Torbjorn wants to get a valuable item - the amulet of Arkay.

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Torbjorn Shattershield was not arrested, but he felt like he was being interrogated. Captain Mjorn pressed on and spoke loudly, apparently believing that Torbjorn was deaf or temporarily lost his memory due to intoxication. If he had known how much his interlocutor actually drank, he would have given up long ago and sent him on his way. But Torbjorn wouldn’t go home even for all the gold in the world - and it’s of no use to him now. - I'm really sorry. Please accept my condolences. Tova's body had long been pulled out of the noose and taken to the Hall of the Dead, but Torbjorn knew that he would feel the spirit of death, even if he burned his own house to the ground. The butcher again took the life of another woman - without approaching her. Following Nilsin, her mother voluntarily left the world. The captain was worried about the last Nord from the Shattered Shield clan and tried in every possible way to keep him in sight, communicate with him more, and distract him. Torbjorn sat quietly and hardly spoke, and Mjorn's voice reached him as if from Oblivion. None of the guards wanted to know what was now in the victim’s head - they stayed away from him, as if the death of loved ones could be contagious. “My girls...” Torbjorn repeated to himself again and again, swaying on a shaky chair. “My girls died.” His gaze aimlessly looked around the captain's modest office and did not distinguish strangers at all. Instead of Mjorn, he again saw Tova's distorted face. When Torbjorn returned home, her body swayed silently in the noose, which means she died moments before he crossed the threshold. “I rented you a room in a tavern for a week,” the guard said, trying to somehow cheer up his old acquaintance. While Torbjorn was pouring out his grief in “The Hearth and the Candle,” the servants from the jarl’s palace were cleaning up his house, and the captain of the guard was writing a report. A stranglehold isn't the most aesthetically pleasing way to leave, but Towa didn't seem to care much about appearance and as if she wanted to end everything as quickly as possible. However, she tightened the noose incredibly professionally, as if she had tried this before. Or she was training after the death of her first daughter... The captain understood that there was no point in dwelling on suicide, but continued to take care of Torbjorn on the orders of the jarl: during the civil war, the loss of one of the richest and most influential people in Windhelm would be irreparable. The week at the Hearth and Candle tavern flew by. People approached the inconsolable widower, muttering expressionless words of consolation under their breath, and someone's hands clapped him on the shoulder. He didn’t remember faces and just remained silent, constantly thinking: “One of them killed my girls.” This thought drove him crazy. Having lived in Windhelm all his life, Torbjorn realized for the first time that he did not know his neighbors at all, and he had never had a heart-to-heart talk with his business partners - how many of them could harbor a grudge and wish the clan death? No matter how hard he tried to treat everyone kindly, he could not please everyone. And what did this kindness lead to? He looked up at the innkeeper Elda and thought that he did not know the one who regularly served mead, even if Torbjorn did not have money with him. When the woman turned to the visitors, her face was distorted by a grimace of disgust, as it seemed to a man in an alcoholic stupor, for absolutely no apparent reason. With a sharp movement, he put the mug down, spilling half of the contents onto his hands. - Have you really decided to quit? - Elda chuckled, shaking her head. - You're on time. - Shut your mouth! - Torbjorn suddenly roared, and silence fell in the tavern. Even the Dunmer woman who worked on the second floor stopped playing the flute and listened. - Are you laughing at someone else’s grief?! The innkeeper met his gaze and was taken aback, as if she had really hidden some evil. Everyone knew how much she loved to shower her guests with bile, and was not at all surprised by Torbjorn’s anger. Captain Lonely Squall, who was sitting nearby at the table, was the only one who intervened in the skirmish: he approached the widower, took him by the arm and silently led him out into the street. The cold air had a sobering effect on Torbjorn - he had been cooped up for too long, sniffing sour ale. The heat of the fire made him dizzy and he was exhausted. He himself had not changed his clothes for a long time and must have become quite boring to the guests. Meanwhile, life in Windhelm continued as usual, nothing had changed since the death of three women from the Shattershield clan. Belatedly, Torbjorn realized that he was standing, to put it mildly, not fully dressed. The captain, who had not been considered such for a long time, politely handed him his cloak with a fur collar. - How did they tolerate me? - Torbjorn grinned, hiding his eyes in shame. “Everything was paid, so they didn’t bother me,” Lonely Squall frowned and shook his head reproachfully. - They empathize with your grief, that’s the point. People feel it,” the former sailor looked around the street in front of the tavern with the same gloomy look and shivered from the cold. - They feel evil, an unknown darkness. Something terrible took the girls away. Not your enemies - you would Dark Brotherhood called or thug. A madman worked there. Lonely Squall fell silent. It was hard for him to talk about the death of Frigga and Nilsin when Tova had just been buried, but Torbjorn had to be shaken, and the man turned even more pale, again remembering the state in which he found both daughters. The gods gave him and Tova twins - which was a rare blessing. Since childhood, all sorts of miracles have happened to the girls: one day Frigga cut her cheek on a dry branch while playing in front of the house, and a few days later Nilsin showed up with exactly the same cut. It was in vain that the nanny got into trouble - such oddities were repeated until they came of age. In the morning he came to Tirdas for Frigga - cut up beyond recognition, as if by some animal - and in the evening at Fredas her sister never came home. Having repeated the path to the Hall of the Dead for the second time, Torbjorn had no doubt that he would find Nilsin wounded in the same way. They merged with the gods as a single whole, for one could not live without the other. - You can’t give up, do you hear? - Lonely Squall shook Torbjorn by the shoulders, feeling that his attention was slipping again. “You can’t,” he mumbled, nodding his head, “revenge has not yet overtaken the girls.” Like any moderately law-abiding citizen, accustomed to relying on his country and giving it literally everything, Torbjorn sat and waited for justice. Days outside his window gave way to nights, and the Butcher was still not caught. Without new victims, the killer's trail was lost in the fallen snow. Even Captain Mjorn stopped following the head of the Shattered Shields. Left alone again, Torbjorn drank as before. The memory of the brutal murders faded from the minds of the inhabitants of Windhelm, turning into an unreasonable sticky fear that waited on the street in the dark. Grief took over Torbjorn's mind, consuming his will and any desires. Time stood still. Without Tova, the house fell into disrepair: spiders settled in the corners and even in the furniture, dust covered the spines of books, expensive plates and cast-iron pots, street dirt carried on boots with thawed snow spread through the rooms. “Now I’ll start cleaning, otherwise Tova will scold me,” thought Torbjorn, forgetting that he was a widower. And as soon as he remembered, he drank it or fell asleep. The house was filled with strange sounds and rustles. Either in the darkness he imagined the Butcher - horned and hairy, with a terrible face, like a Daedroth - then it seemed that someone was picking at the door lock with a master key. Unable to bear it one day, Torbjorn grabbed the family sword and rushed to the door, with a wild cry and tears he broke the furniture and safely fell asleep on the threshold, thank the gods, without hurting himself. He woke up before dawn, got up somehow, creaked his bones and limped into the bedroom to warm up; went up to the second floor and stopped dead in his tracks at the stairs, noticing a figure in a familiar dress in the next room. Tova stood with her back to him, carefully looking at the shelves where the dishes given by her parents for the wedding were waiting in the wings, bowing her head as if her neck could barely support it. But the drunkard was more frightened by the sudden stench of an empty bowel, as on the day when he found his wife in a noose. Tova moved absurdly, as if she was trying to turn to her husband, but her neck finally gave in and her head fell limply onto her chest. Letting out a loud scream, Torbjorn flew out of the house, leaving the front door wide open. One thing was good: he didn’t see her face - at least he retained the remnants of his mind. A few minutes later he was already at the guard fortress. Pushing aside unwary passers-by, one of the richest Nords of Windhelm shouted to the entire street that he urgently wanted to see Captain Mjorn. - Torbjorn, you don’t have a face! - he exhaled, meeting an old acquaintance on the threshold of the office. - Faster, let's go! There's Tova walking around the house! Torbjorn's eyes rolled wildly, his clothes stank of a week's sweat and alcohol. There were a few chuckles from the guards, and Mjorn turned purple. Having dispersed the idlers from their posts, he left the fortress and went to the home of the now small Shattered Shield clan. “Oh, gods,” the captain said quietly, closing the door behind him. Frankly, he was not prepared for what was waiting inside. As if not noticing the devastation and desolation around, Torbjorn described circles around Nilsin’s bedroom, shouting: “Here she stood, looking at her damned dishes!” How alive! But dead! The captain remembered how he freed Tova from the noose while guard Izmar held her legs. Even Mjorn, accustomed to death, shuddered when he saw the expression on her face - full of pain and, at the same time, long-awaited deliverance. The rope left a deep groove on the neck, leaving no doubt about the version of suicide. Her girls left, but with their death everything was not so clear: parts of their bodies were stolen - probably for a dark ritual or something worse. It is not surprising that the soul of the mother, tormented by grief, did not find peace. The captain had to turn to the Shattered Shield several times, raising his voice, in order to bring him to his senses. “Look at what you’ve turned the house into, look at yourself,” he said. - He stinks like a tramp! You will rot here alone and will not wait until the moment when the Butcher is executed. It’s too early for you to follow Tova,” he added more softly. The drunkard's eyes shone and there were tears in them. - So you believe me? “Of course,” the captain admitted reluctantly. - What have I seen in my service? Get Arkay's amulet and bring it to Tova, so he can calm down. Wait a little longer! After this incident, Torbjorn put his head together, stopped drinking heavily, washed himself, dressed decently and began walking around Windhelm. He dealt with trading matters carelessly, as if to distract attention. He himself looked around and listened to what people were talking about. “The Stormcloaks don’t care about trouble - just give them gold! Guards - ugh and grind! - they won’t even find a fly on your nose. If you want to achieve justice in this world, take the initiative into your own hands,” a simple thought firmly took root in Torbjorn’s head, giving his life a purpose: he himself will find the Butcher. However, to achieve this goal, he needed some kind of system that would lead to the killer. Even his connections in criminal circles did not provide any clue. All that remained was to hang around on the street and keep an eye on lonely women - that is, to catch the Butcher with live bait. As a fighter, Torbjorn was confident in himself. However, it won’t make it worse. For two nights he walked around Windhelm, paying particular attention to the street connecting the square in front of the gates with the quarter where he lived. Several times a night he walked through the cemetery where Frigga was found, unable to overcome the obsession - this place seemed to beckon to itself, charged with anger and confidence. You can't stop! “If only this dog doesn’t leave the city,” thought Torbjorn, furiously shaking his fists. “He’s mine!” Viola Giordano appeared in the dim light of the torches - she was also investigating the murders and seemed to be playing along with Torbjorn’s idea. At night, Windhelm was frozen, but the man, fueled by the excitement of the hunt, continued on his way a few feet from Viola. For a moment, a tall, slightly stooped figure flashed behind her, and Torbjorn hurried to the rescue. Long arms, which seemed black in the darkness, reached out to the woman. - Behind! The old soldier, like an angry bear, rushed at Viola, shaking his two-handed sword, but only cut the air behind the woman, scared out of her wits. He couldn’t believe his eyes: had his wild imagination failed him, mistaking the shadows for a person? - Help, they are killing me! - Viola screamed at the top of her lungs. Guards responded from different parts of the cemetery, and an unimaginable commotion arose, as if on market day. Torbjorn no longer waved his sword, but rushed to the side like a hunted hare, painfully colliding shoulder-width with a man running past. A guard ran across the path and pointed a sword at Torbjorn. - Stand! - he yelled. “It would be better if you caught the Butcher so quickly,” muttered Shattered Shield and threw the weapon at his feet. Once again he returned to the office of the captain of the city guard. It began to seem that for Torbjorn these dark dungeons had become a second home. Only this time he was detained as a suspect. - You scared him away! - the captain shouted. - Preparation is a scam! We almost had the butcher in our hands! The thought that he had touched the killer of his daughters made Torbjorn feel sick. A moment later the contents of his stomach lay spread out at Mjorn's feet. “I didn’t notice. Why didn’t Nilsin notice?”, closing his eyes, the man grabbed his head and began to cry quietly. It was not anger at himself, not despair or powerlessness that clouded his eyes with tears, but a bitter feeling of guilt: after Frigga’s death, he drank and did not notice, he lost his second daughter when he was supposed to take care of him, not giving him a pass! Even if she hated it, she was sitting at home, but she was alive! It was enough for Tova to take the old fool with him. It was in vain that he only believed in illusory hope - and completely ruined everything. When Torbjorn calmed down, the captain handed him a jug of water and continued to press him: “Viola accused you of attacking this night - and this is already serious,” said Captain Mjorn, looking into Torbjorn’s frightened eyes. Of course, he could not believe that this man had killed his daughters and cut them into pieces. - But this is not true, you know! “I… I haven’t drunk for several weeks,” for some reason this information seemed very important to him. - I wanted to help. I... - What do you do all day? - the captain interrupted sharply. Torbjorn remained silent. - You're wandering around the city. Without excuses,” Mjorn added when the interlocutor finally opened his mouth, “my guys often saw you at crime scenes. The fact that Torbjorn was hanging around where his daughters died alarmed the captain. Even a scarecrow. The grief-stricken father (and now also a widower) has nothing more to lose - trouble cannot be avoided with such a person. - You don’t believe that I did this? - The old man’s voice trembled, and the captain shook his head negatively. - I don’t believe it. Viola has the brains of a chicken. She quickly agreed to act as bait for the Butcher. Apparently, everything is in vain,” the captain sighed tiredly and rubbed the bridge of his nose with his fingers. He did not sleep for several nights, planned ambushes, interviewed a crowd of witnesses, and the Butcher seemed to mock him, played and seemed to be waiting for something. - You say you ran into him? What did he look like? What's your height? How can you not remember? Torbjorn, the more you remember, the sooner we will catch this bastard. - Seems like an Imperial. “It seems like he’s as tall as me,” Torbjorn muttered as if a ghost, without looking at the captain. - This is all. - Not too much. Silence reigned again. An elderly servant entered the office, holding a mop and a full bucket of water, and with a grunt began to wipe the floor. In the presence of a stranger, the captain calmed down again. “Look at you,” he said as if he had lost all hope of the return of the old Torbjorn. - Go home, you are free. And get some sleep already, for the sake of all the gods! The guard who accompanied the Nord from the scene of the crime with the face of a winner immediately turned sour. “But the captain, he’s a witness…” “I already found out everything,” Mjorn sternly besieged him. “He’s not the one we’re looking for, but if he gets caught again,” he shook his finger at Torbjorn, “he’ll go straight to prison.” The leader of the Shattered Shield Clan did not need to be told twice. Mjorn tried to catch the killer - and this undoubtedly made him happy. What can a lonely, almost insane old man offer him? He started drinking again. Remembering the last time he saw houses, Torbjorn decided to go to Hjerim. The key turned with difficulty in the lock. Pressing the door with his shoulder, the Nord tumbled inside, covering the opened bottle of honey with his body; another one was in his pocket. My nose was filled with stagnant dust. Torbjorn sneezed and wiped his nose with the sleeve of his expensive doublet. They bought this house for the future, when one of the girls gets married. Frigga got the idea to move early and planned the furnishings, ordering furniture from Cyrodiil, but Torbjorn had to cancel this purchase. The furniture in the unnecessary house did not interest him at all. The windows were boarded up to prevent anyone from getting in, and an ominous darkness reigned in Hjerim. Footsteps echoed loudly in the empty house, and the emptiness played a cruel joke on the intoxicated imagination. Once upon a time, Torbjorn wanted these halls to be filled with bright light and sonorous children's laughter. Tova would secretly carry sweets, spoil her grandchildren, and Torbjorn himself would teach them how to use a sword. Now this dream is not destined to come true. The eyes gradually got used to the darkness. He took a sip from the bottle and sighed: there was no chair or candle around - you couldn’t drink it civilly! Hoping to stumble upon some shabby furniture in the darkness, Torbjorn trudged along, holding on to the wall until a closet grew in front of him. “Apparently, Frigga bought it,” the Nord thought, feeling the corners and patterns carved on the doors. Just think, just a few weeks ago my daughter came here... she probably had time to put something in the closet. Torbjorn didn’t understand why he went looking for Frigga’s personal belongings - maybe he wanted to leave something as a souvenir or simply hoped to feel her residual presence. In any case, the closet turned out to be empty - no things, not even shelves. “Damn you,” muttered the Nord, taking another sip from the bottle. Not finding suitable support in time, he fell straight into the closet, broke the back wall with his head... and fell somewhere further. There was such a vile stench that Torbjorn instantly sobered up. The remains of food and half a bottle of honey swirled in his stomach, but this time the man curbed them, sucking in air through his sleeve. He thought that Tova had returned again, but fresh blood and horror clearly emanated from the secret room. Torbjorn squeezed the amulet of Talos in his fist tighter and ran out of Hjerim - away from trouble. There was no way for him to get to Captain Mjorn - again in the end he would either disgrace himself or find himself a suspect. No, Kjerim is still his property, which means he needs to figure everything out on his own. Torbjorn decisively knocked on the door of Captain Lonely Squall, almost not expecting to find him at home, but the Nord opened the door quite quickly, as if he was expecting guests. “Don’t be angry, captain,” he said out of old memory, “your help is needed.” Having briefly described his latest misadventures, starting with Tova’s visit, Torbjorn relieved his soul. Lonely Squall listened silently, did not interrupt, and when he reached the secret room in Kjerim, he frowned. “Let’s go check it out,” he finally said, grabbing his sword. - And pray to the gods that you imagined everything. Lonely Squall was the first to step into the secret room and instantly flew back, holding his nose with his hand. After catching their breath and drinking honey for courage, the Nords decided to slowly explore the necromancer’s lair - and it couldn’t have been otherwise. Gradually they got used to the terrible smell, but not to the sight of buckets full of blood and meat, as if the shopkeeper had it on display. “My girls are here somewhere,” thought Torbjorn, shaking with anger and tears of powerlessness. - And you said that the killer doesn’t hold a grudge against me! I built an altar in my daughter’s house! “I don’t know what’s going on,” Lonely Squall admitted honestly. “But I’m telling you for sure: he will return here, but in a cramped room he won’t get away from us.” Torbjorn quickly agreed. Judging by the entries in the diary, the Butcher was preparing to complete his work. And that means another murder. “The creature will lie down and leave,” the Nord thought, shaking his head, “we can’t lose this chance.” The guilt for someone else's death fell heavily on his shoulders. “You don’t have to help me,” he said finally, when the sun had almost gone below the horizon. “As soon as it turns out that we could have prevented the murder and engaged in arbitrariness, we will definitely be imprisoned.” To explain things to the girl’s parents, to come to terms with your conscience - why do you need this? Live in peace. Lonely Squall just smiled sadly. “Earl Ulfric himself once offered me the position of captain of the city guard, but I felt that I was not fit for this job. For me, there is no worse fate than having your hands tied - especially by formalities. It was as if I was tied to the mast by my own crew! - He was silent for a long time, trying to collect his feelings, and quietly continued: - Maybe I’m doing this more for myself, since I didn’t have a chance to take revenge on my wife? Who knows. Your cause is just, no matter what that fool Mjorn says. The words of the former captain made my soul feel better. Torbjorn didn’t take another drop into his mouth, he sharpened his two-handed sword and waited for steps outside the door. His insides tightened and seemed to be on fire, until his chest hurt. The whole body was shaking. And he himself didn’t understand what he was more afraid of: another failure or faltering, looking into the Butcher’s eyes. The smell of flesh clung to clothes, skin and hair. Torbjorn tried not to touch the remains, which was very problematic. Somewhere here lay his flesh and blood. My father’s heart again stabbed painfully, as if someone was tearing him apart. You could barely hear something scratching in the castle. Lonely Squall put his index finger to his lips and closed the door. Without an influx of fresh air, it became impossible to breathe in the secret room, and the Butcher hesitated suspiciously, as if he sensed an ambush. A floorboard creaked nearby - the man behind the door was creeping, listening to the sounds of the house, like a wild animal. Lonely Squall was surprisingly calm, and Torbjorn was ashamed of the trembling in his hands, and the Butcher must have heard the beating of his heart - so he hesitates. When it opened secret door , time seemed to stand still. Both Nords took a deep breath, no longer paying attention to the smell, and clenched the hilts of their swords, preparing to strike. The butcher pulled the bag, completely soaked in blood, from his shoulder and threw it forward over the threshold. Torbjorn's nerves immediately gave way: noticing the movement, he slashed for luck, ripping open the bag. Human entrails fell onto the floor. The butcher immediately jumped back and protected himself with a spell. Lonely Squall then ran out into the empty hall, intending to drive the killer into a corner. The magician had no chance against the blade - he could only spin and harass the warrior with misses. Torbjorn arrived in time and complicated the fight, and the Butcher struck with paralysis, instantly knocking out the former sailor. Roaring, the Shattered Shield struck from top to bottom with all its pent-up fury. Exactly twenty years ago, he was again a mighty warrior, a furious berserker. The blade of the two-handed sword bounced off the “stone skin”, his hand moved, but the magician was also open. He stepped back, raised his head and stared at Torbjorn with the burning eyes of a predator. With a gasp, the Nord recognized Calixto. Deep down, he believed that he would find the answers, understand the reasons, but everything became even more confusing. - You killed my daughters! For what?! - Torbjorn yelled, sputtering. He held the sword over his shoulder, ready to kill the magician with one blow. “As far as I remember, Frigga gave me everything voluntarily,” the Butcher answered completely calmly. - You're lying, scum! Calixto laughed coldly and took another step back, playfully avoiding the blow of the massive blade. The old Nord did not have time to straighten up. His opponent pulled out a bloody dagger from his sleeve, which he used to cut up the bodies, dived under Torbjorn’s unprotected left side, and thrust the blade under the rib. The inhalation was accompanied by a sharp pain. Nord fell to the floor at the feet of the triumphant Butcher and wheezed. My vision darkened. The sword pulled at his hand, scraping the wooden floor to no avail, but the fur-gloved hand continued to firmly grasp the hilt. The butcher laughed again. With a wave of his hand, he smoothed his hair back, staining it with the blood of his next victim, and approached Torbjorn. - Your sword. Take it. Yes, yes... Do you remember which way to hold it, drunk? Filthy animal... she died because of people like you! Nord made a clumsy jerk and felt a copper taste on his tongue. Blood burst out through clenched teeth in red foam, like a horse driven to death. But he continued to rise to the incoherent muttering of Calixto. The Imperial did not wait for him - there were too many things planned - and brought the dagger to Torbjorn’s swollen neck. - Goodbye, dad. Behind the Butcher, Lonely Squall stirred, throwing off the shackles of paralysis. Without rising from the floor, he slashed at the imperial's legs - below the knees, and Torbjorn with one swing cut off the head of the necromancer, bent over in pain.

The Shattered Shield rested under the supervision of Jarl's healers while Lonely Squall steadfastly endured the verbal attacks of Captain Mjorn. It was worth calling him the Impregnable Rock now, but the former captain of the Windhelm guards did not deprive him of a rude response - who, if not them, tragically pushed Viola to death? The evidence collected at the Calixto Museum was enough to recognize him as the Butcher. The guards unusually quickly destroyed traces of necromancy in Kjerim, the diaries, all the notes and the strange medallion with a skull found on the altar disappeared. Soon no one in Windhelm will even remember the Butcher. Only sticky fear will haunt random passers-by on the dark streets, eating into their thoughts with inexplicable anxiety. Torbjorn didn't care about the consequences. All his thoughts returned to Calixto's words. - Do you think he told the truth? About Frigga? “I wouldn’t believe a single word of this madman,” responded Lonely Squall, and his voice was unusually firm. - He wanted to break you. Kill. But he was in no hurry to tell the truth. The wind mercilessly whipped the sailors with wet snow, but the preparation of the ship was in full swing. The dark-haired Nord watched his new team with pride, placing his hands on his hips. “It’s a pity that you decided to leave,” Torbjorn sighed. - But I understand perfectly well. - I won’t leave Windhelm forever - where will you all go without me? I'll clear my head and get back to the planting season. The Shattered Shield stood on the pier until the light merchant ship left its home harbor. He also wanted to swim away - away from memories, caustic dark thoughts and emptiness. How much longer can a lonely old man, who seemed to have lost the meaning of existence, last? Shaking off the wet snow from his cloak, Torbjorn began his ascent to the city. He should have gone to the Hearth and Candle long ago, apologized to Elda for his harshness and, at the same time, had a glass of foam to warm up. - Buy flowers, please! - a pitiful childish voice called out to the Nord, and he lowered his gaze to the girl dressed in a light dress. “Oh, gods,” Torbjorn perked up, “you’re going to get sick!” Without thinking twice, he took off his cloak with a fur collar and threw it over the girl’s shoulders, covering her from head to toe. - I chose the wrong time to trade. I would go home. She suddenly drooped and lowered her gaze - Torbjorn understood too well what this meant. - And the family? The girl shook her head negatively; Tears appeared in my eyes. - What is your name? - he asked softly. - Sophie. The orphan looked at Torbjorn with interest from the depths of his heavy cloak, and the Nord smiled kindly. Despite the dankness and cold, he suddenly felt a warmth spreading somewhere in his chest. He hadn't felt alive for a long time. - Well, Sophie, my daughters have grown up long ago, and their room is empty. I even still have their childhood things and toys. I'd love to take you in if you don't mind the company of a stupid old man. Hugging the girl by the shoulders, Torbjorn went home with joy for the first time in the past month.

Gives the task: Brother Verily
Requirements: None
Reward: Amulet of Arkay, Ring of Namira or 1500 Septims

Heading to Markarth:

Let's go to the underground fortress:

We go to the entrance to the hall of the dead:

We speak with Brother Verily. He will refuse, so you will have to either bribe him or convince him. Since not many people pump up eloquence, we will bribe him (The price is most likely not fixed and may vary depending on the level of eloquence, various abilities, etc.).

He gives us the key. We go inside the hall, look for the altar of Arkay.

Eola will approach us. Don't panic, there's no point in killing her. After talking with her, we find out that she is one of the Cannibals. We agree with her on all points.

We leave the same way we entered. We speak with Veriliy, we receive the Amulet of Arkay.

We go to the location “Cliff Cave”:

Attention, if you have already been there, the consequences are unpredictable.

Clearing the dungeon. The dungeon itself is not difficult, the draugr are leveled (Depends on the character’s level). But I didn’t find anything special in this dungeon. With the exception of the book that increases witchcraft:

At the end of the dungeon, a small boss awaits us, after killing whom Eola herself will run to us. But in order not to waste time, I advise you to run towards her (to the entrance to the dungeon through which we came).

Dungeon map:

Eola gives us one hundred gold pieces and sends us to Brother Verilius.

We go to Markarth, to the hall of the dead. We speak with Verily.

You can again either convince him (threat or persuasion), or bribe him. What’s interesting: they gave us 100 gold, and this guy asks for all 500:

We pay him the money and go back to the Cliff Cave. We approach Eola and she “talks” him:

Brother Verily lies down on the altar and you are ordered to kill him.

We kill Verilius. At Eola’s request, we eat it (Click search and a dialogue appears: eat or leave):

Namira talks to us and gives us a ring:

After which you can take Eola as a companion:

P.S.

There is also an ending for noble knights. When you are asked to kill the priest, we kill all the cannibals. The priest wakes up and thanks us. His gratitude is expressed in 1500 septims.

Namira's ring is a very good and unique thing. And the cash payout is so small that it will barely pay for a mercenary (500 septims) and an enchanted ring (2000+ septims).

This interesting item has repeatedly generated a whole wave of controversy and questions among fans of the game, since it is not so easy to independently understand the effect and location of such an interesting item. Where to find Arkay's Amulet in Skyrim?

The quest begins in the Hall of the Dead, which is located on the territory of Whiterun. There the player will immediately meet a priest who unexpectedly lost his own talisman. Naturally, take on this quest worth it right away, it allows you to later get many advantages as the game progresses. You can compare these advantages with those that you get when you decide to order flowers delivery: saving time and money. The development of the character at the current moment will not greatly influence the further passage of the game, for this reason you can come to the Hall of the Dead without any special preparation, from the very beginning.

You can also use the artifact ID when it comes to working with the map editor. If desired, this item can be immediately equipped on the character, ceasing to be a quest item. An interesting opportunity that the player will be able to consider independently in the future. The passage of the Amulet of Arkay in Skyrim itself represents several interesting quests, which are quite simple to complete. You'll have to go down into the catacombs and kill three skeletons there. Fighting them shouldn't cause any problems at any level of character development. Then, at the very end of the room, in the far chest, the desired item will be lying around, for which the priest will immediately give the player 15 gold coins.

Simple, but at the same time interesting and exciting from the point of view of greater immersion in history world of Skyrim. Now the answer to the question of where to get the ID of the Amulet of Arkay has become clear to everyone. With a well-developed trading skill, this item can be sold very profitably, but here everything depends on the specific merchant who may come across the way. The cost is assessed completely differently.

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