Chapter 8

Mull grumbles to himself as he climbs the steps to Dragonsreach for what must be the thousandth time in the last two weeks, resolutely ignoring the ever-present soreness of his calves. Balgruuf made this sound like such a good deal. 'You'll be helping my pet wizard translate this dragon language, Mull. It's such an important undertaking, Mull. Only you have the expertise to do this, Mull.' Of course that had to be a load of stinking troll guts. If Farengar sends me on one more supply run to Arcadia's Cauldron, I swear…

Farengar hadn't been lying when he said he would be performing menial tasks. For the duration of his assistantship to the Court Wizard so far, he's been running errand after tedious errand without any end in sight. That's exactly what he's returning from now, having just delivered a batch of ingredients to the proprietress of an alchemy shop down in one of Whiterun's lowest districts. It was practically on the opposite end of the city, necessitating a long and circuitous trek through the busy streets. It goes without saying that Whiterun is a big city, so the 'simple chore' had ended up taking well over two hours.

It isn't all bad though. Despite his grievances, he's willing to admit that there are a lot of things worse than being an errand boy for a Court Wizard. For instance, rather than spending his nights sleeping in a muddy ditch or holed up in a damp cave, he's being provided with a roof over his head and two meals a day free of charge. His housing isn't in Dragonsreach – instead, he's being afforded a small private room in the Temple District guards' barracks. According to Irileth, the honor of laying one's head under a Jarl's roof is reserved only for individuals of great importance.

The barracks isn't anything fancy, but it's much better than sleeping in the dirt. And though I never received an actual reward for delivering Gerdur's letter – go figure – I am getting paid for my work with Farengar. So that's something, I suppose.

The downside of this arrangement, since there's always one, is the long ass staircase between the Temple District and Dragonsreach, as well as the plethora of others throughout the city. Between performing his duties and suffering through the daily commuting they inevitably require, he's been going up and down a lot of stairs. Whiterun is a nice city, but the godsdamn stairs are definitely a point against it. His legs have been in a state of unending agony since the day he accepted this job.

Unfortunately, none of the information he provided Farengar about the dragon attack at Helgen was deemed useful by the wizard. From what he can tell, he's only been allowed to continue assisting with his research for the sake of being kept around Dragonsreach in case the dragon decides to show up, at which point he would be expected to punctually offer advice on how to kill it. The problem is that I don't have any idea what my advice would be. Run and hide would be my first suggestion, but I somehow doubt they'd appreciate that.

This amounts to him sitting around and doing precisely nothing whenever he isn't making a delivery for the wizard or performing some other equally mindless task. 'Hurry up and wait' is a mantra he lived by far too often during his career as a brigand, and he's long since grown tired of it.

He's done his best to find ways of breaking up the monotony of his newfound occupation, though his success has been decidedly mixed so far. One of the positive things he'll say in Whiterun's favor is that there's always something to do.

A few days prior he'd decided to drop by Jorrvaskr, the mead hall of the Companions, as Aela the Huntress had previously requested. As much as he hates to admit it, the place really was quite something to see. The building looks like an enormous upside-down boat, strangely out of place in the middle of the city and especially being so far uphill from the river.

An old man lounging in the hall, a retired warrior who introduced himself as Vignar, had deigned to give Mull a quick lecture on the history of the place while he loitered in the foyer. Supposedly, a mead hall known as Jorrvaskr was originally erected from an actual boat by one of Ysgramor's Five Hundred Companions all the way back in the Merethic Era. The settlement that sprang up around it later became the city of Whiterun, though the current Jorrvaskr isn't the same building and most likely dates to the Second Era. The Nords initially settled this location to take possession of the Skyforge, an ancient smithing facility of uncertain origin constructed in the likeness of a giant hawk atop the second-highest hill in the city. According to Vignar, the Skyforge was created by Shor and Kyne themselves, and the Snow Elves of old greatly feared it as a result. Regardless of its questionable origins, the forge produces some of the highest-quality steel in the entire continent, which Mull imagines is probably a huge boon to Whiterun's economy. It certainly sounds like an impressive appellation, at least to his admittedly ignorant ears. He's never had the knack for smithing despite his occasional efforts.

Tangents into ancient history aside, Jorrvaskr – while architecturally impressive – wasn't really his thing. The sight that greeted him as he first walked through the massive time-worn double doors was a ferocious brawl between two of the resident sellswords, with the others placing bets on their favored victor and generally egging them on. Most of them were piss-drunk. For mercenaries of such a purportedly distinguished and renowned institution, they really weren't much to write home about. They didn't look much better than the gangs I used to run with, and we were literal bandits. Gods above.

He eventually decided to made himself scarce when the mead hall's residents had rowdily erupted into a discordant rendition of 'The Five Hundred Mighty Companions or Thereabouts of Ysgramor the Returned,' some ridiculous Nord saga that he hadn't heard before and didn't particularly care to. On his way out the door, he'd stopped to hold a short conversation about archery with Aela out of curtesy more than anything else, but much to his dismay, the redheaded woman had insisted on giving him a demonstration of her ability with the bow. He could tell she just wanted to show off as a way to convince him to join the Companions, but in the interest of keeping himself on her good side, he decided he might as well humor her. There's always the chance he might need to solicit another favor from her.

That turned out to be a mistake. He walked out onto the shooting range behind Jorrvaskr with above-average expectations, knowing full well that Aela would display some serious talent after she handled herself so impressively against the giant at the cabbage farm. But even so, those expectations were blown clean out of the metaphorical water. He always had a high opinion of his own ability with the bow, but after seeing that woman in action… Kyne's breath, she's something else. She wanted to show off, and that's exactly what she did. How is it physically possible to shoot four arrows from the bowstring at once, and for each to hit a bullseye on four different targets? That level of skill should be completely, utterly impossible. It was downright bizarre, in the same way he'd noticed before about the woman's preternatural grace and economy of movement.

The Huntress definitely derived far too much amusement from leaving him slack-jawed by her extravagant sharpshooting. He'd already promised himself not to get involved with her since she's clearly trouble with a capital T, but that demonstration caused his resolve to waver. If he could get even a single bit of advice from an archer with that kind of talent, it could be extremely beneficial for him in the future. So against his better judgement, he promised to join her on the range sometime soon and did his best to ignore her smug, self-satisfied smile.

In addition to his dealings with the local mercenaries, he's also perused several taverns in the lower city during his free evenings. One called the Bannered Mare was the most memorable, though not for any good reasons. There was a bard employed there, a Nord named Mikael, who was quite possibly one of the most insufferable individuals Mull has ever had the misfortune to meet. If it was only the skirt-chasing that he took issue with, then he wouldn't have had that much of a problem with the man. That's never been Mull's thing, but he was a bandit – it goes without saying that many of his comrades were of a womanizing disposition. And besides, such behavior is relatively common for bards from what he's seen.

No, this Mikael wasn't just a philanderer. He was a self-assured, pompous, and rich philanderer, which is a hundred times worse. Apparently the bard is the author of a book titled 'A Gentleman's Guide to Whiterun' or something to that effect, and its popularity has brought him no small measure of financial success. As a result, the Bannered Mare was his debaucherous domain, with the serving staff clearly being bent to his will and his coin. It was… infuriating, in a word.

I just wanted a damn drink, and instead I had to watch that snowback preen as he lorded his wealth over the other patrons. And that isn't to mention his constantly flirting – terribly, I'll add – with every single woman in sight and gods know how many more. I couldn't stomach it. It's a shame since it seemed like a nice inn, one of the nicer ones in the lower city.

All things considered, he doesn't plan to revisit the Mare anytime soon. It was too expensive for me anyways. I might be working for a Jarl now, but that doesn't mean I have much money to throw away. I was flat broke when I arrived in Whiterun, and a couple weeks' wages can only go so far.

Back in the present, Mull concludes his reminiscing as he completes the long climb up the flight of stairs to the Cloud District. He deliberately refocuses himself, mentally preparing for the inevitable pain in the ass that he knows is waiting ahead. From what he's seen, the Jarl's guards in the Cloud District cycle through different positions regularly, so they're often men who have never seen him before. They invariably raise a fuss whenever a poorly-groomed individual like himself makes his daily return from running Farengar's errands.

As expected, the guardsmen at the front doors of Dragonsreach call for him to stop, glare with open suspicion, and order him to provide proof of his business in the Jarl's hall. With an aggrieved sigh, he tells them to duck inside and grab one of the maids to provide confirmation. There are always a few of them hanging around the foyer, using the colonnades as cover to shirk their duties. He's already made use of that fact multiple times to gain entry to the great hall.

The guardsmen share a measured look. Mull's expression darkens as their deliberation lengthens. The last thing he wants is to get into a public shouting match with these men. That's already happened once. I don't think a repeat would be good for my future prospects.

Finally, one of them nods and another cracks open the doors. The guard slips inside for a few seconds before reappearing with a maid in tow, a young woman wearing a faded yellow dress and a white bonnet. They ask her if she knows Mull, and she replies that she does. "He's the Court Wizard's assistant, sir, though he's still a new face in the Cloud District."

At least the cleaning staff have gotten to where they recognize me. Usually.

The guards seem satisfied with the woman's testimony and gesture for Mull to go inside. He hurries through the doorway before they can change their minds.

You'd think they would give me a token from the Jarl or something, like what Aela had to get inside the city. Anything I could use to show them I'm allowed to be in here without having to prove it every single time. But no, apparently that would 'compromise the great hall's security,' or so Irileth has claimed. She said it's too easy for people to abuse such tokens of authority. Still, he wishes it were an option.

He stomps through the wood-paneled hallways leading to Farengar's study with more vigor than strictly necessary. He's already begun to dislike serving the Jarl despite the obvious benefits. It's grating to be required to answer to a snowback wizard with an overinflated ego, constantly being held in suspicion by the Jarl's retainers, and having to show deference to men he holds no respect for whatsoever. The Jarl himself is tolerable enough, but some of his councilors… by the Nine, they're idiots. Especially that balding Cyrod named Proventus, the one who argued with Balgruuf about sending troops to Riverwood. He made it clear from the start that he doesn't believe Mull's presence is necessary or beneficial in any way, and thought he doesn't entirely disagree with that assessment, the man's wordless animosity is still a constant source of annoyance.

And even worse are the Jarl's three children, two boys and a girl. They're spoiled brats in every sense of the word. "Another wanderer here to lick my father boots. Good job," the eldest had once snarked to him in passing.

What a little shit. Mull sneers at the memory. Just thinking about it still makes him mad. He doesn't have much of a right to talk about the way people choose to raise their children, seeing as he has none of his own, but… godsdamn, surely it isn't that hard to keep them from becoming such assholes.

He doesn't know what he's still doing here, really. He has half a mind to walk away, to go back out into the wilderness where things were always so much simpler, no matter how much the Jarl is paying him. The life of a bandit is nomadic. Those who stay in the same place for too long are the ones who die the fastest. That's one of the most important rules of survival. Stay on the move. And right now, it seems all the more applicable with a dragon flying around somewhere. It destroyed Helgen with ease. What could Whiterun hope to do against such a creature?

Up to this point, his plan has been to stay in Whiterun for just a little while, make some good money from the Jarl, and move on. That's the way it always happens, drifting from gang to gang, his usual pattern for these sorts of things. And this is especially true where big cities are concerned. They hold greater opportunities but greater risks as well.

Balgruuf is keeping him around for his expertise in case the dragon attacks, but his skepticism regarding his own value as an advisor of any kind is frankly insurmountable. No, this isn't something he imagines will work out in the long term. Nothing lasts forever. That's a fact of life.

But this time, there's something holding him back from gathering up his meager belongings and absconding in search of new opportunities, and it isn't the bags of money or the quality local mead. And it definitely isn't the company. He snorts as he thinks unkindly of Aela and Farengar.

It's… something more than that. Just as before, when he was debating whether he should drop in for a friendly chat with the Embershard Clan, he now once again feels that nagging little impulse at the back of his mind insisting he ought to change his ways.

What about Morven? Would she have wanted him to stay and make something out of this opportunity? If he continues living the way he has been, would she be proud of him?

He doesn't think so. I ran away from the old gang after Morven died, or what was left of it. And after that I still ran. And ran. And ran. Now that I look back on it, I guess I never stopped running away. I ran to Skyrim looking for another chance, ran with Lokir for a while, ran from Helgen, ran from Riverwood… He internally sneers. Always running from something. What's the worth of a life like that?

If he could find something, a place, an opportunity, anything where he could carve out a permanent niche for himself in this world, to do something, then maybe he…

…No. That's a fool's dream. He wouldn't be able to do something like that. He never has been.

The point of being a bandit was to survive. He never struck it rich and honestly never expected to. The fighting was fun at times, but it also made for a hard life. He sure as hell didn't want to be a bandit forever, though he always suspected that would end up being the case. He never had a greater overarching goal in mind. He wasn't ever much good at thinking about those sorts of things. He always left that to Morven.

But now here he is with a real, tangible chance to have what she always wanted to have, at least a little bit. Could he forgive himself if he let this opportunity slip through his fingers because of, what, base stubbornness? Pride? Cynicism? Those are traits Morven was always quick to criticize, and despite his hardheadedness, he always understood deep down that she was right to do so. Is isn't necessarily that he has a responsibility to Whiterun, or the Jarl, or whoever the hell else – he certainly does not – but he does have a responsibility to Morven, and all the more so now that she's gone.

Gods, please don't tell me I'm developing a conscience. I don't need that right now. He exasperatedly runs a hand through his hair. This isn't like me. None of these things actually matter. Just… do what you've always done. Keep yourself out of trouble and make sure you see another sunrise. That's the only thing worth worrying about. It's the most important thing. I'm not much of a planner or a schemer. Living day to day is the only thing I'm good at. So for now, that's what I'll do. What happens will happen, and I'll deal with whatever comes.

As he walks past an open door, he overhears snippets of two men conversing inside, probably off-duty warriors. "What do you make of Balgruuf's dragon expert? They say he fought against that dragon at Helgen. Do you think it's true?"

"Might be. I've heard that he knows everything there is to know about the beast. He certainly spends a lot of time in the Court Wizard's lair. Although he doesn't look much like a Nord, so I don't know how much use he'd be in a fight against something like a dragon."

"Aye. Hopefully we never have to find out."

Mull grimaces as he continues towards his destination. 'Dragon expert,' huh? Ysmir's beard, where do people come up with this stuff? The news of the dragon attack at Helgen has finally begun to spread among the general populace over the past several days, so he imagines all sorts of rumors are flying around right now.

He briefly steps aside to allow a nervous serving maid to walk past him. The girl takes one look up at his face, squeaks with fright, and scurries down the hallway as quickly as her ankle-length skirts will allow.

Damn. I'm not that ugly, am I? He scoffs as he shoves open the door to Farengar's study.

The wizard looks up from a thick sheaf of parchment as he marches inside. "Ah, you've finally returned. Good. I was hoping you wouldn't be much longer."

Try to sound more excited, won't you?

"Now that you're here, I need you to draft several copies of these letters for me – if you are able, of course. I'd presume that even a man such as yourself is capable of basic reading and writing, though perhaps that is an erroneous assumption on my part…"

-x-

After the end of another long day of trekking across the city for Farengar's pointless chores, Mull returns to his quarters in the Temple District just as the sun is beginning to set. He closes the door and quickly takes stock of his room to make sure nothing has been tampered with. It's cramped and poorly-lit, but homey in a rustic sort of way. It isn't bad for being free. Not at all.

Once he's fairly sure none of his belongings have been stolen or otherwise moved without his permission, he pulls off his boots, drops them on the floor, and sinks gratefully into his hay-stuffed mattress, not bothering to remove his dirt-spattered trousers or moist socks. As always, he revels in the comfort his bedding provides. The difference between a bedroll and an actual mattress couldn't possibly be overstated.

The room is warm in comparison to the autumn chill of Skyrim's outdoors, and that combined with the soft orange glow of the evening sun through his window makes for a dangerous blend of contentment. Before long, his breathing slows and his eyelids droop. One final thought that he should really go find something to eat for dinner isn't quite enough to prevent him from falling inexorably into the black pit of a much-needed slumber.

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Out of the somnial blackness rise ghostly specters of unknown provenance, wrathful and malignant. They gradually take form, coalescing into a sequence of transitory scenes flashing before his eyes one after another. They flicker across his unconscious vision with such swiftness that he barely has time to dwell on one before the next has already taken its place.

A hulking silhouette looms over him in the midst of a harsh blizzard, monstrously built with broad shoulders and gangly arms. From its shadowed head, three points of pale light gleam with unfettered malevolence. The unidentifiable being stomps forward, not deterred in the slightest by the banks of heavy snow and slick ice coating the frozen earth. Mull gets the distinct feeling that he's about to die, and that there's nothing he can do to stop it.

Just before the creature reaches him, the wind howls discordantly and increases in strength, throwing up sheets of snow that turn the world into an inscrutable sea of white.

A field of dead bodies and broken weaponry spans from horizon to crimson horizon, presided over by a horde of gore-beaked crows fluttering across the sky, cawing with manic glee. As one, they descend upon the waiting feast and tear into fetid flesh with reckless abandon. The eyeballs are the first to go, followed by noses and ears, and only then the remaining skin and meat comprising the faces of the slain.

The sky darkens and Mull glances upwards, tearing his gaze away from the gruesome spectacle. One single crow is wheeling high above, nearly level with the rust-red clouds. From this distance it's little more than a speck. Then, as if having waited to catch his gaze, the crow tucks its wings and dives straight down on a course directly towards him. It grows in size with dizzying rapidity, and he quickly realizes as it alights upon the gore-soaked battlefield that… That isn't a crow.

Spiraling horns frame its head like a creature summoned straight from Oblivion. Its scales glitter like a million onyx stones in the fiery sunlight. Its claws and spiked tail are dripping with blood. It doesn't slow its descent as it approaches the earth. Instead, the monstrous creature opens its fanged maw and roars deafeningly, putting all the ravenous beasts of the world to shame. A wave of pure power washes over the broken plain, engulfing him in a blinding flash of colorless light.

The hunched figure of a young boy stands alone in the middle of a city street, the paving-stones beneath his bare feet scorched black like charcoal. Around him lie the devastated remains of a town once full of life, now a graveyard of charred bones with no hope for a proper burial. A haze of rancid smoke obscures the sky. It smells exactly like Helgen. He can taste death on the air.

With shocking suddenness, the boy writhes as he's engulfed by an unstoppable torrent of flame from the sky. He's immolated so quickly that he doesn't even have the chance to scream. After what seems like an eternity of suffering, the fire burns out and the boy collapses to the ground, blackened like the stones around him, far beyond what any mortal aid could possibly restore.

In the last of his death-throes, the boy turns his face upwards, giving Mull a clear view of his features. A pair of haunted hazel-green eyes stare back, shimmering with anguish. It's a face that he hasn't seen in a long, long time. It belongs to his younger self, from the years before he fell into his life of banditry. When he was a child who had yet to witness the hardships of the world firsthand.

The boy reaches out to him with fingers splayed, his nails cracked and skin rent with fissures like overcooked sausage. But no matter how hard he tries to take the boy's hand, he can't force his arm to rise from his side. He's too weak. He can't do it.

The boy and the surrounding buildings dissolve into piles of ash, quickly blown away on a hot wind. The last to vanish is the boy's outstretched hand.

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He awakens with a startled gasp. Salty sweat dribbles into his eyes, dislodged by his sudden movement, and he blinks rapidly to alleviate the stinging discomfort He's completely soaked, clothes and all. His forehead throbs painfully as he sits up.

With a tired groan, he raises his arms and yanks off his sodden shirt. After throwing it unceremoniously across the room onto his pile of dirty laundry, he shakily stands and lurches over to a pewter washbasin set up against the opposite wall.

He cups his hands inside the basin and scoops water onto his face, rousing himself by the flickering light of an oil lamp hanging overhead. Once the cloudiness of sleep has been dispelled, he grabs the edges of the table and leans over the basin. As the rippling surface of the water settles into stillness, he finds a face staring back at him.

It bears many similarities to the reflection he saw in the river north of Helgen, though there are differences as well. His skin isn't as pale. His beard has grown thicker. Leading up to that day at the river, he'd endured two weeks of imprisonment and months of hard living. In comparison, his cheeks are now no longer quite as gaunt as they once were. He's been eating good food and sleeping in a good bed within the protective walls of Whiterun, and it's done wonders for him.

But his eyes, if anything, are worse. The dark rings beneath them have gotten even darker, and his eyes are sunken more deeply into his face. It's still the face of an exhausted man though the specifics have changed.

He tears his gaze away from the reflection and reaches down to his rucksack sitting on the floor, from which he retrieves his waterskin. He takes a deep draught without the slightest care for the lukewarm temperature or leathery flavor. He's parched, and the water tastes amazing.

Once he's satiated, he stumbles over to his room's single window and shoves it open. He wonders how must time has elapsed since he inadvertently fell asleep. If it's the middle of the night, he won't be able to get anything to eat.

Luckily there's still a hint of light on the western horizon, so it can't have been too long since sunset. The cool evening breeze against his unusually feverish skin feels incredibly soothing. He must've only been sleeping for an hour or two, thought for some reason it felt much longer than that. I'm always having dreams nowadays. Still, these ones were unusually bad. He shudders as he thinks of the crow-turned-dragon diving towards him. Why does it seem like the worst dreams are always the ones you remember?

He swishes around one last mouthful of water and spits through the open window. On the street below, he hears someone curse loudly at him as the arc of liquid splashes into the ground. They must've narrowly avoided an unwanted bath. He might find it funny under normal circumstances, but right now humor is the furthest thing from his mind.

He doesn't know what any of these dreams were supposed to mean – if anything – though he can guess one or two were directly related to Helgen. But as for the rest, he really has no idea. He tries not to dwell on them too much. They aren't real, and that's what matters in the end. Just figments of my imagination. That's all they are.

As if in disagreement, the dragon from Helgen's terrible fiery eyes flash before him quite possibly for the hundredth time, assailing him with abject dread. He shakes his head like a dog shedding water. It already happened. It's over. You survived, and if you can help it, you'll never see that dragon again. Just let it go already.

Clearly that's easier said than done. He wants to stay here and do something with himself, for Morven's sake, but… "Coming to Skyrim in the first place was clearly a mistake." He leans against the windowsill and hangs his head, muttering into his damp beard. "That's pretty damn obvious."

Not for the first time, he wonders why. Why did this all have to happen? Is this a punishment because I couldn't protect her? Is it for all the people I've wronged? He's always been a dedicated proponent of the idea that only the fittest deserve to survive. The weak die and the strong thrive, and that's how it should be. He firmly believes that, and so he refuses to accept that the stealing and killing he's done over the course of his life were inherently immoral actions. That's how life works. It's a clearly evident fact to a bandit like him, someone who buoyed himself on the hardships of others.

But whenever he thinks about Morven and her death, he inevitably wants to reconsider that outlook. It wasn't right for her to have died while he survived. It just wasn't. In so many ways, she was a stronger person than him. She had aspirations and hopes. It wasn't right.

His fists clench. His jaw tightens. His vision swims red, like someone splashed a bucket of blood across the walls. Something guttural bubbles upwards from deep in his lungs, threatening to explode, desperate to be unleashed. He feels like he's going to burst, so powerful is the pressure building within him.

An abrasive leather cord shifts against his neck. The coolness of the amulet suspended upon it tingles as it brushes the bare skin of his chest. It's a miniscule point of icy relief adrift in a sea of searing intensity, but he manages to latch onto the faint sensation like a lifeline, using it to pull himself out of his downward spiral.

He slowly, painfully, methodically pulls himself together, just as he always does. He flexes his fingers, ignoring the tingling cuts in his palms inflicted by his own nails. He blinks until his eyes are dry and the world doesn't look so red. He exhales through his nose, willing all the rage and disgust to pour out with his spent air and dissipate. He's gotten better at this than he'd like to admit.

His gaze falls to the little bone-charm necklace dangling over his chest. As it does, his thoughts are drawn away from the anger to another time and place. He remembers the young woman who had such confidence, such love, such desire to see every new sunrise. He remembers the innumerable ways, some big and some little, that she made his life better.

He remembers her death vividly. He remembers the horrible, gut-wrenching moment of realization that he had survived that battle in the mountains and she had not. The memory is as fresh as if it were yesterday.

Reflecting over this necklace is a ritual he often repeats at night, a way to help him remember the things that once mattered most. He cradles the bone charm in his calloused hands, recommitting every facet and blemish to memory.

It's a simple thing. The edges are rough and the overall shape is slightly uneven. It would barely be worth a single septim at a market. Morven was never much of a craftswoman, but for some godsforsaken reason she decided one day that she wanted to make something for him, and this is what it was. The crude likeness of Kyne's hawk, carved from a piece of jawbone scavenged from a deer.

He perfectly recalls the look of intense concentration on her face as she sat by the campfire and painstakingly carved this amulet, the tip of her tongue sticking out and the occasional muttered curse escaping her. He chuckles at the mental image, but the morosity quickly returns.

He raises the amulet to his lips. "Thank you," he whispers.

He cherishes what she gave to him, and he doesn't mean this poorly-carved chuck of jawbone. No. In and of itself, it isn't worth much at all. The worth of this trinket – as with all trinkets, he supposes – is in what it represents. It's a reminder. It's a memento of a time he could pretend to have a purpose, and a symbol of what he might've had in another life.

He sits and stares at the charm for a long time, unwilling to let it slip from his grasp. If he does, he feels like he'd forever be losing something precious.

But finally, he admits to himself that he needs to find a distraction of some kind. With one last squeeze, he releases the charm and rises.

He puts on some new clothes – his final clean set – and exits the barracks in silence. After a short stroll, he reaches one of the few taverns in the temple district and secures himself a meal. It's expensive and isn't much better than the food in the lower districts, but he doesn't want to walk that far with the moons already swiftly rising.

A few hours later, he returns to his room with a belly full of baked chicken and a little more alcohol in his blood than usually advisable. As such, it doesn't take him long to fall asleep again, though he does remember to remove his day clothes first.

This time he isn't troubled by so many dreams. There are still a few, as there always are these days, but upon waking the next morning, he finds that he barely remembers them.

-x-

Before him stands a half-timbered building three stories tall, with at least two dozen windows and a peaked roof crowned by sturdy cornices depicting dragon heads. It's indistinguishable from any of the other houses and businesses in this area of Whiterun, save for its uncommon size and prime location on one of the main thoroughfares between the western gate and the market district. Just in front of the entrance, a sign hanging from a post declares the building to be 'The Drunken Huntsman.' The illustration adorning the signage appears to be a mug overflowing with creamy foam.

"The Drunken Huntsman, huh?" He looks at Aela sidelong. "Sounds like the kind of place your Companions would enjoy."

"Maybe not as much as you'd expect from the name." Aela starts toward the front doors, taking long strides in her usual lithe gait.

He dutifully but unenthusiastically follows, having been roped into this escapade with little choice in the matter. When Aela showed up at the door of the temple barracks demanding to go out on the town for an afternoon, there wasn't anything he could pull out of his ass to be able to reasonably refuse. He still isn't sure how she figured out the location of his current residence in the first place.

"This is a tavern," the Huntress continues, "but it also doubles as one of the city's finest hunting supply shops. Seeing as it's a place of business, there isn't much carousing that goes on in here, especially during the daytime. That, and… well, you're about to see. I'll save my breath."

I wonder what that means. He mentally shrugs and reaches ahead to hold open the door as Aela enters the tavern.

Inside, they find a clean and generally well-maintained common room with an L-shaped bar. Besides the usual amenities one would expect from an alehouse, the room is also conspicuously awash with an assortment of hunting paraphernalia. Unstrung bows hang from pegs on the walls, multiple tables are piled high with arrows, and a variety of other miscellaneous knickknacks are lying around.

After that cursory glance, he takes a moment to examine the other occupants out of ingrained habit. It's always smart to know what kind of situation you're walking into.

A handful of patrons are wandering around the tavern's interior or sitting at a collection of circular tables near the central hearth. He immediately notices that most of these people are Dumner, including a few men and women bearing an assortment of weapons and armor. They have the look of mercenaries about them. One of their number, a female with yellow facepaint, briefly meets his gaze before going back to her drink.

"I thought you might like this place." Aela nods briskly to an elf standing behind the bar – a Bosmer this time – and then leans over to study an elaborately engraved longbow on display near the front door. "There aren't enough of us Nords who appreciate the fine art of archery. It's always swords this and axes that, especially with meatheads like the ones I work with." She proudly puffs out her chest. "But when I showed you my capabilities on the range, you were suitably impressed. Your eyes didn't glaze over like most of those other dimwits. I've gotta say, it's nice to be properly appreciated for once."

Mull isn't entirely sure if she's insulting him or not, so he responds with an ambiguous grunt as he peers at a dagger locked in a display case. The weapon has a jagged blade shaped like a lightning bolt and a glittering ruby set into its pommel. It looks like Khajiit craftsmanship, though that's really a blind guess. He's never been anywhere close to Elsweyr, and has only known a few Khajiit over the years well enough to call them acquaintances.

He looks up as distance grows between himself and Aela. The woman seems engrossed by the weapons and equipment available here. I guess that isn't a surprise. Her moniker is 'The Huntress' for a reason. Now basking in his temporary freedom from his captor's attention, he decides to meander over to the bar and give his hellos to the proprietor.

As he approaches, the elf behind the counter looks up from wiping a dirty ceramic platter with a dishrag. His features are long and his skin is sallow, as is the case with most Bosmer. His russet hair is braided and hangs to his shoulders in what appears to be a distinctly Nord style. For a reason he can't quite put a finger on, Mull finds that amusing.

"Hey there."

The elf nods just as he nodded to Aela earlier, welcoming enough but otherwise all business. "Hello. Are you looking for hunting supplies or just needing something to drink?" His slanted eyes are almost entirely black, though that could be a trick of the firelight. A row of candles burn merrily along the edge of the counter, causing faint shadows to dance across every surface despite the sun's rays filtering through the windows.

"The first of those. I haven't done much looking around yet, but I thought I'd stop by for a meet and greet. I've never been here before." If you're ever going to buy something as potentially expensive as a bow or a quiver, it's always worthwhile to be on the seller's good side. The prices are better that way.

The Bosmer sets down the dirty dish and wipes his hands on his trousers. "That's quite often the case for our mannish customers. As you can see, much of our clientele here comes from fellow mer. We get a fair number of you men as well, no doubt about that, but there are only so many of our kindred living in this city." He waves to encompass the tavern and its denizens. "We have few enough places in Skyrim to call our own. Though it was never my brother or I's intention, the Drunken Huntsman has become one of them."

"Neat." It is odd for so many elves to be gathered in one place now that he thinks about it. Maybe they like sticking together. Can't blame 'em for that. It's what I would do in their shoes. Living somewhere with a bunch of elves and few men would be… that would be strange.

When the elf behind the counter clears his throat, Mull realizes he's allowed the silence to drag out for too long. He asks the first random thing that comes to mind.

"Do you, uh, run this place with your brother?"

"Yes, I do. His name is Anoriath. When he isn't here, he operates a meat stall over at the eastern market. You might've seen him if you've ever been there during the day."

He doesn't recall seeing any specific Bosmer at the market, though he has spotted several around the city during his errands for Farengar or visitations to taverns. He's always had a difficult time telling apart elves of the same race.

He cranes his neck and sweeps his gaze across the room. Again, most of the elves present are Dunmer. He only spots a couple of other Bosmer scattered among them. And no Altmer, he thinks wryly. "So how did you and your brother end up so far away from Valenwood? Skyrim seems like an odd choice for Wood Elves."

Elrindir's expression darkens, and his charcoal-black eyes even more so.

Mull stifles a wince. In hindsight, maybe that wasn't the best question to ask an elf he's known for all of one minute. He's never claimed to be a tactful person and probably never will. I'm trying to be diplomatic here, dammit.

"After the end of the Great War, the Dominion began conducting purges against perceived dissidents throughout Valenwood. Many were killed and many more were forced to flee from their homes into exile. The kin of my brother and I were among the latter. We lived in a city called Greenheart, a very ancient place that has been sacred to our people for uncountable generations. Evidently, the Thalmor decided our home was worthy of their dedicated attention. Some of us fled northwards, to Skyrim and elsewhere, in an attempt to put as much distance as possible between ourselves and the Dominion. But now it seems even Skyrim isn't far enough away to be rid of them," he finishes bitterly. "By the stipulations of the White-Gold Concordat, their justicars are given free reign in these lands to hunt down their enemies wherever they might be found, both real and perceived."

After a brief silence, the elf sighs and passes a hand over his face. Mull shuffles uncomfortably.

"My apologies," says Elrindir. "I didn't intend to bring up such a cheerless topic of discussion."

"It's… fine," he clumsily deflects. "No harm done." It sounds like those Thalmor bastards love causing trouble for everyone, even their own kind. "On hating the High Elves, I think we can find some common ground."

"Is that so? And what atrocities have they visited upon you, if I might ask?" The Bosmer seems genuinely curious.

I wouldn't call them atrocities, but… He's never particularly enjoyed discussing his younger years. However, this elf has already spilled his guts to him, so he might as well return the favor.

"If this were a competition for pity, I think you'd be the winner hands down. But… my father fought against the Dominion during the Continuation War in Hammerfell, after the Empire signed the White-Gold Concordat and withdrew back to Cyrodiil. I don't know what happened exactly, but he never came back from the war. The day he left to go join the fighting was the last time I ever saw him. There's no doubt in my mind that the Thalmor killed him."

"Was he one of those heroic Legionary deserters the Imperials love to prattle on about?" Elrindir's tone is unmistakably sardonic.

"No, he was just a retainer to a local lord. He had nothing to do with the war before the Concordat, and the same could be said for most folks in the north and east. But when the Empire abandoned Hammerfell to fight against the Dominion alone, I think that changed the way a lot of people viewed the situation. I was a child at the time, so I wouldn't know all the details. I can barely remember that far back. Don't even remember what the man looked like," he scornfully huffs.

The elf gives him a scrutinizing look. "I'm no authority on the intricacies of the mannish races, but I must say, you don't seem to much resemble a Redguard."

He snorts. "I get that a lot. My father was a Nord, as it happens. More of them live around Dragonstar and Elinhir than most people seem to think. That whole area was a part of Skyrim until after the Oblivion Crisis, or so I've been told. But those Nords are a bit different from the Nords here in Skyrim. Not as many of 'em had the blonde hair and blue eyes – like me for instance. The stories I heard as a child weren't all quite the same as the tales bards tell here. Their manner of dress was different. The food was different. I'm sure there are a lot more examples, but those are the things I remember. I left when I was a young man, still practically a child, so there's a lot I never learned about their ways."

"I imagine it would be a strange thing, to know so little of your own people. I personally can't imagine such a thing."

"Maybe…" He trails off, then sheepishly rubs the back of his neck. "Sorry about that. I'm sure you didn't want to waste your time listening to my life story."

"It's quite alright, my friend. I subjected you to the same thing, so I suppose we're even in that regard. And besides, any enemy of the Thalmor is most assuredly a brother of mine. It's heartening in a way to see that they've earned themselves no shortage of adversaries." The elf offers a friendly smile before redonning his businesslike demeanor. "So, are you in the market for anything specific today?"

"I'm just looking for arrows is all. I've heard you make some of the best stuff in the city." He jabs a thumb at Aela, who's now moved on to perusing a collection of hunting leathers. He briefly wonders if this is where she buys her all clothing. Most people don't go around wearing hide tunics and leggings all the time. "And anyone who's shot a bow with their life on the line will know that quality matters."

It's hard to hit anything if your arrow doesn't fly straight. He's had to deal with that particular problem more than once, seeing as bandits typically don't have much equipment to choose from. He took what he could get when he could get it.

"Too true. You're in luck, as we have plenty of arrows for any sort of prey you can imagine. Be it hagraven or horker, it matters not. Most of our stock is over there, on those tables to the right of the windcatchers, but there's also a few on the shelves next to the chimney. There are several different types of arrowheads and fletchings available, though not as many as we would normally have in stock with the Civil War and everything else going on. Feel free to take a look."

"I'll do that. Thanks." With one final nod, he leaves the elf to his dishwashing and makes his way over to the aforementioned arrows.

A few elves stare at him with veiled curiosity as he crosses the room, though none seem inordinately interested. He isn't the only man walking around Whiterun, even if he's one of the few in this room at the moment. He imagines they have to spend more time looking at men, Nord or otherwise, than they'd particularly care to.

He soon commits himself to sifting through the bins and boxes of arrows, searching for any that catch his eye or feel especially balanced in his hand. They're all sharp, free of rust, and properly oiled. It's evident that Elrindir and his brother are running a good operation here. Mead and weapons. With a combination like that, it's honestly a wonder they aren't swimming in Nord gold. But maybe it really is like Aela said about people not appreciating the art of hunting. Knowing the Nords, they'd probably think using a bow is dishonorable because you aren't killing your enemy face to face, or something equally idiotic.

He spends a while picking out arrows to buy, but not as long as he might in a normal place of business. Here in the Drunken Huntsman, he feels conspicuously out of place with so many elves surrounding him. There's only one place he's visited that had a large number of Dunmer, and that was the city of Cheydinhal in Cyrodiil. He wasn't there too long due to some legal trouble – of a sort – but it was long enough to realize there were almost as many elves living in the city as there were Cyrods, even so close to the Imperial heartland. If that many Dunmer are living outside of Morrowind, it really makes you wonder just how bad they've had it over there. There was the Oblivion Crisis, the Red Year, the Argonians crawling out of their swamp to invade… Though I guess if you think about it, things have been pretty bad everywhere for one reason or another. And Skyrim is no exception.

He's drawn away from his increasingly grim musings by the approach of a certain gregarious redhead. Aela sidles up next to him and nudges him sharply with her elbow. "You find anything good?"

He steps back and responds with an indignant glare. There's something called personal space, woman.

Unaware or indifferent to his annoyance, she matches him step for step and holds out a hand. "Come on. Let me see."

"…Here." He curtly grumbles and presents his handful of arrows for her inspection, careful not to point the barbed steel broadheads at her or himself. "There's nothing else I need, so I think I'm about ready to pay and leave." He glances down at the bundle of clothing clutched in the Huntress' hands. "What about you?"

"Oh, I just found myself some odds and ends. And I went ahead and picked up some new clothes while I was at it. When you're out in the trackless wilds as often as I am, you can never have enough clothes. I swear I go through five tunics a month."

"Sounds tough."

The Huntress snickers, recognizing his sarcasm for what it is. "Yep. The joys of life as a glorious mercenary, tramping around in the middle of nowhere and picking fights with creatures only a suicidal icebrain would willingly face." She stretches her arms over her head and sighs theatrically. "I wouldn't have it any other way."

"Speak for yourself." Life as a bandit wasn't luxurious in the slightest, and rarely even a little comfortable. As much as he prefers staying away from large numbers of people, he'll admit that the conditions and amenities in Whiterun are far better than anything he could ever scrounge in his former alpine haunts.

"I usually do," Aela cheekily replies.

I swear, you can never get the last word with her.

Together they return to Elrindir at the counter. Mull gives the elf his selection of arrows. "This is all for me."

"Then let's see here. Five arrows, all of them barbed. Standard shafts and helical fletching. That'll be two septims each, so ten in total."

Mull's eyebrows rise. "That's a good deal."

"Here at the Drunken Huntsman, we only offer the best." With a practiced smile, Elrindir hands back the arrows in a cheap cloth sack. Mull forgot to bring his quiver or any means of transporting more than a few at a time, something he only now realizes.

"See?" Aela interjects with a smirk. "I told you this place was good. For what you get, you can't beat their prices."

"I guess you were right." He fishes the requisite sum out of his coinpurse – he actually has an honest-to-gods coinpurse now – and deposits the stack of septims on the countertop before stepping aside for Aela. She piles up her clothes and other things for Elrindir to evaluate.

The elf quickly sorts through the items as he whispers numbers under his breath. "More leathers, Aela? You go through these rather quickly. Is mercenary work truly so dangerous?"

"Well… you might call it the result of carelessness on my part. I have a bad habit of tearing them up when I get angry." She steals a glace at Mull and grins wolfishly, as if sharing some inside joke. He has no idea what the joke is supposed to be. "But I get paid well enough to spare the coin, so it isn't an issue. Besides, don't they say women are supposed to like shopping for clothes?"

Elrindir scoffs good-naturedly as he finishes tallying the Huntress' bill. She forks over the money, gathers up her new possessions, and bids goodbye to the elf as she heads for the door.

Mull stops to exchange a few words with his newest acquaintance. It may just be a business act, but he finds Elrindir easy to interact with. He seems honest enough for a merchant, anyhow. "Good luck, and keep your eyes open. You never know what might come around." Like a dragon, for instance.

"You as well, friend. Do return if you ever need to restock your supplies. We're open every day."

"Sure." He readjusts his grip on the bag of arrows and follows in the Huntress' wake.

As he emerges back into the sunlight and fresh air, he swings shut the door behind him and feels the multiple pairs of eyes staring at the back of his head disappear all at once. Those elves sure are a wary lot…

Aela is waiting on the side of the road, gesturing impatiently for him to get a move on. Hundreds of people are thronging through the streets in all directions, tall Nords and swarthy Cyrods and hulking Orcs all alike. To his right, the city walls and its accompanying towers rise above the rooftops two or three blocks away, crumbling and decrepit but nonetheless patrolled by warriors clad in yellow, the steel of their armor and weapons shimmering brightly in the sunlight. It occurs to him that if the dragon from Helgen swooped down and bathed this street in flames right at this moment, there wouldn't be anything anyone could do to stop it.

Though in a land like Skyrim, you'd have to be.