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 always just a hair's breadth too slow.
But Torin's focus wasn't on the game. His gaze was fixed across the valley, drawn to the jagged peak where a structure of ancient, black stone stood in stark silhouette against the brightening sky. Bleak Falls Barrow. Its entrance was a series of crumbling arches that looked like the ribcage of some long-dead leviathan.
A wry smile touched his lips. That ruin was probably the first real dungeon he'd ever braved in the game. He was willing to bet it was the same for most people. The memory was almost nostalgic: a low-level character, clad in mismatched iron armor, cautiously pushing open those heavy doors for the first time.
The thought was laughable now. If he tried to walk in there today, he'd be obliterated before he took ten steps. In the game, the draugr were little more than shambling corpses with a annoying disarm shout that sent your precious sword clattering into a dark corner, prompting a frantic, panicked search.
In real life? They were the preserved corpses of ancient Nord heroes, many of whom had been masters of the Thu'um.
Everyone in Skyrim should know by now what half-trained Ulfric could do to a city wall. The idea of what a centuries-old, undead Tongue could unleash in the confines of a crypt was the stuff of nightmares.
No, some images were best kept in the imagination. He was perfectly content to admire the barrow from a safe, sunny distance, his only concern being a floating ball and a happy bear.
Just as Torin was thoroughly enjoying the vast, safe distance between himself and the undead-infested ruin, a shadow fell over him. He looked up to find Delphine standing there, her hands on her hips, her expression all business.
"I've talked to Gerdur and Alvor," she announced without preamble. "Each has agreed to provide seventy-five septims. And there's another seventy-five from me... granted you can actually convince that man at the Guardian Stones to move along."
She let out a short sigh, a flicker of genuine annoyance crossing her features. "The woodcutters and hunters coming back last night said he's been chanting something non-stop. It's making people nervous."
Torin was on his feet in an instant, a broad grin spreading across his face. "Now that's what I'm talking about. You can consider him gone."
Delphine scoffed, her skepticism plain. "I'll consider him gone when he's gone." She gave him a dismissive wave, already turning to head back to the inn. "Come back for your pay when the job is done. And..." She paused, glancing back over her shoulder. "It should go without saying, but we'd rather not have to bury him."
Torin rolled his eyes, stuffing the leather ball into his pack. "Lady, I'm a mercenary, not a killer for hire." His grin returned, sharp and pragmatic. "...Unless he's a bandit. Then you won't have to worry about burying him. I'll just throw him to the wolves."
Delphine offered no reply, simply continuing her walk back to the village, her posture straight and unreadable.
Torin turned to Echo, who was watching the exchange with curious eyes. "Come on, girl," he said, slinging his pack over his shoulder. "Playtime's over. Let's go make some coin."
...
Later that morning, Torin followed the beaten path south, the sound of the river fading behind him. Soon, the three Guardian Stones came into view—ancient, weathered monoliths standing sentinel on a stone dais.
And there, sitting cross-legged in the very center of them, was the man.
He was a wretched sight, draped in filthy rags, his head bowed so low that his long, greasy hair curtained his face. As Torin drew closer, the man's low, incessant chanting reached his ears.
"Pages turn, eyes burn, all that's known I must learn..."
Torin's expression instantly shifted into a wary frown. A crazy person, he mused. Now the question is, is this the regular 'dropped on his head as a child' kind of crazy, or the 'seen things in the dark that broke his mind' kind of crazy?
He slowed his approach, his grip tightening on the haft of his warhammer. He stopped a good ten paces away, a respectful but safe distance.
"You there," Torin called out, his voice cutting through the chant. "I need to have a word with you."
The man stopped mid-verse. "Eyes in the deep, secrets they keep..." He went still for a moment, then his head slowly rose, though his face remained hidden by the tangled curtain of his hair. His entire body stiffened, then relaxed in a way that was deeply unsettling.
"You've arrived," the man rasped, his voice like dry leaves scraping over stone. "You're come... just as the Woodland Man said." His head drooped again.
Torin barely stopped his eyes from twitching. Definitely a crazy person, he decided. Hopefully not the 'prophetic visions from a forest deity' kind.
Still, he kept his voice level and calm. "Listen, friend. The people in Riverwood are disturbed by your presence. You're making them very anxious."
He forced a polite smile onto his face. "You seem like a reasonable enough fellow, and I don't want to hurt you unless I have to. So how about you find somewhere else to do... whatever it is you're doing here?"
The man let out a sudden, manic chuckle that grated on the ears, as if Torin had just told the funniest joke in all of Tamriel. "Hurt me? You can't... but..." He shook his head, his greasy hair swaying. "You won't need to."
He then reached into the folds of his filthy rags and retrieved a book. Its cover was a disturbing, deep blood-red, the leather seeming to drink the morning light. He thrust it toward Torin. "You just need to take it, yes, take it, and we'll both be free..." He let out another wheezing chuckle. "I will be, anyway..."
Torin's instincts were screaming. Every fiber of his being told him to have nothing to do with this lunatic or his cursed-looking book.
His face visibly darkened, his polite facade crumbling into pure suspicion. "No thanks," he said, his voice flat and final. "Now hurry up and get out of here, you and that boo—"
His sentence was cut short as the man jerked his head up with unnatural force, the motion finally parting the curtain of hair to reveal his face.
He had plain, unremarkable features, but what instantly seized Torin's attention were the black spots peppering the whites of his eyes, like spilled ink on parchment. They seemed to writhe.
"You will take the book," the man intoned, his voice gaining a hollow, resonant quality. "The Woodland Man commands it."
As he spoke, an incredible, invisible pressure descended upon Torin's shoulders, as if a giant's hand were trying to force him to his knees. It wasn't just a threat; it was a tangible, magical force.
This wasn't just a lunatic. This was something else entirely, and after feeling that pressure, Torin's confidence in beating him, let alone scaring him off, evaporated instantly.
Still, he refused to reach out. He gritted his teeth, his legs trembling slightly as he fought against the unseen weight. His eyes darted from the man's corrupted gaze to the ominous red book.
"Who," Torin ground out, each word a struggle, "is this 'Woodland Man'? And why in Oblivion does he want me to have this book?"
The man's expression went utterly blank, devoid of any emotion. "The Woodland Man is the Woodland Man," he stated, as if that explained everything. "Only a fool would try to decipher his intentions."
Then, his corrupted eyes, swirling with malice and raw magical energy, locked onto Torin's. "Now answer. Will you take the book, or not?"
Torin gritted his teeth, the invisible pressure on his shoulders feeling like a physical yoke. He knew, on a deep, instinctual level, that there was nothing his hammer could do to this… thing. He hated this feeling of helplessness more than anything in the world.
It was a bitter poison, and a reckless part of him was willing to spit in this creature's eye and die on his feet rather than comply.
His gaze flickered to Echo, who was pressed against his leg, a low, nervous whine rumbling in her chest. She was just as scared, just as trapped. The sight of her fear doused his own rising fury with a cold dose of reality. He wasn't alone. He had her to think about.
He took a sharp, deep breath, the air feeling thick and heavy. "Fine," he bit out, the word tasting like ash. "Give me the damned book and get lost already."
The man's face instantly transformed, a grotesque parody of joy twisting his features. "Yes...! Get lost is exactly what I'll do! So that no one can find me again!" He let out a manic, giddy laugh that echoed unnervingly off the Guardian Stones as he scrambled to his feet.
He thrust the blood-red book toward Torin with a violently trembling, eager hand.
Every instinct in Torin's body was a cacophony of conflicting screams—Punch him! Run! Set it on fire! He suppressed them all, his jaw clenched so tight it ached. With a glare that promised future vengeance, he reached out and took the book.
The moment his fingers closed around the cold, strangely supple leather, the man released it as if it were white-hot. He froze, watching Torin take possession of the tome.
Then, a slow, blissful smile crept across his face, and he let out a single, loud laugh that was filled with a terrifying, genuine joy and profound relief. It was the sound of a soul that had just been granted a reprieve from an eternity of torment.
The man's display of unhinged joy and relief continued for a solid ten seconds, his laughter echoing across the stone dais before it finally subsided into ragged, panting breaths.
His head tilted down, the greasy curtain of hair falling to obscure his features once more. He turned around, his movements now eerily calm.
"One more page, one more truth, for the glory of endless youth..."
He began to walk away, his chant a soft, fading murmur. He had taken only a few shuffling steps when the air in front of him tore open. It wasn't a flashy, magical effect; it was a silent, sickening rip in reality, a wound of swirling, impossible colors.
The portal yawned for a moment, and then swallowed the man whole without a sound. The tear in the world lingered for a heartbeat longer before stitching itself back together, leaving no trace.
If not for the cold, heavy weight of the book in his hand and the lingering, icy terror in his heart, Torin might have convinced himself the entire encounter was a fever dream brought on by bad mead.
He stared at the spot where the portal had been, then looked down at the blood-red tome in his grasp. His expression hardened into something stony and resolute. Without a second thought, he drew his arm back and hurled the book with all his strength.
It spun end over end, a splash of violent color against the green and gray landscape, before vanishing into the thick undergrowth near the river.
He immediately turned his back, refusing to even watch where it landed, and brushed his hands together as if wiping off something vile. The act was so deliberate, so final, that even Echo looked up at him with a skeptical tilt of her head, a soft whine questioning his logic.
Torin just shrugged, the motion a little too forced to be casual. "Come on," he said, his voice a bit too loud in the sudden quiet. "Let's go get our coin. We definitely earned it."
...
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