Ghorbash's frown deepened, a ridge of thick brow shadowing his eyes. "Do you even understand what you're saying, boy?" His voice was a low rumble, like stones grinding together.
He shook his head slowly, the movement stiff from the bruising along his jaw. "Why would a pack of Nords ever allow an Orc into their mead-hall and their shield-wall? Malacath's own truth, I would not take a Nord into my tribe."
Torin couldn't help it—a short, sharp laugh burst from him. It wasn't mocking, exactly, but it held a hard edge of irony. The sound made Ghorbash's scowl twist further, his tusks seeming to jut more aggressively.
Torin simply shrugged, the motion pulling slightly at the freshly-healed wound in his shoulder. "The Companions are a guild of warriors, not a tribe. Blood matters less than the steel in your hand and the honor in your heart. You need a good sword arm, the courage to use it, and the discipline to use it well. That's the only pedigree we care about."
He gave the Orc a dismissive wave, as if swatting away the outdated notion. "In fact, back in the Second Era, the Companions nearly vanished. Went from a legendary army to a handful of old men muttering into their ale. It was warriors from all across Tamriel—Redguards, Imperials, even a few Orcs from what I've read—who answered the call and reforged the Circle. Without them, Jorrvaskr would be a ruin and a ghost story."
Ghorbash listened, his dark eyes thoughtful, fixed on a point somewhere past Torin's shoulder. The early afternoon light from the open door cut across the dusty floor of the small house, highlighting the motes dancing in the air. Echo, having finished her illicit feast, let out a contented grumble and began licking a paw with single-minded focus.
"And yet," Ghorbash said slowly, "I have never heard of a Companion who was not a Nord. Not in my lifetime."
Torin sighed, the sound tinged with the weariness of someone explaining a long and complicated history. "A lot can change in a few centuries. The guild… grew insular. Politics, pride, old wounds. They stopped looking beyond the walls of Whiterun for too long."
He shook his head, as if clearing the weight of that history.
"But that's not your concern. What matters is now. Jorrvaskr needs new blood. Strong blood. Someone like you would be welcomed with open arms—so long as you can prove your strength and your honor. And," he added with a faint, challenging smirk, "after our little spar, I'd say the strength part isn't in question."
A change had come over Ghorbash as Torin spoke. The initial skepticism had melted into a guarded interest, and from there, a flicker of something hotter—ambition, maybe, or just the simple, powerful longing of a warrior for a worthy fight and a worthy place to fight it.
Torin could see it in the way the Orc's shoulders straightened, in the slight forward lean of his body. The idea was taking root, promising a horizon wider than the walls of Dushnikh Yal.
Then, all at once, the light in Ghorbash's eyes dimmed. The tension seeped from his frame, replaced by a heavy, familiar resignation. He let out a long, slow sigh that seemed to carry the weight of the stronghold itself.
"Even if all you say is true," he said, his voice now flat, "it does not matter. I cannot leave. Not again. I have already dishonored my clan once by leaving for the Legion. To abandon the stronghold a second time would be a dishonor I cannot shoulder." He looked down at his own large, calloused hands, clenched into fists on his knees. "This is my place. Even if it feels like a cage."
Who cares? What gives?
The dismissive, modern retort sat on the tip of Torin's tongue, bitter and ready. But he bit it back. He'd learned, through bloody lessons, that it wasn't that simple here. In Skyrim—in all of Tamriel, really—tradition wasn't just custom; it was the mortar that held clans and kingdoms together.
To be cast out by your own people wasn't just social exile; it was a kind of spiritual death. There was no hopping on a plane to start fresh on the other side of the world. Here, your name, your blood, and your word were your world.
Torin let out a considering hum, leaning back against the wall of the sparse room. Echo, sensing a shift in the conversation, rested her heavy head on his boot.
"Nobody said you'd have to abandon your tribe, Ghorbash. In fact, you coming with me to Whiterun could be the best thing you ever did for them."
The Orc's skeptical look could have curdled milk. "How, exactly, does me leaving help those I'm sworn to protect?"
"Look around," Torin said, his gaze sweeping past Ghorbash to the stronghold visible through the open door.
"I've seen the state of this place. It's under-populated. Half the houses are empty shells. The walls are solid, but the people inside them… you're stretched thin. I don't know the story—Forsworn raids, bad harvests, whatever it may be. But I do know one universal solution." He paused for effect. "Gold."
A wry, tired smile touched Ghorbash's split lip. "Gold. And how much gold do you expect me to earn swinging an axe at bandits and trolls for your Jarl? Enough to rebuild a stronghold? To feed over a hundred mouths through a Reach winter?"
Torin chuckled, the sound dry. "More than you'd think, but you're right. Not nearly enough for that. I'm not offering you a mercenary's purse."
He leaned forward, his voice dropping into a more conspiratorial tone. "I'm offering you a connection. To the Jarl of Whiterun himself. The Companions train his guards. It's a tedious chore, and my brother Vilkas hates it more than he hates cheap ale. If you make the cut and join us, you could take over that duty. He'd probably give you his own axe out of gratitude."
He stopped there, letting the idea hang in the air between them. He didn't spell it out. He just watched, giving Ghorbash an expectant look, waiting for the gears to turn in the veteran's head.
Ghorbash stared at him, his thick brow furrowed in thought. Torin could almost see the pieces clicking into place: a position within the trusted Companions, a formal role training the Jarl's own soldiers, a legitimate reason to be in Whiterun's court…
The Orc's eyes widened slowly, then flashed with a sharp, calculating light.
"So," Ghorbash said slowly, the words deliberate. "You want me to… ingratiate myself with the Jarl. Earn his trust. So that when Dushnikh Yal has ore to sell, or pelts, or forged steel… we aren't dealing with thieving middlemen in Markarth or being turned away at Whiterun's gates. We'd have a direct line. A favored line."
He wasn't just asking for confirmation; he was working through the strategy, his military mind latching onto the tactical advantage. It wasn't just about gold—it was about security, stability, a future.
Torin simply nodded, a faint, knowing smile on his face. "A skilled warrior can bring home a sack of coins. A wise one can bring home a future. Whiterun's the trade hub of the hold. Through its markets, you can get almost anything you need—grain, lumber, medicine, tools—in any quantity."
Ghorbash was silent for a long moment, the weight of the proposal settling over him. It was audacious. It was risky. It felt like standing at the edge of a cliff, looking at a distant, green valley below. Finally, he let out a low groan, rubbing a hand over his bruised jaw. "You've painted a pretty picture, boy, with a lot of big promises. But you've given me no guarantees. Words are wind."
Torin chuckled, the sound lacking any real malice. "Well, I can't spoon-feed you the whole loaf, can I? You've got to taste a little of the crust yourself. It's up to you to decide if I'm a godsend or just some strange little Nord with a death wish and too much time on his hands."
The subtle mockery in Torin's tone was unmistakable. Ghorbash's brow twitched, a tic of irritation. "Still," the Orc grumbled, crossing his massive arms. "This is... much. All at once. I cannot decide this on my own. I must speak with the elders. With Burguk. I need to... think."
"Think all you need," Torin said, his smile not fading. "But don't take too long about it. I'll be saddling up and heading out as soon as I've secured what I came for."
As if summoned by his words, the door to the small dwelling swung open. Murbul stood framed in the daylight, her wise, aged eyes taking in the scene: her son looking deeply conflicted and their human guest looking infuriatingly calm. She paused, her gaze lingering on Ghorbash's sullen expression before shifting to Torin.
"I heard there was some... excitement in the training yard this morning," she said, her voice dry as stone dust. "Involving my son and our guest. I am glad to see you both appear relatively unharmed."
Torin offered a dismissive wave, as if swatting a fly. "It was nothing. Just a bit of light sparring. Helped work up an appetite."
Across the room, Ghorbash's eyebrows began to twitch uncontrollably. The visceral memory of his axe biting into Torin's shoulder, the hot spray of blood, and the terrifying void that had rushed up to meet him after that concussive punch—it was all still violently fresh.
He cleared his throat, a rough, awkward sound.
"It seems," Ghorbash said, rising to his feet with a stiffness that wasn't entirely from the fight, "that you two have business to discuss." He moved toward the door, his movements deliberate. "I'll leave you to it."
He didn't wait for a reply, stepping out into the bright Reach daylight and pulling the door shut behind him with a solid thud.
Silence settled in the small room, broken only by Echo's contented snoring. Torin turned his full attention to the Orc matriarch. Her expression was unreadable, a mask of weathered patience.
"Now then," Torin began, his tone shifting from casual to businesslike. "Let's discuss how much lodestone you have to sell... and how much coin you want for it."
...
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