cry of pain and fury, the elf lunged forward, his sword thrust clumsy but full of grim, final determination.
Torin didn't meet it. He didn't brace. In that same instant, he hurled the torch he'd been holding directly at the elf's face.
Aesrael's eyes flew wide with shock and instinct. His good arm came up, swatting the fiery brand aside in a shower of sparks. It was a momentary distraction, a single heartbeat where his guard was completely down.
It cost him everything.
The air around Torin shimmered with a sudden, vibrant green light as a surge of magicka coursed through him. The world seemed to slow down as his body thrummed with the effects of the haste spell.
In the space of a single breath, he closed the distance, a blur of motion.
He didn't use his hammer. He led with the shield. The heavy, reinforced edge slammed into the elf's throat with a sickening crunch.
Aesrael's charge ended instantly. He was thrown backward, landing hard on his back in the dirt. A horrible, wet, gurgling sound escaped him as his hands flew to his crushed windpipe, his legs kicking weakly.
Torin looked down at him, his expression grim. He had no intention of letting the man drown in his own blood. He retrieved a silver throwing axe from his belt, flipping it in his hand to hold it like a dagger.
"I'll end it quick," he declared, his voice low and steady, devoid of malice but full of finality.
He got down on one knee beside the dying elf.p
Comments
NoRest
A good bandit is a dead bandit.
Potato
Good chap
