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Forged in Skyrim #58
🕑 Added 2025-12-24 15:50:25 +0000 UTCAs Torin followed the female Orc—who had introduced herself as Murbul, mother of the current chief, elder and wisewoman of the tribe—his eyes naturally wandered, taking in the stronghold’s interior.
It was just as vast from the inside as it had seemed from without, a small, fortified village nestled within the high walls. But it didn’t seem to be populated accordingly.
It was nighttime, and most people were indoors, sure. But that wasn’t how Torin measured it. His gaze went to the simple, sturdy houses built from local timber and stone.
More than half showed obvious signs of disrepair: sagging roofs patched with sod, doors hanging crooked on their hinges, shutters missing slats.
That alone could have just meant the residents were lazy or poor craftsmen.
But it was the silence that told the real story. No smoke curled from most of the chimneys into the cold night sky. In this weather, this high in the Reach, no one—not a Nord, and certainly not an Orc with a physique used to warmer climates—would sleep without a fire unless they had no choice.
Those houses were empty. Not just quiet, but abandoned.
A grim realization settled in his gut. Living in the Reach, sandwiched between hostile Forsworn in the hills and suspicious Nords in the cities, clearly hadn’t been easy for Dushnikh Yal.
They’d paid a price in blood and numbers.
Then he remembered something else he’d read about Orc society, a cultural footnote that suddenly seemed less academic. He barely held back a derisive snort.
Or maybe it’s that ridiculous rule they live by, he thought to himself, that the tribe’s women ‘belong’ to the chief, that only he is allowed to marry and father children.
It was a brutal way to control population and ensure only the strongest lineage continued. No wonder so many young Orcs—especially women, and men who would never be chief—left to make their lives in human cities.
Ghorza was a prime example. What future was there here for anyone but the chieftain’s immediate family?
Either way, he concluded, shutting down that line of thought. It has absolutely nothing to do with me.
He had no intention of asking. Poking at cultural wounds or pointing out a tribe’s decline was a fantastic way to strike a nerve, offend his host, and utterly ruin his negotiating position before it even began.
He kept his observations to himself, his expression neutral as he followed Murbul toward the center of the silent, half-empty stronghold.
As the chief’s longhouse—a larger, better-maintained structure at the heart of the stronghold—finally came into view, Torin’s gaze was drawn to a lone figure in the flickering light of a nearby firepit.
An Orc stood before a heavily scarred practice dummy, his silhouette tense against the flames. He held two hand-axes, and he was hacking at the wooden target with a raw, relentless ferocity.
The dull thwack-thwack-thwack of steel biting into wood echoed in the quiet compound. Torin found it strange that someone would be training with such violent intensity so late at night.
Then again, maybe it was an Orc thing. They weren’t known for their subtlety or patience.
Murbul seemed to notice his gaze and sense his unspoken question. She cleared her throat, her voice softening slightly with a mother’s weary understanding. “That would be my son, Ghorbash. He recently returned after serving his time in the Imperial Legions. His body is home, but his spirit… it is still restless. The peace of the stronghold does not sit easily on him yet.”
Torin just offered a noncommittal hum and a nod. It made sense. The Empire welcomed Orcs with open arms, valuing them as peerless heavy infantry and master smiths. Young Orcs hungry for glory, coin, or simply a world beyond the stronghold walls often signed up.
There was nothing strange about an orc veteran coming home.
Still, the way this Ghorbash swung his axes… it was all ferocity and brute strength, with little of the controlled finesse Torin had seen in true masters like Qasim, and to a lesser extent Vilkas and Skjor...
This orc, however, was like a more agile, much angrier, and slightly smaller version of Farkas—all power and straightforward aggression.
Torin smiled wryly at the thought. He hadn’t been away from Jorrvaskr for that long, but he was already missing it—the noise, the smell of mead and steel, the familiar, rough-edged presence of his shield-siblings.
No matter, he told himself. I’ll head right back as soon as I finish the deal with Murbul first thing tomorrow.
He continued to follow her in silence as she led him past the chief’s house to a smaller dwelling some distance behind it. It was clearly empty, but unlike many of the others, it was in decent repair—the roof was whole, the door fit its frame, and the single room inside was swept clean of debris.
Murbul efficiently lit the small fireplace with a bit of tinder and a strike of her flint, the flames quickly catching and pushing back the deep chill.
“You will not be disturbed here,” she stated. “We will speak at first light.” Without another word, she turned and left, closing the door firmly behind her.
Left alone with the crackling fire and Echo, who was already circling a spot on the hard-packed earth floor, the exhaustion of the long day’s trek from Markarth finally settled over Torin like a heavy cloak.
He didn’t bother removing his armor beyond loosening a few straps. He just lay down on the simple pallet in the corner, and Echo flopped down beside him with a contented sigh.
It didn’t take long for the steady rhythm of the bear’s breathing and the fire’s warmth to pull him down into a deep, dreamless sleep.
...
As the first greyish-pink light of dawn crept through the small, unshuttered window and landed directly on Torin’s closed eyelids, he began to shift restlessly.
His movement jostled Echo, who was sprawled beside him like a furry boulder. She lethargically opened one dark eye, let out a profoundly annoyed, rumbling growl that vibrated through the floor, then simply scooted a few inches away and dropped back into sleep with a huff.
The growl was enough to wake Torin completely. He gave the dozing bear a wry look before pushing himself up with a soft groan, his joints popping in protest.
He methodically tightened the straps of his armor, the familiar routine helping to shake off the last cobwebs of sleep. Looking around the sparse room, he didn’t find a wash basin or any obvious source of water.
With a sigh, he headed for the door, pulling it open to the biting cold of a Reach morning.
Sitting right on the porch was a wooden bucket, a ladle hooked over its rim. Inside was water, seemingly fresh and clear. Torin crouched, peering at it closely for any sediment or suspicious scum, then gave it a cautious sniff. Finally, he dipped a finger in and tasted it.
It was clean, cold, and tasted of stone and pine—good mountain water. Only then did he use the ladle to take a deep drink, then splash handfuls over his face, scrubbing at his eyes until the grit of sleep was gone.
He wiped his face dry on his sleeve, the rough wool scratchy against his skin.
Leaning against the porch post, he fished a piece of tough venison jerky from his pocket and began to chew on it, the salty, smoky flavor a familiar morning ritual. His breath plumed in the frigid air with every exhale, a small, private cloud.
As he stood there, watching the stronghold slowly stir to life, his mind did something it rarely did anymore—it wandered back. Back to his original world. It was in these quiet, cold, simple moments that the ghost of his old life would sometimes tap him on the shoulder.
The craving hit him, sharp and sudden. He’d absolutely kill for a cup of coffee right now. Not the weak, grainy brew the Nords called ‘bean water,’ but the real, dark, fragrant stuff.
The thought was almost funny. Of all the things he’d lost—technology, convenience, safety—it was the stupid, simple creature comforts he missed with a physical ache.
A proper cup of coffee on a cold morning. A hot shower that didn’t involve hauling and heating buckets. A bed with a mattress that didn’t feel like it was stuffed with pebbles and straw. Clothes that didn’t chafe like burlap sacks.
This sudden, wistful line of thought dragged an old, haunting question back to the surface—one Torin had wrestled with often in his first few bewildered years here.
Was there a way back?
And if, by some miracle, a path opened before him… would he take it?
He chewed the jerky slowly, staring at the smoke beginning to rise from the chief’s longhouse.
He was about ninety percent certain a way could be found, if he devoted his entire life to the search. Magic here was real. Daedric Princes meddled. Elder Scrolls existed.
But a life spent chasing a ghost of a past life… that was no way to live. It was a prison of its own making.
Besides, even if the opportunity were handed to him on a silver platter right this second, he’d hesitate. The scales weren’t balanced.
On one side: safety. Comfort. Coffee. Showers. A world where the biggest physical threat was a papercut or a fender-bender.
On the other… there wasn’t much waiting for him there. No real family to speak of. No particularly close friends, just colleagues and acquaintances. Just… work. A quiet, predictable, empty routine.
And that was before he considered the most fundamental change: himself.
The person he was now would be a stranger—a terrifying one—to the man he’d been. It was hard for this new Torin to even believe it, but he used to be deeply unconfrontational.
He’d preferred to swallow his pride, ignore a slight, and just move on rather than escalate. De-escalation was his instinct.
Now? His most immediate, instinctive response to being inconvenienced, threatened, or even mildly disrespected was a cold calculation of violence. How to end the threat. Permanently.
He didn’t always act on it—Kodlak’s teachings and his own hard-won discipline saw to that—but the impulse was there, humming under his skin like a live wire.
That was not how a regular, civilized person thought in a modern society. At best, he’d end up a hooligan and an outcast. At worst… well, he tried not to think about it.
He’d become what he was because of the unrelenting hardship of this world. The constant fight for survival had reshaped him in its brutal image. Could that shape be hammered back into its original form? Could the warrior be unbent into the nine-to-fiver?
Torin shook his head, a grimace twisting his features as he swallowed the last of the jerky.
Hell no.
The best possible outcome he could hope for back there was becoming some kind of angry, maladjusted loner with a dangerously short fuse. A ghost in a world of comfort, haunted by the ghost of the person he used to be.
He pushed off the porch post, the decision feeling both heavy and final. That door, if it even existed, was closed. His life, for better or worse, was here. In the cold, the blood, the stone, and the strange family of Jorrvaskr.
Comments
Wicked_Fiction
What's up?
Potato
Yo wicked
Delltree100
Merry Christmas.
