My name is Eorlund Grey-Mane. I man the Skyforge. Those are likely the only two facts you are likely to get out of me without at least four bottles of Honningbrew Mead.

I've devoted my life to this forge: I tend its coals, I shape blades with its heat. It's an honour. Every morning as the sun rises I make my way up from the family home, past Jorrvaskr to the Skyforge, where I stay until the sun sets again. Sometimes I stay out to watch the Aurora.

I will not spin falsehoods of my skill, nor will I play the part of the modest man. My steel is sharper than any other smith I have met, and will probably ever likely meet in my remaining years. At least, that's what I thought.

Everything changed when a stranger arrived in Whiterun. He was clad in leather armour, very much like myself, and his pale hair framed his Nordic blue eyes: a true son of Skyrim, I saw. Too many Redguards and the like in the past few days. I watched the stranger as I pulled a piece of steel from the coals and set it on the anvil. He turned first and headed straight for Belethor's general goods- like so many other wanderers have. (That crafty Breton had been trying to buy my steel for the past two Summers, and refuses to hear a no. He'd sell his sister if he had one- or so I'm told.)

At any rate- the stranger emerged much later, a visible spring in his step. This man was unlike any I'd ever met before though. He looked plain enough, yet he had a sort of magnetism to him: every citizen of Whiterun seemed insistent to speak to him- every yellow-clad guard he passed would stop and turn to him, spouting some nonsense:

Watch the skies, traveler.

I'd be a lot happier with a belly full of mead.

Staying safe, I hope?

I used to be an adventurer like you... then-

I rolled my eyes: Bjorne was always bragging about his knee-wound.

The stranger stopped to look around before walking purposefully over to Warmaiden's. He spoke with Adrianne, and I listened intently.

"Do you need any help around the forge?"

His voice was deep and monotonous, I noted, before I chuckled at Adrianne's reaction. She was a little taken aback, but prompted the traveler to make an iron dagger. For a first task, it sounded ambitious; I made my first dagger three moons after learning first how to smith a nail. She reached under the workbench and hefted an entire ingot into the man's arms, as well as a small bundle of leather. I could not see the traveler when he disappeared behind the forge, but the way he approached it told me he was not used to it. He hefted the hammer to close to the head, probably for fear of hitting his thumbs, and he seemed unaware of just how hot a forge could get.

I heard a few fumbled clangs as the hammer was brought down, before he handed it to her. My eyes widened.

It was almost perfect!

The edge was perhaps quite dull, but that was nothing even an amateur couldn't fix. Adrianne looked pleased, and then told the stranger to sharpen it.

I watched more intently as the traveler sat at the grindstone and began to work the wheel. There was a flash of sparks and he was done. To my surprise, Adrianne complimented him on the keen edge he'd given the blade. She suggested that the man made a hide helm, and handed him the necessary pieces of leather, but he instead turned and caught my eye.

What in Oblivion..?

The stranger made a beeline straight for me as Adrianne prattled on about how she was not the best blacksmith in Whiterun. The apprentice smith climbed the stairs to the Skyforge without saying anything and instantly looked at me. I was still shaping the blade at the anvil, but I was overtaken by the immediate urge to get off. Confused, I stood up as this trespasser commandeered my hammer.

"Don't you know who I am, boy?" I began, but my words fell short as before my eyes, the stranger pieced together yet another iron dagger. I went to say something else, when he forged another.

And another.

And another.

By Ysmir...

I watched in a mixture of awe, envy, and surprise as this intruder churned out iron daggers faster than I could blink. He didn't move, save for his hands as they hammered iron, twisted leather, honed edges. This was unlike anything I'd ever seen. Shor's breath. I felt faint. I wanted to run, yet his movements were mesmeric. How was it that this man, who not ten minutes ago was unable to shape a blade, was now assembling fine blades as easily as I breathed? Magic was my immediate thought, for no man matched my skill with a hammer. But my skepticism faded and was replaced by irrational denial as a small mountain of iron daggers had coalesced at his feet.

*The following Middas...

He has been standing at the anvil for three sunsets now. The skyforge was overflowing with daggers, falling from the bluff and collecting at the stone wall of Jorrvaskr. I thought it would never end.

It did, though.

The stranger stepped away from the anvil and proceeded to pick up every knife, before creeping slowly up to me.

"What have you got for sale?"

His voice took me by surprise. This man hadn't eaten or slept for three days, yet his composure was admirable.

"Blades... Helmets... Pretty much anything to suit your needs..." I said nervously, sweat collecting in my palms.

And by the Nine, the Milk-drinker sold every knife he made to me. Individually.