Seven hours later, the crisp evening air of the White River valley was filled with the scent of damp earth and pine. They had made camp a respectful distance from the shadow of a ruined watchtower that stood sentinel over a bend in the river, its crumbling silhouette a stark black against the deepening twilight.
Torin finished coaxing the campfire to life, the fledgling flames dancing over the dry tinder and beginning to lick at the larger logs. Satisfied, he sat back on his heels and cast a brief glance toward Skjor.
The veteran warrior was a picture of focused efficiency, using a sharp dagger to cleanly skin a rabbit he'd snared, his movements economical and devoid of wasted motion.
Torin's attention then drifted to the riverbank, where Echo was engaged in a battle of wits against the water's inhabitants. The young bear crouched low, her entire body quivering with intensity, her dark eyes fixed on the silvery shapes darting just beneath the surface.
After a long moment of silent, predatory observation, she lashed out with a swift paw.
The result was a loud splash that soaked her muzzle and did little more than startle the fish. A low, rumbling growl of frustration vibrated in her chest. She swiped again, this time with more fury than finesse.
The force of her blow sent a spray of water arcing into the air and, miraculously, launched a small, flapping fish onto the bank beside her.
With a clumsy lunge, she tried to snap it up, but only succeeded in having it smack against her snout before it wriggled back into the safety of the current.
This indignity seemed to be the final straw.
A full-throated grumble of outrage escaped her, and she began to swipe at the water in a furious, uncoordinated frenzy, determined to punish the entire river for its defiance.
Torin watched the spectacle for a full minute, a slow grin spreading across his face at her stubborn struggle. Shaking his head in fond exasperation, he finally turned away.
The sky was already a deep indigo, the first stars pricking through the canopy. Pushing further into troll country in the absolute dark was folly, so he might as well make use of the time.
He reached into his satchel, his fingers closing around the soft, lilac-colored leather of the enchantment tome Skjor had given him.
He had just opened the cover, his eyes falling upon the first intricate diagram of a soul gem conduit, when Skjor's voice cut through the quiet, its gravelly tone laced with genuine curiosity.
"I don't understand your interest in that," Skjor said, not looking up from his task. He gestured with the tip of his dagger toward the book. "Magic. From what Kodlak and the whelps say, you're not so weak that you have to rely on it. You can swing a hammer well enough."
Torin's finger paused on the page. He looked from the complex arcane schematics to Skjor's hands, which were calmly and competently dealing with the visceral, physical reality of their dinner.
It was a question he'd been asked before, in various ways, but never with this particular blend of confusion and blunt pragmatism.
He closed the book slowly, but kept his place with a finger. "It's not about weakness," he replied, his voice measured.
"It's about tools. You wouldn't use a skinning knife to chop firewood, or a warhammer to field-dress a rabbit." He nodded toward the skinned carcass. "Magic is just another tool. One that can do things a hammer never could."
The fire crackled, its light carving planes of shadow and gold on Skjor's scarred face. He finally looked up from his work, his single good eye fixing on Torin with an unnerving stillness.
"True enough," Skjor conceded, his voice a low rumble. "But a hammer is a good enough tool for a warrior's purpose. Always has been, always will be. And the Companions," he stated, as if reciting an immutable law, "are warriors."
A slow, deeply amused smile spread across Torin's face. He leaned back, bracing himself on his hands. "You've been with us for what? A week now? And you're trying to lecture someone who's lived in Jorrvaskr since he was in swaddling clothes about what it means to be a Companion?" The question was laced not with anger, but with a wry, almost proprietary amusement.
Skjor let out a short, sharp chuckle, the sound like rocks grinding together. "You might have been a Companion before me, boy, but I've been a warrior since long before you were born." He shook his head, a gesture that was more weary than dismissive. "And it wasn't my intention to offend. I'm simply curious. You're… rather strange."
Torin's shoulders lifted in a faint, nonchalant shrug. "Let's just say my aspirations for the future aren't limited to swinging steel for coin. Might be that it's enough for many people. But it's not enough for me."
His gaze drifted past Skjor, toward the star-dusted peaks of the distant mountains, as if he could see something there that others could not.
Now finished with preparing the rabbit, Skjor skewered it with a practiced thrust and set it carefully over the flames. The fat began to sizzle, releasing a savory scent that made Echo lift her head from the riverbank and sniff the air with interest.
Skjor hummed, a low, thoughtful sound. "Fair enough," he said, the words carrying a note of genuine concession. "I can respect that. A man should have ambitions that match his capabilities."
He adjusted the skewer, his movements precise. "Be that as it may," he began, his tone shifting into something lighter, almost joking, "have you figured out that 'problem' you have with me yet?"
Torin's expression remained deadpan. "Not yet," he replied, his voice dry as dust. "Could be anything at this point. Your face, for example, isn't particularly pleasing to look at for extended periods."
Skjor snorted, a genuine laugh escaping him. "Funny. Women seem to like it just fine, boy."
Torin rolled his eyes so hard it was a wonder they didn't stick. "The womenfolk in Skyrim will swoon over a troll if it can swing an axe well enough and bring home a fresh deer. Your standards for admiration are perilously low, old man."
A genuine, if rough, grin split Skjor's features. "Then it seems we'll have to break the hearts of many maidens once we find that troll..."
A chuckle escaped Torin's mouth, but he didn't bother to reply. Instead, he buried his head back into his book as Skjor continued to watch over the fire.
The tension was still there, but it had been considerably diluted. The sight of Echo trotting back triumphantly with a silver fish in her mouth before lying down and gnawing on it near the fire didn't hurt either.
...
The journey had eaten up another day, and by the time they reached Ivarstead, a deep, velvety night had settled over the Rift. The place was less a town and more a stubborn collection of wooden buildings huddled together for warmth, their thatched roofs dark and damp with mist from the colossal waterfall that thundered beside the sawmill.
A handful of vegetable patches and animal pens carved order into the wilderness, but the real giants were the tall, golden-leaved trees that stood guard everywhere, their branches like skeletal fingers against the starry sky.
Torin's eyes were drawn past the sleepy settlement, up to the sheer, intimidating bulk of the Throat of the World. There, at its foot, the first of the Seven Thousand Steps began their winding ascent into the clouds.
A flicker of excitement and axousness went through him. Their target was up there, a troll that had decided a pilgrim highway made for a good larder.
The contract had come by letter, anonymous. Most likely a scared pilgrim who'd made it down alive after encountering the beast, or maybe one of Ivarstead's few residents, worried that news of a maneater would scare off what little visitors the town received, starving it of business and coin completely.
He was just taking in the quiet, mist-shrouded scene when it happened.
A howl tore through the night.
It wasn't the long, lonely call of a regular wolf. He'd heard those plenty, a common soundtrack to Skyrim's darkness. This was different. This was raw, ragged, and vicious, a sound that promised torn flesh and hot blood.
It was a sound he'd only ever heard on certain nights in Jorvaskrr, but this was different. It was a cursed shriek, filled with an ancient, frenzied hunger rather than a simple lust for the Hunt.
His body went rigid. "A werewolf," he muttered, the word leaving his lips in a frosty puff. His hand went to the haft of his warhammer, his eyes frantically scanning the dark tree line, trying to pinpoint the source.
Beside him, Echo let out a low, nervous whine. She pressed her furry body tight against his leg, a solid, trembling weight. The fur along her spine was standing straight up, and her head swiveled, nostrils flaring as she sniffed the air, sensing a predator that made the fish in the river seem like a childish game.
The peaceful mountain night was suddenly gone, replaced by a tension that felt like a drawn bowstring.
The raw, feral sound still seemed to hang in the air, raising the hairs on Torin's neck. But beside him, Skjor just let out a weary sigh, as if he'd heard a dog whining for scraps.
"Come on," Skjor grunted, his voice cutting through the tension. "Let's find an inn and get off our feet. We've got a long climb ahead of us in the morning."
The simple, practical words were a bucket of cold water on Torin's rising anxiety. Whatever that thing was, it wasn't their problem.
Their contract was a troll on the mountain, not a shapeshifter in the woods. The best thing to do was hole up in the relative safety of four walls, get some rest, and be gone at first light.
The many town guards could handle it, even without their involvement.
"Alright," Torin agreed, his own voice sounding a bit steadier. He gave Echo a reassuring pat on the head, and for once, she allowed it, likely too occupied with the perceived threat to care.
They soon found the Vilemyr Inn, the only one in town, and pushed open the heavy wooden door. The warm, smoky air inside was a stark contrast to the chill night. The scene was classic Skyrim: a fire crackled in the hearth, a bard was tuning his lute half-heartedly, and a couple of locals were nursing their drinks in a corner.
The sight of their little party, however, brought the quiet hum of the inn to a dead stop. Skjor, a mountain of a man covered in scars and steel, and Torin, a youth with the build of a seasoned fighter and the eyes of someone much older, were intimidating enough.
But Echo, a ball of fur and claws padding along behind them, was the real showstopper. The bard's fingers froze on his strings, the innkeeper paused mid-wipe of a tankard, and the two drinkers looked up, their conversation dying in their throats.
Skjor ignored the stares like a ship ignores sea foam. He strode right up to the counter. "Two rooms. Three portions for dinner and breakfast. How much?"
The innkeeper, a balding man with a nervous look, swallowed visibly. "That'll be… twenty-five septims," he managed. He then gestured weakly toward Echo. "But your, uh… your bear, friend. It'll have to wait outside. Can't have it scaring my customers."
Torin stepped forward, his expression softening into what he hoped was a reassuring smile. "I assure you, she's very well-behaved. She won't cause any trouble."
The innkeeper shook his head, his expression genuinely apologetic but firm. "Regardless, it's just not possible, lad."
Torin's friendly facade cracked, replaced by a frown. He was tired, hungry, and on edge. "Look, if you're just trying to shake us down for more coin, just say it. I don't mind paying extra, just don't waste my time."
"That's not it, friend, I swear," the innkeeper said, his voice dropping into a low, confidential tone. He cast a wary glance toward one of the closed doors leading to the inn's rooms. "I usually wouldn't mind. But… I have guests of a… noble nature staying the night. They would not appreciate sharing the same roof with a beast."
Torin's face darkened. The innkeeper's stance was rigid, his expression a mix of apology and stubborn fear. It was clear he wasn't going to budge. Torin's gaze dropped to Echo, who was still pressed against his leg, her ears twitching at every faint sound from outside.
She was used to sleeping in the open air, of course, and he'd fully intended to let her bed down outside. But that was before they reached Ivarstead. Before the howl.
The thought of leaving her out there alone, a potential snack for whatever monstrous thing was prowling the shadows, made his stomach clench. The idea was rejected before it could even fully form.
"Fine," Torin grumbled, the word sharp with frustration. He shot the innkeeper a look that was pure ice. "Keep your room, then. I'll sleep outside."
He didn't wait for a reply or a protest. Turning on his heel, he pushed the heavy door open and strode back out into the cold night, the warmth and light of the inn vanishing behind him. Echo, sensing his decision, trotted nervously at his heels.
Inside, Skjor fixed the innkeeper with a glare that could have curdled milk. The veteran warrior didn't say a word, but the promise of possible unpleasantness was clear in his single, piercing eye.
The innkeeper flinched, looking genuinely miserable.
With a disgusted sigh that spoke volumes, Skjor turned and followed his young shield-brother out, letting the door slam shut behind him.
The brief comfort of a roof and a warm meal was gone, traded for the uncertain dark and the echo of a feral howl.
...
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