Wicked_Fiction
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Forged in Skyrim #53
🕑 Added 2025-12-18 13:20:08 +0000 UTCIt goes without saying that Torin was shocked. Out of all the things one might expect upon returning to a rented room—a mess, a thief, even a particularly bold skeever—the sight of an Orc warrior-smith calmly waiting on your bed was very, very low on the list.
Unless, of course, one was married to an Orc, which Torin most decidedly was not.
A dozen snarky remarks leapt to the tip of his tongue—‘Do you make a habit of breaking into strangers’ rooms?’ or ‘Is the forge closed for the night?’—but he swallowed them all.
This wasn't a social call.
He resisted the urge to reach for a weapon, sensing no immediate threat from her posture. Instead, he chose to remain silent, simply crossing his arms and fixing Ghorza with a flat, expectant stare.
She seemed to appreciate the lack of panicked shouting. A flicker of respect crossed her sharp features. She realized he was waiting for her to explain herself, and she didn’t waste time.
“I heard what you said to Jorvan,” she began, her voice a low, gravelly rumble. “About the lodestone. And I heard what that milk-drinker said to you after.” She snorted, a sound of pure contempt. “I’m here to tell you that Dushnikh Yal, the stronghold south of Markarth and northwest of the Arkngthamz ruins, has it. Or knows where to get it.”
Torin still didn’t say a word. He just waited, his expression unchanging, almost as if expecting her to add more. She didn’t. She’d delivered her information and now sat there, watching him, a mountain of silent, muscular patience.
Finally, Torin let out a long, slow sigh, the tension in his shoulders easing from ‘fight’ to ‘cautious negotiation.’
“I’m not going to insult your intelligence by assuming you went through the trouble of finding my room and waiting here just to tell me something I could have learned by buying a round for any local hunter or miner.” He gave her a pointed look. “So, I suggest you get to the point. Tell me what it is you want. And more importantly, what you can do for me.”
A faint, approving smirk touched Ghorza’s lips. “Strange. Your people aren’t usually so… observant.”
Torin scoffed. “And your people are usually much more straightforward. ‘I have that, and I want this in exchange.’ No skulking in dark rooms and beating around the bush...”
Ghorza let out a short, genuine chuckle at that. “Fair enough. Though, ten years of tending the Imperial Legion’s forges can beat the straightforward right out of you.” Her expression turned grim. “You’d be surprised by the skulduggery craftsmen with something to prove—or something to hide—are capable of. Jorvan is a petty example. The Legion was a masterclass.”
Torin couldn’t help but smile wryly. “A hostile work environment, eh?” he muttered. He wasn’t a stranger to that himself, though Ghorza, as a woman and an Orc working in a forge full of kniving imperial artisans, probably had it much worse compared to his past life experiences.
He cleared his throat, bringing the focus back. “That aside… you’ve yet to actually tell me what you want.”
Ghorza shook her head, a methodical thinker. “I’ll start with what I can do for you.” She grunted, shifting her weight on the bed. “Now you know where to find Dushnikh Yal. But knowing and getting in are two different things. They are Orcs. They do not deal with outsiders. Not for something as specific as a rare metal.”
She leaned forward slightly, her dark eyes intense. “Help me, and I will make you blood-kin. Once you are blood-kin, you can enter any Orc stronghold in Skyrim. Not just this one. All of them. You will have their trust, and access to their forges and their mines.”
Torin replied in a tone of pure, strained annoyance. “Great. Fantastic. Now we’re finally getting somewhere. Except for the tiny part where I still don’t know what you want me to do. What’s the price for this ‘blood-kin’ status?”
Ghorza chuckled, a deep, rusty sound. “You’re not very patient, are you? Fine.” She paused for a moment, her expression hardening. “Jorvan. I want you to help me get rid of him.”
Torin just stared at her for a long, blank moment. Then his hand came up to slowly drag down his face. “I’m a mercenary, not an assassin, woman. If you want someone dead, try the Dark Brotherhood. I don’t do that kind of work.”
Ghorza frowned, her brow furrowing. “I don’t want him dead,” she said, her voice sharp with impatience. “Malacath’s tusks, do you think I’m a fool? I simply do not want that incompetent, thieving lout to continue lording over me for the rest of his miserable life, stealing credit for my work and ruining my reputation with his shoddy craft.”
She leaned forward, her voice dropping to a firm, urgent whisper. “There is a way to accomplish that without spilling a drop of blood. A… professional disqualification.”
Realizing this conversation was going to be longer and more complicated than a simple exchange of information, Torin let out a long-suffering sigh. He found the room’s single wooden chair, dragged it over, and sat down, making himself comfortable. He gestured for her to continue with a tired flick of his wrist.
“Alright,” he said. “You have my attention. Let’s hear this bloodless plan.”
Ghorza cleared her throat, leaning forward, her elbows on her knees. “Jorvan doesn’t own the smithy. Not really. The forge and its location are property of the Jarl. Jorvan is just the tenant, running it for a monthly fee and a cut of the profits paid to the treasury.”
A sly, hard smile touched her lips. “He’s also skimming. Stealing a portion of the Jarl’s rightful coin by falsifying the records. That is how I’ll be rid of him.”
She went on, her voice low and focused. “I’ve been watching him for months. I know he keeps two sets of books. The fake one he shows the Jarl’s steward, and the real one, with the actual numbers. He keeps the real ledger hidden in his home, not at the smithy. I need someone to retrieve it. Once I have it, I can present it to the steward. Embezzlement from the Jarl is a one-way ticket out of the city, if not into the mines.”
Torin frowned, his mind working through the practicalities. “And did you not consider the possibility that the steward might be in cahoots with him? That he’s getting a cut of the skim? You hand over the evidence, and it conveniently disappears, and suddenly you’re the one facing charges for slander.”
Ghorza nodded, unsurprised. “I did. That’s where you come in. They might be able to dismiss the claims of an Orc smith’s assistant. They might even brush off a common citizen. But not a Nord. And certainly not a Companion. Your word carries weight. Your presence as the one who discovered the discrepancy would make it much harder for them to bury.”
Torin let out a thoughtful hum, stroking his chin. “And what about the record itself? What if I can’t find it? What if I do, and it’s written in some code, or it proves nothing more than sloppy bookkeeping?”
Ghorza gave a dismissive wave, her expression one of grim determination. “I’ll cross that river when it’s in front of me. For now, getting the true ledger is the only chance I have to be rid of that grishnakh Jorvan.”
She gritted her teeth, the muscles in her jaw bulging. “I’ve had enough of him. For a long while now. But I can’t ask anyone within the city for help. They’re either loyal to him, afraid of him, or won’t risk crossing the Jarl’s bureaucracy. You’re the first outsider who seemed… capable. And who had a reason to want something only my people can give.”
Torin smiled, a thin, humorless curve of his lips. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
He leaned back in his chair, the wood creaking. “The plan isn’t bad. It might even work. But it involves too much sneaking around, breaking into a man’s home, rifling through his private things. That goes against everything the Companions stand for. We’re warriors. We solve problems with steel and honor, not ledgers and lockpicks.”
He shook his head slowly, his decision clear in his eyes. “I’m sorry. I can’t have any part in this plan of yours whatsoever.”
Ghorza’s face twisted in a mask of raw frustration. “How typical of a Nord,” she spat, the words heavy with disgust. “All honor and no cunning.” She slowly stood up, the bed frame groaning in relief, and began striding toward the door, her shoulders set in a line of defeat. “It seems I have wasted my time for naught.”
Her hand was on the door handle when Torin spoke up, his voice calm and deliberate.
“Not necessarily.”
Ghorza’s steps instantly halted, but she didn’t turn around. Her back was rigid. “What do you mean?”
Torin grinned at her back, though she couldn’t see it. “I said I can’t involve myself in your plan. That doesn’t mean I can’t help you… with a different one.”
Slowly, Ghorza turned to face him once more, her dark eyes narrowed with a mix of suspicion and rekindled hope. “Speak, then.”
Torin shrugged, settling more comfortably into his chair. “Look, the common Nord of today might strike you as an uneducated brute—and you wouldn’t be entirely wrong. But our ancestors…”
He paused, letting out a dry chuckle. “Well, they were also brutes. But they were brutes who liked order. Especially the ruling class. They codified laws for almost everything, from grazing rights to the proper way to sharpen a sword. They loved their lists and their rules.”
He leaned forward, his gaze sharpening. “One such old, dusty, mostly-forgotten law can rid you of Jorvan for good. Legally. Publicly. And without a single broken lock.”
Ghorza’s eyes narrowed further, her interest now fully piqued. “And what rule is this?”
“It’s part of a set created by High King Irthvyd the Impassive,” Torin explained, the name of the ancient king rolling off his tongue.
He’d read about it in a dry legal treatise, a footnote in a history of Skyrim’s guilds.
“It's a law meant to protect the common people from unscrupulous or incompetent craftsmen called the ‘Triad of Fault.’ To make a long story short, it annuls a craftsman’s right to practice his craft within a hold if at least three separate clients present their demonstrably failed products to the Jarl, with proof of purchase and a sworn testimony of the fault.”
He spread his hands. “That’s the best—and only guaranteed—way to get rid of Jorvan. Not with sneaking and ledgers, but with shoddy work and the law.”
Ghorza’s narrowed eyes immediately flew wide open. “There’s… such a law?”
The concept was so straightforward, so perfectly suited to the problem, that it seemed almost too good to be true.
She didn’t wait for Torin to confirm; her practical mind was already racing ahead. “And where do we get three customers who would be willing to stand before the Jarl and testify against him? It’s a risk. People are afraid of making enemies.”
Torin paused to think for a moment, ticking off points on his fingers. “Well, there’s the miner from this morning. He’s already furious, walking around with a broken pickaxe he paid for. That’s one.”
He gestured toward his shield, which was leaning against the wall in the corner. “My shield does need a bit of mending. A loose band, some scratches. Nothing major.”
A slow, cunning smile spread across his face. “You know Jorvan’s ‘skill’ as a smith better than anyone. Work it before you leave. Bash it in, twist the bands, do whatever you need to ruin it just beyond Jorvan's ability to repair it, and don't be at the forge tomorrow when I bring it for repair...”
Ghorza paused, her mind whirring as she weighed the options. Finally, she nodded, almost speaking to herself as she stared at the floor in deep thought. “That’s two… and I know where we can find the third. Perhaps the only man in this city who hates Jorvan more than I do.”
She then raised her gaze to Torin, her expression turning shrewd. “I also need proof that this law even exists before I commit to anything, however. I won’t stake my future in this city on the word of a stranger, no matter how clever his plan sounds.”
Torin stood from the chair with a grunt and sat on the edge of the bed, beginning to pull off his heavy boots. “Look up ‘The Codified Edicts of the First Era: Commerce and Craft,’” he said, his voice matter-of-fact. “Page one hundred and seventy-three. It’s probably covered in dust in the Jarl’s library, or in the temple of Dibella’s archives. But it’s there.”
He finished shedding his boots and lay back on the bed, pulling the rough wool blanket over himself. “And break the shield before you go. Make it good.”
With that, he turned his back to her, his body going still, his breathing deepening into the slow, steady rhythm of someone who has handed off a problem and is now determined to sleep.
Ghorza could only watch, utterly speechless, as the young Nord effectively dismissed her and fell asleep within moments. Even Echo, picking up on her human's cue, let out a massive yawn and flopped down beside the bed, her own breathing soon matching Torin’s.
Left standing alone in the quiet room, the Orc smith shook her head in disbelief, a grudging smile finally touching her lips. Then, with a new fire of determination in her eyes, she walked over, picked up Torin’s shield, and slipped silently out the door.
Comments
Fire_Fox2590
Yeah I ship this. This is good. They feel perfect for eachother. One is a gruff no nonsense orc woman who has been forced to play nice with civil society and feels unappreciated at her craft. And the other is a gruff wannabe scholar who is good with magic as he is with his hammer. He is opportunistic and shrewd, but not heartless. He tries to hide his heroic tendencies (Among other things he is hiding from, fears of a greater prophecy, and a potential lead role IN said prophecy), behind a demand for reward. Not unlike a certain white haired monster hunter with cat eyes. However unlike the White Wolf, he is actively pursuing a greater education and understanding of the deeper mysteries of the world.
Potato
I like her
