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Forged in Skyrim #59
🕑 Added 2025-12-27 18:30:08 +0000 UTCAn hour later, with the sun fully risen and the morning chill beginning to burn away, Torin and Echo left their assigned lodging. Both were fully awake, the bear having finally deigned to start her day after a substantial breakfast of raw meat and root vegetables.
They made their way through the waking stronghold towards the chief's longhouse, the center of activity.
As they strolled, Torin observed Dushnikh Yal stirring to life. His earlier assessment was confirmed: the population, while not massive, was still significant. He easily counted over a hundred Orcs moving about—tending forges, hauling water, mending gear.
What struck him most was their bearing.
A good majority, both males and females, carried themselves with the unmistakable posture of trained warriors—a coiled, disciplined strength. Their movements were economical, their eyes constantly scanning.
It was a far cry from the disorganized rabble some Nords imagined.
A good thing they seem to prefer living peacefully up here, he mused. Otherwise, a force like this would give the Jarls of Markarth and Falkreath constant, massive headaches. They were a small, hardened army living in the mountains.
With such random thoughts in mind, he continued his stride. Soon, he passed the training yard near the longhouse. And there, just as he’d seen the night before, was Ghorbash.
The Orc was already drenched in sweat, his two axes a blur as he hacked with undiminished ferocity at the same long-suffering practice dummy. Chips of wood flew with every blow.
A smirk tugged at Torin’s lips. He changed course, walking up to the edge of the yard with Echo padding behind.
“Ghorbash, was it?” Torin called out, his tone lightly mocking. “Shor's bones, what did that pile of straw and sticks do to make you so angry?”
The Orc’s next swing halted mid-air. He turned, his face a mask of sweat and confusion, his breathing heavy. “What?”
Torin raised an eyebrow, gesturing at the dummy. “You’ve been beating on that thing since last night. Don’t you ever take a break? Maybe a nap? A nice cup of tea?” He kept his expression deadpan.
Ghorbash’s confusion deepened into a scowl. “I did not spend the entire night here. I ate, I slept, I woke with the sun—”
Torin just cut him off with an exaggerated sigh and a wave of his hand. “It’s a joke. Cause the last thing I saw before turning in was you here, swinging away. And now, first thing I see in the morning, you’re in the same spot, doing the same thing. Makes me wonder if you even left.”
A moment of silence hung between them, broken only by Ghorbash’s heavy breathing and the distant clang of a forge. Then, a low, grudging snort escaped the Orc.
It wasn’t quite a laugh, but the tension in his shoulders eased a fraction. He wiped his brow with a thick forearm, eyeing Torin with a new, slightly less hostile curiosity.
Torin just beamed at him and extended his hand. “I’m Torin, by the way.”
Ghorbash gave a slight, acknowledging nod before taking Torin’s hand in his own massive, calloused grip. The shake was firm, brief, and spoke of controlled strength. “Well met, boy.”
He let go, his dark eyes flicking down to Torin’s hands before meeting his gaze again. “You seem young. And yet your hands don’t reflect that. They’re more like mine.”
Torin chuckled, looking down at his own palms, which were a roadmap of scars and hardened skin from years of hammer, shield, and sword. He shrugged. “Living in Jorrvaskr with Skyrim’s ‘finest’ warriors does that to you. They’re not big on gentle hobbies.”
Ghorbash gave another low grunt, this one sounding almost approving. He turned back to the dummy and resumed his assault, though with slightly less manic intensity. “A traveling mercenary, then?” he asked between blows.
“Companion,” Torin corrected gently. “But yeah, I travel.”
Ghorbash managed a slight, fleeting smile. “I used to do some traveling myself. Saw more of Tamriel than I ever thought I would.”
Torin leaned against another, less-abused training dummy nearby and crossed his arms. “Not anymore?”
The Orc shook his head, a shadow passing over his features. “I fought for the Legion. The Great War ended, and so… I returned.” He let out a heavy sigh, the sound carrying the weight of a difficult transition. “Burguk was already chief when I came back. He… graciously welcomed my return. Not as a rival. As a brother.”
Torin let out a thoughtful hum. Now that was surprising.
From everything he’d read and heard, the position of stronghold chief was brutal and absolute. It was earned by challenging and killing the current chief in single combat.
It was the core of the Orcish code of Malacath.
Ghorbash was a veteran of the Imperial Legion—a hardened, worldly fighter with experience far beyond the stronghold’s borders. Burguk, while probably strong, had spent his years here, leading and managing the tribe.
The chances of someone like that defeating a seasoned legionnaire like Ghorbash with Vilkas' level of brute strength in a fair fight… well, they didn’t seem high.
The question swirled in Torin’s mind. Burguk had to know the risk. By their own traditions, he’d given a potential challenger not just a place at his fire, but legitimacy. Why welcome back a brother who could usurp him? Was Burguk genuinely that generous? Naively trusting? Supremely confident in his own strength? Or was there some deeper, more calculating scheme at play?
Torin nodded, mostly to himself, filing the thought away. He changed tack, his tone casual. “You miss it? The traveling?”
Ghorbash’s axe paused mid-swing for a heartbeat. Then it descended again, biting deep into the dummy’s “shoulder.” “I’d be lying if I said no,” he admitted, his voice a calm, carefully controlled rumble. “The road… it gives a kind of freedom you can never find inside stronghold walls. A different fight every day. A different horizon.”
His words were neutral, but his body screamed the truth. Every frustrated, powerful swing of the axe, the tight coil of his muscles, the set of his jaw—it all spoke of a caged beast. With a final, explosive grunt, Ghorbash brought an axe down in a devastating overhead chop.
The blade didn’t just embed itself; it sheared through the dummy’s central post with a sharp crack, sending the top half clattering to the dirt.
Torin’s eyes lit up at the display of raw power, but he quickly schooled his features back into nonchalance.
He shrugged, leaning more heavily against his own dummy. “So why not leave, then? You did it once. Why not a second time? The Legion’s always recruiting. Or there’s always work for a good blade in the holds.”
Ghorbash turned his glare from the ruined dummy to Torin. The offense in his eyes was immediate and hot. “I couldn’t,” he growled, the word heavy with obligation. “I have a place here now. A duty to my brother and my clan. I will not dishonor them by running off again like some… restless young pup who doesn’t know his own strength.”
Naturally, Torin thought, watching the proud frustration war on the Orc’s face. The reaction told him everything. It wasn’t about not wanting to go. It was about chains—chains of honor, family, and a code that felt more like a prison.
After a moment of silent calculation, a slow, challenging smirk spread across Torin’s face. His gaze flicked pointedly from Ghorbash’s furious expression to the splintered remains of the training dummy.
“Oh?” he asked, his voice dropping to a taunting, almost conversational tone. “Is that really it..?” He let the pause hang, sharp as a blade. “… or have you been hitting this thing for so long, you'd rather not fight anything that hits back?”
Ghorbash just stared at Torin for a long, silent moment, his expression one of genuine, dumbfounded surprise at the sudden, blatant provocation. However, that surprise quickly curdled into a hot, simmering anger. His grip tightened on his axe hafts until his knuckles turned white.
“Are you,” he said, each word bitten off, “accusing me of being a coward, boy?”
Torin’s grin just widened, sharp and mocking. “And here I thought you’d be stupid, too. Glad to see you’re keeping up.”
Ghorbash’s face twisted into a mask of pure rage. He took a heavy step forward, the earth seeming to shake under his weight. “I’m warning you… you might be a guest under our roof, but that will not spare you my wrath if you continue to insult my honor.”
Torin just scoffed, not moving an inch. “I’d be pissing my breeches right now… if I were made of straw.” He then raised his hand, pointing a firm, accusing finger straight at the Orc’s broad, snarling face. “You think I’m scared of you or something, grass-face? In fact, I—”
He couldn’t finish the sentence.
With a roar of pure fury, Ghorbash swung. It wasn’t a careful, dueling strike, but the same brutal, overhead hacking blow he’d used on the dummy. The axe hissed through the air where Torin’s head had been a split-second before.
Torin, however, had already thrown himself backward, his movements fluid and preternaturally quick. He took several rapid steps back, putting a good ten feet between them, the obnoxious grin never leaving his face.
Echo, however, was not prepared for the sudden eruption of violence. A thunderous growl ripped from her throat as she surged forward, her body tensing to launch herself at the Orc’s flank.
“Easy, girl!” Torin barked, his voice cutting through the tension without taking his eyes off Ghorbash. He raised a placating hand toward the bear. “Let me handle this.”
Echo let out another, lower growl of protest, her dark eyes fixed on Ghorbash with lethal intent, but she reluctantly settled back on her haunches, muscles coiled and ready.
Torin turned his full attention back to the seething Orc, the grin still plastered on his face. “A surprise attack, huh? You really don’t like opponents that hit back, do you?”
Ghorbash’s face twisted into a vicious sneer. He hefted his axes, falling into a ready stance. “Enough of your nonsense, boy. You wanted to anger me. Consider it done.”
He pointed one axe blade directly at Torin’s chest, the gesture dripping with menace. “Now raise your weapon. It’s time you faced the consequences of your loose tongue.”
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