Chapter 13
His vision comes back into focus with agonizing slowness, a grainy mixture of blacks and whites and greys. They gradually separate into blurred shapes, sharpen into vague outlines, and then coalesce into distinct objects.
He's still standing before the black stone wall, not having moved an inch. He looks around groggily and wonders what could've possibly happened. I don't recall ever sleeping on my feet before.
His knees and back are burning with fatigue, and his head aches terribly as his gaze sweeps back over those primeval runes. The whispering is finally gone. The silence of cold stone is all that remains. But even so, those words he read and heard continue to linger at the forefront of his hazy thoughts.
Fus…
He's drawn to that word in particular for some reason.
It means 'Force,' in your tongue. Your… my tongue? But how do I know that? And why?
He grinds his teeth together as he wracks his memory for answers. It quickly becomes apparent that there are none to be found. Just like the incident with the dragon-runes in Farengar's study, he can't even begin to guess what happened or why. There was more to it this time, a revealing, a winnowing, like something deep inside him was scoured with fistfuls of sand. And there was that ghostly murmuring from nowhere and everywhere…
"Back to the land of the living, eh?" A gruff voice draws his attention. Torgen is squatting several feet away and rummaging through the remains of a thoroughly rotted wooden coffer. Scattered around him are a few stacks of coins, piles of hacksilver, the golden dragon claw, a bronze buckler shield, and the draugr-lord's frost-enchanted greataxe among other things. Archer girl is gradually sorting through it all. Shield girl is sitting nearby, now conscious and gingerly rubbing her bandaged shoulder as she stares idly at the ground.
Mull croaks something unintelligible, clears his throat, and tries again. "I think so." He looks over the bandits' loot, noting that there doesn't appear to be much of exceptional value other than the greataxe. "Slim pickings?"
Torgen snorts. "It's looking that way." He gets to his feet and wipes his hands on his trousers. "All we have here is some junk the others found in those mausoleum-looking things scattered around the cave. It's worthless garbage. There isn't anything we couldn't have dug up in some old graveyard." His disgust is clearly visible in his furrowed eyebrows and taut lips. For her part, archer girl simply looks sad.
This expedition wasn't anywhere close to worthwhile for them. The Dark Elf played them badly. Mull glances down at the Dragonstone, propped sideways against the draugr-lord's sarcophagus where he'd left it before his… lapse. He still needs to devise how exactly he'll transport it. And I'm increasingly skeptical about how worthwhile this was for me. Going through all this trouble for a godsdamn rock, he scoffs to himself. Farengar had better have something really, really good waiting for me back at Dragonsreach.
Torgen addresses him again as he examines one of the coins, twirling it back and forth between his fingers. "Any idea what that was all about, kid? You were acting strange there for a while, like you couldn't hear us even when we were yelling in your ears. You stood there like a statue for a good ten minutes. I even shoved you around a little bit just in case you were passed out standing up, but no. You kept staring at that wall like your life depended on it."
He shakes his head. He has no clue what any of that was. It was an incredibly odd experience. Funny how two of those have happened in less than a week.
There's no question in his mind that this isn't a coincidence. It must have something to do with the reason Farengar sent me here. He said I might find more information about the dragon-runes, and sure enough, those are dragon-runes on that black wall. There are some on the Dragonstone too. This is all connected somehow. The question is how exactly.
He lets out a long breath and runs his fingers through his crusty hair, growing more confused and annoyed with each second he spends thinking about whatever the hell just happened. It goes without saying that Farengar owes me some answers. And there's also a chance he might know about the dragon-rune inscription on the tablet. 'Here rest our fallen lords until the power of Alduin revives.' I wonder what that's supposed to mean – not that it really matters, he gripes. After I get paid for this shitshow, he can throw that tablet in the White River for all I care.
Torgen tosses the coin to archer girl and shrugs. "Well anyway, we should get going soon. No reason for us to stay here any longer. We've gotten our hard-earned loot, for whatever in Oblivion it's worth," he rumbles.
"Aye. Though what'll we do about your…?" Mull glances at the bodies of the bandits' two fallen companions, already neatly arranged side-by-side with respective weapons lying at their feet. Tattered cloaks and blankets weighted down by heavy stones provide their bloodied forms with some semblance of dignity.
Torgen's countenance darkens as he palms the Talos amulet hanging from his neck. "They rest in Sovngarde now, rejoicing among the ranks of the mighty. Their battles are over. There isn't much more we can do for them here on Nirn, and I don't think they would want us to linger for their sakes."
He considers the older man, noting the anger and remorse glittering fiercely behind his dark blue eyes. This is an expression he's seen countless times before. Despite his flowery words, this Nord is furious about his comrades' deaths, and all the more so because there's nothing he can do to make things right. In spite of himself, Mull feels a flicker of empathy for this man.
He grunts in acknowledgement. "…I guess there isn't."
-x-
They stumble across an inconspicuous exit located near the far left corner of the cavern, tucked away out from view behind the draugr-lord's terrace. The four survivors warily traverse a slender tunnel interspaced with archaic alters and shadowy vaults, watchful for traps or any final opponents that might decide to waylay them. Thankfully, there are none.
A few uneventful minutes after leaving the main cavern behind, they emerge onto a cliff face overlooking a huge lake below. Its farthest shores are invisible, hidden behind broad banks of white mist. The setting sun tints the surface of the expansive waters a vivid rose-gold.
Beyond the shimmering lake is a vast spruce forest marching into the distance, and even further past that is a range of snowcapped mountains spanning across the southern horizon. Large white birds are soaring low over the calm waters, some local variety of heron searching for dinner. Nearer at hand, petrified stumps protrude from the shoreline. An indistinct shape that might be a partially submerged ruin looms out of the mist to the west. The air smells pungent, like algae, but not in a bad way. It's a welcome change of pace.
Mull stops to appreciate the crisp wind on his face, refreshing after the stagnant interior of the barrow. There really was a secondary exit. We're finally out. I can't believe it.
It's late in the evening, so he assumes they must've been stuck inside the barrow for a little longer than half a day. He has officially survived his first full delve into a Nordic ruin.
Though it isn't an experience I particularly want to repeat. Not for the first or last time, his unkind thoughts turn to Farengar. Wizard, I hope you're shaking in your boots right now. You'd better be.
After their fight against the draugr-lord, archer girl was able to heal shield girl well enough for her to walk under her own power, but she still won't be able to travel far before sundown. The frostbite afflicting her shoulder has left her in chronic pain, and guiding her down a scree slope from the barrow exit to the shoreline turns out to be a time-consuming process. They can only hope her condition doesn't worsen before they find a healer.
Mull considers leaving them behind and continuing back to Whiterun on his own, but grudgingly recognizes that travelling through foreign terrain without anyone to watch his back, all while exhausted from their ordeal and with the Dragonstone weighing him down, would be an exceptionally bad idea. There's little choice at the moment except to stick with these bandits for now, no matter how much they might slow him down.
They only linger long enough to wash themselves in a nearby creek before setting out east for Riverwood. Mull swathes the Dragonstone in a dirty shirt and rigs it to hang down his back from a pair of straps wound around his shoulders, taking care not to look too closely at it. He doesn't want to suffer another episode. Even when his gaze just barely sweeps across the runes on the tablet, that's enough to make his forehead throb.
At least he isn't alone in carrying something heavy. Torgen is hauling the draugr-lord's enchanted axe. The man is clearly disgusted by the idea of keeping the weapon that claimed his comrade's life, but has also voiced a desire to sell it. Enchanted weaponry, even a relic like this one, can go for quite a bit of gold if you know the right people.
The coins they pilfered from Bleak Falls Barrow are all stamped with the same side-view dragon heads, identical to the ones they found when they first entered the tunnels, though the images adorning many of their pitted faces are now completely illegible. Most of the coins are approximately the same size and weight as a septim, so some merchants might be willing to accept them as proper coinage if they're lucky. If they don't, we'll be losing out of a lot of potential money. Between the four of them, they've gathered at least a hundred of the ancient coins.
Archer girl works up the courage to ask him about the Dragonstone soon after they set off. She pokes and prods at the cloth-covered object with poorly-restrained interest. Her eyes are still bloodshot and her voice is subdued, but the sheer peculiarity of the Dragonstone is enough to stifle her grief for a short time.
"Someone in Whiterun hired me to find this thing. He said it'd be an easy job. The damn wizard really thought I'd only have to worry about skeevers. I really might kill him when I see him next."
"You were hired by a wizard to find that?" Torgen incredulously asks. "And you're going to haul it all the way back to Whiterun? Shor's bones, it must weigh thirty pounds at least."
"At least," he grumbles as he trudges along the stony shoreline. He takes a bad step on a mossy rock and slips, nearly tumbling into the water. He's saved by archer girl grabbing his arm and desperately hauling him back towards dry land.
"They must be paying you well," shield girl comments wearily.
"He'd better." He nods his thanks to archer girl, readjusts the Dragonstone, and marches resolutely ahead to better preserve his damaged pride. Taking an unwanted bath with the tablet weighing him down wouldn't have been enjoyable.
Just before nightfall, they stumble across a quaint little cottage situated near the northern shore of the lake – called Lake Ilinalta, according to archer girl. They're greeted at the door by a kindly old woman who introduces herself as Anise, the homestead's lone denizen. She's gracious enough to let them stay for the night and even agrees to treat shield girl's shoulder with Restoration magic. Following her treatment, the bandit rolls her shoulder and happily proclaims that it's as good as new.
She's a friendly host, and puts on a pot of stew for them without their asking. They practically lick the pot clean. Mull doesn't know what kind of stew it is and frankly doesn't care. After Bleak Falls Barrow, food is food. He'd willingly eat anything.
Generous though the old woman may be, she gives him a bad feeling somewhere deep in his gut for a reason he can't explain. She's almost too nice. Even the most gregarious old people should hesitate to offer shelter to a group of heavily-armed bloodstained warriors, and yet this woman does not.
He doesn't get much sleep that night despite his extreme fatigue. A combination of paranoia and the lingering effects of adrenaline from their numerous confrontations in the barrow conspire to keep him awake in his bedroll until the light of dawn peeks through a shuttered window.
When morning arrives in full, he isn't disappointed to be leaving. This Anise lady did an excellent job of patching shield girl's shoulder, and that's precisely what worries him. A Restoration mage of her caliber living out in the woods by herself simply isn't normal.
He and his companions gather their things, eat a quick breakfast of bread and salted pork, and congregate in front of the cabin to give Anise their farewells. The female bandits are amiable enough as they say goodbye, but Mull hangs back and contents himself with simply nodding his appreciation. Torgen is also acting more guardedly than the others, and he feels some satisfaction at not having been the only one to think something seems off about their hostess.
As he takes one final glance at the lonely cabin and Anise gently waving goodbye, he catches sight of something odd. There are three dead ravens strung up over the doorframe, twisting and turning in the slight breeze coming off the surface of the lake. He must've failed to notice them in the gloom of dusk the previous evening.
Though certainly no expert in the arcane, he knows enough to recognize the meaning of the macabre decoration. She's a witch. We spent the night with a godsdamn witch.
He scowls and sends up a grudging 'thank you' to whoever's listening for still being alive. I don't know what she wanted from us, but at least she didn't kill us in our sleep and harvest our hearts. After surviving the barrow, that would've been a disappointing way to go.
He stifles a grimace, regretting his willingness the previous night to eat whatever was set in front of him. Maybe I shouldn't have eaten that stew. Gods only know what was in it.
-x-
It takes another full day of travel through the verdant forests of the White River Valley before they reach Riverwood. Torgen and shield girl elect to remain outside the town walls, claiming to have substantial bounties on their heads in Whiterun Hold, while Mull accompanies archer girl into Riverwood to sell their loot. He remembers seeing a name mentioned in Arvel's journal as the original owner of the gold dragon claw – one Lucan Valerius – and wants to find out if this person is a local. If that's the case, then he might be willing to buy back the claw for a more generous price than a run-of-the-mill merchant. It could be a longshot, but Mull believes it's worth taking the time to investigate.
As they make their preparations to enter the town, he overhears the two older bandits telling archer girl to keep a close eye on him. "Make sure he doesn't slink away with the claw," Torgen warns in an undertone. "That thing is valuable. If he tries, do whatever you gotta do to get it back. Same with all the other loot."
Someone else might be insulted. To Mull, it's simply common sense. He can't blame them for that.
As he approaches, they fall silent and watch him cagily. "Are you worried about me ditching the girl and run off with the goods?"
Shield girl frowns, but her expression quickly morphs into a beaming smile. The smile worries him more. "We might be. Just remember, if you try to cut and run, it won't take me long to track you down. An útlending like you would make for easy prey."
He shrugs. Fair enough.
Once everything is in order, they part ways and he enters the town with archer girl in tow. As they enter the main throughfare of Riverwood, he's soon on the receiving end of dozens of odd looks as he toils under the weight of the Dragonstone. He hadn't wanted to leave it with Torgen and shield girl, as he's learned the hard way multiple times that other people never value the wellbeing of your possessions as much as you do. With his luck, the big blonde Nord might've sat on it or something.
A man lugging around a huge stone tablet probably isn't a regular occurrence in a smaller town like Riverwood, so the attention from the locals is unsurprising. He doesn't like being a subject of local interest, but he resigns himself to it as he starts asking random passersby about Lucan Valerius. He cringes to think how difficult it might be to retain anonymity in Riverwood after this.
It's jarring to be around so many people after the alpine isolation of Bleak Falls Barrow and their expedition into its depths. It reminds him of his first arrival in Whiterun, though it isn't exactly the same. This time around, the noise of so many people speaking and working in such a constrained area is almost deafening. They rarely raised their voices in the barrow, for multiple reasons.
In their pursuit of Lucan Valerius, they're eventually directed to a general goods shop located near the Sleeping Giant Inn, the establishment where he, Ralof, and Hadvar shared a drink all those weeks ago. Since he's already familiar with the location, it's a relatively simple matter for him and archer girl to find their way to the shop.
As they enter Lucan Valerius' store, he maintains high hopes for the resale value of the dragon claw. Its craftsmanship is impressive and it's made of solid gold, so surely the previous owner would be willing to offer an appropriate sum for its return. But to his astonishment, even those lofty expectations are surpassed.
They brusquely introduce themselves to the shopkeeper, a middle-aged Cyrod who turns out to be the Lucan Valerius they've been searching for. When he reveals the claw to the shopkeeper, he reacts with initial suspicious – it had apparently been stolen some weeks previously. By that moron Arvel, no doubt.
He manages to placate the shopkeeper by giving an extremely abridged account of how the claw came to be in their possession, with archer girl occasionally chiming in to add unhelpful details.
After spending about half an hour going over the sordid specifics, Lucan Valerius is eventually satisfied with their explanation and proves more than willing to buy back the claw for a lavish sum, far more generous than what even Mull had been expecting. He pockets the man's five hundred septims with poorly-disguised glee. This is the most money he's held at one time in the last several years, and the fact that he'll have to split it with the three bandits isn't nearly enough to dampen his spirits. Money isn't everything, but it sure makes life a lot easier.
In his capacity as a merchant, Lucan Valerius also purchases the majority of their loot including the draugr-lord's enchanted battle-axe, which results in a total haul of about seven hundred and thirty septims. However, when Mull counts their coins afterwards, he's pretty sure the Cyrod merchant gave them even more money than the seven-thirty sum they'd agreed upon. His final tally is closer to seven-fifty. Not that I'm complaining, of course. This Lucan seems like a nice enough fellow. He wonders if the man would've dealt with them so amenably if he knew they're bandits. Though I guess I'm not technically a bandit anymore. Still, it's hard to think of myself any differently, and especially with the company I'm keeping. Once a bandit, always a bandit.
The only damper on their otherwise profitable interaction is that Lucan refuses to accept their ancient dragon-headed coins from the barrow at anything less than a three-to-one exchange rate to Imperial septims due to their questionable providence. Mull didn't have high hopes for those anyways, so it isn't a major source of concern for him – and in all honesty, he's just happy to be done with lugging around so much heavy loot. The Dragonstone is bad enough on its own.
He and archer girl decide to spend some of their newfound riches on a room for the night at a cheap inn. They have the money for a nicer establishment, but they mutually decide that making themselves and their ill-gotten wealth too conspicuous could be a bad idea.
By pure chance, they select the same inn where he first met Arvel for its below-average cost and out-of-the-way location. Though archer girl isn't the subject of a bounty in Whiterun Hold, she's still a known associated of Torgen and shield girl, and insists on laying low as a result.
Mull briefly considers dropping by Gerdur and Hod's mill to check in on them and possibly solicit some supplies or a warm meal, but ultimately decides that there's no need. I've got plenty of my own coin now. Instead, he and the girl settle themselves in the inn's common room for a few hours and blow nearly fifteen septims on a veritable feast, including but not limited to freshly baked bread with apple slices, a platter of cheese, and shanks of roasted mutton. Mull has always been more frugal than not, since bandits don't usually have much extra money laying around, but he decides that tonight is worthy of celebration. He's still alive, and that wasn't a guarantee when they were stuck inside the barrow.
But that being said, it isn't a particularly happy celebration. Archer girl has been gloomy ever since leaving Bleak Falls Barrow, presumably still grieving for the two bandits killed by the draugr-lord. She doesn't speak much at all, preferring instead to remain quiet and focus on her meal. He doesn't blame her. He's never been much of a talker anyways. Though as they eat, it does occur to him that he doesn't remember her name – if she ever gave it to him to begin with – and it's been long enough now that he'd feel strange about asking for it.
When the food is gone, he sits with elbows propped on their rickety too-small table and drinks in pensive silence, surrounded by the whirling masses of Riverwood's less affluent inhabitants as they revel in their own joys and woes. Perhaps influenced by archer girl's melancholy, his thoughts are drawn to the many men and women he's left behind over the course of his life, who passed on before him to take their places in the halls of Aetherius. Arvel, his two goons, and the two clansmen are the latest to be added to that list. He wonders why he of all people survived when they did not, and what purposes the gods intend to fulfill with his continued existence – assuming they care, which he frankly doubts. He still wonders about the disaster at Helgen. He still wonders about Morven's death. And as usual, he quickly finds that he doesn't have any answers to those questions.
He's tried to avoid dwelling on it , but their battle against the draugr-lord was hair-raisingly terrifying, and even now he shudders as he recalls just how close he came to dying more than once. It isn't an unfamiliar feeling, but it's also one that he's never quite managed to grow accustomed to. There's something about the idea of suffering death at the hands of a monster, an unfeeling creature, that's so much more potently disturbing than simply dying to a flesh-and-blood person.
He groans and rests his head atop the table, propped against the crook of his arm. I'm not in the mood for thinking about these things. He glances at his tankard of sour ale and pulls a face. …We really should've gone to the Sleeping Giant. This swill would send even an Orc running for the hills.
But with nothing better to do, he continues drinking long into the night. Once enough alcohol is in his blood, he can barely taste the rancid ale anymore. That's fine by him.
-x-
He awakens the next morning to find himself sitting with his back propped against a hitching post in front of the tavern. He blearily drapes an arm over his face to block out the light of the rising sun. …Shit. How in Oblivion did I end up out here? Even sleeping on the floor inside would've been better than this. His back is killing him. The muscles between his shoulder blades are so tight that they feel like they might burst apart.
Once he's reoriented himself and recovered his boots from within a nearby snowberry bush, he reunites with archer girl in the tavern's common room. She's fresh and bright-eyed. She must not have let their rented room go to unused.
They scarf down a rich breakfast of porridge and spiced sausage before departing for Riverwood's north gate, where they plan to meet up with their two other companions.
As they walk through Riverwood's main street, they're enveloped by the teeming masses of a rural town's many farmers, fisherfolk, and general laborers getting ready to start their day. Archer girl cranes her neck as she curiously takes in the sights. Mull focuses more on remaining vigilant for any potential attempts to snag his rucksack, as most of the remaining money from Lucan Valerius is sequestered within. Riverwood doesn't seem like a town where many pickpockets would operate – it's too small for that – but it never hurts to be careful, especially where large sums of money are concerned.
Just beyond the north gate, they successfully rendezvous with Torgen and shield girl a short distance away from the side of the road. It looks like they pitched a barebones campsite just within the treeline for the duration of the night, a location that Mull notes approvingly to be both discrete and defensible. A belt of especially dense trees render their camp invisible from the road, and there's enough foliage scattered around to make a stealthy approach functionally impossible. They've clearly done this before.
The two older bandits don't bother to say hello, opting instead to eagerly demand to see the sum of their spoils first. Their eyes practically sparkle as Mull reaches into his rucksack and unveils the fruit of their hellish labors.
Following a round of loud haggling, they agree to evenly split the money and newly-purchased supplies, with Mull receiving a quarter of the total haul. Afterwards, with their job for Arvel now officially complete and his share of the money securely in his possession, he announces his intention to get on the road to Whiterun as soon as possible. I have the Dragonstone and a nice bonus to sweeten the deal. There's no reason to waste time dawdling.
The others are of a similar mind. After collecting their few belongings, the two girls wave goodbye as they set off westwards, where they apparently intend to further their banditing careers in Falkreath Hold. They inform Mull that the rest of their clan are in the process of relocating there to take advantage of Falkreath's recent influx of vulnerable refugees, many of whom are escapees from Helgen. That sounds like a questionable decision to him, but it isn't any of his business so he keeps his opinion to himself. Still, you'd think they would be concerned about the Imperial garrisons in Falkreath. The city is wedged between the Pale Pass and the road to Elinhir, both of which are heavily guarded. Although they are Nords, so they probably see it as a worthy challenge instead of a deterrent or something equally stupid.
That leaves one bandit unaccounted for. As Mull begins walking along the road north to Whiterun, he notices a tall blonde man following a short distance behind. He'd assumed the older bandit would go with his female cohorts – why wouldn't he? – but that expectation was evidently incorrect.
When Torgen continues tracing his footsteps even after crossing the bridge over the White River, he halts and turns to the bandit with annoyance already tugging his lips into a frown. "What are you doing?"
"I'm going to Whiterun. What are you doing?" The bandit grins mockingly.
His only response is an unamused stare. Mull is tired after last night and isn't in the mood for games. Not that he usually would be.
After a moment, Torgen's flippant expression fades into something much more somber. "…I've been with our clan for years, but after seeing Harknir and Bjorn get killed like that, well… They were young, but they were good warriors and damn good men. They were relying on me to be a leader and I failed them, and now they're dead. Losing folks like that ain't nothing new, but it still isn't easy. It never is." He exhales heavily. "I think I might need a change of pace."
For the first time, hidden behind the heavy beard and collection of scars, Mull notices a set of craggy wrinkles around the older man's eyes.
"Whiterun could have some good opportunities waiting for a man like me, and since I know you now, I might get a leg up on securing some of those opportunities. You mentioned you're working for a wizard. Something like that could be just what I need."
"You're making a few assumptions there," Mull points out. "Who says I'm going to help you?"
The older man shrugs. "I'm not asking for anything. I'm just saying that knowing people always helps." He holds up a hand to forestall Mull's upcoming retort. "That doesn't mean I won't look out for myself. I'd like to pay off my bounty in this Hold. I could always start robbing travelers or scavenging battlefields, but those aren't exactly lucrative enterprises. Without going into too much detail, it's a pretty big bounty. If I keep going at the rate I'm going, then I'll be a wanted man for the rest of my life. Not that I don't expect that, you know, but… I'm just starting to feel my age." He finishes with a self-deprecating bark of laughter. "Besides, I've got an eye for talent. You didn't handle yourself too badly in the barrow. Not just anyone could take down that last draugr like you did. You've got some potential, kid."
Mull isn't sure how he feels about that assessment. Potential? The hell does that mean? "Aren't you worried about sending those women all the way to Falkreath on their own?"
Torgen snorts. "Them? It ain't my job to worry about them. Their business is their own to deal with." He pauses before elaborating. "If they could survive that barrow, then they don't need me to worry. They can handle themselves just fine. They've proven that."
Mull leans against one of the stone pillars flanking the bridge, thinking over everything the bandit has said. Just like their business isn't his, his business isn't mine either. If he wants to go to Whiterun, then who am I to say no? That doesn't mean we're going there together, necessarily, but I'm not above accepting the company. I've said it before and I'll say it again – having something to watch my back is never a bad idea. I don't know for certain if Torgen is trustworthy, but he and the women didn't kill me for a bigger share of the money from Bleak Falls, and that's always a good start. There are a lot of people who would do that without a second thought.
After a few minutes of contemplation, he makes his decision and straightens. "You can do whatever you want," he grumbles. "Don't get in my way and I won't get in yours. But don't forget, I don't owe you anything. We're even. You said it yourself back in the barrow. I'm not agreeing to pull out any favors for you." With that, he hitches the Dragonstone to rest more comfortably against his shoulders and sets off.
Torgen chuckles as he begins to follow. "That works for me, kid."
"Don't call me that."
"What? 'Kid?'"
"Yeah."
"…Hmm. I'll take that under advisement."
Mull scowls. "You know, I've gotta say that bounty on your head is starting to sound really tempting."
"Oh, is that right?"
"Aye. You said it was a big one, didn't you? Maybe I'll tip off the city guard when we reach Whiterun. The way you make it sound, I bet they'd love to give you a tour of the city dungeons."
"You won't be able to do that with a knife in your back."
"Hah. As if. You couldn't sneak up on a deaf, drunk sabrecat – and that's something I'd like to see, for the record."
The bandit guffaws. "Strong words coming from a scrawny snowback like you! I could take you down with both hands behind my back and my eyes closed, easy."
"You want to give that a try or are you all talk?"
They continue bickering as they enter the forested hills north of the river, but it isn't long before both eventually run out of insults. Neither is willing to admit it, of course, but Torgen conveniently improvises an excuse. "We need to keep an eye out," he asserts. "Let's keep it down for now."
Mull nods and accepts the truce for what it is. He voices one final question as they fall into amiable silence. "I don't want to be seen entering the city with a wanted criminal. You got a plan for that?"
"Don't worry about it," Torgen casually replies. "Leave it to me. I'll find my own way once we're there. But for now, we have the same destination."
The bandit should really be taking something like that a bit more seriously in Mull's opinion, but whatever. As long as it doesn't become his problem, he doesn't care. "…Fine. But if you do something stupid and get me arrested, you're a dead man. Remember that."
"Sure kid. Whatever you say."
-x-
AN: A dreaded OC has joined the party. Dun dun dun. There are going to be a couple of OCs in this story who are narratively important, through I do try to stick with existing in-game characters as much as possible. If you're one of those people who dislike OCs – like me, actually – then don't let that discourage you. There's only one OC who'll be around long term and hopefully he won't be too annoying. As a fellow reader, I passionately hate people's lame OCs, though I guess I'm a bit of a hypocrite in that regard. So all that to say… sorry, but not sorry. There's a reason for everything I do.
On another note, I appreciate those of you who took the time to leave reviews. Your encouragement makes me want to write more! And to the one who dared suggest that I might have any sort of affiliation with those hooligans over at TrueSTL… unfortunately, you're right. I've been found out :)
