Soon enough, Torin found himself in the Radiant Raiment in nothing but his pants. The two Altmer sisters, Taarie and Endarie, circled him like hawks sizing up a particularly scruffy rabbit, their measuring tapes snapping and their lips pursed in barely concealed disapproval.
If Bragi's choice words about how Torin presented himself hadn't been biting enough, the sisters' commentary alone would have been enough to peel an entire layer of Torin's thick skin.
They commented on everything—the width of his shoulders ("unnecessarily broad"), the length of his arms ("like a troll's"), the calluses on his hands ("you do know they make gloves, yes?"), and the general state of his wardrobe ("I've seen beggars with better taste").
Torin endured it all with the stoic patience of a man who had faced down Daedra and lived to tell the tale.
Still, they worked quickly, much to Torin's relief. They measured and pinned and muttered, occasionally exchanging words with Bragi about what to include or exclude—certain embroidery symbols that Bretons might find distasteful, colors that carried political significance, fabrics that would breathe well in High Rock's coastal climate.
Bragi seemed to know exactly what he was doing, nodding and suggesting and occasionally overruling the sisters with the quiet authority of someone who had done this before. After what felt like an eternity, Torin was dragged to the blacksmith next. Another measuring session, this time with steel and leather instead of silk and linen.
Beirand, the smith, was a stout Nord with arms like tree trunks and a permanent scowl etched into his weathered face. Unlike the Altmer sisters, who criticized Torin's fashion choices, Beirand simply grumbled about his size.
"Damned near broke my measuring stick," he muttered, squinting at the numbers. "Outfitting you with an entire suit of armor is too much work. Too much metal. Too much leather. Every piece has to be perfect or the whole thing's ruined."
He shook his head. "The bigger the piece, the more concentration it takes. One slip, one mistake, and I've wasted a week's worth of work."
Bragi, standing nearby with his arms crossed, proceeded to provide a list of items to avoid in decorating the armor. No white fur—such creatures were rare and almost always protected by spriggans, which were deeply respected by the Wyrd and druidic communities of High Rock. No symbols of Talos, for obvious political reasons. No depictions of wolves or ravens, which were considered ill omens in certain Breton circles.
Torin listened to this thoughtfully.
Sure enough, this Bragi fellow knows his stuff.
This was a man who had studied the Bretons, who understood their customs and their sensitivities, who could navigate their society without offending anyone, not a random bard moonlighting as a babysitter.
As expected of Torygg. The High King didn't half-ass things, that was for sure.
Torin had many questions to ask Bragi about the Bretons—their politics, their history, their magical traditions—but he was too mentally spent to bother. The measuring had drained him, the constant stream of information had exhausted him, and all he wanted was to collapse into a bed and sleep for twelve hours.
Fortunately, he was finally free. The sisters had finished. Beirand had retreated to his forge, already muttering about the challenges of armoring someone Torin's size. Bragi had provided a list of recommendations for Torin to review later.
But for now, there was a bed in the Winking Skeever calling his name.
Torin walked to the inn, Echo padding beside him, and was relieved to find that they were willing to make an exception for her, per the high king's instructions.
It sure was convenient having friends in high places.
Torin climbed the stairs, found his room, and collapsed onto the bed without even bothering to remove his boots. Echo circled once, twice, then settled on the floor beside him, her warm bulk pressed against the bedframe.
Within minutes, they were both asleep.
...
Soon, it was time to finally depart, and Torin, spear resting on his shoulder, found himself wearing a full suit of quicksilver and steel alloy, held together by leather strips and adorned with the belt of a sabre cat as a cloak.
The cat's head—minus its lower jaw—rested on his left shoulder, its glass eyes gleaming in the pale morning light. The armor fit perfectly, moving with him rather than against him, a show of Beirand's skill despite all his grumbling.
He stood on the port, watching workers load supplies and luggage into the ship, Snow Gale, while soldiers and servants boarded. The vessel was a sleek, three-masted Nord ship, built for speed and endurance, its hull painted in the blue and white of Solitude's colors.
Even if he was expected to do most of the work, the notion of sending Torin alone was ludicrous.
Not only would sending more people to handle the menial tasks make his mission easier, but failing to send a proper entourage might be taken as an insult by the Bretons. Or so Bragi had said, not that Torin cared much either way.
Apparently, the sea giants raiding Daggerfall were less like the backward behemoths you'd find on the shores of Solstheim, and more like a well-organized mob of pirates.
In other words, he was up against a fleet of pirates, each of whom could hurl a cart over a city wall, and if that wasn't enough, they were capable of strategizing as well as, maybe even better than, any band of brigands out there.
It was a different kind of threat than Torin was used to, but even then, he wasn't phased. He never shied away from a fight. In fact, solving problems with violence and brute strength was his preferred method to navigate life.
If all he had to do was kill some giant pirates and go home, he'd never complain. But Torin wasn't foolish enough to expect things to go this easily for him on this trip. Or for anything to be simple.
Bretons were infamous for their political schemes and skulduggery. There was nothing simple about dealing with them. The sea giants were just the excuse; the real challenge would be navigating the courts of Daggerfal without punching anyone in the mouth.
Just as he was about to board the ship himself, he paused at the sight of a redheaded Breton in a red dress approaching him. She moved with an easy grace that was somehow unsettling—too smooth, too controlled, the kind of grace that came from centuries of practice rather than a single lifetime.
Torin's eyes narrowed as he recognized her. Sybille Stentor, Solitude's court wizard. And, as he knew from memories of another life, secretly a vampire.
It didn't take long for her to come to a halt in front of Torin. The red dress billowed slightly in the sea breeze, and her pale eyes studied him with an intensity that was unsettling—the kind of gaze that seemed to see through flesh and bone into something deeper.
Echo, apparently sensing something from the court wizard, raised her head and let out a low growl—a rumbling sound that vibrated through her chest. The noise drew a few glances from the sailors, but none of them approached.
Torin instantly gave Echo a pat on the head.
"Easy girl. We're all friends here." He turned to Sybille, his expression neutral. "Do you need something from me, Lady Stentor?"
Sybille's lips curled into a faint smirk—amused, perhaps, or simply pleased that he'd used her title.
"Lady Stentor," she repeated, as if tasting the words. "How quaint." She shook her head. "No matter. I'm here to inquire about your research at the College. The one involving lycanthropy."
Torin raised an eyebrow.
"What of it?"
Sybille clasped her hands behind her back, her posture relaxed, almost casual.
"You do realize that lycanthropy isn't the only ailment—or curse, rather—of its nature that affects the soul, don't you?" Her expression turned meaningful, her pale eyes locking onto his. "Do you intend to research cures for other such cases? Or at least, study them?"
Torin crossed his arms.
"I'm going to assume you're talking about vampirism." He paused, barely holding back the urge to smirk as Sybille's eyes narrowed and her expression darkened. It was almost imperceptible—a tightening around her eyes, a slight stiffening in her posture—but he caught it. "Because I honestly can't think of another sickness that affects the soul quite the same way."
Sybille's expression relaxed again, though her eyes remained watchful.
"Indeed. I meant vampirism." She paused. "Amongst other things."
Torin rolled his eyes internally at the poor attempt of misdirection but kept a calm expression.
"I don't know how much you know about lycanthropy, which—unlike the well-studied and thoroughly recorded field of vampirism—is a neglected field of study."
He shrugged. "But the fact that both affect the soul is where their similarities end. The two curses are fundamentally different, and they require entirely different approaches to study, let alone cure."
Sybille frowned, her pale eyes narrowing slightly.
"Do explain."
Torin let out a hum, pausing for a moment to think before speaking. The sea breeze tugged at his cloak, and Echo pressed her warmth against his leg as he gathered his thoughts.
"It's about how they affect the mortals afflicted with them," he said finally. "Vampirism is a disease that changes you inside and out. It's a transition into undeath. A fundamental transformation of both body and soul. Your heart goes still. Your digestive system becomes practically obsolete. Your very soul twists into something that fits your new, upgraded vessel." He gestured to the side, his hand cutting through the air. "Everything about you becomes something else. Something that isn't quite mortal anymore."
Sybille nodded along as he spoke, her expression thoughtful but unreadable.
"And lycanthropy is different how?"
Torin took a breath, letting it out slowly.
"Lycanthropy is also a disease, but it doesn't affect the body as much as it affects the soul."
He paused, making sure his words were clear. "When a werewolf transforms into his beast form, they're embodying the perfect vessel for their bestial soul. The body changes to match what the soul has become. But the transformation is difficult, and complicated—which is why it happens mostly at night, under the moon's influence."
He smiled, a wry expression. "It's also why many werewolves lose their minds and turn feral. The soul is too much for the body to handle, or the mind is too weak tosupress a wolve's feral instincts, so they get stuck as werewolves."
He paused, letting that sink in.
"However, once a werewolf reverts to his mortal form, his body returns to its unaltered state. The same body he had before he was infected, albeit stronger and more durable. Until his bestial soul is stimulated again, he's just a man."
Sybille now looked very thoughtful, her fingers steepled in front of her lips.
"In other words... to cure lycanthropy, you need to cure the soul." She paused. "But vampires..."
Torin nodded.
"You need to treat the soul and revert the body back to a mortal state. The body has been permanently altered—undead, with all the physical changes that implies. To cure a vampire, you'd need to reverse those changes while also healing whatever corruption has taken hold of their soul."
He shook his head. "Which is easier said than done."
Sybille was silent for a long moment before she spoke, her pale eyes fixed on the distant horizon where the sea met the sky.
"I see," she said quietly. Her voice was measured, controlled—the voice of someone who had learned long ago to reveal nothing of what she truly felt. "And has no one at the College studied the cure for vampirism?"
Torin stopped to think, his brow furrowing as he searched his memory.
"There was Fallion, or so I was told," he said finally. "But he quit the College sometime before I joined. Heard he left under a bit of a cloud, though no one would tell me exactly what happened."
Sybille's expression shifted—a flicker of interest, quickly suppressed.
"What are the credentials of this Fallion? And where would I be able to find him?"
Torin shrugged, his hand still resting on Echo's head.
"He was a master of Conjuration and Necromancy. Our resident master of Conjuration at the College—Phinis Gestor—was actually his student." He tilted his head, considering. "As for his whereabouts, I wouldn't know. I did hear that he'd found something worth studying in the swamps of Morthal." He paused. "I'd look for him there."
Sybille nodded slowly, her pale eyes glinting with something that might have been satisfaction.
"Very well, Storm-Caller. Thank you for your time. I shan't take any more of it." She turned to the side and smirked—a thin, knowing expression. "Someone more important demands your attention now."
Torin followed her gaze to see the High King walking toward the ship, accompanied by another, rather familiar figure. A young Redguard with a sword that had a broken blade hanging on his hip and a pious expression on his face, as if he was constantly contemplating the mysteries of the universe.
Torin's stomach dropped.
Oh for fuck's sake, he thought. What is he doing here?
...
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