Chapter 9
For the first time since Mull arrived at Dragonsreach, Farengar has seemingly run out of things for him to do. He's currently lounging in the court wizard's study with arms crossed and one shoulder propped against the wall, silently willing the minutes and hours to go by faster. Farengar labors away on his dragon translation project at his desk, quill scratching against paper with an aggravating and yet oddly hypnotic repetitiveness.
The wizard is able to dismiss Mull for the day at any time but has instead chosen to pointedly ignore him. He'd been planning to go do some practice shooting with Aela this evening, so he doesn't particularly appreciate the wizard wasting his time for no godsdamn reason.
Farengar shuffles in his chair, the noise breaking him from his woolgathering. He glances outside a latticed window to the Cloud District beyond and notices how much darker it's already become. Sunset isn't far off. He releases a frustrated sigh as he grinds a bootheel into the floor.
After another few minutes of studiously overlooking his assistant's restlessness, Farengar abruptly breaks his self-imposed vow of silence. "I have a question for you, Maul. Can you spare a moment of your valuable time?"
It's Mull, you imbecile.
Farengar continues without waiting for an answer. "Tell me if you would, what do you make of this inscription? Its meaning has long eluded my intellectual grasp." He smirks mockingly as he presents a sheet of parchment for Mull's assessment. "I have no doubt that you're well-versed in such academic pursuits, so your input on this matter would be of great interest to me."
He snorts at the wizard's witticism before peering lazily at the inked runes. Might as well play along. I've got nothing better to do. "Well why don't we see here. This looks like… uh…"
He squints at the page. It's difficult to make out the rows of text. They almost seem to shimmer, perhaps due to the faint beams of sunlight falling across the opaque parchment.
"'It is the duty of each man to… to live with courage, and, uh… honor, lest he fade unreminded – no, unremembered – into darkness.' Huh. Ain't that poetic." He leans back against the wall and casually inspects his fingernails. "Is that interesting enough for you?"
His question is met with silence. He glances up after a few seconds, mildly concerned by the wizard's total lack of response. He finds Farengar intently poring over the runes, his wide-eyed expression conveying utter astoundment.
That's odd. The wizard is always smug and self-satisfied, especially while within the domain of his office. To see him openly showing such confusion is abnormal in the extreme. "What is it, wizard?"
Farengar tears his gaze from the manuscript. His complexion is noticeably pale. "But that's… how… how in Jhunal's name did you do that?"
"…Do what?"
"That!" The wizard again holds up the inscription and jabs a finger at it. "These are dragon-runes. Can't you see?! Unless I'm mistaken, you just provided a perfect translation for this text! I've been struggling to decipher that passage for days! You don't mean to tell me that you're actually fluent in reading these runes, do you?!"
Mull studies the parchment again. His brow scrunches with uncertainty. "What are you going on about now? Dragon-runes? That's Tamrielic script, you moron. You aren't even making any – Ugh!" He's interrupted when his forehead pulses uncomfortably, not quite a painful sensation but not at all enjoyable either. His hand flies to his face on instinct.
As he peers between his fingers, something seems to swim into focus on the surface of the parchment, like a film has been carefully peeled away. This time, he notices that each individual letter of the inscription is comprised of jagged triangular lines arranged into rune-like patterns. He quickly realizes that he was wrong just now – the passage he read isn't written in Tamrielic script, nor in any other alphabet that he knows of. The jagged letters are entirely unfamiliar.
"Yeah, okay. I… I see what you mean. I can read that." He grits his teeth as he gestures to the parchment. "And you're right, it definitely isn't Tamrielic. But I'm positive I've never seen those letters before. I… godsdamn it…"
The longer he spends staring at the strange runes, the worse he starts to feel. Before long, the throbbing behind his eyes has morphed into the beginnings of a splitting headache. It swiftly grows into one of the worst migraines he's ever experienced. It's like a thousand needles are being stabbed into his eyeballs from all directions.
He roughly collapses into one of Farengar's chairs, already beginning to feel faint. He rests his elbows on top of the desk and cradles his face in his hands. Gods above, I can't even think straight. What in Oblivion is happening?!
Slowly, with precise movements, Farengar lays the parchment on his desk and smooths out its rumpled corners. He quietly contemplates the inscription, his previous signs of agitation completely gone.
Mull, for his part, spends the next several minutes in a state of agony and abject bewilderment. He remains as still as possible and tries to block the light of the room with his palms in a desperate attempt to lessen the pain. He finds that it does help a little, though not enough to fully alleviate his misery.
After they've stewed in silence for a few minutes, Farengar eventually ventures to speak. "I believe I have a task for you, if you would be so inclined. You obviously seem to be experiencing some manner of discomfort, so please inform me when you're capable of listening."
Mull lifts his head and glowers balefully at the wizard, stoically ignoring that his vision is still blurred at the edges and his stomach is now roiling with nausea. "Farengar, if you say one more word about your damn errands, I'm gonna climb over this table and wring your scrawny neck. I don't care if you're the Jarl's pet wizard. I'm not in the mood for any more of your bullshit." He goes to stand, fully prepared to make good on his threat, but immediately relents when the headache redoubles and his ears start ringing. He returns to his seat with a groan equal parts discomfort and frustration. "Kyne's breath, I feel like I'm about to keel over and die. You need to tell me what the hell just happened."
Farengar shakes his head. "I myself don't know. I've never seen anything like this before, though I do already have a working theory or two. To think that a common man such as yourself could suddenly gain literacy in the dragon tongue by some quirk of fate is… well, quite frankly unbelievable. Rest assured that if I think of something pertinent, you'll surely be the first to hear of it."
"That isn't good enough! How in Oblivion is it even possible to read a dead language? And why did it have to hurt so damn much?" He distantly recognizes that he sounds like a petulant child, but isn't inclined to care at the moment "Tell me!"
"I said that I don't know!"
Farengar raises his voice for the first time Mull can recall. He cringes as the unexpected volume of the outburst stabs painfully into his ears.
The wizard holds up a hand and leans against his desk. "I-I apologize. Believe me when I tell you I truly do not know. I have nothing helpful to reveal, seeing as I'm just as stumped by this development as you appear to be."
"Ugh… Good for you."
The wizard's expression turns to anger as he meets Mull's gaze. He doesn't look happy in the slightest. "I must confess to be feeling some vexation at the moment. For you, a definitional nobody, to be blessed with the opportunity to eat and drink from the Jarl's table, taking advantage of his freely-given goodwill, and then to somehow match the results of my incessant efforts of this past month in the span of five seconds, is frankly-"
"Alright, I get it. You don't know what happened. Fine." Mull resettles himself in his chair, leans his head back, and runs his hands across his face. The headache has finally begun to subside. Despite its severity, he doesn't think it'll last as long as he initially feared. "Don't get pissy with me. It isn't like I meant to do that. It just happened on its own."
"Hmph. That's simply ridiculous," the wizard gripes. "So you didn't feel anything odd? No strange sensations? No activation of your magical channels? No foreign presences or bizarre urges?" Despite his obvious annoyance, he sounds legitimately curious as well.
"Besides feeling like someone gave my skull a few good whacks with a pickaxe? No, nothing else. It was exactly like reading anything else I've ever read. I didn't even realize they weren't Tamrielic letters until you pointed it out."
Farengar places his head in his hands and exhales loudly, inadvertently mimicking Mull's actions of a few minutes prior. Despite the swirl of confusion raging through him, Mull watches the wizard closely while feigning nonchalance, a hand steadily creeping to the hilt of his dagger. He doesn't expect the wizard to become hostile over something like this, but… you never know. There's too much he doesn't understand about this situation, and the man was clearly angry a moment ago. He's completely ignorant when it comes to matters of magic and those who wield it, and the last thing he wants is to make an assumption that could get him killed. Or worse.
There's obviously something magical going on here, and so far it's looking like the bad kind of magical. He rakes his mind for anything that could explain what just happened, but comes up dry.
Eventually Farengar rises from his stupor and moves to a wood-framed map spread across a vertical stand on the far side of the room. Mull scans the man's robed form for any sign of potential aggression but sees nothing out of the ordinary. If he was actually mad enough to try to kill you, he would've already been slinging fireballs.
The wizard halts before the map of Skyrim pinned to the stand, which Mull now realizes is actually quite large – eight feet by five, at least – and points to a location near the center. The tip of his finger rests just to the left of Riverwood. "As I said before, I have an assignment for you. There's a possibility that it could be relevant to this matter of the runes, which is why I bring it up at all. I'm not entirely certain, however."
Mull almost cuts him off, indignant that he's still going on about his damn tasks even after what just happened, but grudgingly decides to let him finish this time. If he wants to be so godsdamn adamant about this, then surely it must be significant. And if it isn't, I really will wring his neck. Fireballs or not.
"There is an ancient Nordic crypt in the mountains northwest of the town of Riverwood, a place that rarely receives visitation from man or mer. The locals call it Bleak Falls Barrow, I believe."
He grunts in recognition. Ralof mentioned Bleak Falls Barrow once. When they were on the road overlooking the White River, he'd even caught sight of some sort of stonework when the Stormcloak pointed out the barrow's location, high atop a mountain across of the river.
"I've learned through a great deal of research and with the aid of a reliable source that there's a certain artifact, a tablet, housed inside that barrow. A so-called 'Dragonstone.' Should you choose to accept it, your task is to go to Bleak Falls Barrow and retrieve this tablet, no doubt interred within the innermost chamber. Simplicity itself." The wizard offers a tight-lipped grin that is entirely unconvincing.
"And what exactly does that have to do with my apparent ability to read dragon?"
"Again, I don't precisely know. I suspect there may be a connection of some kind between this Dragonstone and your inexplicable translation of the runes, which you will be able to confirm or deny by investigating this location. But that's all it is. A mere hypothesis." The wizard shuffles uneasily.
Mull narrows his eyes as he scrutinizes his employer. He gets the impression that Farengar is lying about something, or at the very least not telling the whole truth, but he can't figure out what it is. The silence between them lengthens.
Finally, he releases a long breath and gives the man an irritated glare. "I'm not going to get anything else out of you, am I?"
The wizard stares at the floor. He doesn't deign to respond.
"Fine. Be that way," Mull grumbles. "Tell me about this barrow, then." All that remains of his headache is a faint pressure behind his eyes, so he thinks he'll be able to stomach listening to Farengar's drivel for a while at least.
"Ah! Of course." Farengar perks up slightly, though still conspicuously refuses to meet Mull's gaze. "It often slips my mind that you are not a Nord. Indeed, you carry yourself with the same militant demeanor as many of my kinsmen, so I find it to be an easy mistake to make."
"I'll assume that's a compliment," he humorlessly retorts.
Farengar ignores him in favor of returning to his desk, from which he withdraws a new sheaf of parchment from a drawer. He shuffles through the stack of papers with practiced rapidity. "Let's see here. I first ought to ask, have you ever laid eyes on an ancient Nordic ruin?"
"Aye, a couple in Craglorn and also in the Rift, though I only ever saw them from a distance. They weren't anything remarkable. Piles of rocks overgrown with grass and moss. It seems like there's a lot of those here in Skyrim."
"I see, I see."
The wizard seems distracted. Mull wonders if he listened to his response at all.
The man finishes organizing his notes and takes a brief sip out of a clay mug perched precariously on one corner of the table. "I suppose you may benefit from hearing a broad overview of basic information relevant to Skyrim's primeval crypts. Yes, I believe I'll start with that."
Mull scoots back his chair and props his admittedly dirty boots onto the edge of the table. Knowing the wizard well enough by now, he intuits that this dissertation might be more longwinded than he would prefer. Unfortunately, he turns out to be correct.
"As you are doubtlessly already aware, there are many abandoned barrows and crumbling ruins scattered throughout the province of Skyrim. Some of these date back only a few centuries, to the days of the Interregnum or the Septim Empire, or even merely to the Oblivion Crisis at the beginning of the Era. Others are far older, hearkening to the reign of the Remans, the invasions of the Akaviri, or to the First Nordic Empire. The majority, however, are older even than that. These truly ancient structures, of which Bleak Falls Barrow is one, are attributed to the earliest tribes of the Nords – the Atmorans – from whom our people are descended today. These ruins are isolated and difficult to locate, generally only being found far beyond the boundaries of human habitation. That isn't as much the case for Labyrinthian, but its circumstances and characteristics are unique in more ways than one. That is another discussion in and of itself, so I'll come back to that at a later time."
I hope not. Do me a favor and spare me the suffering. Mull is already starting to regret having agreed to this.
"At any rate, it's especially common for these archaic localities to be situated upon weather-beaten mountaintops, though they are also sometimes nestled in steed-sloped dales or narrow valleys. Our ancestors only rarely constructed their settlements or burial places in the lowlands as is the norm in the modern day. The reason for that predilection is currently unknown. It could've been due to the Atmoran religious veneration of dragons – at that time, dragons still roamed the skies of Tamriel and we know from surviving archeological sources that the Atmorans worshiped them as gods. Alternatively, it could have been for defensive purposes, as the Snow Elves and the Dwarves also dwelt within the borders of Skyrim during that time. Today's scholars often postulate that some great disaster or widespread conflict caused an immense shift in the trajectory of ancient Nordic civilization and societal practices, and that this event is what led to the gradual abandonment of their previous higher-altitude sites. Some believe this to have been the Dragon Wars of legend, in which the iron dominion that dragons exercised upon mankind was overthrown, but that is an unsubstantiated theory. In fact, it's unknown whether the Dragons Wars truly occurred at all or if they were merely a mythical fabrication by later generations. Either is a possibility.
"Most cities and towns in Skyrim today are located near rivers or lakes, on the coast, or in otherwise low-lying positions. For that reason, I reiterate, these ruins of the ancient Nords are ubiquitously far from most populated regions and are thus seldom explored. After all, even though my people are a hardy and singularly adventurous folk, it's an undeniable truth that the vast majority of individuals never travel more than a few days' walk from their homes – though the province's many lawless clans are one notable exception to that rule. Such sedentism is the curse of an agrarian lifestyle." The wizard shakes his head, as if mourning the ill fortune of farmers across Tamriel.
You're one to talk. I doubt you've done even an ounce of physical labor in your entire life.
"But in addition to this," Farengar continues heedlessly of Mull's unkind thoughts, "one must also consider the traditional beliefs of us Nords regarding the dead. As a general rule, only priests and priestesses of Orkay – or Arkay to you, perhaps – are permitted to interact with the deceased or to enter their tombs after final interment. It's their solemn duty to maintain the halls of the dead, and no others may interfere with that responsibility. No others should do so. The precise reason for this belief is shrouded in legend and folklore, but there are many stories that tell of the Atmorans' megalithic barrows being guarded by terrible beasts or the restless dead. According to these tales, our ancestors do not wish to be disturbed and will exact their vengeance upon any who are foolish enough to do so."
Farengar quirks his eyebrows to show he isn't speaking completely seriously.
"Therefore, to disturb the ancient dead would be the height of foolishness. That is what many Nords will tell you, should you ask. Our ancestors who now walk the halls of Sovngarde are to be afforded the proper respect, and in this case that means their earthly remains should be left alone. However, as far as I'm aware these are only mere myths. Such tales have no observable basis in reality. As such, it's likely that these ancient crypts – Bleak Falls Barrow included – are relatively free of danger. Again, these places date back to the First Nordic Empire and perhaps even earlier. Bleak Falls Barrow in particular I believe to be at the older end of the spectrum, especially if it houses something of significance like the Dragonstone. All that to say, the crypt has been isolated from the outside world on its icy mountaintop for several millennia, so the likelihood of anything worse than skeevers inhabiting its halls is minuscule at best. Indeed, it's entirely possible that the subterranean portions of the barrow will be collapsed, in which case you won't be able to fulfill your objective. That would be undesirable, certainly, but not the end of the world."
"So you're telling me this could be a fool's errand?" Mull flatly asks.
"It could be. It also could not be. I really don't know seeing as I've never taken the time to visit any full-fledged Nordic ruins. I've only seen a meager handful of lesser locations, doubtlessly similar to those you have mentioned viewing yourself. That said, I have done extensive research into the topic and hold regular correspondence with a handful of individuals who are better informed than I, so I feel comfortable in claiming to be more knowledgeable on this subject than most."
The wizard clasps his hands together.
"So, that should hopefully give you an idea of what exactly I'm asking of you. Investigate the barrow's interior and recover the Dragonstone. If that isn't possible, then return here and inform me of everything you saw inside. And before I forget, I should clarify that Bleak Falls is near the summit of this mountain range here, on the southern slope of the second-highest peak to be precise. You should be able to ascend the mountain from the east, the direction of Riverwood, as I've indicated on the map." He nods to his oversized map stand before dropping the stack of parchment in his hands onto his desk. A cloud of dust wafts upwards from the pile of notes, making Mull's eyes water. Farengar waves a hand through the transparent haze and stifles a cough. "Do you have any further questions?"
He considers for a moment before shaking his head. He didn't catch even half of what the wizard talked about, but he thinks he did a pretty good job of filtering out the important information. Most of it sounded pretty straightforward. Go to location A, retrieve item B, and return when able. Simple as.
"None that I can think of right now. What I do think is this'll be a waste of my damn time, but if you're really convinced it could have something to do with those dragon-runes, then so be it." He stands, ignoring his creaking knees, and turns for the door. He's eager to finally be out of this stifling office and have some time alone to think.
"I assure you that it most certainly might. The Dragonstone is an important piece of this puzzle. I'm filled with wonderment by merely imagining the things we could learn from such a tablet, and especially-!"
"Yeah, that's great," Mull gruffly interrupts as he opens the door. "I don't care. Just know that you'd better have some good answers waiting for me when I get back. And gold too. I don't like working for free." He slowly pulls the door closed behind him. "If you don't, you're gonna have a bad day. Mark my words, wizard."
-x-
He sets out from Whiterun the next morning, outfitted with a basic boiled leather cuirass that he purchased with the sum of his wages in addition to other miscellaneous traveling supplies. The city is still closed by order of the Jarl, but he leaves a notice bearing Farengar's seal with the guardsmen at the city's outer gate informing them that he'll be coming back within the next week or two.
He had to cancel his archery appointment with Aela, which she was clearly displeased about, but being called away for work proved to be an acceptable excuse. Oh well. Bailing on her probably isn't a bad thing. I really need to do a better job of staying away from her. She makes me feel like a rabbit cornered by a wolf.
And speaking of wolves, he's stalked again by another pack of the creatures in the forest south of Whiterun, though thankfully they seem less bold than before and don't cause any trouble beyond keeping his nerves on edge. The pack's hunting grounds must be somewhere in the area.
He also encounters a column of Imperial soldiers escorting chained prisoners on foot, heading south in the same direction. He keeps his distance and tries not to stare too intently, though he does make an effort to see if Ralof or Hadvar are among their number. There's no sign of either of them. He isn't sure if the prisoners are Stormcloaks, deserters, or something else.
He minds his own business and keeps walking, swiftly overtaking their slower marching pace. He recalls that Hadvar said something about Imperial activity in Whiterun Hold not being allowed. Is this unsanctioned? Maybe the Imperials don't always play by their own rules. He scoffs to himself. Who would've thought?
It takes a couple of days for him to retrace his steps to Riverwood, where he intends to stop before climbing the mountains to Bleak Falls Barrow. During his short journey, he gives a lot of thought to what transpired in Farengar's study, but no matter how he looks at it, it just doesn't make any sense. How does something like that even happen? Reading a dead language in an alphabet I haven't seen before. I've never heard of anything like it.
Farengar seemed very intent on getting him to investigate this barrow and search for the tablet within. Maybe I'll find some clues of my own while I'm there. And Farengar did say that the tablet might be related somehow. It had better, for his sake. Damn wizard. If this is a waste of my time…
-x-
From his vantagepoint on a forested ridge, he looks down on the verdant valley of the White River, a bridge spanning its turbulent waters, and the town of Riverwood clustered along the south bank. It's interesting to see a new perspective of the town and valley. He viewed it from the opposite direction when he first arrived from Helgen.
It only takes him a few more minutes to reach the bottom of the ridge and the shore of the river itself. This close to town, the trails are well-worn and several other travelers are out and about, fisherfolk or herdsmen performing their daily routines.
He's soon strolling down Riverwood's main street, casually examining the homes and businesses on either side as he searches for an affordable inn. The Sleeping Giant is a good option, but he wants to see the competition before making a final decision. He has a budget to maintain.
He takes a brief detour to stop by Gerdur's mill and return her ring, but he only loiters long enough to exchange the few pleasantries that courtesy demands. He could asked her for hospitality for the night – usually he would never ignore an opportunity to save some coin – but the woman has already shown him substantial generosity, so he feels that troubling her any further would be in poor taste. He's a bandit, not a beggar. There's my conscience again. Annoying bastard.
He instead returns to the main thoroughfare and continues searching for an inexpensive inn, passing laborers trundling along with lumber-laden oxen and children running after dogs or chickens. A few old folks call out amicable greetings from their verandas, to which he nods and waves with as little awkwardness as he can manage.
Riverwood is a nice place with friendly people. That he can't deny. But even in these idyllic settings, there are always those who seek to make their fortunes by any means other than honest work. It's an inevitability, as he knows too well. He's one of them.
"Hey there. I'd like a word, if you don't mind."
He stops and follows the direction of the new voice. The speaker is easy to identify. He stands out like a sore thumb in a little town like this. A male Dunmer in patchwork rawhide armor is leaning against a rickety wooden fence in front of an alehouse, eyeing him expectantly. It's a shady-looking alehouse at that, and the Dunmer isn't much better himself.
"What do you want?"
The Dunmer smirks, either ignoring or ignorant of Mull's hostile tone. "Well now, can't I share a friendly greeting with a man on the street? Aren't the Nords famous across Tamriel for their sociability?"
His expression tightens. From his demeanor alone, it's obvious that this Dunmer is after something. His voice is slimy, for lack of a better word. "If you need something from me, spit it out. If not, then leave me be."
Rather than being discouraged by his response, the Dunmer instead smirks toothily. The majority of said teeth are stained brown and black. "Why the defensiveness? I'm only trying to make conversation."
"Right. I'll believe that when skeevers fly." Mull turns away and sets off down the street, hoping to end the Dunmer's desired conversation before it has a chance to begin.
Unfortunately, the grey-skinned elf doesn't let him escape so easily. He steps away from the fence and calls after him. "Ah ah ah! You and I may have business together, although you haven't yet realized it. Riches and glory await you, my friend, if only you reach out to seize them with your own hands!"
Mull rolls his eyes at the shallow attempt to capture his interest, but nonetheless halts to glower at his pursuer. "I know trollshit when I smell it, elf. Especially when it's being wafted right under my nose."
"And yet I see that unmistakable hint of greed in your eyes," the Dunmer easily replies. "At least hear me out. What I have to say might very well interest a man like yourself."
"A man like me, huh?" Mull glances down at himself, taking note of his leather cuirass, weapons dangling from his belt, and travel-stained trousers. Aye, I guess I do have a certain look.
He exhales loudly and takes a few steps away from the middle of the road. Once they're no longer obstructing traffic, he impatiently waves for the elf to get on with it.
"I promise you won't regret taking this opportunity. I'm called Arvel – Arvel the Swift," he proudly states. "And you might say I'm a historian of sorts. I've developed something of a professional fascination with the ruins of the ancient Nords. As it happens, I'm currently organizing an expedition to investigate that barrow." He points to the mountains across the river, where the arching ruins of Bleak Falls can faintly be seen through the clouds.
Mull does his best to maintain a poker face at that revelation. Bleak Falls Barrow? Hmm. That's a hell of a coincidence. Unbelievably so. He crosses his arms. "Is that right?"
"Oh yes, and I'm intending to set out tomorrow at dawn. However, I've never been one to pass up potential talent, and you look like just the kind of man I might need for our expedition. I've gained an interest in hiring you as a bodyguard for my crew of… scholars."
He snorts. Even a three-year-old could tell that the elf is lying through his teeth, but he decides to humor him regardless. This is both an annoyance and a potential opportunity. On the one hand, it appears that he might have some competition in his exploration of the barrow. This Dunmer is most definitely not a scholar, whatever he might claim – he has the disposition of a swindler in every conceivable way – and Mull doesn't want to tangle with any unknown factors if he can help it.
On the other hand, it could be beneficial to travel to Bleak Falls with a group. He's unfamiliar with the local terrain, and staring at Farengar's maps could only do so much in that regard. Also, finding the Dragonstone or whatever the wizard called it might be easier with multiple pairs of eyes and sets of hands rather than just his own. This is a huge fluke, no doubt about that, but I'm not going to pass up the chance. And besides, if the shoe fits, I might as well wear it.
"I do happen to be on the lookout for gainful employment at the moment." He works his jaw and glances at the ground, as if deep in thought. He's trying to put on an act for the elf's benefit, and though he's never been a very good actor, his target seems to buy it. When dealing with men – or elves – like this one, it almost always pays to come across as hesitant. They're more likely to give you concessions that way. "I suppose this sounds like as good of an opportunity as any. Checking out an old barrow can't be too difficult."
"That's perfect!" The Dunmer's crimson eyes gleam. He gestures to the shoddy tavern he was standing in front of earlier. "Please, let's go inside. We can discuss the details over a tankard or two. It'll be my treat, of course." He starts back toward the tavern without waiting for an answer.
Mull watches the Dunmer draw further away for a few moments, analyzing his poorly-washed clothing and sword slung across the small of his back. Aye. Definitely not a scholar. But oh, what the hell. Coincidences like this don't happen every day. Let's see where it takes me.
He shakes his head and follows. I hope I don't regret this.
-x-
Mull isn't impressed in the slightest by his new employer Arvel, and nor with his two other hired goons. The latter are local men from Riverwood, young idiots looking to make some fast and easy coin. They don't have the air of hardened warriors about them as do most veteran outlaws, and neither do they maintain proper awareness of their surroundings – something that's always wise when traversing the wilderness. Even now they're ambling along without a care in the world, oblivious to potential danger.
And as for Arvel himself, well… honestly, he's just stupid. Plain and simple. He puts on a façade of pretentious intelligence, but he doesn't quite have the cleverness to fully pull it off. His act only results in him seeming even stupider. One of his worst habits in Mull's opinion is his tendency to use big words without – apparently – actually knowing what they mean.
When they aren't looking his way, Mull indulges in an exasperated sigh. Amateurs, the lot of them.
Arvel had talked up this expedition to Oblivion and back while they shared a few watered-down ales in that dingy tavern in Riverwood. He expounded upon legends of untold riches sequestered within the barrow, hoards of coins and gemstones thousands of years old, and most valuable of all a beautifully-crafted golden dragon claw. He claimed to have fortuitously 'acquired' the claw, which supposedly unlocks the way into the crypt's innermost vaults.
The claw is real enough at least. Arvel had the decency to show it to him in order to validate his story. It was an admittedly impressive bit of craftsmanship, a solid gold replica of a dragon claw with three sharp talons etched all over with those swirling decorative patterns the Nords seem to have a fondness for. It must be an exceptionally valuable item. The fact that the Dunmer is using it to organize this expedition rather than immediately pawning it off leads Mull to believe he must be legitimately convinced of the veracity of this Bleak Falls Barrow treasure-horde.
Supposedly, Arvel is leading the expedition on behalf of some nameless benefactor, of whom he's dropped not-so-subtle hints on multiple occasions as if to reiterate his own significance. 'Look at me, I've been entrusted with this secret responsibility by someone of such consequence that their name can't even be said aloud. I'm so important.'
However, the way the elf talks about the arrangement gives Mull the impression that he'll probably try to claim credit for the expedition all for himself, if he hasn't done so already. He hasn't said anything about what'll be done with the treasure after its acquisition, and Mull wouldn't be at all surprised if the mysterious benefactor ends up being double-crossed by the dishonest Dunmer. Especially since he is, again, an idiot. Lying to the person who's paying you to do something is always a good way to get yourself killed. It's a rookie mistake. You're almost never as smart as you think you are.
Presently, the four of them are several hours northwest of Riverwood, trudging steadily upwards on a narrow alpine track. An outcrop of the mountain ahead prevents them from seeing Bleak Falls itself, though Mull is pretty confident they're still going in the right direction. Farengar had mention the barrow was near the mountain's second-highest peak, so as long as they continue going uphill, he won't become unduly worried. If the piercing chill in the air is anything to go by, then they must be pretty high up already. Surely the barrow can't be that much farther. I hope it isn't.
He huffs and puffs as he climbs the steep path, already regretting how critical he'd been of Whiterun's omnipresent stairs. In comparison to this, Whiterun really wasn't that bad. At least the city's steps were generally uniform and appropriately spaced. In contrast, it's obvious that this mountain doesn't have many visitors. At times the trail is little more than a narrow ledge hanging above a sheer cliff face, fit more for goats than for men. Really, calling it a trail is incredibly generous. Arvel nearly stumbles and falls to his death more than once, but he brushes off each escape with little concern. The other two goons eat it up, praising him for his continued fearlessness. Mull doesn't share their enthusiasm. Continuing on despite your fear is what I'd call courage, but he doesn't look nearly scared enough for that. This is just stupidity. Gods above, what a bunch of morons.
Along a stretch where the path grows wider, they come across a crumbling stone tower overlooking the mist-swathed river valley far below. As they walk past, Mull glances at the structure and realizes they're being watched. Two men are staring attentively from within the tower's uneven windows, and a third from atop its weather-beaten battlements. They look to be a rough sort, to the point that it wouldn't surprise him if they've been living up here in seclusion from broader civilization for a long time. It's probably a good thing I decided against coming here alone. I'm willing to bet they would've tried to ambush me if I was by myself. One of the men is holding a longbow at the ready, though there doesn't appear to be an arrow nocked on the string. That might not have gone over well for me. I would've been a sitting duck out on this trail.
They're fellow bandits most likely. He can't think of any other reason for them to be out here. Of course, when he says 'fellow bandits,' he isn't only referring to himself. There's no doubt in his mind that Arvel and his buddies are bandits as well, incompetent though they may be. He can see the signs.
It takes one to know one, I guess. He smirks to himself. Looks like I've finally returned to my true vocation. He glances at his newfound companions, struggling to surmount the harsh terrain with even greater difficulty than himself, and reflects on the many inadequacies they've displayed already. Well… sort of.
-x-
Bleak Falls Barrow is extraordinary. There isn't any better word to describe it, and the biting arctic wind does nothing to demean the structure's archaic magnificence. Flurries of snow swirl around them as they approach the ruin nestled at the head of a high valley. Huge freestanding stone arches soar upwards into the clouded sky, dozens if not hundreds of feet tall, like the ribs of some terrible monster slain by long-forgotten heroes at the beginning of the world. A tiered staircase wide enough for a dozen men to walk abreast leads up to a massive wrought iron double door set into the side of the mountain itself. The few Nordic ruins that Mull has seen before, those he mentioned previously to Farengar, were nothing like this one in scale or grandeur.
What could be the reason for men to dedicate themselves to building something so striking, so vast? How many hands labored in this freezing wind to make it possible? Their efforts have birthed an eternal monument to the stars, a testament to the gods themselves that even the passage of thousands of years has not felled. He can't fathom the motives or intentions behind this megalithic structure's existence.
They're greeted at the top of the partially-eroded stairs by a young woman. She's clutching a strung longbow and is swaddled in so many furs that she's practically spherical. "About time you got here, boss! This wind is freezing!"
Mull takes special note of her appearance only because of how unusually young she is. The girl can't be older than fifteen. Though, he reflects morbidly, that isn't much older than I was when I killed for the first time.
A pair of striking ice-blue eyes and wavy strands of golden hair peek out from beneath her hood. Amber earrings gleam faintly on either side. What might be the skull of a shrew hangs from a leather band around her neck. All told, her outfit might be called tribal or barbarous, certainly much more so than those of the two Riverwooders or any other Nords that Mull has encountered so far. Though those plainsfolk pointed out by Aela back at Whiterun might be an exception. They looked like a rugged bunch.
Arvel strides past the girl, ignoring her reception as he calls for Mull and the other two men's assistance in pushing open the entrance to the barrow. They quickly oblige, eager to be out of the cold.
They focus their efforts on the left door, shoving against it with their shoulders and slowly forcing it to swing inwards. It grinds against the stone floor with a discordant screech. As it opens further, a gust of marginally warmer air greets them from within. Mull squints to better see in the poorly-lit interior as he enters the barrow.
He finds himself in a columned atrium shrouded in darkness. Shadows flicker distractingly along the walls and across the ceiling, dancing along with the light of a fire hidden somewhere in the gloom. The pungent scents of mildew and smoke assail his nostrils.
After helping the other men close the monolithic door, he grips his sword and ventures deeper into the atrium, following the rays of orange light reflecting off of barren stone. This place looks empty, completely devoid of anything valuable. Evidently this antechamber has already been picked clean. Though that isn't too surprising. It's only the first room.
He continues deeper, not bothering to wait for the others. He hears their footsteps echoing behind him, so he isn't too concerned about being left alone in this place. If there are any traps or other dangers, he assumes they would've been triggered already by previous treasure hunters or whoever came here with the blonde archer girl. She presumably wouldn't be here alone, given her age.
It doesn't take him long to find the source of the light. It looks like four more of Arvel's hires, three men and another woman, have set up a small camp inside this first room. They're lounging casually around a crackling fire as they sharpen weapons and mend equipment, but though they seem at ease, there's a certain tension about them that indicates preparation and experience. It's something Mull easily recognizes. Arvel's two thugs from Riverwood don't have the same aura, if it can be called that. They're men with weapons who think that somehow makes them tougher than they actually are.
At a glance, he's much more confident in these four. They're a motley bunch, clad in shabby tribal clothing similar to the girl with the bow, but that isn't what he notices first. Rather, he focuses on the way their eyes dart to him without any discernable movement of their heads, and how they feign nonchalance when they draw their weapons closer, readying themselves for action if necessary. Even the location of their little encampment, shielded from visibility by the surrounding pillars and stacks of shattered masonry, is indicative of some level of strategic thought.
From those facts alone, he's willing to bet that these four know what they're doing. Unlike Arvel and his goons, they seem to possess some semblance of self-awareness. With their presence, he starts to feel just a little better about this expedition. He was going to be extremely worried about descending into the barrow with just Arvel and the pair of Riverwooders to watch his back. That probably would've been worse than going in alone.
A rapid set of footsteps herald the arrival of the head Dunmer himself, who overtakes Mull to be the first to reach the encampment in some sort of pointless power play. He assumes these are the elf's subordinates – he can't imagine Arvel being under the command of anyone, a Nord especially, with that ego of his – so he hangs back to let him do his thing. He stifles a chuckle when the four bandits around the fire begin eyeing the elf with open disdain.
One of the men stands with a two-handed axe dangling loosely in his grip. He's powerfully-built and looks to be in his late thirties or early forties. Mull immediately pegs him as a leader. His matted mane of dirty blonde hair, impressive beard with a few snarled braids, and weathered visage – including multiple scars and a missing chunk of one ear – all combine to give him the distinctive appearance of a chieftain or warlord. He's also openly wearing a bronze amulet of Talos around his neck, a somewhat rare sight even in ostensibly neutral Whiterun Hold.
The man rests his greataxe against his shoulder and smirks at the Dunmer. His rumbling voice echoes throughout the hall. "Where've you been, Arvel? Taking your sweet time in a nice cozy tavern with a girl on your arm, all while we're dying of the cold up here? You're lucky we haven't already packed up and gone home. Shor knows we thought about it often enough."
The Dunmer snarls. "It's boss to you, s'wit! With what I'm paying you, you should be happy to do whatever I say!" He spits into the fire. "You shit-stained barbarians would rather wallow in your own poverty than do a decent day's work. Get yourselves ready. We're going down!" He grabs a sack full of torches and stalks away, towards a set of stairs at the end of the hall descending deeper into the ruins. His two lackeys obediently follow, strutting and trying to look intimidating. They fail spectacularly.
The four bandits around the fire and the archer girl all snicker derisively as they gather their things. One or two anti-elf slurs are thrown in under their breaths for good measure.
Mull holds back a laugh. Judging by that interaction, he's willing to bet Arvel has had a hard time with these Nords already. They're probably clansfolk like the ones he saw in Whiterun, or maybe more like those Embershard Nords mentioned by Hadvar on the road from Helgen. Nords are a rough-and-tumble race as a general rule, but this lot seems to represent every stereotype imaginable. They all have blonde or red hair and ubiquitously blue eyes, each is a head taller than the average man, and they're clad solely in rough-spun furs and hides. You can't get much more Nordic than that.
It seems odd that they would allow themselves to be hired out by a Dunmer given the inherent animosity toward outsiders that most Nords can be expected to possess – with elves especially – but Mull is hardly an authority on the matter. Arvel did say he's paying them well. And in all honesty, what he offered me isn't half bad either. That could be why.
"I haven't seen your face before. Got a name to go with it?"
He belated realizes the axeman who stood and spoke to the Dunmer is now addressing him. He answers, and the man grins.
"Mine's Torgen. Try to keep up with us in there."
Now that he's closer, he realizes this Nord is big, a veritable bear of a man. He's physically intimidating even by Skyrim standards.
He grunts and makes a show of looking around. "I'm assuming you aren't actually a historian's expedition? Or maybe what you Nords think a scholar is supposed to look like is a bit different from the rest of Tamriel."
The man grins toothily. "We're a lot of things, kid. But scholars sure ain't one of them."
"Aye. I can see that."
The other female Nord, distinctive from the archer girl by her shoulder-length sorrel hair and being noticeably older, scoffs condescendingly as she straps a roundshield to her arm. "Is that what the boss told you? I swear, that red-eyed bastard couldn't lie to save his life. I'm still wondering how he managed to rope us into this job in the first place." She sighs theatrically and sticks out a hand to Mull. "By the way, my name's…"
He waits as the others introduce themselves one by one. They seem amiable enough, but he can't find it in himself to bother listening. There isn't a good reason to. He's worked with many groups comparable to this one over the last dozen years, and the foremost constant is always that they'll inevitably go their separate ways in the end, whether that be through incarceration, death, or any number of other reasons. After a while, he learned that it was easier if he didn't let himself start to care too much.
The only reasons he took particular notice of Torgen were his uncommonly rugged appearance – which for him is saying quite a bit – and the fact that he once knew a similar man who bore a similar name. That was Joren, one of the few career bandits he ever truly respected, the leader of his final gang before its demise. Coincidentally, that was the only gang which proved itself an exception to his rule. He did care. He cared about Joren, Lotosk, and a handful of the others. They weren't just allies of convenience. They were, dare he say, friends. And Morven, of course… she was more.
But the rest of these men and women here in the present? A blur of nameless faces condemned to be forgotten within a few days' time. That's all they are. That's all they need to be.