Jastinia 3: Forged (09/07 – 09/11/201)

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Story recap

Encouraged by her Argonian family and driven by a lifelong desire to help Windhelm outsiders like herself, Jastinia marched to the Palace of the Kings on her 16th birthday with one goal: join the Stormcloaks. Despite Jastinia’s Imperial heritage and her upbringing in the dockside Argonian Assemblage, Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak and general Galmar Stone-Fist were willing to give the orphan if she could journey to Serpentstone Isle and slay an ice wraith. With help from her mentors, Torbjorn Shatter-Shield and Scouts Many-Marshes, Jastinia dove into her new training to prepare her for the quest. Literally, in the case of the Argonian’s cold-water acclimation lessons. First with a frumpy tunic for just a few seconds at a time. Then with nothing but strips of cloth for up to seven minutes. In just a few days, her body grew accustomed to the glacial waters… even if she hated every shivering, numbing minute of it.

But the White River wasn’t Jastinia’s only exposure to Skyrim’s ice. After a surprise Tales and Tallows celebration, Jastinia sought out Torbjorn at his home to learn more about his own training plans. When she arrived, Torbjorn was sleeping off his Tales and Tallows wine, but his wife was waiting. Tova Shatter-Shield invited the Imperial inside and shared her feelings towards the weak, worthless girl who her husband had taken in as a hobby. Tova’s ice cut deeper than even the White River’s and it took Jastinia a trip to the wilderness to regain her confidence. Beyond the walls, she gathered ore for Oengul War-Anvil, hunted a snow fox for the Argonian master scout Stands-In Shallows, and cleared her head. When she returned, not even guard taunts or memories of that evening with Tova would chill her spirits. After enjoying a night among Dunmer neighbors at the Cornerclub, she resolved to continue her Stormcloak enlistment and complete Torbjorn’s latest assignment: forging a two-handed battleaxe for an unknown purpose.

(continue reading on the blog)

Series background

Welcome to Jastinia of Windhelm’s legendary edition Ultimate Skyrim/Take Notes playthrough. My name is Anna and I'm blogging her playthrough on my WordPress page, Unearthed Arcanna, but posting all the content here too. Got questions about Jastinia? My modlist? Our roleplaying approach? Check out all the “playthrough links” below for more information about the series.

Playthrough links

 

Heartfire, 7th, 4E 201

Sailor’s Rest. Windhelm.
Early morning.

-----

The wraith came again last night. Frozen, famished, it slithered through air and snow drifts to hunt its prey. I reached for a sword that wasn’t there on a back that wasn’t armored, shivering and crawling away as its teeth grinded together. Jagged icicles like those hanging from Windhelm roofs before they sunk into meat. Please, I begged, please help me, to friends that were gone, to family lost and dead, to anyone who could hear me.

A shadow appeared, Torbjorn’s image if he had been erased from this world until all that was left was his ghostly memory. Standing tall, claymore in hand, trying to pass it to me as I stretched. Reached. Take it, girl. Wield it if you can, but my frost-flecked hands passed through its ethereal hilt, through the purple wisps of his arms. I tried again. Again. Grasping and screaming for him to give it to me, Please, Torbjorn, help me, pleading for my hands to work so I didn’t die here as he faded away into nothingness leaving me to face the wraith. Alone.

Yes Jastinia, it hissed. At the end of the day, every warrior is alone.

Circling and constricting around me, it squeezed, bit. I struggled until my muscles numbed, skin turning ice-blue than midnight-black before sloughing away in frozen sheets until all my weak muscle and craven blood was exposed underneath. Just remember, it said in a voice even icier than the body encircling me, a voice I last heard sitting by a fireplace. Just remember, little girl, who his real daughters are.

But just before it bit, just before wraith teeth tasted the weak, stupid, abandoned Imperial left alone to die, I heard a voice again. Her voice. Her whisper.

You still don’t want to get up, do you?

Ice on my body and then in it as I tried to answer or scream. Help me Torbjorn, Scouts, Kynareth. Mom and dad, someone, help me please, but only mist spilled out from my blue tongue.

They can’t help you, Jastinia. But I can.

I woke before I could ask. Even sipping Tabiah’s tea at the table downstairs, my throat still hurts from my waking shriek. From the glacial fangs ripping into my neck and chewing, tearing. The steeping juniper helps but the tissue is still tender, my larynx sore. From the final cry before I screamed myself awake. The dozen before that.

“Bad night?” Tabiah asked after I came downstairs. “We practically heard you from our bedroom.” It wouldn’t surprise me if they heard me in the Duskstar residence across the docks. If I woke the whole damn city. “Sorry” was all I could manage.

She waved it off. “If Nag’nash’s snoring doesn’t scare away our guests, your nightmares won’t either.” Maybe. At least his snorts and snores had a regular tempo to them, just like the grinding machines near my room. Not my screams though. No one wants Jastinia’s shrill, staccato notes as their lullaby.

Damnit. I don’t need this shit. I have enough on my waking mind without all my fears stalking me into sleep. I know what Shahvee would say about these visions. The same wisdom she shares about all dreams: “they mean as much or as little as you want them to.” I wish I could ignore them the same way I ignore any of the casual barbs I hear whenever I walk through Windhelm’s gates, but it’s hard to dismiss such obvious imagery. The cut of ice and fang into weak, frostbitten muscles. Torbjorn’s incorporeal hands. Tova’s voice.

Whatever. Like Scouts always reminds me, it’s not real. All of these specters are only real in my stupid, obsessive head and I need to get over them just like I got over the initial cold-shock of the river. Refocus on what really matters for the next few days. Torbjorn’s assignment. The battleaxe. I don’t know why he wants me to make it but I don’t care. If he doesn’t share his wife’s opinion of me, I won’t do anything to change his mind. And if that means forging some gratuitous Nordic axe, I’ll do it with a smile.

The Craftsman’s Manual had a few ideas for two-handed axe designs, but most were way beyond my nonexistent paygrade. Steel might as well be ebony for all I’ve worked with it. Ancient Nordic forging was a more realistic option, but considering I’m having a hard time shaping raw iron, I can’t imagine it gets easier when I’m folding in a vein of molten corundum. Guess that just leaves the generic battleaxe: 4 iron ingots, 3 leather strips, 2 chunks of wood. Big, boring, and perfectly doable for a beginner blacksmith like me who can barely hammer straight carpentry nails.

Let’s plan materials. Leather strips are easy. I’m sure I have a few floating around my trunk from that backpack project, plus Oengul always has plenty to spare at a discount. The lumber is a little harder. None of the driftwood or firewood I can split or buy around Windhelm is going to work for a battleaxe shaft, unless I don’t mind a brittle or knotted handle shattering on first impact. Besides, if this monster is half as heavy as the Manual warns me, I’m going to need something a lot sturdier than the rotten stumps Scouts hauls around all day. Oak, maybe. Or elm. That means a journey to the Kynesgrove forest to chop it myself, which honestly sounds like a pleasant daytrip. I haven’t been to the Braidwood in ages and Iddra makes Eastmarch’s creamiest cheese curds.

As for iron, Oengul always has extra ingots for sale. He knows the metal is in high demand due to the war, so he’ll charge me a Jarl’s ransom for every piece, but at least I won’t have to mine or smelt it myself. Maybe he’ll cut me a discount as a thank-you for my last delivery?

I’m trying to stay positive as I finish my buttered fox meat and tea, but I’m already starting to hate Torbjorn’s ridiculous axe almost as much as Scouts’s swimming practice. Almost. I thought my time at the forge would mean a break from the White River but I underestimated Scouts’s talent for torturing me.

“Blacksmithing is dirty work, Wargirl,” he said after I told him about Torbjorn’s assignment. “It would be wise to bathe regularly.” Um, not sure that’s entirely your business, but I appreciate the…

Shit. That’s when I figured it out. Sometime between his comment about bathing and his eyes glancing out toward the River. “And I suppose I can’t wash up in a bathtub.”

“I recommend a warm towel.” He grinned, looked out one last time over the freezing water, and walked away chuckling. “Safe swimming, landstrider.” Asshole.

Torbjorn wants a battleaxe so I’ll make him a battleaxe. Scouts wants me to freeze to death in the river so I’ll freeze to death in the river. Sir, yessir. You point, I jump. All these demands are getting me really excited for army life. I’ll finish reading the Manual, savor my last sip of tea, and then enjoy my morning ice-bath before a day of metal-melting heat by Oengul’s forging pit. I can’t say I’m excited about this new training plan but I’ll say this for Torbjorn and Scouts: they’re making me way too busy to worry about nightmares.

 

Heartfire, 7th, 4E 201

War-Anvil’s Forge. Windhelm.
Mid morning.

-----

And I thought Ma’dran’s caravan prices were inflated. Oengul wouldn’t part with the ingots for less than a 100% markup from the steel. For raw iron! How?! How can he charge more for the iron itself than the product smelted from the iron? “Do you want the ingots or not.” Okay but can I at least get the friends and family discount? “That’s with the discount.” Well shit. There goes almost every Septim from my last hunting and gathering job. Is Torbjorn paying me back for this dumb axe?

Still, I shouldn’t whine too much. It’s not like Oengul charges a daily fee for me to use his forge, anvil, and other work-stations. As long as I put everything back where I found it, as long he and Hermir can work around me, I’m welcome to ruin as much of his upcharged iron as I want. Besides, what he robbed from me on ingots he’ll make up with tips throughout the process. If him growling “You trying to sharpen an edge or lose a finger?” counts as advice.

Oengul never plans out his projects on paper before forging (“Paper and quills are for thin-armed milkdrinkers”), but considering both of my arms barely fit in Oengul’s wrist, paper and quills seem like the perfect place for me to start. Hermir agrees. In fact, she was the person who initially suggested I outline a piece on paper before starting. I was skeptical at first: isn’t that a milkdrinker thing? Hermir smiled. “I’d rather be a milkdrinker forging good steel than a True Nord forging cracked scrapmetal.” Fair point. And I gotta admit, I do enjoy me a jug of fresh ox-milk.

After re-consulting the Manual and asking Oengul for his thoughts (“More forging, less talking,”) I came up with a rough plan for the next week. This assumes I can tough through 8-10 hour days. I couldn’t sustain that for my hauberk but I also couldn’t survive for longer than 10 seconds in the White River just a few days ago. Maybe Scouts’s training has toughened me up for extended forging too. Not tough like Oengul and Hermir, who pull 12-hour shifts six days a week, but tough enough to get this axe done before Galmar wanders down here to ask what his newest recruit is doing playing around in the forge.

Day 1
-Insert handle-piece
-Shape axe-head blank
-Flatten eye-side shank

Day 2
-Bevel shank
-Fuller eye features
-Bevel grooves
-Flatten cheeks

Day 3
-Close eye
-Weld eye
-Shape eye
-Repeat Days 1-3 if I screw these steps up like I screwed them up when I first tried forging axes.

Day 4
-Hammer and shape langets
-Hammer and shape spike
-Forge-weld langets and spike to head
-Punch and drill pinholes

Day 5
-Spread and flatten edge
-Straighten material
-Remove scale
-Pray
-Pray again just in case
-Heat treat and oil dunk

Day 6
-Fieldtrip to Kynesgrove for sturdy wood
-Eat cheese curds at the Braidwood
-Don’t lose too much money on dice at the Braidwood

Day 7
-Carve and shave handle
-Fit and wedge handle into eye
-Bolt and pin head to handle

Day 8 (half-day, hopefully)
-Wrap handle
-Grind and sharpen edge
-Smack Torbjorn with the handle (maybe the bit?) for wasting over a week of my life on a weapon I don’t even want to use

Ughhh. Writing it all out reminded me why I hate axes. A better smith could get this done in 3-4 days of hard-forging. Oengul could do it in 1-2. But for this sad excuse for a forgemistress? I’m looking at about 50-60 hours of labor if nothing goes wrong, plus the daytrip for suitable lumber, plus-minus another 5-10 when I inevitably jack something up and the whole head cracks after the Day 5 quench. Hope that ice wraith doesn’t get too hungry on Serpentstone while waiting for its dinner to visit. See you next year, maybe?

Okay, no more complaining. Or as Oengul just instructed, “Damnit, girl. Stop writing about your godsdamn axe and start making it.” If I’ve learned anything from working War-Anvil’s forge these last years it’s that you can groan and curse and complain all you want, but you have to be forging first.

 

Heartfire, 7th, 4E 201

Sailor’s Rest. Windhelm.
Late evening.

-----

Judging by my Day 1 progress, my first day back at the forge went well. Judging by my floppy arms and burning shoulders, however, I’d be happy if Hermir and Oengul just finished my axe for me overnight. Please? Smacking cloth dummies with a greatsword is one thing. Most of my drills are footwork anyway. As Torbjorn always says, Strike only when you must and strike as few times as necessary.

But forging? Hammering a hunk of heated iron into a vaguely axe-like lump? It’s just “strike strike strike” for hours on end, and when you think you’re done, just keep striking a little longer to make sure. Stronger or more precise smiths could probably have shaped that ingot in half my strokes. But me? I must’ve set Windhelm’s record for most hammer strikes for a single battleaxe.

“You flattening an axe-head over there or trying to reshape my damn anvil?” Look, Oengul. If you and Torbjorn wanted to save me the shoulder pain and everyone the ringing ears you could have just sold me this stupid axe. Or just lend me some of those big Nordic biceps. It’s not like he doesn’t have the brawn to spare: his forearm muscles practically have their own muscles. Thankfully, Hermir shared some leverage techniques for blacksmiths who can’t bend metal with our manly, Nordic teeth. That or her ears were piercing as much as mine and she needed the pain to stop.

Fried arms and humming eardrums aside, today was a good warmup for the harder stuff. There’s nothing particularly technical in clobbering a piece of iron into a crude mockery of an axe-head, but now I’m feeling (somewhat?) more confident to start beveling and fullering tomorrow.

More importantly, today reminded me of why I love the forge in the first place. Soot and sweat caking my face as a Windhelm breeze blew it out of my eyes. Hot forge stones warming my toes even as an afternoon snowstorm forced Niranye and the other merchants to close for the day. Not War-Anvil’s, though. Not the forging trio. Our symphony of hammer and grindstone, the anvil’s percussion, the bellow’s winds, all of it blending under muscle and fire to transform a lump of rock into a weapon that could slay a peasant or a prince. Raw creation in the beating, heated heart of Windhelm, and I’m sweating right there in its fire.

Despite my rekindled spirit at the anvil, today was not without challenges. First, let’s talk about that fox steak I had for breakfast and lunch. What the hell was I thinking? It smelled sweeter than it should, tasted more bitter than I remembered, and now my stomach hates me for it. Why, Jastinia! Why would you force us to eat that! Sorry, intestines. All that inefficient hammering really worked up an appetite. Hopefully I sleep this nausea off by tomorrow. Speaking of tomorrow, I also need to bring way more water. My head feels like it’s been under the anvil all day, not the unfinished axe shank. Hermir always warns me I need to stay hydrated in the forge’s heat but it’s easy to get caught up.

But today’s worst moment was later. On the walk home, before I turned down the scaffolding to Sailor’s Rest. Looking up ahead on the Bridge of Kings, I saw the bodies. Two of them facedown on the stones. Soldiers were already clustered around the scene warning travelers and citizens to keep moving, stay back, the Windhelm Guard have the matter in hand. I told myself to go home, look away. It’s not your business. You know what happens when you poke around dead bodies when the guards tell you to stay away. But despite their warnings, I couldn’t help but come closer.

It wasn’t the first time I’d seen bodies. There was the scorched man on the shore just the other day. That spider-eaten ruffian in the sewers months back. An occasional victim of a tavern brawl that escalated from blows to blades, corpses in the sewer from an accident or ambush. Mom. Nor was this scene even particularly grisly. Between the evening shadows and the howling snow, there was no blood seeping into stone, no visible injuries marring their snowy skin or clothes. The pair looked like they were sleeping, wrapped in winter clothing and collapsed facedown after a day longer than mine.

And yet, seeing the dead from afar, something hit me. Stabbed me just like I’d punched that handle into the axe-head earlier today, a gutspike I can’t ignore now that it’s dug in. It wasn’t the bodies themselves, nor the memories they whisper about. It was a thought. A question.

Am I ready for this?

Swimming in icewater, forging axes, hitting cloth mannequins, and slaying sewer pests is one thing. Even battling ice wraiths, assuming it doesn’t get me first. But fighting people like me? Killing them? Leaving them dead in the dark to blown away in a blizzard? I can’t answer those questions. I’m not stupid, even if Tova thinks I am. I don’t have any illusions about what soldiering in the Stormcloaks means. This is a war, even if we don’t see the battlefield from behind Windhelm’s walls. I know I’ll be ordered to fight. To kill. I’m not so trapped in fantasy I can’t acknowledge the realities of Skyrim’s civil war, but looking at those two people, peaceful and rested but still dead, I couldn’t stop questioning. Are you ready for this, Jastinia? Could you put that woman and man down if you were told to?

I don’t know. I don’t think I ever will know until that time comes. And you know what? For now, I’m okay with that.

Maybe it was the long day back at the forge, or maybe it was the bodies. Maybe just the spoiled fox meat I should’ve thrown to the rats. Or maybe it was that woman’s corpse which dissolved into literal dust when the guard tried to move it. But for whatever reason, I couldn’t quite sleep when I bundled under my furs. Too much pounding in my brain. Sounds and sensations of today. Fears of tomorrow.

I read Wolf Queen instead. I’d skimmed it a few days ago but didn’t really get into the story until tonight. Oh, Potema. You delightful little devil you. I literally cackled when I read about Potema’s desire for a daedric katana; you and me both, girl. Potema Septim, my new muse and inspiration. If only I had a friend like you growing up. Windhelm would never have been safe again. Breaking into Friga’s and Nilsine’s bedrooms to pour slush on their heads instead. Hunting for Rolff’s smut stash like she found Antiochus’s; I’d bet pervy Rolff hides an illustrated Lusty Argonian Maid under his pillow even today. I’m sad Potema’s devious scheme backfired and will get her shipped to Solitude, but I have a sneaky feeling she’ll do just fine. So glad I already purchased Volume 2 from Revyn for later!

I would’ve been happy enough with Potema’s story but Wolf Queen had another surprise waiting at the back. Drawings and notes. Almost a hundredpages on lockpick diagrams and lock schematics, sketches of tumbler and pin settings, strategies to defeat everything from a common strongbox to a dragon’s vault. Who wrote all this? And why did they leave a lifetime’s work lying in the Eastmarch snow under a purse of coins? What a story that must’ve been. Whoever left it, I’m just excited their work has passed to me. It’s not exactly exactly the honorable, True Nordic skillset Torbjorn and Galmar would encourage, but if their newest Stormcloak is to stand alone at least she’ll have plucky Potema to guide her path.

Now if only I could find a manual to help me sleep. Or make my stomach stop grumbling.

 

Heartfire, 8th, 4E 201

War-Anvil’s Forge. Windhelm.
Mid morning.

-----

What was I thinking buying fox meat from Falyn? It’s called “Sailor’s Rest” not “Huntsman’s Rest.” They broil salmon, pickle longfin, split crabshell, and gut slaughterfish. But fox meat? Cute furry foxes that have nothing to do with docks, sailors, or fish? Obviously not a Duskstar family specialty. So I’m not sure what I was expecting when I bought the greasy fox cuts from Falyn the other day, but I should have known the end result would be me crouched over a bucket for half of the night. I deserve it. Both for trusting fox meat from a dockside dive, and for slaying that snow fox the other day. Revenge of the forest critters.

I can’t let a spiteful fox spirit stop to me though. It’s forge week, axe week, and I won’t get off track just because Falyn can’t smell the difference between a fresh cut and something that needs to be fed to the skeevers. Guess that means it’s bucket week took. Really great timing. At least I’m so cold after my morning bath that I almost forgot about the gurgling in my poor stomach.

Today’s top priority is spacing and setting the fuller marks. I’ll square and bevel the shank first so my weld scarf doesn’t crack down the middle like it did when I tried forging my first axe a few years back. After that, I’ll start shaping the eye. I’d normally use 1/4″ rods for the fullering, but this heavier axe probably require 1/2″ grooves or its monster head won’t be foldable. At the same time, if I upgrade to 1/2″ diameter fullers, I need to be super careful to keep the cheeks flat or my eye will be about as symmetrical as Torbjorn’s battle-bludgeoned nose. Why can’t Skyrim weaponry be just a little more subtle?

I’ve budgeted 8ish hours for these steps but the more I write it out, the more I’m worrying this is looking like a 10+ hour day. Sigh. Think Oengul will mind if I setup a bucket behind the smelter?

 

Heartfire, 8th, 4E 201

Marketplace. Windhelm.
Late afternoon.

-----

This iron axe-head still looks nothing like a proper battleaxe but it looks vaguely like the diagram in the Manual. A lumpier version. More crooked too. And I really hope this drawing isn’t to scale but honestly, you know what? It’s good enough for a girl whose most complicated axe before this was a woodchopper.

That said, I’m still a little worried about shank thickness. The unfinished head looks sturdy but it’s about a pinky finger thicker than the Manual recommends. A tiny Imperial pinky finger at least, not an Oengul sausage, but that could lead to problems. Especially if I’m not strong enough to hammer, fold, and close this thick wad of iron into an eye. I should’ve planned this better. If my arms are floppy now, just wait until after I bend and smack this thing shut around the anvil horn.

I’m lucky Oengul was here to help me with the bevels. “Wrong hammer” he pulled mine away and handed me one from his apron, a lighter tool with a smaller head. He tapped my skull with the confiscated hammer. “You try using this thing on your grooves and you’ll have more cold shuts than Hermir’s helmets.”

“Hey,” she chucked a leather strip and it slapped right on Oengul’s ashy face, “they’re getting better.” Personally, I’d never seen a single crack or defect in anything Hermir did, but I know Oengul holds her to a high standard. And it still isn’t as high as Hermir’s. I’m not sure I can pass the Stormcloak initiation test, let alone rise in their ranks, but I am fully confident Oengul will give the forge to Hermir one day. Strong-Heart’s Forge. Has a ring to it. Kind of like the ring she’ll always have in her ears from helping dock-orphan novices who suck at hammering.

Blacksmith blunders and regular bucket trips aside, Day 2 went well. I did my bowels a favor and purchased some fresh produce from Hillevi’s stand. Healthier than the barrel-rotten tomatoes I’m used to at Sailor’s Rest. One apple later and my stomach is already thanking me. I thought of asking Hillevi about her husband’s old sailor stories but decided against it. Just because Oengul and Hermir tolerate some Imperial wasting their time, doesn’t mean I want to push my luck with the other Nordic merchants. Besides, I remember how my last encounter with a household matron ended.

I was finishing this entry at one of the market tables when Movis joined me. Long time, friend. It was spring when he left. How was the Reach? Haafingar?

“Terrible.” The Dark Elf downed his entire mead bottle without spilling a drop. “Never made it past Markarth. Lost half my coin hiring bodyguards in Whiterun. Then lost the other half plus all the bodyguards in some roadside ambush.”

“Bandits?”

“Worse. Forsworn.” You’d think those heathens got the message the last time the Stormcloaks booted them out of Markarth and scattered them across the Reach. Way before my time but Torbjorn told me the stories. Then again, I guess it’s hard to persuade daedra-worshipping cannibals of anything. Maybe Ulfric and Galmar will deploy me there to give them a little reminder.

“Damn savages. Sorry about your losses.”

Movis shrugged. “Vivec gives and Vivec takes. Maybe I’ll hire you next time instead. Revyn tells me you’re becoming quite the warrior.”

I tried hiding my blush under the hood but just looked awkward all bundled up in the bright, afternoon sun before taking it off again. “I mean, If you’re worried about skeevers, mudcrabs, and the occasional bear then yeah. I’m your girl.”

I asked him to share road-stories while the sun set. Refugees streaming from outlying farms and pillaged homesteads into the hold capitals. Soldiers from Solitude, Windhelm, and even foreign lands harassing some travelers. Assaulting and killing others. Tales of the Mage’s College excavating old ruins, rumors of ancient dead stirring in forgotten crypts. And of course, talk of dragons. Gossip and whispers, just like Ma’dran’s caravan. Nothing more believable than the garbage Viola slaps on her fliers across town.

He departed after Verner came by the table. “Don’t you have somewhere to be, black elf?”

I stood even if my head only reached Verner’s armored shoulders. “Hey, asshole. There’s no law against-” but Movis put his hand on my arm before I could really get going.

“In fact, I was just planning to leave.” He grinned, the same pursed grin every Dunmer learned to show a guardsman from the time they arrived in Windhelm to the time they were lucky enough to escape.

Verner glared at me through his visor but didn’t want to start anything today. “Good plan. For both of you.”

“Azura guide you, child.” Movis clasped my hand and bowed. “I hope one day our honored protectors will have a more enlightened member in their ranks. One day soon.” He winked before walking off with Verner tailing him all the way to the Gray Quarter.

Thanks, Movis. I hope so too. But first, I need to finish this axe without cracking it. Survive Torbjorn’s mysterious training. Endure more dives in the Tamriel’s coldest water. Prevail in a suicide quest to Serpentstone Isle and defeat a magical monster who has already killed me twice in dreamland. Hm. Seems like good odds. Now that I think about it, maybe the real way to help Movis is to let him in on Galmar’s betting pool. At least he’d recover his losses from the road.

 

Heartfire, 9th, 4E 201

Sailor’s Rest. Windhelm.
Very early morning.

-----

Couldn’t sleep. Rancid fox meat didn’t help. Nor sore shoulders on a mattress thinner than Tabiah’s watery ale, anxious dreams about hammering the axe-head closed and Oengul’s entire anvil exploding instead. At least the Tova-voiced ice wraiths didn’t eat me last night. Ugh. I have way too much on my mind. Nothing like an early icebath in the White River to wash it all away. A very, *very* early icebath when the sun probably isn’t even rising in Morrowind. Better than tossing in bed pretending I can get back to sleep. I’ll enjoy my pre-dawn swim, pray to Kynareth this week gets better, and then sweat off any remaining discomfort at the training bag. It’s been a few days since I practiced and I already know muscle soreness has never been an acceptable excuse for shirking my training. Especially swordplay.

“Too tired to keep training, girl?” It was Morning Star, even colder and darker than it is right now. Torbjorn sat on a crate crunching a carrot while his 14 year-old student tried to get up.

I was panting from the last drill, doubled-over. “Don’t you think it’s a little late?” The sun had set two hours ago. The market stalls had been closed since 7 and even Oengul and Hermir had called it a night. Not us though. Not carrot-chewing Torbjorn and his exhausted apprentice.

“Tell me. Do you think legionnaires just quit after dark and hang up their swords?” No, I just feel like- “You think Imperial assassins wait until breakfast to creep into your camp while you’re on sentry duty?” I know, and I get it, but I’m only saying- “You think an Aldmeri spellsword will stand over you with his longblade pressed on your tiny little neck and let you catch a breather before he stabs straight through your smart-talking throat?”

I was too tired to respond. I’d been too tired on hour three. Hour seven. I leaned on my greatsword for balance before my legs gave out. I just needed a second, a breather, a moment for my legs to remember how to walk but Torbjorn wouldn’t have it. He stood faster than I’d ever seen the big man move before. “Get off the ground, soldier.”

“I’m sorry.” I was. I truly wanted to stand, but between Torbnjorn’s drills today and the conditioning I’d done with Scouts yesterday, I couldn’t. Every muscle below the waist was gelatin, every bone a boiled leek. “I just need…” I didn’t know what I needed. New legs, maybe. Strength I didn’t have.

“You’re tired.”

“I am.”

“You want a break.”

“I do.”

“You think I’m working you too hard.” I didn’t answer and that was all the answer he needed. He stroked his beard, pensive, thoughtful. Considering whether to give me the rest I needed. Deciding whether to just walk away from the craven, useless Imperial and never come back.

“Most of those who join the Stormcloaks are Nords,” he circled, nodding his head. “And most of those Nords are men.” He knelt down next to me, hands folded as I tried to will movement into my muscles. “How many Imperials do you think fight for Ulfric? How many Imperial women? Girls like you even younger than my daughters?”

Not this bullshit again. “I’m not changing my mind.”

“You better not or you’ll have wasted both our time. But tell me. Do you think your journey will be easy even if Ulfric and Galmar accept you?” Honestly, I hadn’t thought of it. I was just so focused on passing their enlistment process I didn’t think about steps after. “Do you believe those true sons and daughters of Skyrim will accept you as one of their own overnight? Do you have any idea of what the Stormcloaks will put you through just to call you sword-sister? The drills they will make you complete, the missions they will have you carry out?” I didn’t. Still don’t. But I knew what I had endured here in Windhelm as a nameless nobody for 14 years. I can imagine what will happen when the same Nords who bereted me for years needed to trust me in a shieldwall.

And after that, I figured out why Torbjorn trained me how he does.

“I understand.”

“You do, do you?” I do. He stood back and folded his arms. “Not too tired anymore?” No. “Let’s try that again. Not too tired, soldier?” No, Sir. “Need a break?” No, Sir! “Think this little game of tag is too hard?” NO SIR.

“Good.” He picked up his carrot, wiping off the slush. “Then get up and do it again.”

I drilled until all the townhome lights were out and the ripped callouses on my hands had frozen over. We didn’t say much as we swept up what was left of that tattered training dummy until Torbjorn stretched, yawned, and headed home. But he did give me one last glance over his shoulder. A final smile and a final parting encouragement just like Scouts would speak as he too walked away: “You’ll make a fine Stormcloak one day, girl.”

I believed it at 14 and I believe it two years later today. I will, Torbjorn. For you, for Scouts, for all of us who have been forgotten by a city they call home. And if that means enduring Stormcloak initiations, waking up hours before sunrise to freeze to death in the river, blowing out my arms on a heavy bag, and forging a weapon I can’t even wield, then that’s what I’ll do.

 

Heartfire, 9th, 4E 201

Sailor’s Rest. Windhelm.
Mid evening.

-----

I didn’t break it! Not the poll, not the the cheeks, not even any fingers. This iron shank has even more pockmarks than my hunting knife, but it’s still a closed, welded eye joint. Reflecting on today’s progress, I have to admit Day 3 couldn’t have gone much better. Then again, if it weren’t for Hermir, I’d be starting from scratch again on Day 1.

I’d been clobbering the piece around the anvil horn, godsdamn stupid piece of… when she put a hand on my shoulder. Smiled. “This is one of the few forging processes that doesn’t require Oengul’s arms. Can I show you?” Yes please.

I thought I’d need his burly Nordman strokes to close the joint, especially after I used a quarter-inch more iron than I needed to yesterday. Hermir proved me wrong. She massaged the eye joint shut with soft and quiet strikes, just like the soft and quiet footwork Shallows taught me on the docks. Most novice smiths use too much force in this step, she cautioned. They either split the eye in half or pound it so thin the final product can’t even split paper without breaking. Not Hermir. And not me after I followed her lead. Short taps and small corrections, one minute at a time for most hours of the day. Exhausting, but worth every arm-burning second. I coaxed the eye joint closed like closing a padlock, hinging it shut at the fullers and folding the end towards the bit one tap at a time. In the end, the axe-eye stared back at me. Misshapen, a little uneven, but still a closed eye joint waiting for its handle.

After that, the forge-weld was easy. Thanks to Hermir’s advice, I hadn’t pulverized my scarf like I was trying to do earlier, which made the welding a lot cleaner. I even sprinkled a little sand (an Oengul trick: “What does it do?” “What does it matter? Pour it on, stop asking questions”) to get the piece even hotter. That paid off when I inserted my mandrel into the eye and started shaping. With the iron so malleable, I wasn’t afraid of rupturing my fresh weld. Incidentally, that was exactly what happened when I tried forging my second axe years ago. I’d punched the mandrel too deep into the eye, split the iron right in half. “Smithing rite of passage,” Hermir had said. Oengul just grumbled about wasted metal.

Not this time though. I didn’t force the eye so far past the taper. I stayed soft and quiet, tapping to reshape the axe cheeks around the inserted tool. And now I have the axe-head to show for it. Dull and dirty like the dull and dirty smith who cobbled it together, but still a functional axe-head with a functional eye.

Tomorrow I’ll shape this ridiculous spike and the langets that run along the handle. Then one more day to attach pieces and finish the head before my daytrip to gather sturdy wood. A well-deserved vacation after what will be five straight days at the forge. I don’t know how Torbjorn thinks I’ll be swinging this 20+ pound monster around. My claymore is only slightly lighter but it’s balanced around the hilt. Not Big Boy Battleaxe. All his weight is right there at the top. Knowing Torbjorn, who certainly knows about the frozen gauntlet Scouts has subjected me to, he won’t be outdone by his chief laborer. His chief Argonian laborer. He’s got something special in store for me and my new axe.

I can’t worry about it tonight. I’m tired, I can barely hold a quill, and even lost in forging I haven’t been able to stay away from that poor bucket for more than a few hours at a time. Tabiah and Falyin owe me a serious discount after this. On the room, mind you. Not their food. I wouldn’t eat it for free. If I’m not better before Kynesgrove, I’m just going to have to bite the bit and pay one of those Talosian priests to cure me. Not that I can afford their magick after spending basically everything on battleaxe supplies and non-foxy snacks over the last few days. Think the priests will give a discount to a future Stormcloak champion of Talos? Or maybe if I offer to sit through one of their sermons?

 

Heartfire, 10th, 4E 201

War-Anvil’s Forge. Windhelm.
Late evening.

-----

After dad disappeared, after mom lost the house, we didn’t get to keep much. Enough clothes to fit into our packs, some old Cyrodiil heirlooms mom hadn’t already sold, a few of dad’s old Legion books mom hadn’t already dumped into the fireplace. Manuals that survived his campaign against the Aldmeri Dominion and their move to Skyrim. Books that outlived his wife’s grief. And for years to come, texts that lived in in sewers, the cramped Assemblage, and a sailor’s chest baked in broiler smoke. The Imperial Legionnaire’s Manual of Arms and Manual of Armor. I had them memorized by the time I was 10. These were the books that first taught me the difference between mace and maul, the comparative advantages of plate over chain. General Warhaft’s anonymous scribe gave me the military education dad had refused to share. How marskman practiced archery. How cavalry barded their steeds. And, of course, how “heavily-armored knights, berserkers, and those soldiers that hold the flanks of the line” wielded two-handed weapons too powerful for lesser soldiers. Weapons for a master. Weapons of legend. Potema might have wanted her daedric katana when she was my age but for me, I was definitely partial to the daedric claymore.

Although they weren’t guidebooks like the Manual Oengul later sold me, the Legion texts included basic forging terms an average soldier would need to know. The pommel of a sword, the bit of an axe, the tang hidden in the hilt. It was here I first learned the word langet: “the long strips of metal extending from the head of a weapon down its shaft to a certain length, secured with nails, screws, or pins to prevent the shaft from breaking or splintering.” Legionnaires depended on langets to keep their pikes intact against a cavalry charge, to reinforce their halberds when striking shields. But despite all the forging I’d practiced first with Neetrenaza and eventually with Oengul, it wasn’t until today that I actually had a chance to make langets myself. Now that I have, I’ll be happy if I never forge a weapon with langets again.

According to the Manual of Arms, langets tend to be thin and narrow, the minimum weight possible to reinforce a weapon without making it unbalanced. The Nordic brutes who designed my axe seemed to miss that advice. There’s nothing “thin” or “narrow” about anything in traditional Nordic culture, from their pint-sized flagons to the arms of their blacksmiths. It figures their battleaxe langets were no exceptions. They weren’t just designed to extend along the side of the shaft. They’re meant to encase it completely, an iron fist clenching the handle so the entire piece won’t shatter when all 20+ pounds of metal comes cleaving down. This meant I couldn’t just hammer out long rails to frame the wood. That’d be too elegant for the Nords. Instead, I needed to fashion two beveled, rectangular chambers with roughly the same dimensions as the eye, fit them together, and *still* preserve enough of a weld scarf on all of these pieces to eventually connect them to the head.

Oh right. Then I had to do all of that again for the brain-poking spike. The same spike I’m going to plunge into my own head if any of these pieces crack during tomorrow’s quench.

Did I get it all done? Yep. Did it take a 13-hour day? Also yep. And did I invoke Hermir’s finesse to get it done? Nope. Not even a little. “Harder, girl!” Oengul said at one point as I pulverized the steel rod into the iron channel. If yesterday was about a craftswoman’s expertise, today was about capital-B Blacksmith Brute Force. My arms flashed out a few times and I had to actually switch hands to keep going but now I’m done. One crappy langet, one crappier langet, and one brain-busting spike, all welded to the head and ready for tomorrow’s heat treatment. Pretty sure a single one of these pieces weighs about as much as an entire Legion pike, but that’s the Nordic and Stormcloak way: more metal, less milkdrinkers.

I’m going to finish this axe-head tomorrow if I have to pay Hermir to do it for me. Not that I even could pay her because I’m basically broke. Hopefully the Duskstars let me fall a little behind on rent. It’s not like their other regulars are models of financial stability; pretty sure that carpenter who lives in the attic hasn’t paid rent since I moved in four years ago. Besides, Falyn and Tabiah owe me for that wretched fox. Once I’m done with the quench, I’ll take my much-deserved, much-needed daytrip to the Kynesgrove hills. Foraging mushrooms, chopping wood, relaxing in fresh Skyrim air instead of thick Windhelm soot.

 

Heartfire, 11th, 4E 201

Streets. Windhelm.
Early morning.

-----

Today was supposed to be the day I completed the axe-head. A day I rose early, prayed to Kynareth to survive the icewater, and took my diligent plunge into the river. It was a day for training before sunrise and forging until sunset. A day where I might’ve borrowed some money from Torbjorn for lunch, but still a day to finish projects before beginning journeys.

Then the letter came.

“An inheritance letter,” Rigmar called it. Delivered in the darkest hours before dawn when no one else was on the streets except one of Windhelm’s couriers and his unknowing recipient, a recipient whose careful Turdas plan vanished as she unfolded the paper. “Sorry for your loss,” he added before leaving. I’ve never disliked Rigmar. Although around Friga’s and Nilsine’s age, he never shared their disposition. Their cruelty. He’d always been cordial to me growing up, one time even helping me out of an ash yam garden after Rolff stuffed me there face-first: “now you can look like a little Dark Elf lover too.” I was half his age but Rigmar still pulled me out of the patch, brushed me off. “Sorry,” he’d said when he had nothing to be sorry for; it wasn’t his fault kids like Friga, Nilsine, and Rolff were monsters. I was glad when Jorleif hired Rigmar as one of the Palace couriers. He’d even address Argonians and Dunmer by name when delivering messages.

And yet, in that pre-dawn alley this morning, as I read the Steward’s honeyed words about another nameless death so insignificant to Windhelm’s elite they could only call the deceased “beggar,” I hated Rigmar as much as I hated Rolff. I just wanted to slam this unfinished axe-head right into his little nose.

How can they be so cruel? “Beggar?” Such cold, callous indifference to someone who knew me well enough to leave me their paltry earnings, someone the Thanes and guards couldn’t even bother to remember. “Beggar,” they called this person. A gutter trash “beggar” no different than the letter’s recipient. In death, this person lost everything and now after death, Windhelm strips away even their name. Was it Ana or Garil? Silda who may have picked one too many pockets? Velasa who could have brought the wrong person home to her bedroll, Erns who might have slipped while trying to harvest a spider? Or another of Windhelm’s downtrodden and forgotten, someone like me who tried to make it behind these awful walls only to face stares and sneers and Nordic venom at every turn? I’ll never know unless I hear it from the other streetfolk because Windhelm doesn’t care.

“Beggar.” Just a filthy, unwelcome vagrant of bad background and worse upbringing. Like me as a child scraping by in the sewers. Like mom before they found her. Before a courier delivered her inheritance letter to me too. A letter identical to this one even in the name of the deceased: “Beggar.”

Of course. That’s why I’m sitting here in front of Calixto’s Curios crying in the morning frost. It’s not just the death of this friend of mine. It’s not Windhelm’s cruel expungement of their name from official records. It’s not even the reminder of mom’s death. It’s the letter itself. It’s the same godsdamn letter down to the word, down to the spacing, as the letter they sent me after mom died. A generic, templated letter they dispatch to any friends of “the deceased.” Impersonal like the language they use instead of the dead’s name. Casual like the way Windhelm discards its unwanted into the sewers for them to fade or die. Cruel like the cuts and slashes across mom’s body when the guards found her in the marketplace tunnels. Patterns carved into her body like those etchings chiseled into tablets outside the Palace of the Kings. The blood. The missing pieces.

“Mommy?”

“Look away, girl,” the guard had said. I wish I had. I wish I listened before they tarped what was left of mom and dragged her away like a sack of apples on the docks. Wet, squelching apples that left a trail of red ooze on the stones. i should have looked away. Then I wouldn’t have seen those marks where the blade bit, the nibbles where the skeevers got hungry. So I didn’t see her mouth. Her gums. Teeth pulled out and drooling blood down her chin into the hole where her throat had been. The eye sockets weeping crimson down her cheeks. Her smile. Lips forced open as her killer pried out his trophies. Corners ripped. Grinning.

Look away, girl. Look away. I told it to myself every night for the first few years after she was taken from me. Every night, every nightmare. It took years for me to believe Shahvee. “They mean as much or as little as you want them to.” Hard enough to internalize at 16. Harder still at 8. But I eventually understood the dreams didn’t mean I let mom die. They didn’t mean she died hating me. They just meant she was dead, someone killed her, and I had the bad luck to witness the aftermath. So I eventually listened to that guard. I looked away then as I keep looking away today, even if the images come creeping back in distracted moments. But holding this letter, the same letter the Palace couriers delivered to me days after we found mom’s body, I’m struggling to look anywhere else.

Did today’s “Beggar” die like mom? It was the same letter so was it the same death too? I’ll never know. No one cared how an Imperial widow died anymore than they cared how any of Windhelm’s outsiders died. They never investigated it. Never even asked questions. “Strange things in the sewers,” was all the guards said. “Folks shouldn’t make lives down there.”

No, they shouldn’t. But sometimes they have no choice. Sometimes their husbands vanish leaving them a single mother of a young daughter. Sometimes their partner’s old profession catches up to them and the city shuns the Legion whore who shared his bed before he wandered off to shack up with some sweeter, younger thing. Sometimes the taxes get too high and the labor too lean for a mother to sustain the family home. Sometimes the only comfort is in a bottle until the only home that will still accept a penniless, drunken Imperial mother and her scared child is the sewer.

Mom. I’m sorry. For how your life collapsed around you until its final, gory moments. That no one was there to protect you just as no one was there to protect the nameless “Beggar” who joined you tonight. I’m sorry I’m sitting here in the snow crying like an infant instead of being the woman you and dad would’ve wanted me to be.

Today was supposed to be a day for forging. Laughing at Oengul’s grunts and growls, consulting with Hermir about new techniques. Sharing buttered yam with Revyn or stew with Cornerclub patrons. Showing off my final axe piece to my Assemblage family and working sword-drills on the bag so Torbjorn can smile while Tova and her daughters bite their bitter tongues. But to do any of that I need to stay in Windhelm. After receiving this letter, I’d rather be anywhere else.

I’m leaving for Kynesgrove early. I’ll take a day, maybe two, to clear my head and gather my battleaxe wood. Enjoy the forest, the sounds of wind through tall trees, furry feet in thick grass. Feel Skyrim’s embrace in a wilderness where I’m the only person for miles. Reset, refresh, and then return when I’m where I need to be. Finish what I started. The battleaxe, yes, but also everything else I’ve promised to do.

I’ll be back soon. I promise.

 

Commentary

I wrote a longer commentary section in the blogpost itself. To check it out, visit and scroll down: https://unearthedarcanna.wordpress.com/2021/03/16/jastinia-3-forged-09-07-09-11-201/. Here were my main thoughts after finishing:

  • More writing isn’t always better writing. 
  • Balance description and reflection
  • Gently foreshadow important events
  • Invoke game mechanics. 
  • Don’t overcommit to a script

Thanks for reading and join us and I next time as Jastinia visits Kyensgrove to gather her battleaxe lumber, finishes the weapon, and learns what Torbjorn has in store for the aspiring Stormcloak.

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