Traveling Trials
POV Pellegrina, Chapter 6: A friend
Pelle and Mag traverse the marsh of Morthal to reach Ustengrav, where they become involved in an unexpected battle.
1:30 AM, Middas the 26th of Last Seed, 4E 201
Pellegrina feels terrible.
The pains from the recent dragon attack on the Whiterun watchtower adds to the shocking revelations of that day, and the exhaustion of the journey that brought them here.
Pelle and Mag have been walking all the time since they practically fled the city, because apparently Magrakh is the only Dragonborn in the world who is scared of his own powers!
So many things happened in such a short time that Pellegrina hasn't had the chance to process what it all means for her. Despite her efforts to distract herself, she can't stop the wandering of her thoughts, threatening to cause another breakdown.
Not even the excitement of the battle they just fought, where she threw Molotov cocktails at the Frost Trolls of Labyrinthian, managed to alleviate her distress.
Now it's nighttime, and they are huddled in the Bromjunaar Sanctuary, the old mound amidst the ancient ruins of the city. They are not far from the border between Whiterun Hold and Hjaalmarch, but the last stretch of the road to get here was strenuous, all uphill.
Despite the campfire, the temperature up here is freezing. Pellegrina grits her teeth and peeks through the blankets at the monument of the Dragon Priests' masks.
I should have realized it sooner…
How foolish she was not to pay more attention to Magrakh. After all, he seemed mesmerized by the Wall of Power in the crypt of Bleak Falls Barrow, while she didn't feel anything special.
How did I convince myself that I had learned the word Force?
Wasn't the Orc the only thing out of place in Helgen Keep? The only one who wasn't a soldier? The only one who wasn't a Nord?
He exuded 'main character' from every pore!
She must have sensed this somehow, otherwise why did she feel compelled to help that stranger and keep him close despite his hostility?
Pelle thinks back to the moment she first appeared in Skyrim, right in the middle of a close combat between Stormcloaks and Imperials.
Maybe I subconsciously ignored the evidence?
Those fateful moments when Mirmulnir finally kicked the bucket, shouting "Dovahkiin? No!", are etched in her memory. Pelle had eagerly awaited the flames that engulfed the body, but when they dissipated, the soul was absorbed by Magrakh…
She didn't want to believe it, but she was forced to accept the evidence after he used the power of the Voice.
Why him?
Why was I sent to Skyrim?!
How to suppress this anger and envy towards a friend? It's not Magrakh's fault that her expectations were shattered. No, this sadness is a fruit of her own making.
There are still Trolls roaming the ruins, but Pelle and Mag are pretty sure none of them is small enough to fit through the mound's entrance. Nevertheless, when they occasionally hear a roar uncomfortably close, it's impossible not to startle.
Labyrinthian is covered in snow, a blinding white that perfectly camouflages the fierce Frost Trolls.
Camping here wasn't what they wanted, but they have already made the mistake of pushing their limits in the last two days, and going back at night on a mountain trail would be even riskier.
Once the snow melted, the grate at the top of the mound worked like a chimney for their fire. Which is good, as the wood they managed to scrounge up quickly is frozen or still-green fir branches, both producing a lot of smoke.
By now, Pellegrina has learned that the smell of smoke is everywhere in Skyrim, and she fears the effect that continued exposure might have on her lungs. At least, among all the other smells she has encountered, it's the most tolerable. The fact that it enhances shitty food, like the dried fish they found in Helgen, is an added bonus.
The fire helps her endure the cold, but not to sleep.
She can't do it. Neither tonight nor the previous one when they camped at the foot of the mountain. In fact, she can safely say she hasn't slept well since the attack on Whiterun. Even in the Temple, she had nightmares one after the other.
The power to travel between two planets, two similar but completely different worlds like Earth and Nirn, must have a purpose.
Why send her to Skyrim, at this particular historical moment, if not to be the Dragonborn destined to save the world?
Is it because I'm too weak?
She knows she will need to train to face the local creatures, but Pellegrina already considers herself a good candidate thanks to her extensive knowledge of the territory, its inhabitants, and the historical and future events. Not to mention the Earth technology she could leverage to her advantage.
Yet Magrakh is the hero, and she's just…herself.
Her purpose was just to make sure the Dragonborn didn't die impaled by a sword? To cook dinner for him?
Pellegrina turns under the pile of blankets and clothes that envelops them. The new viewpoint allows her to peer at the bones of the unfortunate they found in the mound, illuminated by the powerful light of the two moons.
The Wooden Mask was exactly where it was supposed to be, left behind like a cursed object.
There was a journal next to the Breton's remains, but the last entries were written by the mercenaries the man had paid to protect him, and who eventually killed him.
Every time the Breton wore the mask, he vanished into thin air; he didn't become invisible but teleported elsewhere. After days of inexplicable disappearances, the mercenaries got tired of the job and the hostile place.
Pelle hasn't tried to wear the mask yet because the scaredy-cat Orc immediately said no when she proposed it.
There is no reason to believe it could harm her, as the journal confirms the behavior and use it has in the game.
It's intact despite the weather, but covered in lichens, and it scares Magrakh as much as it scared the mercenaries. He even wanted to burn it!
Pelle doubts it can catch fire; even she, who comes from a magic-less planet, can sense the powerful enchantment that pervades it. Plus, it's an ancient relic, and once it has served its purpose, surely someone will want to buy it.
'Served its purpose', she reflects bitterly. As if I could go hunting for Dragon Priests.
Pellegrina is just another puny human without the power of the Voice. Magrakh has had to protect her from everything they have faced so far, including the Trolls! One of these disgusting creatures nearly chomped her head on, and if they can overpower her easily one-on-one, a Dragon Priest would leave of her nothing but a stain on the floor.
Magrakh is too scared to hunt Dragon Priests, even with their precious masks as a reward, but she believes he could defeat one, especially if she expands his Thu'um repertoire.
She can understand the fear of facing a dragon, being a huge flying monster, but Dragon Priests are just human mages, undead and far from their peak of power, confined to enclosed spaces.
Unfortunately, the Orc seems to be spooked easily by anything creepy, paranormal, or magical.
Like discovering being the Dragonborn.
Rather than experiencing joy or surprise, Magrakh was struck by panic and depression, and she doesn't understand why. He was paranoid about the Graybeards summoning him from the Throat of the World, and even about Jarl Balgruuf making him Thane.
They ran away from Whiterun even before Lydia could join them! Who wouldn't want a free bodyguard?
Maybe there's something in his past that leads him to behave this way, but it's hard to bear when she knows exactly what to do, how, and when to do it most efficiently. But she can't tell him, and even if she could, she doubts he'd listen.
Only now does Pellegrina notice a lump in her throat and the stinging of her nose, premonitions of tears.
So, she takes the mask from her bag and gently places it on her face.
3:36 AM
Nords are mostly pragmatic people. According to them, luxury mainly translates to soft furs, fresh game, imported delicacies, and copious alcoholic beverages. Sometimes, they even appreciate jewelry and fine garments.
The visit to Jarl Balgruuf's court was enlightening.
Pellegrina believed that the game version of Dragonsreach was rather spartan, so she had higher expectations for the real-life version, but she was mistaken.
The most important man in one of the major holds, practically a king, was wearing a simple red tunic with a fur mantle; nothing superior to his Thanes. The only distinctive signs of the Jarl title were a ruby on his head and the fact that he sat on the most imposing chair in the hall.
Dragonsreach could be described in one word: 'vast'. With ceilings so high that the beams remained hidden in the shadow despite the intense light of the hearth among the long tables, accompanied by an echo worthy of a grand cathedral.
Banners displaying Whiterun's horse, hanged ceremonial weapons, yellow and white carpets, and hunting trophies were the essence of the decoration. In particular, the enormous skull of the dragon Numinex looming over the throne.
Many surfaces become a canvas for the only extravagance Nord allows for their simple and massive structures: carvings and bas-reliefs.
Even the most intricate works are not just for beauty. The Nords dedicate their creativity to their ancestors, depicting heroic deeds and great victories, telling the epic stories of Gods, both new and ancient, like the pages of an ever-open book.
Observing these works in Bromjunaar Sanctuary, Pellegrina reflects on how ancient Nords must have been very similar to today Nords.
After taming her sobs, Pelle decides to sketch the Dragon Priests' altar in her diary, with the help of the never-ending magical flames of this frozen-in-time version of the mound, where the Wooden Mask teleported her.
In hindsight, going to cry in a place where she has to wear the Wooden Mask all the time wasn't one of her best ideas.
The sanctuary contains busts that collect the masks of the priests. The sculptures with the bare faces are still intact, unlike those of modern times, and show engravings and reliefs that time and weather must have partially erased.
Or maybe this time-frozen version is different from the original. In fact, where the door should be, there is a tapestry, and instead of windows, there are elaborate bas-reliefs. The walls vibrate slightly under her touch, like bees buzzing in her palm, but aside from that everything is shrouded in the deepest silence, with no sign that there is life outside.
She doesn't know what eerie fate would await her if she tried to destroy the sculpture hiding Konahrik's mask, but even just touching it gives her shivers.
Undecided whether it's a warning from the Sanctuary or a personal instinct, Pelle decides to listen and not make any attempt. Nor does she linger too long.
Magrakh must be as exhausted as her because this time, he didn't notice her disappearance.
She would like to sleep too, but her mind is still too active and haunted by the same questions: why can she travel to Nirn without being the Dragonborn, and what is her true purpose in Skyrim?
This was supposed to be my new life…
Perhaps, if only she could sleep, she might receive answers or further instructions in her dreams.
So she takes the painting she always keeps close and swallows sleeping pills.
7:00 AM, Middas the 26th of Last Seed, 4E 201
She knew she shouldn't have told the truth to Magrakh, and now that he knows what she did during the night, he won't stop grumbling.
What's worse is that any discussion seems exhausting to her at the moment, especially since she can't explain her true reasons, having to tiptoe around it or invent something plausible.
"Look—" Pelle points to the drawing of the sanctuary frozen in time— "there's no danger there. No people. Nothing."
Magrakh grunts. "It doesn't matter. You didn't know that when you went there!"
"Well, now I know!"
"You don't know what could've hap—wait, is that the dragon language?"
"What?"
Magrakh points to a carving on the altar that seemed to be just an ornament, but now that he brings it up, Pelle identifies the classic cuneiform words hidden among the abstract decorations.
"Oh, right. What does it say?"
Magrakh hesitates. "This one means 'shadow'. This one 'sorrow'. Here, 'rage'. See? Nothing good."
Pelle sighs, writing down the translated terms at the bottom. "Just translate, Mag."
After a long pause, he continues. "This one says 'brutality'."
"Brutality…wait, say it in the dragon language?"
The Orc furrows his thick eyebrows, making a disgusted expression. "Hevnoraak."
"Ah, I see. And 'sorrow' would be 'krosis'?" Pelle asks.
Mag nods, surprised. "You speak this language too?"
"No, I only know a few words. I'll have to learn it the old-fashioned way." Pelle tries to wink, but Magrakh doesn't seem reassured. "Anyway, it's easy to draw conclusions."
"Spit it out, smartypants."
"I just put two and two together. An enchanted mask leads to a room with eight busts. The busts bear the names of the eight Dragon Priests who ruled as vassals of the dragons in the past and wore masks enchanted by their masters."
"But there are no masks here, nor in the freaky place where you ended up wearing the Wooden Mask."
"No, unfortunately, I think they were buried with the priests. Although I have the feeling that magical room doesn't exist just for show. Perhaps by collecting all the masks—"
"Hey, slow down!" Mag gestures frantically. "Legends say that the Dragon Priests were powerful! And I bet they are buried somewhere dangerous. Unless you know the back entrances to their treasure vaults…"
Pellegrina shrugs, neither denying nor confirming, and avoiding looking towards the long staircase leading to Labyrinthian. There, Morokei is still held prisoner by the enslaved souls of two poor mage apprentices.
Mag doesn't need to know that.
I'll need to get the key to unlock that gate.
But does she? It's an old iron gate; how hard can it be to force it open?
The memory of the ancient room suspended in time and its powerful magic that she feared would destroy her if attacked comes to mind.
And then, why should she want to collect the masks? Why continue this dangerous and arduous journey in Skyrim if it's not necessary?
The planet already has its hero.
Magrakh looks at her fearfully, still waiting for an answer and afraid of what she might say.
What a hero…
"Let's keep the Wooden Mask," Pelle finally says. "Maybe, if we accidentally come across the other masks, something will come out of it."
Magrakh shakes his head. "Accidentally?"
"Before we leave, though, I'll take their fat."
Mag's eyes follow Pelle's towards the charred bodies of the Frost Trolls they killed the day before.
"Don't look at me like that, Mag. Troll fat is a renowned alchemical ingredient."
"As if alchemists weren't lunatics!"
Pelle sighs, taking out her hunting knife. "I'll remind you of that the next time a potion stitches up your belly."
Magrakh grumbles and quickly walks away with his breakfast.
The charred bodies of the Trolls have frozen in the night, and their fur is a thick and dirty tangle. The stench is strong even when breathing through a scarf and with the strong morning wind to help.
In the hunting expeditions she participated in, her sister took care of the game, so Pellegrina never learned. She enjoyed hiking more, gathering mushrooms, climbing trees for fruits, or just relaxing by fishing. She never really liked fish, but those trips, even with the purpose of bringing home precious extra food, were the few moments of peace she had.
Despite the sealed bag and having washed herself thoroughly with soap, the stench remains for the rest of the journey.
6:50 PM, Middas the 26th of Last Seed, 4E 201
The journey to Labyrinthian from the foot of the mountain was long and tiring, and although Pelle and Mag are still sore, their descent takes much less time, provided they don't slip.
The trail on the other side is steep and icy, but it offers a surprising view of Hjaalmarch despite the mist, including the distant glimmer of its stagnant waters.
Of course, Morthal stands out, being the largest settlement. A mishmash of wooden structures squeezed between rocks and marsh, surrounded by a dark log palisade, notably different from Whiterun's walls.
From up there, Pelle looks for other signs of battle sites, like the one they encountered at the foot of the mountain.
Near the border with Whiterun, the main road was filled with bodies left for scavengers and Skeevers, and they decided to leave the main road to avoid getting too close.
Fortunately, she doesn't see any ongoing battles or their putrid remains, only an unexpected village where there should only be a mine.
This is not the first village missing from her map, and she doesn't know if she should worry about these differences from the game; on the one hand, it makes sense for the real world to be more developed, but on the other hand, she fears her knowledge may not be as accurate and reliable as she believes.
It's late afternoon when they arrive at Morthal.
The palisade that appeared fragile to Pelle from up there turns out to be quite an imposing barrier.
There are guards stationed outside the gate, and a sentinel on a turret. Since they turned towards the city, the guards have been watching them closely.
They are inspected, and once the battle site on the other side of the mountain is mentioned, they are briefly interrogated. After paying the toll and receiving threats of "stay out of trouble, foreigners," they can finally head to the nearest inn.
Pelle expected it to be the Moorside Inn, the only one she knew, but instead, they find the Stoneside Inn first.
It has a large and bustling tavern, but a limited number of available rooms, and the innkeeper assigns them a single room.
They pay a modest price for their overnight stay, and a man brings an extra cot. Before leaving, he gives both of them a disapproving look.
Mag and Pelle feel judged, but they're not sure for what.
After drinking a large mug of steaming mead and warming themselves by the fire, they head to the market before it closes for the evening.
The streets look like rivers of mud, as they are not paved like those in Whiterun. The slush is frozen and snowy in the corners, while it's wet in the more trafficked areas. Everyone walking there gets their boots and the hems of their clothes dirty.
After bartering Troll fat with the apothecary for a dozen silvers, Pelle observes the stalls. There aren't many merchants, and those present don't seem to have a wide variety of products.
The locals mostly barter for food, wood, and other types of fuel. Living between a mountain and a swamp must force them to import food from nearby cities, lowering the purchasing power of the locals.
"So, where is this ruin you were talking about?" Magrakh asks.
"It's called Ustengrav, it's to the northeast, maybe half a day's journey away. I don't know how long it takes to cross a marsh."
Mag turns around. "Through the marsh?" His eyes flash in a moment of panic before he composes himself. "Pellegrina, there are dreadful rumors about the Drajkmyr Marsh."
There's a Redguard who's bartering a sack of flour, and he has a staff sticking out of the cloak's hem.
Falion?
"I've heard those rumors too…" Pelle observes the Redguard's path before starting to follow him.
"Is this ruin in the middle of the marsh?" Mag asks.
The Redguard is heading towards a boardwalk that winds around a body of water.
"No, it's near the border with the Pale hold, to be precise."
The boardwalk leads to a group of houses, and judging by the looks of the residents, this part of the town doesn't usually see strangers.
"So we can avoid the marsh."
"No."
"Pelle—"
"No," she turns and lowers her voice, "on the eastern side, there's a Stormcloak camp."
Mag looks around, paying particular attention to an elderly man on a boat who is staring at them intensely, while Pelle approaches the Redguard before he enters his house.
"Excuse me, sir?" The man turns abruptly. He has a short beard and the first wrinkles of middle age. "Good evening, sorry to bother you."
"You're not from around here, then…" He glances at the Orc and then looks back at Pelle. "Who are you, and what do you want?"
"I'm Pelle, and my friend is Mag. I was wondering if you are Falion? I heard you're a wizard."
The Redguard hesitates in front of the door, looking from one stranger to the other, probably trying to assess the amount of trouble they are about to cause him.
"Well, I can't help but notice you're not insulting me, so I presume you're not here to confirm or spread the rumors."
"Ah, right, I heard how people say you sacrifice children and eat the hearts of the deceased…very dramatic, but I don't care," says Pelle. She tries to convey her impatience with foolish superstitions without insulting the fool at her side. "But if you're a mage who's been living here for a while, maybe you can help us. You see, we're headed to the marsh—"
As soon as she mentions it, Falion's eyes light up, and not in a positive way. He quickly looks around to see who is listening to the conversation and then approaches them.
Mag places his hand on the axe.
"And why do you come to me for this?" Falion whispers.
Pellegrina is aware that the arm busy holding the sack of flour wouldn't prevent this powerful mage from casting spells with his free hand if he felt the need.
"There's no reason to get nervous," she says with false calm, "I was just hoping that you might have some advice on how to cross it safely."
Falion snorts. "The only safe way is not to go."
Pelle sighs. "You sound just like Magrakh."
"Who knows, maybe you'll listen if a wizard tells you." The Orc in question says.
"It's dangerous for the locals, it's dangerous for me. Why do you want to go?" Falion asks.
"For a Nord ruin. Ever heard of Ustengrav?"
"Yes. Go the other way."
Magrakh bursts into laughter.
"We can't! It's filled with soldiers." Pelle huffs impatiently.
"Woman, if you haven't noticed, there are soldiers everywhere. We're in the midst of a civil war!"
"I know. On the other side of this mountain, there were bodies everywhere, right on the main road, with hordes of Skeevers eating them. I don't want us to end up in an ongoing battle—" she turns to Mag— "the soldiers don't care who they kill."
It's Falion's turn to sigh. "Fine, it's your life. Do what you want." He opens the door and waits on the threshold. "Well then? Hurry up, the heat is getting out!"
They quickly follow him inside, where they see a young girl sitting at a table.
"Falion!" She exclaims happily. "Who are these people?"
"Take this book and go read in your room, Agni. These strangers are here for…business."
The girl may be young, but she's not stupid and immediately knows she's being dismissed so as not to disturb the adults, but she takes the book and, with one last glare, leaves the room.
Falion heads to a messy enchanting table. The table is markedly different from the one in Anise's cellar, but even this one is easily recognizable for its purpose.
The house is small, especially for a child and a mage in need of many resources. The shelves are full of alchemical ingredients, while books are scattered everywhere, and just as many documents and mixtures occupy the dining table.
"So," Falion takes off his cloak and hood, revealing short and peppered curls, "if you intend to cross the marsh to reach Ustengrav—"
"Yes."
"No." Pelle and Mag say simultaneously.
"Well, whatever you decide to do, it's good that you at least try to gather information. I hope you have some kind of map."
Pelle shows her map, now filled with many more locations.
"I see you have Ustengrav marked in the right place…actually, this is a very well-informed map, where did you find it?"
"Near the border around here, there should be a Stormcloak camp," Pelle says, indicating the eastern side of the marsh. "Those guys don't like people getting close to their camps; it's too risky to go through the Pale."
Falion frowns at the lack of response but doesn't comment on it. "Make sure to stay away from this cave," he says, pointing to Movarth's Lair. "In fact, I recommend you leave early, just before dawn, and march all day without stopping. You should be able to reach the ruins before sunset."
Although he acts like a foolish superstitious man, Mag isn't stupid, and he catches the insistence of traveling in daylight, as well as Falion's tense behavior. "What's the worst thing that comes out at night in these swamps?"
Pellegrina sees the exact moment when Falion debates whether to risk their lives by not saying enough or preparing them well by saying too much.
"There are many nocturnal creatures," Pelle says, coming to his aid. "I've heard that Chaurus and Frostbite Spiders like to nest in these areas, but there could also be…ghosts?"
She must have been able to convey with her eyes the awareness of what else wanders through the marsh because Falion starts to relax a bit.
Magrakh, on the other hand, tenses even more. "Ghosts?"
"Oh, yes," Falion says, "the marsh is known for its apparitions, but the spirits tend to be mostly harmless if you respect their resting places."
"You do know Ustengrav is a Nord tomb, right?" Mag grumbles.
"But there's a legend of an evil spirit," he continues, ignoring him. "The Pale Lady, said to be sealed somewhere in the marsh, and she freezes her victims. Don't trust any light you see in the distance. The area closer to Morthal is wooded and therefore offers the best terrain, there's a trail—" he traces with his finger towards Movarth's vampire lair— "however, I recommend you leave the trail at this point."
Falion catches Pelle's gaze.
"From there, head east and stay among the trees to avoid sinking into unstable ground. You might encounter Trolls in the woods, but judging from how you're armed, I think you can handle a couple of Trolls."
Mag nods.
"You'll start seeing walls in the distance, that's the ruins of Kjenstag, I see you've marked that too. Don't get too close; all these ruins tend to be dens of opportunistic beasts. In fact, I bet you'll find something nesting at Ustengrav too."
"We'll avoid Kjenstag, understood," says Pelle.
"Good. When you're a few miles from the walls, head north. You'll leave the woods and enter much more unstable ground, so be careful where you step. Bring a good stick with you and make sure to test the ground. Go around the pools instead of wading through them, don't drink the waters, nor wet any wounds."
"Move during the day, avoid ruins, test the ground, stay away from strange lights, don't use the water," Pelle repeats, "anything else?"
"There should be a path that leads to where Ustengrav stands, but it's usually filled with brambles, reeds, and rushes, so it's hard to spot. If you have no other choice but to wade through the waters, don't trust your eyes, use your stick. If it's too deep, find another way; it's not worth the risk."
"And if we're not fast enough to get there before sunset?" Magrakh asks, growing more frightened.
Falion looks deeply into his eyes.
"Do not camp. Light torches and keep walking. If you see someone…move away and continue as fast as you can."
Mag mumbles, unsure how to interpret the warning.
"Perfect!" Pelle claps her hands. "Is there anything you can tell us about Chaurus or Frostbite Spiders? Do you happen to have any antidotes to sell us?"
Falion sighs, describing the effects of poisons and acids, and taking small packets of ointments and antivenom from a basket.
Before they leave, Pelle shows him the black soul gem inside her bag and asks if Falion has a cure for disease.
The man silently gazes at the gem containing a person's soul before slowly looking up. Pellegrina meets his gaze with a forced calm smile, while vibrating on the inside.
She doesn't specify which disease, and Mag doesn't seem suspicious of the request.
Falion doesn't say anything more either, and the exchange of the gem and a vial happens in silence. Pelle does her best to cover the label of 'Sanguinare Vampiris' before Magrakh can read it.
10:30 PM
The night is still bright, being only an hour after sunset, but since they need to wake up early, Magrakh has already gone to bed.
Pelle had to remind him of the treasures they obtained from such adventures to convince him to go, but he still seemed hesitant.
On the other hand, she lingers in the tavern until she's certain Mag won't notice her absence, and then she leaves.
The Moorside Inn is not difficult to find, being larger and busier, but most notably, there is a musician playing a rather intriguing festive melody. Unfortunately, it is accompanied by a hoarse and grating voice.
As soon as she enters, she notices Lurbuk immediately.
Apart from being the only bard and Orc around, he stands out among the crowd for his imposing height.
Pellegrina is taken aback. After changing her view of Orcs once she met Magrakh, now she finds herself reconsidering it.
Lurbuk and Magrakh are nothing alike, a distinction that goes beyond being two distinct individuals: they seem to belong to two different races, with Lurbuk coming much closer to how Orcs are represented in the game.
His tusks are long and protruding, and his skin is a very dark green-brown. His face has wrinkles similar to a pug, starting from the mouth and creasing around the eyes in what appears to be a severe frown. Judging from the cheerfulness in his voice, though, that must be his natural look.
Clearly taller than any Nord in the inn, he must be at least 2 meters tall. Every Orcish feature is much more pronounced than those of Magrakh, except for the muscles. However, Mag must have developed those muscles working in a mine or fighting, while Lurbuk is a lanky bard, with dreadlocks tied with a red thread, and he doesn't seem to have done similar exercises in his life.
These differences are due to natural variation among individuals of the same race, or is there something underneath that Pellegrina hadn't considered yet?
She stares at him for a bit too long, but notices that she's not the only one doing so. It seems that almost everyone in the tavern is giving him the stink eye, yet he continues to sing, ignoring them.
Lurbuk must be unbelievably oblivious, or he just doesn't care about anyone's opinions. It's impressive either way.
Pelle leaves him a coin, a gesture that surprises him–he probably doesn't see such offerings often–and waits for him to retire to a room.
After about an hour and a half, the restroom calls him.
She follows him to the back of the inn and hides in the shadows. Wrapped in a black cloak and with her face covered, she stands ready to confront Lurbuk when he emerges from the outhouse.
"Oh, sorry, I didn't see you. Were you waiting for your turn? Don't worry, I left everything as clean as I found it!"
"You should be more aware of your surroundings, Lurbuk gro-Dushniikh, son of Burguk."
The broad smile is immediately wiped from the Orc's face, replaced by pure shock.
"How—"
"Especially when the people of Morthal seem to hate you so much. Angry people tend to make unpleasant choices."
"Listen, friend, I don't know what you're talking about. If my father sent you, then you can—"
"Forget your father; I'm here for you, Lurbuk! To warn you: someone in this town wants you dead and is ready to pay an assassin."
"What?"
"I suggest you leave the city and find another place to be a bard."
Among all the reactions she prepared herself for, the hearty laugh that follows was not one of them.
"An assassin! Rid the world of the great Lurbuk? That's rich." The Orc waves her away and leaves.
Pelle is taken aback, having no remarks or actions ready for this kind of reaction.
There are two ways to interpret it: either Lurbuk is using an exuberant attitude as a shield to overcome adversity, playing the part perfectly, or he's a pathological narcissist who literally can't believe that he might not be liked, despite evidence to the contrary.
She can work with the first case–it's practically what she does too–but she doesn't know what to do if it's the second. Whatever the reason, it's clear that words alone are not enough to warn him of his fate at the hands of the Dark Brotherhood.
As Lurbuk turns away, Pellegrina draws her longest and sharpest blade. She plunges it into the bard's clothes.
At the cut of his flesh, Lurbuk jerks and turns, finally showing signs of fear.
"I don't want to kill you," Pelle says immediately, holding the bloodied blade in front of her to intimidate him, "but someone will eventually offer enough money, and then you'll find a dagger like this in your lungs. Consider it a warning from a friend."
Lurbuk screams at the top of his lungs.
Now, this is a reaction Pelle expected. What surprises her, however, is that the scream immediately attracts a guard, appearing before she can even think 'shit'.
"Hey, you, stop!"
Pellegrina runs up the slope that separates this part of the city from the cemetery and goes around the gravestones.
Meanwhile, the guard has alerted some of his colleagues, and now multiple armed sentinels with torches are scattering towards the cemetery.
She quickly removes her cloak, tucking the knife inside the rolled fabric and sliding the package into her gambeson.
She slips down the other side of the cemetery, toward a charred house she knows all too well. Here, she uncovers her face from the scarf and ties it around her waist as a belt, then lets her hair loose.
The guards are everywhere, illuminating the pathways like daylight, but they haven't ventured into the burned-down house, at least not yet.
Pelle takes deep breaths, trying not to panic.
"Hey, are you playing hide-and-seek too?"
She turns her head so quickly it hurts her neck.
Next to her, crouching behind the door, is a faintly glowing figure in the vague shape of a little girl. It looks like a weak hologram, but she knows it must be a ghost.
"Shit," Pelle whispers.
The girl covers her mouth with a start. "That's a bad word!"
In the cemetery, she can hear guards shouting orders and rushing over the uneven ground.
They are following my tracks in the snow.
Tracks that lead to this house.
"You're Helgi, right?" she whispers. "I'm sorry that bad people did this to you and your mom. We'll set things right one day, I promise."
She doesn't wait for a response, having to rush out the door before getting caught.
Instead of taking the walkway, also covered with a veil of snow, she wades into the muddy puddle under the bridge.
She quickly wades to the rockier side of Morthal, passing through the dark areas between reeds and bushes, hiding behind the sinuous trunks of strange trees.
Here, she takes a torch from her bag and hastily lights it with her lighter. The sudden light makes her nervous, and she looks around to see if she's been noticed.
When she finally gathers enough courage, she joins one of the main paths, removing any sign of fear from her face.
Pelle passes through the market, and here are a couple of guards who turn to look at her, observing her from head to toe.
A shiver runs down her spine.
All the guards, including those who haven't left their post, have drawn their swords and raised their torches after hearing their comrades searching for a suspicious individual.
"What are you doing out at this hour, stranger?" Asks a female voice from a full-face helmet. "The market has been closed for hours."
Pelle doesn't know what descriptive criteria they are looking for, but she knows well that there aren't many short people like her in Morthal.
"Oh, I know. I went to see if there was someone to talk to at the stables. My friend and I are leaving early tomorrow, and a horse would be helpful."
The other guard points at her bag. "What do you have in there?"
"Coins, food, and various items," she says with a timid smile, opening it to show.
"You could have gone to the stables during the day," says the woman.
"But we arrived at sunset, ma'am."
The two exchange a glance. The guard with a long beard tied in a knot glances at the bag and pats around the belt area.
Pelle is already regretting not staying in the shadows, convinced he's about to feel the obvious bulge on her chest caused by the dagger.
"No weapons," the man whispers to his colleague.
The latter waves her off. "Go back to your lodgings, Imperial."
Pelle, feeling dizzy, nods to the guards and hurries to Stoneside.
Only once inside the inn does she breathe a sigh of relief, and only as she prepares to go to bed does she notice that the rolled-up cloak in her gambeson makes her look like she has an ample breast.
Well, if it works…
She lies on the cot, fumbling in the darkness, aware that Mag is present only by his snoring.
The cut she left on Lurbuk was superficial, just enough to scare him. With a bit of luck, he will take her warning seriously because she has always felt sorry for his death in the game, but she can't afford to do more than that.
8:40 PM, Turdas 27th of Last Seed, 4E 201
Magrakh woke her an hour before dawn to have a hearty breakfast of fish soup, and then they set off at sunrise.
Unfortunately, they lost the carefully traced path with all of Falion's directions about halfway through the journey.
It was noon when they began to notice the silhouette of some ruins on the horizon, half hidden by mist and twisted trees.
Pellegrina knew it was Kjenstag, so they stopped for a moment to rest and have a bite before continuing northward.
She had unrolled the map and made some notes in her journal, trying to figure out exactly where they were and how many kilometers they still had to cover.
Just then, Magrakh exclaimed that he saw something, a light among the trees.
Before Pelle could spot it, Mag yelled, "It's a ghost, coming to us!"
In a panic, he grabbed her arm and dragged her away.
With their sticks abandoned at their makeshift camp, they ran perilously on the treacherous ground of the grove, in the general northern direction.
So, they quickly got lost in the fog.
No amount of "Mag, slow down, please!" convinced him, and his grip on her arm was an iron trap she couldn't escape.
When he finally decided to stop and catch his breath, it was clear that their path was impossible to find again.
Pelle was furious, but to avoid arguing and wasting time in such a place, she swallowed all the things she wanted to say and picked up a dry branch to test the ground.
With the trees behind them, the true marsh now stretched to the horizon.
They were careful where they walked, moving away from any noise that indicated the presence of beasts, but after hours, they found themselves facing the expanse of the wetland they are in now.
Fearful, but motivated by the setting sun, they decide to cross the shallower waterlogged ground, and so focused on testing the terrain and keeping insects away, they fail to notice the danger until an arrow whizzes past their faces.
"Archer! Where is it?" Grumbles Mag, signaling Pelle to quickly follow him to the bank.
The slope and boulders hide what lies ahead.
"It must be Ustengrav," says Pelle, sweaty and tired from the journey.
There must be a second archer, or maybe the first one has repositioned because more arrows are shot at them from another angle.
When Pelle doesn't take cover quickly enough, Magrakh pushes her behind a boulder.
Immediately after, the Orc delves into the path created by the rocks, soon finding himself face to face with an enemy warrior.
They must be bandits camped at the ruin, and Pelle doesn't know how many there are, but she knows they outnumber the two of them.
She stands up, unhooking the bow and struggling with the cloak to reach an arrow from her quiver.
The fog is distorting her vision, with the sun now setting behind her, and the orange rays reflecting on the water particles.
Around her are large boulders covered with lichen and barnacles, and beyond them, the slope seems to lead to the ruins.
She has to advance a few meters before the mound of Ustengrav becomes visible, sticking out among the grass and snow in the distance.
The bandits must come from a camp nearby, and now they too are hiding among the rocks near the shore.
"Fus."
Pelle is surprised to hear Magrakh's Thu'um. He must be in a bad situation if he's resorting to the Voice he's afraid of!
She leans forward and notices the archer perched on a boulder, but the arrow he attempts to shoot at her flies high and disappears into the fog.
The archer spots her and shouts, "They have an archer!" before hiding again. Probably his next arrow will be aimed at her.
Fuck.
Pelle crouches and crawls between the rocks to change position as quickly as she can, but in doing so, she moves further away from her targets, which won't improve her accuracy.
Two men have surrounded Magrakh, who is now caught between the rocks and the mound. Normally, she wouldn't shoot towards him for fear of hurting him, but he's in trouble.
A woman wielding a massive sword appears from behind another boulder to engage her.
"Here you are, little Skeever!" The woman shouts with a sharp smile.
With a startles cry, Pelle shoots at her attacker.
Whoever she is, she doesn't seem bothered by the arrow that just grazed her side. Perhaps because she's wearing a chest plate, but most likely because Pelle doesn't have time to nock another arrow.
The warrior's downward lash almost cleaves her in two.
Pelle flees, continuously looking back and fumbling with her belt to draw a knife.
She also has a gladius weighing on her side, but it makes no sense to go one-on-one with a true swordswoman; she would never beat her at her own game.
What she knows about sword fighting is only what Magrakh explained to her and what she's seen on the internet. Surely not much, but enough to be aware that it requires a lot of footwork, especially when using such long blades.
Pelle allows herself just two moments to decide whether to confront the warrior behind her or to escape. The decision is quick.
Suddenly, she turns around and lunges at the warrior's legs, not giving her time to lash out and staying inches away from her.
Pelle maintains close contact in an attempt to hinder the maneuverability of the extremely long sword, so the warrior decides to raise the blade flat like a shield and take long steps back to reclaim her freedom of movement.
In the meantime, none of Pelle's stabs do much more than add new scratches to the armor.
The enemy's gambeson is bulky, the metal of the armor annoyingly catches the light, and her leather helmet protects most of her face. Even her neck is shielded by a thick collar.
She has fur shoes.
Pellegrina avoids giving the feet a second look, and to buy time, she allows the woman to attempt another blow.
She barely avoids it, continuing to retreat and fighting the instinct to look over her shoulder. Mag told her never to take her eyes off the enemy.
As soon as the sword completes the arc of the lash, Pelle lunges forward.
Her intention is not to strike but to try to confuse and distract, making the woman turn and go on the defensive.
Instead of trying to attack her from behind, as the warrior might expect, Pelle rolls to the ground to get close to her feet.
Probably a foolish move since her bag, the bow, and the quiver prevent her from doing it quickly. But at least she does a respectable job of using the momentum to deeply thrust the dagger into her foot, puncturing the fur of the shoe.
And the flesh beneath.
The woman screams.
Instead of falling as Pelle hoped, the warrior kicks her in the face with her good foot, making her lose the dagger.
Then, she raises the sword to impale her.
Seeing death coming, Pelle gathers the strength of desperation and rolls to the side.
The sword sinks into the ground, catching her cloak and stopping on a stone.
Pelle crawls away, letting the cloak split in two, not bothering to catch her breath or check the wounds caused by the kick.
She can barely stand in order to hide.
Now she is truly terrified.
After the journey through the marsh and the hardships of the past few days, she lacks both the strength and the endurance to keep up with such a strong Nord, not to mention having to play hide-and-seek with real warriors.
Pelle could take an arrow to the head and not even realize she's dead.
Fear does many things to people, besides injecting a high dose of adrenaline that makes the legs feel like wet paper.
It forces decisions. Not necessarily good ones.
Faced with fight or flight, Pelle knows she should run because she's unprepared, exposed, and outnumbered.
But she can hear Magrakh fighting and using the Voice repeatedly somewhere behind these boulders, so she wants to at least try to help him, even if only by keeping the attention of some bandit on her.
She can't abandon him.
The Dragonborn cannot die, or else the rest of the planet will die too.
So, instead of fleeing as she would like, she nocks another arrow.
Her arm muscles burn, her breath is labored, and her legs are tired, but the prospect of death is a good motivator.
Ironically, she has never wanted to live more than now when she's closer to the risk of dying…
Pellegrina listens carefully for limping steps, the sliding of leather, the clinking of metal, the crunching of frozen grass.
To avoid being surprised from behind, she moves to another rock, crouching so low that she's practically lying down, and prepares to shoot before facing the warrior.
The woman must have anticipated it because she senses Pelle in time to throw herself aside; the arrow whizzes inches from her face, making her laugh.
With that grin, she lunges at Pelle, slamming her against the rock.
Pellegrina struggles, but the woman's iron grip and the sharp blade on the other side prevent her from escaping.
The pommel of the sword whizzes above Pelle's head, scraping her skull but chipping only the stone.
In her desperation, Pelle holds the bow in front of her like a shield, and unable to nock the arrow she has in her other hand, she tries to use it like a dagger.
She barely scratches the gambeson, and the warrior responds with a headbutt.
Her vision flashes white for a moment, but despite the immediate pain and dizziness, she still has enough clarity to remember her hunting knife.
It's short and narrow, mainly used for cutting meat, but since it's small, she keeps it in the pouch with the coins.
Drawing it now with her fingers soaked in blood and dirt is challenging, and the coins fall at their feet. However, since she's like a dachshund compared to the giantess strangling her, stabbing in the only unprotected place she can reach is much easier.
Pelle stabs the warrior three times in the groin; the first attempt is blocked by the lower part of the gambeson, the second pierces the clothes and stops abruptly at the bone, and the third one sinks deep, eliciting a guttural scream.
She hopes she hit the artery, but she'll settle for any damage.
The scream is loud but short, and the woman immediately retaliates with anger, letting go of Pelle to punch and pummel her.
Pelle blocks as best she can, but fortunately, without the tight grip on her, she manages to slip away.
As she flees, she comes face to face with their archer, who notices her and immediately changes aim.
She throws herself to the ground just in time, and the arrow pierces her backpack, breaking something inside. She pulls it off right away, clutching only the tube with the painting.
Her breath is short and loud, her vision impaired by the blood streaming down her face. It takes a second for her brain to decide what to do, and then she turns back, preferring to face an angry but wounded warrior rather than an archer who knows how to shoot.
"Running to mommy, little girl?"
She finds the warrior on the ground, bleeding profusely and calling for help from her allies. As soon as she sees Pelle, she curses her.
The artery must have been severed.
Since the woman still has the sword in hand, Pelle prefers not to underestimate what a dying warrior can do and hides to catch her breath, taking stock of the situation.
Ahead of her, she spots the mound where Magrakh is, while there's an archer somewhere behind her.
Mag is completely exposed, and going to him would probably earn her an arrow in the back.
These boulders are the only thing that has kept her alive, so she stays low and sneaks between one stone and another to get closer to the camp. There are no boulders there, but there are some ruined columns behind which she can hide.
Magrakh has drawn the attention of most of the bandits and has even managed to kill some of them all by himself.
The camp is hidden between the slope of the mound and the various columns and ruins. The fire is low, surrounded by sleeping bags.
The site is empty at the moment, so she hides behind a wooden screen.
Fighting against Mag, there's a warrior as big as a Troll, and it's clear that he's trying to keep him in front of him to shield himself from the archer. But because of the mound's slope and its irregular surface, Mag is a stumble away from death.
"Fus."
Nocking an arrow, Pelle takes advantage of the warrior's unbalance caused by the Shout.
The gambeson prevents her arrow from going deep—it surprises her that she managed to penetrate it at all—but it's enough to startle the bandit.
Magrakh is surprised too, and maybe he thinks the arrow comes from the enemy, but he doesn't let the advantage slip away.
While the man is off-balance, Mag shoves him and then strikes his sword arm, cutting deep and disarming him.
The bandit screams from the wound, giving Magrakh time to cut his throat.
He doesn't even let him fall, holding the man as a shield while he bleeds out.
"Mag!" Pelle whispers, approaching.
The Orc looks at her, surprised, and…is that relief?
Well, that's cute, he feared the worst. Shut up, you almost died!
"The archer is hiding among the boulders."
"I know," he says with a very hoarse voice as he takes cover in the camp. "Did you manage to locate him?"
"He's a slippery one."
It seems that only the archer is left. Pelle is honestly amazed since Mag did everything by himself…like a true Dragonborn.
"I'll run towards the rocks head-on," he begins, observing the boulders. "In the meantime, try to flank him, I didn't see you, and maybe he didn't either."
She nods and waits for him to go first, still holding the corpse aloft with his left arm in an impressive display of strength.
"Hey, bastard," Magrakh yells, "it's just you and me now, are you sure you want to end your life in a swamp?"
No answer for a few seconds, and then an angry voice shouts, "Burn in Oblivion, Orc!" Mag gives Pelle one last look before running in the direction of the voice, his axe ready.
"I feel generous, I'll let you go," he yells as he goes, "better take the opportunity now, before I tear you apart!"
No response.
Expecting to see a man fleeing, Pelle readies an arrow but sees no one.
She approaches much more slowly than Mag, trying not to make any noise.
Beyond the fog, with the reddish light on her face, she can see the reflection of the water from which she and Mag arrived.
She slips into the rocky group, flanking—she supposes—the left side of the bandit.
"Will you hide forever, boy?" Mag shouts, "you could at least try to escape!"
It's impossible that the man is still in the same spot where he yelled from; he must have repositioned himself. But since the direction of his shout came from where Pelle killed the warrior—that was the farthest part from the camp—he must have returned north.
Which means toward her.
Whether he's closer to the mound or closer to the water is something she'll have to find out.
Pelle doesn't leave any rock behind her without checking it, fearing being ambushed again.
She peers through the cracks and listens for movement, but apart from Mag and a few toads, there are no other sounds.
She almost thinks the man must have stealthily moved towards the water while they were searching for him, but suddenly she hears the faintest creak of a bowstring.
He's preparing to shoot; the archer must have a clear line of sight on Mag!
Pelle panics. What should she do?
Distract the archer so that Mag can jump him, but risking getting an arrow in the face, or try to sneak up and stab him?
Pelle chooses the latter, wanting to capitalize on the success of her stealthy approach.
Finally, she spots brown hair colored orange by the sunset, hidden behind a large boulder and with his eyes fixed somewhere beyond it.
She climbs cautiously up the rock behind him, staying out of his line of sight and gripping the hunting knife tightly due to the adrenaline rush.
What she plans to do is strike like a viper, aiming for the unprotected neck and thrusting with a right-to-left movement, hoping to pierce the aorta and maybe puncture the trachea.
What actually happens is that the archer's raised shoulder dampens the speed and force of the blow.
With honed instincts, he tries to dodge at the last second what he can't even see.
Both of them fail in their effort as she stabs him in the cheek, and the archer's bow tension is released with a skewed shot. The arrow crashes against the stone.
Magrakh senses the commotion and charges like a bull.
It's a good thing, because the thief is surprised but furious, and feeling cornered, he lunges at Pelle with a dagger.
Faster than Pelle and even the previous warrior, smarter and stronger than her, and also more desperate.
The dagger pierces her gambeson and sinks into her clavicle, missing her throat or heart, which he might have been aiming for.
The man strikes again, and Pelle tries to defend herself by raising her hand, which gets injured.
Pelle stumbles backward, falling on the sloping ground. She feels a sharp pain in her side, prompting her to check if it's an arrow, but she only finds a jagged rock pressing against her ribs.
"Fus."
The Force wave passes over her like a gust of wind, short but intense.
The Shout throws the archer off balance, and he falls onto her.
Pelle tries to stab him again because she really doesn't want to die.
The archer doesn't dodge.
She hits him once. Twice. Thrice. Four times, all on his neck and face.
Before she can go for a fifth, she realizes the man is already dead, with an axe buried in his skull. His expression is frozen in a mask of anger.
Pellegrina stares at that face for a long time.
"Are you okay?" Magrakh is panting.
She nods.
Both take several minutes to regain their composure.
"Never again," Pelle says, unable to keep her voice from cracking. She tries to focus on bandaging her hand, which has a deep cut, and burns like hell.
"You may know how to fight, but leave the traveling to me."
Mag has the decency to nod. "Yeah, it's just that— yeah." And he quietly drinks from his waterskin.
After noticing the sun has disappeared beyond the horizon, they hurry to seek the relative safety of Ustengrav.
Pellegrina and Magrakh take some time to rest, but they are still disoriented from the fight as they proceed, with much less trepidation than when they entered Bleak Falls Barrow.
Everything happens mechanically: they light torches, check for traps, and face the undead.
The interior has collapsed in several places, making it difficult to navigate the narrower tunnels without removing part of the debris, leaving no possibility for a silent approach.
But they don't let the Draugr catch them off guard.
Fighting against people is much faster and bloodier, with no time to catch their breath or devise a strategy, as the opponent is just as cunning and attached to life.
The Draugr are eerie and resilient, not stopping at anything less than severe blows to the skull, but they are also slow and uncoordinated.
Moreover, being ancient embalmed corpses, they are little more than a bundle of highly flammable fibers.
After reaching the 'urns room,' they quickly realize that pushing the secret stone door to open it won't work like the last time, and they are too tired to try for more than a couple of minutes.
This time, it's their pickaxe that clears the way.
The tunnel winds down, often restricting the space available because of collapsed dirt.
Finally, it opens into a room locked by an old wooden door, to which Magrakh presents his axe.
They find the treasure room first, mostly filled with old armors and weapons. It's easy to see which ones are enchanted because they aren't weathered like the rest.
Old coins are all that's left—and it's not bad—along with a pile of scrolls and books. Most of them are beyond repair, but Pelle takes a few with the hope of salvaging a few pages and discovering something interesting.
They also learn that Draugr can't swim.
Pelle had lost her grip on the sword while parrying the axe strike of an undead, so Magrakh kicked him to throw him off a ledge.
And now they watch with unease as it struggles and sink.
Above Jurgen Windcaller's sarcophagus stands a pedestal in the shape of a hand, and luckily, they arrived before Delphine could steal the horn.
Magrakh delicately picks it up.
Immediately, a burst of light emanates from the sarcophagus.
Mag runs away, but the light pursues him, enveloping him. It permeates for a couple of seconds before vanishing completely.
Soon after, Mag looks at Pelle with horror. "I thought it was the tomb of a man…"
"It is," says Pelle, confused as to why Jurgen gave Mag this gift so early compared to the game's quest. "His name was Jurgen Windcaller."
"Then why— I thought absorbing souls only worked on dragons!" Mag looks at the horn suspiciously, as if fearing it might catch fire.
Perhaps it's better not to mention that it's made with the tip of a dragon's horn.
"Jurgen Windcaller could use the Voice," Pelle says, getting Magrakh's attention. "He wasn't Dragonborn, though. The Voice can be taught and learned even if you're not special, but it takes years to master it for regular people. That's what the Graybeards do on top of that mountain. Where do you think Ulfric Stormcloak learned to Shout?"
Magrakh frowns. "And is it just a coincidence that you led us here?"
"Well, no," Pelle admits. "The call of the Graybeards reminded me of Jurgen Windcaller and his tomb in Ustengrav."
He approaches, and his gaze urges her to add, "He's their founder."
"Now we're stuck in a tomb full of Draugr for the night." The Orc sighs, too tired to stay angry. "Those bandits seemed to have an easy camp for a while, but I don't like how insistent Falion was about not camping in the marsh."
"We can camp in the entrance hall," says Pelle.
The Draugr is resurfacing from the pool, crawling, and Magrakh runs to cut off its head.
It's a shame they can't explore the rest of the ruin so Mag an acquire the Ethereal Form Shout, but Pellegrina is satisfied. Not only did he get the horn, but he also gained an unexpected soul.
We'll have to come back another time. That Shout is very useful, and if Magrakh has to be the Dragonborn, I can at least make sure he's a decent one!
Before leaving, Pelle puts a note in the hand of the pedestal.
The note reads:
"Mind your own business, Blade.
— A friend."
Notes
In the next chapter from Magrakh's POV: The journey back to Morthal is more challenging, and on the way to Solitude, they'll find a new friend.