Metalborn in Skyrim

Kael's departure from Markarth was quiet, almost anticlimactic. The city, still licking its wounds from the Forsworn assault, was a stark contrast to the place he had first arrived in. Smoke still clung to the air, though the fires had long since died. The broken walls and collapsed buildings were a testament to what had transpired. Life was returning, slowly. Merchants reopened their stalls, blacksmiths hammered out repairs to armor and weapons, and guards patrolled the streets with a weary vigilance.

He adjusted the strap on his pack, taking one last look at the battered city before turning eastward. The journey ahead would be long, but at least it was his own path now.

The main road stretched before him, winding through the rugged terrain of the Reach. Kael walked at a steady pace, burning tin intermittently to heighten his senses. He didn't expect trouble, but habits learned in battle were hard to shake.

The further east he traveled, the quieter his thoughts became. He had made his choice—to leave the Forsworn war behind. Still, he couldn't shake the feeling that he had only delayed the inevitable. Dagon's influence didn't simply vanish. It festered. Grew. Found new hands to wield its destruction.

The road was uneventful until he neared Rorikstead. The faint clang of steel and distant shouts pulled him from his thoughts. He crested a small hill and spotted a skirmish in the valley below.

Imperial soldiers were fending off a Forsworn warband attempting to ambush a group of travelers. The Forsworn fought viciously, their weapons crude but deadly. Kael didn't hesitate.

Burning pewter, he charged down the slope. His enhanced speed allowed him to close the distance quickly, steel-pushing off discarded weapons to propel himself into the fray. A Forsworn warrior barely had time to register his presence before Kael's blade slashed across his back.

The fight was brief but brutal. When the dust settled, only the Imperials and a few shaken travelers remained.

One of the soldiers, blood smeared across his armor, approached him. "You fought in Markarth, didn't you?"

Kael nodded, sheathing his sword.

The soldier exhaled, looking him over. "Thought you'd be heading home after that. Most would."

Kael shrugged. "Not much left for me there."

The soldier considered this, then gave a grim nod. "Well, wherever you're going, safe travels. You earned that much."

He spent the night in Rorikstead, resting at the inn. Over drinks, he spoke with a local hunter, who told him of strange happenings in the tundra—wolves behaving oddly, disappearing caravans, and whispers of magic beyond understanding.

Sleep did not come easy. The warmth of the inn's fire did little to soothe his restless mind. Kael lay on the simple cot, eyes tracing the wooden beams above him. His body ached from the recent battle, his muscles stiff from constant travel. Yet it wasn't exhaustion that kept him awake—it was the creeping sense that something still lingered, watching, waiting.

He thought of the battle at Markarth, the moment he had phased through the Avatar's core, the feeling of anger, insane anger, and the NEED to destroy. Dagon power had been wounded in that fight, but the Daedric Prince wouldn't simply slink away and lick his wounds. He would move, adapt, plot.

Kael exhaled slowly, closing his eyes. He needed information. If he was going to be ready for whatever came next, he had to learn more about Daedric power, its limitations, and how mortals had fought it in the past. The College of Winterhold would be the best place to start.

The distant howl of a wolf carried through the night. Kael burned tin for a moment, sharpening his hearing. The howl wasn't close, but it was different—low, guttural, almost unnatural. The hunter's words from earlier came back to him: wolves acting strangely, caravans disappearing, whispers of magic.

Kael sat up. He'd encountered enough strange forces to know when something was out of place. But not tonight. He needed to get away.

Morning came with a thick mist hanging over Rorikstead, the golden light of dawn barely breaking through the veil. Kael rose early, grabbing a quick meal of bread and dried venison before setting out. The road to Whiterun stretched before him, open and vast.

As he walked, he let his mind wander. He had spent so much time fighting that he had never truly taken in the beauty of Skyrim. The rolling plains, the distant snow-capped mountains, the way the morning light made the world feel untouched by war. He wanted to take his time getting to his next destination. 

A merchant cart passed by, the driver giving him a wary nod. Kael returned the gesture, noting the two armed guards flanking the wagon. Travel was dangerous these days. It always had been, but both wars had made it worse.

By midday the next day, the towering walls of Whiterun came into view, standing strong against the backdrop of the Throat of the World. Smoke curled lazily from chimneys, and the bustling market outside the gates was alive with activity. Unlike Markarth, Whiterun bore no scars of battle. It was whole, untouched, thriving.

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Whiterun was alive.

Merchants shouted over one another in the bustling market square, children weaved between guards on patrol, and the unmistakable scent of fresh-baked bread and roasting meat filled the air. The city carried an energy unlike Markarth—where the stone walls of the Reach's capital had loomed with cold indifference, Whiterun was open, welcoming, vibrant.

Kael took a deep breath as he strode through the gates, feeling the shift in atmosphere. Even with the civil war still looming over Skyrim, Whiterun remained neutral, a refuge for travelers and traders alike. The contrast from the battered, bloodstained streets of Markarth was almost jarring.

He made his way through the winding streets, earning a few curious glances but otherwise left undisturbed. Word had spread of Markarth's battle, but most here seemed far removed from it. Their concerns were more mundane—haggling over prices, laughing over drinks, tending to the day's work.

Dragonsreach loomed above, as imposing as ever, the grand palace perched atop Whiterun like a guardian watching over the plains. Kael approached the palace gates, announced himself to the guards, and was soon led inside.

Jarl Balgruuf sat upon his throne, ever-watchful, his steward Proventus Avenicci standing close by. The moment Kael entered, the jarl's keen eyes studied him, measuring.

"I've heard whispers of the battle at Markarth," Balgruuf said. "And of your involvement."

Kael met his gaze evenly. "The Forsworn have been dealt a heavy blow, but they're not gone."

Balgruuf sighed, rubbing his chin. "They never are. And there's talk of something darker—Daedric influence."

Kael nodded. "The Avatar is dead, but power like that doesn't just disappear. Mehrunes Dagon won't stop."

The jarl exhaled through his nose, thoughtful. "Daedra don't fade away when they're wounded. They find new ways to return."

A silence stretched between them before Balgruuf finally asked, "And what of you? What is your next step?"

Kael hesitated, then answered. "I'm heading north. To Winterhold."

Balgruuf raised an eyebrow. "Magic?" He studied Kael, as if seeing him in a new light. "You seem to do well enough in that department already."

Kael glanced down at his hands, flexing them unconsciously. "I've seen what magic can do. I don't want to just rely on raw strength—I want to understand it. Control it."

Balgruuf nodded, his expression unreadable. "You would have been a valuable asset here. But I understand. If the threat still lingers, Skyrim needs warriors prepared for it."

Kael inclined his head respectfully. "Thank you, Jarl Balgruuf."

With that, he took his leave and made his way to Farengar's study.

The court wizard barely looked up from his work as Kael entered, but a knowing smirk tugged at his lips. "Back again? I knew you'd return with more questions."

Kael exhaled, leaning against the table stacked high with books and alchemical ingredients. "You were right about magic."

Farengar finally looked up, his smirk widening. "That must have been painful to admit." He closed the book he had been studying and gestured to the scrolls laid out on his workbench. "So? What are you looking for?"

Kael picked up one of the scrolls, running a finger over the runes etched into the parchment. "I want to start small." He selected two—Oakflesh and Conjure Familiar.

Farengar nodded approvingly. "A wise choice. Oakflesh will reinforce your defenses, allowing you to withstand blows you normally couldn't. Conjure Familiar will introduce you to summoning—simple, but effective."

Kael rolled up the scrolls, tucking them into his pack. "I assume you have some insight on how to use them."

Farengar chuckled. "Oh, I could lecture you for hours, but I don't have the patience for that." He leaned back, tapping a finger against his temple. "Oakflesh is simple—focus, channel, and feel the magic coat your body like a second skin. Conjure Familiar, however, requires a little more finesse. You'll be calling forth a spirit from Aetherius, shaping its form through sheer will."

Kael arched a brow. "So I'll be dragging some poor creature into existence?"

Farengar laughed. "Not quite. More like borrowing an essence that already exists." He waved a hand dismissively. "Just don't summon it indoors. Jarl Balgruuf frowns upon loose magic running wild in his halls."

Kael smirked. "Noted."

With his new scrolls in hand, Kael set out to prepare for the long journey north. The cold, brutal landscape of Winterhold was leagues apart from the Reach and Whiterun. He would need supplies.

His first stop was The Drunken Huntsman, where he stocked up on dried meats, pelts, and travel rations. The merchant, a Bosmer with a keen eye for quality, bartered with him over the price, but Kael had enough coin from Markarth's spoils to afford the best stock.

At Belethor's General Goods, he traded a few extra weapons looted from the Forsworn battle for additional travel necessities—flint, a thick woolen cloak, and extra provisions.

As he exited the shop, a merchant recognized him. "You were in Markarth, weren't you? One of the warriors who held the city."

Kael paused, turning to face the man. "I was."

The merchant nodded solemnly. "Word travels fast. A soldier traveled day and night to tell the entire city what happened. They say it was hell—Forsworn and something far worse."

Kael said nothing, letting the man's imagination fill the gaps. Some stories were better left vague.

His final stop was Jorrvaskr, the great mead hall of the Companions. He had always heard of their reputation—warriors of honor, mercenaries with a code. While he had no intention of joining, he was curious to see how they fought.

As he approached the training yard, he saw two Companions locked in a sparring match. Their movements were precise, measured, and brutal. A young Nord woman delivered a heavy downward strike that her opponent barely managed to block. The impact of their swords sent a ringing echo through the yard.

One of the senior warriors, a broad-shouldered Redguard named Athis, spotted Kael watching from the sidelines. "You there, stranger! Here to test your mettle?"

Kael smirked. "Why not?"

The Companions let out a few cheers as Athis tossed him a practice sword. Kael rolled his shoulders, adjusting his grip. His opponent stepped forward—a burly Nord named Torvar, his grin eager.

"Let's see if you fight as well as they say you do," Torvar said.

Kael nodded, burning pewter lightly to enhance his speed and strength just enough to match a Nord's natural resilience.

The fight began.

Torvar charged first, swinging in a heavy arc, aiming to test Kael's defenses. Kael sidestepped smoothly, using his superior reflexes to avoid a direct clash. He countered with a quick strike aimed at Torvar's ribs, but the Nord twisted at the last moment, deflecting the blow with practiced ease.

They traded strikes, Kael using his speed and agility while Torvar relied on brute strength and endurance. The Companions shouted in excitement, some placing bets on the outcome. Kael could feel the tension rising as he began pushing Torvar back, forcing him to retreat step by step.

Torvar, realizing he was losing ground, feinted left before bringing his blade down hard from above. Kael reacted instantly, burning steel to push against the metal clasps of Torvar's armor, shifting his opponent's weight just enough for him to roll out of the way.

The Nord stumbled forward slightly, and Kael capitalized, landing a clean strike to his side. Torvar grunted, raising a hand in surrender. The Companions laughed and cheered, clapping both fighters on the back.

"Damn fine fight," Torvar said, shaking his head. "You fight like no one I've ever seen."

Kael smirked. "You're not bad yourself."

Athis stepped forward, nodding in approval. "You ever decide to give up wandering, we could use a fighter like you."

Kael chuckled. "I'll keep that in mind."

As the sun dipped below the horizon, Kael knew it was time to move on. The road to Winterhold awaited, but for now, a good fight had been a welcome distraction.