4E 201, Shor's Stone
Filnjar
The month since Gerron departure had reshaped Shor's Stone in ways Filnjar would never have believed possible.
What once had been a sleepy mining village teetering on the edge of irrelevance now stood encircled by a sturdy wooden palisade, complete with sharpened stakes embedded in the earth just beyond its open archway. The faint thud of hammers and the rasp of saws filled the air, as a small twenty-foot watchtower rose near the center of the village—just tall enough to give archers a commanding view of the treeline and roads.
The militia was shaping up to be a decent force. Twenty strong now, a mix of former miners, woodsmen, hunters, and boys on the cusp of manhood, each one leaner, meaner, and tougher than they'd been weeks ago. 'Rough stone shaped under pressure', Filnjar thought with a private smile. And much of the shaping was thanks to Grogmar.
The orc was no gentle mentor. With Gerron's ebony axe strapped to his back and a scowl fixed like a carving on his face, Grogmar trained the recruits without mercy. Not only were they drilled with arms, there were also mock battles where two teams would take turns acting as bandits and defenders. When the day ended, they came back bruised, battered, and exhausted every time. But they were ready.
Or so Filnjar had hoped.
He stood beside Grogmar now, watching a line of militia practice shield formations just outside the smithy. Filnjar didn't know much about warfare, but he had seen the Imperial lines before. The men and women in front of himi were far from reaching that level.
"The tower's decent," Grogmar muttered, eyes fixed on the archers atop the tower-in-progress. "But we'd need more than one and far taller towers to make this place defensible."
Filnjar grunted. "We've got what coin can buy, and no more. Until Gerron returns with more deals with Whiterun and Windhelm, this is all we could do."
Grogmar grunted. "I've lived my whole life in strongholds. While Shor's Stone is far from being called one, it's got a good start."
Before Filnjar could retort, a young nord with straw-colored hair ran up, panting and wide-eyed. "Master Filnjar! Visitors—from the north road!"
Filnjar's brow rose. "Bandits, lad?"
"No sir. Proper lot. Flying Windhelm's colors."
By the time they reached the archway, a small procession was already marching into the village. At the head was a stern-looking nord in his late forties, wearing the blue-and-silver tunic of Eastmarch's court. He dismounted, glancing at the palisade with a mixture of surprise and approval.
"Are you the leader here? I'm the steward of Windhelm, Jorleif," the man introduced himself, bowing politely. "I bring twenty guards and the Jarl's seal. We've come to finalize the agreement of ebony with the city and the Stormcloaks."
"Aye, that's me." Filnjar blinked. "Forgive me, but I've a hard time believing the steward of a hold himself will come all the way down here for a simple trade deal.
Jorleif chuckled tiredly. "Figured I'd stretch my legs after dealing with politics and serial killers in Windhelm. Thought I'd breathe some mountain air. Didn't expect to walk into a bloody fortress. Nice defenses."
"You'll be glad we have it soon," Grogmar grunted.
Not ten minutes later, they gathered in Filnjar's longhouse, spreading documents and ledgers across the table. The rest of the Windhelm guards had spread across the village in respite from the long journey. Some had sparred with militiamen, others indulging themselves in the local tavern.
Jorleif was surprisingly easy to work with—none of the supposed arrogance that comes from a man of his station. He wasn't a warrior by any stretch, but had a sharp eye for numbers and a good haggle to boot.
The negotiations had only just begun when the shouting started.
A voice screamed from the tower. "Riders! Dozens of them!"
Filnjar was up in an instant. He rushed outside, Jorleif close behind. They walked up the small tower to see what it was, and froze.
A horde of bandits—at least a hundred strong—were emerging from the woods and roads like ants from a hill. Ragged, mismatched armor. Some on foot, others riding scrawny horses. At their head strode a mountain of a man—a massive Redguard in ill-fitting steel armor, gripping a wickedly curved scimitar.
"By the divines, that's Demir the Strong!" Jorlief exclaimed.
"Who?" Grogmar questioned, already palming his ebony axe.
"He's an Alik'r warrior who deserted just prior to the end of the Great War. He came to Skyrim and became the leader of a band of bandits. The Jarl has seen fit to put a bounty of five hundred septims on his head."
"They must be here for the ebony," Filnjar frowned.
"Stormcloaks!" Jorleif barked at his guards. "To the walls!"
The village scrambled into motion. Militia and the Stormcloaks manned the palisade while archers took positions along the half-finished tower. The ground before the archway was already dug with wooden spikes, just as Grogmar had ordered.
Grogmar, along with eight of the militia's best swords and the rest of the Stormcloaks, remained on the ground in preparation to block the bandit's advance.
"Archers! Loose!" Grogmar shouted.
A hail of arrows rained down, felling the first wave of bandits. Bodies crumpled onto the sharpened stakes, impaled and writhing. But the attackers kept coming, screaming and howling, driven by greed and bloodlust.
As if driven by instinct, Filnjar grabbed his maul and shield, both forged by Gerron and the one he used to clear Rebelly from the spiders. The steel felt warm in his grip, like a trusted friend. As he rushed toward the front lines, Grogmar intercepted him.
"Back in the village, old man!" the orc barked.
Filnjar bared his teeth. "This is my village. I'm not hiding behind walls while others bleed for it."
Grogmar growled but nodded. "Then don't die."
The battle clashed in brutal earnest. Bandits slammed into the palisade and spikes, cutting down the walls with axes. Arrows and blades met them. Screams filled the air.
Filnjar fought like a man possessed, hammering aside one bandit's shield before crushing his leg. Another leapt at him with a dagger, only to be bowled over by his shield and crushed underfoot. Two came at him then, and Filnjar struggled to keep them at bay. He took a cut to his forearm and another beneath his eye before one of the militia stabbed one of his assailants from the back and Filnjar broke the other's neck with a hammer to the cheek.
Stormcloaks fought beside villagers, blades flashing. Grogmar carved a path through the enemy, his massive ebony axe cleaving through mail and bone alike. Every strike was final.
Still, the bandits pushed forward.
Half a dozen militia had already fallen—many to arrows, some simply overwhelmed. Demir was at the center of it, laughing as he slashed with his scimitar, carving through Stormcloaks like parchment. His reach, strength, and speed made him a terror.
Seeing him from this close, Filnjar finally noticed the ugly, jagged scar that stretched from Demir's left brow to under his right lip. Seeing him behead a young nord militia with a single swing made Filnjar's blood boil.
But before he could approach, Grogmar roared, and the two titans collided in a storm of steel.
Scimitar met axe, and the clang of metal rang across the field.
Demir ducked low, slicing toward Grogmar's legs. The orc leapt back, then swung downward, forcing the bandit to side step and let the axe dig to the soft ground beneath. The Redguard snarled and spun, trying to hamstring him, but Grogmar caught the blade with the haft of his axe, then surged forward.
The axe sank into the man's pauldrons and Filnjar heard a crack. While the axe didn't sink into flesh, there was no doubt that the bones in his shoulder broke from that impact.
Before Demir could recover, Grogmar headbutted him—his steel horned helmet crashing into the Redguard's face like a hammer. The bandit reeled, dropping his scimitar.
With a final bellow, Grogmar ripped his axe free and buried it in the man's neck.
The Redguard gurgled—and fell.
At the sight of their leader's death, like a wave collapsing, the bandits broke. One by one, they turned and ran. Some limped through the forests while others dropped their weapons and fled.
Filnjar leaned on the wall, blood running down his arm, heart pounding on his ears. Grogmar stood in the field of corpses, chest heaving, his axe dripping with gore.
'By the gods, Gerron was right'. Only a month since word of the ebony spread and already bandits prowled, looking for weakness.
Jorleif stepped forward, grimacing. "Well," he muttered, "this certainly complicates things. How did a band of a hundred men walk around Stormcloak territory without anyone noticing?"
Filnjar just laughed hoarsely, a shaky one.
"It was nothing we didn't expect." He looked to one of the villagers, who all started to get out of the safety of their homes. "Help the injured and bring them to the long hall. Have others start sweeping through the field. We'll bury our own and leave the bandits for the wolves, after stripping them of everything they have."
…
4E 201, Dragonsreach
Gerron Ironbreaker
The clang of steel rang out one final time, echoing like a drumbeat through Farengar's workshop in Dragonsreach. Gerron exhaled through his nose, the scent of hot metal and oil mixing in the air around him. Wiping his brow with a soot-streaked cloth, he stepped back from the workbench, admiring the mechanical marvel before him.
On the bench was a mixmatch of brass colored steel and dwemer cogs and gyros, all crafted and engineered in the shape of a mechanical owl. Its wings, still folded, bore inlaid dwarven glyphs, and its eyes were twin orbs of black crystal, waiting for the last piece of the component to be inserted.
"I admit, I haven't seen this kind of crafting before," Farengar said, leaning against a wooden support beam with arms crossed and an inquisitive look in his eye. "You say this 'Homunculus Servant' could work similarly to a conjurer's familiar? I can certainly see the use in such a thing."
"Aye," Gerron replied, his voice gravelly from the smoke. "That's what the crystal's for. It's laced with enough magicka to last three months—longer if I ration the commands. Eventually, I'll need to swap it out or recharge it."
Farengar stepped closer, studying the design. "Fascinating. So it works akin to a soul gem, but tailored for a specific construct. Ingenious."
Gerron reached into a nearby case and pulled out the enchanted power core — the crystal from Belethor's he had carved in the shape of a skull, etched with delicate blue runes that shimmered with magic. Carefully, he slotted it into the owl's chest. The gears inside clicked and whirred as the internal mechanism came to life.
The owl's eyes lit up in a soft, radiant blue. Its body gave a shudder as the feathers ruffled mechanically, and then, with a sudden leap, it sprang to Gerron's extended arm. Its talons locked with practiced ease onto a reinforced brass vambrace strapped to his forearm.
"Hoot!"
The sound made Gerron smirk. "I think I'll name him Bronze."
[Bronze Image]
"Very creative," Farengar quipped with dry amusement. "Nevertheless, it's refreshing to see such a new way of craftsmanship. The owl reminds of the Dwemer in a way."
"That's the idea." Gerron gestured toward the owl as it took flight, circling overhead with the faint whirr of tiny gears. "I studied one of their ruins—Kagrenzel. Got a look at their inner workings and studied their design myself."
Farengar's eyes widened. "Kagrenzel, you say? I've read of it but never dared venture that deep. I always believed that knowledge of the dwemer and their creations were far beyond our capability and it would take centuries—if not more–for anyone to replicate it." He shook his head good naturedly. "And yet here you are."
Gerron chuckled and tapped a rune on his vambrace. A small orb embedded in its wrist flickered, displaying a soft projection of Farengar and himself from Bronze's perspective, high above. The mage's eyebrows raised in appreciation.
"So you connected the owl's vision to your bracer, allowing you to see what he sees." Farengar nodded, impressed. "A mix of illusion and alteration magic—clever. It's similar to the Clairvoyance spell in a way."
"That's where I got the inspiration," Gerron confirmed.
With another tap, Bronze tucked in his wings and spiraled downward, landing neatly on the bench. In one smooth movement, he curled in on himself, gears clicking into place until he became a compact brass sphere—no larger than a fist. Gerron clipped the orb to his belt.
Farengar clasped his hands behind his back. "In any case, I do believe your talents are wasted on mere smithing. Between this, your hammer, and even the ballista schematics, I daresay you're on your way to rivaling the College's more... unconventional minds."
"I have been planning on visiting, but never had the chance to." Gerron let out a low grunt of appreciation. "That reminds me—how goes the dragon studies? Anything we can actually use?"
"Nothing new I'm afraid." Farengar's smile faded. "Your idea with the ballistae is the best we've got so far. What I did find was that dragons come in all shapes and sizes. From what I can tell, the dragons you had faced in the Western Watchtower were among the smaller ones."
He stepped over to a nearby table and unrolled a weathered parchment. "Records say that Alduin, the World Eater, could swallow entire cities in the shadow of his wingspan. Even their mastery of the Thu'um is different with each dragon. Some could only use the most rudimentary of shouts. Fire Breath, Frost Breath, Lightning Breath. But Alduin? They say he can turn entire cities to ash with a single word. Compared to that… arrows and swords feel woefully inadequate."
Gerron frowned. Indeed, the current level of techonology in Skyrim was very much underwhelming. They haven't even begun to utilize Soul Gems the proper way they could be used.
Gerron was careful to not share any of his more dangerous blueprints with anyone. Some of the creations he has in his mind were ones that could potentially change the world. It was the type of change that could either turn it for the better, or for worse.
Still, there were some ideas that could work well in the defense of the city. Repeating magicka turrets, as well as a siege version of his hammer that could shoot out magicka blasts, which has proven to be capable of knocking dragons from the sky. Though the resources needed to create them were woefully outside of Whiterun's capabilities..
There was a beat of silence before Farengar decided to break it. "I heard you plan to accompany the Dragonborn on her way to High Hrothgar."
"She needs the support," Gerron nodded, "though I don't plan on making the ten-thousand steps myself. She told me she plans to make her way to the Hall of Vigilants to visit her mother before going to Ivarstead. Coincidentally, I have a personal project in mind that takes me to the Pale. I'll accompany her all the way to Ivarstead before making my way back home to Shor's Stone."
Farengar raised an eyebrow. "I thought you just finished one? Is this next project something I'd be interested in?"
"Maybe, you ever heard of the White Phial?"
Farengar paused, no doubt trying to remember if he's heard the term before shaking his head. "I can't say I have."
"It's a legendary artifact, almost every master alchemist has heard of it. Though I can't say for sure if it really exists until I find it myself." Gerron strapped the vambrace tighter, his gaze already shifting toward the window, where the horizon of Skyrim stretched as far as the eye can see. "Can't really sit idle while the whole of Skyrim is bleeding."
"You've done more than most," Farengar said. "When you return, Whitreun will be fortified with your defenses. Your ballista towers will be manned, and the walls reinforced. You have my word."
…
AN: The Homunculus Servant is officially the second of Gerron's personal artifacts. It's not combat related, but could serve useful in more ways than one.
Anyways, the news of the ebony has spread far and wide at this point, and many eyes are set upon Shor's Stone. Expect many factions to be interested in this once thought to be defenseless village.
As always, more chapters are available on my Pat_reon. Chapter 26 should be available by the time this chapter was posted. Just look up my name and you'll find me.
Hope you guys enjoyed the chapter! Cheers!