Torin sat at a corner table in the inn's common room, the morning bustle a distant, unimportant hum around him. A mug of lukewarm tea sat untouched by his elbow. His full attention was on the notebook spread open before him, a sharpened piece of charcoal dancing restlessly between his fingers.
The two open pages were a dense forest of lines, notes, and cross-sections. On the left page, the main concept: a shield. Not a normal, solid slab of wood and metal. This one was drawn as a collection of interlocking metallic plates, like the scales of a fish or the segments of an armadillo's shell.
Beside it, drawn with precise, clean lines, was a single vambrace—a forearm guard. An arrow connected the two, along with a scrawled note: Primary Form / Retracted State.
Below that was the internal view. The inner lining of the shield wasn't just padding; it was a labyrinth. A delicate clockwork of impossibly thin mechanisms—gears the thickness of parchment, levers like straightened pins, channels that looked more like veins than machinery.
It was a masterpiece of miniaturization that would give any traditional smith a headache.
The right page was all about the 'how.' Detailed schematics of compressed metal pieces, showing how they would slot together, fold, and ultimately expand when triggered. Arrows indicated force vectors and pivot points. It was the physical engineering of a transformation.
Below the mechanics, however, was a large, frustratingly blank space.
Torin frowned, his brow furrowed. The charcoal in his hand moved to hover over the emptiness.
The physical design was sound—in theory. Eorlund could probably forge the plates, and with enough gold and time, a master jeweler or a very patient Dwarven automaton could assemble the micro-mechanisms. But that was only half the battle.
Now he needed to figure out the enchantments. How to make the thing actually work.
A simple Alteration shrinking spell on the whole shield would work, but it would make the vambrace it folded into bulky and heavy, and it would leave the delicate internal mechanisms magically stressed and vulnerable to failure at the worst possible moment—like when a giant's club was descending.
He needed something more elegant. Something that didn't just shrink the mass, but manipulated space around the components, or perhaps phased them partially out of reality when not in use.
Two schools of thought presented themselves, both problematic. The Alteration school had deep, theoretical spells for manipulating space and mass—the kind of knowledge locked away in metaphysical treatises and the brains of reclusive masters. He had no access to that. Yet.
Conjuration, on the other hand, dealt with summoning objects from elsewhere.
The principles of calling a weapon from a pocket dimension and dismissing it again… that logic could be reverse-engineered, applied to the shield's plates. That knowledge was marginally more available. But Conjuration made him… iffy.
It brushed too close to Daedric realms, to bargains and lingering attentions he didn't want. Using it felt like borrowing a cup of sugar from your neighbor, if your neighbor was a hungering, eternal entity from the Void.
Something to research when I reach the College, he mused, tapping the charcoal against the page, leaving a small smudge.
It was, after all, the only place in Skyrim—maybe in all of northern Tamriel—where he might find treatises on both spatial manipulation and the safer, theoretical underpinnings of teleportive summoning. He could compare, experiment, maybe even hybridize…
Torin shook his head, as if trying to physically dislodge the spiraling thoughts. He needed to focus on what he could do. Right now, that meant translating the basic principles of Alteration's shrinking and enlarging spells into an enchantment matrix, just as he'd learned from the Enchanter's Codex Skjor had given him. Practical work. Tangible progress.
The sharp tip of the charcoal touched the blank parchment. He took a breath, ready to inscribe the first, careful lines of arcane logic—variables for mass, constants for material integrity, a conditional loop for the activation trigger…
Sheogorath's grinning, manic face flashed behind his eyes.
With a groan, Torin dropped the charcoal and dragged both hands down his face, rubbing at his temples. It had been three hours since the… experience.
The cheese wheel was currently sitting on the mantelpiece in his room because he had no idea what to do with it (setting it on fire seemed disrespectful, eating it seemed suicidal).
No matter how hard he tried to bury himself in schematics or enchantment theory, the Mad God kept squirming his way back into Torin's thoughts. All because of that one, stupid, infuriating demand.
He did all of that. The void. The falling. The bear giving me the finger. Just to tell me to walk into the city.
The sheer, petty absurdity of it was, ironically, driving Torin mad. He couldn't stop turning it over in his mind. Was it just an elaborate prank? A bored god's idea of a funny Tuesday? Or was it the first move in some incomprehensible, layered scheme?
A Daedric Prince, even a chaotic one, wouldn't go to such theatrical lengths for something so trivial… right?
There had to be something else. An event in Solitude. A political shift, a magical anomaly, a juicy scandal involving a jarl and a horker. Something Sheogorath wanted him to witness, or better yet, be an unwitting participant in.
Then again, a colder, more rational part of his mind whispered, this is the Prince of Madness. The 'why' might just be 'because it amused me for five minutes.' The idea that Sheogorath had orchestrated the whole terrifying encounter just to bully him, to rouse his paranoia, and was now sitting in some unseen corner of Oblivion watching Torin stress-eat hardtack and mutter to himself… that was entirely possible.
It was the kind of punchline a being of pure chaos would find hilarious.
And this line of thinking, this endless, circular dissection of motive and mayhem, was undeniably, profoundly maddening. Especially for someone whose default setting was already a healthy dose of paranoid calculation, someone who needed to have control at all times.
He was analyzing the joke while the joker was probably using his existential dread as a seasoning for cheese dip.
Torin let his head thump gently against the open pages of his notebook, the schematics for his impossible shield blurring before his eyes.
The urge to march down to the docks, find the captain of the Ice-Veins or whatever his ship was called, and beat him senseless until he agreed to set sail for Winterhold right this second was a real, pulsating temptation in Torin's chest.
It felt clean. Direct. A problem he could solve with his fists.
He might have even given in to it, if not for the chillingly clear image that followed: the distinct possibility of another 'visit' mid-beating. Sheogorath popping up to offer critique on his form, or worse, cheering him on. The risk of further divine attention was the only thing keeping him glued to his chair, fidgeting with his charcoal.
His salvation arrived not a moment too soon.
The inn's door swung open, and a man in the distinctive, polished armor of the Solitude Guard stepped inside. He ignored the curious glances and the low hum of conversation, his eyes scanning the room with official detachment before landing squarely on Torin. He marched over, the sound of his boots on the wooden floor a sharp, purposeful clack.
"Torin of Jorrvaskr?" the guard asked, his voice carrying the bored authority of a man delivering a routine message.
Torin was on his feet before the guard had finished the question, his chair scraping loudly. "Give me a minute to get my bear," he said, already turning toward the stairs.
The guard blinked, his official mask cracking with confusion. "What are you—? Sir, I haven't even—"
Torin gave him a dismissive wave over his shoulder, not breaking stride. "You're here with an invitation, right? To the city. I accept. Consider it done. Just give me a minute."
He didn't wait for confirmation. Sheogorath's messenger had arrived. Arguing, questioning, delaying—it all felt like pushing his luck.
He took the stairs two at a time, his heart pounding not with fear, but with a desperate need to get this over with. He burst into his room. Echo was indeed still sleeping, a massive, furry mound on the rug, one paw draped possessively over the yellow cheese wheel.
"Up, girl," Torin said, already buckling on his vambrace. "We're going on a field trip. To the scary castle. Try not to eat any courtiers."
Echo opened one dark eye, let out a grumble that conveyed profound dissatisfaction with the concept of 'up,' but heaved herself to her feet with a seismic sigh. The game, it seemed, was back on.
...
Following the guard up the steep, winding path from the dockside town, Torin and Echo passed through the massive gates of Solitude proper and into the formidable courtyard of Castle Dour.
The ancient, well-maintained stone walls rose around them like the bones of a giant, casting deep, cool shadows even in the midday light. The proud red banners of the city, emblazoned with the black wolf of Solitude, hung motionless against the grey stone.
Torin's gaze was immediately drawn not to the castle's impressive architecture, but to the courtyard's activity. It was a training ground. About fifty recruits, most of them young Nords but with a smattering of Imperial and Redguard faces among them, were being put through their paces.
The thwack of arrows hitting straw dummies mingled with the rhythmic clack of wooden practice swords. Veteran soldiers, their armor bearing the scars of real combat, moved among them, barking corrections and demonstrating forms.
It was a display of disciplined, imperial-mandated martial preparation.
The guard who had escorted them came to a halt and turned. "Please wait here," he said, his tone still flat and official.
Torin raised an eyebrow but said nothing. He still had no idea who had summoned him, or why. At this point, he didn't even care about the 'why.'
He just needed to fulfill Sheogorath's bizarre demand, get this audience over with, and sprint back to the docks before his ship decided to leave without him. He offered a curt nod.
The guard turned on his heel and disappeared through the large, iron-banded doors leading into the castle proper, leaving Torin and Echo alone at the edge of the training yard. Echo sat on her haunches, watching the sparring recruits with mild curiosity, as if judging their technique.
It wasn't a long wait. Soon, the castle doors swung open again. This time, the figure that emerged was not a guard.
A young man strode out, dressed in fine, dark furs edged with silver wire, practical yet clearly expensive. He had a thick, well-trimmed beard and long hair intricately braided in the Nordic style.
Despite the facial hair and the confident bearing, Torin's sharp eyes placed him as not more than five years older than himself, maybe even less. There was a restless energy to him, an intelligence in his gaze that went beyond the usual noble posturing.
The young man's face broke into an easy, welcoming smile as he closed the distance. "You must be the famous Storm-Caller," he said, his voice carrying clearly over the din of training.
He extended a hand, the gesture confident and expecting reciprocation.
Torin obliged, taking the offered hand in a firm, brief grip. The man's grip was strong, a warrior's grip, not a courtier's, though it lacked the roughness of calluses.
"Aye," Torin replied, his tone neutral. "Some folk like to call me that. And you are?"
The man gave Torin's hand another solid shake before releasing it, his grin widening, touched with a hint of self-aware amusement. "My name is Torygg. Torygg Istlodsson."
He paused, letting the patronymic hang in the air for a beat before adding, the amusement deepening, "Though some folk like to call me… High King... not as grand nor truly earned yet, but I carry it with pride nonetheless."
...
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