"...so ya see, lad, it ain't much of a big deal." The fisherman said, taking a long swing of his ale bottle and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
He was a wiry old Breton with weathered skin and a thick grey beard, his hands calloused from decades of hauling nets.
"Whenever those giant fellows show up, we fisherfolk just take our sloops somewhere else. We know the coves, the inlets, the places they don't bother goin'. And them merchants with their fancy ships, they just take the scenic route—sail around the coast, avoid the infested waters, arrive a day or two later than planned, maybe even a week. It's an inconvenience, sure, but nothin' worth losin' sleep over."
Torin nodded his head, absorbing the information. The fisherman's casual dismissal of the threat was telling. If the sea giants were truly such a menace, the locals would be more afraid. Instead, they treated the raids like a seasonal nuisance—like bad weather or a particularly aggressive flock of seagulls.
"I see," Torin said. "Thank you for your time."
He reached into his satchel and retrieved a handful of coins, placing them on the table with a soft clink. The silver caught the candlelight, gleaming like captured moonlight.
"Buy your friends a few drinks. On me."
The old fisherman grinned, revealing a gap-toothed smile, and pocketed the coins with surprising speed.
"Will do, lad." He clapped Torin on the shoulder and turned around, heading back to the table full of sailors who were waiting for him.
Torin heard them cheer as the fisherman approached, probably at the prospect of free drinks, and then he turned away, already zoning out of the entire dockside tavern.
He had finally managed to shake off Mathis Renard after two days of the butler sticking to him like a shadow. The man was polite, efficient, and utterly relentless—he'd been waiting outside Torin's room every morning, accompanying him to every meal, hovering at the edges of every conversation.
It had taken a carefully timed distraction—a commotion near the docks, a shout about a runaway cart—for Torin to slip away.
He'd used that time to gather information.
Unfortunately, nobles weren't readily available for him to question. They were sequestered in their manors, surrounded by servants and guards, insulated from the common folk.
And even if he could reach them, Torin doubted he could probe them as easily as the merrymakers in the tavern. They were trained in the art of deception, masters of saying nothing while speaking at length.
That meant he couldn't inquire about the state of the court, the factions, the politics. But that didn't discourage him. He settled for the next best thing, and began to inquire about the alleged yearly sea giant raids that happened every winter.
And from what I've gathered, Torin thought, the sea giants aren't the big problem the Bretons made them out to be.
After talking to the old fisherman, a good number of sailors, and several travelers who'd passed through Daggerfall over the years, a clear picture had emerged. The raids were real, but they were manageable. The fishermen adapted, the merchants rerouted, and neither the kingdom or the city itself had been seriously threatened.
In other words, he mused, the Bretons—more specifically, the queen and her faction—had another purpose in having Torygg send envoys.
What that purpose was, however, Torin couldn't find out. The sailors didn't know, the merchants didn't care, and the fisherman had looked at him like he'd grown a second head when he'd asked.
He let out a sigh as he stood up, pushing his chair back with a soft scrape.
It seems I'll have to return to Skyrim with disappointment this time around. He shook his head slowly. Maybe the idea of making allies of the notoriously treacherous Bretons was too optimistic in the first place...
He walked toward the exit, the noise of the tavern fading behind him as he stepped out into the crowded streets. The afternoon sun was warm on his face, a welcome change from the perpetual grey of Skyrim's skies.
Alongside the Redguards of Hammerfell, he mused, maybe the Orcs of Orsinium would prove better allies. They certainly have no love for the Thalmor, nor do the Thalmor have any for them. And they appreciate strength. They're a straightforward bunch that valued might over all else... if they said they'd do something... they would.
He wove through the crowd, his thoughts churning as he walked.
Daggerfall was... prosperous, in a way that Torin couldn't have imagined. The streets were wide, the buildings tall and well-maintained, the people well-dressed and busy with their affairs.
It was a city that hummed with life, with commerce, and the liveliness of people who'd grown used to peace and prosperity.
He couldn't help but compare it to the cities in Skyrim. All of them, including Solitude, paled in comparison. Whiterun had thousands of people living there, and Solitude perhaps a little over ten thousand. Daggerfall, on the other hand...
There are probably more Nords living here than in Solitude itself, he mused bitterly. And that's just the Nords.
The city was crowded, yes, but it was also beautiful. Clean. Very well maintained. The architecture was elegant, the streets paved with smooth stone, the buildings adorned with carvings and sculptures that spoke of a culture that valued art as much as commerce.
It's a shame to part with it so soon, he thought. But either way, I'll have to wait until I get an excuse before making my way back to Skyrim alongside the delegation.
He stopped at a street corner, letting the crowd flow around him.
Going back empty-handed is better than being used by the Breton bastards and going back empty-handed anyway. He nodded to himself. At least I'd keep my dignity.
Still lost in his thoughts as he turned a corner, Torin had to stop at the sight of a hooded figure on the other side of the street. The man was leaning against the wall, his arms crossed, his face hidden in the shadow of his hood.
He straightened as Torin approached, a faint smile playing at the corners of his lips.
"Greetings, Mountain Breaker."
Torin's eyebrow shot up, his hand instinctively drifting toward the haft of Skaldrfong, which he'd left leaning against the wall back at the inn. He cursed silently. Of all the times to be unarmed.
"And who might you be?"
The man chuckled—a low, knowing sound.
"Who I am doesn't matter. But let's just say I'm someone the queen and her lackeys wouldn't want you to meet." He tilted his head, studying Torin with an appraising gaze. "I've been observing you, and I must say, I'm well pleased by your willingness to ask questions. You've been digging the right holes. Asking the right questions. Speaking to the right people."
He paused, his smile widening.
"I've always thought Nords—the ones from Skyrim, at least—were a bunch of temperamental, simple-minded brutes. It seems I was wrong."
Torin's face hardened, his jaw tightening.
"No, you were not, especially the part about us being temperamental." He took a step forward, emphasizing the size difference between him and the hooded figure.
His voice dropped, cold and flat. "So unless you wish me to demonstrate how right you were, I'd suggest you tell me what it is you want. Now."
The hooded figure raised his hands in surrender and stepped back, his smile never faltering.
"How fierce. You certainly live up to your reputation." He chuckled again, the sound low and amused. "I don't want anything from you, Mountain Breaker. I'm only here to tell you that you have options. Whatever the queen has promised your High King, we can also give it to you. Better terms. Fewer strings. No games."
Torin didn't reply. He just kept glaring at the man, his eyes flat and unreadable.
The hooded figure slowly lowered his hands.
"At the day of the coronation, you'll be presented with a choice. Both options will lead you to your goal." He paused, his eyes glinting beneath the hood. "Only one will be easier than the other, and far more rewarding at that..."
He turned around and walked away, raising a hand in a casual wave over his back.
"I'm sure you'll make the wisest choice."
Torin watched him disappear into the crowd, his figure swallowed by the sea of bodies.
He let out a long, slow sigh.
This just keeps getting better and better, he muttered under his breath.
...
One week later, the signs of winter finally began to show. The first snow of the season now caked the tops of Daggerfall's highest buildings, turning the city into a patchwork of white and grey.
It was finally time for the coronation to take place.
Almost every influential figure in the region had gathered at the central temple of Kynareth in the middle of the city for this great occasion.
Merchants in fine silks, nobles in elaborate robes, and captains of the various knight orders protecting the city stood in clusters, their breath misting in the cold air as they exchanged pleasantries and veiled political barbs.
The temple itself rose above them all, its spires reaching toward the grey sky, its windows glowing with the warm light of hundreds of candles.
Torin, alongside Bragi, had received an invitation—as expected. Qasim had also received one, though the Redguard didn't seem interested in attending.
He'd muttered something about needing to meditate, about seeking clarity in solitude (the noun, not the city-_-), and had remained at the inn with his ancient sword and his troubled thoughts.
Torin hadn't pressed him.
As the two Nords arrived at the entrance to the temple's gardens, they were stopped by two knights in heavy plate armor, standing guard over the gate.
The knights were tall, broad-shouldered, and looked like they could bench-press a horse. Their visors were raised, revealing stern faces with sharp eyes that missed nothing.
"Name and affiliation," one of the knights said flatly.
Bragi retrieved a scroll from the inner pocket of his robes—a formal document bearing the seal of Skyrim's High King—and presented it to the knight.
"Envoys of Skyrim's High King. Bragi Runarsson and Torin Kodlaksson."
The knight unfurled the scroll and began to inspect it, his eyes scanning the elegant script and the official seals. After a long moment, he furled it back and returned it to Bragi.
"We welcome you, honored guests." He paused, his gaze shifting to Torin's spear—Skaldrfong, resting on his shoulder as casually as a walking stick. "However, I must ask you to leave your weapon in our care."
Torin just smiled and handed the knight Skáldrfang with an easy grace, the movement smooth and unhurried.
"Try not to scratch the paint, eh?"
The knight just stared at Torin for a moment. Even the knight captains had made a fuss before surrendering their weapons, insisting on their right to bear arms in the presence of royalty. And Nords were known for their temper, their stubbornness, their unwillingness to part with their steel.
He had been prepared for an argument, perhaps even a confrontation. Instead, Torin had simply handed over his weapon without a second thought.
The knight blinked, confusion flickering across his face. Then he collected himself, stepping aside.
"Y-yes, my lord. Please go right in."
Torin nodded and walked through the gate, Bragi following close behind.
If they knew that I could call it back to my hand with a thought so long as it wasn't too far away, Torin mused, would they have still taken it or let me keep it? Maybe they'd take the spear to the other side of the city or simply ask me to leave...
Amused with his own mischievous thoughts, Torin walked into the temple's grounds alongside Bragi. Much to even his own surprise, he was looking forward to how the coronation would end.
He wasn't a big fan of politics and skullduggery. However, Torin had already resolved to wait for a valid excuse and then use it to take the delegation and return to Skyrim. That scattered his anxiousness to succeed, leaving only a mystery to be unveiled... and Torin was a big fan of mysteries.
...
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