Torin watched the stag beat the ground with its hoof, the impact sending a tremor through the earth, and raised an eyebrow. The creature's blue eyes were fixed on him with an intensity that spoke of purpose, not the resigned look of caught prey.
"Let me guess..." He crossed his arms, a wry smile tugging at his lips. "We're fighting now?"
The stag simply let out a snort—a sharp, dismissive sound—and charged.
Both Torin and Echo moved aside, their bodies flowing out of the beast's path with practiced ease.
The stag sped past them horns-first, its massive antlers lowered like a battering ram. It was moving so fast, it couldn't manage to stop itself from crashing into the tree behind them, its horns embedding deep into the trunk with a splintering crack.
Torin looked at it and chuckled, a low, amused sound.
"Maybe you're not as smart as I first—"
His words died in his mouth as the stag snapped its neck back. The tree groaned, its roots tearing free from the earth with a sound like grinding stone, and the massive trunk soared into the air, roots and all, dirt still clinging to them.
It hung there for a moment, silhouetted against the moonlight, before beginning its descent straight toward him.
"Motherfucker..." Torin muttered, his eyes widening.
The corners of his lips slowly began to rise as magicka coursed through his veins. His already towering physique grew larger, his muscles swelling, his bones elongating. His skin darkened, taking on the sheen of polished ebony as the spell settled over him like a second skin.
"Let's fucking do this!" he roared, his fist clenched, his voice echoing through the clearing. He leaped upward, his body a blur of motion, and met the descending tree right in the middle of the trunk.
His fist connected with a thunderous crack, and the massive trunk snapped into two halves that hit the ground on either side of him, sending up clouds of dirt and wood shrapnel.
Wood shards rained down around him, and dust rose from the ground, but his eyes—now glinting with excitement—remained fixed on the stag as it began to charge him once more.
This time, Torin didn't bother to dodge. He brandished Skaldrfong and stabbed it into the ground, the blade sinking deep into the earth with a solid thunk.
His hands empty, he raised them, palms open, fingers spread wide, facing the charging beast.
The stag closed the distance in a heartbeat, its massive form bearing down on him like an avalanche. Torin's fingers interlocked with its horns, his grip locking around the antlers as he tried to stop its charge.
The impact was brutal—his left shoulder instantly dislocated with a sickening pop, and the stag pushed him a fair distance across the clearing, his boots carving deep furrows in the earth before he finally managed to halt its momentum.
That's going to hurt in the morning, he thought, his jaw tight.
With his good hand still gripping the horns, Torin let out a grunt of effort and raised the stag high, his muscles straining, before slamming it into the ground with a thunderous crash that shook the clearing.
The stag slowly stood up, shaking its head, clearly dazed but far from defeated. Torin watched it, swaying his dislocated shoulder left and right, his face twisted in concentration.
He let out a sharp breath, then punched his right fist into his left shoulder, forcing the joint back into place with a wet, grinding pop.
The stag waited until he was done—patient, almost courteous—before letting out another snort and charging once more.
Torin assumed the same position, his hands raised, his body braced for impact. But the beast wasn't so simple-minded. Right before impact, it halted its steps, rising on its hind legs, its massive hooves raised high. Then it brought them down on Torin with crushing force.
His eyes widened, but he quickly gathered his wits and reacted. His right hand rose, and the shield unfolded from the vambrace in a cascade of metallic plates, snapping into place just in time. The stag's hooves connected with the shield, and Torin's feet sunk deep into the ground, but the bulk of the force was absorbed by the enchanted metal.
Then, without ceremony, Torin planted his fist into the stag's exposed belly, the blow landing with a meaty thud. The beast's eyes went wide, and it ragdolled backward, its legs flailing as it crashed onto the ground.
As Echo watched from the sidelines, her massive form still and alert, the stag slowly stood up with what could only be an expression of irritation on its face.
Its blue eyes had narrowed, its nostrils flared, and its ears were flat against its skull—the unmistakable look of a creature that was not accustomed to being thrown to the ground.
Torin on the other hand merely grinned, waving his shield arm up and down in a casual, almost mocking gesture.
"That's what we call human ingenuity," he said, his voice carrying a note of pride. "It's what separates my kind from yours."
The stag seemed even more annoyed at those words. Its eyes began to glow a vibrant green, the light spreading through its pupils like a slow tide.
The forest around them began to shift—the trees creaking, the ground trembling.
Vines began to descend from the surrounding branches, their tendrils uncoiling like serpents. From the bases of the trees, long roots wormed out of the ground, snaking toward Torin with deliberate, predatory intent.
"Well, shit..." he muttered, his hand outstretched as he called his weapon.
Instantly, Skaldrfong materialized into his hand, the familiar weight of the spear settling into his grip.
The vines and roots creeped closer, their movements slow but inexorable. Torin was just about ready for a spear throw aimed at the stag when Echo suddenly let out a growl and stepped in between them.
The vines and roots halted, their advance stalling as if they had hit an invisible wall. Torin himself lowered the spear, his brow furrowing.
"What is it, girl?"
Echo ignored him. She simply stared at the stag, her dark eyes fixed on its glowing green gaze, before letting out another growl—a low, rumbling sound that seemed to carry a message.
She then pointed with her paw behind the stag, in the same direction where the yew tree with the cubs lay.
The stag let out a snort, a puff of mist escaping its nostrils, and its eyes stopped glowing. The vines retreated into the trees, their tendrils curling back into the branches. The roots sank back into the earth, disappearing as if they had never been there.
The stag then slowly walked past Echo and toward Torin. It stopped before him, its massive frame towering over him, and lowered its head very slightly.
One tip of its fell to the ground, white and gleaming, and the stag kicked it toward Torin.
It let out another snort, then turned around and slowly trotted away, its white form disappearing into the shadows of the forest.
Torin bent down and picked up the fragment, turning it over in his hand.
Proof, he thought. Neat.
He looked at Echo, who was now standing beside him, her expression unreadable.
"Did you threaten to eat its kids or something, girl?"
Echo let out a very loud, very annoyed grunt and roughly headbutted Torin's side with her head. Her actions only made him laugh loudly, but he raised his hands in surrender nonetheless.
"Alright, alright, I'm sorry.... and thanks, girl."
...
Covered in grime from a full day's chase and subsequent fight against the stag, Torin let out a long, weary sigh as he walked through the gates of Daggerfall.
Echo followed beside him, her fur matted with mud and tangled with leaves and branches—she looked as tired as he felt, her head low, her ears drooping.
Torin and Echo liked the fresh air as much as the next man and bear. But spending so much time in the forest chasing what was essentially a proverbial wild goose that could uproot trees half as tall as a city wall, anyone would find themselves appreciating the choked atmosphere of a crowded city.
The streets were bustling with the evening crowd—merchants closing up their stalls, workers heading home, the occasional noble in fine silks being carried through the press in a sedan chair.
The smell of roasting meat and fresh bread mingled with the less pleasant odors of horse dung and unwashed bodies, and Torin found himself savoring it all.
Civilization, he thought. Stinking, crowded, beautiful civilization.
Just as he turned toward the direction of the inn, intent on showering and getting some sleep before heading to the palace, a figure appeared before him—short, veiled in a black cloak that obscured its features.
The figure stepped into his path with the deliberate confidence of someone who had been waiting for him.
"Did you succeed in your test?" The voice was low, familiar.
Torin didn't feel like answering the question. His eyes narrowed as he stared at the cloaked figure, his hand resting casually on the haft of Skáldrfang.
"You again." His voice was flat. "Are you Duke Armand's man?"
The cloaked figure chuckled, a soft, amused sound.
"No. But I do have a vested interest in seeing him succeed." The figure gave Torin an up-and-down glance, taking in his disheveled appearance, the dirt caked on his armor, the fragment of antler tucked into his belt. "Alas, it seems you're intent on making my life more difficult. You don't look like a man who's returned a failure."
Torin crossed his arms, his jaw tight.
"I don't see how that's any of your business." His gaze hardened. "Hurry up and tell me what you want so I can decide whether to punch you or just walk away."
The figure raised his head, and Torin could see his lips rising into a smile—a thin, knowing expression that made his blood simmer.
"I only wish to make my life easier," the cloaked figure said, his voice smooth as oil. "And by association, yours."
He shook his head slowly, a gesture of mock pity.
"I don't know how you expect your duel with the Bannerless Knight to go, but I can tell you this—it won't be easy."
Torin scoffed, his hand still resting on Skaldrfong's haft.
"I'm not expecting easy."
The cloaked figure let out a laugh—one that sounded mocking, almost pitying.
"This isn't about skill or strength, young man. Garran Holt is desperate. He's fighting for someone else, not himself. He has nothing to lose and everything to gain." He shook his head slowly. "He'll kill you or die before allowing you to win."
Torin's face instantly darkened, a cold fire flickering behind his eyes.
"And you think I'm not willing to put my life on the line to fight?" He stepped closer, towering over the cloaked figure, his voice dropping to a low growl. "You fucking milk-drinker... are you questioning my honor?"
The cloaked figure shook his head, his smile unwavering.
"Not your honor, but perhaps your wisdom. There are easier ways to achieve your goals, if you'd simply—"
He had to stop there as Torin interjected, his voice flat and cold.
"You know what?" His fist clenched, rising toward the hooded figure. "I've made up my mind. I think I'll just punch you and be done with your nonsense"
...
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