Traveling Trials

POV Magrakh, Chapter 5: The curse of Sundas


Magrakh and Pelle are recovering from a battle against a dragon, and Mag panics as he discovers he's Dragonborn.


11:00 PM, Sundas the 23rd of Last Seed, 4E 201

A few days later, Magrakh finds himself languishing in the crowded Temple of Kynareth in Whiterun.

Here, he realizes it's Sundas again.

Seems like everything goes to shit on a Sundas, he thinks.

As he thinks it, he comes to the bitter realization that a few years ago, on another Sundas, he was fleeing from Markarth, covered in blood, and riding a stolen horse for dear life.

Sundas, the Sun's Day, he muses, Magnus' damn hole in Oblivion, what else could it bring but bad luck?

The last sparks of logic in his brain remind him of coincidences, but he doesn't believe in them.

After all, last Sundas, he was captured at the Eastmarch border and sentenced to death. Then a dragon razed the city.

Do these beasts have an obligation to show up once a week, like some sort of tax collector paid in lives? And where the fuck did this second dragon come from? Actually, where are they coming from, Oblivion?

Magrakh turns his head and squints at the light filtering from the adjacent room, where the priests are murmuring among themselves.

Pellegrina lies on the floor beside him, sleeping deeply for hours, curled up in a ball between a cloak and blankets. She's so small that she's almost unnoticeable, and like everyone in the Temple, she emanates a strong smell of smoke and blood.

Her arm was fractured in many places, tearing through flesh and skin. When the dragon landed, this crazy girl tried to slit its throat.

Everyone found out, at their own expense, that a grounded dragon is just as dangerous as when it's flying.

On a day like this, he can't blame her for collapsing, just as he can't blame the wounded filling the room with groans and moans. For better or worse, they were brought to Whiterun still alive.

The priests are quietly gathering another person who didn't survive the night. It's the third time since they were placed here in the evening.

In her delirium, a woman on one of the cots behind him is muttering nonsensical prayers, almost unable to pronounce them. Burned as she is, everyone knows, including her, that she won't survive long enough to see the sunrise. Magrakh fervently hopes someone will end her suffering as an act of mercy.

Most of these people are farmers and other workers who happened to be at the site when the dragon appeared, wiping out a lifetime's worth of work in an instant.

There aren't many guards among them, but that's because most were killed during the fight or shortly after, to end the suffering caused by severe burns.

Magrakh learned that burn wounds can be fatal even when they seem insignificant, and all of Pelle's complaints since they were burned in Helgen seem less annoying.

Even when he doesn't move, his entire left side, from shoulder to hip, hurts terribly. The ribs he had fractured were mended, but the arm and head suffered more. He was repeatedly told that Restoration magic doesn't fix everything, and that he needs to take time to rest, eat well, avoid exertion, be careful in movements, and so on.

His arm hurts because of his stupid attempt to block a dragon's tail, instead of dodging like anyone with good sense would.

So, something the size of a tree trunk crashed against him, dislocating his shoulder and crushing the pauldron, which tore his muscle.

But his head hurts even more.

Magrakh would like not to know why; ignorance is a blessing, after all. This way, he could complain and wallow in self-pity, hoping that a healer would fix him if he pays enough Septims.

Unfortunately, he knows why his head hurts, and thinking about it only increases the pain.

There's something inside him that shouldn't be there.

What it is exactly, well, the theory says it's the dragon's soul.

Because Magrakh is Dragonborn.

A mortal with the blood and soul of a dragon, which hasn't gone down well with the Nord guards, considering he's far from being on par with the legend of Tiber Septim.

Of course, Magrakh is familiar with these legends, very popular in Skyrim. One particular song states that the Dragonborn will return and save the world with the ancient Nord magic of the Voice.

Epic tales, filled with deeds every honorable warrior measures themselves against: the liberation of Skyrim from the dragon's rule, the Nord general Tiber Septim who united Tamriel and founded the Empire, and the last Septim of the dynasty, Martin, who halted the Oblivion Crisis by sacrificing himself to become an avatar of Akatosh.

Magrakh used to enjoy these stories a lot, back when they were just stories.

The title 'Dragonborn' always confused him, though, implying a connection with the beasts when, in reality, they are dragon hunters, rumored to be able to...absorb their souls.

Mirmulnir, a sore spot in his mind, reminds him that the dragon had a name.

I don't care, he replies to...the dragon? To himself?

He sighs.

Everyone says that what Magrakh did, after the dragon collapsed, was to absorb its soul.

He doesn't have the slightest idea how the hell such a thing should work.

Would his soul merge with it? Or is that soul what's causing this infernal pain, crawling in his brain like a parasite?

The most annoying part is that he can't deny being Dragonborn. As Mirmulnir was dying, he shouted "Dovahkiin" with a level of horror and indignation that transcends death.

Dovahkiin, Dragonborn.

While Magrakh was near, the body was engulfed in a violent beam of red light that chased him, splitting into numerous small rays before converging on him.

After the last terrifying flash of light vanished into the Orc, the fire that had consumed the dragon dissipated, leaving only a still-smoldering skeleton and leather.

Magrakh felt a wave of unfamiliar emotions and memories, similar to when he learned Force, but much more violent and unpleasant.

Since then, he hasn't been able to shake off those sensations. Even now, words in the dragon's language float in his mind, along with images he's never seen before, creating a whirlwind that makes him dizzy despite lying down.

Magrakh doesn't know if he has truly absorbed his soul; everyone seems to believe it, including the dragon! But he, as a person, remains just an Orc and a miner, and will be so for the rest of his life.

He tries to stop thinking about it, but it's almost impossible. The Shout, the ancient Nord magic of legend, echoes in his ears. The dragon itself had used it during the battle.

Once he was defeated, the guards asked Magrakh to use the Shout to prove he was truly Dragonborn.

He didn't know how to do such a thing, but the new memories helped him channel what he had learned in the tomb: Fus. The Force erupted from his mouth, no longer just a concept but materialized and made tangible by the legendary Thu'um.

The Jarl's Housecarl, Irileth, didn't like the new development, and Magrakh agrees with her.

Pellegrina, on the other hand, seemed...

Betrayed? Angry? Disgusted.

He admits it was painful to notice. In this week, despite his suspicions, Pellegrina has been his main source of motivation. She kept them moving, healed them, helped them survive, and even earn money.

Selling the loot they had obtained was precisely why they were traveling to Whiterun. He hoped to return to a normal life: get money, buy better equipment, and find a place to settle.

But instead of a couple of days' walk, Magrakh forced them to take a longer route, refusing to pass through Riverwood. He was too afraid of encountering the rebel Ralof, who had confessed on the cart to still having family there.

So Pellegrina led them through a pass that cuts through the mountain overlooking Lake Ilinalta.

"The Brittleshin Pass," she had said, pointing to the map she made on a sleepless night. "It should lead out north of this mountain, onto the plains, a day or so from Whiterun."

Magrakh is curious about how Pellegrina always knows about these dens and what lurks in them, but he fears he'll never find out.

"Something nasty could be in there," she had said in a way that suggested she was perfectly aware of the hidden threats.

He doesn't even know why she insists on keeping up an air of innocent tourist rather than showing herself as the unsettling informant she is.

But now, he doesn't even know if Pellegrina will run away as soon as she wakes up.

Magrakh rubs his eyes in an attempt to alleviate the headache and sleep a little, but he's too restless; even on a calm day, he has a nervous energy that keeps him alert and always on the verge of anger. An Orcish inheritance, but today it's amplified because of the dragon.

What happened seriously messed with his mind.

Moreover, the subsequent Shout of the Greybeards, from the Throat of the World, makes him even more paranoid.

"A summoning," Hrongar, the Jarl's brother, said as if Magrakh should be called by shouting as if he were a dog.

"A great honor," Jarl Balgruuf said, as if Magrakh cares about honor.

Right now, he just wishes to be elsewhere. Far from the Temple of Kynareth and far from Whiterun.

He's only been in this city three or four times in his life, and it's a pleasant place despite its imposing size and the numerous, always busy population. He got the impression that it was a peaceful environment, despite the feuds between the old houses, and well protected by the mighty Companions, who made their home here since its foundation, millennia ago.

But Jarl Balgruuf had the brilliant idea of making Magrakh a Thane of Whiterun, and that feeling of welcome quickly turned into something more suffocating.

"For the heroic act of slaying a dragon," the Jarl applauded while Steward Avenicci held an axe in front of him with the solemnity and stoicism suitable for a funeral.

Of course, the real reason was the discovery that Magrakh is Dragonborn, and thus the Jarl wanted to tie him to the city, because lo and behold, only he was granted the title of Thane.

The weapon has a title too: 'Axe of Whiterun', and there's no doubt it's from Whiterun, with the city's horse crest stamped on the head just above the handle, surrounded by refined Nordic-style engravings.

Magrakh is extremely pleased with the axe he received from the Jarl's armory, but it was sheer luck to get it after his was ripped away by the dragon's long sharp fangs, along with many of his fingers.

After the battle, he searched the fields for the missing fingers, managing to find all except two: the right pinky and ring fingers. Considering all he could have lost, he feels lucky.

The priestess of Kynareth took a long time to mend his ribs and reattach his fingers. And he should count himself fortunate to have only lost this much, as Mirmulnir's intention was to devour his arm.

He hates knowing the dragon's thoughts...

After giving him the title and the axe, Jarl Balgruuf urged him to 'get patched up' by the priests of Kynareth and come back in the morning to get his Housecarl.

Because every Thane is assigned a Housecarl, a lifelong servant.

"I must wait for the morning's clarity to choose one with the care the act deserves," the Jarl said.

What it really meant is that he lost many men in battle, so he has to wait for an updated list of fighters under his command and maybe even investigate to find one who won't cause problems when called to serve an Orc.

Magrakh would have wanted to leave as soon as his bones were repaired, but Pellegrina wasn't in a condition to travel.

He looks at the girl next to him, motionless.

Moving from one place to another, still in shock from the battle and everything that has been revealed, they haven't had time to talk.

The event brought back memories of Helgen's destruction for both of them. The only difference is that this time they decided to help instead of picking a cardinal direction and running, as they did before.

What will Pellegrina say when she wakes up?

She was so determined to continue their journey together and be 'allies,' but the expression on her face when the dragon went up in flames, or when Magrakh used the Shout as requested by the guards, proving he was Dragonborn...

He's not sure if they will embark on another adventure together, and even if he wants to slap himself for being sorry to get rid of her craziness, he can't.

After fleeing from Markarth, he had to live alone or with unreliable cutthroats, constantly watching his back and committing questionable actions to ensure a meal and his freedom.

Pellegrina has been an intriguing, albeit unsettling, novelty and she never stabbed him in the back.

Her playful desire to explore both irritated and invigorated him, and her boldness in the face of danger gave him some courage that he may have lacked.

He can't help but be inspired by someone who has the guts to throw herself at the head of an enraged dragon, regardless of the outcome. She wasn't afraid of the witch or the draugr, or at least not as much as he was, and she was damn happy as they destroyed the undead skeletons infesting Brittleshin Pass.

On the other hand, just thinking about the undead gives him chills, despite having ample combat experience.

But is it perhaps an exaggeration to be afraid? Isn't the idea of magic that brings the dead back to life terrifying? Something like that would make most people tremble.

Pellegrina didn't seem surprised or scared at all; in fact, she started shooting arrows from the cover of a pillar.

Magrakh isn't happy to envy her self-confidence and hopes he can channel this feeling into something more positive, like training her.

"You're so ugly we thought you were another undead!" She yelled at the necromancer. "Ah, but you're an elf, that's why you look like a corpse."

And she continued to insult his ethnicity, virility, and appearance until Magrakh managed to get close enough to decapitate him.

"Don't worry about all the nonsense I said about elves," Pellegrina said later, "I was just trying to goad him, I don't really believe those things."

It took him a long time to figure out why he should care if she despises elves or not. And then he understood: he is an Orc.

An Orsimer.

Although Orcs are descended from the Aldmeri like elven races, most of them–including Magrakh–don't consider themselves 'elves.' Most of the world doesn't either. Yet she cared enough to make sure he wasn't offended.

These are the things he can't help but notice and appreciate.

There aren't many people in Skyrim who accept Orcs. After all, there are reasons why they are called the pariah folk.

Brittleshin Pass was colder and more intricate than they expected. There was a nordic ruin that led them to a higher level, where a tunnel wound through natural caves and artificial chambers before emerging on the other side of the mountain.

The path was covered in the necromancer's magical runes and slippery ice. They had to spend the night in that unsettling place, with blankets piled up over the brightly-colored canvas Pellegrina had salvaged from Helgen.

That morning–or rather, this morning–they were in a hurry to reach the city, thaw by a fire, sell their loot, and sleep in a comfortable bed.

We got the fire...Magrakh grimaces at the memory.

It was noon when they were crossing the road toward Fort Greymoor, passing various farms, and next to a watchtower.

"How much does a horse cost?" Pellegrina asked.

"It depends on the horse, I suppose. Why, tired of walking?"

"My feet are killing me, but a horse would also be useful to continue collecting loot without being slowed down by the load, like what happened in Helgen. I still feel guilty about leaving all that food behind."

"Do you realize that even if you manage to buy the cheapest nag, you'd still need money to saddle it, feed it, and take care of it, right?"

"Yes, dad, I know how to take care of a pet."

Magrakh grunted, annoyed by the sarcasm.

"And how much would a cart cost?"

"For the Divines' sake!" Magrakh snorted. "Why would you want to wander around with a cart? They attract bandits like honey attracts ants."

Pellegrina laughed. "Hey, heavy loot is future money! If we make more money, we could afford a bodyguard."

At that moment, a large shadow cut across their path.

Shortly after, a cascade of fire swallowed a fence on their right, along with all the animals it contained, the fields ready for harvesting, and the straw roof of the farmhouse.

Then the cries of people and the screams of animals began.

Magrakh struggles to recall with precision everything that happened from that point

The mind is truly strange. He can remember his grandmother telling him, "Good boys don't throw stones at chickens," over twenty years ago, but he doesn't know what he ate last night.

Whether it's due to his convalescent state or the sheer panic he felt at the arrival of another monster, his memories are muddled.

He knows he ran, escaping the flames raining from the sky.

The walls of Whiterun seemed so far away.

He remembers talking to the Jarl and his Huscarl, although he doesn't recall much of the conversation.

Then suddenly, he and Pellegrina were returning to the watchtower with the yellow-clad cavalry of Whiterun.

The horses were the first to die, burned and abandoned in the plain.

He has fragmented memories of struggling in a haze of smoke, screams mixing with roars, and feeling the gusts of wind fueling the flames and sparks, spreading the fire. But he's not sure if these latter memories belong to today or to Helgen.

He recalls one thing in particular: Pellegrina shouting above the chaos, addressing the soldiers. "This is not the same dragon of Helgen, it's smaller, and the flames are less intense."

Not that it made any difference: it was still a fire-breathing flying monster.

But it's true that he could see all of Milmurnir's body in one glance, unlike the black dragon in Helgen, and his flames weren't blue nor they melted the stone.

Magrakh opens his eyes, tired of reliving the worst and most confused story of his life. But despite his efforts, he can't stop trembling, remembering how close he was to being engulfed in draconic flames.

Nor can he rid himself of the lingering smell of burnt flesh and clothing, while the cry of the Huscarl, Irileth, still echoes in his ears.

"It's on the ground! Everyone, quick, attack it while it's on the ground!"

He stared at the deep furrow caused by the dragon's forced landing, hoping silently that it was over, only to rush towards the creature when he saw it moving.

That pause was his salvation.

A blast of flames enveloped the first guards who got close.

Magrakh was unprepared.

They were all unprepared.

And as if he couldn't feel pain, Mirmulnir mocked them, even while bleeding from excoriated flesh.

But he felt the pain. Magrakh remembers the dragon's last moments.

The pain of the wing torn by electric spells and dozens of arrows. The burning of the eye which burst upon impact with the ground. They were intense, but his pride and the fierce will not to appear weak were even stronger.

"I had forgotten what amusement you mortals can provide!" Mirmulnir had croaked, stoic, tearing apart a guard like a cat with a mouse.

But he was incapable of comprehending the concept of death, knowing only pain, and the victory he was sure to achieve.

And then, unexpectedly, the sharp and excruciating pain of his end, of…having his soul torn away.

"Thurri du hin sille ko Sovngarde!"

'I will send your soul to Sovngarde!'

His breath stops. Was it in his memories? Or in his head? No, stop thinking!

Magrakh squints and drags himself to his feet, awakening pain in various parts of his body.

He follows the light that leads him outside, walking cautiously among the injured lying on the floor of the Temple, hoping to find a chamber pot somewhere.

If you're "well enough to walk," a surly priest sends you to the nearest outdoor latrine.

This leads Magrakh to a spot behind the Temple, wedged among some trees.

Judging by the brightness of the sky, the hour is much closer to dawn than he thought. Someone will probably come to fetch him soon to bring him to the Jarl, who intends to assign him a Huscarl.

Because now he's a Thane...

On one hand, the title might be useful for a man with a bounty on his head.

On the other hand, it might give him a false sense of security before his newfound fame leads someone to recognize his ugly face on the posters affixed all over the Reach.

What would happen if the legendary Dragonborn–Orc and Thane of a hold–turned out to be a fugitive?

Now he's free, armed, armored, and with more money in his pocket than when he was captured.

If they found out, he'd lose everything again.

And then, what the hell do those old hermits atop the Throat of the World want from him?

All this Dragonborn nonsense is stupid, and it's particularly ridiculous that it only emerges now, after almost thirty years of life.

Magrakh was born an Orc and a miner, that's it.

"Mag?"

He spins around suddenly, with the instinct to strike whoever surprised him, but he realizes he's gripping onto a tree trunk, breathing as heavy as a horse from the agitation.

Pellegrina looks at him with worried eyes, no longer filled with...what was it? Anger or fear? They often look the same.

"I'm fine," he mutters, holding onto the rough bark of the tree.

If she's awake, the rest of the city will be soon too.

"Magrakh, it's all right, the danger has passed," she says.

If she feels the need to reassure him like that, he must seem on the verge of a meltdown. She is even afraid to touch him!

And soon I'll have to deal with another frightened human, forced to follow me everywhere like a dog.

Thane.

Thane and Dragonborn.

Thane, Dragonborn, and the lowest scum of Skyrim.

He vomits at the foot of the tree. At least the tree isn't complaining.

Pellegrina offers him a lady's handkerchief.

"Maybe you should go back inside and lie down for a bit."

In that hole full of dying people and the smells of burning?

Don't hate me, Kynareth, but fuck that. But he doesn't say it, just shaking his head.

His vision sways and images double as a stinging pain, like a sword, pierces the area behind the eyes.

"Shit." He hisses.

"Let's leave the Temple then, we can rent a room in an inn."

He ponders the proposition a little too long.

"Magrakh, are you okay? Are you feeling unwell? What do you need? Say something."

"I want to leave," escapes from his mouth before he can think.

"Leave the Temple?"

He almost shakes his head again, but instead, he waves his hand.

"Leave Whiterun?"

He nods slowly.

"But we just got here. We haven't sold anything yet!"

Magrakh knows that if he were to ask her again, she would relent, as she has done in the past for all his requests, but he senses uncertainty in her voice. After all, they came here specifically to sell the loot they accumulated.

Not for the first time, he wonders what would happen if Pellegrina were to discover the substantial bounty on his head: would she betray him?

He tries to formulate a sentence to explain, to give a valid reason to leave Whiterun so soon, but the ideas pile up and distress him, further diverting him from what he wants to say.

"Okay, listen," Pellegrina says after a while. "What do you think if we go first to an inn to have a beer or two, maybe take a nice bath. Then we go to the market to sell this stuff, and I'm sure we'll be on our way by noon."

It sounds tempting, if only he didn't know that the guards would track him down anywhere in the city, and within a few hours, if not minutes, the Jarl will pluck someone from the army to make him his servant for life.

Maybe he said something out loud because Pelle sighs and says, "Okay, let's go right away then. I'll get our things, can you wait here for a bit?"

He'll deny forever that he felt a deep relief at those words.

Magrakh nods and lets himself be helped to sit on the ground.

How pathetic to rest next to an outhouse? More or less pathetic than his need to escape?

Before he can realize it, Pellegrina is back and wraps him in his cloak, puts the helmet on his head, and the backpack on his shoulders.

Between Helgen and the tower, all their equipment reeks of smoke.


4:50 AM, Morndas the 24th of Last Seed, 4E 201

Magrakh is led through the streets of Whiterun, and without realizing how much time passes, they cross the gates, pass by the still-closed market stalls, and skirt the farms.

Finally, they stop, and for some reason, Pelle is knocking on a door.

The sun is rising right now. Magrakh gives her a questioning look but receives no answer.

A shady-looking Imperial with a face like a weasel opens the door and responds to Pellegrina's whisper, and after an exchange of coins, he lets them in.

The candles are unlit, but there's enough light for his darkvision, so he sees the details of a tavern.

Pelle, however, must be almost blind in the dimness and waits for the Imperial to light a stub before moving.

After a few minutes, he finds himself seated with a tankard in his hands.

"Magrakh?"

He looks up, still confused about why Pelle decided to stop here.

"Hey, we're in a meadery. There's only water and honey in your tankard, though," she says. "Don't be mad."

The warm liquid emits sweet vapors onto his face, reviving his nose from the morning cold that has numbed it.

He loses track of what she says afterward, and when he notices the words "I'm going" and "stay here", he tries to focus.

"What did you say?"

Pelle sighs. "Stay here. I'll go back to Whiterun for some business. When I'm done, we can leave, okay?"

And you'll come back?

He doesn't ask, nodding instead, and she hurries away.

It's only after drinking the honeyed water that he starts feeling better, enough to order some mead along with some candied nuts at the counter.

"The girl only paid for the honey, friend," the Imperial tells him, and then he realizes that Pellegrina left with all their money and loot.

He still has some coins in his purse, which he reluctantly spends to get the mead.

He can't even go back to Whiterun to check if Pelle is really there or if she fled with everything they found.

Uncertain of what the next hour will bring, but feeling lacking the energy to investigate, he finds solace in his tankard.

Soon enough, Magrakh finds himself holding an empty tankard, and the bartender offers him a new blend of mead with jazbay grapes.

After ordering and downing it, he's offered another novelty.

It takes a couple of hours before Pellegrina returns.

There are no guards accompanying her, and the backpacks she carries are considerably lighter. A sight that reassures him.

"Hey, Mag! Feeling better?"

"You left with all the money," Magrakh tells her, gloomy.

"And without the Orc being able to pay for this special mix with Snowberries and spruce essence," the Imperial interjects.

"It's true," Pelle has the decency to look embarrassed, ignoring the bartender. "But I'm sure you'll be glad to know that I sold that stone tablet we found."

"How much?" He asks, curious and hopeful.

Only now does Pellegrina glance at the bartender before patting her bag and winking at Magrakh.

"Do you still want to leave Whiterun?" She asks.

Too many responsibilities are waiting to hit him right in the face if he returns to those gates.

"Yes." He empties what little is left in the tankard.

"Before you go," the Imperial says, "how about celebrating your financial successes with these delightful candied apples?"

Magrakh eyes them. They look as good as expensive, but he's already indulged enough today.

Then he remembers the kind of day he's had and walks back, taking a couple for the road. After all, what are these if not the moments when to treat yourself?

"The balance is 9 silvers," the bartender says with a syrupy voice. "A real pleasure doing business with you."

"I'm glad you appreciated the business," Pelle says, paying, "because you didn't see us."

The mischievous smile on the girl makes the Imperial nervous, and he tries to hide it with a smile. "Ah, uh, of course!"

Magrakh feels much better when he leaves the meadery than when he arrived.

He breathes in the crisp air, letting it fill his lungs and nose until it stings. Then he exhales deeply, satisfied that his legs no longer tremble like jelly.

He doesn't even care where they're headed, as long as they get farther away from the walls of Whiterun.

As they walk along the main road, both Magrakh and Pellegrina avoid looking west, where the ruined tower is surrounded by blackened fields.

They pay little attention to the workers transporting meat and horse hides on carts, nor to the carriage heading to the city, escorted by guards and loaded with dragon bones, attracting several curious onlookers.

"Tell me, Mag," says Pelle, and he's glad to be distracted despite the abbreviation of the name. She looks tired, and her voice is still a bit hoarse. "Do you feel like cheating the ancient Nords again?"

"It depends," says Magrakh, stalling to avoid appearing too eager to jump into the next adventure for easy money. "How much did you make from the crypt loot and Helgen's spoils?"

He is extremely relieved that Pellegrina doesn't seem to fear or despise him, as he had thought.

Yesterday was just a shitty day for everyone. That's all.

"76 gold coins–" Magrakh stumbles in surprise– "148 silver, and 257 copper."

Pelle turns to him now that he has stopped and laughs at the expression on his face. "I did the math; the total value is 93 gold coins and change."

Magrakh stares at her bulging bag, and he suddenly feels the need to look around for potential thieves. An animalistic part of his brain is urging him to dig a hole and hide the money.

"Most of it comes from the Dragonstone," Pellegrina explains as they resume walking, "now that dragons are around, the Jarl has tasked his court wizard with searching for ancient texts and legends for information, much to his delight. He's obsessed with dragons, you know? So he had both the budget and the motivation to buy it at any price."

Pelle looks up at the sky, and Magrakh instinctively does the same. It's gray and spotted with swollen clouds, but there are no flying monsters.

"To be honest, I've never sold an artifact before, so I'm not sure if I got paid well. The 40 gold coins he offered me initially seemed like a paltry sum and an insult to the work we've done."

Magrakh continues to stare at the sky, praying. Zenithar, give me strength...her family is so rich that 40 gold coins seem like nothing to her!

"But then Farengar pointed out that he was paying me almost a quarter of a gold ingot. When I went to the bank–did you know there's an Imperial bank? I didn't–and changed as much silver and copper as possible into gold. There I found out that a 1-kilogram gold bar is worth 200 gold Septims, and that made me feel better."

The Orc shakes his head, astonished by the complete ignorance about the value of money by an adult woman. Living with mommy and daddy must have disconnected her from reality. Maybe it's a good thing she left that family.

"What do you think?" She asks him.

"I wouldn't know; I've never had to sell an artifact," Magrakh replies. "But it seems like a great haul."

He's still enchanted by the realization of having so much gold and only having to share it with her. The possibilities are already making him daydream.

Half of it is about 45 gold coins. He could stay in an elegant inn like the Silver-Blood Inn and party like a rich bastard for a whole month if he had the courage to spit on Zenithar's good name.

But thinking of more realistic dreams, with that sum, he could start a new life in a village, sleep in an inn, buy sturdy clothes, and it would take a few months before the money runs out. That would leave plenty of time to find respectable work and earn enough to build his own shack, and maybe even a few chickens to keep in the yard.

The southern Eastmarch countryside would be ideal, given the abundance of mines and the milder climate compared to the north. He'd prefer to avoid having to move to the Pale to mine iron.

Even better, if Magrakh and Pellegrina successfully complete some more jobs like this, he could afford to build a house right away and maybe even turn his life around with a less laborious and better-paid job than mining.

He could live in the Whiterun tundra, away from the war, and live off the land.

But then, why split in half? The girl only provides the information, while Magrakh does most of the heavy lifting.

It was he who hooked the grappling hook and pulled them up, he forced the stone door open, and fought face to face with the witch, the draugr, the skeletons, and the necromancer. She helped, of course, but not enough to deserve half.

Magrakh should take a bigger share, like three quarters.

"Mag?" Pelle calls, and he looks down to meet worried eyes.

"You said something? I was thinking..."

But it's unfair. Isn't it? Even if less skilled, she was there doing the same things he was.

No, if the girl has the courage to accompany him into a creepy hole and fight the undead, she deserves her fucking share of the loot. For the Divines, she tried to cut the head off a dragon, she's braver than some soldiers!

"I asked if you wanted to plunder another Nord ruin."

Now that he knows her suspicious information is a financial guarantee, Magrakh nods. "Lead the way."

Later, after leaving the tundra behind and heading towards the troll-infested Labyrinthian Pass, he will regret not asking where they were going.


Notes

- Next Chapter: Pellegrina POV; Pelle and Mag cross the marshes of Morthal to get to Ustengrav, where they get involved in an unexpected battle.

- Why can Mag and Pelle be healed of broken bones and severed fingers, but there's people dying from burns?

I've set limitations on alchemy and magic, aiming to make the world more realistic compared to the games (where you can be healed indefinitely and at 100%), while still remaining plausible for a fantasy world and respecting The Elder Scrolls lore.

My headcanon regarding healing is based on regeneration: alchemy produces elixirs that accelerate the body's natural regenerative properties, so they can't heal something that the body wouldn't be able to repair on its own over time. Additionally, I've put a maximum limit on how many healing potions a person can take all at once before experiencing diminishing benefits and becoming intoxicated.

Restoration magic serves the same purpose but with much less restrictive limits, allowing it to surpass the maximum number of potions without any negative effect, but still having a limit on how much magicka a body can absorb at once before saturating.

Since third and fourth-degree burns ruin several layers of skin and flesh, potions can't facilitate the repair of something dead or unable to regenerate, so Restoration magic struggles to have a beneficial impact on those tissues. Priests can't do much besides disinfecting to prevent infections and praying.

This keeps fire as a dangerous element, like in the real world, and dragons get to be the terrifying monsters they should be.

(Same goes for ice, considering what frost can do to the body.)

TLDR; My headcanon for the story places limits on alchemy and magic. Examples: if you cut or sever a finger while working, the enhancements of potions and spells to the body's natural regeneration will repair it. If your leg splats under a rock, or you burn a hand to a crisp...those body parts are gone.