Wicked_Fiction
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Forged in Skyrim #65
🕑 Added 2026-01-05 10:26:18 +0000 UTCThe morning sun was just beginning to burn the chill off the stone of Whiterun when Torin shouldered his way through the main gate. The city was waking up in earnest, and the familiar, chaotic symphony of its daily life washed over him.
The market district was a hive of activity. A pair of hunters, their leathers still smelling of pine and cold air, staggered out of the Drunken Huntsman, arguing good-naturedly over whose shot had actually felled the elk.
From the direction of Warmaiden’s, the steady, ringing clang-clang of Adrienne’s hammer on hot steel beat a dependable rhythm. Weaving through it all was the sweet, irresistible smell of fresh bread from the bakery, a scent that could make a dead man’s stomach growl.
Torin walked through it all with Echo at his side, the bear now so large she made people instinctively give them a wider berth. But it wasn't just fear. Heads turned.
Conversations paused.
A farmer carrying a sack of grain nodded solemnly. A merchant’s wife offered a shy smile. A tough-looking caravan guard he’d never seen before touched a knuckle to his forehead in a gesture of respect.
“Morning, Companion.”
“Hail, Storm-Caller.”
“Stormborn.”
The names followed him like ripples. Storm-Caller. Stormborn. It was the damn enchantment on his axe. The golden lightning that erupted when it struck was flashy, impossible to miss.
At fifteen, Torin wasn’t just tall for his age. He towered. He had to duck through some doorways in the city.
The only man in Whiterun who still looked down at him was Kodlak in Jorrvaskr, and Torin had a feeling that wouldn’t last another year. He’d filled out, too—broad in the shoulder, with a solidness that spoke of constant training and hard living.
A light, dusty stubble shadowed his jaw, finally making the man’s face match the man’s body.
He navigated the attention with an easygoing, practiced smile, returning nods and greetings without breaking stride. It was part of the scenery now, like the sound of the forge.
Then he saw a sight that made his smooth stride hitch for just a second.
Skjor was marching toward the city gate, his weathered face set in its usual grim lines.
And walking beside him, looking both out of place and utterly determined in a set of solid, Orcish-style plate armor, was Ghorbash.
The Orc’s tusks were set in a firm line, his dark eyes scanning the crowd with a veteran’s alertness. He looked… different. Less like a caged beast, more like a hound that had finally been let off the leash.
Skjor spotted Torin almost immediately. A slow, sardonic grin spread across the old warrior’s scarred face. He came to a stop, planting his hands on his hips.
“Well, well,” Skjor called out, his voice cutting through the market din. “Look who decided to grace us with his presence. The mystic himself. Run out of coin for your glowing rocks and fancy inks already?”
He gave Torin a deliberate once-over, taking in his travel-stained clothes and the lack of any obvious new gear. “Or did you just miss the smell of honest sweat and mead?”
Torin scoffed, crossing his arms over his broad chest. The movement made the seams of his tunic strain. "You act like you'd have any honest sweat to shed, or coin for mead, if it weren't for me."
He gave a smug shake of his head, his light stubble catching the sun. "Face it, old man. Jorrvaskr's overflowing with new blood and shiny septims, and that's only thanks to me."
Skjor's good eye, the color of old flint, narrowed. He took a half-step closer, his own considerable bulk squaring off against Torin's. The market chatter seemed to fade around them, the air thickening with a familiar, competitive tension.
They just stared at each other, two bulls in a pasture, neither giving an inch.
Then, at the exact same moment, both of their stern expressions cracked. A simultaneous, sharp pfft of laughter escaped them.
Skjor’s weathered face split into a genuine, if still grim, smile. He reached out, grabbing Torin’s forearm in a warrior’s handshake that was more a test of grip than a greeting. He followed it with a solid, thumping pat on the back that would have staggered a lesser man.
“All jokes aside, pup,” Skjor said, his voice dropping to a more serious rumble. “You should show your mug around more. Kodlak’s buried in nonsense with all the new whelps. Barely leaves his study. He misses his favorite son.”
Torin’s grin turned lopsided. “Favorite son? Please. I’m his only son. The rest of you lot are just the noisy tenants he tolerates because you pay the rent in bandit heads.”
Skjor just shook his head in wry amusement, letting the jab slide. His gaze shifted, and Torin’s followed, settling on the silent, watchful Orc standing a respectful pace back.
Torin extended his hand toward Ghorbash. “And how’s the road treating you, shield-brother?”
Ghorbash’s massive, gauntleted hand enveloped Torin’s. His grip was firm, steady, but without the testing pressure of Skjor’s. He gave a single, decisive nod, his tusks lifting slightly in what passed for an Orcish smile.
“There is coin in my pocket,” Ghorbash rumbled, his voice deeper and more resonant than Torin remembered. “There are new horizons to walk toward every morning. And I do not have to worry over Dushnikh Yal’s crumbling walls. The trade agreements you brokered hold strong.” He released Torin’s hand, a fierce, quiet pride in his dark eyes. “I am doing… great.”
Torin’s own smile widened, a feeling of genuine satisfaction warming his chest. Just as he’d predicted. The first visit had planted the seed.
The second visit, three months later, had found Ghorbash already packed, his few possessions in a sack, his restlessness having curdled into a firm resolve. The journey back to Whiterun had been quiet, but the Orc’s eagerness was a palpable thing.
And then came Jorrvaskr. The welcome hadn’t been warm. It had been a near riot. Vilkas had been openly hostile, Farkas confused and wary, Aela suspicious of the “outsider’s” loyalty.
Only Skjor, who valued proven strength above all else, had been neutral, perhaps even slightly welcoming of a fellow veteran legionnaire.
Of course, Kodlak had the final say in the matter. But the old Harbinger was too wise for a simple yes or no. He’d simply leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers, and said, “If you doubt his strength, test it. Torin vouches for his honor, so we grant him the chance. Time will tell if he has the heart of a Companion.”
Vilkas and Farkas had been more than happy to oblige with the “testing” part. The resulting brawl in the yard had been spectacular—a clash of pure, brute-force styles. When the dust settled, both brothers bore new bruises and a begrudging respect.
The Orc wasn’t just strong; he was disciplined, a Legion-trained fighter who knew how to use his weight and reach.
Aela’s trust took longer, measured in shared watches on freezing ridges and the silent language of covering each other’s flanks in a dozen scrappy fights. After a few months, she stopped watching him like a hawk and started tossing him a skin of mead after a job. That was as good as a declaration of kinship from her.
Ghorbash didn’t just settle in; he carved out a space. He earned the Jarl’s approval to train the guards—a duty Vilkas gladly pawned off on him—and quietly secured the steady trade agreement for Dushnikh Yal that Torin had envisioned. But that was just the start.
The Orc tackled contracts with a veteran’s grim efficiency and a ferocity that turned heads. His reputation spread: the Orc in the Companions who got the job done, no matter how messy. Surprisingly, that reputation became a beacon.
A trickle, then a small stream of other young Orcs, restless in their strongholds or adrift in the cities, began showing up at Jorrvaskr’s doors, asking to test their mettle.
Not all made the cut, but a few did, slowly changing the fabric of the guild.
Then, a year ago, the real shocker: Ghorbash was invited to join the Inner Circle. It was a move that had raised eyebrows, especially given his open, stoic reverence for Malacath. Torin wasn’t sure how the Orc squared that particular circle with the Circle’s… furry secret.
Maybe he didn’t. Maybe he saw it as just another weapon. Torin didn’t pry. It wasn’t his business.
He’d been offered the same spot the last time he’d lingered in Jorrvaskr for more than a week. He’d refused. Vehemently. Joining the Inner Circle meant accepting the Beast Blood, and the very idea made his skin crawl.
It wasn’t just the loss of control; it felt like surrendering a piece of his soul and humanity. Besides, it meant more responsibility, more meetings, more being tied to Whiterun. He had no time for that.
Most of his time was a three-way split: fulfilling the more complex, far-flung contracts that kept his name—and his coin purse—growing; his private, relentless study of magic, trying to bend Alteration and Restoration to his will; and his obsessive pestering of old Calcelmo in Markarth for any scrap of Dwemer lore, blueprint, or artifact.
Torin had poured a small fortune into his house in Falkreath, true, but "furnish" was a generous word.
He’d turned it into a functional outpost. The main room was dominated by a sturdy enchanting table, its surface etched with glowing lines, and a cluttered workbench littered with half-dismantled Dwarven spiders, strange gears, and schematics held down by daggers.
Comfortable it was not. Useful, it was. It beat having to constantly trek to Markarth just to pester Calcelmo.
And speaking of the old elf… getting his attention had been the real trick. Calcelmo was buried so deep in Understone Keep he was practically part of the masonry.
Torin knew the scholar had mountains of knowledge on Dwarven enchantments and magics, but when it came to the actual engineering, the nuts and bolts of how the machines worked, the old Mer was frustratingly vague in the books he wrote.
Torin’s solution had been blunt. He’d taken some of the common Dwarven scrap metal sold by the nervous vendors outside the keep, and over a few sleepless nights, forged it into a functional, if crude, boiler core—a fundamental piece of steam-based mechanics his old world knowledge understood perfectly.
He’d handed it to a city guard with five gold coins and a simple message: “For the Elf in the Keep. From a fellow scholar.”
Calcelmo’s response had been immediate, obsessive, and delivered in person. The exchange that followed was simple: Torin explained the basics of pressure, thermal dynamics, and the bare minimum mechanics.
Calcelmo, in turn, opened his archives on tonal architecture, soul-gem resonance, and dwarven enchantments. A fair trade.
Torin shrugged away the stray memory, focusing back on Skjor and Ghorbash in the bustling Whiterun street. The giant hunt sounded like a good, straightforward brawl. But he had other plans.
“I’m happy to hear you’re doing well,” Torin said, his smile turning a bit rueful. “And it’s a good thing I ran into you two here. I won’t be back for a while.”
Skjor’s eyebrows, already perpetually skeptical, climbed toward his hairline. “Going where? Chasing another shiny rock into a hole?”
“The Reach,” Torin said, his tone casual. “There’s an encampment of Forsworn. Might have something I’m looking for.”
Skjor’s expression shifted from curious to concerned in a heartbeat. His eyes, sharp as ever, scanned Torin’s face. “The Reach. Forsworn. That doesn’t sound as simple as you’re making it out to be, boy. Those savages don’t take prisoners, and they know those hills better than they know their own mothers. Do you need help?”
Torin chuckled, but it was a dry, humorless sound. “No, it isn’t simple. But don’t worry about it.” He let out a long, deeply annoyed sigh that seemed to come from his boots. “Unfortunately… I already have help.”
Ghorbash and Skjor exchanged a look—a quick, silent conversation of raised brows and slight head tilts. There was only one person whose very existence seemed to suck the will to live right out of Torin... and honestly, it was understandable.
A slow grin spread across Ghorbash’s face, but he wisely bit back whatever comment was brewing. Instead, the Orc rumbled, “Even so… unless you plan to find and flatten that rumored Forsworn city they whisper about in the deep valleys, rooting out some savages from a hill shouldn't take that long...”
Torin gave a dismissive wave, as if swatting a fly. “A month? It won’t take a week. They’re in my way, and I’m not feeling patient.” He paused, his gaze turning westward, beyond the city walls. “Once I’m done with that, though… I’ll be heading to Winterhold. To the College.”
Skjor, who had been taking a swig from his waterskin, choked. He coughed, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “You mean the College? That pile of snow and stone? What in Shor's name for?”
He gave Torin a long, searching look, as if trying to spot a head injury. “Do they even have anything left to teach you? You’ve been pulling magic out of your arse since I've known you.”
Torin rolled his eyes, a gesture that was pure teenager despite his towering frame and stubbled jaw. “There’s always more to learn, old man. Always another layer to the mystery.”
He cleared his throat, the scholarly tangent over. Suddenly he looked eager to be anywhere else. “Either way. I’ve held you two up long enough. Your ugly mugs are starting to curdle the milk and scare the children. Go on. Shoo. Get.”
He made a brushing motion with his hands, as if herding particularly stubborn goats back toward the gate.
Comments
Potato
Great chap, ngl his titles are sick as fuck
Sif
It'd be cute if Ysolda fell for one of the new Orcs. Either way, enjoying the update.
