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 top spike, the flanged base. It had the shape of a weapon, but Eorlund remained deeply skeptical of its practical effectiveness.
"This will do," Torin declared, his voice tight with focus. His gaze snapped to a small, upright wooden log he'd placed as a target a dozen paces away.
His eyes glinted with concentration as he gripped the small axe by the very bottom tip of its haft, raising it over his shoulder in an experimental, almost javelin-like throw.
There was a sudden, sharp snap of his wrist.
The silver axe flew from his hand, letting out a low, menacing whirr as it spun through the air in a blur of reflected light. It was a beautiful, deadly-looking arc. It flew perfectly straight, with impressive force...
...and sailed a clean foot over the top of the firewood, embedding itself with a solid thunk into the earthen bank behind it.
Torin stood frozen in his throwing pose, his face a perfect mask of exasperated disbelief.
Eorlund couldn't help the snort that escaped him. He uncrossed his arms, planting his fists on his hips. "I thought it was supposed to stick three times out of four, boy," he rumbled, his voice thick with amusement.
Torin lowered his arm, his eyes twitching as he turned to the smith. "Yes, when it hits," he retorted, a flush of embarrassment creeping up his neck. "I just... need some practice with the trajectory. The weight distribution is a bit strange."
Eorlund shook his head, a wide, toothy grin spreading across his soot-streaked face. "That might not be necessary. You can still give a man stomach cramps from laughing too hard if you miss. Might be just as effective."
Torin muttered a string of creative curses under his breath as he stomped off to retrieve his weapon from the dirt.
Eorlund's grin widened, and he was about to launch into another round of good-natured ribbing when a sudden thought struck him, cutting his jest short. He swallowed the sarcastic remark and called out as Torin pried the axe loose.
"By the way, boy," Eorlund began, his tone shifting to one of genuine curiosity. "What in Talos's name is that small socket you had me leave in the pommel of this... throwing axe of yours?"
"Oh, that?" Torin said, walking back into position and hefting the silver axe again. He squinted at the log, adjusting his grip. "I plan to fill it with a little piece of lodestone once I get my hands on one."
Eorlund frowned, watching the boy take aim. "A lodestone? What, you want to use that thing as a compass, too? Point you north while it's buried in a troll's skull?"
Torin didn't answer immediately. He focused, threw, and the axe spun through the air only to clatter harmlessly against the ground a hand's breadth to the left of the log. He let out a frustrated sigh. "No. Lodestones have their own unique gravitational field. I can theoretically use that inherent property to amplify a telekin—"
That was as far as he got before Eorlund interjected with a weary wave of his hand. "You could have just said 'magic' and left it at that, boy. My head's sore enough from figuring out the correct measurements to forge this monstrosity."
Torin rolled his eyes as he trudged over to retrieve the axe for the third time. "Well, forgive me for respecting your intelligence and not oversimplifying it."
"Smart-ass boy," Eorlund grumbled, though there was no real heat in it.
On his next attempt, Torin's throw finally connected—sort of. The axe spun and grazed the edge of the log, taking a small chip out of the wood before bouncing off into the dirt. It was progress, however pathetic.
As Torin bent to pick it up, Eorlund asked, "So where do you intend to find this lodestone, anyway?"
Torin grunted, brushing dirt from the silver blade. "That's the problem. I've been messaging merchants and smiths all over Skyrim for the past two weeks. Couldn't find anything... well, nothing that wasn't priced like it was mined from the heart of a daedric prince."
Eorlund let out a thoughtful hum, stroking his beard. "Aye, lodestone moves quickly. Both alchemists and sailors buy it in bulk for their own uses." He paused, a new thought occurring to him. "You might have some luck at an Orc stronghold."
Torin, who was about to launch into another throw, froze. He slowly lowered his arm and turned to face Eorlund fully. "An Orc stronghold?"
Eorlund nodded. "Orcs live and die by mining and smithing. It wouldn't be strange for them to stumble onto a vein of lodestone or two while they're digging for iron or other metals."
A knowing grin spread across his face. "But unlike most other mines and smithies, people aren't so eager to buy from them. Their goods are fine, better than fine, most times. But folk get... nervous. So they might just have some sitting around that they'd be willing to part with for the right price."
Torin paused, considering the idea. It was a solid lead, but it came with its own set of problems. He let out a long sigh. "You're right, but you're forgetting one thing... Orcs aren't exactly eager to trade with outsiders, either."
He shook his head, the logistical nightmare already forming. "I'd need to be an Orc myself, or blood-kin to one, before they'd even consider talking to me. They'd probably just tell me to prove my strength or chase me off with a warhammer."
Eorlund shrugged his massive shoulders, a glint of dry amusement in his eyes. "Then maybe you should try that silver tongue of yours for something other than tricking me into making scrap for you. See if it works on an Orc Chieftain."
Torin couldn't help but chuckle. "I like to think of it as challenging your spirit as a craftsman, Master Eorlund." He hefted the silver axe, feeling its balance. "And I must say, I'm always impressed with the results."
With that, he took a final, measured aim and let the axe fly. This time, it spun in a clean, tight arc and struck the log with a satisfying thwack, the upper spike of the blade embedding itself firmly in the wood.
Eorlund offered a slow, impressed nod. "Well, there's hope for you yet, it seems."
He then made a shooing motion with his soot-blackened hand. "Now stop brown-nosing me and go find the fletcher to make you a belt for these monstrosities. You've got enough silver left for three or four more of them. Can't have you carrying them in a sack like turnips."
Torin grinned as he pried the axe from the log. "Alright then. As always, I'm in your debt."
He turned and began heading back toward the city, the strange silver weapon in hand. Watching him go, Eorlund shook his head and scoffed, the words a low rumble meant only for himself and the hissing coals of the forge.
"A drenched man does not fear the rain."
...
Back in his room at Jorrvaskr, Torin sat hunched over a weathered map of Skyrim spread across his table. The parchment was dotted with notes and smudges from his charcoal stick.
He was scratching his head, trying to pinpoint the exact location of the Orc stronghold near Markarth. It was the only one he clearly remembered from the game besides the one in the Rift, and he had no interest in the latter.
His original, more aimless plan had been to head to Falkreath first. He'd intended to finally visit Camilla's grave, a long-overdue pilgrimage, and then just wander the Hold, poking his nose into every mine he could find in a desperate, hopeful search for lodestone.
But Eorlund's words had given him a real target. He might get nothing but a slammed gate and a few thrown insults from the notoriously insular Orcs, but if he was going on a trip anyway, he might as well aim for the best possibility. And what better destination for him than Markarth?
The entire city was practically built into a Dwarven ruin. The journey itself through the Reach would be an education, and he might just learn something new about the Dwemer from the sheer proximity to their ancient works.
Surprisingly, the timing was perfect. News had trickled back to Whiterun of Ulfric Stormcloak's recent… renovations to Markarth's defenses.
The future Jarl had reportedly used the Voice to shout a portion of the city's outer wall into rubble, slaughtering Forsworn and reclaiming the city in a brutal display of power with his band of angry Nord rabble.
Those crazy hill people, the Forsworn, would be too busy licking their wounds and dodging vengeful Nords with pitchforks to pay much mind to a lone traveler. The usual dangers—wolves, sabre cats, and the ever-present bandits—were nothing out of the ordinary.
In fact, Torin would welcome any would-be highwayman foolish enough to cross his path. Killing them would be good sport, a chance to test his new silver axe in a real fight.
And if they happened to have a pouch of coins saved up from their misdeeds, all the better. He'd spent a small fortune on the silver for Eorlund, and feeding a rapidly growing bear was starting to make a serious dent in his savings.
Torin nodded to himself, the plan solidifying in his mind. He traced a finger from Whiterun south, following the road to Riverwood. He'd stop there for a day, maybe two if there was any work to be had.
Of course, he'd ask about the nearby mines—maybe Embershard had something unusual in its deeper veins—and make a detour to check.
His finger then moved further south, to Falkreath. He'd find the priest of Arkay, a man Kodlak had mentioned was an old friend, and ask him for the exact location of Camilla's grave.
Once he'd paid his respects, he'd stay a night or two in the gloomy hold, looking for work and discreetly asking about lodestones.
From there, his route curved west toward the shimmering blue expanse of Lake Ilinalta. He'd make camp there, for no other reason than he remembered it being breathtakingly beautiful in the game.
This was his first real trip across Skyrim, a journey of his own making, and he'd be damned if he didn't stop to actually smell the pine needles and listen to the water lap at the shore.
After that... his finger moved decisively west, into the rugged hills that separated Falkreath Hold from the Reach. It would be a long, hard trek. He might need to stop at Granite Hill or even Rorikstead for a proper rest. Once he crossed into Markarth Hold, the landscape would change, all sharp peaks and deep valleys.
It wouldn't be strange at all to stumble upon a half-buried Dwarven ruin on the way. As for whether he'd take the risk of actually exploring it... that would depend entirely on how brave, or foolish, he felt at the time.
Finally, Markarth itself. The city of stone. Once there, he'd start asking around the markets and smithies about lodestones. With so many mines in the hold, it was his best shot at finding something reasonably priced.
And if that failed... well, then he'd have to start asking the more dangerous questions about the local Orcs and their stronghold.
Satisfied with the course he'd charted, Torin carefully rolled up the map. He then retrieved a fresh piece of paper and, with a lump of charcoal, began to scribble down a list in his quick, efficient script.
Dried meat (lots), extra waterskin, heavy furs for mountain cold.
Potions: Health, Stamina, Magicka recovery.
Cure Disease, Cure Poison (at least one of each).
Water Breathing potion? (For the lake... why not?)
He paused, then added with a fond smile:
LOTS of treats for Echo.
She would no doubt insist on following him, and the meatheads at Jorrvaskr wouldn't have the first clue how to properly care for her in his absence.
This journey would not be a solitary one.
...
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