Traveling Trials
POV Magrakh, Chapter 7: The Art of Running from problems
The journey back to Morthal is more challenging, and on the way to Solitude, they will find a new friend.
6:00 AM, Fredas the 28th of Last Seed, 4E 201
"How can you be so sure? You can't even see the outside from here!"
Pellegrina sighs, as if knowing the exact time of day while being underground is something everyone is capable of.
"I just know it should be morning by now. Let me check."
"No, I'll check, you stay here," Magrakh says. "I don't want a repeat of what happened yesterday."
The bandits were preparing to move their camp inside the ruins, gathering digging tools around a fire. Magrakh and Pelle had taken refuge in this corner of the entrance hall to spend the night.
"You mean when you got us lost in the marsh, running around like madmen without considering the dangers we could have encountered?" Pelle says, with poison in her tone. "Oh right, we did find danger!"
Embarrassment makes him turn away. He had hoped that the girl would let go of how his panic attack had driven him to ignore any other danger in favor of fleeing from the ghost. He can't help it!
"We came out of it alive though, and we didn't encounter any Chaurus or giant spiders."
Pellegrina's stern expression reminds him all too much of his mother when she was angry, but instead of yelling, she sighs.
"Next time you see something strange, we'll avoid it. Calmly. We're lucky to be alive, Mag."
He doesn't need to be reminded; Pelle's face is a rainbow of bruises.
"I know… he says.
Losing control almost got them killed. The bandits were an unexpected problem, but they could have sunk into a bog, stumbled upon a pack of giant spiders, or perhaps ended up right in the arms of that terrifying Pale Lady Falion spoke of.
Magrakh has to find a way to control his fear, but by the Divines, Pellegrina should never be on a battlefield!
In hindsight, despite the allure of gold, he regrets agreeing to adventure with someone so inexperienced. He can barely take care of himself; bringing Pelle along is like asking to see her gutted.
The two quickly dismantle the makeshift barricades they had set up at the entrance door, and they are immediately hit by the cold air carrying the salty sea scent and the odor of dead plants. But along with the smell comes a soft white light.
Daylight is crucial. Odd as he was, Falion seemed to know what he was talking about, and Magrakh wants to heed his advice.
It seems like the sun has been in the sky for an hour or maybe two, so he tells Pelle to hurry up. While she goes to retrieve her arrows, he quickly checks the bandits' belongings.
They set off immediately, this time taking the path they couldn't find yesterday, and they eat as they walk.
Pelle slows them down, trying to clean her backpack and its contents from the oil of a broken jar, but he forgives her because the oil-preserved sausages are incredibly tasty.
The horn they found in the crypt is in Magrakh's backpack, carefully wrapped in the hope that it will fetch a nice gold sum like the Dragonstone had. Once sold, the whole ordeal in the Drajkmyr marsh won't have been in vain.
Magrakh finds himself thinking about the founder of the Greybeards.
He's not sure what happened with the sarcophagus at Ustengrav, but that sensation was similar to when he absorbed the dragon's soul. Jurgen Windcaller was just a human, though, as the fragments of his memories gradually confirmed.
Can he absorb things other than dragon souls then? Will he have to avoid cemeteries and Halls of the Dead from now on?
What would happen if he could visit his mother and grandmother's ashes? He's afraid to even to think about…absorbing them, but at the same time, the idea of having their memories with him is almost tempting enough to try.
The knowledge he absorbed from Jurgen helped him better understand how Shouts work. Ironically, better than the dragon's memories!
Each Shout is composed of three words, each word embodies an aspect of the Shout, and the complete sequence is more powerful than any individual word. All this was learned accidentally from a centuries-old human corpse.
I've never heard of this kind of crap happening to the Dragonborns of the legends.
Magrakh had heard of the Greybeard hermits, but he didn't know they could shout like dragons—like him—nor that they could teach the Thu'um to other people.
Is this why they called for him? How did they know he had just discovered he's Dragonborn?
And finally, is it a good thing that they are looking for him, or is he in trouble?
1:30 PM
The journey back to Morthal is slower than their initial approach, as they move more cautiously.
At a certain point, the wind picks up, blowing freely across the marsh from the sea, and shortly after, it starts raining. Despite their cloaks and multiple layers of clothing, they quickly find themselves shivering from the cold.
Ironically, on their more cautious journey, they encounter more trouble.
The Mudcrabs are the first to react negatively to their presence. Pelle, ever the opportunist, decides they will have Mudcrab for dinner and starts harassing the crustaceans.
Magrakh sees potential; these crabs are cat-sized, not as dangerous as their larger counterparts. So he shows Pelle how to deal with them, using a stick to pin down their claws, flipping them over, and then skewering them.
He hopes these little exercises will increase her familiarity with the sword and perhaps, who knows, one day she might even take on a giant Mudcrab alone.
Plus, the crab stew she talks about sounds delicious. In the Reach, where he grew up, the only available fish came from rivers, and they could rarely afford it. It was more likely that he himself would go fishing.
Suddenly, Magrakh catches a glimpse of something moving quickly in their direction from the corner of his eye. Or rather, in Pelle's direction, who is inspecting the dead crabs.
"Pellegrina!" He yells, rushing towards her just as she's hit by a splash of what he later realizes is Chaurus acid.
She screams, and wisely runs towards him.
Magrakh gives the monster a smack to distract it, but the creature's pincers break his stick easily, and immediately after, more insect monsters, as large as wolves, emerge from the bushes.
"Run!"
Pelle doesn't need to be told twice.
After grabbing the two crabs, Magrakh takes her arm and flees.
Once again, they find themselves running through the marsh, not paying much attention to the terrain.
But this time, at least, they have a valid reason. I'm not having another panic attack, right?
When they are a few hundred meters from the Kjenstag ruins, Magrakh realizes they've lost the Chaurus. Or maybe, they have decided to abandon the chase.
Whatever the reason, now the Orc would like to camp by that cluster of rocks where they stopped for lunch yesterday. However, Pellegrina wants to venture into the 'safety' of the walls.
"But there might be other monsters inside," he says, alarmed.
Pelle pulls her arm out of his grip and starts unfastening her gambeson, gritting her teeth. "I have to deal with this acid now! And I don't want us stopping out in the open within view of that cave."
With these words, the girl heads towards the ruins, while Magrakh turns to glance at the western horizon. The rain has stopped, but the clouds linger, gray and threatening, all around the cave.
Falion was rather insistent about staying away from that hill…
Sneaking closer, Magrakh scouts ahead and finds that Kjenstag is infested with brambles and other plants, but nothing more. Or so it seems, at least.
He helps Pelle remove her backpack, which survived the splash, and the cloak that wasn't as fortunate. Then he stands guard.
If he concentrates, amidst the croaking of some frogs and the buzzing of insects, he can also hear the hissing of fabric. The gambeson, in particular, has produced a layer of foam that worries him about the state of the girl's skin.
He gives her a look once the last layer is removed. The worst luck was that the gambeson's tears directed the acid straight onto her wounds and burns. Pelle removes all the bandages, carefully cleans the affected areas, and then generously applies the ointment Falion provided.
During this process, she tries not to make any noise, but it's clear that she's not just shivering from the cold. Pelle is feeling all the pain now that the adrenaline has faded. So, he gives her extra time to recover, have a sip of water, and swallow what he assumes to be medicine.
But it's already the afternoon, and they still have a lot of ground to cover to reach Morthal before sunset.
"Are you done?" he asks, perhaps one time too many.
"I don't know! Are you done asking me?"
His retort dies in his throat when, out of the corner of his eye, he notices an unnatural light.
Since Pelle also notices it and doesn't seem alarmed, Magrakh summons the courage to look back at the entrance.
His stomach drops, and his legs immediately feel like they're made of lead.
It's a ghost!
He swallows and takes a deep breath. No more panic-induced decisions, he tells himself to quash his strong flight instinct.
He grabs his axe and immediately feels better; if it can kill corpses, maybe it can kill spirits too.
The ghost moves its arm, inviting them to come closer.
Fuck off!
Magrakh is frozen in place, sweat freezing on his back.
Even if he wanted to flee, the ghost is standing right in the only exit.
"Aren't these things supposed to only come out at night?" He whispers.
"Only the aggressive ones, I think," says Pellegrina.
Huh?
The girl decides now is the perfect time to get up and investigate what this creature might want.
He tries to grab her arm, but she hisses in pain and gives him a warning look. That look is familiar; he's seen it on other women's faces, and it says 'try it and see what happens.'
"Hello," she says, because of course she talks to spirits! "Do you need anything?"
"Don't talk to the ghost!" Magrakh whispers, with increasing anxiety.
The ghost, a semitransparent light in the vague form of an armored man, turns and—lacking a better word for the movement of a creature with legs that doesn't touch the ground—runs.
To his horror, Pelle goes after it.
"Don't follow it!" He places his hand on the girl's shoulder.
"We still have to get out of this ruin, Mag."
"Let's wait! Weren't you telling me to avoid these things?"
Pelle sighs, apparently impatient. "We are keeping our distance. Please stop grabbing me, I'm not a child," she says, moving away from his touch.
Magrakh is scared of the ghost, but in some way, he's more worried about what Pellegrina might do.
7:30 PM
For some reason, Magrakh has agreed to follow a ghost.
The only things keeping him from stopping are the guilt about the mess he caused yesterday, and the fact that the creature is heading east, away from the swamp.
Also, Pellegrina is being stubborn, and the only way to stop her is to physically restrain her. Magrakh knows that could damage their relationship. It seems strange, considering what he thought of her when they first met, but he has come to consider her a friend, and she's his only ally at the moment…
The supernatural light of the spirit leads them from a healthy distance, especially now that the sky has grown darker. With the cloud cover hiding the sun, it's hard to judge the time, but he's aware that they can't afford long detours like the one they took.
"Pelle," Magrakh calls. "Pelle, please, let's return to Morthal. It's not safe, Falion warned us."
Stubbornly unyielding, Pelle responds, "he warned us not to follow strange lights. And we're not even in the marsh anymore."
"We're following a glowing ghost; that counts as a strange light, Pelle!"
The girl laughs.
"What the hell is so funny?!"
"Nothing, nothing," she says, unconvincingly. At least it seems she's not in as much pain anymore.
The landscape slowly changes around them, transitioning from the damp and cold of the marsh to a firmer, snow-covered terrain dotted with tall evergreens.
We're entering the Pale.
The mysterious light seems indifferent to the terrain or time, but it eventually stops in a corner of a hill where a small, old structure of some sort lies, covered in snow and trees.
These damn Nords and their damned ruins…
The elevated ground forming a platform surrounded by columns suggests a tomb, and whoever is occupying it has lit a fire, indicating that, contrary to their guide, they have flesh on their bones.
It could be anyone: grave robbers, soldiers, priests, other bandits, or simple travelers.
Seeing the contrast of the fire against the sky makes him realize that the sunlight is about to fade, indicating that they're close to sunset.
This seems like a delusion: they've followed a ghost into the night.
"Pelle," he whispers, elbowing her, "someone's up there."
She nods. "The ghost wants us to do something about it."
Really? And how did it communicate such a thing?
"Let's go away," he hisses desperately.
Peale turns to look him in the eyes. "That's a tomb, and those are thieves. Why do you think the ghost brought us here?"
"What do you want to do, then?"
In response, Pelle unstraps her bow and nocks an arrow.
"You don't even know if they're outlaws." Magrakh whispers, trying to reason with her, "they could be grave robbers, like us! Maybe traders from Morthal! Do you want to become a murderer?"
"The ghost wants them to stop, do you think they will if we ask nicely?"
He'd like to shout 'who cares what the ghost wants?', but clearly, she cares, so he says, "They could be soldiers!"
"Who goes there?" They hear a man shout towards them.
They crouch, staying close to a tree trunk to hide.
The snow reflects what little light remains, making anyone with dark clothes like theirs stand out on the white.
The ghost has disappeared.
Magrakh looks up at the sky, now a ruthless red-purple, and wordlessly drops a couple of silver coins to send a prayer to the Divines.
Have mercy, he thinks, I'm just trying to make it back to town alive and in one piece with this crazy girl.
The Divines must have answered his prayer because the stranger who approached their tree takes Pelle's arrow straight in the gut. They don't seem to be wearing armor.
The snap of the bow and the man's scream warn the others of the danger, and they immediately hide among the columns, leaving their friend to die alone in the snow.
"Rot into the Void, Stormcloaks!" One of them screams, probably thinking they are soldiers from the camp Pelle was talking about. The man who was shot doesn't seem to be wearing Imperial dragon insignia, though.
Okay, maybe they are bandits.
Magrakh, who doesn't have the patience to stand and watch, decides to take action and approaches the suffering man.
Once he cuts the man's throat, he grabs the body and lifts it like a meat shield.
His arm is still tired from yesterday, but as long as it works…
While Pelle goes around to flank them, Magrakh drags himself straight toward them.
The steps leading to the tomb are icy and snow-covered, forcing him to be careful to maintain balance. Since he isn't being showered with arrows, he assumes the remaining ruffians are frontline fighters, so he prepares for an imminent assault.
He doesn't have to wait long. A warrior emerges from his right, trying to skewer him like a fish.
Magrakh could have been caught off guard if the man had waited for him to advance further, but thanks to his impatience, he manages to step back in time. He quickly counterattacks and cuts through the unprotected abdomen.
His enchanted axe slices through his furs like butter, and blood pours profusely from the wound, filling the air with the smell of rust and offal as the man folds over with a scream.
The other warrior chooses this moment of chaos to assault him from behind.
This man is much taller and sturdier than Magrakh, one of those Nords blessed by Shor.
Magrakh throws the lifeless body he's holding at him, and the warrior is forced to avoid the corpse to prevent being pushed over the edge of the tomb and falling. He has no choice but to veer to the left, towards the outer corner of the platform.
This puts him exactly where Magrakh wants him: in a disadvantaged position.
They clash halfway, both trying to prevent the other from using their blade and trying to knock each other off the platform.
Turning into a wrestling match, the Orc starts to worry, as the Nord has the physical advantage. But most of all, because Pelle hasn't fired any arrows to help him yet.
Were there more hidden bandits who attacked her?
Suddenly, the warrior falls to his feet in a scream, giving Magrakh the opportunity to finish him.
After the enemy's death, Magrakh surveys the surroundings more carefully and notices Pelle's face peeking from the edge of the platform. He also notices the Nord's bloody ankles.
"Nice work," he says.
The small camp is set around a central grate that has clearly been forced open.
Inside the grate is a pit with rotted wooden stairs leading to a sarcophagus. Though weathered, he would estimate its age to be no more than a couple of centuries based on the style.
"We need to get you a proper shield," Pelle says when she joins him.
Magrakh vocalizes his agreement. Maybe one with an oblong shape for maximum coverage and metal spikes for jabbing enemies. Who knows how much it would cost.
"Is your ghost happy now?" He asks, exhausted.
"Why don't you ask him yourself?"
At those words, Magrakh whirls around and sees the ghost 'sitting' calmly on—presumably—his own sarcophagus.
Their gazes meet, and immediately after, the grate snaps shut with a bang.
Magrakh jumps down from the platform, and Pellegrina starts laughing.
"I think he's satisfied," she says cheekily, waving a velvet pouch, "and look, he's even left us a reward!"
She's crazy, Magrakh thinks, and I must be even crazier to follow her. Sheogorath must be guiding us with carrot and stick!
"Come on, help me empty these guys' pockets."
They don't have time to count the coins, as someone from the cliff above them says, "I knew I heard something."
Pelle rushes to grab her backpack.
Magrakh only allows himself the time to look up and see three armored men illuminated by their own torches, displaying the Stormcloak bear crest.
"Hey, who are you?" One of them asks, drawing a spiked mace.
Magrakh is thankful that his face is still covered by the scarf, then he bolts.
The two of them run back the way they came, ignoring the soldiers' calls and the arrows they shoot at them.
To avoid being spotted by archers, they trudge through the snow without lighting a torch, guided by the moonlight and the tracks they left on their way in.
They dart between trees like deer until they no longer see the soldiers' torches behind them.
The dark silhouette of the Kjenstag walls successfully guides them back to the marsh, but now it's late at night, and they're still far from Morthal.
"It's really late…shall we set up camp here?" Pellegrina asks when they reach the ruin.
"What? No! Falion said never to camp in the marsh at night, but to light torches and keep moving."
"Mag, by the time we're halfway there, it'll be dawn. We're tired and sore. Why don't you take a nap, and I'll keep watch until it starts getting lighter?"
"Because I can't trust that you won't be attracted to the next ghost like a moth, that's why!" Magrakh grumbles, and the girl even has the audacity to take offense.
"Also, if we stop now, we'll get too cold, and we can't start a fire."
"Why not?"
"Because I'm not wandering into the swamp to gather deadwood!"
"Oh, you're right," Pelle says, dejected. "Let's just take a break then, light some torches, and be cautious. Okay?"
Magrakh nods, also feeling disheartened by fatigue and cold, but mostly by the prospect of traversing the marsh in this darkness.
4:30 AM, Loredas the 29th of Last Seed, 4E 201
Though it looks desolate, the marsh is incredibly noisy at night, but beyond the frogs and the trolls' roars, Magrakh doesn't know what else he's hearing. His imagination is ruthless.
Magrakh and Pellegrina continue to behave as they should, and with the help of torches and sticks, they are moving slowly westward, waiting to reconnect with the path to Morthal.
After several hours of walking, they see a shadow approaching.
The shadow turns into a person.
With the speed of a galloping moose, she is among them.
It's a woman.
There's a red glow in the palm of her hand and a look in her eyes that's making Magrakh's hair stand on end, but nothing alarms him more than Pellegrina's scream, usually indifferent to danger.
"Magrakh, run!" She yells, and the urgency in her voice immediately translates into a surge of adrenaline.
He starts running immediately, while Pelle waves the torch in front of the woman as if she's swatting away a swarm of wasps rather than a strange mage. Fortunately, she doesn't hesitate to follow him right after.
So they're running again. Perhaps they were never destined for a calm and serene journey, but after all, that's why the Drajkmyr marsh has its reputation.
Magrakh doesn't mind fleeing like this, as long as it keeps them alive.
Whoever or whatever the woman truly is, doesn't give up easily. They hear her laughing right behind them.
Every so often, Magrakh and Pelle sink into the ice or plunge their legs into the marshy ground, unable to see the terrain in front of them clearly.
The woman remains on their heels, her hand glowing red, pointed at Pellegrina.
She's slowing her down!
Whatever magic she's casting, it's clearly weakening Pelle, and so Magrakh realizes that if they can't shake off the mage, they'll have to confront her.
He makes a decision before Pellegrina can be further weakened, and he turns on his heels to charge at their assailant.
What's normally a move few can avoid or resist, the woman easily evades.
Now she's to his left, so Magrakh shifts his axe in that direction, but the woman dodges again, faster than any other rogue he's ever encountered.
"No, Magrakh, you have to run!" Pellegrina shouts, with such fervor that it makes him doubt the woman's nature. After all, they've faced mages before, and he's never asked her to run. Quite the opposite.
Despite having the face of a beautiful dark-haired Nord, the woman strikes with unnaturally long and sharp nails.
He watches her jump away from his axe swing in another unnatural display of agility, even dodging an arrow at point-blank range.
The creature laughs, agitating Magrakh and making him realize she's toying with them.
What the hell is she? And what do we do now?
She chased them just for sport. She's a predator, like a cat playing with a mouse before devouring it.
With a leap, the woman is beside him, and her claws pierce his gambeson and tear through his flesh, stopping only at the bone. Blood gushes from his wound.
Amidst the screams Magrakh emits, he manages to notice how the creature is licking her claws, delighted.
She's a vampire!
With horror at this realization, Magrakh understands that this cursed marsh might be their grave. Perhaps one day they will be the ones to terrify adventures as ghosts.
"Damn," Magrakh mutters. What a shitty way to go for someone who just wanted some gold for a house.
They didn't take the warnings seriously enough, and they couldn't even follow the simple instructions Falion gave them.
No, I'm not dead yet! His grandmother would look at him with disdain if he were to die without fighting until his last breath.
Before he can register the movement, he finds himself thrown to the ground.
"Mag, shout!" Pelle yells.
Right, the Thu'um!
"Fus!"
The vampire is sent flying, even her unnatural abilities couldn't anticipate the Force blast.
The surprise is short-lived, but before she can lunge at him again, a wine bottle hurtles toward her.
The vampire, in another display of superior reflexes, strikes the bottle before it hits her, perhaps thinking it's being used as a projectile.
Magrakh, knowing what's about to happen, moves aside.
The glass shatters, and a dark wave of wine splashes over her, just an instant before a lit torch falls at her feet.
With an 'oomph', the alcohol on her clothes and hair catches fire. The vampire howls.
Pelle's hand grabs Magrakh's, helping him to put one foot in front of the other.
He doesn't waste time looking back, especially now that he has their only source of light in hand.
They're making a run for it, inexplicably still alive.
"Keep moving. The sun will rise soon," Pellegrina says.
He tries to ask her if her human eyes, seeing better in the distance than he does, can spot Morthal. But his own voice sounds distant.
How much blood have I lost?
The wound is numb, and can't feel pain, which can't be a good sign.
The fog is thick, and every tree trunk and shrub looks like another vampire ready to pounce, so even with short breath and aching legs, he tries not to slow down.
It feels like centuries pass, and the marsh seems endless, like they're going in circles.
The brightening of the sky is encouraging, but not as much as seeing the braziers of Morthal's gate becoming visible through the mist.
Magrakh is incredibly tired, and what he's doing can't be called 'running' anymore, but he's determined to cross that gate on his own feet, find a fire, and then…go to sleep.
He lets Pellegrina deal with the guards, she's the talkative one.
All he needs is a bed.
The walk through the still-sleeping village is hazy.
He's only aware of being guided and pushed in the right direction, and the warmth of the inn hitting his numb face.
Pelle makes him drink something, which surely isn't mead or ale judging by the disgusting taste.
She looks so worried…
Is that the face I had at my mother's deathbed? Wait, am I dying?
"I'm fine," he manages to say, trying to reassure them both.
It doesn't have the intended effect, though.
Pellegrina keeps bombarding him with questions and shaking him whenever he drifts off. He almost wants to punch her for it.
Let him rest!
She's wrapping his arm with bandages.
Right, his arm was injured. He lost a lot of blood.
This explains why I feel woozy.
He's awakened again to drink another concoction.
He can't even get mad because it makes him feel better. Maybe it's a healing potion.
"Swamps are banned from the list," he grumbles.
Pellegrina chuckles. It's a wet, weak sound, but it's nice to hear.
4:30 PM
Pellegrina is a mother hen.
It would be funny if it weren't so annoying.
After sleeping until the afternoon, Magrakh insists on leaving this town forsaken by the Divines.
"You need to rest! A healing potion isn't like restoration magic, Mag. The apothecary said you should rest for a few days. There aren't even available carriages today! What does it hurt to wait until tomorrow morning?"
They've been arguing for a while now. It's only missing her feeling his forehead again for fever or asking if the light bothers him.
Her fear of him having contracted vampirism is making him even more anxious!
"I know, but I can rest elsewhere, and I don't want to wait another night," he says, packing as if the decision is already made. "Besides, you were the one who said the town's market is too small and poor to sell our loot."
Pelle sighs, giving in and attaching the scroll case with the painting to her shoulder. It must be quite sturdy to survive so many adversities.
"I know what I said. Nevermind… Shall we head back to Whiterun then?"
Magrakh hesitates.
It would be nice. Whiterun is situated in the tundra, next to the White River that fertilizes the plains dotted with farms and plowed fields, making food not as expensive or scarce as in Hjaalmarch where they are now.
Being farther south, it also has a milder climate, and its central location and neutrality in the conflict make it the better destination for anyone needing to trade.
Moreover, as the Dragonborn, he's welcomed there. It would be a good place to settle for a while.
However, Jarl Balgruuf's behavior has him worried. If he wanted to recruit him, now that he's Thane, he couldn't refuse. And he'd have a Housecarl spying on his every move…he wouldn't even be able to escape!
"Any other option?"
He can hear Pelle's sigh even though she's doing a good job of disguising it. "Well, the nearest major city where we can sell our stuff is Solitude."
"Perfect," Magrakh says. "Let's go, then."
2:40 AM, the Sundas 30th of Last Seed, 4E 201
Magrakh is stubborn and paranoid, but he's aware of it.
Just like he knew he should've rested in Morthal, not just for his wounds but because both he and Pelle are tired from days of continuous marching.
But the idea of being so close to a marsh full of ghosts, vampires, and other creepy creatures sends shivers down his spine. And then, if he hadn't left, maybe he would have paid a visit to that jerk Falion, who didn't warn them about possible vampires!
Magrakh might be an Orc, but his mother taught him to avoid confrontations with bastards bigger and tougher than him. Falion might be a lanky stick compared to him, but he doesn't feel like finding out how powerful a mage he is.
The Mudcrab stew Pelle made was the only positive outcome of that excursion. Well, besides the loot.
He was in such a hurry to leave that he even forgot to sharpen his axe!
I really need to buy a whetstone.
Magrakh also knows that traveling at night is a terrible idea. It was never a good idea, but since the civil war began, the situation has worsened.
Between soldiers battling and the scarcity of guards making bandits and beasts more populous, even traveling during the day has become risky.
But they couldn't camp near Morthal, otherwise, they might as well have stayed at the inn. And having left at midday, they couldn't reach the nearest village before sunset.
Arriving at Fort Snowhawk, Magrakh had hoped to camp nearby, benefiting from the extra security provided by a fort full of feudal guards.
From a distance, everything seemed normal.
The fortress is adjacent to the main road, and the gate is a metal grate, so it's easy to observe from the roadside. The walls were patrolled, braziers lit, and the front entrance guarded.
But suddenly, Pellegrina had thrown her torch into the mud to extinguish it.
"They're not guards," she whispered, sending chills down his spine.
In the dim light and fog, Magrakh hadn't been able to see more than the shapes of the 'guards', unable to identify any crest.
Orcs have a wider field of view and see better in the dark than humans, but humans have much better long-distance vision.
So, he had trusted Pelle and put out his torch too.
They had moved off the road for cover among the shrubs.
Initially, he believed the Stormcloaks had taken over the fort, but after a while, he started to notice how the shapes didn't have helmets, cloaks, or the bulk of someone with flesh.
Not wanting to investigate further, he had averted his gaze and quickened his pace.
Why is the world falling apart around them? There's no security left with dragons, civil war, outlaws, and all the horrible monsters crawling out of the woodwork!
That's why Magrakh and Pelle had agreed to keep traveling through the night to get even farther from the fort invaded by undead, and it's almost dawn when they arrive at a village among the trees.
The small cluster of houses doesn't have an inn, and the villagers are wary of them, but they're also willing to accept some coin in exchange for permission to sleep in a stable.
This place is called Hjaalmarch Outlook, and considering the view of the marsh, it makes sense.
A line of trees runs along the edge of the cliff bordering the marsh, and up here, the land is densely cultivated. Probably the only arable area in the hold.
The buildings don't have convenient locations to create a proper town. There's no market square, tavern, or a regular transport service.
Every single flat surface has been taken up by a ranch or cultivated field, and even some uneven areas are being terraced. The rest is a jumble of rough ground, boulders, and trees clinging in odd places.
There's also a large stone mound in the distance.
The elderly woman who led them to her stable assured them it's not a tomb, and he's content to let sleeping dogs lie.
3:00 PM
Pellegrina woke him up in the afternoon.
Apparently, she went exploring and found a dead man in the farthest hut of the community.
Of course; if trouble were dung, she'd be a fly.
That's how he found himself face to face with the gruesome sight of people dragging away the body of poor Holger, his face half-eaten by the mangy dog confined in the small house with him.
How in Oblivion did no one notice the man 'missing' for days, or the stench from the house?
"You what?" Slips out his mouth when Pellegrina tells him what happened just before she woke him up.
"I couldn't let them kill him!"
"Of course you could've, and you should've!"
Pelle, standing between him and the dog, gives him a dark look he's only seen on people who wanted to gut him. Clearly, he said something wrong, so he steps back.
"Don't you dare tell me what I should or shouldn't do," Pelle says with an anger-laden tone.
Magrakh raises his hands and hastily corrects himself. "I meant that killing him would be a mercy. Plus, this is their village. The guy was their friend, so now the dog is theirs."
"Meeko had only one owner, and he's dead. The man had no relatives, and no one else claimed him. They just wanted to kill him, so I'm not stealing anything from anyone!"
"I wasn't saying—"
"You were saying it's not worth it!"
"Well, yes!" He huffs, frustrated.
Magrakh genuinely doesn't understand what the fuss is about. Being homeless travelers, they don't have the time or resources for a healthy dog, let alone a skinny and sick one.
"He'll die soon," he tries again, with more patience. "Why let him suffer?"
"He'll die if no one helps him," she counters. "Would you like to be treated that way if you got sick? A nice dagger to your throat instead of calling a doctor?"
Magrakh waves his arms to channel the nervous energy and frustration he feels. He doesn't think it's a good idea to inform her that a dog is treated differently because it doesn't hold the same value as a person.
"You know what, do whatever you want. If you want a dying dog, have it. Just don't let it pass onto us the diseases or fleas it has."
"You know, when you were in Helgen with a hole in your belly, sitting in a puddle of your own blood, I could've written you off," Pelle says.
Magrakh turns, annoyed. They had agreed their mutual debts were paid, so why bring it up?
"And I was scared and defenseless. If you hadn't dragged me along and protected me, I'd just be another charred corpse now."
Oh. She was just making a comparison. "Yeah, I know." He sighs, softened by the sudden dissipation of anger.
"I'll set up camp among those pines—" he points to the outcrop facing the marsh— "I doubt old Nille would let the beast into her stable."
5:30 PM
Magrakh is tending to the feeble fire nestled in a circle of stones.
The villagers watch him, suspicious of the strangers who had promised to leave after sleeping.
When they arrived, he explained why they didn't camp along the road, and the locals were not happy to hear that the nearby fort was infested with evil creatures. They promptly sent one of their men to Morthal to inform the guards.
After searching in vain for dry branches, Magrakh gave in and cut fresh ones, both to support the tent and the fire. The locals keep the brush and pine woods quite clean—even pine needles are scarce, used as mulch.
Their 'tent' unfortunately remains the flower-patterned tarp, which isn't helping them to not attract attention.
To make things worse, the fresh branches emit a lot of smoke, to the point that he almost feels like vomiting.
He's still caring for the fire when Pelle arrives at the camp with the dog and a pile of interesting items.
Within minutes, there's a pot of water on the fire, a dog curled up in front of it, and a bottle in Pelle's hands. She's mixing something, pouring liquid from another smaller bottle, and adding some powder.
He doesn't pay too much attention to whatever alchemy she thinks she's doing and decides not to comment when she gives the dog their fish.
She calls him 'Meeko'.
"Why did you give it a name before even knowing if it'll make it?"
"He always had a name! His owner took good care of him. Even the last entry in his diary was about Meeko!"
And that's that.
They don't speak much for the rest of the evening, during which Pelle bathes the dog with her mixture and occasionally leaves the camp only to return with firewood picked from who knows where.
The rest of the sausages and pickles they found in Helgen are consumed in silence, and the dog is given a meat mush of unknown origin.
Pelle bathes the dog again and wraps it in one of her blankets. The animal falls asleep quickly. At least it seems good-natured.
The fire remains low throughout the night, and the warm stones help a lot against the cold wind blowing in from the marsh and rustling the pines above them. Now Magrakh understands why the villagers didn't cut down this thicket; it's a barrier.
The next day, the dog wags its tail already, and after a few more meals and baths, it doesn't seem as close to death as yesterday.
He almost expects the hound to be reclaimed by the villagers, but instead, it follows them out of the village toward Solitude when they resume their journey.
They make a brief stop at Frost River to resupply and have a decent meal, and then onward to the tollgate of Dragon Bridge.
As they arrive at the famous bridge that gives the town its name, they look up in apprehension. The eerie sculpture of a dragon's head gazes down at them from the top of a stone arch.
The likeness of a dragon suspended in the air, poised to breathe fire, must be intentional. Magrakh wonders who the idiot mason was who designed it.
The town is small but ten times more prosperous than the village beyond the border, giving them a taste of what to expect in Solitude.
As they stop for a drink—and to purchase a damn whetstone—Magrakh realizes yesterday was another cursed Sundas.
He groans in annoyance, earning the curious gaze of a passerby.
He ignores Pelle as she exclaims happily about finding a ride to Solitude on a carriage, continuing to stare at the cloudy sky.
Deciding to let the first drops falling on his face suppress his anger.
I should have listened to Pellegrina and not traveled on Sundas…
6:00 PM, Middas the 3rd of Hearthfire, 4E 201
They arrive in Solitude on the third day of the new month, just in time to witness the execution of a poor sod.
Magrakh learns about the prisoner's past as a gate guard through the angry crowd's comments; apparently, the guy left the gate open for Ulfric to escape after he killed the king.
"There was no murder! Ulfric challenged Torygg. He defeated the High King in fair combat," the man says as his last words.
Even if that were true, it triggered the start of the civil war that's now bleeding the country. Even the honor of the Nords should've stepped aside with such stakes, and Magrakh can't muster any pity. What he wonders instead is why it took so long to decide to execute him.
Solitude is huge, even more so than Whiterun and certainly more than Markarth, but that's to be expected from the industrious and affluent capital. Essentially, all of Haafingar lives here!
Yet the contradictions are many in every corner: with its tidiness, sprawling districts, cosmopolitan nature, and so many festive colors, visitors expect a cheerful and welcoming place. Instead, it's bitter and cold, full of sharp caste differences.
He does like the colors though, some of which he's never even seen before, having grown up in Markarth's 'White City'.
As Pelle said, finding a market wasn't difficult, and they quickly sold all their things, from ancient coins to old enchanted armor.
Which is good, because Solitude is also quite expensive. Even the rundown inn they've settled in, squeezed between two suburban shops, charges for both food and lodging at the same rate as a respectable inn in Markarth.
Perhaps he shouldn't be surprised, given that the capital also serves as the Imperial Legion's headquarters in Skyrim. Soldiers burn through a lot of food and money, while the major livelihood for the local population is trade, which has slowed due to the war.
Like Markarth, Solitude is situated in a defensible mountainous area, but goat herders in the Reach have at least the highlands for grazing. Instead, the Haafingar is farther north, rockier, and undoubtedly more covered in snow than he expected for this time of year.
At least the Blue Palace, home to royalty and perched on a promontory like a lighthouse, is a sight both wondrous and captivating. The roofs are covered in a vibrant blue material that reflects the light and stands out even against the sky.
With such a view, he's surprised that Pellegrina isn't drawing it.
From that day in Hjaalmarch Outlook, Magrakh and Pelle haven't talked much, but when he stops to reflect, he realizes they haven't been getting along well since leaving Whiterun.
The whole journey through the marsh was a risky venture that didn't yield enough profits to even out all the potions acquired and their gear repairs. Precisely because Pelle doesn't intend to part with that horn.
She says it's too important to give away, but why does she suddenly care? The marsh excursion would only be worth it if they sold it, he dared say, and this generated a tense silence between them.
He's clever enough to understand that she's not just angry about the horn or the dog. Since the day she found out he's Dragonborn, Pellegrina has become irritable with him.
This is a problem, because making sense of the new revelations is hard enough as it is; he doesn't need conflicts with his only ally.
Page after page, Pellegrina continues to write in her diary. She occasionally disappears, and at night, she barely sleeps, often getting up. Whether it's to take a walk or find some guy to shag doesn't matter to him; the dark circles on her eyes tell him she requires sleep, and he doubts she could keep going without those sleep medicines.
He recalls their conversation on the day they first met.
Pellegrina had explained how dissatisfied she was with her previous lifestyle, and given the comfortable life she was leading, Magrakh found it hard to comprehend. She had said she ran away from home because she had reached a point where death seemed like her only option left, and one she didn't like.
How much must you despise your family for your mind to say 'either I leave or I die'?
Maybe she's worried too about what–with him being Dragonborn–might happen to them.
When they were in Whiterun, it was clear she put up a brave front to assist him during his panic attack. Well, he can say that with hindsight; at the time, he was too disoriented.
I wonder if you're regretting this alliance, just when I'm getting used to it…
Pelle is still out, no one knows where or doing what, and Magrakh decides to finish the mug of ale he was sipping and leave the tavern.
It's late afternoon, so he needs to move now or tomorrow, and he might change his mind before tomorrow comes.
So he lets his feet guide him to the more affluent part of the city and looks at the shops.
He doesn't want to spend too much money, but he needs to do something.
8:30 PM
It's evening, and the sun is almost setting when he returns with a bundle under his good arm; the wound is healing much faster than he fear, leaving a still-sore red scar.
Too bad about the gold spent on the potions, though.
While he was out, Pellegrina returned to the inn, and when the dog sees him enter, it wags its tail.
He places the bundle on Pelle's bed. "It's for you," he says and moves to his own bed to take off his cloak.
Pellegrina looks surprised.
Magrakh doesn't really know how to handle these situations.
Back when he still had a family, they shared and acquired everything as a single being. There were no discussions, affectionate emotions, deep questions, or guilt. Just a family taking care of each other's needs.
"I don't understand." Pellegrina opens the bundle and extracts a roll of paper sheets, some canvases, four pouches of pigments, and a brush. When she looks up, Magrakh is struck by the confusion in her eyes. He thought the message was obvious!
He shrugs to maintain composure, and speaks softly, suddenly nervous. "You said painting makes you happy." Then, because he believes in giving honest opinions to his allies, he adds, "And you look like shit." He raises his hands. "No offense."
Pelle laughs.
At first, it's a surprised laugh that makes the dog turn toward her. Then it develops into hearty laughter that infects him too.
"Thanks, Mag. This is nice."
"Oh, thank the Divines you like them! They were so expensive."
"Then why did you buy them?"
"Because you look like shit!"
Pelle throws a pillow at him. "We really need another job; this city is bleeding us dry."
"Meaning a job in the city?" Magrakh asks.
"What? No! I mean, it's a nice place, but no. Do you want to stay?"
Oh, thank the Divines she doesn't like Solitude either. She seemed so at ease here. "Fuck no! Everyone looks at me like I'm trash."
She sighs, long and deep. "You know where it was nice?"
"Don't say it."
"You can be honest with me, and I can't?"
"I know! Whiterun! Whiterun is nice. I know. It's just that…"
"Why don't you tell me what's wrong with Whiterun?"
Magrakh frowns. "Why don't you tell me what's going on with you? Since we left Whiterun, it's been hard to talk to you."
The dog whines and tries to lick Pelle's face when it senses the atmosphere shifting from happy to tense. Pellegrina stops smiling and looks away.
"I'm sad because I'm weak, okay?" Pelle sighs and extracts one of the sheets of paper from the roll, starting to draw as a form of relief from the argument she clearly hoped to avoid.
"The battle at Ustengrav made it clear I'm not much help in a fight. And I hate that stupid bow!"
"We could see if the blacksmith has a crossbow; they're easier to handle, and they must have them in the Imperial Army's base."
"Do we have enough money for one of those, you think?"
Magrakh squints as he recalls how meager their funds actually are.
Crossbows—which aren't very common in Skyrim to begin with—would be prohibitively expensive. Good weapons and armor in general are costly, which is why Jarl Balgruuf's gift of an enchanted weapon from his own armory was such a significant gesture.
"Your aim is already good, you just need to build a bit more muscle on those arms and keep practicing. I can teach you more sword techniques in the meantime, and we should refine your defensive moves, but I'm not a master. I only know how to use the axe because my grandma was an axe and shield warrior."
"Corpses aren't shields, Mag," Pelle says.
"Uh, what are you doing?" Magrakh has noticed she's staring at him.
"A portrait of you," she replies with a smile.
Even though he'd actually prefer not to have his face on another surface—wanted posters are already enough—he can't bring himself to tell her to stop when she's got that smile on her face.
"But seriously, what's the problem with Whiterun? I don't understand," Pelle asks.
"Whiterun is fine," Magrakh sighs, "it's just that the Jarl made me a Thane."
"Is that a bad thing for you?"
"It's a political move. He gave me a title, Pellegrina, a leash! And he opened his court to me just because I'm…"
"Yes, you're Dragonborn. Why do I feel like this is a bigger issue for you than the Thane title?"
Magrakh huffs. "It's strange, okay? People aren't meant to eat souls!"
This seems to make her laugh, as if they're sharing stories from a brothel. "Do they taste good?"
"What? No. I mean, they don't taste, they're… I don't actually eat them!"
"Good, eating souls does sound pretty weird."
Magrakh deflates, sitting on the bed. "I'm still absorbing them, doesn't that bother you? I thought finding out I'm Dragonborn scared you…"
Pelle puts down the sheet of paper and looks over to him, slightly surprised. "No, Mag, you don't scare me… You want to know what really scares me?"
The Orc returns the gaze, trepidation in his eyes, sensing a sort of challenge. He nods.
"Black wings that blot out the sun like an eclipse. Scales so shiny they're like mirrors. A head bigger than this stupid inn, with horns that look like columns and teeth as long as a Nord is tall. The ability to create a meteor storm with a few words, and to spit an endless rain of unnatural fire that can melt stone into lava and reduce people to dust."
Magrakh shudders, looking away at the memory of those piercing red eyes.
"That scares me. That freak of nature—who, by the way, is still out there—made Whiterun's dragon seem like a pup, and it wasn't! That bastard toyed with us, tossing us around for fun… That scared me too. Dragons see us as a sport, as toys!"
He listens in silence to one of the rare moments when Pellegrina doesn't hide what's on her mind.
"When you ripped the soul from that piece of shit," she smiles, mischievous, "I enjoyed it, Mag. It was right. It was destiny."
Magrakh grumbles. "Don't mention Destiny… I don't want It looking at me more than apparently already does."
"I don't understand why being Dragonborn bothers you so much. The powers you have are special. A gift from Kynareth herself! If I'm not mistaken, you revere the Divines, not Malacath, right?"
"I respect and revere both," Magrakh responds in a whisper, still staring at the wall, looking sullen.
"But… I know suddenly finding out you have a power that makes you unique, especially one with such history behind it, must be unsettling. I guess you wonder why it was given to you, or why you only discovered it now. But I don't think there's a need to despair; after all, there are worse things than being able to use the Thu'um."
Finally, after days of battling his fears alone, Magrakh feels seen. Understood. He turns to Pellegrina, the unexpected source of this feeling.
"What does it feel like?" Pelle asks.
He has to swallow against a dry throat. "Absorbing a dragon's soul?"
"That too, but I meant the Shouts. How do you use them?"
"I'm not entirely sure. Absorbing the soul gave me a pounding headache for hours because it came with a flood of the dragon's memories. It was hard to forget, like a nightmare chasing you after you wake up. Over time, the feeling faded, but the memories remained. Shouting is…" Magrakh waves his hand. "Strange."
How can he explain something he's only felt and doesn't fully understand?
"I didn't know absorbing the soul hurt," Pelle says. "Does Shouting hurt too?"
"A bit, yes. When I use it frequently. A couple of times, it's like getting hoarse after singing too much, but I think I overdid it at Ustengrav the other day. I could taste blood in my mouth, but who knows, there was blood everywhere, after all."
Judging by Pellegrina's expression, she didn't expect that answer.
"Describing the Thu'um itself is hard. I shout, that's all, like I always did, but using a word in the dragon language. Its meaning is complete in my head ever since I read it on that strange wall in the first tomb we looted. It's the Force that hurts my throat and mouth. It even makes my tusks and tongue tingle."
Pelle releases a long sigh and goes back to drawing. "I wonder if other words hurt, maybe it's just the Force. In the dragon memories, are there any details about this?"
Magrakh narrows his eyes, trying to prevent those memories from resurfacing. "I'd rather not wade through that sewer. Mirmul— that dragon did a lot of horrible things for a long time."
"Wait," Pelle says, her curiosity piqued again, "are you saying you have memories from millennia ago, from the time of the dragon tyranny?"
He nods.
"Damn, what a source of knowledge!" Pelle says.
He wonders if she'd be so enthusiastic if only she too could feel in her body the dragon's amusement as he tortured the old Nords.
"Mag, I don't think you can run away from what this means. There must be a reason why dragons and a Dragonborn are reappearing at the same time after all these years."
"And what would that be? No one seems certain about what it means to be a Dragonborn, let alone why it happens, so I think a bit of fear and running away should be allowed. After all, even if it's a dragon, that was a soul! I was taught from childhood that the soul of a living being is very important, and I don't even know where it's gone!"
Magrakh thumps his chest.
"Maybe there's a place inside me where it's stored, but what if it's not? What if it merged with my soul, changing it? 'Divine gift' isn't enough as an explanation. At least for me. Not that I don't respect the will of the Gods, it's just that…"
"Too simple?" Pelle asks.
"Too arbitrary. There's never been an Orc Dragonborn. Legends only talk about Nords or Imperials, and they were all important people, so I can't help but wonder 'why me?'. Do you understand what I mean?"
Pellegrina wrinkles her lips and looks away. "Yes, I understand perfectly." She sighs. "You know who would know more? The Greybeards. They've practiced the Voice their whole lives."
And here the old argument resurfaces. Magrakh huffs, annoyed.
"What do they want from me? No one has been able to tell me. I don't like how suddenly I'm Dragonborn, and everyone wants something from me! The Jarl of Whiterun wants me in his city, probably to exploit me, but maybe also to benefit from the ancient tradition. Everyone knows about the Septim dynasty of Dragonborns!"
"But the Greybeards follow the Way of the Voice, which preaches peace and reverence for the Gods," Pelle retorts, "whatever the reason they called you for, it's not to use you. They don't play politics, not even in times of war."
Magrakh frowns. "Seems like you know a lot about them."
"A bit more than others, perhaps." She smiles sheepishly.
He grunts. "This is the first time you're admitting to know too much."
Pelle puts down her pencil and looks at him. "Knowledge is a weapon, and right now, it's the only one I know how to wield. I'm not using it against you."
"Can you tell me where you learned all this?" Magrakh asks, hoping that in these moments of honesty, maybe he can get a real answer.
"A lot of it comes from reading."
Magrakh sighs. "You can read all you want, but I doubt there's a book that says 'inside that farm there's a secret door leading to a bandit's den.' Were you a bandit? Are you an informant for someone? A spy, maybe…?"
Something he said makes Pelle laugh. "A spy, really? Listen, I know you know I'm keeping things from you, but I don't want to talk about it. It's a secret, but I promise it's nothing bad."
He should've known it wouldn't be that easy.
"Could you at least tell me why you wanted to get that horn? Since you don't want to sell it, I assume you have a plan."
"Actually, I was hoping to help you, but I didn't expect the Ustengrav journey to be so difficult, I'm sorry. I just wanted you to get the horn to help with your meeting with the Greybeards. I was afraid you'd be angry if I told you."
Magrakh is baffled. "How would raiding their founder's tomb be helpful?"
"I know of a legend that says Ustengrav isn't just a tomb filled with traps, but rather an arena to prove one's worth, and bringing back the horn is proof of success. So you won't meet the Greybeards?"
Magrakh lies down on the bed and stares at the cracks in the ceiling beams, a dwelling place for many spiders.
Did she really want to help me? Or is it just another lie?
"I'd have to climb the tallest mountain in the world to meet them, I'm not exactly thrilled."
Pellegrina sighs deeply. "Okay, so what do we do?"
Still a 'we,' then?
"Other than heading south and not more west of here," he specifies, hoping she'll understand avoiding the Reach, "I don't know. Usually, you're the one with the unsettling collection of information."
"It's not unsettling!"
The dog lowers his head onto the blanket and goes back to sleep.
"What do you think about snitching on someone in exchange for a reward?" Pelle asks after a while.
"I knew you had something." Magrakh chuckles. "Alright, who are we telling on, and what do we gain from it?"
"I'll tell you everything, but I also have another idea to make some money before we leave. I think it can only work in Solitude, though, and I'll need to invest a bit more time and money."
Pellegrina seems more like herself again, ready for the next money-making scheme, and he can't help but feel relieved.
Even though the thought of spending more gold makes his stomach ache, he feels like he needs to encourage the return of her spirit.
"Alright."
6:00 PM, Fredas the 5th of Hearthfire, 4E 201
In the end, they stay in Solitude for a couple more days, giving them a chance to rest longer and get to know the various districts and the great disparity of wealth between them.
The streets are crowded with a variety of people selling all sorts of wares, and there are those constantly seeking low-cost labor, so opportunities abound.
There are also several brothels, which are a step up from the hollow-eyed girls and scrawny boys loitering on the streets of Markarth.
Orphans and beggars are packed into the lower districts, but they still infiltrate other districts to try to cut purses and empty pockets.
There are also strange types, like an elderly Bosmer who camps out in the upper district right along the Blue Palace's avenue, holding something suspiciously resembling a bone and whimpering about a master.
Or at least, he was there.
While Magrakh was working at the docks and Pelle was painting, he vanished and hasn't been seen since. Likely driven away by the guards, or worse.
Where one can go within the city seems to be controlled by unofficial, and sometimes official, rules based on appearance and attire. Those who look more disheveled and dirty, a bit like Magrakh, can stay in the upper district only if they're actively employed by a patron residing or running a business there.
And he thought Markarth was a bitch with its labor force.
Yesterday, Pellegrina showed up in front of him looking like a high-bourgeois woman.
She was fresh from a bath, hair tied up with a bow, face covered in layers of makeup, wearing a yellow dress with a refined wide skirt, and in one hand, she held an intricate walking stick.
Magrakh almost had a heart attack. She looked like a completely different person, one he didn't particularly like.
Apparently, she had returned after flaunting the dress to Jarl Elisif—he listened to the explanation with his mouth hanging open—commissioned by Radiant Raiment, an elegant tailor's shop that had paid her a few silver coins.
She called it 'modeling'.
The shop took back the dress after the job, thank the Gods, but the unsettling walking stick remains in her possession. It's lacquered in a dark shade of gray and has three heads with gaping mouths finely carved around the handle. Pelle says she received it as a reward for a good deed towards an elderly noble.
The rich and their weird tastes.
He hadn't made a secret of how much he disliked it, but Pelle later revealed it's an enchanted staff with a variety of spells, and she accepted it immediately because she's still sore about Anise's staff not being magical.
At least that explanation made more sense than her parading around for the queen!
At the end of the day, Magrakh joins Pellegrina at her spot in the upper district, along the Blue Palace's avenue.
He sits on the ground beside her and takes a sip of water, enjoying the shade and the evening's coolness on his sweaty skin.
The dog crawls up to his feet, wagging his tail in a desperate search for a head pat. He obliges, and some passersby pretend not to notice, while others openly stare at him with disgust.
This is the side of the city that pays the labor force, but it's also the side that doesn't like having workers around.
His gaze wanders over the people who stop from stall to stall, eventually settling on the paintings displayed on Pelle's tarp.
Using that tarp is a good tactic because the vibrant colors catch anyone's attention from a distance.
Pellegrina is sitting on a stool, writing in her diary. She seems content.
Magrakh turns around and meets the fiery eyes of a dragon staring at him.
Despite Pellegrina claiming to be afraid of dragons, it seems she likes them, having painted one on every canvas.
Of course, they are massive and powerful flying beasts; it's hard not to be impressed. Their bones and scales can forge armors and weapons stronger than ebony, or so the legends say.
From an objective standpoint, they are breathtaking creatures, but that beauty is unfortunately accompanied by cruelty and a thirst for blood that taints it.
The dragons that Pellegrina portrays are different from the ones they encountered. More graceful and expressive than any lizard, the heads of the painted creatures convey a wide range of emotions. But one only needs to look at the Argonians to notice that such facial expressions, without lips or eyebrows, are hard to make.
Furthermore, the dragons' poses are aesthetically pleasing, rather than strategic as they should be for born warriors like them.
Then, the heroes she depicted defeating them are all human, showing too many muscles for a battlefield in the icy Skyrim.
There's not much realism, and that bothers him, but what vexes him even more is that Pellegrina is aware of it.
He could tolerate an ignorant, but she's been there from day one.
The Orc stares irritably at the largest painting, one meter by one meter, depicting the battle at Whiterun's watchtower, and it's ridiculous.
The dragon is falling due to a damaged wing, which actually happened, but the creature didn't dramatically faint in the sky like in the painting.
Mirmulnir fought hard to stay in the air, gliding as best as he could, and shifting the battlefield over 200 meters.
Still, he impacted the ground with violence, digging a long, deep trench that looked like a dried-up riverbed, scraping his tough hide.
Where's all this?
It's not even Mirmulnir's colors, a hidden part of his brain points out.
Where is the tower's debris?
Where are the charred and smoking guards?
And Irileth, the Dark Elf whose magic damaged the wing?
Where are the burned farms and the fields on fire that created the dense smoke that blinded the archers?
He averts his gaze from the immaculate platoon of Whiterun guards, shooting arrows from atop their armored horses.
Who are all those people?
They were a small group of terrified folks. Only the city's patrolling guards and the riders who patrolled outside the walls. Most of them died before the dragon landed.
When Magrakh first saw the paintings, he was furious. He supported the investment, but he couldn't help but tell her what he thought of the result.
Pellegrina said she agreed, but the Nords who were supposed to buy her paintings didn't.
They don't want the gruesome and terrifying truth. They want the idea of truth, hope, and affirmation.
They want the certainty that everything will pass because their people are brave and strong, and their land is populated by warriors capable of protecting them from such horrors. And that's why in no song or tale are infirmaries, latrines, and diseases.
The wealthy want displays of power they can boast about; blood and scorched fields don't exclaim 'we're winning,' and they wouldn't hang those in their mansions.
Magrakh has never painted, nor does he know anything about art, so he accepted her reasons. But they spent several gold coins on materials, and all the paintings are still on the canvas…
"They only paid me 9 copper coins in the end," he grumbles, "those thieves from the East Empire Company are just wasting my time. I think we should go back to Dragon Bridge; usually, the lumber mills pay honest gold for honest work."
"It doesn't matter, I made 10 gold coins."
He stares at her in disbelief, then looks at the canvas more closely. How many paintings were there originally? She can't have sold that many. One? Two? Magrakh's brain gets stuck halfway as he tries to calculate how much the remaining paintings might be worth.
"Would you like a bottle of spiced wine?" Pelle asks.
"Are you serious?"
"Yeah, Evette San's wine is renowned. I'm curious."
"Forget the wine! Didn't you say that artists struggle to sell their products and make money?"
Pelle puts away the diary. "Where I come from, that's true, but we're in Skyrim. Don't get me wrong; only nobles and rich folks care about paintings around here, but I'm not organized enough for them. My canvases are small, and I don't even have frames. So far, I've done business with merchants who probably want to frame and resell them at a higher price elsewhere."
She pats her purse, which emits a dull metallic sound.
"Nords may not be famous for art that can't be worn in battle or sung in a tavern, but there's pride in remembering days of victory. And apparently, the dragon thing is a market that almost no one has tapped into yet!"
Magrakh stares at her, speechless.
"I told you the colors were an investment."
"I didn't think it would pay off on the first day!"
Pelle starts carefully rolling up the canvases. "Why don't you go to the baths near the Temple of the Divines? I'll meet you at the inn."
Magrakh quickly stands up. "I'm not leaving you alone with all that money and those paintings!" He hisses, helping put them away. "It's ridiculous enough that we're hiding our gold in that shithole inn. Hurry up, I'll accompany you."
She wrinkles her nose. "You're still getting that bath, regardless. You smell like fish."
He sighs. And I even washed up at the fountain.
"I know. You can't escape the smell down by the docks; it's almost worse than the marsh. I really want to get out of this place."
"Then let's go!" Pelle laughs.
Magrakh smiles too, and for once, after so many strange days, he feels that between them all is good, and that everything will be okay.
Notes
In the next chapter from Pellegrina's point of view: A deal with a group of Redguards leads Pelle and Mag to make some interesting choices in the heart of Whiterun.