TIRED, RETIRED - Forging Bonds (Patreon)

Ganondorf, Hjaalmarch

As they traveled along the road in a horse-drawn cart, Ganondorf inspected his new sword.

It was not a masterwork, in truth. Ganondorf had never worked this ‘moonstone’ before, nor the quicksilver it needed to alloy with to be worth anything. The Legion smith, Beirand, was happy to provide his help however, and so the sword was still well within Ganondrof’s usual standards. It was strong enough that it wouldn’t break when he swung it, reinforced further by his spellwork, and sharp enough to slice through a man’s entire torso.

Appearance-wise, it was equally pleasant. The shimmering gold of the blade left him feeling unaccountably nostalgic.

The dragon fang had behaved strangely. It allowed him to carve the runes into it, but attempting to cut it into the proper shape for a hilt had done nothing but ruin several of Beirand’s tools. But Ganondorf was no quitter, and finally in a pique of frustration he had tried to jam the tooth onto the finished blade’s tang. Then there was a sort of discontinuity of experience where both his and Beirand’s sense of time hiccuped, and there was a bone-white hilt wrapped around the blade.

It was a puzzle. Ganondorf was beginning to suspect that the dragon he fought was some manner of spirit.

Hadvar looked over his shoulder and saw Ganondorf with the sword in his lap. “It’s a handsome sword, friend.” He accidentally made eye contact with one of the Stalfos and hurriedly turned to face the road. “Do you have a name in mind for it?”

“A name?” Ganondorf mused. “I’m not in the habit of naming swords.”

The plate-armored Stalfos clacked her teeth, nodding. She held up her own weapon, a battleaxe in the Imperial and rattled off something that she clearly thought was profound, which set the leather-clad skeleton to speak of his own twin axes.

Presumably, anyway. Hadvar couldn’t understand them, and Ganon didn’t care to try.

“I’ve not encountered many named weapons in my time,” Ganondorf said at length. He slid the sword back into its sheath. “Most of the ones I did were pointed at me, so I rarely had an opportunity to appreciate it.”

“Sounds like there’s a story there,” Hadvar probed. When Ganondorf didn’t respond right away he took his eyes off the road again to look back at him, and was startled to see the other man staring at him intensely.

“It’s more than just ‘a story,’ Hadvar.” Ganondorf stood and stepped off the still-moving cart, sending the carriage shaking.

Hadvar pulled the reins to bring the horse to a halt. “I guess we’ll rest here,” he announced uncertainly.

The Stalfos hopped down the instant the cart stopped. The lightly-armored one patted the horse’s flank, and it nickered nervously, trying to sidestep as far away as the harness would allow.

The two skeletons wandered off into the woods, and soon the air rang with clashing metal as they began sparring.

“Don’t go far!” Hadvar called. “The last thing we need is to cause a panic…”

Ganondorf was standing where he’d gotten off, and was staring to the north where the Blue Palace loomed over the swamps of Hjaalmarch. He held his sword in front of him, pointed down to the ground.

Hadvar strode to stand next to him, noting the way the larger man’s fingers drummed against his hilt.

“Do you think,” Ganondorf said, “That if I swung hard enough, I could cut it down?”

Hadvar’s brow furrowed in confusion, until the other man gestured at the stone pillar the Palace was resting on. “Ah-ha. Unlikely, friend,” Hadvar said, uncertain how serious he was being. “You would have to have the strength of ten--no, a hundred giants!”

The auxiliary only hummed thoughtfully.

“Please don’t destroy the nation’s capital city.”

“Fine, fine.” The man grinned, but it wasn’t as wide as Hadvar had gotten used to. “I’ve had my fill of that anyway.”

Hadvar blinked slowly. “...Now when you say that--”

“I think the Stalfos need names,” Ganondorf said. “They have more personality than I expected, and people need names. The plate-armored one, I believe might have been a Nord woman. I’m not sure about the other one. Male, but the race I’m less certain about. Human, certainly.”

Names would certainly be better than referring to them by their preferred armor type, but Hadvar had concerns. “Ganondorf, did I say something to offend you?”

He looked down at him, and Hadvar stiffened at his gaze. He chuckled. “Relax. I’m not going to turn you into a flayed husk just for saying something I don’t like.”

“...That was a very specific threat,” he said carefully.

“It would have been, if I’d been threatening you, which I was not.” Ganondorf paused. “You mentioned giants, which reminds me--”

“We can’t put our mission on hold to go fetch… Grok,” Hadvar said immediately. “Morthal’s loyalty to the Empire is… tenuous, and if we get sidetracked they might flip the other way.”

Ganondorf rolled his eyes and started moving back to the cart, securing the sword on his back. “Of course I meant on the way back.”

“Of course,” Hadvar agreed, doubtfully.

“What is the problem in Morthal that we’re going to deal with, anyway?”

“You don’t know?” Hadvar asked. “Didn’t you read the briefing?”

“The what?”

“I had it sent to your quarters--nevermind.” Hadvar sighed. “Apparently, Hjaalmarch has had people going missing quite a few times over the past decade. It’s always been written off as them getting lost in the swamp, but now suddenly Jarl Idgrod suspects foul play among her citizens.”

“Hm. What changed her mind?”

Hadvar grimaced. “Well. Idgrod is… a seer. Magic is strong in her bloodline, and she claims to see the future on occasion.” He looked at Ganondorf to see his reaction.

The man looked interested as he leaned against the cart. “Oho?”

“Yes… I don’t know how true it is, but she has a reputation,” Hadvar admitted. “Enough so that her visions are what mobilized us.”

“Well, this should be interesting then,” Ganondorf said, pulling himself up to the bench. “Who does she think it is?”

“Er.” Hadvar rubbed the back of his neck. “She doesn’t know.”

“...Not a very good seer, then.” Ganondorf looked up, frowning. “Where did those two run off to?”

“I… don’t--ah, there they… are?”

The Stalfos emerged from the treeline. The lightly-armored skeleton was hobbling and being supported by the other one, as he had lost his leg. They were attempting to chase a dog that was carrying said leg in its mouth.

Ganondorf let out an incredulous laugh as the dog ran up to Hadvar and dropped the leg at his feet, giving him a doggy smile.

Nonplussed, Hadvar picked it up, made eye contact with the afflicted skeleton, and threw the leg towards it as hard as he could.

The dog took off after it. The Stalfos got to it first and quickly fitted it back into place, and then had to run away from the dog trying to retrieve its prize. The other Stalfos watched, hands on hips and shaking her head.

As they watched the scene like something out of a minstrel show, the unoccupied Stalfos--Divines, they really do need names--walked over handed Hadvar a worn, leatherbound journal. Curious, he flipped it open.

Ganondorf snatched it out of his hand before he could read anything.

Hadvar scowled. And climbed into the carriage to sit next to him.

The Gerudo flipped through it, scanning it. “It’s just a hunter’s journal. Not sure why Hilda thought we needed to see it…”

The Stalfos perked up as Hadvar blinked. “Hilda?”

“Yes, what do you think? I’m thinking… Bron.”

“Bron and Hilda?” Hadvar looked at the armored Stalfos, and she seemed pleased with it. “Well, it--she seems to like it. Not sure about the--”

“Oh.” Ganondorf’s expression went blank.

“What is it?”

In answer, he handed him the journal, open to the last entry.

Well, after all my years living in these woods, it looks like the Rockjoint will finally be the end of me. I guess that's fine. All my friends are long dead. The only one left is poor Meeko. He was always a loyal companion, and I know he'll be able to take care of himself. I hope someday I'll see him again.

“I see…” They looked up to see the chase winding down. The Stalfos didn’t get tired, but the dog had slowed to a walk instead of a run. “A damn shame, but that’s the danger of living out on your own. If you get sick, there’s no one to help you.”

Ganondorf didn’t reply.

The tentatively-named Bron cautiously petted the dog Meeko’s head, doing so more firmly when he leaned into it. Hilda watched with a grin, then turned and stared at Ganondorf.

He snorted. “Don’t ask me, I don’t care. It’s his decision.”

He waved towards Hadvar, who found himself facing down a skeleton with glowing pits for eyes trying to give him the puppy-dog look. It was… disturbing.

But it made it a lot harder to find them scary.

He looked back towards Bron to see him leading Meeko their way, pulling one of his ribs out for the dog to chew on. He winced. “Doesn’t that hurt?”

Bron see-sawed his hand.

“Don’t worry about him,” Ganondorf assured him, amused. “Ribs grow back.”

He rolled his eyes. Hadvar crouched down in front of the wolfhound. “Meeko?”

The dog sat a little straighter.

“Sit.”

The dog sat.

“Lay down.”

He did.

Hadvar pulled the rib out of the dog’s mouth and threw it. “Stay.”

Meeko had only half-risen. He whined, but still stood in place.

Hadvar waited ten seconds, then sighed. “Fetch.”

The hound tore off after the bone and returned without a fuss.

“Alright,” Hadvar said, wearily.

The Stalfos cackled in victory while Ganondorf snorted.

“I’m glad you find this funny,” Hadvar grumped, settling back into the driver’s seat and prodding the horse, forcing the Stalfos to have to catch up. “Between the skeletons, the dog and that giant, we might have an entire company by the time we return to Solitude.”

“About that,” Ganondorf said, thinking aloud. “How much does a pig cost?”

Hadvar had to think about that. “What, a live one? What on Nirn would you want with a pig?”

“Depends. I feel like I could make a few Blins, but I need to experiment. I’m not actually certain a pig is what I need, but it would be a good start.”

Hadvar refused to look back. He just knew that Ganondorf was trying to get a rise out of him, and if he looked back he’d see that cheesy grin again. “Should I even ask what a Blin is?” He frowned. “Wait, you don’t mean a goblin?”

“Oh, you have Blins here too? But no, I meant a Bokoblin, a Moblin, a Bulblin… maybe even a Horriblin, but I think those would be more like monkeys.”

“A horrible what? You’re just making words up now, there’s no such thing,” he decided, turning around.

Ganondorf was grinning.

Damn him.

------------------------------------------

Link, the Rift

Link and Farkas were walking back to Riften, feeling somber.

“Do you think that was the right thing to do?” Link asked.

Farkas took a moment to respond. “...was what the right thing to do?”

“Returning Leifnarr to his family. Grosta was beside herself when she saw his body.” Link grimaced uncomfortably. “She went from angry to sad to guilty over being mad and assuming the worst of him.”

“Do you think we shouldn’t have done it?” Farkas asked.

“No, I do.” Link rubbed the back of his head awkwardly. “I just wanted to make conversation.” It was a new sensation.

Farkas accepted that, and took a few minutes to think as they walked alongside the lake.

“...Anger can eat a man up inside,” Farkas said after a while. “If she thought her husband had betrayed her, that kind of hurt can make you hurt a lot of people later on. She might be sad and upset for now, but in time she’ll be able to make peace. Maybe Grosta will learn how to see better of people, too, since her first, worst thoughts were proven wrong.” He crossed his arms. “And the kid gets to know his father wasn’t a crook or a cheat, either. So yes, it was a good thing we did.”

Up until this point, Farkas had rarely spoken more than a dozen words at once, and he was almost never emotive; his face was always the same stern frown. The sudden shift left Link staring.

“...I wasn’t expecting that,” he admitted. “I would have said something like, it was doing right by Leifnarr.”

“That’s true as well,” the Companion acknowledged. He reached down and tried to rustle Link’s hair through his hat. “You’re young, still. You’ll learn.”

Link rolled his eyes as they approached the gate, and shifted to avoid an arrow as it whizzed by his face.

“Hey!” Farkas barked at the gate guards. “What was that for?!”

The guard dropped his bow. “W-w-werewolf?!” he half-accused, half-questioned, pointing at Link.

Link stood as straight as his load would allow, tilting his hat back.

The other guard swatted her partner’s head, sending his helmet over his eyes. “Idiot. Sorry about that, kid. This one has the spine Shor gave an earthworm. What brings you to Riften today?” She stared suspiciously at Link’s pack.

“Business,” Link said. “Plying my wares, stocking up, getting the lay of the land, that sort of thing.”

Farkas grunted. “Need to buy supplies for the journey back to Whiterun.”

“Y-You need to pay the toll before you enter the city,” the other guard said. He hesitated. “But, a-actually, I think we can waive that for a Companion.”

“By Mara you’re a disappointment,” his partner muttered. “Let me just unlock the gate…”

-----------------------------

Brynjolf looked over the marketplace with a keen eye, leaning against his market stall. Not many out-of-towners today, which meant not many suckers to make a sale with.

The problem with living in a rough, every-man-for-himself town like Riften is that anyone who lived there had to be a certain amount of wily, dangerous, or both to survive.

There went Ingun Black-Briar. Nice woman, bit spacey at times. On the surface she seemed like the perfect mark, but then she dragged you into a conversation about poisons and the many agonizing ways you can kill a man without them even noticing, and not that I would ever do something like that, but it’s just so fascinating. Care for some tea? No, she wasn’t worth messing with.

Brand-Shei was trickier. He was nice, too nice for Riften, but he was fairly shrewd when he needed to be and he’d managed to get this far in the Rift… it was a coin toss whether he’d buy what Brynjolf was selling really.

Wujeeta, poor lass, Brynjolf wouldn’t get anything out of her. The Argonian was flat broke and spent all her money either on skooma or healing potions in a failed attempt to cure her addiction. On the other hand… he could probably convince her that his elixir would cure her if she was desperate enough. And if it failed, what was she going to do? Blame him when he was just the latest in a long line of failed potions she’d tried? Yes, perhaps he’d try to get her attention. If she had any gold left at all--

What in Mara’s name was that?

Brynjolf blinked, rubbed his eyes, and blinked again.

Okay, it was some young lad that was, for some reason, wearing a hideous wolfskin that made them look twice their size.

A large warrior that Brynjolf found vaguely familiar was accompanying him, and they had a brief conversation that he couldn't hear before going their separate ways. The boy walked over to speak with Brand-Shei at his stall, who was equally bemused by his getup.

Ordinarily, Brynjolf would be careful enough not to stare, but everyone was staring at him so he thought it wouldn’t be suspicious. And because he was looking at him dead on, Brynjolf could see what the lad was doing.

The wolf-clad kid kept glancing around, eyes darting all over the place, but subtly. Warriors did that, the experienced ones. They sized people up, took their measure at a glance, noting weapons in the open and places they could be hidden and always keeping an eye out for sudden attacks. The kid was doing all of that while keeping up a conversation with the dark elf.

Thieves did that too. Always looking for a mark.

Brynjolf’s eyes narrowed as the boy said his farewells and walked over to an empty spot in the marketplace. He swung the awful backpack off his shoulders, produced a wooden shield from somewhere, and rested it on top of the pack to create a flat service. The kid looked up at the Sun, gauging the time, and then--

Between one moment and the next, plates of food appeared on the kid’s makeshift table. He planted a flag between the cobblestones and then cupped his hands to shout.

“Lunchtime! Fresh, home cooked meals for the hard worker, just ten septims! Meat and two sides, nice and warm! Get it while it’s here!”

Brynjolf squinted. Were those plates steaming? How in the world…?

Ingun immediately walked over to investigate, which made sense. The woman was odd enough to take it in stride. She inspected the plates on display and purchased a set of three, triangular loafs that looks to be covered in some sort of grain--rice? Where did he get rice in Skyrim?

Ingun poked the pink meaty bits sprinkled on top. “What are these?”

“Seafood rice balls,” the boy answered promptly. “Made with bright-eyed crab and Hylian rice, wrapped in Zora kelp. Limited supply as none of those are found in Skyrim!”

“Crab? Hm.” Ingun took one and took a bite. “Ooh…!”

She finished them off with gusto, and that was enough for others to approach. Madesi the jeweler took a plate of glazed ham with potatoes on the side, and then a guard ended up with an entire pumpkin stuffed with meat chunks.

And now Brynnjolf was feeling a little hungry himself, so he found himself wandering over. “Do you have anything lighter, lad? I’ve eaten already, but I could go for a snack.”

He looked him over, then pulled out a skewer covered in--

“Mushrooms?” Brynjolf asked, incredulous. They were big ones too, with thick stems and caps wide as his hand. All of them were cooked varying shades of brown… and they smelled good. He took a bite, and his eyes widened. “Not bad, lad. Not bad at all.”

“Ahem.” Link held up his hand.

“Of course, right.” He fished in his pocket, then shifted the skewer to his other hand to look in his other pocket. “Ah… this is embarrassing. I seem to have--”

“You can use the coins in the pouch around your leg,” the kid cut him off.

Brynjolf choked, swallowing harshly. “I’m not sure what you mean lad, I’m not carrying any coins.”

He stared at him, then tapped his pointed ear.

“Perhaps I can propose a trade instead?” Brynjolf offered. He turned to point at his own stall, where his potion bottles were arrayed. “One of my products for one of yours? Genuine Falmerblood elixir, filled with the power of the ancient snow elves!”

The boy’s brow furrowed. “Blood? Like, actual blood?”

“That’s right lad.”

Madesi, standing nearby, scoffed. “Don’t be ridiculous. No one’s seen a Falmer in years.”

“I have my sources,” Brynjolf said with a wink. “The Falmer were the masters of long-forgotten magics, so who knows what amazing properties their blood could have? Frankly, I’m cutting my own throat, trading it away for an afternoon snack.” He punctuated his statement with another bite.

“...You’re trying to sell me a product that even you don’t know what it does?”

“I--Well, it’s not without precedent,” Brynjolf argued. He looked to make sure Brand-Shei was out of earshot, then continued. “Elven blood is inherently magical, and don’t tell anyone I said this, but I know someone personally who claims to keeps themselves young by drinking Altmer blood. And the Falmer were said to live even longer than them!”

“The Falmer also live in caves and eat poisonous mushrooms. Their blood is vile.” The armored man the kid had showed up with returned from his errand. “Nasty critters, Falmer.”

“You’ve seen one?” Madesi asked.

“I’ve seen plenty. Killed more than a few.” The man rolled his neck with a pop. “They make homes in every cave in Skyrim, seems like. And they surround themselves with poison. If you’ve got actual Falmer’s blood in those bottles it’d be more use as armor polish than as a drink.” He turned to the boy. “Link. I found the smith in the tavern. He’ll be back at the forge soon.”

The boy Link nodded and cupped his mouth again. “Last call for lunch!”

Grelka raised a hand and purchased a slice of pie, and then Link tore down his makeshift stall and shouldered his pack again.

“Wait,” Brynjolf said, then realized his mistake. He really should have let himself be forgotten. Link stared at him again, and with the armored warrior joining him Brynjolf decided to take the loss and fished the coins out. As he handed them off he gave another wink. “Since you seem to be in need of some cash, let me know if you’re up for a job later.”

Link shrugged, and that was that.

…Brynjolf needed another scam. Everyone heard the warrior’s comments, so no one would want his fake elixir anymore. Eh, it wasn’t selling anyway.

-----------------------

“Ebony?” Balimund asked after Link explained what he wanted.

The Nord smith scratched his neck. “Well, you’ve come to the right place. I’ve worked ebony before, somewhat… never had enough to forge a weapon out of it, never had enough to do that. The Jarl’s mage has asked me for ebony tools on occasion, which I’d argue is harder personally. Lots of tiny finicky details.”

“I don’t need you to make it for me,” Link said. “I’d like to forge it myself. I’ve just never worked ebony before, so I need pointers.”

“Oh, well.” Balimund looked over his shoulder. There was no one there, just the wall of his house, so it only served to make him look suspicious. “I can’t do it for free, you understand. Not many people know the secret to ebony. It’ll cost a pretty penny, plus I’ll need to charge you to use my forge.” He smiled apologetically. “It’s a pretty involved process, forging Shor’s blood. That’s at least a day, more likely three, that I won’t be able to use my own forge.”

Farkas tilted his head. “You can burn hot enough to melt ebony?” he asked. “I didn’t think an open-air forge that wasn’t the Skyforge could build up enough heat.” He turned to Link. “Ebony runs like blood in Red Mountain because of the heat. Only temperatures like lava can make that happen.”

“Bah, the Skyforge.” Balimund waved his hand dismissively. “You ask me, it’s cheating.”

“Come again?” Farkas asked.

“Don’t get me wrong, it’s a masterpiece,” the smith said hurriedly. “But anyone can be a master when you’re using the Skyforge. It makes things too easy.”

“Eorlund Gray-Mane isn’t the best because he has the Skyforge, he has the Skyforge because he’s the best.”

“He tell you that, did he?” Balimund shook his head. “Sorry, not my place. At any rate, I got my own method of keeping the fire strong. My forge burns fire salts. Keeps the fire as hot as Red Mountain. Don’t stand to close,” he warned when Link leaned over to get a better look. “Best take off that… thing, lest it catch flame.”

Link shrugged his pack off again. “What are fire salts? Are they tasty?”

Balimund opened his mouth, but it was Farkas who answered. “They’re a rare mineral that flame atronachs drop a lot. Vilkas thinks that atronachs are made of salts, but they feel like metal to me. They burn like nothing else, really hot and for a long time.” He rubbed his chin. “Using them to fuel a forge makes a lot of sense, I never thought of that. They can melt ice in seconds even without being on fire, so yeah, they could probably melt ebony. Might even be able to melt dwarf metal, since the fire would be a little magic. It’s kind of dangerous to use them in an open forge like this one though; is that why you don’t have a beard?” Balimund opened his mouth, but Farkas continued. “They don’t taste great. Like burnt meat. I mean charred. And fire salts don’t melt in your mouth like regular salt, so it feels like you’ve just got sand in your mouth.” He kicked the forge. “Is your forge lined with lead? Otherwise I’d have thought the fire salts would have melted it.”

He stopped, and Link and Balimund stared at him.

“How do you know all that?” Link asked.

“Eorlund likes to talk to himself as he works,” Farkas said. “And I like to listen to him when I’m practicing in the yard. I picked up a lot.”

Link stared harder. “Farkas, do you know how to work with ebony?”

Farkas leaned back, looking up to the sky as he thought. His lips moved as he ran through everything he knew like a man sifting through a filing cabinet.

“...it’s more like glass than metal,” he said at last. “But only when it’s molten.”

Link closed his eyes and took a deep breath. When he breathed out he looked back at Balimund. “I’d still like to use your forge for my sword.”

“Of course.”

--------------------------

Zelda and Jo’kir, Winterhold

The guards Itman and Tork stood side-by-side, watching the show.

“...So what do you make of it?” Itman asked the older guard.

“Got me, lad,” Tork admitted. “Never seen anything like it.”

The damn wizards had come down from the College in force, and Tork had been absolutely sure that they were finally going to show their true colors and finish the job the Collapse started. Instead, one of the group had pulled down his hood to reveal a charmingly awkward Nord lad who had asked permission to work on a project in the city. It had been so unexpected that Tork had said yes, and by the time he came to his senses they were already at work.

They took over one of the ruined buildings behind the inn, tearing down the remaining walls and clearing away the snow. A young woman in College robes had joined them alongside Kraldar, and with the Thane’s approval they couldn’t really object anymore.

Then they started building.

After a short lecture by the only man among them with gray hair, the young ones had split up. The young… elvish?... woman had bent down and begun inscribing things into the stone foundation, then the Nord and one of the cats had returned with a cart full of logs. The dark elf and the elder did the same with a smaller cart of rocks.

The elder waved his hands and the logs began floating out of the cart to settle on the ground nearby, and he guided them in shaping the wood into planks. They turned rocks into bricks. They even watched the elder turn ore into an iron lock for a door.

It was fascinating to watch, and they weren’t alone in thinking so. Dagur and his family had stepped out of the inn to watch. Several other guards were watching. Birna had taken advantage of the crowd to sell warm drinks. Even Nelecar had left the Frozen Hearth long enough to shake his head in amazement.

Tork looked around. He could tell everyone was curious, but no one was willing to go over and ask. It was obvious they were putting together a building with magic--making decent time of it too, after a few hours they already had two walls up and the start of some stairs--but why was a mystery.

The strangest thing was that the other cat, the white-furred one, wasn’t participating. He was at the start, helping make the materials, but once the actual construction started he went and sat on a rock to watch intently.

“What is going on here?”

Tork twitched. Itman flinched. Both twisted to salute as Jarl Korir approached, looking dour. The Jarl pushed through the crowd--not difficult, as thin as it was--to get a better look. He scowled when he saw the mages.

“Why is this--”

“Korir!” Kraldar noticed him and jogged over with a wide smile, the young woman following him. “It’s finally happened!”

“I can see something happening,” Korir agreed angrily. “What is happening?”

“The College is finally ready to open up to us!” Kraldar was beaming, obviously thrilled beyond belief.

The young woman bowed deeply. “My Jarl.”

“You,” Korir accused, focusing on her. “This is your doing?”

“It is. My name is Zelda,” she greeted. “I’m a recent arrival to the College, and I was… appalled at how poor our relationship is to the rest of Winterhold, so I arranged for some… let’s call it community service.” She gestured behind her. “As you can see, it’s turned into quite the event. Onmund was excited to help, and even J’zargo seems to be enjoying the lesson.”

Korir huffed, seeming to calm down. “I feel like I’ve asked this already, but what exactly are you doing?”

“I noticed that most of the remaining citizens of Winterhold are guards,” Zelda explained. “So I decided we would be building a barracks.”

Itman and Tork perked up, and the former walked over to the construction site.

“A barracks,” Korir repeated.

“Yes. A dorm, a rest area, a couple of rooms for storage or administration or... Whatever they end up needing really, and even a holding cell. Sadly, Tolfdir thought that earthmoving would be too advanced for a first lesson so we couldn’t dig out a cellar for a dungeon, so the one cell will have to do. Maybe at a later date.” She smiled and clapped her hands. “My own personal touch is a rune array I’ve been working on that will ensure that the inside of the building is always nice and warm so your guards can get properly rested between shifts.”

Tork’s eyes widened, and he looked over as Itman returned.

“It’s true!” the young guard exclaimed. “The walls’ aren’t even all up yet, but as soon as I stepped on the stone floor it was like being wrapped in three layers of fur!”

Zelda frowned at that. “Really? It was supposed to feel like having just drinked a bowl of hot soup… I guess it still needs tweaking.”

Korir’s lips twitched. He looked over her shoulder. “What’s that one doing?”

Zelda turned to see. “Oh, Jo’kir? He’s meditating. He thought that watching the construction might help him understand--oh?”

As she was speaking, the white Khajiit stood up and went to Tolfdir, taking a look at the sketch in his hands. He nodded to himself.

Jo’kir, before the watching eyes of Winterhold, stepped in front of the construction site, took a deep breath, and shouted.

“WAHL!”

The lumber and bricks lying about shivered.

“WAHL!” he shouted again, and time the building trembled, incomplete walls wobbling. J’zargo and Onmund fled the structure.

A third time, he shouted “WAHL!” And wood and stone leapt at his word. In seconds, two walls became four and a ceiling. The first wall of the second floor was complete when Jo’kir gasped, falling to one knee.

“Ooh!” Zelda cheered and ran over to help him. To Tork’s surprise Itman followed her.

“Isn’t this great?” Kraldar asked. “At this rate Winterhold will be back on its feet by this time next year! Haha!” The Thane practically skipped away, pulling the elder wizard into a conversation that the old man gladly engaged with.

Tork and Korir stood together. The guard gave his Jarl a wary look. Korir was a man of passion, and he’s never seen him so black-faced.

“...What do you think, sir?” Tork finally asked.

Korir didn’t answer right away. He watched Dagur bring the wizards drinks as another wall went up.

“Your name was Tork, was it?” he began slowly.

“Yessir.”

“...It’s insidious, what they’re doing.”

“Sir?”

Korir nodded to himself. “Building a barracks, eh? Using magic to build a place where my guards will sleep?”

“I mean…” Tork shifted uncomfortably. “Young Itman seems enthused. It would be nice to have somewhere warm to sleep,” he ventured cautiously.

Korir nodded again slowly. He turned to leave for his longhouse. “Keep an eye on it and wait for them to finish.”

“Yessir!”

“And once they’ve left, burn that deathtrap to the ground.”