Sorry for the wait, but it turns out Skyrim betas don't exist. This chapter is probably the worst one in the entire story. Just stick with me and we'll be through it soon enough.
"And even were the Daedra to speak the truth, how can we know if they know themselves, or that there is any truth about them that is to be known, or are all arrangements among the Daedra protean and ever subject to change?
In short, what is to be known is little, and what is to be trusted is nothing."
- Aranea Drethan, Varieties of Daedra
She hasn't slept through the night since Helgen. The nights are when they come for her. The void is pierced by cruel golden eyes, and then she's bound once again, hanging by her wrists or strapped to a rack. Instruments of glinting elven metal tear and crush her flesh and bones. Each is designed by the brightest scientific minds to cause indescribable pain without the release of death. Arcs of electricity dance across her muscles, wracking her body with spasms and convulsions like a sick marionette. She screams until her lungs give out, and her chest begins to swell with a suffocating force. It builds until it chokes her throat and constricts her heart, and then finally bursts from her body with an explosion that shatters the torturer's cell. Now she's flying over rolling plains and tiny wooden buildings, the wind rushing under her wings. Her Thu'um echoes from the mountains and sends humans scattering like skeevers underneath her. When she lands, dirt and sod are upturned under giant talons. Men, women, and children are burned alive and torn apart by her teeth, and she tastes singed skin, leather, and steel. It brings a level of satisfaction she's never felt before; she is an avatar of destruction, a god, and none can stand against her.
She wakes thrashing and tangled in her bedroll, her skull splitting apart as her dragon and mortal minds war for control. In those early hours of the morning, she struggles to remember whether she's mer or beast, and it's becoming steadily harder to decide.
"Look around you, lady. Right now Skyrim is host to giant flying lizards and two-legged cat-men, but you won't believe one talking dog?"
"No. No, no, absolutely not, this is ridiculous. I refuse to be led into a den of vampires by a talking mutt."
J'zargo flashes that ever-present, maddening smirk. "Where is the harm? Imagine, if he is who he claims to be…"
"If this is truly the hound of Clavicus Vile, then this is worse than just a waste of time. Have you read the stories? Do you know what happens to fools who rush into deals like this?"
"There is no deal. We are simply reuniting this poor, lost dog with his master. A good deed, nothing more."
She wants to grab him by that detestable mustache and shake him until he sees reason. She's followed him all the way here to Ivarstead on a whim, his whim—he's investigating some legendary amulet and she feels she owes him at least one more favor for the return of her Star. Now he wants to drop that and go off chasing Daedra? "This, J'zargo, is why you'll never make Evoker. You have no focus."
"Titles do not grant power." J'zargo's smile broadens, and he turns back to the dog before she can sputter out another protest. "We would be happy to speak with your master."
There's no getting out of it. J'zargo is set in his path, locked on to the scent of treasure like a starving predator. Nordic barrows or Daedric shrines, what does it matter? So long as it's not dragons…
And so, she allows herself to be led into a den of vampires by a pair of talking beasts.
She has no sympathy for vampires; they're all scum. Skyrim's own breed are particularly nasty fiends. Lacking the subtlety of their Cyrodilic brethren, the Volkihar hunt by hiding under the ice of frozen lakes and seas, and then snaring the unwary travelers who pass above them. Common folk scoff and call that a legend, but she still has the scars on her leg and arms from the one that ambushed her on the ice floes of the Sea of Ghosts.
Fortunately, their tainted blood burns just the same as any other undead's.
J'zargo shows unexpected prowess as they cut through the vampires, curved sabre and destruction spells gleaming. She had expected him to be like the rest of the mages, cloistered and frail, but he charges into battle with the confidence of a veteran. His strokes are deft and efficient, his footwork agile and balanced even in heavy steel armor. Between the two of them, each of the undead are put back into their graves.
It turns out that there really is a shrine to Clavicus Vile in the center of the cave. When she spots it, she's momentarily caught up in surprise. The form of the Prince is carved elegantly from marble, not stubby and impish as others have portrayed him, but svelte and powerful. His horned head is turned upward haughtily and his raised hand holds his legendary Masque aloft. She wonders who in Skyrim would be moved to create such a beautiful tribute, given the way Vile likes to treat his worshippers. Perhaps it was an effort to appease him and unmake some bargain that had been struck.
Her chest tightens at the thought. This won't be her first audience with a Daedric Prince, but she had nothing to fear from Azura. Vile holds no love for her, or anyone else.
"Clavicus Vile," J'zargo purrs once they reach the shrine. "We come to make a request."
At first, there is no response. Then the whispering starts, like wind, but the air in the cavern is deathly still. It grows into a voice that seems to come from just behind her head.
"By all means, let's hear it." The voice is oily, but grating, and blares into her ear with the grace of a drunken Nord. It reminds her of a certain Breton shopkeep back in Whiterun. "Go on. It's the least I could do, since you already helped me grant one final wish for my last worshipers. They were suffering from vampirism, you see, and begged me for a cure. Then you came and ended their misery! I couldn't have planned it better myself."
Oh, excellent, he's going to be sarcastic. Because conversing with a god isn't difficult enough already. She casts a glance at J'zargo, who's practically beside himself with glee. By Dagon's eyes, he's going to damn them both. "Don't say anything stupid," she hisses through clenched teeth. "You just want him to take the dog back."
"That insufferable pup? Forget it. Request denied. No deal." There's a pause filled only by an odd hum in the air, and then he speaks again. "What about you, elf, do you want anything? Tell me your heart's desire, and I will make it so."
"I'm no fool, Vile. I know what happens to those who make deals with you."
"So there's nothing you want? What a shame. I suppose a Dragonborn like you has quite enough power already, hmm?"
She flinches and keeps her eyes fixed straight ahead as J'zargo's gaze bores into her skull. He's taunting her and she will not, will not fall for it. "Just take the dog, Vile."
"I already said that there's no way I'm taking that mutt back. I'm glad to be rid of him, even if it does mean I'm stuck in this pitiful shrine in the back end of… Nowhere." She can hear his thoughts turning around like the gears of a Dwemer machine. "Well, perhaps there is a way for him to earn his place back at my side. Maybe. But no promises."
"What is it?" J'zargo asks eagerly.
"There's an axe, an incredibly powerful axe. It's powerful enough for me to have quite a bit of fun, indeed. Bring it to me, and I'll grant you my boon. No strings attached. No messy surprises—at least, not for you."
"Lord Vile, this one would be pleased to retrieve this axe." J'zargo gives an exaggerated bow, his words thick with mirth. Even this is just a farce to him.
"As I recall, it's resting in Rimerock Burrow. Barbas will lead you right to it. He might even earn his place back at my side." The voice fades, and the air falls silent once more.
Rimerock Burrow is apparently on the other side of Skyrim. Barbas leads them for days and days across hills and through forests. Even riding conjured horses, the trip is slow; the snow of Sun's Dusk obscures many of Skyrim's narrow, winding paths. By the time they reach Dragon Bridge, it's been nearly two weeks of slush and misery, and Barbas has not shut up for one minute of it.
"Giants over there. Have you ever fought a giant? Great for seeing a lot of Skyrim really quickly, so long as they don't kill you. I met a frost giant once; now those are vicious…"
Sometimes they ride ahead of Barbas on the road, and he seems to disappear behind them, giving them a few minutes of blessed silence. But he always returns around the next bend, appearing from foliage or rocks to greet them with a bark and another boring monologue. It's no wonder Vile wants him gone.
The only useful thing that comes out of his mouth is the history of this Rueful Axe. Supposedly, a wizard named Sebastian Lort had a daughter who turned into a werewolf. He pleaded with Vile to give him the means to end her curse. As Barbas tells it, "Clavicus gave him an axe."
A few days past Dragon Bridge, the howling wind begins to blow from the west. As it does, it picks up an odd susurrus—a set of syllables, garbed nonsense, but with the same cadence as other words in the dragon tongue. Peering into the mountain ahead, she sees the traditional arches of a Nordic tomb rising from the snow and trees.
She's only heard this once before: at the top of High Hrothgar, where all the winds of Skyrim meet. It's what the Greybeards call "the whisper of a word." There's a word of power hidden away in that ruin, and somehow, it's calling to her. It's just another distraction, she tells herself. Keep moving; she doesn't want to extend this trip any further. But the eldritch souls inside her rebel, and her mind begins to itch, the way it used to upon spotting a forbidden spell tomes on the library shelves. It—she wants this scrap of knowledge, and an all-consuming fire flares up within her. The cold, their quest, and Barbas' nattering fall away, and she begins to turn her ghostly steed along a fork in the road…
"Where are you going?" J'zargo's voice interrupts her trance. She struggles briefly for a good excuse, but then decides he doesn't deserve one.
"There's something I want to investigate in that ruin. Follow, or don't." She expects J'zargo to argue, given that she's been complaining about pointless diversions this whole time, but he's oddly silent as he steers to follow her. She chooses not to question it. Barbas is considerably less quiet, yapping about Nords and ruins and somesuch. Why is he even coming with them?
Like any other ruin, there are bandits camped around the outside. They carve through them easily. Barbas, to his credit, is very keen on helping them, even tearing out the throat of one felled archer. The inside seems to be a typical barrow, nothing as interesting as Saarthal. As they pass through it, they find a banquet hall filled with rancid cheese wheels, a traditional puzzle room, and, of course, dozens of undead that spring from their alcoves to attack them. J'zargo's behavior is far more curious than the tomb itself—his keen eyes spot each pressure plate and tripwire, and his deft telekinesis makes short work of any locks.
As he disarms a soul gem trap with a flick of his wrist, she brings it up. "You've done this before."
"Of course. Even a mewling Khajiit cub could pass through this dungeon unharmed. The ancient Nords were not so clever."
He's right. Tombs have a certain pattern, one that she memorized a long time ago. There's nothing special about this one, aside from the whispers—and the stairs. Why, after two weeks of horseback riding that's left her lower half numb, did she have to pick the one dungeon with more steps than High Hrothgar? They climb upward through draugr, and then through stronger draugr, spiders, and even more draugr, until they reach a particularly wide and ornate staircase. Its steps are lined by statues that have crumbled too far to be recognizable. J'zargo strides ahead of her, as he has for some time now. Just as he's about to reach the top, he motions for her to stop. "There is something foul ahead."
"Foul? And what do you call all the zombies we had to kill to get here?" Barbas gives a loud bark that bounces off the stone walls of the cavern. Indrele and J'zargo both hiss for him to be quiet, but it's too late. A guttural growl and the creaking of old bones and armor signals the waking of the last undead. A silhouette appears of a towering draugr wearing a helmet with horns as long as her forearm. The blue light of its eyes is more intense than its brethren's. Its gaping mouth opens to—
"FUS RO DAH!"
For an instant she can feel herself flying through the air, and then it stops with a sickening crunch of what can only be bones breaking. Her head hits the stone wall hard enough that the shock kicks everything else from her mind, at least until she tries to breathe. Then her chest erupts with a stabbing pain that can only stem from broken ribs. Gasping shallowly, she lifts her arm—heavy, as though it's been tied down—and places her palm on her chest. Her mind is swimming, but she struggles to remember the words for a healing incantation. She needs to fix this, and quickly.
She's no healer, so the warmth of restoration magic grows to a scorching heat that wraps around her ribcage and back. It's the fever of the body healing itself at a thousand times the normal pace—she never could learn to do this without pain. Her work is agonizing, slow, and sloppy, but it's enough that when the burning subsides, she's able to inhale deeply and sit up. Cracking open her eyes, she sees the blurry orb of candlelight dancing above her, dancing and swaying and splitting into four or six partners. Underneath her are the shattered remains of a ceramic urn.
Not as bad as she'd thought, then.
The draugr lord has shambled down the last few steps, and J'zargo is already fighting it, sword drawn and a flame cloak swirling around his form. He doesn't seem to have been hurt by the Shout at all. Envy quickly gives way to gratefulness that at least he's able to keep it away from her. She struggles against the bruises lining her body and rises to her feet, charging up a quick firebolt. Her spells do little to stagger it, however, and J'zargo's sword strokes bounce off its thick armor. It's quickly clear that this monster is at least as strong as Saarthal's, possibly moreso.
J'zargo holds it off for some time, but makes an error when he steps back to cast. The draugr uses the opening for a powerful blow across his midsection that stuns him momentarily. With J'zargo no longer attacking, it makes a run for her. She grimaces and draws her sword, bracing for a fight. But she's barely started to swing when the draugr opens its mouth again. "ZUN HAAL VIIK!" Suddenly she's clutching air, her weapon clattering to the ground somewhere behind her. She swears and throws up a ward in defense just as the ebony sword arcs toward her. The sword slams into the magical shield, making it shudder and send charged sparks of magicka into the air. She holds the ward until it starts to crack apart, and then braces her foot against the ground and throws her weight forward. Taken by surprise, the draugr stumbles back long enough for her to drop the ward and charge up a fireball. Knowing she can't survive much longer in a swordfight, she fuels it with as much magicka as she can muster. When it stumbles towards her again, she looses it as his feet.
The resulting blast floors her, literally. It's bigger than she expected, far too forceful for such a close space, and it bowls her onto her back once more. When she clambers to her feet, she sees that the corpse's legs have been blown clear off at the knees. J'zargo rushes over to stab it through the eye, and the body falls still.
Despite the pain and the stress from the fight, she feels a miniature sense of satisfaction and pride crawl through her. She's grown more powerful than she thought.
"Look at that. You guys might even be stronger than old Sebastian." Oh, she's going to wring that dog's furry little neck. She wipes her dirty gloves across the soot on her face and sighs, then draws a vial from her pack. Powdered creep cluster and red mountain flowers, a poor man's magicka potion. She downs it after some struggle. It's uneven and oddly-textured—she did, after all, brew it herself—but she instantly feels some of her magicka re-ignite within her.
"I suppose that was the guardian," she says, replacing the empty vial. "Are there any other monsters you'd like to wake before we leave here, Barbas? Some Daedric companions, or perhaps a dragon?"
"Why, do you?"
They continue up the endless stairs, sweeping up any valuables they can find. She inspects the draugr's ebony sword longingly, but it's heavy and clumsy, too unbalanced for her thin elven frame. She stows it on her back anyway. Ebony weapons fetch a high price from blacksmiths; she can enchant it and sell it.
More notable is what she doesn't find. There is no word wall here, even though the whispers seem to grow stronger with each draft. The drafts—there must be another exit here. Eventually, she spots it at the top of one final staircase.
Outside, a fierce wind blows thick flakes into her eyes, and her boots sink into knee-deep snow. The sky is as grey as stone, and she sees the familiar outline of a word wall against it, lit by a burning brazier. She walks in a daze around the snow-covered altar and to the engravings. As before, one set of runes is shining, the light and the snow swirling together in a blurry cloud. Still concussed from the fight before, her head pounds as the tendrils reach out and force themselves into her mind.
Nah, fury. Not like the berserker rage of an Orc, but the power of a cyclone, a storm…
She hears her name being called from a great distance, but before she can respond, something drives through her left shoulder and pins her against the stone. She looks down to see a cruel spear of ice protruding from her armor, glistening bright red with her blood. It doesn't hurt, but even as that occurs to her, her knees give out and she falls onto her side in the snow. She can see, just barely, a figure levitating above the supposed altar, its tattered skin and robes gleaming with magical armor.
No, not another one, not now! Haven't they already destroyed the guardian of this barrow? Mother, Prince and Spinner, what is that thing? She raises a ward just in time to deflect another ice spike. In response, it sweeps its arm in a lazy circle, conjuring a billowing pillar of wind and ice that rushes towards her. The storm shatters her feeble ward and overtakes her. The tiny shards of ice rip away her hood and slice the exposed skin on her face, freezing her armor and sapping the heat from her body. She reaches out with her good arm and crawls forward blindly until she grasps the corner of the stone wall, and then pulls herself around it.
Behind relative cover, she lies still for a moment, her whole body shaking from exertion and the cold. The effects of her shoddy healing job are already starting to show; her ribs are aching and burning where they've been sealed together improperly. Slow, semi-frozen drops of blood are leaking from the wound in her shoulder, where the ice spike is crystallizing the flesh around it. And she wonders again why, why she has to do this, instead of growing fat and lazy and stupid in a tower of the College. She's worked for that, and that's what she deserves, not to be laid out in the snow by an ancient lich in some gods-forsaken mountain in Skyrim.
"Because we must never hide from our duty." If she shuts her eyes she can still imagine her mother standing there, donning her Imperial armor and lecturing Indrele one last time about responsibility and honor. Tears of frustration and pain prick at her eyelids, and she abruptly shoves herself upright. She's better than this.
A yelp and hiss from the battleground tell her that J'zargo isn't faring any better than her. He's always been terrible at wards. She forces herself to move again, to pull off her backpack and shuffle through it with her numb fingers. With her shortage of coin and souls, she only has three scrolls to choose from—one to cure disease, one for slowfall, and one inscribed with a fire rune. She takes this last one and unrolls it, pressing it flat against the ground. The neat pattern of circles and Daedric letters glows red and begins to burn away at the parchment. When the ashes dissipate, the rune has been transposed to the snow underneath.
She stands up unsteadily, leaning against the stone for support. Breathing is painful again and her legs wobble with each step, but she makes her way to the other side of the wall. Peering around the corner, she sees J'zargo on his knees near the sarcophagus, channeling golden healing energy into a gaping wound in his side. Barbas is snapping at the lich's heels and growling, dodging each spear sent his way. The dog is keeping its attention, at least—its back is turned to her.
She sucks in a ragged breath and tries to focus. She only has one shot at this. Dragon shouts are like spells, in that they require meditation and contemplation. But her own mind is useless here. Instead, she turns to the eldritch bubble inside her, where the souls of Mirmulnir and Sahloknir and the knowledge of the Greybeards thrash about like fish trapped in a tiny net. She grasps that power with her own, funneling it to her core. Her chest rises and falls rapidly, but she forces a deep breath. Her lungs fill with a force that threatens to tear her apart from the inside, and finally, she lets go.
"FUS RO DAH!"
Her Shout is just as loud as the draugr lord's. It bends and distorts the air with visible shockwaves that rush both Barbas and the abomination, sending them tumbling through the snow and to her rune. Her aim is true, thank Azura, and the moment they cross the lines of the circle, it explodes. The fireball detonates with a bang and the snow around it is instantly vaporized, shrouding everything in mist. J'zargo, newly healed, takes this as his cue and charges in, swinging his sabre and firing a line of flames from his other hand. Drained, Indrele sinks once again to her knees. The scene fades in and out with bursts of steam and shimmering, superheated air. When the mist finally clears, the lich is lying motionless on the ground, its charred body crumbling slowly into ash. J'zargo is standing above it, triumphant. Barbas is nowhere to be seen.
With the dregs of her magicka, she activates the weakest of her flame cloak spells. It's more heat than fire, not enough to burn, but enough to ward her from the wind and the biting cold for a few precious minutes. It licks at the icicle spear, melting it into nothing and unstopping the flow of blood. She yanks the glove off of her right hand with her teeth and fumbles with the straps of her breastplate, but her fingers are waxy and numb and can't find the clasps. After a few moments she lets her hand fall and leans against the sarcophagus, panting. "J'zargo, I need…"
He appears in front of her as suddenly as ever, even though he's limping and clutching the wound in his side. "You fight curious enemies. J'zargo has never seen such a foe."
"Shut up. I need a healing poultice and I can't do it." J'zargo sighs theatrically and squats beside her. She feels his claws tug at the buckles until they come loose and the breastplate slides off. He pulls it away roughly, jerking her shoulder and making her cry out. "Sheogorath! Watch what you're doing, cat." He mutters something in his primitive beast tongue, but keeps working. She unties her cloak and the furs and tunic underneath it, pulling them down to reveal the hole in her shoulder. It's uglier than it feels, a purple-red puncture surrounded by frostbitten skin. The cold and shock keep the pain down for now, but blood is pouring out steadily. She shuts her eyes and winces as J'zargo applies the salve, a pungent mixture of juniper berries and garlic. It stings almost as badly as her own healing spells, but immediately, she can feel the skin and muscle knitting back together. The worst of it should be healed within a day.
Her flame cloak sputters and dies, exposing her to the wind once again. She shivers as J'zargo finishes wrapping bandages around her torso and helps her back into her furs, sodden with sweat, blood, and melted snow. When her breastplate is replaced and her glove back on, she grips the edge of the sarcophagus and drags herself back to her feet.
Across the battlefield, she sees a pile of ashes where the abomination fell, but no sign of the dog. "I think I killed Barbas," she mutters through chattering teeth. J'zargo snorts. She shuffles through the snow to what's left of the corpse. Its body and robes have disintegrated, but there's something lying on top of the pile, gleaming. Tentatively, she bends down and picks it up. The moment her fingers brush the surface, she feels the powerful shock of ancient magic—strong alteration, with a trace of illusion. She'll have to wait until she finds an enchanting table to learn the specifics, unless… Perhaps it's the blood loss or the exhaustion that makes her so reckless, but after a moment of thought, she draws back the hood of the mask and pulls it over her head. It reeks of centuries of gravedust and rot, and she gags, but she forgets about the smell as soon as the magic infuses her body. Waterbreathing, a fortification to brace her shoulders and back, and something that touches her charisma.
Beneath it all, she hears a whisper that reaches out to her like the call of a word. Volsung. It's the name of the mask's previous owner.
There's something special about ancient artifacts. They don't always have the strongest or most practical enchantments—in particular, whoever enchanted this mask must have had a very unusual purpose in mind—but they have character and history, and the well of their power runs deep. With time and study, a skilled enchanter can draw out their full potential.
"Can we get going?" She jumps and looks down through the slits of the mask to see Barbas. He's sitting at her feet and wagging his tail, as though nothing has happened. His fur isn't even singed.
She opens and shuts her mouth a few times, but can't think of a proper response. She settles on a curt nod, and draws the fur hood of her cloak over the mask of Volsung. Though she's not looking forward to a horseback ride with her shattered ribs, they still have a ways to go.
Compared to the liches of Volskygge, Sebastian Lort is no challenge at all. Once they get past his atronachs, he's just a doddering old man driven mad by forces he couldn't control. It only takes a few lightning bolts to bring him to his knees in surrender.
The Rueful Axe is a wicked thing of sharp ebony and shining silver. It's been placed on an altar almost reverently, surrounded by flickering candles. Though she's not fond of axes, Indrele concedes that it's a thing of beautiful craftsmanship.
"You think he's really going to take the axe and let us go, just like that? 'No strings attached'?"
"Of course," replies J'zargo. "We have a deal."
"The deal is for him to take back this damned mutt, and what good does that do us? We don't get anything out of it. But of course, it still counts as a deal, so it binds us to him anyway."
J'zargo traces one claw thoughtfully over the whorls of the Axe. "If the elf believes we will be damned either way, perhaps she was a fool to come here in the first place."
She bristles, but holds her tongue. Barbas speaks up. "Don't worry about it. Clavicus has his own sense of honor; he's just really peculiar about it. Just don't let him trick you into changing the deal."
"That's not true." They each turn to see the wizard propping himself up on his hands. "You know you can't trust him. He's like any other one of them. He'll feed off your misery until he gets bored of you, and then he'll send his new servants to take back his toys."
Indrele fixes the man with a cold stare. "I am no servant of Clavicus Vile."
"You say that now, but you don't understand. He's a manipulative bastard. He'll get you in the end, you'll see."
"That may be. Even so, I will never let him talk me into murdering my own kin." That does it. Lort's face snaps and contorts in rage, and lightning begins to arc between his hands. Before he can release it, she drives her steel boot into his chest and brings her sword down on his neck, ending his miserable life.
She holds no pity for him. If a man is not clever enough to deal with a Daedric Prince, then he should stick to fruitless worship of the Divines.
"Almost seems a shame to give a weapon like that away, doesn't it? I suppose I could be persuaded to let you keep it—but only if you use the axe to kill Barbas. Simple as that."
J'zargo fixes Barbas with a predatory stare, hefting the axe in his hands. The dog yelps in protest.
"Wait a second! What did I tell you about changing the deal? Kill me, and you get to keep the axe—but give it to him, and the Masque of Clavicus Vile will be yours."
"Go ahead and spoil my fun, why don't you? Why do I even keep you around? …Ah, right."
She knows J'zargo has heard of the artifact. It's a helm that endows the wearer with the legendary persuasive power of the Prince himself, certainly more useful than a clunky axe. Indeed, J'zargo's expression calms, and he holds the axe out towards the altar. "No. This one will deliver the axe to Lord Vile, as agreed."
"Hmph, you're no fun at all either. And you, elf, you're still quite attached to your soul?"
"Very."
"Pity. I had just the right place for it, too. Come along then, mutt. There's a whole world just waiting for me."
They uncover another amulet fragment in the barrow known as Geirmund's Hall. J'zargo may be a terrible scholar, but when an artifact is on the line, his skill at research is uncanny. According to him, the third and final piece will be in Folgunthur, a ruin in the marshes north of Morthal. She groans at the thought of visiting that dreary place again. "I suppose you'll be headed there, then."
"No." His response stops her.
"You want to go somewhere else first? I'm not going to follow you indefinitely until you finally decide to get this done."
"You do not need to follow. Khajiit will go where you go."
She struggles to comprehend the sudden turn of events, which is made no clearer by his damned speech pattern. "Do you mean to say that you're following me now? Why?"
"Vile says that you are powerful. Powerful enough, perhaps, for J'zargo to have quite a bit of fun." He chuckles and turns his head so that the twisted eyes of the Masque stare right at her. "Dragonborn."