Chapter 44
After the winter solstice comes and goes, Mull continues where he left off with learning Wuld. This Shout takes a lot more time and effort to master than Ro, which he became proficient with in a little under a month. By contrast, well over an month has already elapsed since he started with Whirlwind Sprint and he still doesn't feel any closer to using it without accidentally killing himself. Morning Star is over and Sun's Dawn has arrived. Time is running out whether he likes it or not.
It's late morning. He's standing just outside the bronze-plated doors of High Hrothgar while looking across the rear courtyard, inhaling deeply as he savors the crisp scent of winter. It's still cold as Oblivion up on this mountain – that won't change anytime soon – but for the first morning in at least a month and a half, the weather is mild enough to risk an outdoor excursion.
About twenty monks are working tirelessly to clear the courtyard of hardpacked snow and ice. Mull offered to help them, seeing as he's probably more accustomed to physical labor than they are, but Arngeir forbade his involvement in no uncertain terms. It wouldn't be fitting for the Dragonborn to engage in such menial tasks, apparently.
So with nothing better to do with his morning, he sits on the steps beneath the monastery doors and wraps himself in a fur blanket to watch while the monks do their work. Above their heads, ever-present clouds are sluggishly migrating across the river-blue sky.
After a while, an old monk emerges from the monastery and brings him a steaming-hot porcelain cup of snowberry tea. It's delicious as always. There's a lot of ways the Nords have surprised me, and their tea-making skills are definitely one of them. Throughout the rest of Tamriel, the inhabitants of rugged Skyrim are characterized as brutish and barbaric, living in huts the size of an outhouse and eating raw meat with their bare shit-smeared hands. Anyone with half a brain knows those are stereotypical caricatures, but still – it never fails to amaze him how they can sometimes match even the Nibenese in 'civilized' pursuits like tea-brewing.
Mull gestures with the cup. "This is good stuff."
The old man hums and nods sagely, pleased with his feedback, but doesn't linger for long. He soon reenters the monastery and leaves Mull alone once more. He looked even older than Arngeir, so Mull doesn't blame him for retreating to someplace warmer. Being out here for too long must make their bones ache like nothing else. It's bad enough for mine and I'm not even thirty-five. I'm getting close though. Damn, but I've got some mixed feelings about that.
With the life he's chosen, his chances of living to an advanced age have always been practically nil. I'm not sure I'd want to live that long anyways. Being stuck in the failing body of an old geezer seems like it would get… well, old. Heh.
He doesn't originally plan to stay out in this cold for long, but time passes quickly as he sinks into his thoughts. At least the tea does a good job of warming him up, so he decides it can't hurt to stay another hour or two. He also snagged some apples from the dining hall earlier this morning, so there's food to tie him over for a while. Snacks are always more enjoyable when you're watching someone else work – the harder the better. And shoveling all that snow looks like some damn hard work.
Soon the sun reaches its zenith and breaks through the clouds, bathing the world below in its gentle rays. The day grows appreciably warmer.
After another hour or so, the laboring monks finally finish their task to the satisfaction of their more elderly overseers, who then begin ushering them back into High Hrothgar. Mull vacates his spot on the stairs to get out of their way.
He starts wandering around the mostly de-iced courtyard, now uninhabited except for himself. There are a few slick patches here and there that force him to watch his step lest he fall and crack open his skull. That would be a pathetic way to go, with what I've survived over this past year. I'm sure Mirmulnir would think it's hilarious.
Speaking of Mirmulnir, it's been a long time since I heard from him last. I wonder what he's up to these days. Not that he's complaining about the dragon's disappearance. Quite the opposite, since being rid of that pest has been an incredibly cathartic experience. He didn't realize how much the dragon's mental intrusions were wearing him down until he was able to look back on it with the benefit of hindsight. These past couple of months have been much more enjoyable for that reason alone.
Mull leans against one of the courtyard's standing stones and looks out over the open space. The ice is treacherous, but now that the sun's out, it isn't as bad as it was earlier. There's a lot of room to move around out here. In fact, now that he thinks about it, this would be a good spot for him to practice his newest Shout.
Wuld. Wuld Wuld Wuld. What a pain in the ass. Whirlwind Sprint, it goes without saying, has been extremely difficult for him to comprehend. Practicing the Shout inside the confines of High Hrothgar gave him more that a few bumps and bruises, some of which were so large and vibrantly discolored that he was almost proud of them. One in particular, a swollen purple-and-green contusion that graced the side of his face for an entire week, drew stares from what seemed like every single monk in the whole monastery.
He tried to be more careful with Whirlwind Sprint after that, but there was only so much he could do. There simply isn't enough space inside High Hrothgar to safely use the Shout at full blast.
Out here in the newly-cleared courtyard, there's plenty of space to throw himself around without risking instant death by blunt force trauma. He experimentally scuffs a bootheel against the frosted paving stones. It's still a little slick, but not enough to make him change his mind. I can work with this.
He consciously starts measuring his breathing, carefully considering each filling and emptying of his lungs. He clears his mind of extraneous thoughts. He mentally imagines an unstoppable torrent of water washing away everything unnecessary, leaving behind a featureless expanse of nothingness. He relegates his anger and frustration to a dark and distant corner, utilizing the method taught by Arngeir to minimize their impact on his mental state while simultaneously accepting their existence. These are the same familiar steps he's used dozens if not hundreds of times to ready himself for the Voice.
He inhales deeply and vocalizes. "Wuld!"
Powdered ice, snow, and other debris are tossed into the air as he accelerates with the speed of the wind. Flagstones blur around him. Frigid air washes across his naked face.
Gah! Before he realizes what's happening, he loses his footing and goes sprawling face-first as the Shout runs its course, depositing him on the far end of the courtyard. The noise of his Shout echoes against the walls of the monastery and the vast mountainside like the aftermath of a thunderclap.
He gradually slides to a stop with his arms splayed out like a dead man. Birds are wheeling overhead, mocking him with their distant cries. He gets up with a few muttered curses, brushes himself off, and trudges back to the middle of the courtyard.
He's gotten a little better at this, but there's still a long way for him to go. When he first starting learning Wuld, he had an unfortunate habit of not moving his legs – he didn't sprint – and whenever he Shouted, he would go tumbling in a ball of flailing limbs as a result. Now he's gotten somewhat better at running with the whirlwind, but it's still difficult and requires both immense concentration and focused coordination.
He grumbles unhappily as he sinks into a running stance. He's failed often enough by now to not bother wasting time complaining about it. After a few seconds, his heavy breathing and rapid heartbeat return to normal.
He inhales. "Wuld!"
This time he barely avoids careening into a ten-foot-tall menhir that seems to rise out of nowhere. If he'd initiated the Sprint from a few feet further to the left, he undoubtedly would've splattered himself across the surface of the rune-carved rock. As it stands, he starts to panic and loses coordination mid-Sprint, which sends him rolling across the paving stones like a child's abused ragdoll.
He again climbs to his feet, wipes his mouth, and grumbles some more. Alright, point taken. Look out for the standing stones. I thought I was far enough away, but I guess not.
When he feels a bit steadier, he sinks back into his stance and breathes. "Wuld!"
The courtyard reverberates with his Shouts for the next hour. He doesn't make as much progress as he'd like, but he chalks up his poor performance to the unfamiliar environment. Maintaining his footing in the wintery conditions and avoiding obstacles in the form of the standing stones is taking some getting used to. But it's still easier than Whirlwind Sprinting indoors.
After a while, he pauses his training session when some visitors arrive from the monastery. The creaking of the brass-plated doors draws his attention to Arngeir and his geriatric cohort.
"Dragonborn. A pleasant surprise to see you here already. It seems you had the same idea as us." Arngeir, Borri, Einarth, and Wulfgar each greet him with a bow. Behind them, another group of younger monks emerge from the monastery and linger beyond earshot.
Mull rises and dusts off his robes while nodding in return. "Aren't you too old to be outside in this cold?"
The four monks take his greeting as permission to approach. They huddle against the wind in their thick robes as they shuffle across the courtyard. "Perhaps," Arngeir admits. He shares a look with his fellows. "And yet here we are."
Mull scoffs with dry amusement. "Well don't mind me. I think I'm about to head inside anyways." He glowers at the trail left by one of his tumultuous passages through the thin layer of sticky snow coating the ground. "I've had enough of this for one day. Much more, and I'll be risking a twisted ankle." He sets off towards the monastery doors, already anticipating a platter of warm food and an afternoon of tedious meditation.
"Actually Dragonborn, if you wouldn't mind staying for a while longer…?"
…Bah. He hesitates, wanting to ignore the monk but not quite willing to do so, and forces himself to turn around. "What is it?"
Arngeir faintly smiles. "I can see you've already begun practicing your Whirlwind Sprint in a different environment. That is good. Initiative is an admirable quality." The other monks stroke their beards and nod. "We intended to encourage you to make use of the courtyard, but you've beaten us to it. I applaud your diligence."
"I wouldn't call it that." Mull rubs the back of his neck. "More like frustration. This damn Shout just isn't cooperating with me."
The monks' expressions become grim. "The Voice is an ally, not a subject. To treat it as such isn't a healthy outlook with which to view your latent ability," Arngeir admonishes.
"I know that. It was a figure of speech." He sighs and leans against a nearby standing stone, a rectangular one about shoulder high with a carving of a bearded king. "But knowing it doesn't make this any easier. And I'm not complaining," he adds. "Just… well… dammit, I guess I am."
The monks share another round of thoughtful looks. "Perhaps we might observe as you train with Whirlwind Sprint and offer advice where we deem pertinent," Arngeir says at length. "The Way of the Voice is a difficult path to travel alone."
Mull doesn't particularly want to accept their help and feels like he should be able to do this by himself, but he also recognizes that's his pride talking. Arngeir hasn't led him astray yet. He doesn't have a good reason to refuse. "If you insist, I won't say no."
Arngeir softens his expression and motions for him to follow. The Greybeard elders lead him into a grove of more densely assembled standing stones in the northeastern section of the courtyard.
"This is where we traditionally instruct those who are in the advanced stages of learning Whirlwind Sprint," Arngeir announces.
Mull looks around. There are about fifty menhirs arranged in close formation to form a veritable maze. Most of them are the height of a man or a bit taller, making it difficult to see far in any direction. They're also clustered tightly together. "This is where you practice? It's a wonder you don't flatten yourselves like tomatoes. I would if I tried to Shout right now." His near-collision with the menhir earlier is still fresh on his mind.
Arngeir grimaces at his comment as the monks escort Mull through the henge of stones. Half a minute later, they arrive on the far side adjacent to the northern edge of the courtyard. Between them and the sheer cliff plummeting to the world below is some kind of gate.
A pair of stout stone pillars are suspending a double-door gate wrought from a dull alloy, possibly steel or bronze. The gates aren't solid, rather being comprised of a series of widely-spaced bars that provide a mostly unobstructed view of the cloudy expanse beyond.
"As you've already realized, these ancient stones are dangerous obstacles. In that way, they adequately serve their purpose as effective mediums for training. The most skillful of our order have learned to weave between them with the speed and fluidity of Kyne's winds. That, however, is not where we will begin. We have something else in mind for you." Arngeir indicates the gate. "Master Borri will demonstrate."
Borri bows and pulls back his hood, revealing a rugged face with sunken cheeks and a full beard. He straightens his posture and inhales. The world seems to hold its breath alongside him.
He Shouts. "Bex!" Open.
His Thu'um rumbles across the mountainside, resonating from every direction. Mull momentarily worries it might bring an avalanche down on their heads. Is that what I sound like when I'm Shouting out here? Gods above, that's loud.
At Borri's command, the gates throw themselves open with unexpected ferocity and clang harshly against their stone supports. There isn't a gust of wind or any physical sign to indicate the gates were moved by an unseen force. They simply open like they have a mind of their own.
Arngeir narrates as some of the younger monks hurry to the gate and push it closed again. "When Master Borri manipulates the gates thusly, you will attempt to use Whirlwind Sprint to dash through them to the other side. We've found this to be one of the more effective methods of developing awareness for the timing and potency of Whirlwind Sprint." The monk regards Mull with his ice-blue eyes glittering beneath his cowl. "Does this sound agreeable?"
Mull frowns and squints at the gate. Given his lack of success with the Shout so far, it would be an understatement to say he's skeptical. "I don't know, Arngeir. That looks like it'll be tough to pull off."
"It is the Voice. Difficulty walks hand in hand with the Way."
"Sure, but I can tell you right now I won't be able to do something like this. You've seen my Sprints. They send me flying all over the place. Besides, I've never tried anything with Wuld that requires good timing. It's completely new to me. How do I prepare for that? What should I do differently?"
"Peace, Dragonborn." Arngeir holds up a hand. "You mustn't worry yourself with the details of the now. Rather, you must focus on where you want to go. Where will the Whirlwind carry you? The intervening space and time do not matter. What matters is where you are standing in the present, where you will be standing in the future, and when you will be there. These are the only things you must consider." As Arngeir speaks, Borri repositions himself to stand near the gate like a marshal at the end of a racetrack.
Mull tries to take the monk's words to heart. "Alright then. But I'm blaming you if I end up breaking my neck." With that last verbal jab, he settles in and focuses on his surroundings and the minutiae of his body. His lungs are emptied, then refilled, and then emptied again. His nose is sore and numb from the cold. His fur-trimmed gloves are too tight on his hands. His boots are firmly rooted to the earth. His knees are slightly bent.
This is what I'm doing right now. So where do I want the Shout to take me?
He examines Borri's gate. It's wide enough for five men to walk through abreast, so there should be enough room to avoid bashing himself into the gates or the stone pillars to either side. Beyond the gate is a narrow expanse of paved courtyard already covered in a newly-fallen layer of snow despite the monks' efforts earlier in the day. Past that, there's nothing. Just open air and scattered banks of mist.
That's where I'm going when the gate opens. Now I just need to time it right.
He glances sidelong at Arngeir and the others. The Greybeard headmaster meets his gaze, nods, and signals Borri.
As the elderly monk opens his mouth to Shout, time seems to slow down for Mull. The details of the world suddenly stand out in stark relief. The freezing wind nips at his exposed face. His warm breath produces a billowing cloud of pale vapor. His full attention is fully devoted to the gate, listening for Borri's Shout and watching like a hawk for the tiniest of movements, anything that might indicate the time for action has arrived.
"Bex!"
"Wuld!" Mull reflexively Shouts.
His vision blurs. A gust of wind violently seizes his limbs and thrusts him forward, accelerating him to inhuman speed. The soles of his boots go skimming across the paving stones. Faster than he can blink, one of the gate pillars grows worrying large in his field of vision.
Realizing he's about to slam into it, he purposefully upsets his balance with a canted heel and sends himself veering off to the side, falling and skidding diagonally between the open gates. But he doesn't slow down. The wind is still maintaining its hold on his body, carrying him forward with no respite.
The drop-off on the northern end of the courtyard is rapidly approaching. He twists and scrabbles against the frozen ground as he desperately tries to find purchase with his fingers, but to no avail. He doesn't have enough time to halt his power slide across the slippery surface. The foggy nothingness beyond the cliff edge is drawing nearer with terrifying speed. Oh shit.
The ground beneath him vanishes. The hem of his robe flutters wildly and his stomach drops like a rock as he soars through the open air. For a dreadful moment he's suspended by invisible strings over a sea of clouds, cursed with just enough time to register his impending doom before it rises up to greet him.
At the last possible moment, a hand grasps the collar of his robe just as he starts falling, causing him to swing backwards like a pendulum and slam against the side of the cliff. His collar digs into his throat as he dangles, choking him. It worsens as the hand starts pulling him upwards, hefting him closer to the ledge above. With the weight of his entire body being pressed against his esophagus and the underside of his shoulders, his lungs can't draw in enough oxygen to sustain him. He slowly suffocates.
Just as the stars dancing across his vision are starting to extinguish one by one, he's dragged bodily over the ledge and onto the top of the cliff. The weight pressing against his throat mercifully lessens.
He heaves as he lies there, desperately replenishing the air in his lungs while wallowing in pants-shitting terror as his near-death experience catches up to him. Not an impressive one either. That would've been a godsdamn ridiculous way to go. I hope Mirmulnir didn't see this. He discretely reaches under his ass to feel the back of his trousers beneath his robe. And at least the pants-shitting wasn't literal.
His savior is a younger monk with a bushy tangled beard and massive arms, all tanned brawn and thick ropey scars. He stares down at Mull with glittering black eyes. Beneath his sleeves, a few black tattoos are visible against his skin. The roguish Greybeard harumphs once. "You're lucky, Dragonborn."
Mull coughs harshly and groans. "Ugh. Doesn't feel like it. And don't call me that right after saving my stupid ass."
The monk rumbles with gravelly laughter. "You said it, not me." He produces a waterskin from within his robes and holds it out.
Mull has the good grace to chuckle hoarsely as he accepts the drink. He's never seen this man around the monastery before – given his tattoos and impressive physique, he's sure he would remember if he had. This one looks more like a thug than a monk. I guess the Greybeards accept all types into their monastery, not just wise old sages.
Arngeir and his cohorts hurry to the edge of the precipice. The headmaster of High Hrothgar doesn't look happy, unsurprisingly. His face is paler than usual. "Your Thu'um has grown much in its potency," he sternly says. "Perhaps too much."
Mull takes a long gulp from the waterskin. He's delighted to discover it's actually a wineskin. "Is that a bad thing?" he wheezes.
"Not in and of itself, but in this particular instance, yes. Without a doubt."
"Mm. Yeah." Mull finishes off the wine and passes it back to the burly monk. "Can't disagree with that."
The tanned muscular monk receives a mild glare from Arngeir. He gives Mull a curt nod and retreats into the crowd of his cohorts gathering around the gates without another word.
"You failed to properly evaluate your target destination," Arngeir chides. "You've made astounding progress with your Thu'um in this past month, but I now believe you aren't yet ready for the challenge of the gates."
"Like hell I'm not," Mull sharply retorts. "Listen, I can do this. I'm not going back into that monastery to keep bashing myself against the walls. I made good progress today. I want to keep that up."
Arngeir is clearly hesitant, but he eventually agrees to let him have another go at the gate. "But only if you swear not to put yourself in such unnecessary danger again," he demands.
"I do so solemnly swear," he deadpans. "Trust me, I didn't enjoy that either. I don't want a repeat."
With a loud huff, he stands and meanders back to the front of the gate. Mull versus the Greybeards' fancy gate, round two. Let's see how this goes.
"Bex!"
"Wuld!"
This time, Mull doesn't even reach the gate before sliding to a stop. Unlike most of his previous uses of Whirlwind Sprint, he manages to keep his balance as the fierce winds dissipate, but the tradeoff is that he travels less than fifteen feet.
"Better." Arngeir's tone is distinctly more satisfied than before. "It's preferable to exert too little strength than too much, as you've already witnessed."
"Especially where cliffs are involved," he mutters.
The Greybeard pointedly doesn't reply. He steps away as Mull returns to his starting position. "Do you wish to try again?"
"Aye."
Whirlwind Sprint is difficult to control. He figured that out weeks ago, but now that he has plenty of space to work with in the courtyard, that fact is becoming much more apparent. Once he unleashes the Shout, the winds carry him to his destination of their own volition. He can try to aim the Shout at the beginning, but once he's moving, it's impossible to turn or slow down. The success or failure of his Shout is already determined from the moment he opens his mouth.
Kyne is the goddess of storm and sky, and the spirits of the wind are her capricious servants. They're whimsical and volatile, sometimes benevolent and sometimes dangerous. They bow to no man.
But to the sailors of the open seas and the farmers who harness the world's natural forces to mill their grain, they are a powerful ally. The wind can't be controlled, but it can be used to one's advantage.
"Bex!"
"Wuld!"
He makes it farther than last time and his aim is nearly perfect, but he still falls just short of the gate. Arngeir again praises him for his improved control over his Thu'um, but he doesn't feel satisfied. He wants to keep going and would love nothing more than to thread the needle of Borri's gate at least once before the end of the day.
Unfortunately, his throat is starting to ache like the oncoming symptoms of a bad cold, informing him that he's close to pushing his Voice too far. The Way of the Voice enables him to Shout more frequently than he ever could before coming to High Hrothgar, but it isn't a perfect solution. There are still limits to his abilities, and he's already been at this for hours today.
"That is enough for one day." It seems Arngeir is of the same mind. "You've accomplished much, Dragonborn. This session could have certainly gone better…" He glances at the gate and the cliff beyond. "…but your progress is nonetheless astounding, as always. There are few among mortal men who could reach your level of proficiency with Whirlwind Sprint in less than a season's time."
"Thanks," he grunts succinctly. He doesn't feel like much of a prodigy, but he keeps that to himself. Nobody appreciates a killjoy.
With their business concluded for the day, they take their leave from the courtyard and return to the monastery's protective walls. As he walks, Mull takes a moment to consider everything he's learned. After just one day of this advanced training with the gate, he already feels like he's closer to the cusp of a major breakthrough than ever before. He wasted weeks fruitlessly striving for a deeper understanding of Whirlwind Sprint, and now it's perched right on the metaphorical tip of his tongue. He still hasn't gotten used to meditation – he strongly dislikes it to be honest, though he'd never tell Arngeir that – but he resolves to spend as much time in the incense chambers as needed over the next few days to properly digest everything.
Bex, the Shout used by Borri, is also interesting to him. It's such an abstract concept and yet is still usable as a Thu'um. It makes him wonder about the limitations of the Voice. According to Arngeir, the Voice is a Tongue's intent imposed on reality. Borri told the gate to open with his Thu'um and it opened. So… what does that mean?
If you could impose any intention on the world, wouldn't the possibilities be limitless? Now too curious to let it go, he poses his new question to Arngeir. "If you can use the Voice for just about anything, then couldn't you Shout for someone to die and they'd drop dead?" He pauses. "If dragons are immortal, is there even a dragon word for death?"
Arngeir's features turn stony. "You could," he answers slowly. "And the dragons do indeed speak of death in their own language, though you will forgive me for refusing to reveal more. These things are not commonly known, and for good reason."
He purses his lips. It makes sense that pacifistic monks wouldn't like a death Shout. I don't know what I expected.
"There is a Shout that we call 'Marked for Death'," the elderly monk continues. "By that name, you might assume it inflicts instantaneous death upon the target, but that isn't exactly the case. It doesn't slay the Tongue's foe outright, but rather condemns them to an impending demise. It twists the strands of Fate away from their intended destination and skews them toward the Necromancer's Moon."
Mull doesn't understand much of that explanation, but it certainly sounds ominous.
"Shouts that manipulate the woven fabric of reality are dangerous both to the target and the user. They are an affront to the gods and the Way of the Voice. As such, I will not teach you anything more at this time," Arngeir firmly declares. "You may be Dragonborn, but I will nonetheless maintain that you're better off not knowing these things, nor would any man be. In time I might be willing to divulge relevant information once you've progressed further in the Way, but until then, this is my judgment."
"Alright, alright. Point taken." He trusts the old monk and is keenly aware that he knows more about the Voice than himself. Still, he doesn't like not being allowed to know something. Or rather, the idea of knowing there's something he doesn't know that someone else knows but doesn't want him to know. …Something like that.
Metaphysical perils aside, this death Shout sounds undeniably useful. It would make fights against opponents like Havjarr Iron-Hand a lot easier if he could tilt the scales in his own favor.
He'll ask about it again sometime, but not now. He gets the impression that he's caused the old man enough grief for one day, especially with his cliff-diving stunt in the courtyard. He'll let him off the hook.
The warm darkness of High Hrothgar envelops their group as the doors swing shut behind them, driving away the lingering chill of the outdoors. His escort of monks peel away one by one, offering their goodbyes – verbally or otherwise – until the last of them have vanished into the gloom.
Mull sighs dolefully as the meditation chambers come into view. Here we go. Another riveting night of getting in tune with my feelings. I'm overjoyed..
He briefly reminisces on the White Whale and the evenings he spent there with Torgen and Lydia, drinking mead and wasting time. He misses it.
It isn't all bad though. The Greybeards keep a stock of some excellent wines and meads of their own, as well as a flavorful homebrewed dark ale that he's developed a fondness for. If the only pastimes they have on this mountain during winter are to meditate and brew, then it isn't surprising they've gotten good at it.
But there are other things to worry about right now. He inhales the now-familiar scent of pungent incense and sweet mountain flowers as he shuts the door behind him. He kneels down on a woven prayer mat, and groans as his knees complain about their poor treatment. He'll be sore tomorrow for sure, but today isn't over quite yet.
Let's get to it, then.
-x-
Mull spends the next few weeks practicing his Thu'um in the courtyard. The cold is a constant companion along with the snow and icy precipitation descending from the heavens, but the monks diligently keep the courtyard cleared during the daytime. They don't use the open space often, so Mull assumes they're doing it exclusively for him. It's nice to be the big man around here, he thinks sardonically. Having all these monks scurrying around, doing my bidding.
He briefly entertains the idea of staying at High Hrothgar forever and lording over the Greybeards, living a life of ease like a decadent king. But I doubt they'd accept that even though I'm the Dragonborn. And besides, I think I'd go insane before too long. The monks are many things, but 'engaging conversationalists' isn't one of them.
There are a couple more incidents where he almost flings himself off the mountainside while practicing Whirlwind Sprint, but thankfully they aren't as dramatic as the first. The only one that comes close is when a gaggle of younger monks have to pull him to safety as his legs dangle over the foggy abyss. Arngeir tries again to convince him to stop practicing with the gates after that, but to no avail. He's mentally committed to defeating the challenge presented by the gates and he'll be damned if he doesn't.
Despite his mishaps, he grows increasingly proficient at dashing through the gates without over- or undershooting it. Before long, he can reliably reach the gate in less than two seconds after Borri uses the Voice to open it.
In some ways, Whirlwind Sprint isn't too different from shooting an arrow. You can't change the projectile's path midflight. The factors that determine its accuracy – barring environmental circumstances, of course – are finalized before the fingers leave the bowstring. The positioning of Mull's body, down to the tiniest details, predicate whether a given Whirlwind Sprint will end in success or disaster. Focusing on his target and staying mindful of his breathing quickly becomes habitual in the same way as basic archery. When he starts mentally treating Whirlwind Sprint like he's handing a bow, it becomes much easier to control his speed and the distance traversed, and his progress with the Shout accelerates greatly.
My arsenal grows. He smiles grimly at the thought. First Fus, then Ro, and now Wuld. It isn't much in comparison to the Greybeard elders, who can use as many as a dozen different Shouts according the Arngeir, but the old monk is still steadfastly complimentary of Mull's supposed prowess as a Tongue.
After enough nagging, he managed to convince Arngeir to give him a list of the different Shouts he can use proficiently. If he remembers right, some of them were: Unrelenting Force, Whirlwind Sprint, Disarm, Fire Breath, Frost Breath, Ice Form, Clear Skies, and Phantom Form. In addition, Arngeir also mentioned that while he can't use them, the other Greybeard elders also know Dismay and Elemental Fury.
Mull felt a bit less satisfied with himself after that. There are still so many Shouts he hasn't learned. But at this same time, it's exciting to be given an hint of what he can look forward to in the future.
"Why are some of the monks completely mute while I can still talk, even though I'm supposedly so powerful?" he asks Arngeir as they sit together in one of the dining halls while waiting for dinner.
"An excellent question. They too possess the power, but they do not possess the discipline to live rightly with that power. Their Thu'um is so potent that it risks leaking into their mortal voices of its own volition. For you however, as Dragonborn, that particular facet of the issue is largely a moot point. The Voice is innate to your inner being. It should come to you naturally and will almost never exceed your intention for it. At least, that's what our manuscripts regarding the Dragonborn of old have reported."
"So Borri, Wulfgar, and Einarth are so powerful with the Voice that they could kill the rest of us on accident?"
"In essence, yes."
"…" He isn't sure what to think about that. On the one hand, it's extremely impressive. The alure of having power of that magnitude at his beck and call is almost irresistible. On the other hand, it's also terrifying. A part of him wonders if he shouldn't treat them more respectfully from now on.
He thinks back to the elders' demonstrations of Phantom Form when he was learning Ro. "Will I also learn Phantom Form? It didn't look too complicated."
"You shall not. Or not yet, I should say. Don't be deceived by appearances, Dragonborn. The concepts and Words of Power which it utilizes are far more complex than those of Unrelenting Force or Whirlwind Sprint. These Shouts make use of fairly simple elemental concepts. By contrast, Words such as 'Mirror' and 'Phantom' are decidedly more difficult to comprehend. Only the most skilled and experienced of Tongues are able to learn this Shout. Myself, Borri, Einarth, and Wulfgar are among the few who have mastered it within this monastery and thus in all of Skyrim."
Mull grunts. Not the answer he was expecting, but now that he thinks about it, it does make sense. "Overextending myself wouldn't be a good thing. I've got enough on my plate already."
"Indeed."
A young female monk walks past their table and leaves them with two bowls of steaming lentil broth. As Mull grabs a spoon and digs in, he starts thinking about what he should do next.
According to Arngeir, there isn't much more for him to learn about Wuld. He isn't quite to the level of weaving through the courtyard's maze of standing stones at full speed without giving himself a concussion, but he's getting close. As frustrating as it was at times, mastering this new Shout was a satisfying experience as well. Overcoming the obstacle it represented in his progression along the Way was a hell of an accomplishment, if he does say so himself. Even if it took me two whole months to do it, he complains internally. Hopefully every new Shout won't take that long.
But because it did take so long, it looks like his time at High Hrothgar is about to reach its end. Spring will be here soon enough, which is when he plans to leave. He's already noticed the weather getting marginally warmer over the past few days.
It won't be long before he descends the mountain and makes his way back to Whiterun armed with plenty of new knowledge and an entirely new Shout. These months spent among the Greybeards were surprisingly productive.
Unfortunately, he can't stick around forever due to his agreement with Balgruuf. As a Thane of Whiterun and the Jarl's pet Dragonborn, he's technically obligated to defend the city against the threat of dragons. Though renegotiating our terms is going to be one of the first things I do when I get back, he thinks darkly. He's ordered me around long enough. I'm done with that.
The Voice isn't a tool to be used or a slave to be directed. He's learned Arngeir and the other monks that it's a valued ally to be cultivated for its own sake as well as his own. More than that, it's a method of spiritually mastering himself through the auspices of the Way.
But that isn't all there is to it. It's also the foundation of limitless power, the very same that catapulted Talos Stormcrown to godhood. His capabilities with the Voice might not be much to write home about yet, but eventually a day will arrive when he won't have to worry about Jarls and their commands anymore. He'll be strong enough to do whatever he wants, and nobody will be able to stand in his way. That's his most earnest desire. Not to oppress others with his might, but to prevent them from doing so to him.
Veiled behind his russet beard, a sneering grin crawls onto his lips. He pretends not to notice Arngeir giving him an expressionless side-eye.
Deep within him, a presence that's lain dormant for an entire season languidly unfurls in the darkness and emanates an unmistakable aura of satisfaction.