The Architect

4E 201, Shor's Stone

Gerron Ironbreaker

"You're back, lad," Filnjar called out as Gerron and Grogmar walked past the rough wooden fence that marked the boundary of Shor's Stone.

"Aye. I got what I needed in Kagrenzel." Gerron said, patting the massive hammer strapped across his back as well as the sack over his shoulder that was filled with numerous soul gems and Dwemer components.

Grogmar let out a tired grunt. "Don't know why you dragged me along. You barely needed help. I'm done with my favor. I'm good in a fight, sure, but I'd rather go back to my peaceful life of mining and sleeping. I'm keeping the armor though."

Gerron chuckled. "Yeah yeah. Thanks, old man. Enjoy retirement… again."

Grogmar snorted and trudged toward his home, muttering something about "damn young folk with their magic hammers."

"Come on," Filnjar said, motioning for Gerron to follow. "Walk with me to the forge. Got some things to discuss."

As they walked, Filnjar gave him the rundown. "We already got the weapons to the Stormcloaks. Ralof came by to pick them up, looked like he'd been dragged through half of Eastmarch. Said they're preparing for some major operation near the border. Here's the pay."

Filnjar tossed a pouch of coins to Gerron, who nodded.

"Also," Filnjar continued, "I managed to get us a trade deal with Balimund down in Riften. He's willing to pay good coin for our ebony. Not enough to start swimming in gold, but it's a start."

"Balimund's a good smith," Gerron mused. "But if we're serious about building something here, we'll need more. A lot more. What about the other major cities? Whiterun? Windhelm? They're close enough to Shor's Stone."

Filnjar rubbed his beard. "That's tricky. Words starting to spread about dragons, lad. Real dragons. Makes folk jumpy. Not to mention that with the war escalating, less and less caravans are coming through the passes anymore. If we want to make deals with those cities, someone's going to have to go there themselves."

"I'll do it," Gerron offered without hesitation.

Filnjar looked surprised. "You sure, lad? That's a long road with a lot of trouble in between."

"Aye," Gerron said with a confident grin. "Won't be the first time I've traveled that far."

"Fair enough." Filnjar nodded. "How are you going to bring all the ebony there by yourself?"

Gerron was about to answer when glowing letters suddenly shimmered into view in front of him.

[Storage]

Any self respecting artificer needs their own storage space to carry all their tools and materials.

A grid appeared—eight squares wide and eight tall—hovering like a translucent blueprint. Gerron instinctively knew he could store any inanimate item inside without feeling the weight.

A grin appeared on his face. "I got that covered."

…

Later that night, Gerron sat in his small stone-walled room, going through the numerous recipes he now has access to. There were plenty—weapon enhancements, mechanical constructs, alchemical infusions. There was even one that mentioned something called a Homunculus Servant, a tiny construct that acts similarly to a wizard's familiar.

However, there was one thing that currently dominated his mind. 

Right now, the only people who know that Shor's Stone has access to a whole mine of ebony is Riften. If he expanded trade to Windhelm and Whiterun, it wouldn't take long for all of Skyrim to find out as well.

Bandits, mercenaries, rogue mages—once the word spread, Shor's Stone would become a target. And right now, it couldn't protect itself.

Shor's Stone was a village that bordered on being a small town. Five hundred people lived here— Miners, smiths, and farmers who had never held a sword in their lives.

They always relied on the Jarl's men as well as the Stormcloaks for protection. However, judging by the dead stormcloaks on Shor's Watchtower that he and Grogmar found days ago, they can't rely on them any longer.

Which means he needed to figure out a way for Shor's Stone to protect themselves. They would need their own militia at the very least, as well as proper walls to protect them. It was during this thought when a new entry shimmered into view.

[The Architect]

A deep study into Dwemer architecture has allowed you to mimic—and even enhance—their design. Mighty walls and grand fortresses are merely the beginning.

Gerron's eyes widened. Without a second thought, he rushed into the night. Not even bothering to wear his coat.

He climbed the northern ridge, up a jagged slope of broken stone and wild pines, until he stood atop a cliff overlooking the village. Shor's Stone lay below—modest wooden homes, dirt roads, and torchlight flickering in the darkness.

Then, like a vision conjured from his mind, something changed.

The Architect perk activated, and before his eyes, an image unfurled—an ethereal blueprint overlaid upon the village.

Walls—fifty feet tall and layered with reinforced dwarven alloy—encircled the town. Towering bastions at each corner bristled with mounted ballistae and rotating magicka turrets. Wide gates powered by Dwemer hydraulics opened with a hiss and thrum.

Gone were the fragile wooden huts. In their place stood elegant, fortified structures crafted from steelwood and stoneglass. Wind turbines turned slowly overhead, collecting the mountain breeze to power the village's forges.

And moving amidst it all were hulking constructs—carrowhulks, massive mammoth-sized automatons that walked on four legs like metallic beasts of burden. They carried goods and even passengers all across the city, silent and majestic in their creation.

Gerron stood still, the chill mountain air forgotten. His heart pounded with anticipation.

A wide grin broke across his face.

…

Outskirts of Korvanjund

Galmar Stone-fist

Galmar stood atop a ridge blanketed with snow, eyes narrowed beneath his steel helm. A rugged bear cloak covered his form, not that he needed it. It'll take winds much colder than this to bother a trueborn nord like him.

Sixty Stormcloaks fanned out below him, their formation as tight as discipline allowed. Light infantry formed the bulk, each soldier draped in pelts and iron, with axes and war picks strapped at their sides. Interspersed were archers in furs, their bows unstrung but at the ready.

It wasn't a large force by any stretch—but that was the point. Any larger, and Imperial scouts would've sniffed them out like bloodhounds. Ulfric had been firm on that.

And Galmar couldn't afford to weaken the front lines for a gamble, even one as promising as this. With Ulfric's armies holding in multiple regions, resources and manpower were stretched thin. And yet, the mission was too vital to ignore.

Ahead of them, nestled deep within a narrow ravine flanked by snow-dusted cliffs, loomed Korvanjund—a forgotten tomb from the age of kings. A relic of the First Empire of the Nords. The resting place, if the old legends were true, of King Borgas… and more importantly, the Jagged Crown. 

Ulfric didn't entirely believe the crown existed, let alone that it could be found here. And if it did exist? He questioned whether it held any real political weight.

But Galmar believed.

"The Moot will convene," he had said to Ulfric just days before. "And when they do, you'll stride into that hall wearing the Jagged Crown. Let them try and ignore your claim then."

A relic like that would be more than a symbol. It would be history itself bending in Ulfric's favor.

The only problem was that the tomb was crawling with legionnaires. There were corpses of bandits laid in a pile just to the side, brigands who used this tomb as a hideout. 

He glanced back at Ralof, his second-in-command for the mission ahead. The young Nord had earned Galmar's trust a dozen times over—fearless, loyal, and clever when it counted.

The boy had just arrived days ago, after picking the needed arms and armor to supply the men for this mission. Over half of the troops wore the newly created steel from Shor's Stone. He hoped it would be enough.

"What do you think, Ralof?" Galmar asked, keeping his voice low.

"I count around eight legionnaires, Stormblade." Ralof squinted through the falling snow. "Quite possibly a skeleton force meant to protect the entrance. That one–" He pointed to one nearest to the doors of the tomb. "—is most likely the runner. Once we charge in, he would escape inside and warn whatever imperials of our presence."

"And when that happens, we'll be easy pickings for ambushes and traps in the tomb." Galmar grunted. "Take four men and circle around. Once you're close, kill the runner with an arrow. We move the second he falls."

"Yes, Stormblade." Ralof slammed a fist to his chest and slipped away, hand-signaling to four others who moved behind him, fading into the thick brush and rock that lined the ravine's edge.

Galmar turned to the rest of the troops. "Get ready. When the runner falls, we hit them like Sovngarde's wrath."

The Stormcloaks gripped weapons tighter. The ones at the front readied their shields. Archers nocked arrows in silence. Even the green ones fresh out of training looked determined—not fearless, but resolute.

A sharp whistle pierced the cold air.

Galmar's gaze snapped to the runner just in time to see the arrow punch through his neck. The man gurgled, hands clawing at his throat, and collapsed into the snow with a thud.

Galmar raised his axe and bellowed, "For Skyrim!"

His war cry rallied the Stormcloaks as they surged forward like an avalanche. 

The first legionnaire turned in shock just in time to see Galmar leap from the last step, battleaxe raised overhead. He brought it down with brutal force, cleaving straight through helm and skull. Blood painted the snow in thick, steaming red.

Ralof dropped from above, shield raised like a battering ram. He slammed it into another soldier's chest, knocking the wind out of him. Before the man could recover, Ralof buried his sword in the Imperial's neck.

More cries rang out as the Stormcloak archers released a rapid volley. Three legionnaires fell before they could draw their swords, arrows thudding into their armor and torsos.

The last few Imperials fought with desperate vigor. One managed to stab a young Stormcloak in the shoulder before being hacked down by two others. The skirmish was swift and vicious, but in less than a minute, eight legionnaires lay still in the snow.

Galmar scanned the field. Aside from the one injured, no Stormcloak had fallen.

"That went well," Ralof said, stepping beside him while cleaning his blade with a cloth.

"Aye. It was a good plan to take out the runner. But I'd rather not get caught off guard if any reinforcements arrive. Get two squads to cover our back, one by the ravine and another by the door. We won't make the same mistakes these Imperials did." Galmar instructed Ralof, who nodded and started barking orders, sending men to secure the perimeter. 

Galmar himself took a breath to gaze at the massive stone doors ahead, half-frozen, standing atop the ground like pillars. 

"Alright," Galmar muttered to himself, voice like gravel. "Let's go grave-robbing."

With weapons raised and torches lit, the Stormcloaks moved into formation and stepped past the threshold of the tomb.

…

AN: This fic will have semi bits of kingdom building mixed in here and there. You better believe Shor's Stone is gonna be the next Imperial City when Gerron is done with it.

Also, Galmar is big chad. He'll probably be my main POV to see the things that are happening on the Stormcloak Camp.

Also, I posted a character overview chapter that details the Artificer System and some other tidbits. 

As always, more chapters are available on my Pat_reon. Chapter 16 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!