Author's note: so I've been playing Arc Raiders for a while now, and I even signed up for the expidtion, which will take place in two days or three, I think, and would basicallyt wipe my stash clean of eveything including the legendary guns and tier 4 epics and rares...
I also have a lot of blueprints just sitting in my stash like the vulcano and bobcat blueprints, and a punch of grenades like the wolfpack and other explosives.
Basically, what I'm trying to say, is that I want to give these away to anyone who might want them. If that's you, hit me up on discord-- wicked132
...
Torin crossed his arms over his chest, the gesture unconsciously defensive. "Such titles are mostly easy to receive," he said, his voice flat. "But much harder to earn, even more so to keep. That's been true since the olden times."
Torygg's smile turned bitter, a flicker of understanding in his eyes. "Indeed so," he agreed quietly. "Though, I have to admit," he continued, giving Torin a more direct, skeptical look, "I didn't expect you to accept my invitation. Companions such as yourself rarely associate yourselves closely with… authoritative figures. You prefer to let your steel do the talking for independent causes."
Torin shrugged, a single-shouldered lift of dismissal. "I didn't even know whose invitation I was accepting." He let out a short, exasperated sigh. "Let's just say I accepted because I felt… compelled to. And leave it at that."
He didn't elaborate further. Explaining you were obeying a Daedric Prince to avoid being turned into a fondue set wasn't great small talk.
He gave Torygg a more direct, inspecting look, taking in the keen intelligence behind the young king's eyes. "That said, I am in a hurry. I have a ship to catch. So I'd appreciate it if you told me what you needed from me. Straight."
Torygg's smile returned, this time with a touch of smug assurance. "If it's your ship you're worried about, then there is no need. I already sent one of my men to have a word with the captain of the Ice-Vein. He will not cast off without you. Consider your schedule… cleared."
Hearing this, Torin couldn't help but sigh again, this time with deep resignation. So much for a quick escape. He was stuck. Walking away from High King wasn't difficult in itself, but the invisible, cheese-scented leash around his neck tightened at the thought.
He didn't know how Sheogorath would react to him making excuses and refusing the king after being so specifically commanded to accept the invitation. Best not to find out.
Oblivious to—or perhaps choosing to ignore—the storm of frustration and paranoia in Torin's mind, Torygg cleared his throat. "As for what I need… well, it's simple, in theory. I require the unbiased opinion of a young warrior. One not constrained by the politics of Skyrim's courts, the baggage of ancient clan rivalries, or the… certain perspectives of the Imperial Legion."
He gestured with an open hand toward the bustling training courtyard. "Would you walk with me? I'd value your thoughts."
Torin simply shrugged again, a gesture that had become his default response to the whole bewildering situation. He gestured for Torygg to lead the way.
The young king's smile softened, looking more genuine, and he turned, heading not back toward the main gate, but toward a smaller archway that led out of the training yard, presumably in the direction of the Temple of the Divines rather than the bustling market district.
Torin fell into step a pace behind him, with Echo padding along in their wake, her massive presence drawing wide-eyed stares from the recruits.
As they passed the clusters of training soldiers, each group snapped to a semblance of attention, offering ragged salutes or respectful nods to their king.
Torygg acknowledged them with a slight, practiced nod of his own. "Carry on," he said, his voice carrying just enough authority to send them back to their drills without breaking stride.
Once they were past the most concentrated group, Torygg glanced sideways at Torin. "So. What do you think of the city's youngsters? Our new blood."
Torin didn't need to look again. The impression was already formed. He kept his eyes forward. "They'll make for good soldiers," he said, his tone factual. "The Imperial Legion doesn't hire just anyone to be instructors, that's for certain. These lads will know how to hold a line and when to retreat."
Torygg let out a long, slow sigh, the sound carrying a weight that seemed too heavy for his years. "Indeed. I have no doubt they will be great soldiers. But…" He paused as they reached the archway, turning to face Torin fully, his expression serious. "But not great warriors."
Torin couldn't help but raise an eyebrow. The distinction was clear to him, but he was surprised to hear it from a king, especially one whose hold depended on Imperial support. "And?" he asked, his voice dry. "Not everyone can be a great warrior. Nor should they be. You need farmers to grow the food those soldiers eat. Miners to dig the ore for their armor. Someone has to make the ale."
Torygg nodded, but it was a gesture of agreement without satisfaction. "Yes. You are right. Such is the state of the world now. Practical. Ordered."
He looked past Torin, back at the regimented courtyard, his gaze distant. "But was it always like this?" he asked, his voice dropping. "Is this how we're supposed to live, as Nords? Or have we… leaned on the Empire for too long? Taken their coin, their discipline, their laws… and in the process, let the old roots wither?"
He met Torin's eyes again, his own filled with a grim, searching intensity. "Are we building a future, or just forgetting how to be who we are?"
Torin stared at him for a long, silent moment. The weight of the question—the future of a people, the soul of a nation—felt like an anvil being dropped onto a conversation about sword drills.
He let out a weary sigh. "Isn't that question a bit too heavy for a mere wandering mercenary to answer? I swing an axe. I don't ponder the destiny of nations."
Torygg's smile didn't falter. If anything, it grew more knowing. "Not at all. And even if that were the case… you are no 'mere' wandering mercenary, are you, Storm-Caller?"
He gave Torin a long, appraising look that saw far too much. "Aside from your rather well-known martial accomplishments—which are impressive enough—Jarl Balgruuf the Greater speaks very highly of you. Not just of your arm, but of your mind. He tells me you are… wise. Clever. That you have an uncanny knack for seeing the shape of things to come."
Torin's eye gave a single, betraying twitch. A cold knot of frustration tightened in his gut.
He'd brought this on himself. For years, despite his best efforts to stay under the radar, he'd felt a creeping responsibility. Seeing Whiterun, his home, blunder toward future disasters he knew were coming had been like watching a cart roll toward a cliff in slow motion.
So, carefully, indirectly, he'd intervened. A dropped hint during a mead-soaked feast in Dragonsreach.
A "rumor" he'd "overheard" while on a contract would find its way to Kodlak with the suggestion that the Harbinger might mention it to the Jarl. Small nudges. Precautions against ruins that would be inhabited by bandits, advice on trade deals (with Orc strongholds) that would prove fortuitous, and more.
He'd thought he'd been subtle. He'd wrapped his future-sight in the guise of a traveler's sharp observation and a Companion's concern for the hold.
Apparently, Balgruuf was sharper than he'd given him credit for.
The old Jarl hadn't just appreciated the advice; he'd connected the dots. And worse, he'd misinterpreted the source. He'd taken Torin's clandestine cheat-sheet to history and probably mistaken it for some kind of divine wisdom, a blessing of foresight from the gods themselves.
And then he'd gone and bragged about the "clever wolf" to the High King.
Damn it all, Torin cursed internally, the heat of the frustration directed mostly at himself. No good deed goes unpunished. I should have just kept my head down and let the cliff take the cart.
Torin let out another sigh, this one carefully crafted to sound like modest embarrassment. "Jarl Balgruuf has a… tendency to overpraise our number. He's a good man, a good Jarl, but he sees the Companions as a pillar of his hold. Sometimes the gratitude makes the deeds seem grander than they are."
It was a neat sidestep—not calling the Jarl a liar, but suggesting a loyal man's fondness had colored his judgment. A safe, political answer.
He cleared his throat, his mind racing. He couldn't just walk away from the question now. "That said… if the High King wishes to hear an answer from me, then who am I to refuse?" He met Torygg's gaze, his own deliberately neutral. "Still, I'd need to know why you're asking such a question in the first place. Context. It's hard to judge the quality of a blade without knowing what you need to cut."
Torygg just stared at him for a long, silent moment, his earlier smile fading into something more thoughtful, more assessing.
Then he let out a soft, incredulous chuckle. "You say he overpraised you," he murmured, shaking his head slightly. "And yet, listening to you now… I believe he might not have done you justice. You navigate words like warrior navigate a battlefield. Carefully."
He shook his head, as if clearing it of the observation, and his expression grew heavier, the weight of his crown visibly settling back onto his shoulders. "Either way… the reason I ask is because I find myself torn. Ripped in half, really. Between two sides, each one pulling in a completely different direction with all their might."
He paused, his gaze drifting toward the towering spires of the Temple of the Divines, as if seeking an answer in the stone.
His voice dropped, laced with a frustration that felt deeply personal. "Worse yet, both forces are strong. And I… I have plenty of reasons to go in both directions. And just as many reasons not to. It's not a simple choice between right and wrong. It's a choice between two different kinds of… survival."
Torin's eyes widened a fraction, the pieces clicking into place with an almost audible snap. The Imperial-trained soldiers in the yard. The talk of Nordic roots. The weight on a young king's shoulders in the seat of Skyrim's power.
He didn't frame it as a question. He said it as the obvious, grim conclusion.
"The Empire," Torin stated, his voice flat, "and Ulfric's supporters."
Torygg's nod was a single, bitter dip of his chin. Confirmation.
Torin opened his mouth, the first, impulsive response already on his tongue—something about the folly of civil war, the dangerous allure of Ulfric's nonsense...
He snapped it shut so fast his teeth clicked.
No.
If there was ever a time to blurt out the first thing in your head, this was absolutely, definitively not it. These weren't just words to a fellow warrior over a tankard. They were words that would land in the ears of a king, a young man clearly tortured by this decision, who had spent sleepless nights wrestling with the fate of his kingdom.
In this moment, in this place, Torin's off-the-cuff opinion could become a weight on the scales. The possibility was low, but it was not zero. And the consequences if he tipped them—even accidentally—were unimaginable.
A huge, roaring part of him wanted nothing more than to turn on his heel right then. To mutter an excuse, collect Echo, and march straight back to the docks. To let the kings and generals and rebels sort out their own damned mess. To avoid this crushing weight of potential responsibility entirely.
But Sheogorath's grinning, cheese-obsessed face flashed in his mind. Don't refuse. This was the invitation. This was the 'city'. Walking away now felt like tempting a very specific, very chaotic fate.
He steadied himself, closing his eyes for a brief second. He took a deep, slow breath, the cool air of the courtyard filling his lungs. He gathered his scattered thoughts, trying to form something measured, something that wouldn't be a commitment, just a perspective…
He opened his mouth to speak.
"Your Majesty," a new voice interrupted, smooth and polite. A man in fine, embroidered robes, a functionary by the look of him, had approached silently.
He gave Torin a cursory, dismissive glance before addressing Torygg. "The Thalmor and Imperial ambassadors have arrived for the afternoon audience. They are waiting in the Blue Palace."
Torygg's shoulders slumped almost imperceptibly, the weight returning instantly. He nodded to the man. "Thank you. I will be there shortly."
He turned back to Torin, his expression one of genuine regret. "It seems I must take my leave. And though I did not get to hear your answer, I will not keep you any longer. You have a ship to catch."
He offered a small, tired smile. "Though… if you do decide to stay in the city a while longer, and would share your thoughts with me at a later time, I would be most grateful. Truly."
With that, he gave Torin a final, acknowledging nod and turned to follow the robed man back toward the castle, his stride assuming the deliberate pace of a king heading into a political storm.
Torin stood rooted to the spot, the unspoken words still heavy on his tongue. He turned to look at Echo. The bear just tilted her massive head and let out a soft, questioning growl, as if to say, Well?
He remained still for another long moment, the sounds of the training yard, the distant cry of gulls, and the ghost of a king's dilemma swirling around him. Finally, he let out a long, defeated sigh that came from the very bottom of his boots.
"I can't believe I'm doing this," he muttered to himself, the words full of exasperated resignation.
Then he turned, not toward the exit gate that led back to the docks, but in the opposite direction Torygg had gone—deeper into the city. He gestured for Echo to follow.
"Come on, girl. Change of plans. We're not leaving today. I need to find the local blacksmith..."
...
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