The common room of the Dead Man's Drink was quiet, the way only a Falkreath tavern could be. The air was thick with the smell of stew and woodsmoke. Torin sat at his table, the new amulet cool and surprisingly light against his chest.
He spooned up the last of his venison stew, the simple, hearty meal a welcome comfort after days of trail rations.
At his feet, Echo was noisily devouring a small feast of her own—a mixed bowl of raw meat, root vegetables, and slightly bruised apples Valga had scrounged up for her.
As he ate, his gaze kept drifting to the Redguard mercenary sitting alone in a shadowy corner. The man was methodically working his way through a simple meal, though 'enjoying' seemed too strong a word.
He was just eating, his movements economical, his focus on a single piece of dark bread and a cup of water. No ale, no stew, just bread.
The more Torin watched him, the more the questions piled up.
A Redguard swordsman, looking like he'd just stepped out of a noble's court, shouldn't be wanting for work in Hammerfell. With the way his people were probably preparing to drive out the Thalmor from their lands, there had to be a dozen wars, rebellions, or bandit hunts he could sign up for.
And yet, here he was, in the gloomiest corner of Skyrim, eating dry bread after taking down a dangerous spriggan for half the going rate. Torin had confirmed it with the guards after collecting his own bounty; he didn't just survive the encounter, he slew the nature spirit.
Finally, curiosity overrode caution. Torin picked up his bowl and spoon, pushed back his chair, and strode across the room. Without a word of greeting or asking for permission, he slid onto the bench opposite the Redguard.
The young man looked up, his dark eyes calm and assessing. He didn't seem surprised, just… observant.
Torin gave him a lopsided, not entirely friendly smile. "Heard you're poaching contracts meant for the Companions," he began, his tone conversational but with an edge. "I can't say that's the smartest move."
He shook his head slightly, like a disappointed tutor. "A mercenary ought to know better. There are rules to these things, spoken and unspoken. Stepping on the toes of the oldest guild in Skyrim is a good way to end up with broken legs."
The Redguard didn't flinch or get defensive. Instead, a faint, almost weary smile touched his lips. "I meant no offense," he said, his voice calm and measured. "If I have given any, it was borne from ignorance, not arrogance."
He let out a soft sigh, as if this was a conversation he'd had before. "You see, I am no blade for hire. I only took this contract to secure travel expenses. Under normal circumstances, I would perform such a service without expecting payment."
Torin stared at him, his spoon hovering halfway to his mouth. He set it down with a soft clink. "You some kind of hero, eh?" he asked, his tone flat with disbelief. "That's even worse. Stealing someone's work is one thing, but doing it for free just makes it sound like a provocation. You're making hardworking, honest folk look bad."
The Redguard's serene smile didn't falter. "I would not claim a title as grand as 'hero.' I am simply a traveler on a journey. The good I am able to do along the way is... part of my atonement. And my education."
That caught Torin's attention. Atonement? Now that was a word you didn't hear every day. His curiosity, a stubborn beast at the best of times, was now fully awake and sniffing around. "A journey?" he pressed, leaning forward slightly. "Where to?"
The young man met his gaze squarely, his dark eyes earnest. "I am searching for the tomb of the Red Eagle. The ancient Briarheart King of the Reach. It is said that only he holds the knowledge of what I truly seek."
Torin couldn't help the pause that followed, his mind racing. Red Eagle. In the game, he'd been a powerful draugr boss, a dungeon you only unlocked after finding his sword. But he'd also read about the historical figure during his studies.
Red Eagle was a legendary figure to the Reachfolk, the original natives of this land before the Nords and Nedes conquered it. The augurs of his people had prophesied his greatness even before his birth, claiming he was destined to be the greatest among them, a champion who would lead his people to freedom.
The story came back to Torin in a rush, details he'd read in dusty tomes in Jorrvaskr's library fleshing out the basic questline he remembered. Sure enough, the legend of Red Eagle hadn't disappointed.
He'd been well on his way to uniting the squabbling petty kings of the Reach when the Alessian Empress Hestra decided to add their lands to her expanding empire. One by one, the Reach-kings fell in battle or bent the knee to the Legions—all except for Red Eagle.
He fought a desperate guerilla war until, terrified of the Empire's retribution, his own people turned on him and exiled him. Desperate and betrayed, he'd sought out a hag—a Hagraven—who promised him the power to save his people in exchange for his heart.
He became a Briarheart, a powerful, undead-like being, and rallied those still willing to fight.
For a time, he was unstoppable. He shattered Hestra's legions in a legendary battle. But the Empress always returns with more soldiers.
In the final stand, it was said Red Eagle single-handedly killed thousands before he was finally brought down, leaving behind a prophecy: when the Reach was once again free, his people were to bring his sword to his tomb, and he would rise to lead them once more.
It was a quintessentially Reachfolk legend, a story of bitter resistance, betrayal, and a cursed, enduring hope. It had absolutely nothing to do with a Redguard.
Torin leaned back, his arms crossed. "Oh? And what is it that you seek from the ghost of a dead Reach-king?"
The Redguard's expression was serene, his answer infuriatingly simple. "Enlightenment."
Torin just stared, his face a perfect mask of blank skepticism. He'd been expecting a lost treasure, a powerful artifact, maybe a long-lost source of power. Not… enlightenment.
Seemingly unfazed by Torin's disbelief, the young man took a sip of his water. "Tell me, friend," he began, his dark eyes holding a new intensity. "Do you know of the Shehai?"
Torin paused, his brow furrowed as he dug through the archives of his mind. The word sounded Yokudan, a subject he didn't study as thoroughly as he would have liked.
After a long moment, he shook his head. "Nothing. Doesn't ring a bell."
The Redguard nodded, as if he'd expected that. "It is not a common tale beyond the sands of Hammerfell. The Shehai Shen She Ru," he said, the words flowing like a strange, melodic poem, "the 'Way of the Spirit Sword.' It is an art known as sword-singing. The pinnacle of which is the ability to manifest a blade of pure spirit, forged from thought and will alone. That is the Shehai. That is what I seek."
Torin couldn't help but frown. "That sounds like one of the legendary arts the Yokudans brought with them from the old country. I can't see how this… spirit sword… could possibly be connected to a long-dead king of the Reach. Their cultures are worlds apart."
"Patience, my friend," the Redguard said, his tone infuriatingly calm. "It is a virtue I am still learning." He leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping.
"The connection is obscure, I grant you. But the story, passed down through my family, tells of an ancient sword-singer who lost the ability to manifest his Shehai after a great tragedy. It was only with the Red Eagle's counsel that he found the path to forging it once more."
Torin let out a long, low whistle, then a sigh. "And I thought I was having a hard time just looking for some damned lodestone." He shook his head, a wry grin on his face. "Look, I do know a thing or two about your Red Eagle, and let me tell you, you're in for a whole wagonload of unpleasant surprises."
The Redguard's serene expression finally cracked, replaced by a curious frown. "Whatever do you mean?"
Torin shrugged, ticking the points off on his fingers. "Well, for starters, you'll need to get Red Eagle's actual sword just to get into his tomb. Last I heard, it's probably in the hands of the Forsworn right now, and they don't take kindly to outsiders messing with their relics."
"Then, you'll have to deal with the tomb itself, which is bound to be packed with his undead followers. The stories say they were so strong they could shatter stone with their bare fists."
He took a breath, saving the best for last. "And then there's Red Eagle himself. I doubt you'll have much luck reasoning with a literally heartless, thousand-year-old moving corpse who's been waiting for his people to free the Reach, only to be awakened by a Redguard asking for pointers."
A bitter smile touched the Redguard's lips at Torin's blunt assessment. "When you lay it out so... vividly, it does seem my chances of success are minimal at best." He let out a soft sigh, the weight of his quest seeming to settle more heavily on his shoulders. "You wouldn't happen to know where I might find this sword, at least?"
Torin promptly shook his head. "I don't."
He was telling the truth. The historical texts were vague on the sword's final resting place, and the specific memory of where he'd found it in another life was frustratingly fuzzy.
Seeing the genuine trouble on the young man's face, Torin cleared his throat. "But," he began, drawing the word out, "I do know where Red Eagle's tomb is located."
He let that hang in the air for a moment before continuing. "And I'm sure you can find someone in Markarth who knows about the sword. There are Reachmen living in the hills outside the city, and even a few near its walls. Someone there will have heard the whispers."
The Redguard nodded slowly, a new resolve in his eyes. "You are right. Thank you. It seems my path leads to Markarth next." He paused, then gave Torin a long, considering look. "May I ask where you are heading, young friend?"
Not thinking much of it, Torin shrugged. "Markarth."
The Redguard's face instantly brightened, the earlier gloom vanishing. "Then, would you mind if I accompanied you? I am a stranger to these lands, and I would be most grateful for a guide."
Torin leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest. This was where business began. "Unlike you, I'm no selfless hero," he stated flatly. "I don't work for free."
He gave the Redguard a pointed look, his meaning clear. "If you want to tag along with me, you'll have to make it worth my while."
The Redguard paused, his expression turning thoughtful. "I do not have much coin to offer you," he admitted, his tone pragmatic. "But... my sword arm is steady, and my blade is sharp. Having another fighter by your side in the unforgiving wilderness can never be a detriment."
He leaned forward slightly, his dark eyes earnest. "Should we find any work along the way, I am willing to cede my full share of the coin. You would only need to provide me with food and water, at the very least. It is a simple price for safe passage and a guide."
Torin let out a considering hum, tapping a finger on the table. The offer wasn't bad. A capable, if idealistic, swordsman watching his back for the cost of a few meals? It was too good an offer, almost unfair even.
"Alright," he said finally. "But we'll go with a three-to-one split in my favor for any bounties or work we pick up together. No more, no less." He fixed Qasim with a stern look. "You should also know, I'm not heading straight for Markarth, and I intend to take every single job I can get my hands on along the way within reason. It's going to be a long, slow, and probably bloody trip before we see the Stone District."
Qasim nodded without hesitation, a look of relief washing over his features. "Fair enough. A slow journey is better than a lost one." He then extended his hand across the rough-hewn table. "I am Qasim Ibn Al-Hussam. You have my thanks."
Torin gripped the offered hand, giving it a firm, solid shake. The Redguard's grip was strong, calloused from the sword, but controlled. "Torin Kodlaksson."
Just as their hands parted, the entire table shuddered, and a low, rumbling growl echoed from beneath it. Both of them looked down to see the source of the disturbance: Echo, who had finished her feast, was now contentedly scratching her broad side against one of the table's legs, her eyes closed in blissful ignorance of the agreement being forged above her.
Torin chuckled, shaking his head. "And this is Echo," he said, gesturing to the shaggy, table-scratching bear. "Despite her sweeter-than-honey appearance, she can be quite mean-spirited, so try not to get on her bad side."
...
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