"...and that's why I'll need to capture feral werewolves and perform magical experiments on them."
Torin sat opposite Kodlak in the Harbinger's quarters, studying the old man's expression. The fire crackled between them, casting dancing shadows on the stone walls.
Kodlak's face was unreadable—calm, patient, the same expression he'd worn when Torin was a child confessing to some mischief.
Kodlak simply and calmly said, "I understand."
The counterarguments that Torin had spent the entire journey from Winterhold to Whiterun preparing—the careful reasoning, the logical rebuttals, the explanations—died in his throat.
"Really?" He blinked. "Just like that?"
Kodlak gave him a knowing look, the corner of his mouth twitching.
"I may share our kinsmen's distrust of the arcane, but not their ignorance."
He let out a sigh, leaning back in his chair. "Unlike them, I know both the wonderful and horrible things magic can bring about. I had to know if I wanted to raise you right."
Torin felt his brow twitch.
"The more you bring up my upbringing, the more I realize what a pain in the ass I was."
Kodlak chuckled. "You were. You are. You always will be."
Torin cleared his throat.
"In any case... since you approve of—or at least tolerate—my methods, I'm sure you can help me capture a few were—"
That was all Torin could say before Kodlak firmly shook his head.
"No. I cannot." The old man's voice was gentle but absolute. "Will not."
Torin simply stared at him for a moment, the words hanging in the air between them. Then he let out a long, tired sigh.
"Why?"
Kodlak crossed his arms over his chest.
"I'm too old to be hunting werewolves, boy. I'd rather not die with the beast curse still latched to my soul." His expression hardened. "And don't even think about asking me to make your brothers and sisters capture those werewolves."
He shook his head again.
"Killing feral werewolves is already very difficult. Dangerous. We lose warriors to them often." He met Torin's eyes. "Capturing them alive? That would cause many deaths. Too many."
Torin opened his mouth, closed it, and looked down at the floor.
Shit... he's completely right, Torin thought.
He lightly slapped the table with his palms and stood up. "Fine. I won't ask you to do it..." He headed toward the exit. "I'll just ask them myself."
Kodlak looked at his back figure with wide eyes. He opened his mouth to object, but ultimately chose silence. He knew Torin well enough to understand that no words he could say would dissuade him.
And at the end of the day, if the other bubs wanted to help him, then he couldn't exactly stop them either. The old harbinger could only watch Torin, this troublesome child, disappear into the hallway and pray that his eagerness won't lead him and his siblings to harm...
"Shor preserve us..."
...
The Bannered Mare was as busy as ever. The sound of mugs hitting tables, the bard's off-key singing, and the endless chatter of dozens of conversations echoed across the entire tavern.
The place was bursting with patrons—farmers and merchants, mercenaries and travelers, all crammed together under the low wooden ceiling, all drinking and shouting and laughing.
Except for the second floor, which Torin had reserved for the day after offering Hulda enough coin to close the entire upper level. The innkeeper had looked at the bag of septims, looked at Torin, and decided that whatever he was planning was none of her business.
As he sat at his table, waiting for the others to arrive, he couldn't help but overhear the conversation of a couple of drunks at the bar. They were particularly loud—the kind of loud that came from too much mead and not enough sense.
"You hear about that... that Redguard mercenary making a name for himself...?" one of them said, sloshing his mug as he gestured.
Another chuckled, his beard dripping with ale. "Ahye.... I hear they call him the ar... Arterial Swordsman or something... because his blade is see-through." He squinted. "Can you believe it? A see-through... blade!"
The first drunk hiccupped. "What I can't believe... is your ignorance." He jabbed a finger at his companion. "It's bac... bacte... bacterial, you idiot. Not arterial."
Hulda, passing by with two bottles of mead, overheard the conversation. She paused, set the bottles down, and fixed the drunks with a flat stare.
"Ethereal," she said.
The two drunks stared at her blankly.
"That's the word you're looking for." She picked up her tray. "Ethereal."
Then she turned and walked away.
The first drunk blinked slowly. "Right... material... that's what I was saying."
The second drunk nodded sagely. "Yeah... imperial. So what about him?"
The first drunk stared into space for a long moment, clearly having forgotten what he was about to say. His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.
It took a few seconds, but he remembered eventually.
"Oh. Yeah. I heard..." He leaned in conspiratorially. "I heard he took down an entire nest of chaurus... all by himself!" He shook his head with a disgusted expression. "Horrible creatures. Those oversized bugs."
Torin raised an eyebrow.
An ethereal Redguard swordsman killing monsters.
He'd know that description anywhere. Qasim was still lingering in Skyrim, apparently—still chasing after ancient tombs and legendary weapons, still getting himself into trouble that required a sword that could cut through anything.
He was just about to stop listening when the second drunk spoke again.
"That's nothing." The man waved a dismissive hand, sloshing mead onto the bar. "I heard he even took down some kind of... long-dead wizard. At Shearpoint mountain top."
The first drunk stared at him in confusion, his brow furrowing.
"How did he beat him? When he's... you know..." He poked his own chest. "Dead?"
The second drunk gave the first a look that suggested he was dealing with a complete idiot.
"It's because the wizard is undead." He lowered his voice, leaning in. "Some kind of lick or leech or something, they say. Been slumbering for... thousands of years. Waiting for... something."
The first drunk took a long sip from his bottle, considering this.
"Must be... nice." He wiped his mouth with his sleeve. "I only got four hours of... sleep today." He shook his head. "So why'd he... wake up?"
The second drunk scoffed.
"What do you think?" He gestured broadly, nearly knocking over his mug. "It's those damned Thalmor elves.... always poking their noses where... where they don't belong. Digging up old ruins... disturbing ancient tombs, thinking they can control forces they don't understand."
He shook his head.
"They roused that damned lick from its sleep... probably thought they could use it as a weapon or something. Damned Elves..." He took a long drink from his mug. "It killed them, of course.... Before they could even scream I hope..."
The first drunk winced.
"And then it went down the mountain... started venting on everyone else. Travelers. Hunters. Poor bastards just trying to make a living."
He let out a long sigh.
"Luckily that... venereal fellow was around to put it back to sleep." He chuckled, shaking his head. "For good... this time."
Torin let out a low hum.
An undead wizard on Shearpoint mountain top.
He was very familiar with the place—not because he'd been there, but because it was on the top of the list he'd written when he was still new to this world. It was a list of places he needed to avoid at all costs, right alongside Labyrinthian and the deeper ruins of Blackreach. Because Shearpoint had a dragon priest.
So that pain-in-the-ass Qasim was even taking down dragon priests now.
Torin couldn't remember if it was a named dragon priest or a random one—his memories of the topic were vague, and the drunks hadn't exactly been reliable sources—but either way, that wasn't anything to scoff at.
Dragon priests were ancient and Powerful beings, and Torin wanted nothing to do with them. They'd ruled Skyrim in the days when dragons roamed the sky, and their power hadn't faded with time.
Torin was just glad he'd realized what a trouble magnet the preachy bastard was before it was too late. He already had more than enough on his plate, and adding the troubles of some kind of hero wannabe with some kind of epic destiny would have made his life infinitely more complicated than it already was.
He was giving himself a mental pat on the shoulder for his wisdom in choosing what company he kept when the sound of footsteps on the stairs interrupted his thoughts. He turned and grinned at the sight of Auri and Aela making their way up. The two huntresses walked side by side, their strides matched, their expressions animated.
They sat at the table—Aela across from Torin, Auri beside her—and after barely acknowledging his presence with a simple "Torin" and a nod, they continued their discussion about the best kind of prey they'd hunted.
Torin just rolled his eyes and didn't bother them. They were two good friends with a lot in common, and they hadn't seen each other in a while. He was content to let them catch up.
The twins appeared not long after—Farkas and Vilkas, their massive frames filling the stairwell as they climbed. Farkas was grinning, his eyes scanning the room for something to eat. Vilkas had his arms crossed, his expression dark, probably annoyed that he'd been dragged away from his training.
Finally, Skjor and Ghorbash joined them. The old veteran moved stiffly, his joints aching from years of hard living, while the Orsimer's dark eyes swept the room with the calm assessment of a seasoned warrior.
Torin looked around the table at the assembled faces—his shield-siblings, his friends, his allies—and felt something warm settle in his chest.
"We're all here," he said. "Good. Let's begin."
Vilkas frowned, his arms still crossed, his expression wary.
"Begin what, exactly?"
Torin shrugged, leaning back in his chair.
"Let's start with stating what everyone here already knows." He pointed around the table. "You, you, you, you, you, and Kodlak..." His finger landed on Farkas, Vilkas, Aela, Skjor, and Ghorbash. "Are werewolves."
The table went silent.
Eyes widened. Jaws tightened. Hands drifted toward weapons that weren't there. The twins exchanged a glance—something unspoken passing between them. Aela's hand curled into a fist. Skjor's expression hardened into something unreadable.
And then, as one, they turned to look at Auri.
She was sitting calmly, her hands wrapped around a mug of mead, her amber eyes watching the scene with mild interest. She did not look surprised. She did not look shocked. She did not look like someone who had just learned that half the people at the table could turn into ravenous beasts at will.
Aela's brow furrowed.
"I can understand Torin." She gestured at him with her chin. "He's lived in Jorrvaskr his entire life, and he's always been a nosy bastard." Her eyes narrowed. "But how did you—"
Auri let out a sigh and pointed at her nose.
"I have a sharp sense of smell." She took a sip of her mead. "And you people aren't as subtle as you'd like to think."
Aela opened her mouth to reply, but Skjor spoke first.
"I think the better question is, what does that have to do with anything?" He gave Torin a sharp look. "If you brought us here just to preach about the beast blood being a curse, then don't bother. Kodlak's been doing it for months now. We've heard it all before."
Torin quickly gave him a dismissive wave.
"If you want to spend eternity chasing your own tails in Hircine's Hunting Grounds after your death, that's your business." He tapped the table with his index finger. "It matters not to me if that's what you want, but..." He paused. "What you want could well change in the future."
Skjor scoffed.
"So you are here to preach. After all."
Torin shook his head.
"No." He leaned forward, his grey eyes sweeping the table. "I'm here to make sure you lot have options. In case you change your minds when you're older." He paused. "I'm working on a cure for lycanthropy."
The table went still again.
"But I could use some help with securing... test subjects."
...
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