Wicked_Fiction
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Forged in Skyrim #56
🕑 Added 2025-12-21 14:52:12 +0000 UTCThe next morning, inside the Silver-Blood Inn, Torin sat at his usual corner table, mechanically working his way through a bowl of oatmeal. Echo was on the floor beside him, noisily devouring a bowl of meat scraps.
The routine quiet was broken by the sound of the heavy door swinging open.
Torin glanced up and saw Ghorza stride in. She gave the innkeeper a brief nod of recognition before her eyes scanned the room and landed on him. Without hesitation, she walked over and sat down opposite him, her movements efficient and purposeful.
She didn’t waste time on pleasantries. “The Jarl is yet to reach a final verdict,” she said, her voice low. “But from the whispers in the Keep, it looks like Jorvan will be spending the rest of his miserable life breaking rocks in Cidhna Mine.”
She shook her head, a grim satisfaction in her eyes. “The bastard made a small fortune off my hard work over the years, but blew every last septim on drink, dice, and whores. There is not much left.”
Torin let out a long, weary sigh, poking at his oatmeal. “That's hardly comforting... it just sounds like I won’t be seeing a single coin of compensation, then. A new life lesson: never get by-proxy-murdered by a profligate wastrel...”
Ghorza chuckled, a dry, rusty sound. “Not necessarily. Jorvan might not have coin, but he had other things to his name. The Jarl will seize everything. You’ll get your share from the proceeds. Might take a while, but you’ll get it.”
She then gave Torin a long, measuring look. “Still… I have to admit, I really thought you were going to kill that waste of air yesterday. When you had him over the edge…”
Torin rolled his eyes, the memory stoking the embers of his anger. “A part of me still wants to break into Cidhna Mine and finish the job.”
He shrugged, the motion dismissive. “But his life isn’t worth five hundred septims, a new shield, and whatever the Jarl decides ‘attempted murder’ is worth. Justice is expensive; I’d rather be paid.”
He took a bite, chewing thoughtfully. “Too bad about the original plan, though. The ‘Triad of Fault.’ I really racked my brain for that one. Felt clever.”
A genuine, if small, smile touched Ghorza’s lips. “Aye. It was a good plan. A clean, lawful plan. No one could have predicted Jorvan would act so… foolishly. He orchestrated his own downfall better than we ever could have.”
She tapped the table with a thick finger. “On that note, I already sent word by courier to all the Orc strongholds in Skyrim. Dushnikh Yal, Mor Khazgur, Largashbur… they know your name and that you are to be welcomed as a friend of mine. They should receive you warmly enough.”
She left the implication hanging: warmly enough for an outsider. It was the best he was going to get.
Torin just grinned, a flash of genuine satisfaction. “Fair enough.”
He then added, poking at the last of his oatmeal, “I suppose that means I’ve accomplished my primary goal in Markarth. Got a line on the lodestone, at least.”
Ghorza raised a skeptical eyebrow. “What will you do now, then? Pack up and head for the stronghold?”
Torin shook his head. “Not yet. There’s… another thing. It’s not why I came, but while I’m here, it’d be a huge waste not to try.”
He let out a frustrated sigh. “I’ve been trying to get a meeting with the court wizard, Calcelmo. Or even just get into the ruins under the Keep. But the guards at the door are like stone walls. Won’t let anyone through who might ‘disturb the elf’s important work.’”
He mimicked the guard’s officious tone perfectly.
Ghorza’s eyes widened a little in surprise. “Calcelmo? That old, grumpy, dust-eating Altmer? What in Malacath’s name could you possibly want with him?”
Torin chuckled. “What else? I want to learn from him. Or at least, see what he’s found. I’m… very interested in the Dwemer. Their engineering, their magic. And he’s the foremost expert on the subject within the Reach. Probably in all of Skyrim.”
Ghorza snorted, a sound of pure derision. “Foremost expert, maybe. But not exactly within reach. Not right now, anyway.”
She shook her head. “He’s knees-deep in the process of digging up those newly discovered ruins right under the Keep. The whole place is a frenzy of baskets, dust, and shouting. He won’t give you the time of day. He barely gives the Jarl the time of day when he’s like this.”
Torin let out another sigh, this one of understanding. That explained the heightened security and the brush-offs. The old elf was in his element, obsessed, and utterly uninterested in distractions.
Still, a question nagged at him. He gave Ghorza a strange, appraising look. “I tried to ask the guards about what was going on down there. They just told me to mind my own business and shoved me away. So how do you know all that? About the frenzy, the new ruins?”
A slow, knowing smirk spread across Ghorza’s face. “My brother, the Jarl’s personal smith, told me. He hears everything that goes on in the Keep.”
Torin couldn’t help but pause at those words. The spoon in his hand froze halfway to his mouth. He slowly turned to look at her, his expression one of complete, baffled disbelief.
“Your brother… the Jarl’s smith,” he repeated slowly. “As in, you have a brother, who is the Jarl’s smith?”
Ghorza seemed genuinely confused by his shock, but she still offered a firm nod. “Aye. He maintains the Jarl’s personal arms and armor, and oversees all smithing work commissioned by the court.”
Torin let out a long, exasperated sigh, setting his spoon down with a clatter. He rubbed his temples. “Then… couldn’t you… I don’t know, have asked your brother to help you with Jorvan?”
He scratched his head, the sheer logic of it overwhelming. “Surely the Jarl would lend his own smith an ear when it comes to matters of craft and fraud in the city forges.”
Ghorza gave Torin a dismissive wave, her expression hardening. “If I wanted to rely on the status of others, I would never have left the stronghold. I came to Markarth to make my own name, with my own hammer.”
She stopped, letting out a heavy sigh that spoke of old frustrations. “Besides… my brother’s position isn’t as set in stone as you might think. He’s an Orc. There are plenty in this city—Nords mostly—who wonder why a ‘savage’ should be the Jarl’s smith instead of one of their own.”
She met Torin’s gaze calmly. “It’s why that bastard Jorvan was able to get away with as much as he did for as long as he did before you came. The people of Markarth were more than willing to overlook a lazy Nord’s failings, if the only alternative they saw was giving more prominence to an Orc.”
Torin raised an eyebrow, genuinely curious. “And yet… you don’t seem all that upset about it.”
Ghorza’s grin returned, wider and fiercer this time. “Upset? Prejudice is not new to me, boy. I once worked the Emperor’s own forges in Cyrodiil, forging blades for the Legion. I proved my worth on the anvil of the world itself. The grumbling of a few narrow-minded Nords in a mountain city is just noise. I proved myself then, and I’ll do it again. Here. On my own terms.”
Torin smiled then, a genuine, respectful curve of his lips. He nodded. “Nords tend to be… stubborn. We reject what’s different, especially folks with pointed ears or tusks. But we are not blind. Not all of us, and not forever. If you are worthy—truly worthy—that worth will not go unnoticed forever. It might just take a fist through a shoddy shield to make them see it.”
Ghorza chuckled, the sound rich and full. “I wouldn’t be sitting here if I thought otherwise.” She pushed herself up from the table, her powerful frame unfolding.
A smug, satisfied smirk rested on her face. “But I must be on my way now. Unlike some, I have a forge to run.” She gave him a final, acknowledging nod. “Safe travels to Dushnikh Yal, Torin. Don’t disgrace my recommendation.”
With that, she turned and strode out of the inn, leaving Torin to his thoughts and his now-cold oatmeal.
...
The sun was high overhead, casting dappled light through the pine boughs as Torin made his way along the beaten path that followed the rushing Karth River. Echo trailed behind him, her pace leisurely, stopping every few yards to sniff intently at a suspicious root or poke her nose into a rabbit hole, her youthful curiosity undimmed by the miles.
It had been two days since the scene at the smithy. The matter of compensation had been settled with a surprising swiftness, though not quite in the way Torin had expected.
He’d assumed the Jarl’s court would simply award him a sum of gold, to be extracted from Jorvan’s future labor in Cidhna Mine or from the sale of his seized assets. Instead, one of the Jarl’s stewards—a dour man with ink-stained fingers—had visited him at the Silver-Blood Inn.
The man laid out the situation with bureaucratic clarity: Jorvan had almost no liquid coin, just as Ghorza had said. What he did have was a single, significant asset: a fully furnished house within the city walls.
“The choice is yours,” the steward had intoned. “You may take possession of the property as compensation in kind, or you may sell it back to the Jarl’s treasury for its assessed value in septims.”
It hadn’t taken Torin much thought. He had no intention of moving out of Jorrvaskr anytime soon, not until he could stand shoulder-to-shoulder with the true veterans of the Companions as an equal.
And even after that… the idea of settling down in one place felt distant, almost foreign.
But if he were to have a place of his own, a base of operations beyond the barracks… what better location than Markarth? The City of Stone, sitting atop more Dwemer ruins than any other hold in Skyrim. It was a scholar’s dream and a tinkerer’s paradise.
He decided to take the house.
The steward hadn’t minced words, simply handing over a heavy iron key, a rolled deed of ownership stamped with the Jarl’s seal, and concise directions.
It was only when Torin had followed those directions earlier that morning, winding his way up through the city’s labyrinthine tiers, that the second surprise had landed.
Jorvan’s house—now his house—wasn’t just any dwelling.
It was Vlindrel Hall.
The name clicked into place with the force of a memory.
The only purchasable property in Markarth from the game. The one with the secret Dwemer museum in the basement. A slow, incredulous smile had spread across his face as he’d stood before the distinctive door.
The universe, it seemed, had a wicked sense of irony—and occasionally, a very convenient sense of real estate.
Unfortunately, the Jarl’s sense of justice hadn’t extended to the furnishings. The steward had been clear: the house and its structure were his; the contents were being inventoried and sold separately by the treasury to recoup some of the city’s losses.
It was completely understandable, if a bit of a disappointment.
Torin didn’t remember the exact price of Vlindrel Hall from the game, but it was somewhere in the eye-watering range of seven to ten thousand septims for the bare shell.
Furnished? Probably closer to fifteen thousand.
Fifteen thousand septims. The number was staggering. Even after a full month of relentless, bizarre, and dangerous work on the road with Qasim—hunting everything from spriggans to hallucination-causing mushrooms—they’d barely scraped together five thousand between them, and a quarter of that had gone to the Redguard as his share.
They could have haggled for more on some jobs, sure, but that wasn’t the point.
The point was the scale. For a normal sellsword, a thousand septims was a king’s ransom, earned only by taking the deadliest jobs and surviving sheer luck more than skill.
As he walked, a new thought occurred to him. The sheer volume of trouble they’d run into on that journey… it was unnatural.
Torin was almost completely certain there was something—some force, fate, or daedric sense of humor—that just loved throwing calamity in Qasim’s path. It was yet another reason he was profoundly happy to be rid of the preachy pilgrim.
The guy was a trouble magnet.
He’s probably eating hardtack and preaching the virtues of patience to a hapless mudcrab right about now, Torin mused, the mental image drawing a wry grin.
However, his amusement was cut short by a low, rumbling growl from Echo. She’d stopped her playful investigating and was now standing rigid, her nose pointed toward a dense thicket of brambles just off the side of the road, her hackles raised.
Torin’s grin vanished. He followed her gaze. Partially hidden by the undergrowth, he could make out the twisted, unnatural angles of limbs. Not animal. Humanoid.
He stepped closer, pushing a thorny branch aside with the haft of his hammer.
Comments
Potato
Thats kinda cool actually, hmm
AntaeusTheGiant
Sure, blame the poor pilgrim and not the Isekei protagonist lol. By the way, I just re-read the first chapter (to make sure he was in fact an isekei and I hadn't mis-remembered). Does everybody remember that his absent father was a legate? Do you think it is possible that in the years since, he might have been promoted to General? On a completely unrelated and irrelevant note, General Tullius hated the Thalmor because they murdered his wife and 2 sons. Isn't that interesting?
