As Echo began to sniff at the ground, her nose pressed close to the damp earth, Torin stabbed Skaldrfong into the soil and knelt beside her. The ground was wet and muddy, churned by countless paws and hooves over the course of days or weeks.
This was clearly a junction—a place where several animal trails intersected, a crossroads for the creatures of the forest.
One hoof print in particular caught Torin's attention. Unlike the others, it wasn't filled with water. The edges were sharp, the impression clean, the mud still soft around its edges. It was fresh, or at least more recent than any other print.
The deer that had left it couldn't have passed through more than two to three hours.
Torin quickly stood up and picked up his spear, a grin spreading across his face.
"Looks like a deer's hoof." He hefted the spear, testing its balance. "Hopefully, it hasn't gone far."
Echo also stopped sniffing around, her ears swiveling forward as she searched for the scent. She let out a low, excited growl—a sound that was half anticipation, half hunger—and began to jog lightly, her massive paws silent on the forest floor. Torin followed behind her, his pace steady, his breath even.
It took almost an hour and a half before Torin finally had visual on his prey. A deer was leisurely having a drink of water at the edge of a relatively large pond, its head lowered, its ears flicking occasionally as it listened to the sounds of the forest.
It was a fine specimen—a buck with a respectable set of antlers, its coat still thick from the winter months.
Echo's ears flattened against her skull, and she grunted—a low, eager sound that clearly said let me at it.
Torin shook his head.
"I'll take care of this one. We don't know the lay of the land as well as it does, and if we spook it, it'll be gone before we can blink." He paused, then sighed. "We can't really go back empty-handed. Otherwise those damned Bretons might laugh at us."
Echo let out a grumbling growl, but she calmed down nonetheless. She settled into a crouch, her eyes fixed on the deer, her body still coiled with barely contained energy. But she would wait.
Torin stood from behind the bush, twirling the spear in his hand into a reverse grip. He raised it over his shoulder, the tip angled down, his muscles coiled like springs.
Then he emerged from the bush, his breath steady, his eyes locked on his prey.
Still, Torin was many things. Subtle wasn't one of them.
The buck was instantly alerted to the rustling of leaves as he emerged from the bush, its head snapping up, its ears swiveling toward the sound.
It only stared at Torin's figure for a fraction of a second—a brief, frozen moment of assessment—before bolting in the opposite direction, its hooves pounding against the soft earth.
The village must have some good hunters for the buck to react like this, Torin mused. Its judgment sharp, its reflexes quick, it had clearly learned to fear the presence of men.
He began to jog forward, completely ignoring the possibility that the buck might not have fled because of pattern recognition, but simply because it was threatened by his massive frame looming out of the underbrush.
After three steps, he sent the spear flying.
Skaldrfong cut through the air like a bolt of lightning—fast, straight, true. It hit its mark almost faster than even Torin had expected, the tip striking the buck's neck with devastating precision.
The force of the throw was immense; the spear didn't just pierce the creature's throat, it cleanly beheaded it. The buck's body stumbled forward a few more steps before collapsing, its head rolling to a stop several feet away. The spear continued its trajectory, punching a hole clean through the tree behind and embedding itself deep into the wood with a solid thunk.
Torin winced at the sight, then turned to look at his hand. He flexed his fingers, studying them as if they belonged to someone else.
I might have put more strength than necessary into that throw, he mused.
He shook his head, and with an exertion of his will, the spear shuddered in the tree, then disappeared, materializing in his hand. He gripped it tight, then flicked it to the side to get rid of the blood—a practiced motion—and began to approach the fallen prey.
He quickly retrieved some rope from his backpack and tied it around the deer's hind legs, knotting it securely. Then he began to search for a suitable tree to bleed and skin his prey. It happened to be the same one pierced by Skáldrfang.
Torin nodded to himself as he began to drag the deer toward the tree, its body leaving a dark trail in the damp earth. Behind him, Echo had already made her way to the severed head and began to gnaw on it, crunching through bone with obvious satisfaction.
Having gutted the animal and hung it from a low branch to drain the blood, Torin chopped up a portion of the guts and threw them into the pond as bait. He hoped it would help Echo catch some fish—or at least attract something worth eating. The bear was already watching the waters like a hawk, her massive frame still as stone, her eyes fixed on the surface with predatory patience.
While Echo was busy, Torin had already finished building a bonfire. He'd gathered dry branches and dead leaves, arranged them in a neat pile, and with a casual gesture of his hand, sent an ember flying from his palm to ignite the kindling. The flames caught quickly, crackling and snapping as they spread through the dried wood.
Until the buck was fully drained, he'd use the fire to roast whatever Echo managed to catch. The deer was too precious to cook without seasoning—it deserved to be prepared properly, with herbs and spices and the kind of care that only a trained chef could provide.
He'd take it back to the estate, and hopefully there'd be someone there who knew what to do with it.
Either way, coming back so soon with a buck was bound to impress. And unfortunately, that was exactly why Torin was here—to impress the damned Bretons. To show them that Skyrim didn't send weaklings or fools. To prove that the Nords were worthy of their respect, their trust, their alliance.
With a sigh, Torin began to stretch lazily, his joints popping as he rolled his shoulders. His mind drifted to everything that had happened so far—the secrecy, the hidden docking, the mysterious butler who had boarded their ship with such practiced efficiency.
All that secrecy bothered him to no end, and he could sense trouble coming his way. His instincts were ringing alarm bells, to say the least.
Questioning their host on this matter might not be exactly appropriate as envoys of Skyrim. Diplomacy required patience, tact, a willingness to let certain things slide. But Torin had decided to do it anyway, once he met the master of the estate back in the village.
He'd ask the questions that needed asking, and if the answers weren't satisfactory, he'd make his displeasure known.
With that thought in mind, Torin was ready to check on the deer, to see if it was fully drained.
He heard rustling in the leaves.
Sharp growls came from all around him and Echo, and then many figures emerged from the bushes, much to Torin's bafflement. There were six wolves—grey and lean, their yellow eyes fixed on him with predatory focus. And if that wasn't enough, there were four wild boars, their tusks gleaming in the dim light, their snouts snorting with barely contained aggression. And even a rabbit—a small, brown thing—glaring at him with an intensity that seemed entirely out of place for such a creature.
Torin's brain stopped functioning for just a moment at the strange sight—a coalition of forest creatures that should have been natural enemies, all standing together, all focused on him. Then his mind caught up, and he found the explanation quickly enough.
Magic.
The conversation he'd had with the boy in the village before he left came back to him. The warning about the green lady. The old grove. The flowers that shouldn't be picked.
It seems I've attracted the attention of the so-called green lady, he mused, his eyes scanning the treeline for any sign of a spriggan. He'd need to either flee or scare the spriggan itself into fleeing—killing it might earn him the ire of the people of this land, and thus their lords.
Just as he was weighing his options, a voice echoed through the forest—old, sharp, irritated.
"How many times do I need to tell you foolish zealots that I'm no witch!"
The greenery began to part right before Torin's eyes, the branches and leaves pulling back as if by an invisible hand. From the gap emerged an elderly woman in green, her robes made of leaves and moss, her hair the color of autumn.
She looked quite irritated, her eyes blazing with annoyance as she stormed toward him.
"Just how many of you need to return with broken bones before you..."
She paused as her eyes landed on him, taking in his massive frame, the spear in his hand, the bear at his side. Then she turned to Echo, and back at him.
"You're no spriggan," Torin said.
"You're no witch hunter," the elderly woman said at the same time.
They stared at each other in silence, the forest creatures still surrounding them, waiting.
Torin let out a chuckle, his shoulders relaxing slightly as the tension in the clearing began to dissipate.
"The green lady, I presume?"
The old woman humphed, crossing her arms over her chest. Her robes rustled with the motion, leaves and moss shifting like living things.
"That's Madam Aveline to you, boy." She looked him up and down, noting his massive frame—a stark contrast to his scholarly features, the sharp intelligence in his eyes. "And who might you be? You're clearly not from these lands."
Torin smiled, inclining his head in a gesture of respect.
"My name is Torin Kodlaksson. I come from Skyrim." He shrugged, his expression open and unguarded. "I'm not at liberty to tell you more, but I can assure you, I mean you no harm." He gestured at the gutted buck hanging from the tree. "If my ignorance has offended you, or if I've trespassed in any way, I do apologize."
Madam Aveline's sharp look softened at those words. Her arms uncrossed, and she let out a sigh.
"Not at all. You've neither trespassed nor offended." She glanced at the buck, then back at him. "I'm merely the keeper of this forest. It's my duty to ensure that those who enter it do so with respect—and that they leave it as they found it."
She turned to the beasts that had come alongside her, her hand rising in a gentle, almost dismissive gesture. The wolves relaxed, their hackles lowering, and they turned to slip back into the underbrush. The boars grunted and followed suit.
The rabbit, however, lingered. It sat on its haunches, its tiny nose twitching, glaring at Torin with an intensity that seemed entirely out of proportion to its size.
Aveline cleared her throat, a faint flush of embarrassment coloring her weathered cheeks.
"Please excuse Clover. I took him in as a babe after he lost his mother..." She shook her head. "He's overprotective."
Torin laughed—a genuine, warm sound that echoed through the trees.
"It's fine. I understand the sentiment."
He shook his head, his expression shifting to something more curious.
"Do you happen to need anything?" He gestured at the clearing, at the forest around them. "Or do you make a habit of assaulting every visitor who enters this forest?"
...
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