Metalborn in Skyrim

The Bannered Mare was alive with the hum of voices and the crackle of the hearth. He sat in the corner, nursing a tankard of mead and mulling over the events of the day. The air was thick with the scents of roasted meats and spiced wine, mingling with the faint tang of wood smoke. The inn's walls were adorned with hunting trophies and old weapons, their worn surfaces telling stories of past glory. A bard strummed a lute by the fire, singing a tune that drifted through the room like a gentle breeze. Whiterun had been calm, but the bounty posted for Halted Stream Camp—the bandits' takeover of a small mine—had caught his attention. The promise of coin and the allure of putting his abilities to use made the decision for him.

He retired early, the worn mattress of the inn's bed a slight improvement over the hard ground he usually slept on. His steel and iron reserves were filled, pewter and bronze ready for the next day.

When dawn broke, he rose with purpose. After a quick breakfast of porridge and bread, he set off. The journey northwest of Whiterun was uneventful, save for the occasional wolf that strayed too close. As the sun arced overhead, the raised terrain of Halted Stream Camp came into view. He halted at a safe distance, crouching behind a cluster of rocks to observe.

The camp's elevated position made it easy to defend, but its defenses were simple. Crude wooden barricades of logs and sharpened spikes surrounded the perimeter. A watchtower platform stood at the edge, occupied by a bandit who surveyed the surrounding area lazily. Another bandit patrolled near the entrance to the mine, their movements stiff with boredom. The tents, campfire, and scattered supplies painted a picture of a rough, transient existence.

He waited until the sun dipped below the horizon, the fading light cloaking him in shadow. The two sentries outside were his first targets, but he needed the element of surprise. Sitting still, he burned steel and iron lightly, making mental notes of all the metal sources nearby. The faint blue lines of the watchtower guard's armor drew his attention. Perfect. He extinguished his metals and crouched low, taking slow, measured breaths.

When the last light faded, he made his move. Backing up a good distance, he got a running start, burning steel and flaring pewter in tandem. The powerful push launched him into the air, his trajectory aimed directly at the bandit on the watchtower.

The impact was devastating. He slammed into the bandit with bone-shaking force, his pewter-enhanced body absorbing the collision without harm. The unfortunate guard's scream was cut short as his body was flung from the tower. Still burning steel, he anchored to the falling bandit's armor and pushed, accelerating the body's descent into the ground below. The sound of the impact—flesh and bone hitting the earth with sickening force—echoed in the night.

The camp erupted in shouts and confusion. The second sentry, startled by the commotion, turned to investigate. Before the bandit could react, he burned steel again, pushing off a nail embedded in the watchtower's wooden frame. The force propelled him toward the bandit like an arrow. He swung his sword mid-air, the blade slicing cleanly through the bandit's side. They crumpled to the ground, blood pooling beneath their body.

From the corner of his eye, he spotted two more bandits emerging from one of the tents, weapons drawn. One carried a war axe, the other a bow. He flared pewter, feeling the strength course through his limbs as he lunged toward the axe-wielder. The bandit swung clumsily, the heavy weapon arcing toward him. He ducked, narrowly avoiding the blade, and countered with a powerful punch to the bandit's chest. The pewter-enhanced strike sent the bandit sprawling backward, the sound of ribs cracking audible even over the chaos.

The archer nocked an arrow and loosed it, the projectile streaking toward him. Burning steel, he pushed against the metal tip, sending the arrow veering off course and into the dirt. He closed the distance in an instant, grabbing the bow and snapping it in half with a single, pewter-fueled motion. The archer scrambled for a dagger, but he was faster. A quick slash of his sword ended the fight, the bandit falling lifelessly to the ground.

Standing amidst the chaos, he flared bronze to sense any magical activity. A faint pulse resonated from deep within the mine—a mage. His eyes narrowed. Burning steel again, he noted the blue lines extending toward the mine entrance. One line moved, closing the distance quickly.

He reached for his pewter metalmind stud, pulling it from his bracelet and swallowing it without hesitation. Flaring pewter, he braced himself as the wooden doors to the mine burst open. The bandit leader emerged, clad in full armor, with a mage trailing behind. Their eyes widened in shock at the sight of him, but he didn't give them time to react.

With a roar, he surged forward, his pewter-flared fist connecting with the leader's chest. The impact was akin to a thunderclap, the force of the blow sending the armored body flying back into the mine. The mage behind the leader screamed as they were swept along in the chaotic aftermath, their cries echoing down the mineshaft.

Silence fell over the camp. He stood there, fist still clenched, as the dust settled. When the adrenaline subsided, he cautiously made his way into the mine. The faint light of torches flickered along the walls, casting long shadows. The mineshaft was eerily empty. He walked carefully, ready for an ambush, but none came. The bodies of the leader and mage lay crumpled at the base of the shaft. The leader's armor was dented horribly, the intricate designs now marred. He winced, lamenting the destruction of what had been an expensive-looking set. Still, he had no use for it in its current state.

The mage's robes were singed, and their staff lay broken beside them. A cursory examination of the rest of the mine revealed no other bandits. It seemed the others had fled after the leader's dramatic defeat.

Satisfied, he began gathering what he could. The mine was rich with iron ore, and he found several sacks of mammoth tusks and ivory, the bandits' apparent trade goods. He stumbled upon a chest tucked into a corner, its lock simple enough to pick. Inside, he found coin, a few gemstones, and the Transmute Mineral Ore spell tome.

Back at the entrance, he flipped through the pages of the tome, intrigued by its promise of turning iron into gold. The illustrations were vivid, depicting the alchemical process, but the accompanying runes and instructions were baffling. He muttered to himself, "Magicka might as well be gibberish." Still, the allure of creating gold gnawed at him. If only there was another way to wield this power.

A thought struck him. He removed a silver ring from his pouch, focusing his mind as he tried to store an attribute into it. Nothing happened. Frowning, he tried again with a gold coin. At first, it felt the same—an empty exercise. Then, a wave of nausea swept over him. Alarmed, he stopped immediately, his hand trembling as he stared at the coin. "What the…?" he muttered. Something wasn't right.

But curiosity won out. Taking a deep breath, he focused again, this time drawing from the stored energy in the coin. The effect was immediate. It was as though a warm light had filled him, banishing every ache and pain from his body. The stiffness from days of sleeping on hard ground vanished, replaced by a vitality he hadn't felt in years. He stood straighter, flexed his fingers, and rolled his shoulders. He felt… unstoppable.

His mind raced with possibilities. If storing into gold could make him sick, but using it could restore his body's health, what might happen if he crafted a proper gold metalmind? A bracelet, perhaps, or studs like the ones he used for pewter. And what if he burned a gold metalmind? The thought sent a shiver of excitement through him.

He resolved to find more gold—a lot more. For now, though, he had a bounty to claim and a mine to report cleared. The possibilities could wait… but not for long. As the first rays of sunlight spilled over the horizon, he turned back toward Whiterun with a spring in his step, the gold coin tucked safely away in his pouch.