Made in Cyrodiil, Forged in Skyrim #47

Torin leaned back in his chair with a deep, satisfied sigh, pushing the now-empty platter away. It had been a masterpiece of roasted meats—thick slices of tender beef, venison seared to perfection, and even some surprisingly flavorful mutton.

The real shocker had been the seasoning. It wasn't just salted; there were herbs, a hint of garlic, maybe even a touch of something smoky and exotic. In Skyrim, where "cooking" usually meant "char it over a fire until it stops moving," this was nothing short of a miracle.

Nords were brilliant hunters, fierce warriors, and sturdy builders, but culinary artists they were not. The harsh climate and limited variety didn't lend themselves to fine dining.

Coming across a meal like this in the middle of nowhere was such a delightful surprise that Torin had shamelessly ordered a second helping, and then, after a brief but fierce internal struggle, a third. His belt felt tighter, but it was a good feeling.

Qasim, on the other hand, had been a study in contrast. He’d taken one small, careful bite of the offered stew, chewed thoughtfully, and then gently pushed the entire bowl away. He’d asked for a cup of water and a simple piece of dry bread instead, which he’d consumed with the same deliberate focus he applied to everything.

Now, with his own feast concluded, Torin couldn't help but feel a prickling sense of discomfort looking at the stoic Redguard, who had finished his meager meal and slipped back into a meditative state.

It somewhat made him feel... guilty.

He cleared his throat, the sound cutting through the background noise of the inn.

Qasim’s eyes opened instantly, clear and alert, as if he’d never been resting at all.

Torin flashed him a shallow, curious smile. “Was there something wrong with your serving?” he asked, keeping his tone light. “Find a bug in it or something? A hair?”

Qasim shook his head firmly, his expression serene. “There was nothing wrong with the food, my friend. In fact, it was the opposite. It tasted too good.”

Torin blinked, his smile freezing. “Come again?”

“The flavor was… immoderate,” Qasim explained, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “Rich, complex, designed purely for pleasure. To indulge in such sensation is to dull the edge of one’s discipline. It is a distraction from clarity. That is why I had to refrain.”

Torin couldn’t help the slow, deliberate twitch in his eyelid. He’d never really hung around ascetics or hardcore vegetarians in his past life, but he’d heard the jokes. Now, staring at Qasim’s placid face, he was starting to understand the source of the irritation. Maybe it wasn't the lifestyle, but the lectures that came with it.

He had a thousand responses queued up, ranging from ‘That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard’ to a detailed defense of perfectly seasoned meat. Instead, he swallowed them all with an audible gulp and let out a long, weary sigh.

He gave Qasim a pointed look.

“Is that why you gave the rest of your plate to Echo?” he asked, his voice dangerously flat. “You trying to ruin my bear’s discipline, or something? Corrupt her innocent, meat-loving soul?” He shook his head in mock disappointment. “And to think I wanted to entrust you with her moral upbringing.”

A small, genuine smile of amusement touched Qasim’s lips. “A beast has no such obligations to the gods. Its only purpose is to live and die within the confines of the path the Divines have paved for it.”

He gestured toward Echo, who was licking her chops with blissful ignorance. “Men, on the other hand, do not have that luxury. We must show our appreciation to the gods in every aspect of our lives, even in what we consume. It is the Way.”

Torin stared at him. He stared so hard, with such pure, unadulterated exasperation, that it seemed he might flip the heavy oak table between them at any moment.

The muscles in his jaw tensed. Finally, the pressure released in another explosive sigh.

“It was a joke,” he ground out. “You didn’t have to get all preachy on me again.” He scoffed, waving a hand dismissively. “What kind of ‘Way’ is this, anyway? The Way of Masochism? Deny yourself every nice thing in life so you can… what, feel holier?”

Qasim’s serene expression finally broke, replaced by one of utter, innocent confusion. “Mas-o-chism? I am not familiar with this term. What spiritual discipline might this be? Is it practiced by the local Nords?”

Torin brought his hand up and slowly, deliberately, dragged it down his face. The sound of skin on stubble was loud in their little bubble of strained conversation.

“Never mind,” he muttered, the words muffled by his palm. He dropped his hand, looking defeated. “Honestly, it’s my own fault for opening my mouth.”

Before Qasim could formulate a reply to Torin’s muttered surrender, a new, brisk voice cut through their conversation.

“That’s where most trouble comes from. Talking.”

Both of them turned to see the Nord woman—the innkeeper—standing beside their table. Without waiting for an invitation, she dragged a chair over from a nearby empty spot and sat down with a thump, settling in as if she owned the place (which, Torin supposed, she did).

“Now then,” she said, planting her elbows on the table, her work-roughened hands clasped. “I promised you lads a story, and I’m a woman of my word. So, you’ll get one.”

Torin glanced past her at the still-busy common room. “Are you sure you’ve got the time? Place still looks packed.”

She gave a dismissive wave of her hand. “We’re out of ingredients for cooking anything more complex than burnt toast,” she said bluntly. Then she jerked a thumb towards the bar, where a burly Nord man with arms like tree trunks was deftly filling tankards. “And he can handle the drinks on his own. Thrain’s good for that, at least.”

Torin shrugged, a smile touching his lips. “Well, I’m not complaining. So, let’s hear it. This ‘special’ story of yours.”

The woman nodded, her expression turning more serious, the cheerful innkeeper giving way to something older and more grounded. “Alright. But first, let me ask you a question. Do you know where we are right now? Truly?”

Torin couldn’t help but frown. “In the absolute middle of nowhere? On a road that probably sees three travelers a season?”

Her smile widened, but it was a knowing, almost grim thing. “Aye, we are. Now. But it wasn’t always like this in the olden times.”

She leaned in, her voice dropping, carrying easily over the din. “Right under our feet, in fact, there was once a fort. Not just any fort. Old Hroldan. A keep so important, so strategically placed, that the saying went: whoever controlled it, controlled half the Reach.”

She paused, letting the weight of that sink in. “Our ancestors, the true Nords of the Reach, and the savage natives who came before, fought more battles over this stony hill than you’ve had hot meals. Blood soaked this ground for centuries.”

Her expression darkened. “Then, those damned Forsworn took it for themselves.”

Torin couldn't help but frown deeper. That part didn't sound right. He’d seen enough of Skyrim's ancient architecture to know that old Nord fortresses were built to last.

They were like draugr—you could blast them, burn them, ignore them for a thousand years, and there’d still be something left: a broken wall, a sunken foundation, a pile of distinctive stones.

"You say there was a great fort here," Torin said, his tone skeptical. "But this place doesn't have a single trace of one. No rubble, no old foundation stones. Nothing."

The woman nodded vigorously, her eyes alight with the tale. "That's right! And that's the heart of the story. It's because of the man who led the final charge to take it back from the savages. A contingency of warriors, led by a general known then as Tiber Septim."

She paused for dramatic effect, her gaze shifting between their faces to gauge their expression.

Torin's expression froze. Beside him, he heard the soft rustle of fabric as Qasim straightened in his chair, his meditative calm shattered, his dark eyes now wide open and fixed on the innkeeper.

"The Tiber Septim?" Torin asked, his voice low. "As in Divine Talos?"

"The one and only," she confirmed, her voice dropping to a reverent whisper that somehow carried over the tavern noise. "You see, Old Hroldan was a nightmare. So well fortified, so packed with Reachman warriors, that taking it by storm would have drowned the river in Nord blood. The mighty Talos would not allow his soldiers—his kinsmen—to fall needlessly for a pile of stones."

She leaned in further, the firelight dancing in her eyes. "So he didn't siege it. He just… walked up to the walls. And he Shouted."

She let the word hang in the air, heavy with mythic power.

"Some who tell the tale say he only meant to shatter the gates, to bring down a section of wall," she continued, her voice a hushed, passionate thing. "But the might of his shout… it was too powerful. Too terrible. It didn't just break the fortress. It unmade its very foundations. The stones crumbled to dust, the earth itself swallowed what was left. Within a few years, there was nothing. As if the fort had never been. All that remained was the memory, and this inn, built where his camp once stood."

Torin let out a slow, thoughtful hum, then nodded. “I suppose that’s… entirely possible. Considering who we’re talking about.”

The image of a man shouting a fortress into non-existence was awe-inspiring and terrifying in equal measure, and when it came to Tiber Septim, entirely, perhaps easily achievable.

“But,” he said, fixing the woman with a sharp look, “that doesn’t explain why one of your rooms costs double the price.”

The woman’s grin sharpened, becoming almost predatory in its delight. “I was waiting for you to ask that.” She leaned in conspiratorially, her voice dropping to a stage whisper. “The reason this one room costs double is because… it contains the very same bed where Tiber Septim himself once slept.”

Torin stared. He blinked. He gave her the flattest, most skeptical look he could muster. “You have the bed,” he said slowly, “that Tiber Septim slept on. From the Second Era. In a room upstairs.”

She nodded firmly, her expression one of absolute, unshakable conviction. “Aye. Preserved, cared for, still in the same condition as when the God of Men rested his head upon it.”

She chuckled, a rich, warm sound. “How else do you think we get so much business out here in the stones? Pilgrims, historians, wealthy collectors, even bored nobles from Solitude. They take detours off the main roads just to dine here and get a peek. People come to sate their curiosity, but they return for the food.”

She gave Torin and Qasim an amused, knowing look. “Truth be told, you lads are likely the only customers in a year who stumbled onto our inn by pure mistake. Everyone else comes looking for it.”

Torin just stared at her, unblinking. With every word she spoke, the elaborate, paranoid conspiracy theories he’d spun about smugglers’ dens and thieves’ guild meetings crumbled into dust.

To think this was a tourist trap... a thousand-year-old tourist trap in the middle of the Reach wilderness.

He very much doubted the bed was the real deal. A wooden bedframe from the Second Era would be so much sawdust by now, even with the best preservation. It was a gimmick, a story sold for twenty septims a night.

But the rest of it? The pilgrims, the detours, the inexplicable liveliness of a remote inn… it all snapped into a perfectly logical, utterly mundane focus.

Suddenly, a strange sensation started in his chest.

A twitch, then a bubble of sound he couldn’t contain. It burst out of him as a snort, then a chuckle, and finally a full-bellied laugh that felt like it was washing away a month’s worth of tension and suspicion.

“Pfft… ha! Oh, that’s perfect,” he managed between laughs, wiping at his eye. “That makes a lot more sense than what I imagined...”