After thirteen days at sea, the passengers of the Snow Gale were finally able to see the docks of Daggerfall.
They had braved almost two weeks of northwestern gales—howling winds that had battered the ship and sent waves crashing over the bow, long nights where the stars hid behind clouds and the only light came from the lanterns swaying in the rigging.
The journey had been rough, the seas unforgiving, but they had made it.
The city of Daggerfall rose from a bluff overlooking the sea, its white stone walls gleaming in the pale morning light. Towers jutted toward the sky, their spires adorned with banners that snapped and fluttered in the coastal breeze.
The city was an active hub of trade—a bustling port where ships from across Tamriel came to unload their cargo and take on new passengers. Even from here, anyone could see how busy the docks were, with ships arriving and departing, their crews shouting and hauling, the constant hum of commerce filling the air.
Torin himself sat on a barrel atop the deck, a small knife in one hand and a piece of wood in the other. He'd been trying to carve Echo's likeness, though the results were... questionable.
The bear was recognizable, at least—a lumpy, misshapen bear with one ear larger than the other and a snout that looked more like a pig's. Ultimately, it was something he did out of boredom with hands that were under the influence constantly shifting waves.
As for the subject, or perhaps, the victim, of his hadniwork, Echo... she lay beside him, her head resting on her paws, watching his work with the patient disinterest of a creature who had no concept of art.
His hands stopped moving as the captain's voice suddenly rang out across the deck.
"Furl the sails!" The captain's voice was sharp, commanding. "Prepare to drop the anchor! Prepare to raise the special banner!"
Torin couldn't help but frown. He set down both the knife and the piece of wood—Echo's likeness would have to wait—and stood up, his gaze turning to the docks.
Sure enough, the port was still too far away for the sails to be unfurled already.
They were at least a mile out, maybe more, with the city still a distant shape on the horizon.
And what was this about a special flag?
His frown deepened as he noticed one of the sailors holding a piece of red and black cloth as he began to climb the main mast toward the crow's nest. The fabric snapped in the wind, its colors stark against the grey sky.
Torin's eyes scanned the crowded ship, full of sailors going to and fro, until he caught sight of Bragi. The skald was standing near the railing, his arms crossed, watching the preparations with an expression of calm satisfaction.
Torin quickly walked up to him, Echo padding along beside him, and grabbed him by the wrist.
"What is going on?" His voice was low, urgent. "Why are we stopping here, and what's with the flag?"
Bragi had a look of realization on his face at those words, his eyes widening slightly.
"Right," he said, scratching the back of his head. "I suppose I should have informed you earlier, but it slipped my mind." He pointed at the flag, which was now fully unfurled, its red and black fabric snapping in the wind.
"These are the instructions of Queen Melisande. She didn't wish for the arrival of foreign diplomats to disrupt the crowning of her son. Apparently, she's been planning this ceremony for months, and the last thing she needs is a ship full of Nords to disrupt the ceremonies."
He shook his head, a wry smile on his lips.
"Breton nobles are famously paranoid. They tend to perceive even the tiniest variables as someone trying to gain an advantage. An unexpected ship could be a diplomatic mission, or it could be an assassination attempt. A delegation of warriors could be allies, or they could be hired blades. They don't take chances."
Torin frowned. That, he definitely understood. Bragi had sat him and Qasim down before they'd even left Solitude, explaining the political situation as well as he knew it.
Apparently, Daggerfall had been a powder keg waiting to explode little over a year ago, when King Bertrand IV had passed away. He'd left an heir—Prince Lucien—but the boy was too young to rule.
A conflict had arisen between Lucien's mother, Queen Melisande, and the late king's brother, Duke Armand. Both had claimed the right to rule as regent until the prince came of age.
The succession dispute had dragged on for months. The coronation had been delayed, postponed, rescheduled, and delayed again. And it was only happening now because Armand had finally relented—or so it seemed.
If that was true, it made sense why they didn't want to make a big show of a bunch of Nords arriving on such an important occasion. Still, Torin couldn't shake the feeling that something else was going on.
His eyes narrowed as he turned toward the docks, and saw a small boat approaching them. It was sleek and fast, its oars cutting through the water with practiced precision. A single figure stood at its bow, wrapped in a dark cloak, his face hidden beneath a hood.
...
Soon enough, the Snow Gale was docked—but not at Daggerfall's port. Instead, they sailed east along the shore until they came upon a small fishing village, its wooden docks weathered by salt and time, its houses clustered together like sheep huddled against the cold. This was where they stopped.
Torin couldn't help but stare suspiciously at Mathis Renard, a butler of the baron who ruled this village. The man was a slender, sharp-featured Breton with receding hair and a smile that seemed perpetually fixed in place, no matter what he was saying.
He gestured toward the estate enthusiastically while talking to Bragi and the captain, describing how comfortable it was and the lengths they had gone to prepare for their arrival—fresh linens, a stocked kitchen, servants ready to attend to their every need.
As for why they were here, it was simple. Bragi had explained it on the approach. Queen Melisande wanted to keep the arrival of Skyrim's delegation as discreet as possible until the end of the coronation, to avoid raising ripples in the already tense political waters.
This felt way beyond the realm of reasonable caution as far as Torin was concerned. In fact, it felt more like unreasonable paranoia than it did caution. However, Bragi didn't seem to harbor any doubts, and he was their expert on Bretons.
So for now, Torin decided to keep his rising suspicions to himself.
He patted Echo's head and turned to survey the area. It was a nice enough village—about a hundred houses scattered about, most of them built from the same grey stone that seemed to be everywhere in this region.
A small stream flowed from the forest, splitting the village in two, its waters clear and cold.
Torin hummed as he looked at the forest, then back at Echo. The bear seemed already fed up with the sea and the ship—her ears were drooping, her tail was low, and she'd been whining softly for the past hour.
"How about we go out on a hunt, you and I, while boring people tend to boring matters?"
Echo let out a growl that sounded very much eager. Her ears perked up, and she pressed her head against his hand.
Torin grinned.
"Alright then. Let's get going before Qasim catches wind of this and asks to tag along."
He began to disembark the ship, his boots finding the wooden dock with a solid thunk. Echo followed along, but she let out a growl that sounded full of disapproval—a deep, rumbling sound that seemed aimed at his last comment.
Torin scoffed.
"Oh, come off it. You're only saying that because you don't understand what he says." He glanced back at her. "You're immune to his preaching. You have no idea how lucky you are."
Echo just huffed and padded along beside him, her ears twitching about.
...
Having informed Bragi and Mathis of his plans to go for a hunt, Torin was already at the edge of the village, not far from the treeline that surrounded it. The forest loomed ahead, dark and inviting, its trees swaying gently in the coastal breeze. Echo padded beside him, her nose already twitching at the scents carried on the wind.
He had to halt his steps as something flew over his head and fell right in front of him.
Torin blinked. He stared at the object for a moment, then knelt down to pick it up. It was a ball—made from leather, stuffed with something soft, perhaps wool or straw. It was well-worn, its surface scuffed and faded, clearly a favorite toy.
He turned around to see a child standing there, cautiously staring at him, Echo, and the ball. The boy was small—maybe eight or nine years old—with mousy brown hair and eyes that were wide with a mixture of curiosity and fear. He wore simple clothes, patched at the elbows and knees, and his bare feet were dirty from the dusty village paths.
Torin smiled and raised the ball.
"Is this yours?"
The boy slowly nodded his head, his gaze flickering nervously between Torin's face and Echo's massive form.
Torin tossed the ball toward him—a gentle, almost perfect throw that should have landed right in the child's hands. But the boy let it fall to the ground, his arms not even rising to catch it. Instead, he pointed at Echo and asked, in a voice that was trying very hard to be brave:
"Does it bite...?"
Torin couldn't help but chuckle. He glanced down at Echo, who was watching the boy with a curious tilt of her head.
"She is a she, not an it. Her name is Echo." He paused. "As for your question..." He turned to Echo and asked, his voice mock-serious, "Do you bite, girl?"
Echo let out a low growl—a deep, rumbling sound that vibrated through her chest.
Torin nodded sagely, then turned back to the boy.
"She only bites bad children." He crossed his arms. "Let's see... have you been listening to your parents? Doing your chores?"
The boy nodded eagerly, his eyes still fixed on Echo.
"Always," he said.
Torin smiled.
"Then she won't bite you." His expression shifted, becoming mysterious. "The question is... are you brave enough to approach and see for yourself?"
The boy hesitated. His gaze darted between Echo and Torin, back and forth, as if weighing the risk.
Then, slowly, he took a step forward.
Echo simply stared at the child with one of those animal gazes that made it very difficult for humans to decipher their mood—whether she was enjoying the situation, whether she hated it, whether she was about to bite or simply yawn.
Her ears were slightly forward, her dark eyes fixed on the boy's face with an intensity that could have meant anything.
Torin just watched this with a smirk, his arms crossed, thoroughly amused.
Finally, after half a minute of cautiously approaching Echo, the boy was upon her. He extended his hand slowly, his fingers trembling slightly as they reached toward her face.
Before the tip of his finger could touch her fur, she suddenly flinched at him—a sharp, sudden movement that made the boy let out a small scream.
Then she pushed him with her nose, toppling him onto the ground, and began to lick his face with enthusiastic vigor, her rough tongue rasping across his cheeks and forehead.
His shock turned into giggles—high, delighted sounds that echoed across the empty field. Echo only relented after a few moments, allowing the boy to stand up, still giggling, his face wet with bear slobber.
He began to caress Echo's neck, scratching behind her ears, and she leaned into his touch with a contented grumble.
The boy turned to Torin, his eyes bright.
"Are you a hunter? Only hunters go into the forest."
Torin nodded his head.
"I'm not a hunter, but I am going into the forest to hunt." He tilted his head. "Why do you ask?"
The boy's expression suddenly turned serious. He looked around—left, right, behind him—as if afraid someone would overhear.
"If you're going in, you should know not to pick flowers from the old grove," he said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "The green lady would know if you do."
Torin's eyes widened slightly.
"Who is the green lady? And where is this old grove?"
The child quickly shook his head.
"I don't know. That's just what I heard from the grown-ups. They say she's been in the forest for as long as anyone can remember. They say she protects the old grove, and if you take anything from it, she'll find you."
Torin let out a thoughtful hum.
A green lady. That sounded like a spriggan of some sort.
The villagers knew about her, yet seemed content to let her be—which meant she probably didn't harm them. Perhaps they even had a mutually beneficial arrangement.
Then again, it might just be a simple case of superstition. Either way, He'd have to be mindful around the forest.
"Thank you for the warning," Torin said. "I'll be careful."
The boy nodded, then turned and ran back toward the village, his bare feet kicking up dust, the ball forgotten on the ground.
Torin watched him go, then turned to Echo.
"Come on, girl. Let's see what this forest has to offer."
...
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