Bandits don't make good Heroes

by tetrapod

A down-on-his-luck bandit finds himself wandering the northern province of Skyrim, searching for opportunity in this harsh land wracked by civil war - but little does he know that his life is about to take a turn far beyond his wildest nightmares. In which a singularly unheroic man is forced to don the mantle of Dragonborn, and everything that entails.

15. Chapter 15

Chapter 15

After a couple of hours spent traversing the lower districts, Torgen decides to settle in at a seedy tavern near the city's southern wall. The establishment is called the White Whale according to the sign outside, though the whale depicted thereon resembles an amorphous blob more than any recognizable creature of the sea. The bandit immediately announces his intention to buy out all of their ale and girls before the sun is down.

He wasn't kidding about needing the ale. He must've gone through two entire kegs already. Mull sticks around long enough to guzzle down a few tankards of mead before taking his leave. Hopefully it'll be enough to sufficiently temper his irate mood and prevent him from killing Farengar outright.

He ensures that his belongings and most importantly his septims are still on his person as he walks out the door. One thing he's already learned in their short time together is that Torgen, by his own admission, only needs 'strong drink, loose women, and a good fight every now and then' to keep himself entertained, and isn't above swiping someone else's gold to get them. Those aren't the kinds of things that ever held much interest for him – barring the drink, that is – but to each his own. If it weren't so often aggravating, it would be comical how readily Torgen fits the stereotypical image of a Nord, quick to laugh and to anger, bold in the face of danger and not averse to yelling boisterously across the tavern room for more ale.

With the rowdy tavern now left behind, Mull hefts the Dragonstone as he climbs the city's seemingly endless steps to the Jarl's hall. He ignores the curious stares directed towards him as townspeople watch him labor under the weight of the ancient tablet. The physical exertion combined with his previous drinking makes him feel distinctly nauseated. This is definitely worse going uphill. Not as bad as scaling the mountain to Bleak Falls, but still. That damn wizard.

The guardsmen standing before Dragonsreach's doors are hesitant to allow him inside, weather-stained, sweating profusely, smelling of ale, and generally scruffy as he is, but they also recognize him as Farengar's subordinate and ultimately let him through. The Jarl's court is currently in session, so he carefully skirts the back of the crowd of important people gathered inside the great hall and trudges to Farengar's study. He hopes the wizard is there. He'd better be.

He is, though he isn't alone. That's an oddity in and of itself. As Mull plods along the wood-paneled hallway, he hears the man droning on in that dry manner of his, saying something about the First Era and the Dragon Wars of mythic yore.

Then he hears another voice, one that's distinctly feminine, though somewhat deeper and huskier than average. "Good. I'm glad you're making progress. My employers are anxious to have some tangible answers."

This voice contains a hint of something that immediately puts Mull on edge. He can already tell that the speaker is dangerous, though how exactly he couldn't say. It's instinctual. This woman is bad news.

"Oh, have no fear. The Jarl himself has finally taken an interest, so I'm now able to devote most of my time to this research." That's Farengar again.

"Time is running, Farengar, don't forget. This isn't some theoretical question. Dragons have come back."

Mull stops just before the door, wordlessly listening as they continue their discussion. Sounds like she knows the wizard.

"You have a visitor."

It takes Mull a moment to realize the woman is referring to him. She knew he was lurking outside the door even though he remained quiet and out of sight. The Dragonstone must be making my steps heavier. Still though, I wouldn't think that would be enough… He cautiously steps into the doorway and enters the study.

The place doesn't look much different from how he left it. There are a few more scrolls than before scattered across the court wizard's desk, but that's all. The wizard in question stands on the far side of the table with his palms planted on the sturdy wood. On the near side, a hooded woman sits in a chair. She's facing away from him, preventing him from getting a good look at her.

"Hmm? Ah yes, my assistant! Back from Bleak Falls Barrow already?" Farengar puts on a strong front, but Mull can tell from his body language that he's nervous.

Not of the woman, though. And he sounded normal before. I wonder if I have anything to do with that, he thinks darkly.

"You didn't die it seems, haha." Farengar's attempt at lightening the mood fails utterly.

Not deigning to answer, Mull winces at his aching muscles as he removes the Dragonstone from his improvised harness and lays it on the floor. It would probably break Farengar's desk in half.

Eyes widening, the wizard hastily comes closer, stumbles over a pile of books, and begins examining the stone tablet with scholarly vigor. "Ah! The Dragonstone! I'm impressed, Maul. Very impressed. It seems you're a cut above the usual brutes the Jarl sends my way."

An awkward pause. Mull wouldn't normally begrudge someone a comment like that, but coming from Farengar, it annoys him more than he'd like to admit. He fails to prevent the irritation from leaking onto his face.

Farengar clears his throat. "Uh, my… associate here will be pleased to see your handiwork. She's the one who discovered its location, though by a means she has so far declined to share with me. Really, it's quite an extraordinary endeavor that…" He continues rambling fretfully.

Mull dismisses the wizard for the moment and turns to the mystery woman. She's already looking at him from beneath her cowl. Sizing him up, maybe.

Though her features are obscured by the hood, he's fairly certain that she's at least middle-aged – the skin around her mouth is creased by stress lines. He couldn't guess her race beyond almost certainly being human. Her tone was bland as she spoke, without any discernable accent.

She's wearing a worn set of hardened leather armor and has an unremarkable steel sword sheathed at her side. However, what stands out the most is her posture. Even while seated, she's superficially relaxed and yet ready to leap into action at a moment's notice. It's the same kind of stance he's seen from veteran soldiers, like the Imperial legionaries who escorted them from Darkwater Crossing to Helgen. Who is she, I wonder?

Farengar eventually realizes that nobody is listening to him and shuts his mouth. With the air now clear, so to speak, the woman stands and briefly examines the Dragonstone before settling her piercing gaze on Mull. She rests her hands on her hips. "You went into Bleak Falls Barrow and got that? Huh. Not bad. Not bad at all."

She coughs with what might be amusement and turns to the wizard.

"Well, I'm going. Just send me a copy of the inscriptions when you've deciphered them." Without so much as another glance, the woman spins on her heel and strides purposefully out of the room.

When he's certain the woman is gone, Mull redirects his irate gaze to the resident wizard. Farengar is now busying himself with studying the relic, having somehow moved the stone tablet behind his desk – no doubt with the help of discrete telekinetic magic, as his wiry frame is much too lean for any alternative. He pointedly avoids Mull's gaze.

"So. I brought you the Dragonstone."

Farengar licks his lips. "Y-yes, you did."

Mull's eyes narrow, betraying his exasperation. "And so – bear with me here – I'm assuming you still plan to tell me what happened with my ability to read those runes. Right?"

"R-right."

When the damnable wizard offers no further comment, something snaps inside of him. His patience ran dry a long time ago. "And that isn't even mentioning the godsforsaken reason why you decided to send me down into that hellhole alone, with no help whatsoever! Did you want to get me killed?! There were draugr, actual draugr, inside that fucking crypt! You could've at least told me what I was walking into! 'But there are only skeevers, Mull. It won't be that bad,'" he mimics Farengar's voice in what he hopes is a suitably insulting falsetto. "Trollshit! I went into that barrow with eight other people and only four of us walked back out!"

The wizard's anxious silence is the only response.

He grumbles and runs a hand through his hair. "…Figures." He flops down into the mystery woman's now-vacant chair, leans his head back, and exhales through his nose. Only when he feels like he's calmed down enough to avoid committing a criminal offence does he continue. "You should know, the same thing that happened with your runes also happened while I was inside the barrow."

At that, Farengar finally lifts his head with his mouth open in surprise. "It did? Truly?"

"Aye. There was this stone wall with a bunch of carvings really far down, in the place where I found the Dragonstone, and some of the inscriptions were like those." He points to a sheet of parchment with lines of dragon-runes laying atop Farengar's desk. "When I read them, something… happened. It was…"

He pauses, considering how best to say it.

"Uh, it was like I'd fallen into a deep sleep but didn't realize it, or was in a trance. I woke up after a little while and nothing else happened after that. But, point being, I could understand what the runes on the wall said just like the first time. And there's also some writing on the Dragonstone too. See there, on the other side."

With a tap of his finger and a faint burst of scintillating orange light, Farengar flips over the stone tablet and peers at the aforementioned runes. "…These are certainly of the dragon script. And could you discern what they say?"

I was right. He did use telekinesis. Mull shakes off his wonderment and trepidation at the sight of such casual use of magic. You don't see spells like that every day. "Those runes said something like 'here lies our lord until Alduin revives.' I can't remember exactly, but I think it was along those lines-"

"You are certain it specifically said 'Alduin?'" Farnegar hastily demands.

Mull is taken aback by his sudden urgency. "Yes, I'm pretty sure. Why?"

"Be certain." The wizard points to the runes on the tablet. "These ones right here? Read them again."

"Uh… alright." Mull peers closely at the inscription, resolutely ignoring the sudden knot of pain that appears behind his forehead as he does. As with every time before, he's inexplicably able to read them. "'Here lie our fallen lords until the power of Alduin revives.'" He rubs his hand against his face. "That hurts, so don't ask me to do it again."

Farengar's eyes go wide and he becomes taciturn. His apprehension is intensely palpable, completely different from the nervousness he previously displayed. As before, Mull finds his behavior to be distinctly uncharacteristic.

"…Alduin, it says," the wizard murmurs to himself, barely above a whisper. "That can't be. Surely it's a mere coincidence. A simple metaphor, a cultural reference, and nothing more than that…"

When it's clear that the wizard is lost in his own thoughts, he eventually speaks up. "Is there any particular reason the tablet mentions the World-Eater? Or why you're so…" He vaguely gestures at the man's tense posture to make his point.

The wizard swallows heavily and returns the Dragonstone to its original position before covering it with a linen sheet retrieved from behind his desk. "Frankly, the fact that the dragons have apparently returned in the present day, and that the dragon-god of destruction should be named on this tablet of all things… It's enough for me to postulate that there could be some sort of definitive correlation between the two. Such a possibility is an ominous idea to consider, to be sure. Could this be a prophetic reference? Is it implying that the World-Eater will return someday in the near future? Or does it have some other meaning entirely? Either way, I hope this is naught but happenstance."

Farengar is obviously withholding a few details, whether deliberately or not, but Mull is still able connect some of the dots himself. According to Nord legend, Alduin World-Eater is one of the Twilight Gods. He's the dragon-spirit whose arrival will foretell the ending of the world. If I remember right. He's never been especially interested in the finer points of Nordic religion.

So… is the wizard saying that the reappearance of the dragons and the fact that the World-Eater is mentioned on this Dragonstone could be related? And wait, the inscription talked about the fallen lords resting until Alduin revives, didn't it? Would that draugr-lord have been a fallen lord? Does that mean Alduin has revived since the draugr-lord wasn't completely dead when we got there?

"Wizard."

Farengar looks up at his abruptly grim tone.

"There was a powerful draugr entombed where I found the Dragonstone. It woke up and attacked us. Does that mean the inscription about Alduin being revived is true?"

Farengar frowns and returns his gaze to the Dragonstone, no longer looking at him as he replies. "I would like to think that isn't the case. To say 'until Alduin revives' or any variation thereof could simply be a metaphor to indicate an extended period of time, including and up to the rest of eternity. Such turns of phrase aren't uncommon in ancient Nordic texts. If that's the case, then the inscription simply means 'here lie our fallen lords for the rest of time.'"

"I see." Well that's good, I suppose. "So why are you so worried about it then?"

The wizard gives him an uncomfortable glance and promptly reverts to his ruminating. However, Mull doesn't want to sit here and be ignored. There are still too many unanswered questions.

After another few seconds, he taps the table's hardwood paneling to regain Farengar's attention and gives the man his best hand-over-your-money-or-die glare. The wizard wilts beneath it. "Alright, enough with these riddles. Tell me everything you know. What's going on? What happened to me with the runes? And why are you so hung up about a reference to some god?"

Farengar gulps. The man has started to sweat profusely. "I… I really can't say."

Oh, really? He places a hand on the desk between them and sighs deliberately. "And why is that?"

"I, uh… you see… Delphine-"

"Delphine?"

"My associate, the woman that was just here," the wizard clarifies, "insisted that I shouldn't tell you anything."

He falls silent as he considers that revelation. Huh, Delphine. Why does that name sound familiar? When nothing immediately comes to mind, he shakes his head and gets back to the discussion at hand. "…Why should this Delphine's opinion mean anything to me? I don't know her."

"I do, and in my experience, listening to what she has to say is usually wise." He straightens up and his tone turns solemn. "I've never been given reason to doubt her word. She is a capable and intelligent woman."

"That's cute. Unfortunately for you, I don't care." He jabs a finger at the wizard's chest. "You owe me after everything I had to deal with in that barrow. Finding your precious Dragonstone almost got me killed a dozen times over! You think I'm exaggerating? I'm not!"

"I understand, but I still can't tell you what you want to know!" Farengar exclaims. "Trust me, I would if I could. However, I'm choosing to side with Delphine on this. If she doesn't think you or anyone else should have access to this information, then that's my judgment as well. I realize that I may not have prepared you adequately for your mission-"

Mull interrupts with a furious sneer, but the wizard hurriedly continues.

"-and that is my failing, of course. But I simply cannot reveal everything at this time. We don't know enough ourselves, and I wouldn't want to tell you anything that I can't definitively confirm before then."

He glares at the wizard for a moment longer, aggravated beyond belief. The way he sees it, all this dragon nonsense pertains directly to him because of the mystery surrounding his rune-reading ability. If there's anyone who ought to be in the know, it's him – and yet he still hasn't learned anything even after returning with the Dragonstone, as Farengar had promised he would. "That isn't good enough."

The wizard cautiously edges backwards as he answers, putting more of the table's bulk between them. "Would you rather be provided with misinformation now, or assuredly correct information later?"

"I…" Hmm. That's a too-convenient excuse, but he's forced to admit that it does make some sense. "Would hearing that misinformation hurt anything?"

"It absolutely could," Farengar humorlessly replies. He's as serious now as Mull has ever seen him. "It could have incredibly dire consequences, and not only for you. For many in this city and elsewhere."

…I don't like the sound of that. After the wizard's display of somber earnestness, he's more inclined to take him at his word. He's willing to entertain the convenient excuse. For now. But I will get my answers. If not today, then soon.

He finally relents with a low growl. "Mara's milkers, you wizards are insufferable. Alright. If you really think there's a good reason for being so tight-lipped, then be that way. But you'd better believe this isn't over. At the very least, I'm gonna have your head on a platter unless you scrape together some coin for me. A lot of it. I don't work for free."

Farengar gives him a thin smile. "That can be arranged, I am sure."

"Good." He shoves back his chair with a harsh squeal of wood against wood, stands abruptly, and stalks out of the room. Behind him, he hears Farengar let out a long breath.

I need to find a tavern with some stouter ale than the White Whale. Shor knows I need some after all that.

-x-

.

.

.

Morven.

Her sapphire eyes. Her flaxen hair. Her lithe form. Her genuine smile. Everything is just as he remembers it.

She stands before him in her battered gambeson, dirty grey patched with mismatching squares of green and beige cloth. Her sword is sheathed on her hip, a pale hand resting atop its pommel. She's staring at him with a faint grin, as beautiful as he ever saw her. Maybe even more, he thinks.

He drinks in her appearance like a man hopelessly lost in the vastness of the Alik'r, parched and dying of unquenchable thirst. It's been such a long time since she last looked at him with those eyes.

This is the woman who turned his life into something… more. She was there for him always, whenever he needed her. He doesn't think there's anyone in the world who he's ever looked up to so much, or who he loved with the same sheer heart-wrenching need.

A long time passes in thoughtless bliss before he gives any heed to their surroundings. There are people walking in all directions – fellow bandits, a few of whom he recognizes from Joren's gang. Somehow there's no noise at all. The world is featureless and dead to his ears, as silent as the Void.

His gaze is drawn inexorably back to Morven. His lungs tighten. "A-are you really here?" he chokes out. He can't hear his own words save for their reverberation in his chest.

Her lips quirk. "You can see me," she answers, her words the only audible sound in this place. "You can speak to me. But the rest of them can't." She gestures at the outlaws around them. "I'm only here because you are here."

"…What does that mean?"

Her smile softens, her only reply.

He takes a deep breath and steels himself. This will be difficult to say, but he knows it needs to be said. This is long overdue.

"I'm sorry." I'm sorry for not being there when you needed me. I'm sorry for… for not saving you. For being too late.

She closes her eyes, twin wells of gorgeous blue winking out of existence. Her smile fades. "I know you are." Her melodic voice goes flat.

He exhales heavily, glad to have rid himself of that weight, but then frowns. She's gone still, closing herself off to him as she does when she's angry. But her response doesn't seem right to him for some reason. He doesn't think that's how she would actually answer his apology, even if it did make her mad. This seems different.

Still… if she's angry with him, even if she hates him, could he really blame her? Wouldn't she be justified in feeling that way?

Maybe she does hate him. Maybe he won't ever be forgiven. If that's how it needs to be… then that's okay. He understands. There's one person he can never begin to forgive, and that's himself.

As if in response to his thoughts, Morven begins to change. Her face ripples and her features shift, becoming first fluid and uncertain, and then craggy and worn like she'd aged decades in the span of seconds.

Her eyes sink into her skull, ringed with darkness. They shoot open to reveal that her stunning blue irises have turned unnaturally iridescent. Her hair withers and falls from her scalp in brittle clumps. Her skin cracks and shrivels, warm flesh fading to a dry lifeless grey.

She snarls, displaying once-strong teeth now rotted and brown. He watches with dawning horror as she morphs into something abhorrent.

"Ruair," she hisses. Her voice is like a thousand snakes, twisting around one another in a terrible mass.

He trembles uncontrollably at the utterance of his birth name, spoken with such malevolence.

"You know what you've done. You know your own sins. You failed me. And now here you are, living your life without worry or care. You do not deserve what you've gained."

She smiles. It's a disgusting, haunting expression.

"Why should you continue to live while I'm rotting in the earth? What makes you more deserving of the gift of life? Do you not care? Have you forgotten me?"

"I-I could never forget you," he whispers hoarsely.

"You lie. To yourself and to me, you lie. Just as you always do."

She opens her cavernous mouth wide and lunges with bloodless fingers outstretched. They wrap around his throat, choking the life from his body with unnatural strength.

She squeezes and squeezes, rupturing his esophagus, bursting his veins, crushing his bones to dust, popping his eyes from their sockets. He screams silently, for his body is no longer able.

.

.

.

He flinches hard and suddenly finds himself throwing away fur bedding, gasping for air and utterly blinded by the surrounding darkness.

He's greeted by the sight of low timber rafters, walls adorned with woven blankets, and an uneven wood-paneled floor. This is the familiar sight of his quarters in the guards' barracks of Whiterun's temple district. Not… wherever he'd just been.

He lays back and clutches his face in his hands. Another dream, then. I think they're getting worse.

His mouth is dry and his head aches, the familiar symptoms of having drank too much during the evening. That's usually enough to stave off the dreams. Tonight however, it doesn't seem to have worked.

He rises from his mattress with a disheartened groan and staggers over to the washbasin, his usual routine. He palms Morven's hawk amulet from the nightstand on the way, taking a small measure of comfort in its familiarity. She gave it to him before all of this happened. That was a time when he knew she loved him. There was no doubt, nothing withheld. It was real.

But with each cycle of the moon, his nights have grown more and more intolerable. It feels like the nightmares are building up to something, and given the nature of said nightmares – of Morven, of Helgen, of the dragon, and of the barrow – he's willing to guess the culmination won't be pleasant.

He washes up as best he can and returns to the mattress, knowing full well that he won't get anymore sleep tonight. Unsurprisingly, though only a few hours remain until dawn, it ends up feeling much, much longer than that.

-x-

Several days pass after he and Torgen's arrival in Whiterun. He hasn't done any work for Farengar since then. In fact, the wizard seems to be actively avoiding him after their most recent interaction.

He's definitely hiding something, that bastard. It goes without saying. He's willing to tolerate the wizard's reticence for now – all the more so because the payment he received for services rendered was even more substantial than he'd hoped – but his patience won't last for long. He desperately wants to know more about his unexplained linguistic ability and what it has to do with the ancient Nords.

As a result of his employer's inactivity, he's been spending most his time lounging in the White Whale and other cheap taverns scattered throughout Whiterun's lower districts, sometimes with Torgen and sometimes alone. He's grown somewhat more accustomed to Torgen's presence by now, though he still often asks himself why he bothers sticking around the often moronic Nord.

The answer that he doesn't want to admit to himself is actually quite simple. His only other acquaintance of note in this city is Aela, and between an idiot Nord bandit and a terrifying Huntress, he'll take the idiot any day.

Despite his reservations, Torgen admittedly isn't all that bad. He tends to be boisterous, outgoing, and gets along with practically everyone he meets, but at the same time takes care not to attract undue attention, nor does he do anything patently stupid. As far as companions go, he isn't irredeemable. He's certainly had worse.

Against his better judgment, he does drop by Jorrvaskr one afternoon to check in with Aela and let her know that he's still alive. However, she's busy whipping some of the Companions' newer recruits into shape and seemingly doesn't have much time to spare for social calls. He decides not to bother her and beats a hasty retreat from the Companions' raucous abode. Or tries to, at least.

Just as he's about to exit the mead hall, he's accosted by one of the Companions – the big man that participated in the fight against the giant with Aela – who tries to convince him to spar. He takes one good look at the seven-foot-tall mountain of muscle, who introduces himself as Farkas, and gets the hell out of there as fast as he can. He would prefer for his bones remain intact, thank you very much, and that seems like an unlikely outcome if he were to take up this Farkas' offer. There's no doubt in his mind that the Companion would pound him into a bloody pulp. The man is huge even for a Nord.

He also does a little independent investigation regarding the dragon-runes and his apparent talent for reading them. He meets with and questions an eclectic assortment of old adventurers, scholars, priests, and even alchemists from all across the city, but ultimately to no avail. He fails to find out anything relating to his condition, or whatever it should be called. It looks like I have no choice but to depend on Farengar. That's a scary thought.

With nothing else to do, he finds himself wasting away his days drinking, sleeping, maintaining his weapons, poking around the lower districts, and not much else. He would usually detest such a careless and tedious existence, but after the gigantic mess that was Bleak Falls Barrow, he doesn't begrudge himself a little downtime even if it does feel strange. Lounging around with nothing to do has never been a commonplace state of affairs for him. He actually finds himself truly relaxing, or as close as he can get, for the first time in recent memory.

He snorts self-deprecatingly as he readjusts his grip on his horn of mead, casually observing the other patrons of the latest hole-in-the-wall establishment that he and Torgen have decided to visit. They're a motely collection of dark-eyed street rats, tattooed clansfolk, curvaceous harlots, and smalltime mercenaries, the dregs of society in this city. He and Torgen fit in just fine.

He feels out his coinpurse, intending to purchase something to fill his belly, and frowns. Despite the windfall he received for finishing the Dragonstone job, he's already down to less spending money than he would like. With nothing else to do, he's been throwing away a lot of gold at these taverns. It isn't ideal, but the alternative would be to twiddle his thumbs and gradually go insane. If you look at it from that perspective, drinking too much could be considered the lesser of two evils.

I should go up to Dragonsreach. Maybe the wizard will have something for me to do this time. I want to get paid again.

He pauses as he reconsiders.

Oh, who am I kidding. He'll just ignore me, the same as before. In that case, there might be a chance the Jarl or his steward will have something that needs to be done. It's a longshot, but you never know. Can't hurt to ask.

With a noisy sigh, he pushes himself to his feet, waves away a concerned serving girl, and signals to Torgen his intention to leave. He shoves his way through the tavern and emerges onto the narrow stone-cobbled street, letting the hubbub of voices and clattering dishes fade behind him as the door swings shut.

He takes a deep breath to clear his mind and briefly pauses to observe the impressive shade of crimson blanketing the sky as the sun sets behind distant mountains. Looks like it'll be a nice night. For all of its faults, Skyrim does have a pretty sky.

With that, he sets off for the Cloud District, a towering island of shadow in the red sea of the heavens above, standing tall above the city like a guardian deity of ancient days.

-x-

Something's wrong. Not only do the guardsmen at the doors of Dragonsreach let him inside with no fuss whatsoever, but they look absolutely terrified of something. These men are the elite of Whiterun, the sons of nobility raised from birth the protect the Jarl with their very lives. Needless to say, that they would be scared of anything is worrying in the extreme.

As he ascended to the Cloud District, he saw some kind of commotion on the western wall. Whatever's going on, it isn't restricted to Dragonsreach. That can't be good a sign.

Upon entering the Jarl's great hall, he immediately senses palpable tension in the air as it rolls over him like a layer of humidity. A dozen or so warriors are gathered around one of the hall's long trestle tables, presided over by the Jarl, Irileth, Hrongar – Balgruuf's brother, the armored red-haired man Mull saw the first time he came to Dragonsreach – and even Farengar.

Many of those present are arguing vehemently amongst themselves. The townsfolk and guards in the city streets were perfectly at ease, so news of whatever this is about must not have spread yet. Or it could be nothing. However, he gets the impression that isn't the case. His hunch is confirmed when he moves close enough to overhear the ongoing conversation.

The first voice he can make out is that of Farengar, practically shouting with excitement. "A dragon! Where was it seen? What was it doing?"

His stomach sinks into his boots like a boulder dropped off a cliff. Oh fuck…

Irileth whispers something to the wizard, most likely asking him to kindly shut up. Then she raises her voice to address a nearby warrior. "Tell him what you told me. About the dragon," she orders as she gestures to the Jarl. The warrior is panting heavily and spattered head to toe with mud.

Mull quietly moves to stand behind the crowd so he can eavesdrop, doing his best to remain inconspicuous.

"Ugh… that's right. We saw it coming from the south. It was fast. Faster than anything I've ever seen."

At this, the Jarl breaks his ominous silence. "What did it do? Is it attacking the Western Watchtower?"

"No my lord, it was just circling overhead when I left. I never rode so fast in my life. I thought it would come after me for sure."

Balgruuf's expression turns grim as he grasps the man's shoulder with a firm hand. "Good work, son. We'll take it from here. Head over to the barracks for some food and rest. You've earned it." As the warrior nods gratefully and takes his leave, the Jarl swiftly turns to his housecarl. "Irileth, gather some men for a scouting party and get down there. I need to know what we're dealing with."

The Dunmer woman's posture straightens. "I've already ordered my best men to muster near the main gate. Whatever is happening, we'll get to the bottom of it."

"Good." The Jarl pauses as he deliberates. "…Caius," he calls to a short Cyrod with a receding hairline who stands among the gathered functionaries. "Organize as many men as you can find and send them to the western gatehouse. Collect mercenaries from the city if you feel it's necessary. Take Hrongar too. If something goes wrong, we need to be ready." The Cyrod crisply salutes, giving Mull the impression that he's a former legionary. The Jarl casts his gaze over the assembly before nodding to Caius, Hrongar, and Irileth in turn. "Go. Do not fail me."

The rest of the warriors disperse, some trying to disagree with the Jarl's decision only to be loudly told off by Hrongar.

Irileth strides purposefully towards the doors, right in Mull's direction. Despite his efforts to remain innocuous with the assistance of an unattended platter of cheese, she spots him almost immediately.

"Oh. It's you," she remarks in what must be the most stale tone he's ever heard. She doesn't sound pleased to see him.

The feeling is mutual.

The woman glances back at Balgruuf, who has evidently already caught sight of him too. The Jarl waves him over.

He scowls dejectedly before following the unspoken command. If there's a dragon involved, then getting drawn into this was inevitable. It's technically why I'm still in this city. But that doesn't mean I have to like it.

"Ah, you're here. Good, good. I was hoping to see you." The Jarl exudes an odd mixture of relief and weariness.

His frown deepens. He does a poor job of hiding his unease. "And why would that be?"

Balgruuf virtually collapses into a nearby chair. "You overheard, yes? You know the… situation?"

He hesitates as he seriously considers lying, but eventually nods.

"I want you to go with Irileth and help her investigate whatever is happening at the Western Watchtower. You survived Helgen, so you have more experience with dragons than anyone else here. Your input could be vital."

Despite how it might seem at times, Mull isn't an idiot. He guessed where the conversation was headed. It was obvious. This is why Balgruuf has been keeping him around in the first place. Regardless, when the words are uttered… it's just such a ridiculous request. To go out and confront a dragon, even after everything that happened at Helgen? He doesn't know how to react to such a proclamation. "You… really want me to go out there? I'm not much of a warrior."

"We need you, son. You're the only one who knows firsthand what this enemy is capable of." The Jarl leans forward. "I won't force you. Gods know I have no right when it comes to something like this. But… will you do it?"

He steals a glance at Irileth. Her blood-red eyes bore unwaveringly into his own. "I… uh…" His mouth is suddenly incredibly dry. Trying to speak is like swallowing a fistful of sand.

He remembers Helgen in all its lurid detail. He recalls hundreds of gruesome specifics, the stench and the sight of burnt husks, things he really wishes could be forgotten. It's not even a question. Of course he won't risk walking back into something like that. The truth is that he feels no responsibility or obligation to any of these people.

He tries and fails to take a deep breath. The man is pleading. He looks scared. He wonders if he's scared for his own safety or for that of his people. But not only that, there's also hope in his expression as well. It isn't the face of a man consigned to death quite yet.

I don't care. This isn't my problem. "I… I can't. There's no way in Oblivion I could do that. You're right, I was at Helgen. I do know what the dragon is capable of. And that's exactly why."

The Jarl's gaze drops to his boots. Irileth bristles at Mull's side, but he ignores her.

"Call me a coward or an oath-breaker. You wouldn't be wrong. But I can't go out there. I-I can't…"

The same terror that overtook him while running blindly through the streets of Helgen begins to gnaw at him deep down inside. Abruptly, unwilling to appear weak here and uncaring how rude it might seem, he spins on his heel and makes for the exit.

Irileth preempts him by jumping in his path. Though a few inches shorter, the Dunmer bodychecks him with her shoulder and sends him staggering a few steps backwards. He rubs his sore pectoral and tries to stare down the interposed housecarl, hoping to intimidate her into letting him pass. Instead, he predictably ends up being metaphorically stared down by her. "We need you to go with us. Your knowledge is required. You do not have a choice."

He scoffs. "Yeah, right." He addresses the Jarl, but his attention remains on the Dunmer in the corner of his eye. "What happened to not forcing me?"

The Jarl's mien is melancholic and his pale blue eyes convey seemingly genuine unhappiness. However, the older man says nothing.

Mull's gaze swivels between the two. Ah. I wonder if this is a good guard – bad guard routine. He's been on the receiving end of a few of those before. He knows what to look for. He also wonders if the Jarl's apparent unwillingness – spinelessness, more like – is real or feigned. It's impossible to tell for certain. He's a Jarl, a lord. Either way, I'm sure he's done this kind of thing before. Sending people to their deaths is all in a day's work for him.

Irileth steps closer. "You will do this. This is expressly the purpose for which the Jarl has deigned to employ you for the duration of these past months. You're correct – if you refuse, you will indeed be an oath-breaker in all but name, and the people of Whiterun Hold would have no further use for you. Understand this."

The Dunmer glides within sword range. Her unsettling crimson eyes narrow. Her lips part just enough for her expression to be called a snarl.

"Due to his inherent benevolence, the Jarl may not wish to force something like this onto you. I, however, am subject to no such reservations. Do not make yourself an enemy of the Jarl, nor of myself. You will regret such an outcome. Though not for very long."

She draws even closer, hovering just over his shoulder. He feels her breath against the side of his neck as she speaks quietly into his ear.

"As a youth in Morrowind, I was trained intensively in the ways of the Morag Tong. Do you know what that means?"

He shudders. He can't help it.

"Hmm. I see that you do, or at least have some base inkling. Understand then that I could kill you in the blink of an eye, with no effort at all. Wherever you run, you could not hope to escape me. You cannot hide from the Moraag."

She steps around him to face him directly. He swallows, now thoroughly scared out of his wits.

"So who is it that you fear more? This dragon? Or me?"

"The dragon," he replies honestly. Is he afraid of Irileth now? Oh, absolutely. Much more so than before. But this woman is still just a person, a mortal being, even if her claimed status as a member of the Morag Tong means she's easily one of the deadliest individuals in the entire city.

A dragon though… He assumes the dragon terrorizing this Western Watchtower is likely the same creature he saw in action at Helgen. It seems like a fair assumption. How many mythical beasts can there realistically be flying around the province at one time? If that's the case, then it isn't even a competition.

"It's a godsdamn dragon, woman. Who in Kyne's name do you think would scare me more?"

"Do you see the dragon here with us now?" she asks flatly. "No. You see me. I'm the one you should me worrying about at this moment. Trust me, there is only one single choice for you to make. You are going to the Western Watchtower. One way or another."

"Trust me, bitch. You don't want to back me into a corner," he hisses. "I might do something you don't like very much." His fingers brush against the hilt of his knife. His sword is unfortunately with the guardsmen at the front doors, but he's recently begun concealing his smaller blade inside his waistband whenever entering Dragonsreach, knowing the guards won't notice. Letting his anger get the better of him in a situation like this would be extremely stupid, but it's already too late. He's mad whether he wants to be or not.

"You're treading a thin line. You will regret this foolishness, Man. Mark my words."

"I'm sure I won't regret it nearly as much as paying a visit to a dragon." He laughs bleakly. "If you really want me dead, then go ahead and kill me now. Don't send me to die at the hands of something else like a coward. But whatever you do, know that I'm gonna take you to Oblivion with me."

He and Irileth tighten their grips on their respective weapons and lower their postures, preparing to leap into action. A small handful of warriors gather around and ready themselves to intervene. The vast majority of the hall's residents have already departed. The hushed emptiness of the hall coupled with the crackling fires and tense atmosphere gives the proceedings an oddly ritualistic feel.

In spite of his fear, Mull grins madly. He knows that he's deluding himself – he stands no chance of defeating someone like Irileth if her Morag Tong claim has any veracity – but that's neither here nor there. A fight is imminent. His hackles are already raised, consequences be damned. All that matters is his immediate survival, however that might best be accomplished.

"That's enough. Irileth, you will stop this idiocy at once." Though he speaks at a conversational volume, the Jarl's voice still resounds commandingly across the hall with practiced ease.

He rises from his throne with the swishing of finery and the clinking of gold trinkets. He's no longer somber in the slightest. Now, his features are flinty as he glares at his errant subordinate and resident 'dragon expert.'

"The last thing we need right now is a quarrelsome display such as this. We have a dragon to deal with! We need your cooperation," he says to Mull, "but even so Irileth, this is not how you should act! Restrain yourselves, both of you!"

Mull grudgingly backs away from the Dunmer housecarl and holds his hands outstretched far from his belt, showing the surrounding guardsmen that he isn't trying to pull any tricks. In truth, he hadn't noticed their approach due to being so focused on Irileth. He'd completely forgotten about the Jarl as well. Tunnel vision in battle, or right before a potential battle in this case, is very, very dangerous. That was extremely stupid of me.

The stark realization of how close he came to getting himself killed splashes over him like a bucket of cold water. His anger and adrenaline instantly drain away.

Irileth marches to the Jarl's side and exchanges a few indignant whispers before crossing her arms and fuming.

Balgruuf frowns at Mull. "You must understand that we truly require your aid in this matter. My men have no idea what they might be walking into. If there's any information you have to offer beyond what you've already told us, then please do so now."

He remains silent. It isn't out of resentment or petulance, though perhaps he would be more polite were he in a better mood. He's simply already told them everything there is to tell about Helgen and his thoughts regarding the dragon's behavior, of which he didn't have that many to begin with. There's nothing else to say.

The Jarl continues without skipping a beat. "Then beyond that, it's imperative for you to accompany Irileth out into the field. Your presence could save lives, the lives of my people for whom I bear the ultimate responsibility. I will do whatever I must to ensure their safety. I'm aware of what I said before, that I have no right to order you to do this. I didn't lie. In good conscience, I cannot do such a thing. However, the fact remains that you must go with Irileth to the watchtower. As much as it pains me to say this, the matter is nonnegotiable."

Now that Mull isn't getting himself worked up by the belligerence of a certain acerbic and frankly terrifying Dunmer, he's able to view his current predicament with a little more clarity than before.

Whether he likes it or not, he did pledge to serve the Jarl with regards to the dragon problem and to take whatever related actions were demanded of him. It would be a singularly bad idea to renege on that commitment.

It would be a bad idea to trapeze out onto the plains to say hello to a dragon, too!

That's true, but there's writing on the wall that he failed to notice earlier. Well, he did notice, but he just didn't care at the time. The fact of the matter is that having a Jarl as an enemy would be very bad. Being dead would be worse obviously, but as of this moment, he doesn't have any other choice. He fully trusts Irileth to make good on her word. If he doesn't cooperate with this… this bullshit, then he'll be a corpse by sunrise. Or he could be thrown into the dungeons. At the very least, he'd no longer be welcome in the city. That wouldn't bother him overly much – there are more than a few places he isn't exactly welcome anymore – but first, he would need to get out of his immediate predicament, and he doesn't see a good way to do that. Survival is priority number one, and his previous stupidity notwithstanding, getting into a fight to the death with Irileth wouldn't be conducive to that goal.

Well… He curses viciously under his breath. I guess this is happening.

He sneers at Irileth – who closely mimics the act – before facing the Jarl. The man is displeased, though presumably more at the situation as a whole than at Mull specifically. At least he hopes so. "Fine, Jarl. If you aren't giving me any other choice, then I'll do it. But this had better be made worth my while." He steps forward belligerently, prompting a few of the surrounding guardsmen to bring their weapons to bear. "When I get back, I'm going to be the richest asshole in this entire damn city. I don't care precisely how much gold you pay me, but it will be a lot. That's my demand. Take it or leave it."

"It's hardly your place to be making demands of the Jarl!" Irileth exclaims furiously. "If you don't-!"

"Irileth, I have already said that's enough," Balgruuf irascibly interposes. "I am having this discussion. Not you."

When the housecarl has subsided to his satisfaction, Balgruuf eyes Mull with something approaching amusement.

"Richest in the entire city, aye? That seems a steep price indeed for merely investigating a dragon sighting. But not to worry. I will assuredly pay you handsomely for services rendered. Have I not done so up until now?"

…He's got me there. Truthfully, his salary has been rather generous all things considered. That he's spent the vast majority of it at the city's taverns is his own fault, not the Jarl's.

Balgruuf's good cheer proves to be short-lived. He leans back into his throne and purses his lips. "We can discuss the specifics upon your return, but as of now, time is short. We've wasted far too much with this ridiculous argument already." Irileth shuffles anxiously to accentuate. "I've given my commands. I expect them to be dutifully followed by my subordinates, and as of now, that includes you."

Wonderful. Outwardly, Mull grimaces and nods. "Okay then. I'll…"

He falters. What he's committing to do is the height of absurdity. He doesn't want to put himself anywhere near a dragon, not ever again. In this instance, however, it appears that will happen whether he likes it or not.

He sighs unhappily and meets the Jarl's gaze. "I'll do what I can."

Balgruuf lets out a long breath, his worries seemingly allayed for the time being. "That is all I ask."

Without another word, Irileth departs from the Jarl's dais and heads for the front of the hall, pointing aggressively for Mull to follow. As he falls into step beside her, she examines him dubiously. He's clad only in his street clothes, and thus makes for a decidedly unimpressive sight. "Come. You will take what you need from the armory."