Traveling Trials
POV Magrakh, Chapter 3: A mysterious Force
With a suspicious orc, a battle, an otherworldly experience, and the Dragon Stone.
2:00 PM, Tirdas the 18th of Last Seed, 4E 201
Magrakh must admit that the girl might not be a witch.
It's also unlikely that she can use magic, as he doubts she's willing to risk getting buried under rubble just to hide it.
However, he doesn't intend to forget what he saw in Helgen's Keep. Perhaps it was someone else's magic, or maybe a magical scroll…
At this moment, what he knows for sure is that she is as crazy as he thought.
Magrakh gazes at the southern slope of the Brittleshin Hills, trying to shield his eyes from the sun and spot a cavity on the steep surface.
"There," Pellegrina says once again, pointing to the wall. "Can't you see it?"
For several minutes now, the Orc has been doing his best not to curse, patiently trying to catch a glimpse of the cave entrance that seems so obvious to the girl. And it's while doing this and taking some steps back that he trips over something.
"You still haven't told me how you know about this tunnel," he says, remembering too late that trying to get sensible answers from her is a bit like trying to fish with bare hands.
"Right, 'exploring,' forget it. Why were you exploring a—" Looking down at what he stumbled upon, he notices skeletal remains hidden in tall grass and, turning around, he sees many more peeking here and there. "What is this, a massacre?"
Ignoring the mountain slope for a second, he massages his neck. All around are shrubs and rocks protruding from the ground, with some clumps of those tall grasses that manage to grow anywhere.
And bones.
They're not people's bones, too large and differently shaped, and that's all that stops him from running away when he realizes the large number of scattered skeletons surrounding him.
"I think it's a graveyard," Pelle says.
Magrakh looks at her with a frown.
"No, really, mammoths tend to return to the same place when they feel their end is near. It could be that."
"I thought giants ate them. Don't they raise them like livestock?"
"Oh, yes, they milk them and even make cheese! Maybe you're right, and it's not a graveyard but a hunting ground," she says, unearthing a troll's skull.
Magrakh looks around more carefully.
In this secluded area hidden by mountain ridges, something has dragged and accumulated animal skeletons over a long period of time. The remains are not small either–aside from individual bones scattered here and there–the smallest skeleton is the size of a bear, while the largest are clearly mammoth.
What could feed on these creatures if not giants?
The answer comes with the memory of a roar and piercing red eyes.
When he breathes again, he realizes he had stopped. A fleeting glance at the girl shows she's indifferent or oblivious to the nature of this place.
"Hey girl," he says.
"I told you my name is Pellegrina," she scoffs, "Pelle for short."
"I don't care! Did you lead me into the dining room of that dragon?"
The girl looks perplexed, blinking and gaping like a fish. "Uhm, I don't think so? I mean, some of these skeletons have been here for many years. The dragon only appeared yesterday."
Magrakh shakes his hands in frustration. "Don't you think that, maybe, it decided to show up only yesterday? It had to be somewhere before that!"
Just like that morning, Pellegrina turns to him with a condescending expression he has learned to loathe. He knows she's using it to try to put him at ease, but it's not working.
"Don't you think that if a giant dragon had been snacking on the local fauna just steps away from Whiterun for years, someone would have noticed a little earlier?"
Put that way, it sounds like she's right…but there's no need to admit it.
"Fine, let's move. If you can see the damned cave, throw the grappling hook."
Magrakh would have liked to have a real grappling hook. What they have instead is an old rope from the witch's cellar tied to the hook used to dry meat. The stupid idea of using something like that was obviously the girl's, but after testing the rope's strength himself, he had to grant her an attempt.
After all, there's a potential treasure to be had.
Pellegrina swings the DIY hook a few times before throwing it. It slams against the rock and then falls to the ground miserably.
"Close enough?" He asks.
"No! I don't have the strength to throw it far enough, I told you."
"Relax, girl, I'm just asking if the direction is right."
"For the most part, but it's much higher. I think we'd be better off climbing. If we start from that side, there's enough slope to—"
"And I still think you're crazy. Do you know what would happen to your body if you slipped from up there?"
"Get a boo-boo?" She says, dripping with sarcasm.
Magrakh snatches the rope from her hands. "It won't hurt too much if you break your neck."
After several swings, he throws the hook, and it manages to catch on to some protrusions reliably.
"Is that okay?"
"No, no. It's higher and much more to the right. Don't you see that shadow? It's right there!"
"Yes, you've said so before," the Orc grumbles before removing the hook.
There will be many more throws and annoying corrections before the hook finally catches onto the right spot, and only then does he figure out where the damn hole is.
It certainly wasn't 'an elongated shadow that vaguely resembles a sword,' but he'll forgive her effort if 'cheating the ancient Nords' is truly worth it, as she says.
Magrakh isn't opposed to robbing tombs; after all, the dead don't make use of objects. But between the morning wasted throwing the hook and the risk of climbing into a dark crevice in the mountain, he begins to feel a bit foolish.
"So, I understand why not Riverwood; there might be some Stormcloaks who survived Helgen," Pelle says as if she hasn't asked him this question before. "But why not Whiterun? It hasn't been touched by the civil war that caused your capture."
"Because I was a prisoner, and people don't care about the why," he replies again, unable to give her the real answer.
"Yes, but—" she huffs irritably, "so what? Are you planning to avoid every city for the rest of your days?"
"For a while, yes. Until things settle down."
"Settle, Magrakh? A dragon razed a town; it's not a country gossip that will stop circulating after a few days!"
He knows she's not entirely wrong. It will take time before news of what happened in Helgen reaches other cities, due to the small number of survivors. But when the rumors arrive, they'll spread like fire across the steppe. They'll last at least until the dragon is no longer around.
The tunnel opens into a cave that torches struggle to illuminate entirely, creating eerie shadows on the far edges.
In the center is a pedestal with a skull resting on it, and Magrakh glares at the girl.
"What's wrong? It's a tomb. There are dead people in tombs!"
Of course, but he expected the bodies to be in their burial recesses, not scattered like furnishing like in a witch's hut.
The two have to jump and climb a slope to reach the far edge of the cave, where they can proceed through another tunnel. Magrakh hopes this passage never forks because the idea of getting lost and dying in the depths of the earth brings back horrible memories of mining accidents.
This tunnel is different from the first one, clearly dug by man, and it winds its way through earth and stone. It's wide enough to be crossed by sturdy Nords in heavy armor, but there are narrower points, and others where the earth has collapsed in, yet it's still passable. And it's very, very long.
He feels justified in bringing a quantity of torches that the girl deemed 'ridiculous,' not wanting to risk being in the dark in a tomb.
Magrakh doesn't know how the girl could stand sleeping in that cellar full of human remains and witchcraft but, after all, she's… strange.
Many people are strange, like the unfortunate ones touched by Sheogorath and behaving erratically, or the old hermits living away from civilization, attacking anyone who comes near. And those odd alchemists, happily brewing and drinking elixirs made from any filth found around, like mushrooms grown on war corpses.
But Pellegrina's strangeness goes beyond 'outside the norms of society.' She was never inside to begin with.
He's not heard an accent like hers before from people from Cyrodiil, Hammerfell, or High Rock. The cadence reminds him of Khajiit's speech, but she's definitely not a cat.
She wears trousers like a laborer or a warrior, yet her physique and posture make it clear she's never been either, even though she possesses the callousness and stomach of a veteran.
He can't identify her origin even from her clothes.
The seams and details on her bag are worthy of an expensive leather worker, and even though her clothes seem simple at first glance, they are dyed with rare and vibrant colors, and the material is sturdy and high-quality. Very different from the attire of common folks, faded and fragile after years of washing, mended dozens of times.
Before they were ruined by the fall of Helgen, there was not a single stain or patch. Now that she's replaced her nice shirt with a felted sweater found in the hut, he sees how it makes her uncomfortable, pinching her skin.
He already suspected her family was wealthy, yet Magrakh comes from Markarth and has known rich bastards all his life. None of them ever wore anything like this.
He's seen the rustic yet warm dresses of Nord noblewomen, the deep colors and elegant cuts of the Dark Elves, and the austere pomposity of the Thalmor.
The idea that what Pellegrina wears is so foreign to him, combined with the memory of when he first met her, sends shivers down his spine.
"What about Falkreath?" The girl asks after a while.
Magrakh sighs. "What about it?"
"It's a smaller city than Whiterun, right? I've heard the Jarl is not very… honorable, if you know what I mean."
"I don't know what you mean," he says, impassive, definitely understanding what she means.
"He's an arrogant, spoiled bastard who only cares about his food being rich and his pockets even richer."
He chuckles. "Oh, is that what you meant?" He doesn't know Falkreath's Jarl, but it helps that the same words can be applied to all sorts of powerful people.
"What I mean is: he probably won't care if you were a prisoner when Helgen was destroyed."
Is this the result of naivety or ignorance? Magrakh gives her a look in one of those moments when she turns to talk to him.
Because, of course, he's making her go first into the creepy tunnel. She's brave enough to do it without complaining, and her little nervousness relaxes him, showing that she still fears what is wise to fear.
"It's not that simple," Magrakh says, "and trust me, you don't want to try predicting the whims of someone with power, especially a Jarl."
She doesn't comment, and after a while he realizes she's waiting for him to elaborate.
"Particularly one who is greedy and arrogant, as you say. For all you know, he could be interested in anything if he found a way to exploit it."
"Do you think he could blackmail you?"
Magrakh shrugs, but then realizes she can't see it. "He could. Like I said, it's best not to try to predict these people. They're lunatic and dangerous, a bad combination."
Pelle remains silent again, and Magrakh imagines she's reflecting on his words. He's noticed that she often spends time thinking carefully about what he says or writing in her journal. Of course, the wealthy girl knows how to read, write, and has a journal.
Among all the things she could have stolen from her parents before leaving, why a journal and a bag of salt? Why not coins and jewelry? Or some of her mother's clothes to sell?
He shakes his head. How can a diary and a painting be so important?
Was she writing about me? He can't help but wonder. And why?
People who write about their days are usually scouts or spies, and he doubts she's a scout.
She knows too much she shouldn't know and, now and then, she comes up with unsettling remarks like "let's take the body fat from this witch's belly."
Magrakh is suspicious about why she was in Helgen on the very day a legendary creature appeared and destroyed what was a significant city, both for the country's economy and for the Imperial troops in the civil war.
The girl insists on keeping their alliance alive, even though it has already served its purpose. They don't owe each other anything: she saved his life, and he kept her alive during the escape.
Maybe she really wants to keep him close for protection—perhaps she lost a bodyguard in Helgen?—but why does Magrakh keep accepting despite the numerous signs that it's not a good idea?
'I'm a human, and I don't give a shit how green you are or how big your teeth are.'
Magrakh twists his lips in a grimace.
She's a suspicious girl who lies every time she opens her mouth and is stranger than he can bear.
But Magrakh is also a suspicious character who has lied many times and has been called 'strange' in his life. After all, he's a criminal with a bounty on his head. Perhaps Pellegrina has a similar secret? It would make sense, and it would be a bit ironic. But what kind of crime would she have committed?
He observes her from head to toe along the boring walk, refreshing his torch from time to time.
She's not a brigand, and she's not a witch. Sheogorath may have influenced her, but she doesn't seem like a real Daedra cultist.
She seemed rather angry with her parents. Perhaps the real reason she left her comfortable life is that she killed them?
She's also knows about the lairs of shady types and has a keen eye for valuable things. She could be a thief or a professional tomb raider. The two things might even be related: after running out of money, she could have turned to illicit activities that her parents found out about, and she silenced them forever.
It would explain many things, except for what he saw her do in Helgen.
But what did he see exactly?
He was dying from blood loss, and a dragon was destroying the keep above them. Could he have hallucinated it all?
No, no. I know what I saw.
Magrakh is even more concerned now, because if she's not a witch or a Sheogorath cultist, but a simple a thief or even an assassin, what could be the source of the magic he saw?
Perhaps there's something worse that he hasn't even considered.
After all, behind that appearance of a city girl, so seemingly unaware of conflicts and suffering, hides a disturbing and cunning character that sometimes slips through.
Which one is the real Pellegrina?
"I bet it would be easier to sell what we find in Whiterun rather than Falkreath. Or any other big city. I doubt the rural villages have the money or the intention to buy ancient artifacts."
"Do you raid tombs often?"
"No, actually, it's my first time!" Pelle laughs.
He doesn't believe her for a second.
"To tell the truth, Whiterun has become Skyrim's most important trading hub; there are certainly people willing to buy strange and ancient trinkets. But let's think about it if we find something to sell."
Pelle turns to give him a look that says 'I know we'll find something,' and that conviction instills him with confidence so easily that he can't help but find it worrying.
In the end, after what felt like a walk through the entire mountain, the passage comes to an end. A dead-end.
"What a huge waste of time…"
"No, it's not," Pelle says. "Did you think the back didn't have a door?"
Magrakh takes a closer look at the stone wall and only sees dirt-covered stone. He searches for dips or chains, but all he sees is the work of men who took great care to smooth the stone to perfection.
Or what once was perfection, before time did its work eroding the stone and letting nature spread creepy crawlies and plants everywhere.
"There's a mechanism to activate from the other side that opens the stone door," Pellegrina says.
"If the mechanism is activated from the other side," says Magrakh, with the patience of a man who believes there may be riches beyond that wall, "how do you expect to open the door?"
"To be honest, I thought of breaking it."
"What?"
"Well, there are no levers or buttons on this side, but it's still stone. The door can't be too thick, otherwise it would be too heavy for a mechanism to work. By the way, what kind of mechanism is it? The ancient Nords didn't have gears, gas, or electricity like the Dwemer, and not even their boilers, so it can't be too complicated."
Magrakh sighs. Couldn't she have said something before they got here? It's obvious that she knew about this obstacle.
"They usually worked with pressure mechanisms," he says, trying to help in the name of potential gains.
"Okay, but how does it move a door, or rather, a stone slab? I mean, it can't go up, it can only go down, right?"
"That's usually how gravity works."
"Yes, because we assume it uses gravity, so there must be something under the door to hold it up and prevent it from falling into a gap."
If he didn't have a torch in hand, Magrakh would cross his arms. "Do you have a plan, or are you trying to figure out ancient Nord technology right now?"
The girl looks him up, not at his eyes or face, but from feet to head.
"Well, I brought a pickaxe… you said you were a miner, right?"
The impertinent, short, cheeky girl takes the pickaxe out of her bag. She thought it was to assist her in climbing!
Magrakh does his best to make his orcish features curl into the most mean-spirited frown he can produce, just to enjoy seeing her wilt.
Yet, even so, she manages to give him an embarrassed smile. "Sorry."
He snatches the pickaxe from her hand.
"Otherwise, we could try moving the door by pushing it. Who says the mechanism is still working or strong enough to resist tampering? Like you said, centuries have passed!"
Mag remains silent, annoyed by the obstruction, but makes a gesture that says 'after you.'
Pellegrina has the decency not to complain and hands him her torch. She places her bag and tube on the ground and, after cleaning off the worst of the dirt, pushes the stone with all her might.
As expected, the stone doesn't budge, but she keeps huffing, sliding between shoves. At first, seeing her silly efforts makes him smile, but after a while, the grunts become annoying and, frankly, embarrassing.
"Alright, that's enough," he says, ready to pick at the wall but, just after saying it, he hears a click, similar to the sound of cracking ceramic.
Pelle stops and shares a look with Magrakh.
"You heard that, right?"
He nods and makes her move, passing her the torches.
Now it's his turn to push with all his might, slipping with his boots on the dusty stone, and after getting tired of pushing, he switches to shoving until his muscles ache. Undeterred, he starts kicking the stone, and Pelle joins in again doing the same.
Among all their blows, they hear another click, and then a screeching sound, and—
The wall moves, puffing dust and debris, but stops after a few centimeters.
"Come on, we're almost there!" With the enthusiasm of a child, Magrakh throws himself against the stone and, after more kicks and shoves, the door starts screeching again.
It happens suddenly and makes a lot of noise, causing them to jump back as dirt and pebbles start falling around them. For a moment, they fear the entire tunnel is collapsing, so Magrakh panics.
He's already about thirty meters away when silence falls.
The ancient Nords may have been a bunch of blockheads with unhealthy idolatry for their dead, but they knew stonework. After all, there are good reasons why so many Nord ruins are still standing and explored today.
"I can't believe it worked," Pellegrina says from next to the passage, covered in dust.
The tunnel didn't collapse, and the stone wall didn't entirely disappear into the gap below it, but it's enough to grant them access.
Magrakh joins her with trepidation, and they take a look. It's very dark, but there are a few precious rays of light coming from cracks in the ceiling.
They enter slowly.
This isn't a room, but a natural cave inside the mountain. The Nords sculpted steps and a platform at its center, and built a distinctive curved wall that stands in front of a single sarcophagus, barely visible.
The place looks immense, so hidden in shadows and surrounded by the echo of running water.
Suddenly, he notices that she has drawn her sword.
Not feeling comfortable with her armed just a few steps away, Magrakh unhooks his new axe.
He examined it that morning. The handle bears signs of use, but the wood is relatively new. The head, on the other hand, is made of steel and has gathered a fair amount of scratches and wear that have smoothed the carving on the plate almost completely.
"I wish I had a whetstone to sharpen it," he huffs.
Pellegrina nudges him, signaling to be quiet.
"Girl," he says annoyed, "we just kicked a wall! If there was anyone still alive, they would've already—"
The lid of the sarcophagus creaks, sliding aside and falling with a resounding thud.
Pelle gives him a glare, but he can't look away from the bony fingers gripping the sides of the sarcophagus, allowing the desiccated corpse inside to stand up.
Before it can rise completely, an arrow hits it in the chest, where it meets the metal of a chest plate and is deflected.
"Shit," the girl—who, without him noticing, has put down the torch and sheathed her sword—nocks another arrow.
The corpse doesn't appreciate the gesture, and its glowing eyes—why are they glowing?—immediately focus on her.
Since when do centuries-old corpses have eyes?! It's all his brain can think in the surprise of the moment.
Meanwhile, the creature has pulled its feet out of the sarcophagus, and it roars indignantly when another arrow hits it, this time lower, penetrating the unprotected belly.
"Mag, you're not shooting arrows," Pellegrina tells him.
That's probably what he should've been doing, taking advantage of the height advantage they have from the top of the stairs.
However, the undead is already moving towards them, which no dry corpse should be able to do.
The sight makes him shudder.
There's no time to unhook his bow; he can only face the creature's long sword with his axe.
I'll wait for him up here. Then I'll push him down the stairs. That should give the girl time to take another shot and let me get close safely.
Is what Magrakh thinks.
"Fus Ro Dah!" Is what the undead shouts.
A blast of cold, stale wind hits him like a galloping horse, knocking him several meters back on his ass.
"Mag!" The girl screams, and he hears an arrow breaking somewhere in the distance.
The irregular steps of bare feet on stone hurry up the stairs.
Magrakh growls. "What kind of sorcery was that?"
He gets up, tightens his grip on the axe, parries the creature's downward blow, which is still sharp enough to chip his handle. He wonders how the undead can take an arrow to the throat as if it were a mosquito bite.
Now that he's angry enough to regain his senses, he shoves the bastard, sending it tumbling down the stairs as he wanted.
He turns to the girl, who has a suitably worried expression.
"I told you not to call me 'Mag'!" He yells.
Magrakh reaches the undead at the bottom of the stairs, still in the process of getting up, but his axe blow is blocked.
As he's still holding a torch on the left, he decides to put it to good use and thrust it into the creature's eyes. This enrages it, but whatever sorcery is animating it is also allowing it to see independently of his 'eyes' status.
Now that the fight has shifted downstairs, Magrakh steps out of the line of fire, although he sensed the girl repositioning herself and the arrows have stopped coming.
He dodges a strike and tries to retaliate with an equally strong one, but this time the undead doesn't seem very interested in parrying and takes the axe to the ribs, where he feels many bones breaking.
Not that the creature seems to perceive the physical damage.
From his right, the girl approaches with her bow, so he stops to let her aim. The point-blank arrow goes upwards because of how short she is, penetrating the neck and exiting through the nose. Finally, the undead shows visible suffering.
The infuriated howls are a terrifying sound echoing through the cavern.
But it also stopped its attack, so Magrakh takes advantage of the pause and beheads it.
They watch the body fall and remain still, exactly as a corpse should.
They keep watching to make sure it stays that way.
After a good minute, Magrakh loosens his grip on his axe and takes a few deep breaths.
Glancing around, he confirms the absence of other monsters. The air is stale and smells of limestone and slime, but it's all calm.
"Was it a draugr?" He asks.
"Yes," the girl replies.
"Did you know it would be here?"
"No," she says, but then reconsiders her words. "Yes, sort of. I wasn't certain, but I had a hunch. It's an ancient Nord tomb."
He glares at her. Now that the adrenaline and fear are beginning to fade, he only feels anger. "Why didn't you think of telling me?"
"It's an ancient Nord tomb."
"So you said."
"Nord tombs tend to go hand in hand with draugrs," she says.
"Oh, really?" Despite the innocuous words, Magrakh's tone is clearly a threat.
Pellegrina puts away her bow and raises her hands. "Yes. You didn't know?"
"I've lived in Skyrim all my life and heard several stories about draugrs, but this is the first one I see. Most people don't see one in their lifetime. How did you know, Miss Cyrodiil?"
"Uhm, I knew about them like I know about zombies in the sewers beneath the Imperial City, even though I've never been there. There are plenty of creepy and dangerous creatures that I know exist without having encountered one, like vampires and werewolves."
"Well-informed, then."
Pelle sighs. "I've read a lot of folklore books and some bestiaries. None of this is secret knowledge, you know?"
"True, but the hidden exit of an ancient Nord crypt that—" he gestures at the headless draugr— "clearly hasn't been explored before, shouldn't that be secret?"
"More or less," she shrugs, "the presence of such passages is quite common. The exact location isn't public knowledge, but all I did was explore and notice a cave."
"No," says Magrakh, showing more frustration than he'd like to, "no, you didn't notice a cave, you 'noticed' a small fissure on the back of a mountain, with no hint that it could be deeper than a meter or two."
"Magrakh…"
"What!"
"There's a gigantic barrow on top of this mountain."
"What does that even mean? Don't you realize how many caves, crevices, and other damn holes are there around any mountain with or without barrows?"
His voice echoes in the cavern, causing a family of bats to relocate; the sudden movement startles them.
"Fine!" Pelle huffs. "I knew there was something in here because I've already been through that stupid tunnel, because I've already climbed up that rocky wall without breaking my neck."
She takes a breath and massages her temples.
"When I saw the tunnel, I knew I found something man-made, and when I found the fake dead-end, I knew what it was."
Magrakh spreads his arms, causing the torch's flame to tremble. "So, for what fucking reason didn't you tell me?"
"Because," Pelle answers, not raising her voice in that exasperating way people do when they want to keep calm even though they're not calm, "I never know what's safe to tell you!"
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"You're looking at me as if I'm about to turn into a troll ready to chomp your head off, and you've been doing that since the fall of Helgen. Everything I say, you analyze it like a fucking detective, everything I do, you watch with caution. You even threatened me this morning! You're big and intimidating, and unlike me, you know how to use that weapon. You're scary, okay?"
Magrakh stares at her silently, not knowing what to say.
"I enjoy traveling with you, but I never know if what I say will end up being the wrong thing to tell you, and I don't want an axe in my head like the witch."
Are you pretending not to know why I treat you like this, or are you really clueless? Magrakh wants to ask.
What was that thing you did back in Helgen? He almost says it out loud.
But what he ends up doing is turning around, snatching the sword from the draugr's hand, and heading towards the large chest next to the sarcophagus.
He doesn't intend to continue that foolish conversation, at least not now. They came here for money, so it's better they find something after what they've had to face.
The girl follows him from a few meters of distance.
Around the sarcophagus, there are plenty of useless things ruined by time, perhaps the possessions of the buried Nord, and among these things are small gems. Literally.
He also finds coins of ancient minting, but made of the same materials as today's currency, so if they aren't worth as artifacts, they could still be worth something.
Strangely, what catches the girl's eye is a stone tablet carved with the map of Skyrim. She wraps it in a cloth and safely puts it in her bag. Who knows, it might interest a scholar, and maybe that's the real reason she wanted to raid this place.
Then, without discernible reason, he feels compelled to turn his attention to the curved wall in front of the sarcophagus.
Now that adrenaline isn't clouding his senses anymore, and his legs have stopped trembling, he can feel something else taking its place.
A kind of hum, a vibration that he feels spreading through his body and mind.
It's barely audible and unsettling to feel in a place like this, but the girl seems to sense as wall because she's staring at the wall with that fascinated expression she gets when she focuses all her attention on something.
The girl's presence feels like just a dot compared to the intensity of the moment. Magrakh feels called to the wall; for the first time in his life, he thinks he can read.
His surprised gaze moves over an alphabet carved—almost scratched—into the inner part of the wall, which like a gravestone reads 'here lies the guardian of the Dragonstone'.
It's probably referring to the tablet.
But the story told on the wall eludes him because his eyes can't look past a particular word: Force.
For a few exquisite seconds, the whole world around him fades and loses all meaning.
There's only Force, and Magrakh swallows its meaning like foaming mead.
Force.
Fus.
Then, in a much quicker way than it all began, the world returns with the sound of gushing water, the warmth of the torch in the girl's hand, and the pain of all the hardships of the past days.
It's a flood of emotions.
The Force remains, of course, taking its place along with everything else he's learned in his life through hard work or years of teachings.
Like extracting minerals from rocks, something he's done since he was a teenager, or the laws of Malacath that his grandmother instilled in him from birth. And those of the Divines, because they're important too, his mother always said.
There are other precious concepts in his mind, and now among them is also Force, steadfast like a river and fierce like a storm.
When he comes back to himself, he looks around and notices the girl sitting on the ground, copying the symbols—the words—into her journal, completely ignoring him and seemingly oblivious to the sensations that have just changed his life.
He sneaks a glance at the journal, and even there, the words she's copying make sense to him.
Magrakh can read…and he can only read a dead language.
He doesn't know what the fuck happened, but for once, she doesn't seem to be the cause.
But something happened. For the first time since the dragon razed Helgen, he wonders if what he saw that day in the Keep wasn't something the girl–or her ally–had caused, but rather something that only he could see.
He turns to the back of the room, where the entrance should be, and finds himself reflecting as he examines the collection of objects they found in the crypt.
There's an entire complex of tombs with who knows how many rooms, containing who knows how many other treasures…but surely other draugrs are guarding them.
"Hey, Mag," the girl says, as if he didn't clarify to not call him that, "do you think the gold of Helgen was melted by the dragon?"
The Orc considers the question.
If the gold and silver were directly hit by the dragon's fire, they surely melted. But not everything was directly hit by the dragon, but rather by the fire it caused, and there are objects, like gems, that can withstand the flames. Of course, there's also everything that remained protected by chests, cellars, and safes.
He can see that the girl is thinking the same thing from the way she's grinning.
"Shall we go shopping?" She chirps.
Magrakh, still dazed but partially reassured by what happened, nods at the prospect of more gold.
Notes
The next chapter is from Pellegrina's POV, where the ruins of Helgen are explored, and Pelle returns home.