Chapter 16

Mull, Irileth, and two dozen of her handpicked warriors move out from Whiterun's western gate about half an hour after the conclusion of their… discussion… with the Jarl. Men have already begun marshalling at the gates under the direction of Caius, who Mull learns is the commander of Whiterun's city guard. By the time they depart for the watchtower, there are already dozens of warriors assembled there to act as their reserve with more arriving every minute.

He also notices the men gathering horses on either side of the gate, which will allow them to get to the watchtower quickly if something unfortunate happens. When he asks, he's informed that Irileth's group is supposed to signal Caius if things go amiss by shooting a fire-arrow into the sky from the top of the watchtower.

From the armory in Dragonsreach, he had grabbed a bow and a quiver of arrows – his own are currently down in the tavern where he and Torgen are staying – as well as a spangenhelm with cheekguards, a light ringmail hauberk, and a pair of splinted steel bracers. He simply wasn't given time to don anything else. Irileth has made it abundantly clear that she resents every wasted second. Naturally, that means she resents Mull for taking so long to be convinced – 'convinced' – to tag along for this little escapade.

It isn't my damn fault that I don't want to get turned into a dragon's midnight snack! For the dozenth time in as many minutes, he reflects on the ridiculousness of the series of events that landed him in this situation. I wonder if Torgen knows what's going on. Probably not. This late into the night, I'd bet he's piss drunk underneath a table somewhere.

They march across the plains to the watchtower in tense silence, with several of their scouts ranging ahead and to the sides to ensure they aren't caught unawares by potential enemies. The jingling of equipment and muted stomping of boots are the only sounds to disturb the nocturnal tranquility.

They don't dare to carry torches to light their way, and they don't even take horses for fear of the animals giving away their position, which is actually a decision that Mull agrees with. They could run away faster with horses, but then they wouldn't have any hope of remaining hidden from the dragon. On foot they at least can hide in the tall grasses that are so prevalent on these plains.

It's quiet. Heather and thistle sway gentle in the cool breeze, and there's no sign or sound of wildlife. They're alone in this barren wasteland, and the only indications of life are the innumerable twinkling lights of Whiterun steadily receding behind them. Ahead is a featureless ocean of blackness. The desolation is so intense that if somebody told Mull he'd been transported to the surface of one of the moons, he'd almost believe it.

Irileth is careful to keep him in her line of sight at all times – unsurprising after his less-than-stellar display in the Jarl's hall. Not that he regrets standing up for himself, but it really was quite stupid in hindsight. Though of course, what they're doing right now is also incredibly stupid. There's a big difference between running away from a dragon and running towards one.

Not only that, but he isn't a trained warrior by any means, and he's pretty sure the Dunmer housecarl can tell. He's gotten a good amount of practical experience over the years – to put it nicely – but he's never received any sort of formal education, and that truly matters. There's a noticeable difference between him and the warriors of Whiterun in that sense. The average guardsman's readiness, posture, spatial awareness, and other such things are on an entirely different level than his own. Honestly, if he were Irileth, he wouldn't have much confidence in himself either.

The Dunmer housecarl does interrogate him for a few minutes en route regarding the dragon's potential capabilities and the best ways to account for them, but as before, what advice he's able to offer is limited. "We should do whatever we can to avoid being seen. If we're seen, then we should run. If we can't run, then we should play dead and hope for the best. It doesn't matter how many bowmen we have out here with us. We won't be able to bring it down." If the Imperials at Helgen couldn't do it, then their chances out here are a foregone conclusion. "If we all ran away in different directions, at least some of us would survive."

She clearly isn't pleased in the slightest by his responses, but seems to accept them for what they are. Her parting words aren't very appreciative. "I don't know why the Jarl expected anything else from a lowlife."

He shrugs as she marches angrily ahead of him. You got me there.

They continue further westwards on the paved road crossing the Hold's windswept plains, black clouds wheeling overhead all the while. He's never gone into this part of the plain before. It's drier than he would've expected, afflicted with a sort of cold aridity made all the more poignant now that the sun has gone down.

With each step he takes, his nervousness increases by leaps and bounds. He's intensely aware that their quarry could swoop down on them from above at any moment. The dragon at Helgen was a horrifying creature, and even just thinking about its capabilities gives him the chills. He's standing on the cusp of mind-numbing terror, and it doesn't help that the same impulse is visible in the other men and women marching alongside him, a few of whom are literally trembling in spite of their dogged attempts to remain stoic. Perhaps it's fear of the unknown that has them so worked up. At least he knows what they're up against. Not that the knowledge is much comfort.

I could just run away. Irileth is keeping an eye on him, so pulling off an unseen escape would be difficult. Still, it might be worth a try.

However, with a woman who claims to be Morag Tong just a few paces away and obviously opposed to such an action, doing so would be tantamount to suicide. Oh, and strolling along in the middle of these plains with no cover whatsoever while looking for a dragon isn't suicidal?!

He glances at the frightened guardsmen one more time. Whiterun's 'best men.' Ha. That's a sad thought. He doesn't understand why the city's leaders decided to send out their finest scouts for something like this. At least send the ones that are expendable.

But they did, and so here they are, marching to what is most likely their deaths. A part of him wants to look down on these trained warriors walking resolutely into Oblivion like mindless lemmings, but he can't quite bring himself to cast judgement. He's the one who's being a coward in this situation. That he readily admits. The only reason he's even here is because of the Jarl's insistence and Irileth's threats. And those aren't very inspiring reasons, are they?

He's not brave, or stupid, or delusional – at least he hopes not. But the fact is that I'm walking into this all over again, even if unwillingly. Sometimes I wonder if I haven't gone insane.

-x-

It isn't long after midnight when they finally reach their destination. The only illumination in the all-encompassing darkness of the moonless night is a sinister flickering glow given off by small grass fires scattered around the perimeter of the ruined stone watchtower. Several blackened corpses litter the immediate area. The rancid stench of burning flesh is nearly unbearable despite its familiarity. Looks like the dragon did attack the watchtower after all. It's a good thing we didn't get here earlier.

At Irileth's command, the guardsmen spread out to search for survivors. Apparently being left to his own devices now that the Dunmer housecarl has bigger things to worry about, Mull makes the executive decision to investigate the vicinity of the tower grounds – or what's left of it. And here I was hoping we would show up, take one look, and head straight back to the city. I guess that would be asking for too much.

As he steps over a shriveled husk of a body with smoking shreds of a wheat-gold Whiterun tabard still clinging to its remains, he hears one of the men close to him mutter "Shor's bones, did it kill them all…?"

He morosely shakes his head as he begins poking around the outskirts of the lonely fortification, searching for nothing in particular. Helgen was far, far worse, but by the Nine, this is no less gruesome. It wouldn't have been a good way to die.

He's startled to attention as a loud shout rings out above him. "No, get back! It's still here somewhere! Hroki and Tor got grabbed when they tried to make a run for it!" A man clad in a scale hauberk, a survivor from the garrison, stumbles as he exits the tower onto the top of a crenellated ramp. It looks like the remnant of what might've once been a full-fledged wall.

The man's face is difficult to make out in the gloom, but Mull sees how his eyes dart to and fro, fearfully searching the sky. He also notices that his hair and clothing are singed.

"What happened? Where is this dragon?" Irileth demands. She marches over to the side of the ramp and glares up at the man.

"I… I don't know! It was just here!"

Then, suddenly, without any warning whatsoever, Mull can hear it. All else is drowned out, and the world falls utterly silent save for a single chorus.

Ghostly music haunts the extreme edge of his hearing, whispering to him in a language that's completely alien and yet intimately known. It's reaching out to him from an indescribably vast distance, as if echoing from within the depths of the earth or piercing down to him from the vaults of the sky.

It's exactly like what he heard in Bleak Falls Barrow as he faced down the draugr-lord, except this time it bears an indescribably greater intensity. Not only can he hear it, but he can feel it as well, the taste and smell of burning frost upon his tongue and in his nostrils, his soul humming alongside it in perfect harmony. His skin becomes feverish. His heartbeat accelerates to match its strident rhythm. It's such an intense sensation that his kneels nearly buckle on the spot.

He turns his eyes to the southern sky on impulse, following the cadence of the music.

There, he sees the silhouette of what's undeniably a dragon swooping down from the far-flung mountains with impossible speed, its winged bulk blotting out a swiftly-moving patch of twinkling stars. It's incredibly alike to what he saw at Helgen even though the environments and time of day are different. There's no mistaking it.

He tries to call out a warning but finds that he can't speak. He can barely even breathe. These inexplicable sensations assailing him are too overwhelming.

A few seconds later the others catch sight of the flying shadow as well.

"By Ysmir, it's really a dragon!"

"Kyne save us, here he comes again!"

"All of you, spread out!"

The men and women around him frantically shout, ready their weapons, and blow sonorous warning notes upon ivory horns, but Mull still doesn't hear them. The battle-song grows loud, pounding inside his skull to the exclusion of all else, a drumbeat that calls him to war. He's paralyzed by the fear and shock of their enemy's sudden appearance, and all the more so as memories of a smoldering ruin that was once a town enter his mind unbidden. But there's also a tiny voice that screams for him to be roused from his stupor and to fight. It's irrational and completely at odds with his desire for survival, but it's there all the same.

Adrenaline surges through his veins, released from a thousand miniature floodgates, and his senses sharpen painfully. His thoughts are crystal-clear in that strange way which can only occur during battle. He's keenly aware of every twitch of each muscle, every breath that he takes, and every heartbeat. He gazes raptly at the dragon, unable to look away for even the briefest moment. His entire body burns from the inside out.

The dragon flaps its wings and roars, a terrible sound that booms deafeningly across the open plain. In the same instant, the stillness is broken and Mull finds that he can move again. As the creature soars in a wide circle around the tower and roars again, everything else he's feeling is overtaken by a clawing wave of sheer terror.

Once more in control of his own limbs, he spins and dashes for the cover of the ruined tower. Standing out in the open like a slack-jawed idiot is a sure way to schedule an early meeting with Shor.

As he runs, he notes that while the dragon is large, it's nowhere near the size of the one that destroyed Helgen. That, of course, means this is a different dragon from the one at Helgen, which means there's more than one dragon in Skyrim now. Not exactly an encouraging thought.

As the dragon circles overhead, he faintly overhears Irileth screaming exhortations to her men. "It's more than our honor at stake here! Think of it – the first dragon seen in Skyrim since the last age! The glory of killing it is ours, if you're with me!"

Shaking his head to renew his focus, he quickly pulls out his bow – already strung for this very eventuality – and joins many of the others in firing arrows as he runs. Rather than resorting to such mundane weapons, Irileth instead shoots powerful lightning spells from her palms. The thunderous tendrils of magic leap across the dragon's grey-green scales in crackling arcs, suffusing the darkness with an ethereal violet glow.

The dragon doesn't waste anymore time and swoops down. As it roars loudly enough to shake the earth, Mull can faintly make out the words of a guttural foreign-yet-not tongue contained within the bestial exclamation.

"YOL TOOR!"

Fire. Inferno.

The implication of that roar is… concerning. Not bothering to consider why he knows what the words meant, he dives behind a pile of shattered masonry just as a great burst of flame erupts from the dragon's fearsome maw. Two of Irileth's warriors are caught out in the open and completely immolated, crumbling to nothing but bones, ash, and charred steel. Wisps of spiraling vapor rise from their remains into the freezing night air.

This is Helgen all over again. Mull mechanically nocks another arrow and continuous shooting, too scared to do anything else.

The dragon swiftly circles back around and speaks once more.

"FO KRAH DIIN!"

Frost. Cold. Freeze.

The ambient temperature plummets as a wave of frost rolls over another man, sapping the warmth from his body and slaying him where he stands.

No matter how many arrows he fires, Mull doesn't see any perceptible change in the dragon's flight. If he weren't positive that he's been shooting with at least decent accuracy – which he is – then he would think that he was missing entirely. Even though it's moving, it would be difficult to consistently miss a target this large, especially given its expansive bat-like wings. No, their arrows must not be able to pierce the creature's hide. Not even Irileth's lightning magic seems to be having any effect, only buzzing harmlessly against its armored form. Less than a full minute has elapsed and Mull is already assailed with hopelessness. How will we kill this thing?!

After several more men are slain one by one at the dragon's leisure, Mull hears Irileth shriek a new order. "Get someone inside that tower and send up a signal to the city!"

Having already been working his way towards the protection offered by the watchtower, he's jarred into obedient action by her simultaneously panicked and authoritative tone. He vaults over a fallen stone pillar and heads for the base of the crenellated ramp sloping upwards to the tower entrance. From the corner of his eye, he sees two other warriors doing the same.

Together they scramble across the exposed top of the ramp, burst through the door, and sprint up the spiraling interior staircase as fast as their legs can take them, ignoring the surviving guardsman who had first greeted them so hospitably, now cowering beneath a table. The terrible din of battle from outside seems oddly muted as they pound up the stairs.

Then they emerge through a trapdoor onto the top platform of the structure and it all comes rushing back. Roars, screams, and battle-cries rise up from the ocean of darkness to greet them.

One of the warriors with them, a tall woman, calls out as she produces a flint and striker. "Keep the dragon away from us!" She gets to work lighting an arrow specially prepared for the task, with an oil-soaked rag wrapped around the broadhead.

Mull and their other companion ready their own arrows and start shooting, hoping to buy the woman enough time to send off the signal. He isn't much for heroics and last stands, but he's keenly aware that if they don't get reinforcements from the city soon, they'll be in serious trouble.

The dragon continues to circle around and around, bathing the shadowed earth below with fire and razor-snow, undaunted as steel and lightning rise up to greet it. In the midst of his adrenaline- and fear-fueled focus, Mull finds himself recalling a story he heard from an old seaman years ago, of being cast adrift on the ocean and seeing shark fins cutting through the surrounding waters, drawing closer and closer with each successive pass. He imagines that this is a rather similar scenario. That is, if sharks could use elemental magic. And fly. And somehow become invincible to all conceivable forms of attack, both magical and otherwise. He's never seen a shark, so they very well might be and he would never know it.

Finally, the guardswoman manages to kindle her arrow and raises it heavenward. She shouts a warning, draws, and releases. Her bowstring twangs and the flaming projectile sails away into the night sky, smaller and smaller until it's a tiny pinprick among the innumerable stars.

As he fires his final arrow, Mull wordlessly beseeches Talos and whatever other gods are listening to help Caius and his men get here as soon as possible. His arrow, like all the others, accomplishes nothing. With a savage curse, he slings his bow across his shoulder and runs back inside the tower to search for more. Another man passes by him as he descends the staircase and they share a dour nod.

A rushed inspection reveals that there aren't any arrows left inside the tower. There are a number of empty quivers though, so the garrison's supply has likely already been retrieved by the others. He asks the man under the table if there are any more, just in case, but he shakes his head with a mute whimper.

With no other recourse, Mull decides to exit the tower even though his instincts are screeching at him not to. It's a dragon! he screeches back. I'm not gonna be any safer in here than out there, and I won't wait to die like a rat in a trap!

Before he can change his mind, he dashes through the door and hurriedly takes stock of the situation outside. It's a sight to behold, to put it mildly. Arrows, lightning, and dragon-magic are flying every which way in a storm of pure chaos. The burnt or frozen – or even both, in a couple of cases – corpses of Whiterun's warriors litter the watchtower grounds, about a dozen of them. They've already lost half their number and the dragon hasn't yet been slain or even visibly injured.

The grisly sight prompts him to redouble his search for arrows, crouching low to the ground to hopefully avoid becoming the dragon's next target. It's practically impossible to see anything in the gloom, but he eventually stumbles across some arrows in the quiver of a warrior with green facepaint lying in a pool of blood. Unlike the others, this man looks to have been snatched up in the dragon's talons and dropped from a great height, if his shattered limbs are any indication.

He's somehow still alive and reaches for Mull feebly, piteously whimpering something that he doesn't quite make out. He's going to die soon. Nothing I can do will change that. He ignores the man's suffering as he grabs the quiver, nocks an arrow, and scans the sky for their adversary.

He catches sight of the creature just as it folds its wings and plummets to the earth with dizzying speed. A split second before impact, its wings flare outwards and it alights upon the ground, throwing up a huge cloud of ash and debris. A group of warriors gather before the dragon and charge, and it bares its fangs as it gazes fearlessly upon them.

Mull watches with impotence as the warriors are torn apart by fang and claw with sickening ease, the beast not deterred in the least by their swords and axes. Even their long piercing-spears fail to penetrate its scaled hide. Once it's satisfied by the bloody carnage, the creature takes flight again and roars into the sky. He hears an articulated sentence in that roar.

"Krif krin! Pruzah!"

You fight courageously! Good!

He ignores the pain from his torn and bloodied fingertips as he shoots arrow after arrow. Irileth's men continuing to fall around him and he does his best to ignore their horrific deaths. By now, well over two-thirds of their number are slain. You've seen worse, he insists to himself.

Gliding in for another pass, the dragon spews forth a stream of swirling frost before turning sharply and flying directly at the tower. It's clear that the structure is its next target. Oh, that doesn't look good.

The creature growls and a wave of azure magic erupts from its maw, smashing into the top of the tower and shattering it utterly. Mull watches with his jaw clenched as what remains of the fortification collapses in on itself, taking the men and women inside along with it.

A sharp stone fragment whizzes towards him and strikes a glancing blow across his forehead, just under the rim of his helmet. He stumbles backwards as he clutches at the unexpected wound. In the midst of the pain, he recalls a certain recent battle of his. That was the exact same magic the draugr-lord used in Bleak Falls Barrow… but a thousand times stronger.

Satisfied with its work, the dragon swoops back around, slowing as it banks to one side. "Brit Grah!" it rumbles.

Beautiful battle.

In spite of it all, Mull finds himself laughing mirthlessly before wincing at the headache he feels coming on. Beautiful, huh? That isn't quite the word I'd use. I can't believe we really thought we could bring down a dragon. What idiocy.

Then he realizes something that stops him in his tracks. If something doesn't change soon, we're all going to die here. It's a sobering thought. It's also rather well-timed as it turns out.

He hears the sound of something rustling through the tall grass to his left, away from the direction of the tower, and he dares to take his attention away from the dragon to look. It sounds big, whatever it is. And fast.

He hears snuffling like that of some large beast and a primal fear wells up within him, the same kind that one might feel if they're out in the forest on a pitch-black night. Whatever it is, he knows that it isn't something he wants to meet face to face. Unfortunately, since the noises are getting steadily louder, it seems that he won't have much choice in the matter.

Ysmir's beard, what is it now?! Wasn't the dragon bad enough?! He aims his bow in the direction of the noise and readies to shoot as something indistinct emerges from the underbrush. A trickle of sweat runs into his beard as it moves closer. It's illuminated for a split second by a flash of crimson flame from somewhere behind, revealing a few obscured details. Red hair, stripes of woad-blue warpaint, form-fitting hunting leathers, a recurve bow… Wait.

"Aela? Is that you? What in the…" He mutters under his breath. "No, there's no way. I must be seeing things. That hit to the head was worse than I thought."

"Sorry, snowberry. You're not." The woman offers a familiar teasing grin.

His eyes widen as that inexplicable sense of dark foreboding is replaced by intense relief. "By the gods, it is you." His voice drops to a hiss. "What in Oblivion are you doing here?!"

"I'm your backup, obviously," the woman cheekily replies. "Why else? You didn't think they'd send more half-trained guardsmen, did you?"

That's great and all, but he doesn't see anyone else with her. "Are you alone?"

"Of course not. I'm just a little faster on my feet than most." The woman smirks like she's made some clever joke and turns towards the chaos continuing to unfold back at the tower. "Shall we get to it then?"

He wearily goes to her side. "Sure, but I doubt you'll have more luck against that thing than any of the rest of us. Even if you're the best archer in the entire Hold, it doesn't make a bit of difference if arrows can't pierce its scales."

"Is that so?" Aela glances at him sidelong. At seeing his bleak expression, she hums curiously and nocks an arrow to her oversized bow, training her eyes on the beast still soaring around the tower. "Hmmm. We'll just have to see. Who knows? I just might surprise you."

"What does that-?" he starts.

His question is interrupted by a series of whooping howls and war-cries accompanied by the thunder of hooves. A group of horsemen emerge though the smoke from the east. No, not just a group. To Mull, it seems like an entire army has just miraculously descended from Aetherius itself. There must be fifty or sixty of them at the very least.

From what little he can make out through the ember-strewn haze, most of the riders are wearing pale gold tabards that mark them as warriors of Whiterun. However, he catches brief glimpses of an assortment of others as well, Nords in unmarked steel armor, painted plains clansmen with spears and axes, a diverse assortment of Dunmer, Orcs, and Redguards, and even a pair of Reachmen, distinctive in their barbarous hide-and-bone garments. A stout man in Whiterun colors and a tall man with scale armor riding at the front of the column, evidently the leaders, turn their horses in tight circles as they appraise the situation.

The stout man raises his sword and yells something Mull doesn't quite catch. Some of the new arrivals quickly ride off towards the perimeter, but most hastily dismount and ready their weapons. A haggard-looking Irileth marches out from somewhere and begins hurriedly speaking with the two leaders, who Mull now recognizes as Commander Caius and Hrongar.

A sharp curse draws his attention back to Aela. She's glaring into the night sky, face taut and all levity vanished. Faster than he can blink, the Huntress draws her bowstring, releases, produces another arrow, nocks, draws, releases, and repeats. It's quite literally the fastest he has ever seen someone shoot in his entire life.

Her flight of arrows is greeting with a noise like a harsh wind curving through narrow streets and around the corners of buildings, a deep and foreboding sound. A roar thunders forth and Mull discerns the meaning of the words contained therein.

I, Mirmulnir (Allegiance-Strong-Hunt), will show that I am the mightiest hunter of all!

The dragon dives low from the stars above, wings spread wide and fangs glistening scarlet in the scant moonlight. It's headed for the new arrivals, many of whom are still clustered together.

Aela's arrows strike its scaled hide one after another in rapid succession, each just below the equivalent of its collarbone in nearly the exact same spot. The creature growls ferociously as the projectiles pierce into its flesh. Unfortunately, Mull isn't given much time to celebrate the fact that this woman is apparently capable of harming the beast.

"YOL TOR SHUUUUUUUUUL!"

Flame blossoms forth, spreading across the dusky horizon with the blinding brilliance of the sun. Horses shriek in terror and defenseless men cry out as the inferno envelops them. Irileth, Hrongar, Caius, and the rest of their reinforcements disappear into the blaze.

Aela continues to fire away as the dragon flaps its thunderous wings and ascends once more. Mull readies his own arrows and joins her, but the scene of scorched devastation where Caius' reinforcements had once been standing is a hindrance to his concentration. Most of the field surrounding the watchtower is shrouded by fire or smoke and so blocked from his sight, but what he can see is bad enough in its own right. He watches with morbid fascination as survivors pick their way between the charred corpses of man and beast, arms held over mouths to ward off the fumes and the stench, avoiding the handful of escaped horses that now run wild with abject fear. It's something out of his darkest nightmares, right up there with Helgen and the rest.

A flurry of frost and lightning spells rise up from somewhere beyond the smoke, breaking the monotony of shadow and flame as they splash against the dragon's underbelly or soar harmlessly into the night. Looks like some of them survived. He guesses the magic is probably from the Dunmer he saw in Caius' group, or maybe that pair of Reachmen. Dunmer are renowned for their talent as Destruction mages, and it isn't for nothing that the Reachmen are often called 'Witch-men' by their enemies. Or it could've been Irileth if she's still alive.

He looses yet another arrow and inhales sharply as he feels the flesh of his fingertips rub raw against splintered wood and fletching. Aela is still shooting with truly uncanny speed, and the dragon is now flying more erratically as it weaves this way and that. Streams of a dark liquid rain from the creature's body with every pass. He marvels for a moment at Aela's ability to wound the creature. But how? Even magic doesn't do anything to it. Her skill is utterly ridiculous. Even from down here, he can see the white and grey of arrow-feathers protruding from the dragon's broad chest and serpentine neck.

The dragon soars low across the battlefield and releases another jet of ice-blue frost before it vanishes behind the ruinous mass of the watchtower. Shouts and the muted fwoosh of spells can still be heard, but Mull and Aela can't see anything from their current position. The Huntress shuffles uneasily.

"What is it?" Mull croaks. His voice fails to carry over the crackling flame and noise of battle, so he clears his throat to try again.

"Move!" The Huntress preempts him by darting forward and shoving him to the ground with surprising strength. He lands hard on his back and looks about in confusion as the red-headed archer sprints away. He hears a sharp twang as she shoots an arrow from somewhere off to his right.

Then the shadow of something enormous enters his vision, blotting out the night sky. He realizes that the dragon must've masked its movements and has now appeared from behind the watchtower to catch them unawares, flying directly over the top of the ruined spiraling stone staircase. It must've grown tired of Aela's relentless assault.

The monster's jaws open wide and the inside of its throat glows a sinister orange-red, the color of a sunrise.

Oh shit. Mull struggles to his feet, stumbling as his bowstring gets caught beneath his boot, and takes a few staggering steps. That same booming "YOL TOR SHUL!" resounds in his ears.

This is it. I'm a dead man.

Something grips the back of his collar and throws him bodily towards the tower in an impressive display of raw power. His limbs splay and his bow is torn from his grasp as he tumbles weightlessly through the air. Soaring across the tower grounds, he's given a good view of the patch of grass where he'd just been standing as it's thoroughly torched by their winged enemy.

His stint of involuntary flight is brought to an abrupt end as he slams into the stony earth and rolls several times, finally slowing to a stop in a tangled heap.

He lets out a pained groan and forces himself onto one knee, trying to figure out what in Oblivion just happened. He's now just below the tower's broken remains, relatively sheltered from the battle still raging all around him.

Something heavy lands right next to him without warning, not even three feet away, and he leaps backwards only to smack the back of his head into a large block of stone masonry, exacerbating his already-throbbing headache. However, that's the least of his worries.

Standing before him is a hulking dark-furred creature, clearly inhuman, staring squarely at him. He only glimpses a few details through the shadows into which the creature blends so well. A body rippling with dense muscle that looms well over two heads taller than him despite its hunched back. Vicious clawed digits festooning its hands and feet, which resemble those of a troll more than a man's. An elongated snout like that of a canine. Bared fangs each longer than his fingers. However, most distinctive of all are the glittering yellow eyes that have yet to leave his own. The creature snuffles and exhales, clouds of vapor rising from its mouth, but otherwise remains perfectly still.

Mull takes a moment to register his current situation.

"…Oh, Stuhn's balls. If you want me dead this badly, then just do it already," he mutters under his breath. "First a dragon and now this. Ysmir Talos…"

He draws his sword but holds it loosely at his side.

"Well, come on then. Let's get it over with." He gestures to himself with his free hand, leaving his chest exposed.

The creature, whatever in the gods' names it is, merely continues to stare. Then it snorts, shakes itself like a wet dog, and snorts again in a way that suspiciously resembles laughter.

Mull tilts his head, uncomprehending and more than a little overwhelmed.

Without further ado, the hairy creature twists its arms and legs inwards in a curious fashion and… What in Oblivion?

The creature's flesh seems to fold in on itself, if such a thing is even possible. It bends and creases over and over, steadily becoming smaller as all discernable features disappear until the now-unrecognizable being is about human-sized, barely any larger than himself. His vision swims, though he isn't sure whether it's due to the pounding headache, his bewildered state of mind, or something else entirely.

When the blurriness is gone, a person stands in the creature's place. It's Aela, arms crossed and a self-satisfied though tired smirk adorning her lips. "I've gotta say, that reaction was one of the most amusing I've ever gotten."

Mull's mouth drops open and he sputters incoherently.

Aela nods and gestures for him to continue.

He responds with more jumbled sounds of hopeless confusion. He doesn't even know where to start after all that.

Luckily, Aela doesn't spend too long teasing him and answers his unspoken questions, though he privately wishes she'd be at little less smug about it. "Yes, that was me. Yes, I saved your life. You're welcome by the way. Yes, I'm a werewolf. Yes, it's a secret. Yes, I have full control of my transformations. Anything else?"

After taking a few seconds to process that information, he releases a loud, long breath and roughly sits down on a crumbled knee-high rock with his sword dangling from his fingers. He runs a hand through his messy hair, clumped with ash and blood, and stares at the ground in despondent silence. "You're a werewolf," he mumbles under his breath. "Of course you're a godsdamn werewolf. The first person I met walking into Whiterun just so happened to be a werewolf, because coincidences like that happen all the time. Makes perfect sense."

"Nope, none of that. Get up. We've still got work to do." Before he can get comfortable wallowing in his post-adrenaline stupor, Aela grabs one of his arms and roughly yanks him to his feet.

He idly notices that she's fully clothed and armed even though he hadn't seen anything of the sort on the furred creature – the werewolf, that is. Huh. I wonder how that works?

The redhead grips his shoulders and gives him a firm shake. "We need to kill that dragon. I know you were almost turned into a well-done steak and you've probably got a lot of questions, but forget about all that for right now. Alright? Now come on." She steps away, produces her recurve bow from its harness on her back, and jogs back out into the chaos of battle. Mull rubs his face against his bracers, blinks blearily, and trudges after her.

Arrows and multicolored spells still sail towards the dragon by the dozens from all across the watchtower grounds. The ghostly silhouettes of galloping horsemen fade in and out of sight through the smoke at irregular intervals. It seems that the battle hasn't ended quite yet.

Mull wishes he could do something to help with that, but with his bow now lying who-knows-where and his quiver devoid of arrows, his options are somewhat limited.

He doesn't want to know how many of their original number are dead by now. The bodies are everywhere. In some places, you can't even see the earth for all the corpses of men and horses piled atop one another. Burned, frozen, torn to literal shreds, popped like grapes, smashed into pancakes. If his thoughts weren't so muddled, he's sure that his reaction would be quite a bit more visceral. As it stands, he takes everything in stride as he follows behind the redheaded woman that's apparently a werewolf.

She skillfully navigates between bodies and pools of blood as her head swivels to track the dragon, still soaring inexorably like a cosmic force of nature. It might as well be one of the moons for all the chance they have to defeat it. Even if we do have a magical werewolf archer on our side, one person can't possibly be enough to make a difference.

He trails to a stop just behind the Huntress as she picks out a position she seems to like. She plants a foot atop one of the many stone blocks strewn about, the scattered remains of the tower, and raises her bow. With eerie exactitude she nocks a new arrow, draws it back, and steadily exhales.

A second passes. Then another. Then another. The wind is blowing around them, swirling through their clothing and hair.

It dies down for a short moment. Her lips press together.

She releases. The snap of the bow resounds loudly in Mull's ears. The arrow soars away with a hiss, and even in his exhaustion he can tell it's a perfect shot.

The projectile hangs in the air for an uncountable moment, suspended by invisible strings as it glitters in the starlight. An executioner's axe the instant before it descends.

The razor-sharp steel broadhead meets its target. It sinks deeply into the sinewy upper muscles of one of the dragon's wings with an audible wet squelch, but it doesn't stop there. The arrow overpenetrates and flies onwards, taking a chunk of flesh along with it and leaving a noticeable hole in its wake.

The dragon lets loose a ferocious snarl as it immediately loses altitude, its balance irreversibly ruined by the severe wound. Its uninjured wing flaps urgently and its tail whips back and forth, a last-ditch effort to recover its equilibrium. It isn't enough.

With an earth-shattering crash, the creature slams into the field of rubble strewn around the watchtower like a meteor fallen to Nirn, causing the ground beneath their feet to shudder violently.

Mull catches a glimpse of Aela's face, tight with concentration. Her eyes are glowing an unnatural shade of yellow, almost like a sabercat. No. Exactly like the those of the werewolf.

Her gaze meets his own and the yellow vanishes in favor of familiar stormy grey. He's left to wonder if he hadn't simply imagined it. The woman's solemn façade is split by a fierce smile.

"Let's go kill that dragon."