Wicked_Fiction
patreon
Forged in Skyrim #62
🕑 Added 2026-01-02 04:37:29 +0000 UTCTorin walked away from the heavy timber gates of Dushnikh Yal with a satisfied, if weary, smile on his face. A new, densely packed canvas bag hung from his shoulder, its strap biting into his tunic. With every step, the weight of his purchase made itself known—his stride was heavier, slower, more deliberate than when he’d first arrived.
The Orcs had way more lodestone than he’d ever imagined.
He’d pictured, at best, a fist-sized chunk of the magnetic ore, maybe two if he was lucky. What he found instead was a small, carefully managed stockpile.
There was more than he could carry, and far more than he could afford.
Hours of patient, circular negotiation with Murbul—a masterclass in Orcish stubbornness—had finally whittled his purse down to a ghost of its former self. In exchange for the bulging sack now thumping against his hip, he’d handed over nearly all of his hard-earned septims, leaving him with a meager reserve of about five hundred coins.
Just enough, he calculated, to keep Echo from going hungry.
Still, he couldn’t wipe the grin off his face. The cost was steep, but the payoff was more than just magnetic rocks.
He’d not only secured the raw material for his enchanting experiments, but he’d also forged a solid, practical connection with the stronghold. That was a currency that spent well in Skyrim.
The Orcs of Dushnikh Yal were sitting on a mine that was clearly richer than they let on. His sharp eyes hadn’t missed the details during his stay: the heavy, tarpaulin-covered crates stacked near the storage shed, carefully positioned out of casual view.
He’d seen the sidelong glances of the miners hauling them, their posture tense, their movements a little too quick as they shifted to block his line of sight.
If I had to guess, Torin mused, adjusting the strap on his shoulder, that mine’s not just coughing up iron and the occasional lodestone. The secrecy suggested something far more valuable. Orichalcum, most likely. Maybe even a vein of something rarer, like moonstone or quicksilver.
The sheer, paranoid caution spoke of a treasure they were desperate to keep quiet.
Either way, Torin had a new long-term project. He would nurture this relationship with the stronghold carefully, trade with them regularly, earn their trust. Find out what was really in those crates.
The thought made his inner engineer tingle with anticipation.
Eorlund would kill for a steady supply of rare metals, he thought, the smile turning into a smirk. The old smith would probably forge Torin a statue out of gratitude.
And if buying a little extra lodestone than he strictly needed was the price for eventually upgrading the gear of every shield-sibling in Jorrvaskr with legendary Orcish steel… well, that wasn’t a cost. It was an investment.
It went without saying that he could always find more uses for lodestone as well.
Echo, padding alongside him, let out a questioning chuff, nudging his hand with her wet nose as if to ask why he was walking so slowly.
“Don’t give me that,” Torin said, scratching behind her ear. “You’re the one who’s going to eat half our travel fund. Half this weight is food for you, you bottomless pit.”
The bear just rumbled, unconcerned with economics, and trotted ahead to sniff at a suspicious-looking bush, leaving Torin to follow, his step heavy with ore and his mind already racing ahead to the possibilities.
Still, the grin faded slightly as Torin cast a final glance back at the imposing gates of the stronghold, now shrinking in the distance. It was a shame, really. He couldn’t help but feel he was leaving a valuable piece behind.
A restless soul like Ghorbash—a hardened Legion veteran with a warrior’s skill and a simmering need for purpose—would have been a perfect fit for Jorrvaskr. He’d bring in solid coin from tougher contracts, sure. But more than that, he’d be a living banner.
An Orc in the Companions’ ranks would turn heads and ignite chatter across every hold.
It would whisper that the old guild was changing, looking outward again, valuing merit over blood. It was the kind of story that spread a reputation faster than any bard’s tune.
And, selfishly, having Ghorbash at his side would have made future dealings with Dushnikh Yal smoother. Winning over the chief’s brother would have been like getting a key to the stronghold’s inner gates.
Trust would have come easier, deals would have been struck quicker, and those mysterious, covered crates might have been opened for a “friend.” But after their last talk, Ghorbash had made himself scarce.
Torin hadn’t seen hide nor hair of him that final morning. No lingering look from the training yard, no last-minute approach at the gates. The Orc was either wrestling with his conscience or had already buried the tempting idea under a mountain of duty.
Torin hadn’t gone looking for him, either. Pushing too hard now would only spook him, make the offer seem desperate or underhanded. Some decisions, especially ones that could get you branded orkul, needed to ferment. Like a strong brew, they needed time in a dark, quiet place before they were ready to be tapped.
Let him stew, Torin thought, turning his face back toward the winding road that led down from the mountains. Let the frustration of swinging an axe at the same dummy for the hundredth day in a row really sink in. Let him look at those half-empty houses and feel the walls of his ‘cage’ tighten.
The stronghold wasn’t going anywhere. The mine wasn’t going anywhere. And Ghorbash, bound by honor and stone, definitely wasn’t going anywhere.
He adjusted the heavy bag on his shoulder, the weight a tangible promise of a return trip. The road ahead was long, but it was a road that would, inevitably, lead him back home.
To Jorrvaskr.
...
Several days later, under the flat grey light of a late afternoon sky, Torin more or less staggered through the main gate of Whiterun.
Every muscle ached with a deep, travel-weary throb.
His boots were caked with Reach mud and dust from the plains. He felt the overwhelming, primal urge to kick down the door of the first house he saw and commandeer the nearest bed.
Beside him, Echo padded through the gate, her head low and her fur matted. She let out a rumbling sigh that spoke of miles walked and rabbits unforgivably missed.
They were greeted by the familiar, comforting cacophony of the city: the clang of the forge, the shouts of merchants, the smell of baked bread and manure. But almost immediately, Torin’s exhausted senses prickled. Something was… off.
The usual bustle was there, but an unusual number of eyes seemed to swing their way and stick.
One of the guards gave him a nod and a strangely knowing smile. Then came Belathor's hired hand, a crate of cloth in his hand. He paused, giving Torin a strange look before also offering a nod.
It wasn’t hostility. It was more like… recognition. A kind of quiet, curious acknowledgment from people he’d interacted with maybe once or twice.
Then there were the others. Faces he’d never seen before—rough-looking traders with packs, weary travelers in foreign cloaks, all manner of passersby he'd never met. And they were looking at him, too.
Sure, walking into a city with a bear at your heel tended to draw stares. Torin was used to that. However, this was different.
These gazes lingered.
They weren’t wide-eyed with shock or fear; they were sharp, assessing. Some even seemed to light up with a flicker of interest, as if spotting a notable landmark or a rare ingredient in a shop window.
A couple of rough-edged men leaning against the Drunken Huntsman straightened up slightly, their conversation dying as he passed.
A cold, uneasy frown settled on Torin’s grimy face. What in Oblivion is this about?
He didn’t have the energy to figure it out. His brain felt like it was stuffed with wool. The only coherent thoughts were bed, food, and don’t talk to me.
Instead of cutting straight through the crowded market to Jorrvaskr, he abruptly changed course. He hooked a left, leading Echo up the stone steps and into the quieter residential area of the Wind District. The long way around. Here, the houses were snug and closed, with only the occasional citizen fetching water or tending a small garden.
The attention faded, replaced by the normal, dismissive glance one gives to a tired-looking stranger.
He wasn’t running. He just couldn’t stand the idea of someone—Belethor, a curious traveler, anyone—stepping into his path with a cheerful “Back from the Reach, eh?” or worse, some question about his business.
He was running on fumes, and his patience was a thin, brittle shell. He was perfectly capable, and in that moment wholly willing, to put his fist through a friendly face just to avoid a single minute of pointless small talk.
All he wanted was the familiar, smoky gloom of Jorrvaskr’s mead hall, a warm meal, and the profound silence of his own room.
Everything else, including the city's sudden, bizarre interest in him, could wait until he’d slept for a solid day.
...
Torin shouldered open the heavy door of Jorrvaskr, the familiar scent of mead, woodsmoke, and old leather washing over him like a balm. He and Echo shuffled into the dim, welcoming quiet of the main hall.
It was mostly empty. The fire in the great hearth crackled low, and the only occupant was Aela, sprawled in her usual spot with a hunter’s casual insolence.
She had her boots propped up on the long table, and was meticulously using a small knife to sharpen a carved bone shard into a vicious-looking arrowhead.
The rhythmic scrape-scrape of blade on bone was the only sound.
The scrape stopped as the door shut. Aela’s sharp eyes flicked up, and a wide, wolfish grin split her face at the sight of him—filthy, exhausted, and hauling a suspiciously heavy bag.
“Well, well,” she drawled, not moving from her slouch. “Look what the skeever dragged in. How was your first real taste of freedom, little brother?”
Torin offered a tired smile in return. “Awful. Dreadful. Every inn bed was stuffed with rocks, and I’m pretty sure I ate more dust than bread.” He let out a bone-deep sigh that seemed to come from his boots. “Still… it was productive.”
With a grunt of effort, he shrugged the heavy canvas bag from his shoulder and let it drop to the floorboards with a solid, dense thud. “It’s like a tomb in here. Where is everyone?”
Aela gave a lazy shrug, returning to her work on the arrowhead. “Out. Contracts. We’ve been flooded with them lately.” She shot him a sideways glance, her grin turning sly. “All thanks to you, I might add. Even old Vignar took one. Nearly fell off my chair when I heard.”
Torin paused in the act of unbuckling his vambrace, his brow furrowing. “Thanks to me? How? I’ve been gone for almost two months.”
“Oh, the stories have been trickling back for a while now,” Aela said, her voice dripping with amused irony.
She held up the bone arrowhead, inspecting its point.
“Traders, pilgrims, even a couple of hunters. They all have tales. About the boy Companion who crushed a cave wolf's skull with one swing of his hammer. About the boy who took on five bandits in the woods near Falkreath and beat them to death with his bare hands because his hammer wasn't within reach...”
Torin just stared at her, his expression openly skeptical. “What’s so strange about that? The twins do things like this at least twice a week.”
Aela threw her head back and laughed, a sharp, honest sound that echoed in the hall. “Maybe! But they don’t do it every single day for a full month straight, little brother. And they don’t do it with a bear and a redguard swordmaster at their side.”
She shook her head, her amusement softening into something more observant. “You didn’t just do a job. You went on a tour. And you wore the Wolf symbol all the way. People take notice. They talk. And when they talk, work finds its way to our door.”
A sudden realization washed over Torin, cutting through his fatigue. “So that's why I was getting all those stares...”
Slowly, he turned his head to look down at Echo. She had flopped onto her side near the fire, a picture of innocent exhaustion, licking a paw with monumental disinterest in human gossip.
After a long, silent moment, Torin just shrugged. It was a weary, philosophical gesture that seemed to settle the matter in his mind. So he’d drawn some eyes. So what? Skyrim had a short memory. The novelty of the “bear-boy” would wear off soon enough, especially if he stopped feeding it with new adventures.
And in the meantime, the Companions were seeing more work and more coin. That wasn’t a bad trade.
His new plan was simple: lay low. Stay in Jorrvaskr, continue his studies, maybe take a few quiet local jobs. Let the focus shift back to Vilkas’s skill, Farkas’s terrifying strength, or Aela’s deadly grace.
He’d just be the strange kid in the background again. Perfect.
“Well,” he grunted, bending to hoist the impossibly heavy bag of lodestone once more. “I’m too tired to even think about this right now. My brain’s full of road grit.”
He’d only managed three shuffling steps toward the stairs leading down to the living quarters when Aela’s voice cut through the smoky air again, sweet as poison.
“Yes,” she called, not even looking up as she started on another arrowhead. “Go. Get your rest. Wash the Reach out of your hair.”
She paused, letting the words hang. “We’re shorthanded here with all this new work. We’ll need you at your best to help with the overflow of contracts. Starting tomorrow, I’d wager.”
Torin froze mid-step. The heavy bag thumped against his leg.
A low, heartfelt curse slipped through his teeth, barely more than a breath. “Gods damnit.”
Comments
Potato
Noice, hes building up his own legend and he seems like he might be the main contributor to the companions revival
Bonobo
Thanks for the chapter, loved it !
