Passing by the Khajiit camp near the gates of Solitude with Skaldrfong resting on his shoulder, and Echo trailing behind him, Torin offered a nod to Ma'dran.
The Khajiit merchant was sitting cross-legged in front of his tent, surrounded by various goods—furs, spices, exotic trinkets from Elsweyr that gleamed in the pale sunlight.
His yellow eyes tracked Torin's approach, and he returned the nod with the easy familiarity of someone who'd done business with the Nord before.
Torin didn't linger. He simply continued to walk.
He'd become acquainted with the merchant a few weeks after returning from Falkreath, having sought him out specifically. The encounter had been brief but pointed.
Torin had wanted to inquire about whoever had been responsible for the care of the children following the caravan—the ones who had left K'hila behind, who had let her wander off into the wilderness without noticing. He'd wanted to punch a few of their teeth loose for their negligence.
Unfortunately, he hadn't gotten the chance. The bastard had been a skooma fiend—the kind of addict who, even by Khajiit standards, had a serious problem. He'd been more interested in his next fix than in the children he was supposed to be watching.
And according to Ma'dran, the Khajiit had been long since banished to Elsweyr. Word had it he'd tried to make the journey across the desert and had never arrived.
"Perhaps bandits," Ma'dran had muttered. "Or beasts. Or perhaps the sands themselves, which do not forgive those who do not show them respect."
Torin shook his head, dismissing the stray thoughts along with the memory. K'hila was at peace now. That was what mattered. Whatever had happened to the khajiit who'd failed her was between him and the desert.
He continued on his path, and quickly reached the gate. The two guards on duty instantly recognized him—their eyes widened, their postures straightened, and they offered nods that were almost bows.
"Storm-Caller," one greeted.
"Mountain Breaker," the other said with a respectful dip of his head.
Torin smiled and nodded back, barely holding the twitch in his eyes.
Of course it stuck.
Another useless title, added to the growing list. Storm-Caller, Mountain Breaker, Slayer of the Harvester, the one who broke Shriekwind Bastion. Each one was a potential reason for idiots to seek him out and make trouble for him.
Ultimately, Torin's thoughts were interrupted as one of the guards spoke.
"We were told to expect you, and to inform the palace of your arrival." He opened the gate wider, gesturing for Torin to step through. "Apparently, there are arrangements already in place. I'll keep you company while Skeod here sends word of your arrival."
Torin simply nodded and gestured for the guard to take the lead.
"Alright then. After you."
The guard nodded at Torin, then at his colleague—the one he'd called Skeod—who quickly turned and headed into the city, his boots echoing on the cobblestones. The remaining guard walked through the gate himself, and Torin followed, Echo padding silently beside him.
Soon enough, the guard found a bench near the gate and gestured toward it.
"Rest while you wait. I'll get you a drink."
Torin leaned Skáldrfang against the wall behind the bench and sat down. Echo settled beside him, her warm weight pressing against his leg, her eyes scanning the passersby with the calm disinterest of a predator who had nothing to fear.
"Thank you," Torin said.
The guard nodded and headed toward the Winking Skeever, his figure quickly disappearing into the crowd.
Torin watched him leave, then began to look around, his hand reaching down to pat Echo's head. The city was bustling—merchants hawking their wares, children running through the streets, soldiers patrolling with the easy confidence of men who had never known real war.
The smell of salt and fish hung in the air, carried by the breeze from the nearby harbor.
His eyes settled on an elevated platform in front of him, on the other side of the gate. At its back was the city's wall, rising tall and grey, its stones worn by centuries of wind and weather.
In front of it was a spacious area surrounded by flowers.
In the middle of the platform sat a stone block. Dark stains covered its surface—old stains, impossible to wash away, soaked deep into the porous rock.
An execution block.
The execution block, Torin recognized with a low hum.
This was the place where that guardsman would be executed if Ulfric killed Torygg in a duel, having opened the gates for Ulfric to escape after the fact. A man who had done what he thought was right, who had believed in the Stormcloak cause, who had paid for his beliefs with his life.
Torin couldn't help but be intrigued. He'd often wondered how his actions and plans would affect the future of Skyrim as a whole—the grand scale of politics, war, and destiny.
He'd thought about the Thalmor, the Empire, the civil war, the dragons that were fated to return. But never once had he stopped to think on a smaller scale. Like that guardsman's fate.
If everything went as planned—if Torin was able to stop Ulfric from challenging and killing Torygg in a duel—wouldn't that completely change the man's future?
Torin found himself wondering. Would the guard live a long life, growing old in service to a High King who survived his own destined death? Or would Arkay claim him some other way—a random mugging, a sickness, a rockfall in the mountains?
Torin didn't know. Couldn't know. All he could do was keep moving forward and hope that the impact he left on people's lives was a positive one.
The gods themselves didn't know the future for certain—the Elder Scrolls were proof enough of that, their prophecies tangled and contradictory. If even they couldn't see what was coming, what hope did he have?
Echo nudged his now-still hand with her nose. Her dark eyes were fixed on his face, patient and concerned.
Torin smiled and began to scratch behind her ears.
"It's fine," he said quietly. "I'm just thinking about the future."
Echo let out a small growl—a rumbling sound that vibrated through her chest—and Torin nodded.
"You're right. I suppose I should be more concerned with the present."
They fell into silence as they waited, the sounds of the city washing over them. Merchants haggled. Children laughed. Soldiers marched. The world kept turning, oblivious to the weight of the thoughts pressing on Torin's mind.
The guard returned quickly with a bottle of mead, its glass dark and heavy. Torin thanked the man and watched him return to his post by the gates as he opened the bottle and took a leisurely sip. The mead was warm, sweet, and strong—the kind of drink that settled in the chest and chased away the cold.
He took another sip, then set the bottle aside, waiting.
Soon enough, a man with long hair and a well-groomed beard was standing before him. He wore a blue tunic decorated with silver embroidery, and over it, a cloak adorned with a belt of white fur at the shoulder.
His posture was straight, his hands clasped behind his back, and his eyes—sharp and pale—studied Torin with the practiced assessment of someone who had been dealing with important people for a very long time.
Torin frowned at the sight of the man, his hand instinctively tightening on Skáldrfang's shaft.
"And who might you be?"
The man smiled—an easy, practiced smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.
"My name is Bragi Runarsson." He inclined his head, a gesture of respect that was almost a bow. "The High King sent me."
Torin slowly stood up, and Echo followed suit, her hackles rising slightly at the stranger's presence. He kept his grip on the spear.
"To do what, I wonder?" He eyed Bragi up and down, taking in the man's well-built physique, the way he held himself, the calluses on his hands that didn't match the clothes he wore. "You don't look like a courtier."
Bragi chuckled—a low, warm sound.
"I'll take that as a compliment. I'm a skald." He extended a hand toward Torin. "I'm here to ensure you look presentable to our prospective allies in Daggerfall."
Torin's eyebrow rose, but he took Bragi's hand into his own nonetheless. The grip was firm, the palm rough with years of string-playing and sword-handling.
"Oh? Then you must have been there, no?"
Bragi nodded as he shook Torin's hand and then let go.
"Aye. Most skalds travel Skyrim, writing songs of the foes they slew on its snow and mountains." He shrugged. "I myself ventured to High Rock. Spent a few years in Daggerfall, Wayrest, even a summer in Orsinium." He paused. "Learned a thing or two about their customs. Their fashions. Their expectations."
Torin nodded, his interest piqued.
"Alright then. So, what are we doing?"
Bragi gestured with his hand, and Torin followed his finger to a building a short walk away. A sign hung at its door, painted with elegant script: Radiant Raiment.
"First, we need to get you some proper clothes." Bragi turned back to Torin, his expression serious. "A change of clothes that reflects our culture without offending the Bretons. They're particular about such things."
Torin looked at him, then down at his own armor—a practical mix of leather and fur, worn from years of use, stained in places that no amount of washing could fix.
"What's wrong with what I'm wearing?"
Bragi shook his head, a faint smile tugging at his lips.
"Aside from the fact that the Bretons will assume we sent a begger to aid them?" He paused. "Many things. The leather's scuffed. The fur's matted. The metal's scratched. It looks like you've been sleeping in it—which you probably have, knowing your reputation." He spread his hands. "To a Breton noble, appearance is everything. If you walk into their court looking like you just wrestled a bear, they'll dismiss you before you open your mouth."
Torin opened his mouth, then closed it, both amused and offended. He shook his head.
"And I thought we were starting to become friends."
Bragi's grin widened.
"There's still time for us to build our friendship." He gestured toward the Radiant Raiment. "For now, there are two Altmer ladies in there, eagerly waiting to take your measurements."
Torin groaned.
...
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