Chapter 46

Descending the mountain is much easier than going up. It isn't easy, but Mull will take whatever blessings he can get. It's not too cold, the wind isn't too severe, and there aren't any trolls roaming around to ruin to scenery. On the second day, he traverses the narrow ravine that the godsdamn frost troll once called home and luckily doesn't run into any of its kindred.

But the trek is still dangerous in plenty of other ways.

The sheer amount of spring runoff from melting snow is astounding. With such large quantities of water flowing through every gully and across every bed of rocks, many areas of the mountainside are treacherous if not downright impossible to navigate including the troll's ravine. There are literal waterfalls in some places that send clouds of vapor and foam billowing high into the air. I was worried about falling rocks and avalanches the first time around, but I think it's much more of a risk now. At least I have Whirlwind Sprint to get me out of trouble. That's better than nothing.

The leftover snow morphs into more of a muddy slush with each passing day. Mull's socks and trousers are constantly soaked through, doing an excellent job of making him miserable. He hunts for boulders that are large and flat enough to lay out his clothes to dry whenever he sets up camp at the end of each day, but the sun rarely shines through the overcast sky so it's mostly a futile effort.

Trying to peer down the mountain is a waste of time due to thick clouds clustered around this section of the Steps. He's vaguely aware of a broad valley far below and occasionally catches a glimpse of a shimmering silver ribbon that must be the White River, but he can't make out much more than that.

The only noteworthy event happens on the third day, when he encounters a pack of mangy wolves on the southern slopes of the mountain. One of the wolves, the largest, is worryingly insistent about approaching him even when he starts waving his arms and beating rocks together to ward them away. He's momentarily terrified that the wolves will swarm him, which wouldn't be unlikely if they've had a difficult winter, but luckily Sai is on his side and the wolves back off after a few hours, wandering away into a set of rocky crags to the north. They never stop watching him until he's completely out of sight and he does them the same courtesy.

This time he doesn't bother reading the shrines along the Steps. He remembers their contents well enough and he doesn't want to indulge in unnecessary delays.

Whenever he passes near the Greybeards' farming terraces and lower monasteries, the monks working in the fields silently watch him from afar just as before. But unlike last time, a few of the monks stop to bow down and press their palms together in a gesture of polite greeting. They must know I'm the Dragonborn. There wouldn't be anyone else descending the mountain at this time of year.

When they do that, Mull responds with a brief wave and keeps walking. He still thinks their reverence is extremely awkward.

All told, the descent only takes four days. It's a much easier affair than climbing up – the seasonal inconveniences and overly curious wildlife notwithstanding. Even so, he's totally exhausted from hauling around his waterlogged belongings. At least the food isn't ruined. The Greybeards were thoughtful enough to wrap it in waxed paper.

It's around noontime on the fourth day when he reaches the switchbacks on the southern face of the mountain – the first section of the Steps when one begins their pilgrimage. At the highest switchback, he's given a clear vantage to look down over the western Rift in bloom. The aspen forests are now various shades of green and yellow rather than the fiery orange panoply of autumn. Lake Geir is glittering brilliantly, reflecting the light of a sun he isn't able to see from his current position due to heavy cloud cover directly overhead. Patches of shadow are creeping across the wooded landscape, slowly encroaching on brighter areas blessed with sunlight. It's an incredible view.

Directly below, a hundred columns of chimney smoke are rising from Ivarstead. Even from this height he can see that the town is bustling. Minuscule dots are migrating along the roads and bridges in large numbers and the shore of the lake is a hive of activity. Glad to see everything is still there. His concern about hypothetical dragon attacks on Whiterun during the winter sometimes extended to Ivarstead as well. A lot can change over the course of a few months, especially where gigantic monsters with wings are concerned.

In late afternoon, Mull traverses the last of the switchbacks and plunges into a steep staircase nestled in a narrow gorge that rapidly descends to the river below. Ivarstead is fast approaching.

A handful of pilgrims shuffle by him as they scale the stairs, with several giving him odd looks. They must be wondering why I'm so dirty, not to mention why I'm going down instead of up. Hopefully they think I'm just some idiot who tried to make his pilgrimage a little too early. Slogging through the wetter areas of the mountainside really did a number on his clothes. Dried mud is caked onto his boots, his trousers are ruined, and his cloak is badly stained. His hair and beard are a veritable rat's nest.

Ignoring the pilgrims' confusion, he exits the gorge and hobbles down the final slope to the river and the bridge below. Beyond that lies Ivarstead itself.

Now that he's closer, it's obvious that Ivarstead is much busier than it was before winter. There are dozens if not hundreds of pilgrims gathering at the base of the Steps and along the adjacent riverbank. Countless tents and lean-tos are clustered on either side of the bridge and all along the edge of the water. Gods above, that's a lot of people. Are there this many every year? Maybe the Call of the Greybeards generated greater interest so there are more than usual. But then, couldn't there be fewer because of the dragons and the Civil War? That would make more sense to me. Could go either way, I guess.

These people look like they're coming from all walks of life, with richly-clad merchant lords, armed and armored warriors arrayed in symbols of Talos and the Dead Gods, and regular folk with drab clothing and patched shoes all brushing shoulders alongside each other.

Like their predecessors, these men and women also stare at Mull with open interest as he marches down the final staircase and shoves his way through their midst. A few call out to him and ask if he's alright, loudly questioning what sort of trouble he could've run into to be returning in such a sorry state. Others murmur that nobody began the pilgrimage earlier than yesterday. He ignores them as he limps across the bridge into Ivarstead proper, thoroughly looking forward to spending the night at an inn. My calves are absolutely killing me.

The instant he sets foot on the opposite bank, a chorus of disembodied voices suddenly warble into existence inside his mind. They're too jumbled and incomprehensible to be Mirmulnir. At least the dead dragon knows how to hold a proper conversation.

Mull groans loudly, drawing a few anxious glances from bystanders. Oh, you've got to be kidding me.

He'd honestly forgotten about the whispers from Shroud Hearth Barrow. They brush against his senses just like last time, so faintly that he only picks out a few discernible words every minute or so.

'Dovahkiin… Dovahkiin… Huzrah nu… Ved viing…'

Even though he understands each word's individual meaning due to his affinity for dovahzul, he can't make heads or tails of how they're supposed to combine into coherent sentences. It's essentially gibberish.

As before, he tries to pretend the voices don't exist. Doing otherwise would only make him go psychotic, and he's not looking forward to returning to his pre-High Hrothgar state of constant mental fatigue. If this keeps me from getting some sleep tonight, I'm not going to be a happy man.

Now thoroughly unamused, he stops to wash his filthy clothes in the river with enough frustrated vigor to frighten off a few likeminded pilgrims before plunging into the busy streets of Ivarstead. He soon reaches the town's main boulevard and takes a sharp right turn in the direction of the Vilemyr Inn. The sun is starting to sink behind the mountains by the time he reaches his destination.

He pushes open the door and grimaces as he's assaulted by the acerbic but familiar stench of unwashed bodies and spilled liquor. It's a madhouse. The common room is packed full of patrons eating their dinners or enjoying a few too many rounds of ale, mostly pilgrims judging by their warm attire fit for traveling.

A distant voice shouts "Welcome to the Vilemyr!" from somewhere within the crowd, but it's impossible to identify the speaker. Mull begins the arduous task of advancing through the throng to reach the bar on the far side of the common room.

The bar is covered in mounds of dirty plates and empty tankards, with more being added to the pile at an alarming rate. They must be making a hell of a lot of money. This is ridiculous. He's visited his fair share of country taverns over the years and he can confidently say he's never seen one receiving this much business in such a short span of time. Wilhelm must be rolling in the septims.

He glances at the bald proprietor, who's rushing frantically behind the bar as he struggles to fill an endless series of orders and requests. Doesn't look like he's enjoying it though.

After squeezing into a spot at a nearby table, he waves down a serving girl and puts in an order for some food and mead. The girl nods hastily and runs off before he can specify what he wants to eat. He assumes they're shoveling out whatever they can as fast as they can. The girl wasn't someone he recognized from his last time in Ivarstead, but her features bore a striking resemblance to Wilhelm – though much more delicate and refined, which is a good thing for her. She might be a daughter or granddaughter. I'm sure he needs all the help he can get with this crowd. For a bunch of pilgrims, they sure are rowdy. He scoffs to himself. If you look at it a certain way, I'm a pilgrim now too. That's a scary thought. It goes without saying he doesn't exactly fit the stereotype of a pious wayfarer.

A meaty smack resounds across the common room as a man's fist connects with another man's face a few tables down. They fall to the ground in a tangle of flailing limbs while being cheered on by nearby patrons. Others glower disapprovingly at the unfolding spectacle. Well… neither do some of these.

"Thanks for waiting!" The same serving girl bustles over to Mull's cramped table and deposits a platter of steaming food along with a tankard, unknowingly whacking her elbow into another customer's face in the process. The intoxicated man barely notices.

She breathlessly departs without another word, leaving Mull to his shank of stringy mutton garnished with grilled leeks and turnips. It might not be the most impressive spread, but right now it seems like a feast. He digs in with relish, stopping only to breathe and to sample the mead. It's good. He vaguely remembers liking the Vilemyr mead during his first visit. Wilhelm hasn't lost his touch. This stuff could rival Whiterun's Honningbrew.

A few minutes later, he's fat and happy with the platter literally licked clean. The mutton was dry but he isn't going to complain about it. Food is food, and it was still plenty warm from the cooking fire. That matters most in his opinion. He's eaten too many cold meals in the wilderness over the years.

The people he's sharing the table with are on a constant rotation as they arrive, eat, drink, and depart, but Mull stays in the same spot among the ever-shifting mob. In here, the atmosphere is lively enough that the voices from Shroud Hearth Barrow are completely drowned out by the sea of activity. They barely cross his mind.

After resting for an hour or two, he gives up his seat and navigates to the bar to ask Wilhelm about renting a room. He flags down the busy man during a break between refilling empty tankards.

Wilhelm wipes his palms on a rag and extends a hand, which Mull reciprocates. "I remember your face, but you might have to remind me of your name. Mord, was it?"

"Close. It's Mull."

"I'm surprised to see you back. I thought you might've left for good or were frozen solid up on the mountainside."

Mull scowls at that lovely mental image. "Not quite. It did get pretty damn cold up there." He continues before Wilhelm can start asking more questions. "I need a room if you've got one available. Just for tonight."

The innkeeper furrows his brows, deep in thought. He produces a sheaf of thick parchment from beneath the countertop and glowers at it critically. "…Do you mind sharing?"

Mull sighs. That's about what he expected. "I guess not."

"Good man. If it's any consolation, it'll be cheaper that way." Wilhelm taps the worn wood paneling of the bar top. "Five septims."

He digs around in one of his pockets, produces the gold, and forks it over. Wilhelm could've charged twice as much if he wanted since the other inns in Ivarsted are equally busy, so Mull tries to be thankful that he'll at least have a roof over his head. That thankfulness is dampened significantly by knowing he'll be bunking with a bunch of ale-soaked revelers.

"Yours for a night," the innkeeper says sarcastically as he accepts the payment.

"Great. Thanks. Now get me something to drink."

Wilhelm nods and fills a tankard from one of several kegs standing against the back wall. As Mull waits, he catches sight of a head of golden hair swiftly approaching from within the crowd.

He does a double take and looks closer. A familiar head of golden hair.

Lynly Star-Sung breaks free from the mass of tightly-packed patrons and powerwalks towards him. Her expression is distinctly worried. He glances at Wilhelm and sees that the innkeeper is just as grave.

"She's got something you need to hear," he says as he passes over the foaming mug of ale. "I don't know all the details, but she seemed to think it was urgent. Give her a listen."

That doesn't sound good. Mull's thoughts instantly jump to Lydia and Torgen, and the dangers they could've encountered without him to back them up. I hope they're alright.

"Mull." Lynly hurriedly greets him as she slides up next to the bar.

He's pleasantly surprised that she remembers his name. They didn't get to know each other very well last time since he wasn't in Ivarstead for long enough. "Lynly, right? What do you need?"

She peers up at him with brilliant eyes full of worry. "I need to tell you something important," she says softly.

She goes to grab his sleeve but wrinkles her nose and retracts her hand.

"You need a bath. There's a river right there, you know. Not to mention an entire lake."

"I washed my clothes before coming into town," he defensively retorts.

"Could've fooled me."

"Then I'm sorry my standards are apparently so much lower than yours, girl. Now is that the important thing you wanted to say or is there something else?"

"Ugh, yes." She shakes her head and tiredly rubs her face. "Did you just arrive today? And while you were on the way here, did you encounter anyone strange?"

"I just got back from the mountain this afternoon. And no I didn't see anyone strange, assuming you aren't talking about all those pilgrims camped out by the riverbank. They were a colorful lot. Why do you ask?" His features tighten. "Did something happen?"

"About a month ago, two strangers from out of town showed up here at the tavern and started asking for the whereabouts of a group of three travelers. They specifically mentioned you by name. They wanted to know where you were and when you would return."

"…They what?" His stomach drops into his boots. He's startled so badly that he stares uncomprehendingly at the girl for a good five seconds. Then his hand reflexively goes for his dagger and he quickly scans the common room with practiced efficiency. The tavern is so crammed full of people that it would be impossible to foresee an attack, much less prevent one. "Where are they?" he demands.

"I don't know," the girl confesses. "I'm sorry. It's been nearly a week since I last saw them or heard anyone talking about them, but they might still be staying in town somewhere."

"And they knew my name? 'Mull,' that's what they called me?" he presses.

"They did."

What in Oblivion?

Nervous sweat gathers on his brow. "Describe them. Go into as much detail as you can."

"Both were adult men, perhaps close to your age, and one was blonde while the other had darker hair. They were Nords but their hair and beards were trimmed like Imperials. They had to be warriors of some kind and looked like they'd been traveling recently. They claimed to be fellow mercenaries who're searching for you to make sure you're alright. The prospect of you spending the winter on the mountain seemed to worry them. But…"

"But what?"

"…I think it was an act. A ruse." She lowers her voice, making it difficult to hear her over the hubbub of the tavern. "They were lying. Almost everything they said to me was a lie. I have no doubt."

Mull stands abruptly and circles around Lynly, moving the far side of the bar so there's a barrier between him and the rest of the crowd. The girl watches his movements like a rabbit being stalked by a fox. From a few yards away where he's serving a table, Wilhelm gives him a critical look for trespassing in his domain before turning away and ignoring him. His eyes never stop roaming across the room. "Could they've been Imperial soldiers?" he suggests. "Were they legionaries? Or Stormcloaks instead?"

"Maybe," Lynly shrugs unhappily. "I'm sorry, but I really couldn't say."

Perhaps these strangers were Hadvar and Ralof. Her description of their hair colors matches what he remembers of his two fellow survivors from Helgen. "The one with dark hair, what color was it exactly?"

"Darker than yours. Not completely black, but a much darker shade of brown than what you'd usually see in this area. We Nords of the Old Holds have lighter hair than most." She bobs her head for emphasis.

That doesn't sound quite right. Hadvar's was a light brown, not too far off from red. Similar to his own now that he thinks about it. "Are you sure about that?"

"I am. He had dark hair and bright eyes. He was… cold, and intense. I would never let it show, but he frightened me," she admits.

That description doesn't fit his recollection of the Nord legionary at all. Alright, maybe they weren't Hadvar and Ralof. That would've been a longshot anyways. Besides, what would they be doing in Ivarstead in the first place, much less both of them together? They're on opposite sides of the war, and in Riverwood they said they were each returning to their armies.

So these two people probably aren't anyone I know. Naturally, that raises the question of how they could've known his name. That worries him. A lot.

They could've been sent by Jarl Balgruuf, he muses. But then why wouldn't they come out and say that? Is it because Whiterun is neutral and Ivarstead is in Stormcloak territory? Could be…

"Did they say anything else about how they knew me?"

"They claimed that they asked around town before coming to the inn. If they spoke to anyone who you'd also spoken with, perhaps that's where they learned your name." Lynly frowns. "And now that I think about it, they never mentioned Lydia or… the other man."

"Torgen," Mull supplies.

"Lydia and Torgen, they never named either of them." Her frown deepens. "I should've thought to ask about that. Whether or not they knew your companions would've been a good way to gauge their truthfulness."

He waves away her concern. "Don't worry about it. There's no harm done by not thinking of something like that. You'd have to be a scheming courtesan to think so far ahead."

Lynly laughs in a suspiciously uncomfortable manner.

He doesn't notice her strange reaction – there are other more pressing things vying for his attention. "So they only knew my name as far as you're aware. And that's something they could've gotten from Klimmek, meaning they don't know me, Lydia, or Torgen personally." His gaze drops to the wooden bartop as he starts muttering to himself, his fingers toying with the hilt of his knife all the while. "They could've been Balgruuf's men if something happened in Whiterun while I was away. Or maybe they're outlaws from Cyrodiil who're still coming after me. Joren's gang made a lot of enemies in its heyday. But why would they hold a grudge for so long and go through so much effort to track me down? No, that wouldn't make much sense. They might be bounty hunters from Bruma or Cheydinhal, but that raises the same questions." He narrow his eyes. There are too many possibilities.

He turns back to Lynly, whose expression is even more concerned than before.

"Has there been troubling news from Whiterun in the last few months? Anything at all?"

She bites her lip as she thinks. "None that I can remember. I'm assuming you aren't talking about the dragon that was killed there a couple of months before winter?"

"No, I already knew about that." To say the fuckin' least. "So nobody's been gossiping about more dragon attacks or anything like that?"

"Not that I've heard." She gives him a searching look. "Is there something in Whiterun you're worried about? Well, beyond everything else that's happening," she amends. "The Civil War and dragons are already more than enough to warrant our concern."

"Aye, these are crazy times. But that's beside the point." He subsides to grumbling. "It might be easiest to go find those men and beat the truth out of them, assuming they're still around here somewhere."

The bard is alarmed by his statement. "They seemed like dangerous men and they were armed with swords," she says urgently. "And I don't know for certain if there are more of them, but there could be. Going after them might get you hurt badly or worse."

He responds with a strained chuckle. "It was a joke. Don't worry girl, I won't do anything stupid." He actually wasn't joking, but he doesn't want to distress Lynly more than she's already been. Also, if he does decide to go hunting for these strangers, he doesn't want her to become complicit from knowing too much. By her description of the strangers, an encounter with them could get very messy very quickly. He's fairly confident in his ability to deal with two swordsmen as long as he has the element of surprise, especially with his Thu'um in reserve as a trump card.

He tsks and looks through the nearest window, noting that it's fully dark. Tramping around in an unfamiliar town during nighttime is never a good idea. He can say that from personal experience.

That's the final straw in making his decision. Yeah, that's a no-go. Looks like I'll have to wait out the night and hope nobody comes searching for me.

"I see you looking outside with that frown." Lynly not-so-gently nudges his arm. "You aren't lying to me, are you?"

"I'm not. I mean it. I won't cause you any trouble."

The bard nods once. "Good."

"I can't help but wonder, though – why were you willing to talk to me about this whole mess? Aren't I a stranger too?"

"This isn't for you," she smiles. "I want to help Lydia however I can, and that willingness extends to her companions as well. She was a sweet girl and I wouldn't hesitate to call her a friend. I'm glad I had the chance to meet her."

"Ah." That isn't what he was expecting, but it does make sense. "It's good that she made a herself friend, even if it was only for a couple weeks. She, uh… she needed one, I think. She's too reserved for her own good. Being stuck with me and Torgen all the time must've been pure torment."

Lynly giggles softly. "She's a quiet one, yes."

"Speaking of which, when exactly did her and Torgen leave town? Was it before those two men showed up?"

"It was. They departed about a week after you did. They said they were headed west to Steelhead Pass."

"Thanks, that's good to know." He feels a little better knowing they took a familiar route. There's less of a chance they'll run into trouble that way. Hopefully.

"Ugh, I think I need to get back to work," Lynly groans apologetically. "Wilhelm's been giving me an aggrieved look for a few minutes now. That's my cue. Everyone's helping with the food and drinks tonight, even me."

"They've got you working with the serving girls? Do they at least pay you double wages?"

"Hmph. I should be so lucky."

He nods towards Wilhelm. "Someone needs to talk to him about treating his bard better."

"We all pitch in whenever the inn gets busy like this. It's never enjoyable, but it's necessary."

"…Well, I like the work ethic." He raises his tankard in salute. "Good luck out there, girl."

She flashes a thin smile and vanishes into the throng.

After she leaves, Mull relocates to a less conspicuous seat against the wall at the back of the common room and spends the rest of his evening roosted among the horde of thirsty pilgrims. They're still packing inside the tavern in droves.

He really ought to get some sleep to prepare for the next stage of his journey, but the knowledge that there are unknown men searching for him is making him feel rightfully paranoid. He makes sure to keep his eye on the front door at all times, even when he orders a few refills and a loaf of warm rye bread

He stays like that far into the night. The constant vigilance is tiring, but at least it isn't boring. Watching people come and go is a source of entertainment in and of itself, especially with so many intoxicated pilgrims stumbling around like idiots.

When the common room finally dies down and the patrons have either left, gone to their rooms, or simply passed out on the floor, Lynly meanders over and collapses onto the bench next to him with a breathy sigh. Seeing her run around all night was enjoyable in the same way as watching a comrade get their ass beaten in a fistfight. Fun to spectate, but it also makes you glad you aren't the one standing in the ring.

"And I still need to help clean this place up," the bard complains. "I swear it never ends."

Mull takes in the chaotic scene of comatose pilgrims and townspeople strewn all over the inn. "That'll be a chore."

He holds out his mug of ale, offering it to the girl. She considers it for a long moment, starts to shake her head, then snatches it from his hands in a flash and drains the whole thing in one long gulp. He snickers at the display.

The young woman sighs and wipes her mouth on her sleeve. "Ye gods, thank you for that. I needed it."

"I could tell."

They glance around the room. It's peaceful now if you ignore the loud snoring from multiple sources and the pungent scent of soured mead. It's almost enough to make him forget the reason for his watchfulness.

Almost.

"Will you stay awake the entire night?" Lynly inquires.

"I probably shouldn't," he admits. "But I don't much like the idea of someone sneaking up on me while I'm asleep. Call it an irrational fear of mine."

"The Vilemyr Inn is a safe place," the girl assures him. "We've never had that sort of trouble here. At least, not since I started working for Wilhelm."

"There's a first time for everything," he mutters darkly.

He cringes as Lynly's expression falls and hurriedly thinks of something else to say, not wanting to bring down the mood. It doesn't feel right to make a woman sad and just leave her that way.

"How long has it been?" he quickly asks. "Since you started working here, I mean."

"Oh…" She seems surprised by the abrupt change in topic but doesn't complain. "About a year, maybe a little longer. I like it here so far, although I don't always have an easy time of things. I'm still getting used to the arduous life of a tavern bard," she finishes without a hint of sarcasm.

He grunts and nudges an unconscious man's arm with the toe of his boot. "Arduous indeed."

He raises the mug to his lips. When nothing happens, he glares at the bone-dry container with disappointment. His golden-haired acquaintance finished off the entire thing.

She notices his predicament and blushes. "Would you like another? I don't mind fetching it." Then she grins deviously. "It would be a perfect excuse to intentionally misplace some more for myself."

Mull chuckles loudly, heedless of the dozen people laying in drunken stupors around them. "Not on my account, but I'll keep an eye out for you to make sure Wilhelm doesn't catch you slacking off. And don't worry, I'll swear to your innocence to keep the local authorities off your back. I'm an expert at that sort of thing."

"I've found myself a capable accomplice," she cheerily announces to nobody in particular as she takes the empty mug and heads for the bar. "The Thieves Guild had better watch out. Soon their reputation will be on the ropes thanks to us!"

He snorts and shakes his head. She's got a good sense of humor. His gaze returns to the front door while she's away. He hasn't seen anybody he's slated as a suspect so far, and it's finally late enough that there shouldn't be any new patrons showing up.

But if it were him, he would wait until the dead of night before breaking into a public establishment to carve up an unsuspecting target. He naturally doesn't want to be on the receiving end of that, and so the lingering caution.

He was actually thinking about investigating Shroud Hearth Barrow earlier, but the news of these men searching for him and claiming to know him is freaking him out. He doesn't plan on staying in Ivarstead longer than tomorrow morning. Mirmulnir won't be happy about it – and neither is he, to be honest – but checking out the barrow will need to wait until next time he visits Ivarstead. It shouldn't take him too long since he'll be returning to High Hrothgar with the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller relatively soon.

If he's going to be on guard for the whole night, at least the ale is tasty and the hearth is warm. And the company is good too. Can't forget that.

The company in question swiftly and silently darts behind the bar, performs her nefarious misdeed, and returns with her bounty in hand. As she sits back down, she bumps her mug against his fist in a mock toast before getting down to business. As it turns out, Lynly has a talent for putting down large quantities of alcohol with impressive speed.

As the night wears on, Mull reflects that sitting and talking with this gregarious bard is enjoyable. It feels normal. At High Hrothgar it was always 'Dragonborn this,' 'Dragonborn that,' either an uncomfortable amount of respect or extraneous caution bordering on fear. There was always a deeper layer to every interaction that he didn't know how to deal with. And Whiterun was even worse because he was constantly working to maintain a false identity.

But here he can sit back and chat like a normal person without needing to worry about all the troublesome details of his ridiculous life. He's never been much of a social butterfly, so it's lucky for him that Lynly is incredibly easy to talk to. It's part of her job, he muses.

What probably isn't part of her job is lounging slovenly against the table in her disheveled forest-green tavern dress, knocking back ales one after the other and getting completely plastered in the process. She keeps the conversation going nonstop like a practiced socialite, but Mull can't ignore her increasingly slurred speech and flushed cheeks. He pointedly looks away whenever she leans forward against the table, consciously or unconsciously drawing attention to her voluptuous breasts.

Then it gets even worse when she breaks out a decanter of Colovian brandy. "I know you're keeping watch for those men…" She hiccups. "…But you have to try this! It's soooo gooood."

She practically drapes herself across his arm as she thrusts a ceramic cup of the stuff in front of his face, wafting it back and forth enticingly. It smells strong.

"Do I want to know how expensive that is?" he emphatically asks.

The shitfaced bard tilts her head and grins unconvincingly. "Expensive? Or course it isn't!"

"Uh-huh."

When she doesn't budge, he sighs and accepts the cup.

"There you gooo." She leans into him and rests her chin atop his shoulder. "I just know you'll love it," she purrs. Her hot breath washes across the side of his neck, making his hair stand on end.

He hesitates for several seconds, wondering how bad of an idea this could be, until the bard's coquettish smirk starts to drop. Not wanting to ruin the mood, he puts the cup to his lips and downs most of aromatic liquid. That single draught is enough to make his head spin. Shor's bones, this stuff might as well be unfiltered poison. No more for me, thanks.

"Well? What do you think?"

He grumbles under his breath and massages his forehead. "I think you're a dangerous woman."

"Am I?" She giggles and wraps her dainty fingers around his bicep. "Is that something you like? Do you want me to keep being dangerous?"

He makes the mistake of looking down and immediately finds himself getting lost in her gorgeous heterochromatic eyes. Heat blossoms inside his chest, leaving him aghast. It's been a long time since a woman paid attention to him like this. He hasn't been in this kind of situation since Morven died, now that he thinks about it. A part of him revels in the masculine satisfaction of having a sultry woman hang off his arm.

Lynly is a pretty lass, he'll admit, but there are a lot of pretty lasses in this province. Aela is one for starters. So is Lydia from a certain perspective. The truth of the matter is that there are a lot of attractive women in Skyrim – the Nords being a ruggedly beautiful people with their eye-catching hair, light eyes, and pale skin.

And yet in this moment, the sight of Lynly pressing so close to him makes him think of a completely different woman. She reminds him so much of Morven. Her looks, her personality, her forthrightness… all of it.

His heart twinges painfully, instantly snapping him out of his lustful stupor.

He delicately lifts his arm, forcing the bard to scoot back a few inches. "Are you always this affectionate when you're drunk?" he asks.

She winks flirtatiously, taking his reclamation of physical space in stride without complaining. "Only with my very closest friends."

That response irks him for some reason. "Who says I'm a friend? For all you know, I could be a murderous bandit waiting to drag you off into the night before tearing that dress off."

"Wilhelm would save me!" she laughs. "Besides, any friend of Lydia is a friend of mine. I don't think she would travel with someone she didn't trust, and she didn't seem like the type of girl to tolerate indecent behavior."

"Yeah? Well Lydia isn't here, is she? I don't see ole' Wilhelm anywhere either, so he must be busy with something in the back. And it looks like the rest of the girls are either wrapping things up or have already gone home for the night. There's nobody left to have your back if things were to suddenly go bad." He leans closer, looming over her. "I could do whatever I want and you'd never be able to stop me."

Her grin finally wavers. "…But you're just saying that, aren't you? I know you're not being serious."

He holds her gaze for a while longer before exhaling heavily and shaking his head. "Of course I'm not. I'm only trying to make a point. In fact, you should probably just ignore me for now. I don't know why I said any of that. I've never been good at making small talk." Against his better judgement, he pours another shot of the brandy and gulps it down. He feels like he needs it after that exchange.

The atmosphere between them is awkward for all of ten seconds before Lynly starts giggling again. "You're an odd one, you know? I like your honesty. It's different, but… a good sort of different. I wish there were more people like you in Ivarstead."

Without giving him a chance to reply, the girl merrily launches into a bawdy story about a priestess of Dibella who once stayed at the inn. Before long, her comedic tale dispels the black mood and Mull's earlier words are completely forgotten.

Hours pass and the night grows late. At this point, Lynly will be lucky if she gets three or four hours of sleep before dawn – assuming she wakes up with the sun, which is unlikely given her present condition.

"I think that's all for me," the girl regretfully announces.

"What, too much to drink already?" Mull sarcastically asks.

"O-of course not." She stands with great dignity and immediately wobbles as her legs nearly give out. She leans heavily against the table with a grimace.

"Oh, shit." He leans forward to help her just in case she collapses. "Can you make it?"

She holds out a hand to stop him. "I'm fine," she insists. "I-I just think it's time I got some sleep."

"Let me help you to your room," he offers. "You shouldn't push yourself after drinking so much of that damn brandy. That swill could kill a horse."

"I'm fine," she says again. "I know how to walk, thank you very much."

I'll believe it when I see it.

"But… what about you?" she inquires. "Where will you sleep?"

"Nowhere." He hastily elaborates when she frowns and opens her mouth to retort. "I rented a public room from Wilhelm, but at this point I don't think I'll use it. Might as well stay awake and keep an eye on things out here. And if I don't, I can always join these fine gentlemen resting their eyes." He gestures to the slumbering patrons around them. "It wouldn't be my first time spending a night on a dirty floor. Trust me, it's better than some of the alternatives."

Lynly gives him a long, inscrutable look – and then she throws back her head and laughs loudly, eliciting moans and mumbled curses from the insensate drunkards. "I believe you," she titters. "You look the part for something like that."

He wearily raises an eyebrow.

"You have a… I'd call it a roguish face."

"…Is that a compliment?"

"Mhmm. That's for me to know and you to find out."

Accepting he isn't going to win this verbal spar, he leans back on the bench and waves for her to go. "Get going then, if you're sure you'll be fine."

Lynly ventures away from the safety of the table and staggers towards the bar, nearly falling face-first on three separate occasions before catching herself. Once she reaches her destination, she graces him with one last smile before shuffling to a doorway behind the bar and vanishing within.

And that's all she wrote. Looks like she didn't need my help after all. Mull stares after the inebriated woman with undisguised bemusement before settling into a more comfortable position and resuming his nocturnal vigil.

-x-

He survives the rest of the night without encountering any would-be kidnappers or assassins. The voices coming from the barrow also quiet down, which he's thankful for. Maybe that brandy was good for something after all.

As the sun's first light begins shimmering through the windows, he stiffly stands from the bench and rubs his sore eyes. He blearily sets about gathering his belongings for the journey ahead, gingerly stepping around the sleeping forms of other patrons still scattered around the common room like corpses after a nasty fight.

The stale water from his canteen helps alleviate the dryness of his mouth, but it isn't enough on its own. His stomach growls hungrily and he heads for the bar in search of some real sustenance.

A handful of other people are already up and about, either sitting and eating their breakfasts or gathering their things as they get ready to leave. Like him, they considerately ignore the unconscious people on the floor.

Just as he's about to reach the bar, Lynly unexpectedly emerges from her room while stumbling over her own feet. She bumps against the countertop with enough force to make her wince. Her golden hair is a frazzled mess and there are huge dark rings beneath her eyes.

Mull derives more satisfaction from her unkempt appearance than he'd care to admit. She was a good hostess last night, diligently keeping the alcohol flowing and entertaining him with small talk – but rather than tricking him into spending a lot of money on booze, she somehow managed to trick herself.

He calls out to her as he approaches the bar. "Hey there, beautiful. Your timing couldn't be better. Have a rough morning?"

The woman answers with an exhausted glare and silently starts brewing a pot of tea. Soon enough, a steaming mug of the stuff is clutched in her hands and an empty one is sitting in front of him. She gestures for him to go ahead.

He grabs the empty cup and leans over to sniff the teapot experimentally. Frost mirriam. I can go for that right about now. Today's going to be a long one. He pours himself a generous amount, filling his ceramic cup to the brim, and takes a deep swig. The scalding liquid burns pleasantly all the way down his throat.

"How was your night?" Lynly's scratchy voice is painful to hear.

"Oh, just peachy." He lowers the teacup and leers at her. "Though it might've been better if there wasn't a certain golden-haired temptress throwing herself at me for half of it."

The girl's entire face turns red. "I-I'm sorry. That was inconsiderate of me. I know you were worried about those strangers – Oblivion, I was the one who made you worry about them – and still I was acting so selfish. I'm very sorry."

Her sincere response throws him for a loop. "No, don't be apologizing. It wasn't that big of a deal. I'm just bitching for the sake of bitching. Nothing new there."

"I think it's deserved. And I know I shouldn't try to make excuses, but… I just wanted somebody to talk to, I suppose."

"Look around. You had plenty of other people to choose from."

"They were all asleep already," she deadpans. "You were the only one left awake."

"Oh, is that right? For all I know, you could've intentionally waited until I was at my most vulnerable and then swooped in for the kill. Tsk, tsk. That's a dangerous game to play with me, girl."

She replies with a fatigued grin. "Last night, I thought you said I'm the dangerous one."

"…I might've. But if you're trying to be coy with me, I think you should do something about your hair first. I can't take you seriously when you look like that."

The girl scowls and vainly tries to pat down her messy hairdo. "You're no fun."

"Thanks. I try."

After disengaging from the golden-haired bard and securing himself a bowl of porridge, he takes a seat at the bar and scarfs it down while planning out his schedule for the coming days.

There are two routes to take from Ivarstead to Whiterun Hold – the western route through Steelhead Pass and the eastern route through a network of higher passes along the Eastmarch side of the Throat of the World. However, he heard reports from pilgrims yesterday that the immense spring runoff from the Throat of the World washed out many trails and bridges on the eastern slopes, meaning the second option is functionally off the table. Back to Steelhead Pass then. Lynly said that's the route Lydia and Torgen decided to take as well, so it might be for the best.

With his plan of action thus decided, he assembles the last of his gear and heads down to Ivarstead's western bridge. Lynly asks the younger serving girl from yesterday, Wilhelm's maybe-daughter, to hold down the fort while she accompanies him through the busy streets.

He does what he can to stay inconspicuous since he's still worried about Lynly's report of suspicious strangers. He takes alleyways and side streets whenever possible, doesn't stop for anything, and faces away from fellow pedestrians as often as he can without making it seem intentional.

Oddly enough, Lynly seems to pick up on his mood and does a commendable job of shadowing him without drawing attention to herself. It isn't a skillset he'd expect a country bard to have. She isn't half bad at the art of staying faceless in a crowd – but she still isn't quite as good as him.

"Is there any particular reason you're tagging along?" he asks, not quite looking at her as they weave through a narrow lane cluttered with half-rotted barrels.

"Not really. I'm just taking the excuse to get away from the inn for a while."

"Heh. Understood." If he had to work in a place like that for days on end, he'd be dying to get away too. It smelled a little ripe in the common room this morning despite Wilhelm's best efforts with bundles of rushes and scented plants. An inevitability when so many people are packed together for hours on end.

The girl clasps her hands behind her back and leans forward as she walks next to him. Against his will, his gaze is drawn down to her ample cleavage exposed by her low-cut dress. "But to be honest, I'm also trying to make a good impression on you. The more you like me, the better chance I'll get to see Lydia again. Does that sound about right?"

"Oh, so it's actually Lydia you care about. I'm just a means to an end." He struggles to keep his expression blank.

"Exactly," she teases.

"And I can only assume all that ale and the fancy brandy last night was a form of bribery."

"Yep! You're so perceptive!"

"…Hmph."

"That wasn't much of a response!"

"What do you want from me?" he grumbles good-naturedly. "Should I go find a priest to hold our hands while we swear blood oaths to Shor that we'll see each other again? Would that be good enough for you?"

"I suppose," she mock-whines. "Whatever I have to do to make it happen."

This girl. Even though she's hungover to Oblivion and back, the golden-haired Nord really perked up after escaping her place of employment. The fresh air must be working its wonders on her.

After another few minutes of flippant conversation, they reach the bridge and stop on the shoreline. To their south, Lake Geir is awash with choppy waves lapping against its gravelly banks. Distant vessels are bobbing up and down as they traverse the churning waters. Closer at hand, the river is comparatively peaceful and sluggish as it begins its long trek to the northern sea.

Lynly turns to him and wiggles her eyebrows. "Well? Are you ready for your big journey?"

"Not really, no." This is why he told himself multiple times beforehand that he needed to get a good night's rest. But it is what it is. He did want the situation demanded.

"You're sure you don't want to stay a while longer? Wilhelm would give you a discount if I asked him nicely enough. We'll be getting plenty of business now that the pilgrimage season is here."

"As tempting as that is, I'll have to say no thanks." He steals a look over his shoulder, westwards toward the mountains. "I've already made Lydia and Torgen wait for me long enough. It's about time I get back to them."

"Oh well. I had to try." She pokes his chest insistently. "You be sure to come by the Vilemyr again whenever you're in town next time. And you'd better uphold your promise to bring Lydia with you," she winks. "She'll have to regale me with the tales of your heroic exploits."

Mull snorts. "I don't think there'll be many of those, but…" He recalls his task from Arngeir to retrieve the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller, and also his concerns about how Whiterun fared against the dragons during the winter. Whatever's lying in store for him, he doubts it'll be boring. "…I guess you never know."

"That's the spirit!" Lynly beams.

"Aye, whatever you say." He hitches his pack and squints at the sun. "I'd better get going. The sooner I start, the sooner I'll get there."

"Words of wisdom from our illustrious pilgrim, who braved the frigid heights of the Snow Throat through the deepest darkness of winter."

"Poetic. I didn't know you had it in you."

"Well, I am a bard after all. It's what I do."

"You make that easy to forget with all the flirting you've been doing. Maybe your next song should be about me. Aren't you the one who said I'm a dashing rogue? People love that sort of thing."

She pouts halfheartedly as he starts walking across the bridge without another word. "Really? That's what you're leaving me with?!" she yells.

"Yes."

When he's halfway across the river, Lynly calls after him again. "You'd better stay safe out there! At your journey's end, I pray that the skies will be bright and clear for you!"

That's more like it. He turns around to look at her receding figure one last time and raises his hand in farewell.