Wicked_Fiction

Made in Cyrodiil, Forged in Skyrim #41

The sun had climbed past its peak by the time Torin reached the rugged foothills north of Falkreath. The air was thick with the scent of pine and damp earth, and the only sounds were the chittering of squirrels and the steady crunch of his own boots on the forest floor.

He found a decent spot—a small, relatively clear dell not far from the road, but shielded by a thick wall of brambles and ancient firs. It was as good a place as any to wait.

He sank onto a moss-covered log with ...

Made in Cyrodiil, Forged in Skyrim #40

As he strolled back through the quiet streets of Falkreath with Echo padding along behind him, Torin found his thoughts circling back to the Altmer priest.

For a High Elf, Runil had been surprisingly easy to stomach. He was polite without being obsequious, and his kindness hadn't felt like a performance. The fact that he hadn't put on any airs and had readily accepted Torin's coin in exchange for tending to Camilla's grave from then on had only improved the impression.

Yes, that's...

Made in Cyrodiil, Forged in Skyrim #39

Falkreath's Hall of the Dead was a humble, somber place, nestled amidst a sea of weathered gravestones. It was a simple structure—a stone foundation with wooden walls and a thick, thatched roof, more functional than grand.

Early morning mist still clung to the ground as Torin, with Echo at his side, passed by the small shrine of Arkay on the porch and knocked firmly on the heavy wooden door.

He waited a moment, then stepped back. The door creaked open, revealing not the elderly ...

Made in Cyrodiil, Forged in Skyrim #38

By the time Torin pushed open the door to the Sleeping Giant Inn, any thought of the lunatic and the blood-red book had been forcibly scrubbed from his mind.

During the short walk back to Riverwood, he had performed a masterclass in mental gymnastics, thoroughly convincing himself the entire encounter had been a bizarre, stress-induced hallucination.

Nothing to see here. Just a weird guy who left.

He scanned the common room and quickly located Delphine standing behind the ba...

Made in Cyrodiil, Forged in Skyrim #37

The next morning dawned crisp and clear. Torin lay on the dewy grass by the bank of the White River, the gentle rush of water a soothing soundtrack. His hand moved back and forth in a lazy, absentminded rhythm.

A few feet away, a simple leather ball bobbed and weaved through the air, dancing to the tune of his will as a shimmering, barely visible force guided it.

Echo, utterly captivated, bounded back and forth on the bank, swiping at the floating toy with playful growls, her paws...

Made in Cyrodiil, Forged in Skyrim #36

Several days later, the sun was already high overhead, casting long shadows from the walls of Whiterun. The bustling noise of the city was a familiar backdrop as Torin stood just beyond the main gate, his travel pack secured and Echo sniffing curiously at a nearby clump of grass.

Kodlak Whitemane stood before him, the old Harbinger having insisted on seeing him off personally.

A warm, paternal smile softened the warrior’s weathered face. "To think," Kodlak began, his voice a low...

Made in Cyrodiil, Forged in Skyrim #35

Eorlund stood a respectable distance away, his massive arms crossed over his chest as he watched Torin inspect the finished product. Compared to some of the truly bizarre tools the boy had sketched for him over the years, this one was relatively tame. But it was still plenty strange.

Gleaming in the morning sun, the weapon was crafted entirely of silver, its surfaces polished to a bright sheen. It was sharp and pointy on almost every conceivable edge—the curved main blade, the wicked ...

Made in Cyrodiil, Forged in Skyrim #34

The great hall of Jorrvaskr was a welcome symphony of familiar noise—the crackle of the fire, the clatter of tankards, and the boisterous voices of the Companions. Torin sat at the long table, shoveling stew into his mouth with the single-minded focus of a starving man, a contented grin on his face as he watched the scene unfold.

Aela and the Twins had Skjor cornered, pelting him with questions about the contract. They’d already given up on Torin, who had responded to their earlier ...

How the Story (FOS) Should Proceed

I don't know why I only thought of asking now, but I'll do it anyway.

With the ending of the last chapter, the story is ready for a timeskip, to a point where Torin is maybe 15 or 16, which would keep things from getting a little tedious, but risk being a bit shallow.

Alternatively, I can keep going like I did before with smaller timeskips, and keep expanding the story and Torin himself on a deeper level... training, experimenting with magic, bonding with the companions, echo, ...

Made in Cyrodiil, Forged in Skyrim #33

The Voice is worship;

Follow the Inner path;

Speak only in True Need.

The words on the tenth and final wayshrine were not an epic. There were no visions of conquest, no echoes of shattering defeats or thunderous victories. They were a quiet conclusion, a closing of the circle.

It was a return to the beginning—a reminder that the Thu'um was not a tool for domination, but an act of reverence.

As Torin read them, the entire journey up th...

Made in Cyrodiil, Forged in Skyrim #32

The climb grew steeper, the air thinner, but Torin’s pace was relentless. Each wayshrine was now a milestone, a piece of a story he was determined to piece together.

With roaring Tongues, the Sky-Children conquer;

Founding the First Empire with Sword and Voice;

Whilst the Dragons withdrew from this World.

The sixth shrine’s words spoke of a golden, thunderous age. In his mind's eye, Torin saw the Nords of old, their victory over the drago...

Made in Cyrodiil, Forged in Skyrim #31

Auhtor's note: feeling much better today, but yeah, respiratory infections suck....

...

The two elves didn't respond with words, but the subtle, immediate tightening of their postures was a confession in itself. Larethil’s knuckles went white on his daggers, and Anariel’s jaw clenched so hard Torin thought he could hear her teeth grind from a distance.

He let out a dark chuckle. "That must have been bad," he mused, his voice carrying easily in the tense air. "You see, S...

Made in Cyrodiil, Forged in Skyrim #30

Author's note: please keep in mind that I have a terrible fever, and a lung burning cough today, so this chapter might not be up to bar.

...

It didn't take long to find Echo. She was a little way off the path, crouched contentedly over the mangled remains of a snowshoe hare, crunching happily on bone.

A few minutes after that, Skjor let out a low grunt of satisfaction, pointing to a set of tracks in the crusted snow. They were massive, splayed, and sunk deep—instantly rec...

Made in Cyrodiil, Forged in Skyrim #29

Larethil stopped a respectful few paces in front of Torin, his practiced smile faltering only slightly as he took in the young man's thunderous expression. Clearly, the direct approach wasn't welcome.

He smoothly shifted his attention to the more neutral—or at least, less openly hostile—Skjor.

"Since we are taking a moment's respite," Larethil began, his tone congenial, "I had hoped to share a small taste of our homeland with you both."

He reached into a finely stitched ...

Made in Cyrodiil, Forged in Skyrim #28

Before the birth of men, the Dragons ruled all Mundus;

Their word was the Voice, and they spoke only for True Needs;

For the Voice could blot out the sky and flood the land.

Torin muttered the inscription under his breath, a faint frown of concentration on his face. Beyond his curiosity about a potential "blessing," the words themselves were of interest to him.

In the game, they were just flavor text to be ignored. Here, they were a history. ...

Made in Cyrodiil, Forged in Skyrim #27

Torin opened his eyes and immediately winced, squinting against the low, golden glare of the morning sun. As his vision adjusted, he became aware of a warm, heavy weight pinning his thigh. He looked down, and a slow, soft smile spread across his face.

Echo was curled up beside him, fast asleep, her head resting trustingly on his leg. Her sides rose and fell in a steady, peaceful rhythm. Seeing a rare opportunity—one usually met with a warning growl and a batting paw—Torin’s smile ...

Made in Cyrodiil, Forged in Skyrim #26

The night air was cold enough to see your breath, but the campfire Torin had built at the edge of Ivarstead fought back the chill with a determined crackle.

He sat on a fallen log, absently poking the embers with a stick while Echo snuffled contentedly at a bowl of table scraps he’d managed to barter for. The distant rush of the waterfall was a constant, soothing rumble.

His gaze drifted past the flames to where Skjor was having a quiet word with two women near the inn's side do...

Made in Cyrodiil, Forged in Skyrim #25

Seven hours later, the crisp evening air of the White River valley was filled with the scent of damp earth and pine. They had made camp a respectful distance from the shadow of a ruined watchtower that stood sentinel over a bend in the river, its crumbling silhouette a stark black against the deepening twilight.

Torin finished coaxing the campfire to life, the fledgling flames dancing over the dry tinder and beginning to lick at the larger logs. Satisfied, he sat back on his heels and c...

Made in Cyrodiil, Forged in Skyrim #24

One week later, Torin stood in the center of Jorrvaskr's training yard, the air crisp with the promise of a new skill. Before him stood a weathered archery target, its straw-filled belly a testament to countless practice shots.

Beside him, a small table held a dozen bone-tipped arrows, their fletching a stark white against the dark wood.

Leaning against the porch rail behind him, Aela observed the scene with the keen, amused interest of a predator watching prey attempt a new trick...

Made in Cyrodiil, Forged in Skyrim #23

As Torin stepped into the mead hall, he managed only a few paces before he froze, a reaction mirrored perfectly by Aela and the twins. The sight before them was not what they had expected.

Standing before the hearth was Kodlak, his presence a familiar comfort. But flanking him was another man, a stranger who commanded attention by sheer presence alone. He was just as tall and broad-shouldered as the Harbinger, though considerably younger.

His hair was cropped short in a practical,...

Made in Cyrodiil, Forged in Skyrim #22

Four months later, the air in Whiterun felt different. It was still the same city, with the same smells of baking bread and forge-smoke, but a new, poisonous tension had taken root. Torin sat on the stone steps of Jorrvaskr, his gaze fixed on the plaza below. His eyes, usually alight with curiosity, were cold and hard.

Two High Elves, clad in the distinctive black and gilded robes of the Thalmor, moved through the crowd with an air of supreme entitlement. They stopped citizens at random...

Made in Cyrodiil, Forged in Skyrim #21

The great wooden gates of Whiterun loomed before them, a familiar barrier between the wilds and the city's ordered life. Torin’s back was laden with their spoils—bundled weapons and the small chest of coin—and nestled carefully against his chest, swaddled in a spare cloak, was the still-sleeping bear cub.

He reached a hand out to push the gate open, but his movement faltered halfway, his palm resting against the rough wood as if it were a wall of solid iron.

He stood frozen ...

Made in Cyrodiil, Forged in Skyrim #20

Inside the cramped, damp cave near the White River, a man named Rorik watched in abject horror as the last of his men was crushed. The wet, final thud of the warhammer was followed by a silence more terrifying than any scream.

Only ten minutes ago, he had been asleep, lulled by the river's murmur. Then came the anguished cries from the cave mouth, shattering the night. He’d barely had time to snatch up his chipped axe and rouse the three men not on watch before ...

Made in Cyrodiil, Forged in Skyrim #19

Torin woke with a groan, his body protesting the hard ground. He blinked up at the sky, where Masser and Secunda hung like twin specters, bathing the world in a pale, silvery light.

Countless stars speckled the void between them.

"Goddamn Aela and that deer," he muttered under his breath, pushing himself up. Every muscle ached. He scratched his lower back, his gaze drifting to where the huntress slept soundly on the far side of the dying embers of their fire.

With a grunt of...

Made in Cyrodiil, Forged in Skyrim #18

Crouched behind a large, moss-covered boulder, Aela and Torin observed their quarry. The massive brown bear lay in a sun-drenched clearing, its sides rising and falling in a deep, contented slumber. Its failure to find proper shelter only solidified Aela's theory; this was a displaced creature, driven from its territory.

"Alright," Torin whispered, his voice tight with anticipation. "How do you want to do this?"

Aela hummed low in her throat, her hunter's eyes assessing the situat...

Made in Cyrodiil, Forged in Skyrim #17

The morning sun dappled through the ancient branches of the Gildergreen as Aela made her way toward Jorrvaskr, her stride purposeful.

Her thoughts were already on the contract—a simple beast hunt near the White River, a welcome bit of straightforward work. But as her boots hit the first stone step leading up to the mead hall, she froze.

Perched on the steps like a smug cat was Torin, a grin plastered on his face that promised nothing but trouble. A deep, instinctual part of her ...

Made in Cyrodiil, Forged in Skyrim #16

The air in Jorrvaskr’s training yard was still, charged with anticipation. Torin stood with his feet planted, his warhammer and heavy shield held in a ready guard.

His expression was a mask of intense concentration, his gaze locked on Vilkas.

The older Companion stood opposite him, his massive two-handed sword held in a high guard, his posture relaxed yet immovable as a mountain. As was their custom, he waited for Torin to make the first move.

Torin took a deep, steadying ...

Made in Cyrodiil, Forged in Skyrim #15

Okay, yeah, I felt a little guilty about that.

Walking back into my room, I couldn't shake the image of Vignar’s face. The guy just got back from fighting a war, probably dreaming of a hero’s welcome and a future where he kicked the Thalmor all the way back to their fancy islands.

And then I, the resident kid, had to open my big mouth and dump a bucket of ice-cold reality all over his parade.

It’s a flaw I’ve noticed lately. One I’m pretty sure I didn’t have in m...

Made in Cyrodiil, Forged in Skyrim #14

Four parts amused and six parts deeply apprehensive, Torin closed the book. 

'So even Alteration, which I thought would be the safer, more academic option, can get you killed if you don't know what you're doing,' he mused.

The story's purpose, however, was to instill caution, not paralysis. Torin had already decided to proceed, but he would do so with the respect such power demanded.

He stood, intending to retreat to his room and finally attempt one of the...

Made in Cyrodiil, Forged in Skyrim #13

One year later, Torin sat in a quiet corner of Jorrvaskr's mead hall, the usual clamor of training and camaraderie a distant backdrop to his focus.

His brow was furrowed in a mixture of concentration and frustration as he stared at the book in his hands: Breathing Water.

He had, once again, slammed into a wall in his studies. The problem, as always, was a fundamental lack of understanding. He had devoured The Basics of Alteration, memorizing the gesture...