Half a day later, Count Gautier came to find Torin again. And this time, Torin was having a drink with a meal alongside Bragi, the skald clearly irritated as he bit into a chicken leg with unnecessary force, his teeth sinking into the meat as if it had personally offended him.
The dining room was modest but well-appointed, with tapestries depicting Breton hunting scenes and a fire crackling in the hearth.
As Gautier walked into the room, both Nords turned to him, and his presence seemed to only irritate Bragi further. The skald scowled, his jaw working furiously, and spat the bite he had just taken straight onto the stone floor. The gesture was deliberate, pointed, and entirely unapologetic.
Torin just shook his head at this, a faint smirk tugging at his lips despite himself. He set down his goblet and spoke.
"The place for the duel has been decided, I take it?"
Gautier nodded, his expression carefully neutral as he stepped further into the room.
"Indeed. It will take place on the Azurian Sea."
Torin was taken aback, his brow furrowing. "What, like on the shore?" He paused, his mind already racing through the possibilities. "What kind of advantage could they have there?" He gave Gautier an up-and-down glance, a flicker of suspicion in his eyes. "Or is it that you managed to exert more sway on the decision than expected?"
Gautier shook his head.
"I did not." He clasped his hands behind his back. "The duel will not take place on the shore of the Azurian Sea, but on the sea itself."
Torin opened his mouth, then closed it. He blinked once, twice, processing the words. After a moment, he gathered his wits and spoke, his voice carrying a note of incredulity.
"On the sea? Like on boats? Or a big ship?"
Gautier calmly responded, "On boats. You will get one. Garran will get one."
Torin immediately frowned, his mind already working through the practicalities. "Won't the boats break, though? They're not exactly designed for combat."
Gautier nodded, his expression unreadable. "I imagine that's what they're counting on." He let out a long sigh, the sound heavy with resignation. "My sources tell me that Baron Devereux—one of Armand's less significant minions—has recently acquired an ancient pair of greaves with peculiar enchantments."
Torin stared at him for a moment, blinking once, then twice. Then he burst into laughter—a deep, genuine sound that echoed through the dining room.
"Let me guess," he said, wiping his eyes, "water-walking enchantments?"
Bragi, who had been listening silently while sending sharp glares at Gautier between every bite of food, finally spoke out. He set down the chicken leg with more force than necessary, the bones clattering against the plate, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
"Wonderful. Simply wonderful." His voice dripped with sarcasm, his eyes narrowing at the count. "The cowardice and treachery of Bretons will never cease to amaze me, it seems." He gritted his teeth, his jaw working. "The more we stay here, the more I question the wisdom of having such peoples as our allies. It seems a sure way to receive a knife in the back."
Torin cleared his throat, the sound cutting through Bragi's tirade. He leaned forward, his elbows resting on the table, his gaze steady.
"Calm yourself, Bragi." His voice was low, measured. "It's exactly because Bretons are apt in schemes that we need them." He gave the skald a meaningful look. "Besides, that's not all there is to them. In the end, we all share the same mannish souls—for all their cunning, they're still men and women, as capable of honor as they are of deceit."
Bragi winced, his anger deflating slightly. He turned to Count Gautier, his voice tight and grudging.
"I apologize. Do forgive my outburst."
The words did not sound sincere at all, and he still glared at the Breton with undisguised suspicion.
For his part, Gautier merely smiled—a thin, practiced expression—and inclined his head.
"It's quite alright." He turned to Torin, his eyes glinting with curiosity. "You are right about the kind of enchantments. But strangely, you don't seem alarmed."
Torin shrugged, the motion easy and casual.
"I may not look like it, but I'm a member of the College of Winterhold. My specialty is enchantments and alteration." He grinned, a sharp, confident expression. "Bring me some soul gems and an enchanting table, and I'll work something out."
Gautier's eyes widened a fraction—a rare crack in his usual composure.
His hands, which had been clasped behind his back, dropped to his sides. "What?" His voice carried a note of genuine surprise. "You mean to replicate the enchantment?"
Torin simply nodded, his expression calm, almost bored.
Gautier's eyes widened even more, his brow furrowing deeply. "But I've heard from Madam Aveline—and other distinguished practitioners of magic—that this particular enchantment was lost to the ages." His eyes narrowed, studying Torin with renewed suspicion. "Are you telling me your College of Winterhold managed to restore it?"
Torin shook his head slowly, a faint, knowing smile tugging at his lips.
"This particular enchantment wasn't lost due to some catastrophe or disaster. It was lost simply because it wasn't practical, so there were no attempts to restore it."
He crossed his arms, leaning back in his chair. "When it came to traveling above waters, there were alternatives to walking on its surface—you could hover above it, or simply cast a spell that would allow you to breathe beneath it. Both options are far more efficient for most purposes."
Gautier blinked in confusion, his composure faltering further.
"Then why not do that?" He spread his hands, a gesture of genuine bewilderment. "Instead of attempting to replicate a lost enchantment?"
Torin gave a dismissive wave, the motion casual, almost lazy. "Obviously I wouldn't be able to exert as much strength if my feet dangled in the air instead of planting firmly into solid ground."
He let out a long, slow sigh. "As for fighting submerged in the water... that's simply not possible. I'd need a long time to get used to something like that—to learn to move, to see, to fight effectively underwater... not to mention it's undignified, fighting a warrior from bellow them"
Gautier sighed, a heavy, weary sound, and began to rub his forehead with his fingers.
"And replicating the enchantment will take less time?" His face darkened as he added, "The duel will take place in a week's time. That's all the time I've managed to buy."
Torin hummed, the sound low and thoughtful as he swirled the contents of his goblet. He set it down and met Gautier's gaze, a glint of amusement in his grey eyes.
"It should be doable... if there are no further complications." He gave the count a pointed look, his voice dropping slightly. "And speaking of which, what should I be wary of next? An assassin's knife? Poison? Coercion?"
He paused, a smirk tugging at his lips, his eyebrows rising suggestively. "Honey traps? I would certainly prefer the latter."
Bragi let out an amused snort at those words, nearly choking on his drink. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, shooting Torin a look that was half exasperation.
Gautier merely shook his head, his expression calm, almost serene.
"You need not worry about any such things anymore." He placed a hand over his heart, a gesture of sincerity that seemed almost theatrical. "Upon the honor of my house, you shall suffer no more opposition—from Armand's faction nor my own—until the day of the duel."
Torin picked up his goblet and raised it in a mock toast.
"I'll take your word for it." He took a sip, then added, "Despite my better judgment."
Gautier merely smiled, a thin, knowing expression.
"That's all I ask." He inclined his head. "Now then, I shall go and prepare a room for you with the best enchanting equipment, and books on the subject. I trust you'll find them adequate."
Torin merely nodded, watching him leave before shifting his attention back to the meal. The door closed softly behind the count, and the room fell into a comfortable silence.
Bragi let out a grunt, setting down his goblet with more force than necessary.
"You're too generous with these degenerates." He shook his head, his jaw tight. "You should have just cursed the bastard out for the wriggly worm he is." He took a long drink, then added, "We should never have come here."
Torin chuckled, the sound low and easy.
"Patience, Bragi. We're here to do a job." He leaned back into his seat, his gaze drifting toward the fire. "Besides... out of all the schemes we've been on the receiving end of, this one I don't mind so much."
Bragi gave Torin a look that suggested he might have had too much to drink, his brow furrowing.
"And why is that?" He gestured vaguely with his goblet. "This one, by far, is the most ludicrous. Staging a duel on the sea—bah!" He sneered, his voice dripping with contempt. "Is a warrior's honor worth nothing to these people?"
Torin shrugged, the motion easy and unbothered. He reached for his goblet, took a sip, and set it down with a soft clink.
"A warrior's honor is worth as little to a noble as pedigree is to a warrior," he said, his voice calm, almost philosophical. "Different people value different things, Bragi. That's just how it is."
Bragi clicked his tongue, the sound sharp and dismissive, but a hint of reluctant respect crept into his eyes.
"I can't argue that." He paused, studying Torin with a peculiar look. "You sure have a way with words, lad." He tilted his head, his gaze sharpening. "But that doesn't answer my first question. Why is it that you take less offense to this scheme than the others?"
Torin grinned at those words, a spark of genuine amusement flickering in his eyes.
"Because it's fun."
Bragi's nose scrunched up, his expression shifting to one of almost disgusted disbelief.
"Fun?" he parroted, the word sounding foreign on his tongue.
Torin's grin widened, a hint of boyish excitement breaking through his usual composure. "Aye, fun." He let out a low hum, leaning forward. "Like a challenge. One week to recreate an enchantment from scratch—no different from inventing it anew. And if I find myself unable, I can work with other alternatives. It's a puzzle. A problem to be solved."
He shrugged. "And I've always enjoyed those."
Bragi gave Torin a long, searching look before shaking his head slowly. A wry smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"Your reputation for strength and courage is so far-reaching that I often forget you spend much of your time cooped up in that decrepit ruin in Winterhold. Doing gods know what with those elven hermits..." He scoffed, but there was no real bite in it. "You've inherited their strangeness, lad."
Torin merely chuckled, his gaze drifting back to the dining table as he reached for a piece of bread. The skald wasn't wrong, and Torin wasn't about to argue something he knew to be a fact.
...
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