Painted Worlds (Eng)

by OltreKain

Pellegrina is an Italian girl who has only experienced failures in life. She discovers that she can enter and exit the world of Nirn at will, but she doesn't know why. Magrakh is an orc born in Skyrim. He's captured by the Imperials and brought to Helgen to be executed. He is the last Dragonborn, but he doesn't know it yet. They will have to learn to coexist and improve themselves.

9. Opening up in Falkreath

Traveling Trials

Magrakh POV, Chapter 9: Opening up in Falkreath

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The group settles in Falkreath, where Magrakh starts working with Lydia, leaving Pellegrina in the safety of the city. This leads to arguments, culminating in startling revelations.

---

18:00 PM, Loredas 20th of Hearthfire, 4E 201

Peace is short-lived, lasting less than a week, and souring upon their arrival in Falkreath.

Magrakh is familiar with the temperament of Nord and Orc women, who share a certain likeness in the way they immediately confront problems and perceived slights as if they are battles. Although he's now uncertain about the true nature of Pellegrina's heritage–if Kematu's speculations were accurate–he has at least come to understand her character.

When an issue arises, she immediately takes notice and broods over it for a duration ranging from a few minutes to a few days before finally exploding.

During this waiting period, she remains unusually silent and speaks only when absolutely necessary, typically offering curt and sharp responses. Her restlessness is akin to a cat's tail flicks, signaling that time is running out.

The eventual 'explosion' ranges from heated verbal confrontations to physical violence, such as when a bard in Whiterun earned a punch to the balls for groping her.

Magrakh knows better than to ask what's wrong, because he knows the response would be "nothing." He can't insist either, because that would only make her angrier.

Meeko, showing a keen instinct, ceased his whining during baths, sensing the tension in the air. At least, he no longer resembles a zombie, and his fur even begun to grow back, so whatever Pellegrina is doing is proving effective.

The most disconcerting aspect of this lingering tension, now spanning three days, is that Magrakh is well aware of the cause: himself.

It all began when they reached Falkreath.

During their journey, they had shared the road with the Alik'r, who were en route to Hammerfell. Thanks to the substantial earnings from Mag and Pelle's recent exploits, they could afford the luxury of staying in inns along the way, rather than roughing it on the cold, wet ground.

While the pouring rain had made their journey through the thick, towering forests a tad more challenging, it hadn't deterred them. Not even a group of ill-advised robbers, who fled for their lives when they saw eleven scimitars being drawn.

Upon reaching the city, the rain had finally subsided, allowing the Redguards to continue on to their homeland unhindered. Meanwhile, Mag, Pelle, and Lydia secured a pair of rooms at the cozy inn known as The Hart's Bellow and explored the bustling market, where they sold some of the jewelry.

Once Pellegrina declared that they had accumulated more than 200 gold Septims, they celebrated with sweets and wine. The intoxication led to discussions about their future, but it was clear from the start that most of their desires were conflicting.

Magrakh aspired to establish a stable life with a home and a steady profession, whereas Pelle yearned for the freedom to explore and plunder.

"What's the point of being in Skyrim if not for that?" She insisted.

The only point on which they agreed was gold, and more specifically, investing it to improve their worn equipment.

Magrakh had acquired the long desired whetstone for sharpening his axe, and also an oval-shaped shield crafted from the local pine wood. Its smooth surface concealed a sturdy iron frame. When she asked if he'd like anything painted on it, he replied, "A dragon."

This choice had seemed reasonable at the time, as dragons are terrifying creatures that could strike fear into anyone's heart. In order to distinguish it from the Imperial emblem, Pelle had painted the roaring head of an amber dragon.

As he now observed those menacing jaws and blood-red eyes often, he regretted the choice somewhat. However, the four-leaf clover tied to the dragon's horn never fails to bring a smile to his face.

"It's for good luck," Pelle had explained when he inquired about it. A peculiar custom, but he appreciates the sentiment, as a bit of luck his way wouldn't hurt.

Falkreath, despite its bustling trade with Cyrodiil and Hammerfell, offers limited non-specialized employment. The few opportunities that satisfy Pelle's sense of variety are exceedingly perilous for the inexperienced girl.

In addition to continued demand for manual labor, newcomers can find work as hunters or mercenaries, however, it's assumed that the individual is able to perform and survive those tasks and the forest.

This left Pellegrina with little choice besides domestic tasks like cooking, doing laundry, wood chopping, and caring for children. Without a doubt, this is not what she hoped for.

And so, Magrakh's decision to embark on a mission obtained through the Hunter's Guild, accompanied solely by Lydia, had likely dealt an even heavier blow.

His intention was to provide Pelle with additional time to continue her training. It made little sense to confine her to an hour of swordplay and archery exercises while traversing the roads between villages.

For Pelle to make progress, she required time to build upper body strength for more powerful bow-drawing and to repeat the techniques learned from Lydia until they became ingrained in her muscle memory. Only then could she possess a solid foundation and gain valuable experience in the field without endangering her life.

Staying in Falkreath to focus on this training, while Mag and Lydia earned more gold, would have enabled Pelle to advance more swiftly. After at least a week or two of intensive preparation, Magrakh would have felt far more comfortable exposing her to possible combat scenarios.

Perhaps he should have anticipated that Pellegrina would not spend the majority of her time repeating boring, strenuous exercises or continuously striking the same stationary target for hours. Indeed, upon their return, Mag discovered that, within a span of just a couple days, she had transitioned from chopping wood for the inn to assisting the local butcher with smoking.

To his great surprise, she had even baked cakes for the Jarl and his court!

When questioned about how she ended up in the kitchen of Falkreath's Longhouse, Pelle's succinct response was 'alcohol'.

The problem at hand is crystal clear, and since Mag and Lydia's return, it has been the subject of endless discussion. She has a burning desire to resume raiding, but he's looking for a break.

"Pelle, the Jarl's kitchen seems like a promising opportunity. Are you absolutely sure you want to let it go?" Mag inquires.

"Do I look like a chef to you?" Pelle responds, her tone defensive.

From the corner of his eye, Mag notices Lydia eyeing Pelle with suspicion. The Nord woman is still adapting to their peculiar dynamics.

"You can be anything you want, you know that," he replies with diplomacy.

"But he doesn't even pay me! And you know what I want. We talked about it the other day," Pelle says.

"Yes, and I asked about any known ruins in the Hold, your usual information," he reminded her.

Lydia wasn't pleased when she discovered that her Thane had been looting ancient Nord tombs and intended to do so again. Her irritation only subsided when Pellegrina cunningly lied, suggesting that the primary motive was to allow the Dragonborn to acquire additional Thu'um words from the ruins' inscriptions.

"And I did answer! I told you what I know about nearby treasure and Words of Power: the bastion on the mountain to the north and the Imperial fort in the lake. It's not my fault that this Hold is 90% forests," Pelle explains.

Magrakh sighs. "Scaling a mountain or wading a cursed lake isn't the kind of proposition I can get behind, Pelle. Not after what happened in the marshes."

Just as he's reluctant to journey to High Hrothgar to meet the Greybeards, something she occasionally tries to push him to do.

He longs for peace and fewer moments teetering on the edge of life and death. He is a city boy, and he misses the stability and security of fortified walls and a place to call home.

Falkreath offers a calm environment, somewhat damp yet not excessively cold, and its people are unusually friendly, possibly because of their proximity to the borders, making them more accustomed to interactions with non-Nords and non-humans.

Lydia continues to refrain from expressing her desires and remains a faithful shadow to Magrakh. As vexing as it is, her combat skills are very useful for guarding his back and even allowed him to go bounty hunting.

When Jarl Balgruuf had appointed Lydia as his Huscarl, Magrakh couldn't help but notice the knowing smirks and laughter among the other guards.

In private, Mag had a conversation with her. He didn't want to acquire a slave, regardless of what the Jarl said, so he figured that, as Thane, he should be able to speak face to face with his Huscarl.

In their discussion, he discovered that Lydia was in trouble, her reputation marred by her own actions.

She had attempted to defend a childhood friend from a Thalmor Justiciar who was apprehending him for worshiping the outlawed Divine, Talos.

It had been foolish to wear the amulet of the banned deity concealed under his shirt, a move almost guaranteed to be exposed within the scarce privacy of the barracks. Little did it help the Hold's neutrality in the civil war, especially considering they were stationed on the border with the Reach.

The Jarl had rescued Lydia from being taken away with her friend, attributing her anger to her Nord loyalty to comrades rather than to false gods. To further distance her from the issue, Jarl Balgruuf had assigned her a group of guards and a mission to rid the far away ruin of Silent Moons of bandits, intending for Whiterun to use it as a northern outpost.

With their numbers fewer than those of the outlaws, Lydia had chosen to ambush them at night, only to discover that the bandits were all inexplicably equipped with enchanted weapons.

The mission had ended in failure, with only half of the assigned guards returning. Previously known as Lydia the Law-Bringer, she was now ridiculed as 'the Law-Breaker.'

Becoming his Huscarl wasn't a gesture to honor either of them; it was a way to discreetly dispose of her without wasting her valuable skills.

That day, Magrakh and Lydia reached an understanding. All things considered, he feels that he's benefitting from their new arrangement.

Pelle interjects, her frustration apparent. "You still haven't given me a good reason why I can't come too."

Despite the significant wealth they have accumulated, Magrakh is well aware that it's unwise to pass the days idly waiting for their funds to dwindle. He had witnessed the same lack of foresight in the bandit gang he had belonged to months ago, and they had always ended up broke.

The Hunter's Guild gives priority to its members for the most lucrative jobs, leaving Mag and Lydia with riskier undertakings.

In fact, the scope of the bounties extend beyond hunting for animals and monsters. For instance, their most recent mission involved rooting out a small group of wanted criminals, and the one they are embarking on today is even more enigmatic.

It could be trolls, or possibly an entire gang of cutthroats.

Magrakh recalls how Pellegrina had fared against the bandits in Ustengrav, surviving largely due to divine providence. He couldn't bear the thought of the woman who had revived his dreams to die so foolishly.

"We're heading to a cavern, without knowing what might be hiding inside," he explains, knowing that it might not be sufficient to dissuade her.

"That's precisely why you should bring more people," Pelle suggests.

"It might be an outlaw hideout; the Guild don't have much information about the cave besides 'there might be bears'," Mag countered.

"A group of hunters went missing in the area; it could prove insidious," Lydia chimes in, attempting to support Magrakh.

Pelle clenches her fists at her sides. "So, a group of seasoned hunters has disappeared, and you two believe you can handle it on your own?"

Well, when you put it that way…

Mag sighs. "We've readied ourselves for battle, but our primary goal is reconnaissance. Assessing danger and avoiding unnecessary risks isn't exactly your strong suit."

Pellegrina snorts indignantly.

"It's a bit premature, Pelle," he adds, adopting a gentler tone. "The forest here serves as a hideout for bandits and deserters. Ambushes lurk on every road, and in the trees hide some nasty creatures. Those giant spiders, for instance."

Regrettably, giant spiders are a part of this world. They're as massive as cows and deadlier than vipers. Not long ago, on the outskirts of the forest, they encountered a pair of these beasts. It became abundantly clear that Pellegrina has an intense fear of anything with more than four legs, prompting her to dash in the opposite direction upon spotting them.

Taking cover behind a tree, she wielded the magical staff she acquired in Solitude, transforming one of the spiders into a freaking two-meter tall dremora. As if that wasn't enough trouble, with another incantation, she rendered the second spider invisible.

Even the courageous Alik'r ran away.

Rather than offering a response, Pelle shoots him an angry glare and storms out of the room.

Lydia tries to console him, saying, "She'll likely get over it by the time we return, Thane."

Mag, however, isn't as optimistic. "No, I don't think so."

He understands why Pelle perceives this situation as an injustice. They've been together since their first meeting in Helgen and the pact they forged. He's breaking that pact, but he's only waiting for less hazardous opportunities and for Pellegrina's skills to grow.

Suddenly, Pellegrin re-enters the room with the gait of a mammoth. Magrakh is convinced the impending explosion he's been bracing for is imminent.

To his surprise, rather than unleashing her fury, she tosses a pouch of coins. "Purchase health potions, there are Spriggans in this forest," she says with teary eyes before leaving again.

Spriggans. Magrakh shudders, fervently hoping for trolls instead.

---

Tirdas, 2:30 PM, 23rd of Hearthfire, 4E 201

The journey was supposed to be two days, as indicated by the Hunter's Guild's map, which highlights various trails and hunting cabins observed over the years.

The cave they're seeking lies to the northwest, near the lake, and is less than a day's travel from the Reach border. The proximity already makes him anxious.

Unfortunately, navigating through the thickly wooded and hilly terrain–even with a map–was a challenge, causing them to lose their way while seeking one of the hunting cabins for the night. They had to backtrack to set up their tent in view of the mill at the lake bridge.

On the third day, they resumed their path to the cave, finally reaching the grove where it's located. Here, they found a wounded man seated on a rock.

Valdr managed to stop the bleeding, but the amount of dried blood all around him was considerable. To prevent him from collapsing, Magrakh handed him a healing potion, and so the man recounted the tragic fate of his hunting companions, uttering the magic word.

"Spriggan?" Mag repeats, incredulous.

"I know how it sounds, but I swear on my life!" Valdr says.

Lydia inquires, "Are you certain it wasn't a Wood Elf? Some of them can have a... beastly appearance."

Valdr's response is adamant. "No! I'm telling you it was a Spriggan!" He tries to stand up but gasps due to the wounds on his side, where claw marks too large to be bear's are still evident. "It was made of wood and had a woman's face. Niels and Ari didn't make it… We were too busy setting traps and keeping the bear cornered; we didn't see– it just came out the shadows!"

"Alright, I understand, calm down," Mag says. "Once you've regained your strength, I want to know how many Spriggans we are talking about, and of any information you have on them and the cave."

Valdr nods, tired but relieved.

"Do you intend to hunt them down, Thane?" Lydia asks when out of earshot.

"I don't know," Magrakh admits.

He doesn't want to meet a similar fate to Valdr's comrades, and even just the idea of tree-like creatures capable of overpowering seasoned hunters unnerves him. Yet, he must gather credible information to secure the reward and, if possible, recover the bodies of the fallen hunters. "It depends on what we uncover."

A few hours pass, and with the aid of a campfire, a hastily consumed meal, and some bandaging, Valdr regains enough strength to move. He points to a sketch he made on the dirt, outlining their hunting strategy. "We set our traps here, and this is where we cornered the bear, preparing to lure it back onto them."

"Did you slay it?" Mag inquires.

"I believe so," Valdr replies. "I saw it go down, but that's also when Niels fell."

Mag points towards the cave entrance, located just beyond a narrow, winding tunnel. "So, they appeared here?"

"Yes," Valdr confirms.

"So you don't know what lies beyond this point?"

Valdr ponders before responding. "Not exactly. I'm aware of another, larger cave. We could hear the sound of flowing water, but I can't say if there are more of those monsters."

"And as for bears, are there more?" Lydia asks.

Valdr acknowledges with a nod before answering. "Ari spotted two distinct sets of tracks, so there should be at least one more."

"It'll have to come out to eat sooner or later, right? Winter is still a while away," Lydia says, much to Valdr's dismay.

"Not with my friends in there..."

"Oh. I'm sorry."

Magrakh sighs. One Spriggan and one bear, with the possibility of encountering even more of both deeper inside.

He and Lydia are likely capable of taking down a bear with relative ease, and perhaps, with careful preparation, even a Spriggan. Nonetheless, the unknown casts a shadow over his distinctive sense of self-preservation.

"How does one kill a Spriggan?" He asks the two humans.

"They're made of wood; I doubt they care much about my arrows, but wood burns." Valdr says.

"Not easily if it's green," Lydia points out. "The stories I've heard only say that the animals carry out their orders and induce them to maul careless hunters. No offense."

Valdr's expression suggests he's taken offense.

"The Hunter's Guild has its share of rumors," Valdr breaks the awkward silence, "but I thought the older members were merely trying to frighten the apprentices. They spun tales of Spriggans as creatures fashioned from wood and magic, capable of appearing and vanishing within every tree at will, fooling people into thinking there's honey imitating the buzz of a beehive."

"Any useful stories on how to take them down?" Mag inquires, trying to hide his shiver at the thought that there might be a Spriggan inside every tree.

"The hunter said the Spriggan attacked the camp at night. He managed to burn it alive by tossing a barrel of pitch onto the campfire... but it didn't die immediately; it fought back even while burning alive, injuring the hunters and spreading the flames to their tents. That's when I stopped listening because I wanted to sleep."

"Pitch is a good idea," Lydia says.

"Yes, but we don't have a convenient supply of pitch with us," Mag observes the surrounding grove, "and I don't know how much resin we can gather from the pines in a short time, certainly not a barrel's worth."

A collective pause hangs in the air, broken only by the distant, cheerful chirping of an oblivious bird, indifferent to the grim circumstances.

"I have some ale," Valdr reveals. "We brought it to celebrate after a successful hunt. But if it can help avenge my friends, I'd be happy to give it to you."

He presents a bushel of red ale, and the sight of the numerous glass bottles prompt a smile from Mag as he is reminded of icy Labyrinthian and trolls lighting up like bonfires.

This, Magrakh concludes, now shivering from fear as well as the emerging bloodlust, feels more and more like a plan Pellegrina would concoct.

The sensible course would be to return and request reinforcements, and if Valdr can help them locate that nearby cabin, support from other hunters would just be a few hours awat. Yet, how much can they divide the already meager bounty before it no longer justifies their efforts?

"Lydia, Valdr, let me show you a guerilla weapon I learned from a friend: a 'Molotov'."

---

5:15 PM

None of them move silently, especially Valdr, weakened by pain and blood loss. With their torches, clinking bottles, and a warrior's stride, not even the soft terrain and the echo of a waterfall is able to muffle their entry.

Their original intent was to locate the bodies and retrieve them.

Instead, they stumble upon a bear feasting on Ari's remains, and the animal doesn't take kindly to being interrupted.

Valdr, too, isn't pleased to see his friend treated like a steak.

This is how Magrakh swiftly finds himself on the ground, his new shield serving as his sole defense against a powerful bear intent on tearing him apart.

Valdr fires an arrow at the animal, and within seconds, a Spriggan materializes.

Lydia is the first to hurl a Molotov.

The incendiary bomb performs its role flawlessly, engulfing the magical creature in relentless fire, eliciting an agonized scream. The sound is an eerie combination of a screech and a buzz, terrifying as only nature can be.

Then, finally, Valdr land deadly arrows in the bear's throat.

There is just enough time for Magrakh to be extracted from beneath the massive beast when he hears an approaching buzz. "Another Spriggan!"

Valdr and Lydia prepare another Molotov, while Mag guards the funnel-like passage connecting their current cave to the one further ahead.

True to legend, the Spriggan emerges from the shadows, and small points of light, resembling and sounding like engraged bees, emanate from its wooden form.

These elegant, golden dots pass through Magrakh's iron armor like it's water, leaving it unmarred, but piercing his flesh, leaving numerous wounds bleeding profusely.

Valdr tosses an incendiary bomb, but fatigue causes it to fall short, shattering just in front of Magrakh, blocking his way to the Spriggan.

"Retreat!" Mag shouts.

Lydia immediately follows his lead and provides cover with her shield.

As they hastily withdraw, they notice the charred remnants of the previous monster.

So, these magical freaks can die just like any of us. Good!

The creature, perhaps encouraged by their apparent cowardice, ceases to release the buzzing light dots and hurls itself over the terrain's ledge. Upon landing, it charges headlong towards them.

Magrakh raises his shield, uniting his front with Lydia's, while Valdr readies another Molotov. "Burn, accursed beast!"

Simultaneously, yet another Spriggan charges through the wall of fire.

The wooden visage cannot emote, but Magrakh can read its body language as it glides through the fire and extends its claws.

This Spriggan is not only larger and sturdier than the others, but also furious.

The bottle strikes the smaller Spriggan's legs, causing it to catch fire. Unfazed, it cooperates with the larger Spriggan, intent on blocking their retreat by launching more light shards to inflict bleeding wounds.

It's fortunate that Valdr is a ranged fighter, so he's shielded from further bloodletting. However, this means that Mag and Lydia are the primary targets. Frustrated, Magrakh unleashes his Thu'um.

"Fus!"

The unexpected rush of power is all that keeps the huge matron from smashing into them and hurling them to the ground.

Lydia seizes the opportunity without hesitation, slashing her sword, only to have it clash with hard claws that successfully repel her attack. Simultaneously, the other clawed hand lunges, threatening to rend her in two.

Lydia's shield absorbs the force of the impact force, forcing her to her knees, but at least the Spriggan is occupied with her.

So, Magrakh seizes the moment, raising his axe.

Axes chop wood, he thinks, I should be able to cut a wooden head off!

He will never learn the outcome since the matron is not only massive and powerful, but also exceedingly agile. With surprising dexterity, she intercepts the axe before it can inflict more than a mere scratch. Then, her form vanishes in an explosive burst of fragmented light, showering Lydia and Magrakh with stinging shards.

Pain courses through their bodies, muscles tensing, as blood soaks the fabric beneath their armor, dribbling down to the handles that grow increasingly slippery.

"Retreat," Mag shouts.

An arrow sinks into the wooden head of the materializing matron, apparently unaffected. The smaller Spriggan, having survived the fire, approaches and it too releases light shards to bleed them.

At this pace, they'll be too weak to defend themselves, and–under this relentless assault–the fifty meters tunnel to the exit feels as if it stretches for kilometers.

"I said retreat, damn it!" Magrakh reiterates. This time he takes the lead, maintaining a brisk pace while utilizing the Voice to keep the creatures at bay.

"Fus!"

The violent air displacement dislodge rocks and roots from the tunnel's walls and ceiling, bolstering their counteroffensive.

A Molotov cocktail arcs over his head, leaving a trail of heat beside his ear before igniting the ground between them. Valdr, armed with a belt full of alcohol and a torch, throws another bottle, which crashes nearby and rekindles the smaller Spriggan.

Enraged, the matron shrieks and charges against the wall. Like a nimble goat, she bounces off it and over the pools of fire, landing in front of them with her claws extended.

Their shields absorb the relentless barrage of her fury, and when another arrow lodges into the wooden skull, the matron alters her tactics, once more exploding into an insubstantial cloud of golden shards.

"Screw you, wooden bitch!" Valdr exclaims, while Magrakh roars his own fury.

The shards puncture their flesh, inflicting more bleeding wounds. But, if Mag has deduced correctly, the matron will soon re-materialize, offering him an opportunity to decapitate her. Glancing backward, he can see the sunlight filtering through the tunnel's exit; they are near, but the Spriggan will undoubtedly pursue.

Should the fight be easier for them outdoors, where the Spiggan can call on animal allies, or inside where the group has limited mobility?

Lydia wields her sword with forceful slashes to keep the invisible adversary at bay rather than aiming to wound it. Fortuitously, one of her swings hit the matron's abdomen, dealing substantial damage and rendering the Spriggan visible, exposed to counterattacks.

The matron's lengthy claws score against Lydia's armor, forcing her to the ground and slicing through the white and yellow Whiterun sash, scraping the rampant horse emblem on her chestplate.

"Fus!"

Magrakh forces the beast away from Lydia before it can harm her, thrusting it against the ivy-covered wall.

Exerting himself, he pins the creature in place with his sole arm strength, muscles burning with the effort of restraining a force of nature incarnate.

Lydia rises to her feet and rushes to unleash a series of strikes on the Spriggan.

Blood flows from numerous punctures, yet Magrakh and Lydia remain resolute. The Spriggan, despite its power, displays signs of desperation, shifting between visible and invisible states rapidly, wriggling and shoving in a bid to escape or retaliate.

"It's over," Magrakh growls between his tusks.

Coming to Lydia's aid from the opposite side, Valdr joins the assault. Eventually, Mag feels a lack of movement before him.

The Spriggan becomes visible one last time, then collapses at his feet.

Valdr continues to thrust his dagger into the creature's face with fervor that Mag and Lydia don't care to comment on.

For a protracted moment, all they perceive are their panting breaths and the acrid scent of burning wood and resin, mingling with the earthy, animalistic odor of the den. It's an oddly satisfying amalgamation of scents.

Only after they rest and tend to their injuries at the campsite do they grasp the magnitude of their achievement.

"I can't believe we killed them all," Valdr says, articulating the collective sentiment, "but I'm glad we did. At least my friends can rest in peace. I owe you two a great debt."

Turning toward Magrakh, Valdr extends a steel dagger with a carved handle. "I know you'll receive a reward regardless, but... this belonged to Ari, and she always said it brings luck. Consider it a 'thank you' from me and my friends. Take the hides too, I have nothing else to repay you with."

Mag gazes at the clover on his shield, indifferent to the offered dagger, as it evidently did not bestow good fortune upon Ari. However, to avoid discord and spare his throat, which aches from frequent use of the Thu'um, he accepts the dagger.

"I'll take this and the reward, I don't care about the bears."

The ointments and healing potions they obtained from the apothecary in Falkreath prove to be invaluable, as those deceptively beautiful light dots were quite lethal.

Magrakh has stripped, resembling someone who has bathed in a tub with a hundred snakes, and his once-brown gambeson has transformed into a dark crimson hue.

No surprise that he feels as if he scaled the Throat of the World in one breath. They've spilled nearly as much blood as the vampire in Hjaalmarch!

As a show of gratitude, Mag burns a generous portion of his meal as an offering to the Divines. Then he takes a handful of wood ash, whispering a quiet thank you to his mother for passing down her hardy Orcish constitution.

---

10:00 AM, Middas 24th of Hearthfire, 4E 201

Guided by Valdr, they successfully locate the accursed hunting cabin and the gracious assistance of other hunters. With their help, they will be able not only to bring the hunter's remains back home, but also the bears for which they had set out.

As the hunters prepare a stew with the fresh catch, Magrakh tries not to dwell on the bear's diet of human flesh.

It's not cannibalism if it's indirect, he muses as he eats. Regrettably, this isn't the first time he's had to persuade himself of such things.

Satiated by a warm and hearty meal, fortified by a night of rest, both Mag and Lydia regain enough strength for the journey home. But before departing, Magrakh insists on exploring the rest of the cave for potential 'treasures'.

The hunters laugh behind his back, which irritates him. Especially when this specific compulsion, the nagging urge to verify that he has gotten everything, is a worm planted by Pelle.

Now, with the absence of danger, Magrakh can appreciate the pristine beauty of the cavern aptly named 'Moss Mother'.

The second cave is larger than the one where they killed the bear, and water flows through cracks in the ceiling, nourishing a rich array of luscious plant life. The sound of cascading water adds to the serenity of the scene.

Mag realizes, with a hint of guilt, that Pellegrina would have loved to paint this place.

Near the waterfall, he spots small white flowers on the bushes and picks a couple of twigs to bring back to her.

Continuing his survey, Mag finds various mushrooms along the cave's edges, as well as on fallen tree trunks. He only collects those he can confidently identify.

The entire place is damp and slightly warmer than the outside. Even the water appears inviting, but Mag refrains from bathing or filling his waterskin in a cave that once housed bears and magical monstrosities.

His prudence proves wise when Lydia discovers a skeleton at the pool's bottom, still shrouded in tattered clothing but with small gold nuggets within a pouch.

Ah! Take that, stupid hunters.

Inspecting the side ledges, they come across more humanoid skeletal remains and pickaxes. After these sad discoveries, they finally leave, Spriggan corpses in tow.

"For bragging rights," Magrakh says to defend himself from Valdr's frown. He doesn't want to admit that it's the only way Pelle will forgive him.

Lydia frowns as she hoists the matron over her shoulder. "It's sticky."

"I didn't think these things could rot. Aren't they made of wood?"

"Wood rots too, Thane, but I think–" Lydia shifts the creature to get a better look– "I think it's oozing from somewhere."

"I don't want to know."

"Smells like...sap?"

"I said I don't want to know, Lydia."

---

7:30 PM, Sundas, 28th of Hearthfire, 4E 201

After eight long days since they set out, they finally return to Falkreath.

Magrakh and Lydia smell worse than the bears they've killed, and they look like they've brawled with them too.

Valdr invites them to meet for some mead after they visit the laundresses. Mag is already daydreaming about the fragrances of herbs and oils in a warm bath. But before he can indulge in this luxury he's grown to adore, they stop to collect their well-deserved reward.

Then, they head back to The Hart's Bellow, dragging a Spriggan with them, horrifying and impressing passersby in equal measure.

Mag enjoys staying at this inn. It's neither too elegant nor too shabby, and it's popular with travelers and merchants, saving them from louder customers like mercenaries and laborers. In the evenings, there's also a pretty lady who sings and dances.

Falkreath is the largest city near the southern border of the country, making it a natural stopping point for most travelers entering and exiting Skyrim. Naturally, to cater to the traffic, there are numerous inns to choose from, well-stocked stables, and a bustling market that runs daily. All of this, despite the region's economy being primarily based on hunting and the lumber trade.

The idea to come to Falkreath was Pellegrina's, and Mag was pleasantly surprised by what initially seemed like the only alternative to the costly Solitude to pass the winter. Of course, there are many other villages in various holds, but they needed a city to sell the spoils of their 'hobby'.

A hobby they should seriously consider resuming; after all, he owes Pelle a good old adventure in an ancient Nordic tomb.

Mag is in a good mood due to the successful mission and the boots he ordered last week that should now be ready. He's also decided to buy one of those deer leather jackets lined with wool.

So when the innkeeper signals him over and says, "I thought you'd show up," Magrakh takes the odd statement in stride.

"Good day," he responds, placing a couple of silver coins on the counter. "Do me the favor of preparing a nice bath for me, and fetch a tankard of mead too."

"Of course." While filling the tankard, the innkeeper hands him a note; it's the same type of paper as Pellegrina's journal.

"That Breton woman you arrived with left a week ago," he says, "she paid me a nice sum to deliver this note and to keep your things safe until you returned."

"What?" Lydia exclaims, as astonished as Magrakh.

She left, echoes in his mind, and the small white flower he had been holding drop from his hand, withered during the journey.

He doesn't know why he opens the note, and he's not surprised by the mocking shapes on the page. He can't read.

"She didn't try to catch up with us, did she?" Lydia asks, concerned. "I know we took longer than expected, but..."

Lydia probably knows how to read, Mag reflects, she might be able to read the note to him.

But what does it say? It seems too long for a simple "back soon, out shopping in a nearby village." She took the dog with her, and it's been a week!

No. Magrakh has a gut feeling this is a farewell letter.

"Thane?"

He leaves the tavern and the mead.

After a few minutes, his feet lead him to the Hunters Guild's board.

Even she wouldn't be crazy enough to go to that bastion alone. Right?

He asks for confirmation, and although they've noticed the girl checking the board, it appears she didn't take any bounties or join any other mercenaries.

This doesn't reassure him.

As he wanders the town's streets, Lydia catches up with him, tankard in hand.

"My Thane, wait," she says. "Does the letter bring bad news?"

He doesn't know.

Does he want to know?

Perhaps Pelle had had enough of training and waiting, and she started traveling as she wished. Alone, with winter approaching.

Or maybe she returned to Cyrodiil with a cart, and by now, she could be in Bruma.

The thought twists his insides and leaves a bitter taste in his mouth.

Returning home isn't an option for him anymore, but is it for her? She mentioned leaving because her home situation led her to be suicidal.

"Leave me alone," he tells Lydia, who was still trailing him like a duckling.

"Thane?"

He continues to walk and doesn't even look at her.

"I'll go pick up your things from the inn," Lydia says before disappearing.

Mag walks with a mix of determination and aimlessness, looking around. He locks eyes with a cat perched on a roof; for a moment, he thinks he sees Pelle and the dog, but then he realizes it's a young Nord girl playing with a lamb. Somewhere, a woman complains about the neighbor's chickens digging up her garden.

Falkreath's streets vary by location. In the outskirts, they are soft, covered with grass or moss, while the main road is cobblestone, smooth from wear, and all the other streets are a dense mix of mud, stones, and grass.

Pelle isn't at the apothecary she befriended or the butcher she worked with. He tries to enter the Jarl's Longhouse, but the steward–eager to shoo him away–tells him she isn't in the kitchens.

By the time he realizes it, the sun is setting, and the thought of returning to the inn alone makes him feel ill, knowing it's because he pushed too hard.

Now that he genuinely cares if Pelle is killed in battle, she leaves, like he used to wish a month ago.

He needs to know what's in the stupid letter, if only to ensure she hasn't met her doom in those ruins. But not Lydia, as he's concerned about how personal the content might be.

He walks along the dirt path that leads to the Temple of Arkay, whose priest must be able to read.

This part of Falkreath exudes an eerie ambiance, with colossal pine trees casting perpetual shadows. The Hall of the Dead remains barely discernible, shrouded in ivy and undergrowth, bordered by rows of tombstones. This extensive cemetery is the hallmark of the city.

The tombstones stand like uneven teeth, even as the trees become denser, extending into the forest's depths, where even large trunks serve as graves.

"Magrakh?"

The familiar voice startles him.

He spots Pellegrina, clad in different attire, and the dog is there too!

Initially he's incredulous, then his Orcish anger flares, leading him to point an accusatory finger. "You!"

Pelle has the decency to make an apologetic gesture with her hands. "I'm sorry," she says, sounding unusually sincere. "I know it wasn't the best farewell message, but I was angry when I wrote it."

"I can't read," Mag confesses.

Pelle appears bewildered. "What?"

"I can't read!" He grumbles, drawing closer. "Why are you here? Didn't you leave a week ago?"

"Yes, but I regretted it and came back. I'm sorry..."

"Continue–" he waves the note– "I want to hear it from your mouth."

During her hesitation, Pelle notices his blood-soaked clothes, which seem to disturb her. "Are you okay? And where's Lydia?"

"We're fine. Speak."

Pelle sighs and beckons for Magrakh to follow her.

"You should already know why I left," she says as they walk.

"You were upset because we left you behind."

"We had a deal! And you started taking missions on your own and leaving me in the city like dead weight."

Mag sighs, lacking the energy to dispute the matter further. "We have a nice stash of coins, but it means nothing if we stop spending it all. We have to keep making money for winter and to get what we want, even if what we want is different. I took the tougher jobs because they pay better. I hoped you'd join me once you had trained a bit, perhaps after a couple of weeks."

She frowns but doesn't have scathing retorts as she would have before her abrupt departure. At this point, Mag suspects that was the 'explosion' he was waiting for.

"I don't want to continue roaming like a Khajiit," Mag confesses, his spirit dampened. "And winter is approaching. You'll want to be in a safe and warm place by then, believe me. Why do you dislike Falkreath so much?"

"The city isn't terrible," Pelle responds calmly, and perhaps with a touch of sadness. "But I don't want to settle down and become a citizen. Do you really want that?"

"Yes! Wouldn't it be nice to have our own home? You also come from a city life, don't you?"

"That's the life I wanted to leave behind, Mag. It's not that having somewhere to return to is a bad idea, it's just that..." She looks down, her voice cracking. "I'm afraid that we'll stop forever, and I want to keep exploring this place and discovering new things."

"Then you have to keep training. Just because you don't care if you live or die doesn't mean it's the same for me! Damn it, Pelle, the roads aren't safe even in peacetime, and now there's a war too. Even the Legion doesn't send out new recruits without training."

Magrakh realizes how aggressive his tone is and focuses on softening it.

"It takes very little for everything to go south. A trap, an ambush, an arrow from nowhere, I've seen it hundreds of times. Just wait until I tell you about the last job..."

"And it's never risky for you? How do you think I feel waiting for days, hoping that the Dragonborn comes back alive and well?"

"Less risky than getting gutted because you don't know how to dodge a blade! Aren't you even a bit afraid of dying?"

"Of course, I am! But I thought you understood that strength is in numbers. I'm not a warrior, and I never will be! Waving a sword and bulking up won't change things. I have to stay hidden, shoot arrows, and set traps. That's how we've done it so far, and that's how we made that stash you're talking about! You didn't complain before, what the hell has changed?"

The dog starts barking at the change in tone, and she soothes him with a caress. The bond between them seems to have deepened.

"Nothing has changed," Mag says more calmly, "I just want us to be more careful. I've been a hair's breadth from death more times this month than in the rest of my life! When there's a not-so-risky job, you can come too to gain field experience without risking your life or an arm every time. And this counts even if you want to be a back-line archer."

A nagging thought moves in Magrakh's head, Thinking about how they defeated the Spriggans using a technique Pelle taught him.

But would she have been able to move with the group as Valdr and Lydia did? Would she have had Valdr's patience, who, even though thirsty for revenge, was weak and wounded and had to be cautious?

Pelle betrays her irritation with a snap of her hands. "So I should stay in this damn city alone for months, waiting for you to grant me a few hours between missions?"

He sighs. "We won't take jobs constantly; we need to rest, repair weapons and— Listen, there are simpler bountie,; I avoided them because I wanted to make quick money for the winter, but we can take one right now if you want!"

"Ah, yes?" Pelle says, but the words don't match the acidic look. "You mean those that 'aren't worth the damn journey'?"

Sometimes, Mag thinks he should talk less. He spreads his arms in defeat. "It was true for me and Lydia, who are more experienced, but yes, we start with the simple things! Even if flying low doesn't seem like your style, considering that in a few days you found a place in the Jarl's kitchen..."

Pelle runs a hand over her face. "I think that was a bad idea. Remember what I told you about him?"

Mag takes a few seconds and recalls something about a corrupt Jarl. He nods.

"I was angry, and I wanted to achieve something significant on my own to throw it in your face. I regretted it. He's a picky idiot who doesn't pay a dime, but now I've got his attention, and I've ignored him for... a week and a half?" She smiles bitterly.

"And painting?" Mag clings to what was a rock in the 'storm' in Solitude. "You haven't painted anything else. You still have materials, right? In any case, we have enough money to replenish them."

Pelle sighs and leans against the tree trunk. "I paint when I'm inspired, Mag. I'd want it to be just a hobby, otherwise I'd have to live in the city all the time to draw, paint, and promote myself. That's not what I want! I can't believe that even here my problems are always the same... so, I'm the real problem...?"

"Do you think you can travel around exploring all year? Obviously, you haven't experienced a winter in Skyrim yet. You need an alternative. You have an eye for valuable things and know how to trade them at the market. Why not start being a merchant? Local in winter and a wanderer in summer!"

Pelle gives a dry laugh and hides her face in her hands.

"Oh, I forgot you had this job in Cyrodiil," Mag says, scratching his beard nervously, "well, you're always obsessed with gathering herbs and alchemical ingredients. Why not start an apprenticeship?"

"Because the idea of spending years studying to then stay in a shop for the rest of my life makes me want to jump off a bridge!"

"For the Divines' sake, Pellegrina, every job starts with learning! Or do you want to tell me you were born with a paintbrush in your hand? Isn't there really anything else you'd like to do?"

The girl keeps her eyes fixed on the ground. A long, tired sigh comes from Mag, who feels more and more defeated.

"I'm sorry, but at the moment, I'm not interested in anything else," Pelle says softly, making an effort to hold back tears, and then walks away with the dog in tow.

He watches her departure for a while, then takes a seat on the bench outside the temple. It feels as if he's just faced another Spriggan.

How can I help her feel better?

I'm not even sure if I can.

And then again, why should I?

Mag's thoughts flow quickly, like the shallow waters of a stream in the tundra.

There must be a reason she appeared out of nowhere to save me... it must have been a favor from the Divines, I have to repay it!

Think, you fool, think. What do I want? To find him and kill him.

What do I enjoy doing? Hot baths, eating, drinking, and fucking.

What am I capable of doing? Mining is backbreaking work and barely pays, but if there's no alternative, I could do it again. Granny taught me to fight, though, and I like it much more. However, if necessary, I'm willing to do anything where I can use my strength!

Magrakh believes that finding one's way in life is quite simple in theory, but a bit more challenging in practice. Pellegrina, however, seems to be stuck at the theory.

How can someone lack a passion, a preference, or even something that motivates them to say, "Yes, I can do it for money"?

And why is she so fixated on mercenary work and exploration? It's as if she came to Skyrim in search of something without knowing what it was.

The only times she seemed at peace with herself were while painting in Solitude. There, she truly appeared self-assured and content in her work. Still, her irrational aversion to staying in one place keeps undermining her.

"Artists..." Mag snorts, irritated. His mother would have given a leg to work in a Jarl's kitchen, and she wasn't even a good cook.

Yet most people usually continue in their parents' footsteps. It's straightforward and convenient, but a family tradition has to start somewhere.

His mother was a miner because his grandmother was a miner. But Nana wasn't always a miner...

She left her Orc stronghold, where she served as a sentinel, because she didn't want to be sent far away to become the trophy wife of an old tribal chief. She didn't choose to be a miner; she became one because she ended up living in Markarth. When she had a daughter with another miner, the girl's fate was sealed by a pickaxe.

But she taught her daughter and her grandson to fight because "you never know when you need to plant an axe in someone's head."

In the stronghold, the rest of his Orc family is still mining, so stone and metal are practically in his blood.

But look at me now, with an axe at my belt and magical monsters in a wheelbarrow.

Mag's father wasn't a miner, but he'd prefer to dig rock for the rest of his life rather than do what he did, even for a day.

...but didn't I?

His mind involuntarily recalls not-so-distant memories he was glad to let gather dust.

His face contorts in a disgusted grimace. He rises and begins to search for Pellegrina.

He finds her at a funeral in the cemetery, leaning against a tree, listening to an Elven priest talk about a little girl named Lavinia and the nature of the god of death, Arkay.

Magrakh joins her. "What do your folks do for a living?" At the inquisitive look, he adds, "Maybe you've already tried to follow in their footsteps, but what do they do?"

"My father is a carpenter, and my sister joined him. My mother is a supervisor at a supermarket."

"Supervisor?"

"A manager."

"Oh..." He thinks of the Orc supervisor of the Markarth foundry and his damned whip. He swallows. "And what did your grandparents do?"

She looks puzzled, but a touch of curiosity makes her play along. "My maternal grandfather was a ne'er-do-well."

"A what?"

"A drunken bastard. Grandma brought home the bread, struggling to feed her children in wartime. She worked on a cow and sheep milk farm, receiving very little from the farmer, so she also did odd jobs. Occasionally, grandfather went fishing when he was sober and not in prison..."

"In prison, eh?" Mag is amused by these revelations.

"For theft, or at least that's what they told me." She shrugs. "As for my father, I don't know. He was never on good terms with his parents, so I didn't know them before they died. I think they were millers or bakers, something like that."

"Have they ever been carpenters like your father?"

"I doubt it."

"Did your grandmother and that rogue of your grandfather ever work in a market like your mother?"

"No, where are you going with this?"

"Even your parents didn't follow in their folk's footsteps!"

"They didn't have much choice. My grandparents struggled during the war, and stealing is not a job."

"Not with that attitude." Mag smiles. "So, how did they start with their activities?"

Pelle shrugs again, which surprises him. "You struggled to find a suitable profession and never talked to your parents, who seem to have gone through something similar?"

Pelle shakes her head, disheartened. "Mag, you don't understand, they don't talk to me. They tell me what they think I should do, and they remind me of what a failure I am when I don't, and sometimes even when I do what they want!" She turns to look at the coffin being covered with dirt. "And if my opinions are different or I point out their hypocrisy, then I'm 'a rebellious child seeking attention'..."

Mag can't figure out if Pellegrina is exaggerating and not understanding their teachings or if she really has such inconsiderate parents.

His mother, although being severe and devoid of humor, was someone he could always talk to and trust.

Pelle rubs her eyes. "I was so tired, Mag. After being called 'stupid,' 'ridiculous,' and 'evil' for so long, you start to believe it... and it's not a good feeling."

She casts an annoyed glance at Mag. "I'm not a child to be controlled at every step!" She snorts. "I'm 26, I've held multiple jobs, taken out bank loans, gotten drunk, and had sex. The only thing more adult than this is old age! Why do you care so much about telling me what I should or shouldn't do? Yes, there are risks, but it's my life, they are risks that I accept. Mind your own business!"

Magrakh raised his eyebrows, realizing for the first time that Pelle had felt a similarity between how her parents treated her and how he treated her.

"Well, I can't speak for your mother and father," He sighs and turns his gaze to the new gravestone in the cemetery, attempting to hide his embarrassment. "I did it to prevent you from dying young... I would regret it."

Pelle gives him a look, and strangely, there is surprise in it.

"I appreciate the thought, but if there's one thing I've learned in life, it's that you can't choose for your friends... you can only talk to them and hope they decide to change. In the meantime, you can stand by them, if you want."

Mag responds with a grunt, not taking his eyes off the grave.

"I wanted to leave that house since I was this tall–" Pelle points to Mag's knees– "I never did for lack of funds and because I was afraid of being homeless, and now that I am, I regret not doing it sooner. If I never see them again, I wouldn't cry."

"Not even your sister?"

She seems to think, then shrugs. "It's been a long time since we had a sisterly relationship."

Magrakh is not used to hearing such aversion toward a close relative...not without good reason.

He thinks back to his grandmother and how she held her cold hands in winter, and of memories of his mother gasping in bed with broken ribs.

Suddenly, his throat tightens with pain and nostalgia, but he forces himself to swallow it.

"They might have failed to help you while you were trying to figure out who you are, but they still provided for you. Do you feel no love for them?"

Pelle turns, annoyed. "Why should I? Providing for your children is a duty, it's everything else that creates a relationship. I won't thank someone for doing their job!" She pauses, reflecting, and then looks into the distance, towards the town's houses. "Or at least a job that makes sense. This Housecarl thing is nonsense. Slavery under another name!"

Magrakh nods, thinking of all the ridiculous rules Lydia has to follow, like 'not owning property'.

"You say 'thank you' for things people do for you without being obligated. Like when you helped me in Helgen."

"And like when you saved me." He smiles.

"True," Pelle returns the smile.

This might be the right moment to ask her... but does he really want to know?

"Why did you do it?" It slips between his tusks before he can decide. "You couldn't have known that the Stormcloaks wouldn't have killed you."

"I was obviously a civilian; the soldiers were their main concern. Then there was also a dragon collapsing the fortress over their heads."

"Why did you save me?" He repeats, dissatisfied with what sounds like hot air.

She shrugs, "why not?"

Is this really all there is to it? She saved his life on a whim?

A memory of that day emerges from the fog where he pushed away all those horrible moments. Every image returns with the acrid smell of smoke and the crunch of bodies under his feet.

But more importantly, it comes with the image of Pellegrina stepping out of a wall with a flash of magic.

"You didn't even look at the dying Imperials on the floor." He insists.

"They had uniforms, you didn't."

"I was dressed in rags, you had to know I was a prisoner!"

Pelle snorts, apparently amused, and is not intimidated by Magrakh's grave expression.

"Sure, but they had taken an oath and committed to a cause. Helping one of them would have made me an enemy of the other faction, and I chose to let them kill each other."

Mag shakes his head. "Usually, people choose which side to be on."

"That's because they think there are only the options provided."

What are the other options?

"As far as I knew, you were alone, and so was I," Pelle says.

"I chose which side to be on, though."

"So did I: I chose you. Your dear Imperials didn't even spare you a glance while you were bleeding to death."

The subdued sobs of Lavinia's mother draw their attention. The priest has finished, and now the father is consoling his wife as they linger at their daughter's grave.

"You chose me only because I wasn't wearing a uniform?"

"I chose you because you were wearing rags."

They pause for a few seconds as they watch the parents slowly return to their farm.

The sun is setting, and the air is rapidly getting colder. The cemetery looks particularly gloomy as the sky darkens.

"I know you appeared out of nowhere," Magrakh decides to say.

Pellegrina turns her head so quickly that she hurts her neck. Her eyes are as wide as an owl's.

This counts as confirmation in his opinion. "For a long time, I thought I had a hallucination, but it wasn't, right?"

Pale from surprise, Pelle fails even in the effort not to tremble.

"Then I thought you might be a witch, but you never cast a spell even to save your life. In fact, what you did that day didn't resemble any magic I've ever seen before. Not that I've seen a lot of magic, but something tells me appearing from walls is not common."

Pellegrina's charade cracks with every word he adds, and finally collapses altogether. "You knew I was lying all this time? And you didn't say anything?"

The official confirmation that what he saw was reality envelops him like warm air, and, satisfied, his tense muscles relax.

"As you know, I also hide things, and you didn't say anything either. But I'm curious, you seem a bit too lost and sad to be a witch or a Daedra worshiper."

Pelle snorts. "Lost and sad?"

"You were disappointed when you realized you couldn't learn the Clairvoyance spell from that tome we found in the Perilous Pass."

"You know that too?" She hides her face in her hands. "How many other things do you know?"

"That your problems with your parents certainly aren't the only reason you left."

Pelle deflates like a punctured waterskin and turns to look at the clearing full of gravestones.

"All right, do you want to know the truth?" She suddenly asks. "I warn you, it's very strange; you probably won't believe me... will you leave forever if I do?"

"It depends on who you work for. I don't like cults, and Daedra even less."

"I don't work for anyone... although you could say someone sent me here."

"Is this someone the leader of a cult or a Daedric prince?"

"No. At least I don't think so."

"That's not reassuring."

She pulls him by the sleeve. "Come with me."

They walk into the forest, among the dense trunks, where you can still see old tombstones swallowed by the underbrush.

"Couldn't we talk at the inn?" Mag asks, a little intimidated.

"Too many ears. Be quiet and listen, and please don't call me 'crazy.' It's funny when you usually do it, but not now, okay?"

Pellegrina takes a deep breath. And then another. She silently stares at the old tombstones for a whole minute, during which Mag thinks she must have changed her mind.

"A few weeks before I appeared in Helgen, I was having strange dreams."

Mag leans against a pine tree and crosses his arms. "Not a good start."

"I know," Pelle says, sitting on a tombstone. "Usually dreams are disjoint events that mean very little. One day, though, my dream became much more coherent, and I became much more lucid. Then I heard a voice, the kind that left me disturbed upon waking."

Mag groans. "I'd worry if it didn't. Please, tell me you didn't do exactly what the creepy voice asked you to do."

She shrinks into her shoulders. "Let me finish, then you can disapprove all you want."

"Okay..."

"The voice seemed to come from very far away, so I didn't understand what it was saying. I don't even know if it was male or female."

She closes her eyes, and he prepares for what he suspects will be a description of an otherworldly experience.

"I dreamed of being suspended in darkness, as if I were in the sea at night. I could only see very distant points of light, like stars. After a while, I realized I could hear words, and over time, they became clearer: they told me to weave and fill the void."

"The void of what?" Mag asks in a whisper, intrigued.

"I had no idea, nor did I think it had to mean anything. It was just a strange dream, so I ignored it. Only it happened again, and again, and so on for days!"

"Of course," Mag sighs, looking around, agitated by the increasingly dark shadows.

One of the Daedric princes is known for manipulating dreams. Does she know this? Please, Divines, tell me she's not the puppet of a Daedra Lord...

"I had similar dreams for many days. It scared me, Mag. I thought it was happening because... because of when–" She stops and can't continue.

When... you tried to kill yourself? You said that you had only considered it! Mag thinks, forcing himself to wait for Pelle to find the words.

"Well, I was starting to doubt my sanity." She finally says. "Then the requests evolved: it told me to bring the color of life to the bridge of death, to weave a bridge to fill the void, to paint, to put myself in the skein and walk the bones."

Pelle smiles at Magrakh's increasingly worried expression.

"With time, they became more specific, to the point that I finally understood it wanted me to paint a canvas I wove with a piece of myself in it."

Magrakh moves away immediately, giving a horrified look at the omnipresent scroll case hanging on Pellegrina's shoulders.

"Wait a second," he says alarmed, "is that canvas made with your skin?"

She laughs at his own expense, and only then does Mag remember seeing her naked and that she didn't miss any pieces.

"No, the canvas is simple linen, and what I put of myself is... well, I heard that Eastern women embroidered with their own hair, so I took inspiration and braided some of my hair into the canvas."

East... Morrowind? Do elven lasses do these things?

"In the end, I connected the pieces of the puzzle: bridge, bones, and death. The whale bone bridge of Sovngarde, the afterlife of the Nords! I thought it made sense to dream about something like that because at the time, I played a lot– I mean, with a Nord adventure book."

Mag raises an eyebrow to let her know he noticed the mistake.

"It's an adventure book for kids, Kolb and the Dragon." Pelle insists.

It seems like she has already forgotten that I can't read.

"Anyway, it's not like it asked me to sacrifice children. The voice just wanted me to paint," Pellegrina pauses, searching his eyes for understanding. "I thought it was my subconscious telling me I shouldn't give up painting, so I created the canvas and then painted Sovngarde. That's it. Painting after a long time made me feel better, so when the dreams continued, I tried to talk with the voice. Here's where it gets really strange."

"Oh, it's been strange for quite a while, Pellegrina."

"I mean, you might not believe the rest."

He waves his hand for her to continue.

"The voice didn't answer any questions, but it wanted me to keep painting, as if the work I had done wasn't complete. It told me I had to focus on a point: 'The beginning of the end at the rim of the sky.' I knew it meant Skyrim. Helgen."

"I understand why you thought of Skyrim, but how did you think of Helgen?"

Pelle remains silent, looking at her feet and rubbing the edge of her new corset with her fingers. She seems nervous, and it's never a good sign.

"Because I knew that's where the black dragon would appear, and knowing the prophecy of the Dragonborn... Do you know it?"

A prophecy? Magrakh has heard stories and ballads about Dragonborns, but a 'prophecy' sounds like something more than a 'legend.'

He shakes his head.

"It's said to come directly from an Elder Scroll," Pelle says, as if casually mentioning one of the world's oldest, most powerful, and mysterious magical artifacts is a trivial thing.

"When misrule takes its place at the eight corners of the world," she recites, "When the Brass Tower walks and Time is reshaped; When the thrice-blessed fail and the Red Tower trembles;"

Does this refer to the eruption of the Red Mountain two centuries ago? Mag thinks, trying to decipher what sounds like a strange poem.

"When the Dragonborn Ruler loses his throne, and the White Tower falls;"

For now, Mag ignores the Dragonborn, engrossed in understanding historical events. This clearly refers to when the Empire lost the Great War against the Aldmeri Dominion.

"When the Snow Tower lies sundered, kingless, bleeding;"

The death of the High King of Skyrim and the civil war that has divided the country, Mag recognizes.

"The World-Eater will awaken, and the Wheel turns upon the last Dragonborn."

The silence Pellegrina leaves behind is overwhelming, and Magrakh is only now noticing how everything around them feels quieter than before.

The last Dragonborn...

Is that supposed to be me?

And why the hell do I have the same title as the Imperial ruler!?

Finally, the World-Eater.

Magrakh remembers when he was a child, listening fearfully but curiously to a storyteller in Markarth recounting the legend of the one who will devour the world.

Alduin.

The memory stops like a cart hitting a boulder.

Suddenly a stream of memories floods his mind like a book being flipped open before his eyes.

A book he can read but filled with memories that are not part of his life but rather of the dragon whose soul he absorbed.

A roar breaks into his childhood memory like a lance.

The wind whips his face, cold but satisfying; the memory of an intense battle.

The taste of human blood covering his fangs and sliding down his throat. Delicious.

Small, frail humans wriggle beneath him.

Fire and snow and ice.

His Thu'um echoing among the mountains.

He roars from above to make the knees of the weak bend.

It is done.

Some mortals are chosen to rule others in their stead; they will wear their power on masks, and cover themselves with armor made of metal scales to honor their mantle, so that all mortals remember who the true leader is!

Their Lord's Thu'um thunders over them.

Black wings envelop the entire sky.

Alduin Thurii.

Red eyes pierce the night.

"Mag?"

Kul do Bormahu

White and blue flames lick the trembling world.

Fin Lein Naak

"Magrakh, please, you're scaring me. Say something!"

Pellegrina is above him, and his ears are ringing.

There's a strange transparent bag covering his mouth and nose, and the dog is licking his face.

He's no longer leaning against the tree as he remembers, but lying on the damp ground.

He moves the bag.

"You were hyperventilating," Pelle says in alarm. "You passed out."

He tries to get up, but there's a black outline around his vision that advances when he strains.

"Take a minute, Mag."

Yes, maybe he should...

The sky is dark. How much time has passed?

"How do you know?" It comes out of his mouth with difficulty, but he needs to ask. "Tell me!" And he's not willing not to receive an answer.

She seems concerned. Fearful, even. "The prophecy is not a secret, but it's not something you learn from village gossip. I read it–"

"I'm talking about Alduin!"

Pelle raises her eyebrows, and even her lips part in surprise.

"I have memories of a dragon in my head," he says angrily, "what's your excuse?"

Caught off guard, Pelle takes a few steps back and raises her hands. "The voice, it was the voice that passed me this knowledge!"

"Do you realize that you were practically told 'this city will be destroyed by a demigod'?" Mag says, flinching when he realizes he shouted.

Unintentionally, the power of his voice manifests in reality as a gust of wind.

"That was–" Pelle swallows, shielding her face from the pine needles that splash everywhere. "Yes, I realize that. Before you judge me, though, I don't know the future! I only know the present and the things that are happening or could happen around me right now."

"Oh, I'm sorry, you only know everything?"

Mag huffs and moves until his back is against a tree and crosses his arms in an attempt to calm down.

"Why do I feel like you haven't told me everything?" He asks, unsure whether to believe the woman inclined to lie. And what if all this is just nonsense to cover up something worse?

"This 'knowledge of the present,' did Alduin give it to you? Oh, that's the damn black dragon that destroyed Helgen, in case your dream friend didn't tell you!"

"I know who Alduin is, and please lower your voice," Pellegrina squints towards the city shrouded in the night.

Mag looks in that direction. "There's no one, speak!"

She looks uncertain.

"Orcs have darkvision, didn't you know, Miss 'I read it in a book but actually it was told to me in a dream'?"

Pelle recovers from surprise and stomps her foot. "Can you stop? I didn't choose any of this! Just like you did not choose to be a Dragonborn. Do you really want me to think that if it had happened to you, you would have told me the truth straight away?"

Mag sighs, more a groan than anything else.

"Also, I haven't finished telling you everything because you passed out! Are you hurt? Do you need a doctor? Do you still have those healing potions?"

"I'm fine. Answer the damn questions and stop stalling!"

"Fine! No, I don't think it was Alduin speaking to me. What sense would that make? He's a tyrant who enslaved humanity; technically, he's a semi-divine creature whose job is to destroy the world. I don't think he visits girls' dreams to invite them to paint!"

When you put it that way... Mag relaxes a bit. "Right, but he had followers. The priests."

"The dragon priests have been dead for a long time."

"If the draugrs are still moving, I don't see why the priests can't. And besides, he is back. Maybe he found other fools to worship him!"

"Magrakh, you have to listen to me. There's something else I have to tell you before I lose my nerve."

Now that he looks at her properly, Pelle looks terrified.

"Spit it out, I doubt it's worse than an unknown creature giving you all-seeing knowledge–"

"I come from another world!"

Pellegrina startles at her own words and covers her mouth, staring wide-eyed at Magrakh.

But he says nothing, trying to process what he just heard.

"I had never seen an Orc before." She fills the silence, clearly uncomfortable. "There are no Orcs, Elves, or Khajiit, where I come from. Only humans. There's not even magic!"

This sounds particularly hard to believe to Magrakh. No Elves and no magic? It makes no sense. How could a world even exist without magic to create it?

Yet she has always been very, very strange... is it because she comes from another world, or is it because she's touched by Sheogorath like he thought?

"I told you it was hard to believe. I know you think I'm crazy, but I have proof!"

Pelle pauses, as if waiting for him to say something, but he remains silent.

"Alduin wasn't killed a thousand years ago as the legend says. The Nords of that time used an Elder Scroll hoping it would destroy him, but instead, it sent him forward in time. To today! That's why I painted Helgen over the Sovngarde painting; it's the nearest city to the point where Alduin disappeared and thus where he would reappear. And with his return begins the end of the world: 'the beginning of the end at the rim of the sky'."

He stares at her in silence and open-mouthed, increasingly incredulous and worried about what she's saying.

On one hand, if it's madness, it seems that Pelle is even more affected than he feared, but on the other... if what she says is true, then Skyrim...

He shakes his head, not even wanting to think about it.

How many more shocking things does she have to say?

First, the unsettling voices in her dreams, then she says she's not even from this world, and now she's telling him about time travel and the end of the world?

His head can't stop spinning.

"And you're destined to prevent that end! You're the Dragonborn. I am–" She lowers her gaze, frowning, letting her arms fall to her side. "I don't know why the hell I was brought here!"

She unrolls the painting from the scrolls case. The picture is not the cottage that Mag remembers.

"It changes depending on where I was before passing through it." Pelle explains. "When I left a week ago, I had returned... home." She touches the painted surface of the canvas where a dark line–her hair–crosses.

The hand disappears inside, producing a glowing ring around her wrist.

After a few seconds, Mag realizes he has crawled away from her and from the painting.

"Don't worry, it's not dangerous," Pelle says, quickly pulling her uninjured hand out of the painting. "It transports me to the last place I was in my world, on the planet Earth."

Magrakh can't think, overwhelmed by all the new world-shattering news. "You're a witch," flies from his lips.

"No! Or at least, I can't do other magic. I don't know what the ability to create portaling paintings would make me, though... Are you okay?"

"It can't be true," Mag mumbles, rubbing his eyes in the vain hope of waking up.

Because if this is true, then the rest should be true too. Like Alduin's return and the end of the world that he should stop!

Maybe he fainted from blood loss after the fight with the Spriggans, and this is all a strange dream he'll laugh about when he gets back to the inn.

"Oh, it's very true, and apparently it's not limited to me. I didn't know if you would've abandoned Meeko, so I added his fur to the canvas."

Mag ignores the offense he feels when she implies he would have abandoned the dog, too distracted by following her movements. Pelle points to some gray lines on the canvas and then proceeds to take Meeko's paw and pass it through the painting.

He startles a second time, and his ears start ringing again, so he looks away and closes his eyes. "No."

"Yes, Mag."

"NO!"

A moment of silence, and then...

"You were brought to Helgen on a cart: Ulfric to your right, Ralof sitting in front of you, Lokir the horse thief to his left. 'Hey, you're finally awake'."

Mag turns, horrified. "How–"

"I know everything about the start! Alduin attacked Helgen while the Stormcloak prisoners were being sent to the block by the Imperials. You were also sent to the chopping block."

"Shut up," he hisses.

"I thought I was losing my mind! I went to a psychologist who told me I was having hallucinations, so I tried to set the canvas on fire, but guess what: it doesn't burn! I couldn't ignore it!"

Pelle squirms, looking uncomfortable with Mag's continuous and obvious fear. "So I experimented, and I realized I can travel from Earth to Nirn, and vice versa, along with everything I'm touching. Objects and creatures can't pass alone, so I have to hold Meeko's paw. If you give me some of your hair, you'll see that you too–"

Mag stands up and takes a few steps back. "Don't even think about it!"

So it was this, he reflects.

This was the unsettling part of Pellegrina that occasionally surfaced and made his skin crawl without apparent reason.

This was the reason.

She's not from this world!

"When I stuck my head in for the first time," Pelle continues undeterred, "I saw the courtyard of Helgen Fortress, and it wasn't a painting; it was real! There was a brazier with fire and smoke, and people working. I hadn't drawn those details! I thought I was going crazy, but it's not madness if you have proof that it's true. Isn't this reality? I'm not imagining you, right? You're real!"

Of course, I'm real!

But she's real too, or I wouldn't see her. I wouldn't hear her talk...

All of this is real. That painting and its magic are real!

So, there really is another world out there, beyond the realms of Oblivion, beyond the Void, beyond the Divine Plane.

But there's no magic in her world! How could the voice give her magical powers? Creatures that talk to you in dreams are literally made of magic.

So, it was something native to Nirn that sent her here!

Mag raises his hand to his mouth at the realization.

But was it an Aedra or a Daedra? A god or a demon... there's a big difference!

Unaware of Magrakh's whirlwind of thoughts, Pelle continues to explain. "I found out that I appear in different places depending on where I touch the canvas with my fingers, but I can only pass where my hair is. I even appeared inside the fortress, although it wasn't visible and hadn't painted it!"

Magrakh makes eye contact at those words.

"I wanted to leave home, and destiny presented me with an adventure; how could I say no? So, I packed my bags, and when I passed through, you were there."

Mag watches Pellegrina's hair cross the canvas like tendrils; instead of the quaint cottage, there's now a strange square building with a flat roof, many doors, and huge windows.

"I don't know how it works, to be honest. I didn't paint this building, but it's like the colors moved to form a new image. This is the gym of my old school... When I returned home, I argued with my parents," she confesses, while he wonders what a gym is.

"On Earth, I've been missing for over a month, and even though I left a goodbye note, they didn't take it well." She swallows.

Well, that's obvious. They must have been worried!

"They reported the disappearance to the police—the guards—despite my note saying I was leaving of my own free will." She smiles bitterly. "When I reappeared... I don't know why I expected them to be happy to see me, or that they would have told me how worried they were. Instead, they made a scene in front of the officers and tried to have me locked up and declared insane!"

Okay, that's a bit of an exaggerated reaction even for worried parents... Magrakh remembers that the mother is a supervisor, and for a moment, he wonders if she's like the one at the Markarth foundry and has a whip of her own...

"I tried to leave again, and they locked me in my old room while I grabbed some clean clothes. I had to escape through the window."

Pelle sighs, and for the first time, Mag notices that she, too, looks exhausted.

"But they had caged Meeko, and I had to call the police again to mediate. Only my parents said the dog was their, and I couldn't prove I bought or adopted him. I had to break in, take him in the dead of night, run away, and then quickly pass through the painting. I don't even know if I'm in trouble with the law on Earth now..."

She looks him straight in the eyes, dark circles under her teary eyes, and cheeks stained with lines of salt. Her voice cracks.

"I left Falkreath because I couldn't stand being left behind, and because I'm envious that you're Dragonborn. That's the gist of the letter."

What?! You want the thing that's giving me an existential crisis and a furious headache?

Pelle takes a shaky breath. "I came back because I didn't have many choices. I sneaked into my old school because I have no place else to go..." I had already exhausted all the money I had left to buy traveling clothes and camping gear. I even invested in some resources to sell here to make money and rent an apartment!"

She chuckles as she wipes her eyes.

"In the end, it seems like I want a home like you, Mag, but I also want to continue our adventure. After all, you're the Dragonborn... you have to save the world, and I want to help you."

He is frozen by the revelations and her tears. Suddenly, she doesn't seem enchanted or demonic anymore, not with snot running from her nose.

Maybe he was right all along, and she was sent by one of the Divines to help him in his time of need, maybe because he's Dragonborn. After all, why would a Daedra do it?

He refuses to believe it was a coincidence, and can only pray that it wasn't a step in the plan of a Daedric Prince.

"I understand, you know, that you want a place to settle down, but coming here and meeting you was the only nice thing that ever happened to me–" Pelle chokes back another sob– "and on my first day in Skyrim, a dragon destroyed a city, so you know how pathetic that is."

She chuckles at her own self-irony, and he feels obligated to laugh as well, but he can't right now since he is overcome with pity.

"But Lydia arrived, and you left me behind, and damn, how I hated it! If I wanted to wash clothes and bake, I would have stayed on Earth; at least there, I don't have to thaw ice to take a bath! I'm envious of your powers, I'm jealous of Lydia, and I hate feeling like this!"

Ah. I hadn't considered Lydia as part of the problem.

"I need to stay in Skyrim," she says, "I don't know why I was given the power to travel here, but I'm sure it has something to do with your destiny!"

Oh no, please stop mentioning Destiny, it might listen!

"Please say something!" Pelle finally screams.

I have been silent for quite a while, haven't I? "I don't—please don't cry." Mag gestures to Meeko, who is whining, "you're making the dog sad."

And me.

He closes the gap between them and lays his hands on her shoulders.

"This is not what I expected," he says. "To be honest, I would have preferred if you were a witch." He immediately regrets his words. "I mean, that would have been less weird. But I ate the soul of a legendary being, and now I have its memories and powers, so…" He takes a deep breath. "I think we're both very strange. At least, you're just traveling— Listen to me, I was about to say you're just traveling through two worlds, as if it were normal!"

A nervous laugh comes out of him, and when Pelle laughs too he regains some confidence.

"At least yours is a strange vacation, why would you want what I have?" He motions to his throat with his hand.

"Are you kidding?" Pelle wipes her tears with her sleeve and looks offended. "Do you realize the immense power you could gain? That filthy sock that is Ulfric spent years with the Greybeards to learn a shout that you can master in a couple of minutes!"

So, it's true that the rebel leader knows how to use the Thu'um?

"The bastard killed the king with that shout: Fus Ro Dah! And he shattered like a clay pot."

"Do you know what's really strange?" Mag asks, still feeling his head full of fog. "You just spoke the words in the dragon language, and I heard 'Force, Balance, Push'."

"It's not strange, it's what it means."

"Yes, but— I hear something, and it immediately comes to me in another language!"

"Welcome to the bilingual club, friend." Pelle pats him on the arm.

"What?"

Pellegrina grins, and right after, she starts garbling words with no apparent sense!

He stares, trying in vain to find at least one familiar term; the cadence is vaguely similar to the Khajiit language, but it certainly isn't that. Finally, she concludes with, "This is my language, Italian."

Mag is sure he has never heard anything like it in Skyrim or Cyrodiil.

"Okay, enough surprises for tonight." Mag says, physically and mentally exhausted, "please tell me these are all the surprises."

Pelle rubs her eyes as if trying to shake off a headache. "As far as I know..." She pulls his sleeve. "Are you planning to leave now?"

Somehow, they've come back full circle. "Why do you want to stay with me? Don't you have a creature to find?"

"What do you mean?"

"This entity that gave you powers and knowledge. I hope it was a Divine gift, but you know, it also sounds like–" He lowers his voice to a whisper– "well, it could also be the work of a Daedric Prince."

"Mm, I disagree. Daedra don't make a habit of giving things away for free."

"That's exactly why you should find out who the source is. What if they ask for something you don't want to give? Or if they've already taken something, and you didn't even notice?"

Pelle chuckles. "Why would a Daedra take something from me? I have nothing that a magical demon from another planet could want. I come from Earth, there are no Daedra or magic there."

"Maybe there's something else they're interested in, and then didn't you just create a portal between the two worlds?"

A moment of silence follows in which only an owl in the distance is heard.

"Shit! Do you think they could— no. You're right; this is enough for today. I'm hungry, Mag, I've been running all week, barely slept, and could only afford to eat canned beans. Meeko needs a bath, you need a bath. Have you spent the night with a troll? Not that I smell good; I mean, we all need a good bath!"

Magrakh smiles. "Music to my ears! Let's go back to the inn."

"Wait, since we're already here... I've talked a lot, too much. Why don't you tell me something about yourself?"

The Orc scrutinizes Pelle's dark eyes. He's sure they're brown, but night vision can't distinguish colors well. Which reminds him that Pelle is practically blind in this darkness.

Mag imagines telling her everything, like she did. And damn, she dropped bombs, compared to hers, his stuff might seem trivial. But the thought of saying out loud all the horrors of his life...

No, just no. He doesn't want to. He can't.

"Let's go eat something," he whispers and gently pushes her toward the path.

She doesn't comment or resist.

They rent their old room again, and Lydia—who was waiting at the tavern—joins them. The Nord woman immediately notices the atmosphere and doesn't say a word.

Magrakh hands Pelle her letter, which she then burns on a candle while Lydia stares intensely.

It's only when Pelle starts writing in her diary and mentions that it's Sundas, the 28th of Hearthfire, that Magrakh gets up and leaves.

He heads to the steaming bathtub, cursing the sky, the sun, Oblivion, and everything else that crosses his mind until he's completely immersed in lavender-scented hot water.

---

5:30 AM, Morndas 29th of Hearthfire, 4E 201

Magrakh is munching on a roasted fish, sitting by the well outside the inn, watching the rising sun.

His sleep has been irregular, interrupted by bad memories, strange dreams, and a constant fear of hearing voices while he sleeps.

He's trying to digest everything he learned the previous evening and make sense of it, and in doing so, he manages to connect some dots previously shrouded in mystery.

Like when he wondered how Pelle knew about Anise's secret or when the girl couldn't grasp the value of gold.

As if magically summoned, here comes Pelle walking towards him. It's strange that she's already up at this hour, usually she doesn't even stir until there's sun to warm her, like a sunflower.

With the light and the chance to see colors, he gets a better look at her new gear.

He sees that what last night he thought was a corset is actually a dark leather jacket; at first glance, it doesn't seem to offer any protection compared to a gambeson, but then he notices the significant thickness and the reinforcements made of bone, or maybe metal.

On top of it, she wears a black cloak with a fur collar and a wide hood. Black pants support a belt with multiple pouches, while the boots clearly have reinforced tips. Even the new backpack is black, and of a make even more foreign than the rest, but it looks very spacious. Actually, the thing that surprises him the most are the heavy knuckles of the gloves, which clearly conceal irons.

Everything has a style different from both the Nords and foreigners, but simple and generic enough that if he didn't know what he knows now, he would never have called it 'from another world.' However, the material of some elements makes him suspect that, although it looks like waxed leather, it might not be at all.

Pellegrina is not unaware of Mag's curious eye. "From home," she confirms. "I had most of it ordered weeks ago, before coming here. Whenever you're ready, there are items I can show you now, like this."

In her hand is a small metal box, and with just a push of a thumb, a flame comes out of a small hole.

"Is that why you became so fast at lighting a fire?"

Pelle smiles. "Last night I also thought about a possible solution to your desire for a home and my—" she sighs, "whatever the hell it is that I want."

"Oh? Do tell."

"Remember when I told you about Pinewatch?"

Mag throws the fishbone to the side of the road. "Wait, isn't that the farm where bandits are holed up?"

She nods, staring at the bone disapprovingly.

"Pelle... Remember there are three of us, and only two are capable—"

He stops, staring down a crossbow pointed at his face.

After a few seconds of great tension, he relaxes when he notices there's no loaded bolt. He pushes it away with irritation.

"But you seemed quite scared of me," Pelle laughs, hiding the weapon back under the cloak; it's frame much more slender than the crossbows he's seen the Imperials wield.

This one is also from the other world? But it must have cost a fortune, and we don't have that kind of money yet.

"Fortunately for me, anyone can pull a trigger. And then, I have a plan." She winks. "Go get your bodyguard and give her the good news."

Mag stares at what appears to be the return of the old Pellegrina, the one who isn't frightened by zombies, necromancers, or witches. The one with weird ideas and plans that fall apart and then become oddly fortuitous improvisations.

The one always a step away from dying a violent death.

"I don't handle grief well," Mag confesses.

Pelle's smile fades.

"My family is gone, and I—" He lowers his eyes. No. He can't say it. "I did horrible things after."

"It doesn't matter."

He looks up, surprised by the lack of judgment or concern on Pelle's face. "It's okay, Mag, it's fine." She repeats. "And if you tell me again to stay behind because you're afraid I'll die, I'll punch you in the balls."

He immediately covers his groin.

"Let me be the one to worry about my own death."

Magrakh sighs and draws the knife given to him by the hunter.

"From Valdr. It should be a good luck charm like your four-leaf clover. I don't know if it works, but at least you have another blade."

Pelle doesn't appear surprised, nor does she ask who's Valdr.

He takes a deep breath to muster courage. "My name is not Magrakh."

"What?"

"It was my grandmother's name. She left her stronghold to escape the life assigned to her. She taught me how to fight with an axe and a shield."

Pelle smiles at the revelation. "She must have been tough."

"Like most Orc women." He smiles bitterly. "I adopted her name when I left home because I didn't like who I had become. I hoped that nana could guide me."

"Did it work?"

"In the end, I think so. It took nearly losing my head to an executioner's axe, a dragon demigod laying waste to the city, and a painter hopping between worlds to save me. But I believe I've earned the hardships."

Pelle chuckles, amused. "My real name is Giulia Pellegrini, Pelle for friends. Nice to meet you again," she offers her hand.

Mag shakes it. "Nice to re-meet you, Pelle."

As they clasp hands, her smirk takes on a mischievous glint. "By the way, in my language, 'pelle' means 'skin'. Your suspicion that the canvas was made of human skin wasn't that silly."

Mag's face contorts into a puzzled grimace, and he hastily retracts his hand as she strolls away, laughing.

"Hurry up, Mag. I can't wait to show you our new tent!"

---

Notes

The upcoming chapter from Pellegrina's POV will be another lengthy one, marking the end of the first arc.

The group will fight together to establish their own base; we'll pay a visit to High Hrothgar; exciting new encounters will lead to personal revelations and questionable decisions; and lastly, Magrakh and Pellegrina will be forced to face the unpleasant results of the choices they made.