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.
She had "donated" the arrows, her expression making it clear she was waiting for him to slip on metaphorical ice for her entertainment.
Torin paid her little mind. His entire focus was on a single arrow resting on the table. He extended his hand, not to touch it, but to command it. His magicka churned within, a wellspring of potential he now directed outward.
He exerted his will, shaping the energy into an unseen, tangible force that gently cradled the arrow's shaft. His brow furrowed with the strain of maintaining the delicate grip.
He clenched his extended fist and slowly raised it. The arrow, defying gravity, lifted unsteadily from the table, wobbling in the air as if suspended by an invisible, trembling thread.
Torin's face was a mask of intense concentration. He turned his gaze, and the arrow with it, toward the distant practice target. After a moment of aiming, his eyes widened with the effort of release. His fist unclenched and jerked downward.
The arrow flew.
It was a disappointingly lethargic flight, more of a wobbly drift than a lethal shot. It barely had enough momentum to reach the target, pathetically tapping against the straw before clattering harmlessly to the dirt, not leaving so much as a scratch.
A low chuckle sounded from the porch. "And here I was, thinking I'd have to get a new target," Aela said, her voice dripping with mock disappointment.
She shook her head, a grin playing on her lips. "All that concentration and grimacing... you might as well have been fighting off a bout of stomach ache. At least that would have been more productive."
Torin turned, fixing her with an annoyed glare. "You might laugh now," he retorted, his pride stung but his determination unbroken. "But you just might need to change that target soon enough...."
She gave him a dismissive wave, pushing off from the railing. "That," she said, turning to leave, "is a sight I'd actually like to see. In the meantime, I'm heading out for a real contract. Try not to strain yourself. And you'd better put those arrows to good use while I'm gone."
As Aela's footsteps faded, Torin offered a final, dismissive wave in her direction before slumping against the table. He stared at the remaining arrows, his expression troubled.
The spell worked, technically. He could feel the magicka flowing, the connection forming. But the result was... pathetic.
After a moment of brooding, he turned away from the arrows. His gaze landed on his warhammer, resting against a sturdy wooden pillar of the porch. This was the real test.
He raised his hand again, his will reaching out not with physical strength, but with raw, focused magicka. The heavy hammer shuddered, then lifted a scant inch from the ground, hovering for a single, precarious second before the connection faltered and it dropped back to the earth with a dull thud.
Torin let out a long, frustrated sigh. He had unlocked the basic principle of the spell three days ago, but its practical application was proving shockingly lackluster and frustratingly difficult to refine.
His initial theory was that it was simply a matter of proficiency—that with enough practice, he would be able to exert more force, to make the magic a true extension of his will. And to some extent, that was true. He could now lift the arrow, whereas before he couldn't.
But the progress was agonizingly slow, the gains meager. At this rate, he calculated with a sinking feeling, it would take at least two more years of constant, daily practice to be able to wield his hammer with any useful degree of control in a fight.
Right now, the only practical applications he could conceive for this spell were pitiful: cheap party tricks to amuse children, or the sleight-of-hand of a common cutpurse, snatching valuables from a distracted merchant's pocket. The latter thought made his lip curl in distaste.
He had been many things in his past life—stressed, overworked, cynical—but he had never been a thief. And he would not start now. The ghost of Helga, a warrior who met her end with axes in hand defending her child, would surely look upon such petty villainy with profound disapproval.
He had stolen, yes. Farengar's books were a theft, but one born of absolute necessity, a last resort when all other paths to knowledge were barred. And even then, his conscience had pricked him.
Once he had absorbed their contents, he had carefully wrapped them and sent them back to the wizard via a courier, along with a pouch of gold coins to cover their "rental," all while ensuring his own identity remained a secret.
It was a compromise between his morals and his burning need to understand the world. But using this hard-won magic for base thievery? That was a line he would not cross.
In the end, his moral dilemma over the stolen books was a separate issue, a pebble in the stream of his current frustration. Despite the lack of progress, Torin wasn't deterred. He was no stranger to setbacks.
In his past life, engineering projects were a constant battle against budget constraints, material failures, and unrealistic deadlines. This magical endeavor was no different.
If the resources at his immediate disposal—his raw magicka and willpower—weren't yielding the desired results fast enough, then he would have to improvise. He needed to find a way to level the playing field, to create a catalyst.
A single, tantalizing sentence from Basics of Kinetomancy surfaced in his memory: the text had briefly mentioned that certain rare materials were inherently more susceptible to telekinetic forces, acting as natural conduits or amplifiers.
The book, infuriatingly, had not elaborated, offering no examples or details. Morever, he had initially wanted to master the spell through sheer force of will and practice, avoiding what felt like a crutch.
But faced with the prospect of years of grueling effort for minimal gain, his pragmatism was winning out. A shortcut, in this case, seemed not like cheating, but like using the right tool for the job.
The new problem, then, was identifying these fabled materials and, more difficultly, procuring them. However, his primary pastime was already reading; he simply needed to shift his focus from histories and biographies to the more esoteric fields of arcane mineralogy and alchemical reagents.
He hummed thoughtfully, a plan crystallizing. He distinctly remembered seeing a heavy, leather-bound tome in Kodlak's quarters titled Aevar's Compendium of Rare Reagents and Their Esoteric Properties.
That was as good a place to start as any. He would have to speak with the Harbinger about borrowing it.
Just as Torin solidified this new course of action and turned to seek out Kodlak, he froze. Leaning against the doorframe of the mead hall, his massive arms crossed over his chest, was Skjor.
The older warrior's single good eye was fixed on him, his expression unreadable but intensely focused, as if he had been observing Torin's failed attempts for some time.
Torin's frown was a subtle crease between his brows, a mix of annoyance and wariness. He met Skjor's unblinking stare. "Need something?"
Skjor pushed off the doorframe, his movements economical and deliberate. "I've taken a contract with every other youngster in Jorrvaskr," he stated, his gravelly voice devoid of warmth. "All except you. It's about time we got better acquainted."
The refusal was instinctive and left Torin's lips before he could reconsider. "No, thanks." He made to step around the larger warrior, his mind already turning back toward Kodlak's quarters and the promised compendium.
He managed only two paces before Skjor shifted, a deceptively simple movement that placed his broad frame directly in Torin's path. The air seemed to grow colder.
"Do you have a problem with me, boy?" Skjor's voice was low, the question a blade wrapped in silk.
Torin stopped short, looking up at the scarred face with genuine, if irritated, confusion. "No, I don't have a problem with you." He tilted his head. "Why would you even ask that?"
"Because you've been acting like it," Skjor replied, his tone utterly calm, as if stating an undeniable fact of nature. "Since the moment I arrived. You look through me, not at me. I can accept being challenged, but not never being dismissed."
The accusation, delivered with such flat certainty, gave Torin pause. He replayed the last week in his mind—the quick exits from rooms Skjor entered, the bored answers, the way his gaze slid away.
Now that it was laid bare, the pattern was unmistakable.
It hadn't been a conscious decision, more a deep-seated, instinctual recoil.
A thoughtful, almost distant look replaced the annoyance on Torin's face. "Now that you mention it," he murmured, more to himself than to Skjor, "I suppose I was acting that way."
He met the warrior's milky white eye and his piercing good one, his expression one of analytical curiosity. "And maybe I do have a problem with you. I just can't quite figure out what it is."
He offered a small, helpless shrug, a gesture that seemed too young for his imposing frame. "It's something to think about, and I will. But not right now. I'm in the middle of something."
Skjor's brow, the one bisected by the pale scar, shot upward. A flicker of something—not quite amusement, not quite surprise—crossed his stern features.
'So it's true,' he thought. 'The boy really is as peculiar as they said...'
He didn't argue or press further. Instead, in a move that was both unexpected and calculated, he reached behind his back and retrieved a book he had tucked into his belt.
The cover was a faded, dusty lilac, the leather worn soft at the edges. There was no title on the front, only a single, intricate silver rune that seemed to drink the light.
Torin's scholarly focus, which had been a moment ago entirely on his internal dilemma, instantly snapped to the object like a hawk sighting prey. All thoughts of Kodlak's compendium vanished.
"What is that?" he asked, his voice sharp with interest.
A small, knowing grin touched Skjor's lips. It was the expression of a hunter who had just laid the perfect trap. "A book on enchantments," he said, holding it out casually. "Pried it from the cold, dead hands of a wizard lording over a bandit gang in the Pale. He thought his little lightning spells could stop a warhammer."
The grin widened a fraction. "He was wrong."
He let the weight of the book rest in his palm. "I intended to sell the book to some stuffy court mage. But Kodlak mentioned one of the whelps had a head for this sort of thing. Said he might be interested. So I kept it."
Torin's gaze remained locked on the tome. Books on practical magic were rare in Skyrim, guarded jealously by court wizards and reclusive mages. But texts specifically on the art of enchantment?
Those were rarer still, their secrets hoarded by the College of Winterhold and a handful of industrious enchanting masters.
He had exhausted the basic primer he'd... requisitioned from Farengar's quarters long ago. His subsequent searches for more advanced material had hit dead end after dead end.
Now, a genuine text on enchantments had fallen into his lap. It felt like a sign. This was precisely the key he needed to advance his long-stalled pet project: understanding the intricate soul gem matrix and steam-powered mechanics of the dormant Dwarven spider that had been collecting dust in the corner of his room for months.
"Alright," Torin conceded, the word tasting of both surrender and keen anticipation. He finally dragged his eyes from the lilac cover to meet Skjor's. "You have my attention. What would it take for you to part with it?"
Skjor shook his head, a single, decisive motion. "Nothing."
Before Torin could process the refusal—or question the generosity—Skjor stepped forward and pushed the book firmly into his hands. The leather was cool and supple against his palms.
"Now," Skjor said, his voice dropping back to its business-like rumble. "How about going with me for a contract?"
Torin looked down at the book, then back up at the warrior. A strange, calculating expression crossed his face. The temptation to simply turn and walk away, to lose himself in the pages now in his possession, was a physical pull. He had what he wanted.
However, Skjor's tactic had been clever, a display of understanding that went beyond simple bribery. He had given the gift freely, with no immediate demand, banking on a sense of obligation—or perhaps on the budding curiosity he'd just sparked.
Fortunately for Skjor, Torin's skin couldn't be that thick, not even with an application of Stoneflesh. To refuse now would be a an act of churlishness even he couldn't justify.
He let out a short, sharp breath, a sound of resignation. "Fine," he said, tucking the precious book securely into his own satchel. "What are we hunting?"
Skjor's grin returned, wider this time, sharp and predatory. It was the smile of a man who had just successfully baited his trap and was pleased with the catch.
"A troll."
...
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