Chapter 37

He's right. It is a hard climb.

Thank the gods for all those stairs in Whiterun. They were good preparation for this – if anything could be.

It doesn't help that he's weighed down by his usual gear. His horsehead-pommel sword and simple dagger are hanging from his belt, his unstrung bow and quiver are slung across his torso, and his pack stuffed full of supplies is dragging heavily from his shoulders. It's a lot to carry with him on a multiday ascent of Tamriel's largest mountain, but his rationale at the time was that he'd rather be safe than sorry.

Now, as he struggles from one step to the next, he's starting to rethink his priorities.

The Steps themselves are unremarkable amorphous slabs of rough stone half-sunken into the earth. Some are cracked or shattered, some have been worn smooth by the wind and rain, and some even appear to be missing entirely. Altogether the path gives off an air of being extraordinarily old, which is reinforced by the towering pine trees and massive menhirs carved all over with runes and illustrations which form rows along both sides of the trail. He wonders how many generations of pilgrims have walked these steps and left signs of their passage on the stones. Hundreds, probably, if not thousands. This mountain has been holy since the earliest days of mankind.

While they were traveling from Steelhead Pass to Ivarstead, Lydia had taken it upon herself to offer intellectual guidance into the religious history of the Throat of the World. According to her, the Nords believe that the first men were formed on this mountain when the sky breathed onto the land, making the Throat of the World an especially sacred place to them. But at the same time, their national history holds that they're descended from the Atmorans, a race of men who once sailed to these shores from titular Atmora in the frozen north, far across the Sea of Ghosts. With those two seemingly diametric viewpoints being taken into consideration, Lydia claimed the Empire's current scholarly consensus is that the ancestors of the Nords first originated on Tamriel, migrated en masse to Atmora at some point early in their history, and then later returned under the banner of Ysgramor the Mighty and his Five Hundred Companions during the Merethic Era. Or something like that.

Mull had shared an incredulous look with Torgen at the time, wondering why in Oblivion the ancient Nords would do something so roundabout. He isn't a milkdrinking historian, so it isn't like he would know anything, but to him it sounds like those Imperial scholars must've been smoking some strong skooma if they really came to such a preposterous conclusion.

Lydia then insisted that those are the facts as they're currently known and insinuated that both he and Torgen are incapable of getting the concept of ambiguity through their thick skulls.

Good times.

When he reaches his first major switchback at the summit of the trail's preliminary slope, he finds a new standing stone that looks markedly different from the others. He initially dismisses it as an overgrown headstone shaped vaguely like a squat almond. Or a shrine, maybe. A smattering of ceramic bowls and dried flowers have been placed before the memorial, in various states of deterioration from being exposed to the weather.

But it's here that he discovers he isn't alone on the Steps. There's a woman sitting on the ground next to the shrine with her legs crossed primly beneath her and her arms resting on her thighs. She cranes her neck to look at him as he draws closer.

She seems to be a bit past middle-aged, with wrinkled cheeks and a mane of fiery red hair starting to turn silver at the roots. Her curly locks are held back by a gold circlet inlaid with three emeralds. Mull doesn't even want to guess how expensive that thing must be, since the knowledge would probably give him an aneurysm. He could live comfortably for months after pawning off something like that.

He gawks appreciatively at the circlet before forcing himself to depart from his larcenous trail of thought. Since I'm technically on a pilgrimage to High Hrothgar, I don't think the gods would appreciate me pilfering her valuables. But still, it's awfully tempting.

In addition, a pendant of Talos is hanging prominently from the woman's neck and her fingers are adorned with ivory rings. But in contrast to her ostentatious jewelry, her clothing is utilitarian and plain, clearly having been selected with the rigors of climbing a mountain in mind.

"Greetings," she calls out.

Mull nods and halts a few yards away, close enough to talk comfortably without seeming overly threatening. He's done plenty of threatening over the years, so he knows what he's about.

The woman shifts to face him while remaining seated. "Are you too making the pilgrimage?" she politely inquires.

"I am." He takes a knee and uncorks his waterskin. The dryness of the air has forced him to drink a substantial amount of water already, and he can only assume it'll get worse from here on out.

"Then it would appear we're of similar minds. My name is Karita."

"Mull. A pleasure."

"Indeed." The woman's gaze returns to the stone shrine. "I'm walking the Seven Thousand Steps to meditate on the sacred emblems that watch over the path. I embark on this solitary expedition every few years, although the Civil War has made it a much more difficult undertaking than it once was."

"Is that right?" Mull swallows a mouthful of water and wipes the excess from his beard. He briefly theorizes she might be some kind of Stormcloak noble given her rich apparel and the Talos amulet.

"Unfortunately. A dark shadow lingers over Skyrim in this Era where brother wages war against brother. I see that you're an útlending by your complexion and your manner of speech, so you may not be aware of just how sorely our people have suffered in this conflict. It has perpetually worsened in recent years and I'm afraid it will only continue to do so." She morosely shakes her head. "Our world is a troubled one, útlending. There will always be violence and bloodshed to blacken the soil and redden the sky. But here at the Throat of the World, all of these things may pass away in the tranquility of Kyne's scouring wind. This is a place that stands above the base anxieties of mortals. That is the reason for the pilgrimage – mine, and it should be yours also."

He stares at her for a long moment. "…You know, everyone's been saying it's too late in the year for pilgrims to be venturing onto the Steps. Shouldn't a lady in her, uh, 'golden years' such as yourself be down in Ivarstead waiting for springtime with everyone else?"

She tilts her head. The ghost of a smile plays across her thin lips. "And yet here you are, disregarding their sagely advice just as I am."

"Hmph. Yeah." He isn't sure what else to say, so he settles for uneasy silence.

Thankfully, Karita seems unperturbed by his lack of sociability. She rises and dusts off her snowy leggings. "I do believe I'm finished for the morning. The rest of the emblems can wait for another day – they shouldn't be going anywhere. And perhaps you're right about the season, young man. It is getting rather late." She gives him a significant look. "That's something you should remember for yourself as well. The grace of the Greybeards, who by the strength of their Voices have thrust back the breath of long winter, will only last for so long."

She passes him as she walks in the opposite direction, descending back towards Ivarstead.

"I would encourage you to read all of the emblems as you ascend the mountain. The gods have an interesting way of speaking to us through them, as a means of imparting their wisdom unto their children. If you're fortunate, you might even hear the Voice of the Sky for yourself."

"…I'll be sure to do that." Only when she's out of sight does Mull approach the etched tablet embedded into the stone surface of the shrine. "I have no idea what that means, woman," he mutters to the wind.

In spite of his skepticism, he still bends down to read the inscription.

Before the birth of men, the Dragons ruled all Mundus

Their word was the Voice, and they spoke only for True Needs

For the Voice could blot out the sky and flood the land

The style of lettering and the prose used in the passage is extremely archaic, but it's still legible. These shrines must not be more than a few centuries old. Certainly much younger than the Steps themselves, by all accounts.

"Blot out the sky and flood the land…" The memory of a certain shattered tower beneath the moons pays him a visit. "I wonder if that's true. If it is, then why didn't Mirmulnir do something like that? You'd think the dragons would be pretty damn powerful if they lived so long ago, before the time of mortals."

A noise that's just a hair too loud to be the keening of the wind echoes indignantly in his ear.

He waves as if swatting a fly. "Aye, you must not have liked that question." He climbs to his feet and continues along the trail, firmly planting each step in places where the incline becomes perilously uneven. "Too bad. You're dead, so nobody cares. Go back to sniffing your tail or whatever ghost dragons do with their free time."

Only a few minutes later does it occur to him that speaking aloud to the voice in his head probably isn't a good thing. He exhales heavily and rubs his face. Now I'm really starting to lose it. Fantastic. Once more he looks up at the overcast mountain swaddled in clouds. It doesn't appear to be any smaller than when he set off from Ivarstead. High Hrothgar can't come soon enough.

The path eventually switches back again at a spot where a break in the trees provides an unobstructed view of Ivarstead below. From here, he can see a multitude of tiny figures moving through the streets and among the surrounding fields. Boats are plying the surface of Lake Geir, scuttling in every direction with the wind in their sails or under the power of their oars. He briefly imagines he might catch a glimpse of Lydia or Torgen, but he quickly gives up on the possibility. The distance is far too great.

After extending his break for a bit longer to watch a white-furred fox creep among the trees and underbrush nearby, he resolutely continues climbing.

An hour or so later, the trail curves sharply into yet another switchback. There's a second gravestone-like shrine standing proudly on a miniature plateau provided by the bend in the trail. It's mostly identical to the first.

He pauses to scan the lines of antiquated runes, though only because that Karita woman had said he should. That, and he won't begrudge himself another opportunity to take a break.

Men were born and spread over the face of Mundus

The Dragons presided over the crawling masses

Men were weak then, and had no Voice

"Hmm. That's…" He isn't quite sure how to feel about this one.

Crawling masses. I guess ants look like crawling masses to us. He recalls Mirmulnir calling mortals 'insects' on more than one occasion during their communions.

He's able to look out over Ivarstead again from the vantage at this shrine, viewing the settlement from the same perspective that a dragon might've in ancient years – and perhaps much more recently.

Yeah. Ants.

This time he also has a good view of the aspen forests between the town and Steelhead Pass, a sea of whites and yellows interspaced with dusky ochre. Yet more mountains are rising into view beyond the colorful forest, veiled in banks of mist. He shivers from the frigid breeze but nonetheless enjoys the gorgeous scenery. If it weren't for the close encounter with the hagraven, he'd say this trip would've been worthwhile for this panorama alone, overlooking the gorgeous expanse of the western Rift.

Only when he turns away from the overlook and begins climbing the Steps once more does he realize Mirmulnir's incessant complaining has stopped for the duration of his reverie.

Hmph. Maybe he was enjoying the view too.

Immediately after that thought, another round of angry disembodied rumbling promptly ensues.

Mull tiredly smirks, hefts his pack, and resumes the climb.

-x-

He continues slogging up the mountainside over the next few days, traversing a seemingly endless series of inclines, switchbacks, and narrow staircases among the scraggly trees and weather-beaten stones. It's unfailingly monotonous, but the view of the surrounding region offered by his high elevation is at least some consolation.

He occasionally catches sight of ruinous structures on either side of the trail, some of which are little more than the faint outlines of ancient foundations. Not long after the first of these, he also begins encountering the remains of huge semicircular terraces. Most are crumbling or outright collapsed, but a handful of smaller ones still appear to be well-maintained.

These terraces contain modest fields of tilled soil with sparse rows of stunted crops, probably winter wheat or some derivative. Figures in dark robes and hoods are moving about the fields, busily working despite the threat of winter's snow hanging overhead. Whenever he passes by a terrace, they always pause their laboring at some unseen signal to turn and stare at him, but they never try to come closer or otherwise communicate. Besides their utilitarian robes, he can't make out any other identifying details.

He wonders who these people are. The occupied terraces each have one or two structures located nearby that appear to be inhabited, predominantly wooden shacks and longhouses, but none of them look permanent. Most are quite diminutive, being little bigger than the average mead hall. These mysterious farmers can't have been here for too long, or else their lodgings would be in better shape. I doubt any of these places are the fabled High Hrothgar. Klimmek told me it could take six or seven days to get there. These people might be Greybeards who were sent down from the monastery to work the fields, like he said, but… I don't know.

They certainly dress like monks if the robes are any indication. Maybe these ruins are related to those 'lesser monasteries' Klimmek mentioned. Either way, I'm sure I'll find out when I reach High Hrothgar.

During the next few days, Mull finds another two shrines similar to the ones he's already seen.

The first is rather disheartening.

The fledgling spirits of Men were strong in Old Times

Unafraid to war with Dragons and their Voices

But the Dragons only shouted them down and broke their hearts.

The second is somewhat less so.

Kyne called on Paarthurnax, who pitied Man

Together they taught Men to use the Voice

Then Dragon Wars raged, Dragon against Tongue.

He ponders the inscribed markers as he navigates a particularly windy stretch of stairs. There isn't much traction on the Steps and there's a sheer drop-off to the left, so he takes his time and moves very slowly. According to the shrines, there was supposedly an Era when there were only dragons in Tamriel. Then Men came along and we were enslaved as the crawling masses. We tried to fight against the dragons but it didn't end well, so Kyne interceded with this Paarthurnax – whoever that is – and together they taught the power of the Voice to the first Tongues. The Dragon Wars happened, and… I suppose we'll have to see what's on the next shrine.

It honestly isn't that interesting – he's never been a scholar and doesn't have much awareness of history beyond what's immediately relevant to the present day – but there isn't a whole lot else for him to do on this mountain other than contemplating these mysterious verses and admiring the scenic landscape.

Most of what he's read on the tablets is completely new to him. He's heard vague legends of the primeval Dragon Wars, but he was always under the impression that they're fictitious myths and nothing more than that.

Now he knows the dragons are both very real and very hostile to mortalkind from firsthand experience. That knowledge is making him reconsider the possibility that these might not be run-of-the-mill fairytales, but perhaps the remnants of an ancient history now long-forgotten by the races of Men.

…At least he has something interesting to think about. It's better than nothing.

-x-

Mull has been climbing for four days. From what he can tell by the positioning of the sun, his path has circled around from the southern side of the Throat of the World to its more rugged western slopes.

He could probably see Whiterun Hold from this vantage if it weren't for the weather. A bank of grey clouds has rolled down from the upper mountain and is now obscuring the world below along with everything else in the vicinity. Flurries of snow are drifting on a freezing wind. The gloomy environment reminds him of Orphan Rock Vale, which is a memory he really doesn't appreciate at the moment. The fact that he's utterly alone within the depths of this fog bank isn't much fun to think about.

He pulls his cloak tighter around his body as he trudges across a bed of shale, the brittle sediment crunching beneath his boots with each step. Even having planned for this eventuality and brought gear suitable for deep winter, he still feels inadequately prepared for the inclement weather. Luckily for him, the stormfront looming ahead hasn't yet unleashed its fury.

He prays that it won't. The trees have been thinning out since yesterday morning and if he's caught up here on the mountainside with no cover to speak of, he'll be left in a bad way. Even the snowberry bushes, once so numerous, are now nowhere to be found. The only surviving foliage larger than stubbly blades of grass or blankets of moss is a few sparse groupings of evergreen shrubs, and they're rapidly dwindling as well.

It's tough going even without the threat of a blizzard. He often finds himself inexplicably short of breath and is forced to rest, sometimes for as long as a few hours at a time. He's constantly fatigued and extremely thirsty, and he stops to refill his waterskins from natural springs or snowdrifts much more frequently than normal. His increased fluid intake sadly means he needs to expel more fluid as well, which is a consistently unpleasant experience due to the frigidity.

It's noticeably chillier here within the clouds, as if it weren't already cold enough. That combined with the steadily worsening snowfall convinces him that he needs to reach High Hrothgar soon. Klimmek said it would be four to seven days, and right now he's sincerely hoping it'll be closer to four. A blizzard could descend on the Seven Thousand Steps at any moment and with his visibility so low, he wouldn't be aware of what's happening until it's already too late. The issue is that it's already been four days, so he doesn't think his chances of a shorter-than-average journey are looking especially good.

To his right is the steeply-sloped bulk of the mountain, comprised of sheer cliff faces festooned with boulders and the odd icicle hanging from an outcrop. To his left, the mountainside falls away into opaque mist. The leafy boughs of conifers poke through the sea of white in a handful of places, but other than that it's a featureless sea of unshed snow.

Ahead of him, the terrain suddenly constricts into the beginnings of a narrow ravine. Jagged walls of naked stone rise upwards on either side of the path while the Steps vanish into the tight confines of the unexpected gorge.

Mull pauses to catch his breath. This section of the Steps doesn't seem promising. The path is hazardous – he's already nearly killed himself multiple times by slipping on patches of ice – but this place looks bad even by those low standards. Snowflakes are tumbling in thick swirling sheets from the lip of the ravine into the depths beneath, and he's worried a strong gust might send a rockslide or an avalanche plummeting on top of him while he's in there. He doesn't see any exposed rockpiles or snowdrifts from his current position, but that doesn't mean they aren't there. It's a possibility he would rather not ignore.

But right now, I don't think there's any other choice. I can't see anything that looks like a path going around, so I either have to head into the ravine or turn around and go back. And there's no way in Oblivion I would let these last few days have been for nothing. I am not doing this again.

With that, he readjusts the straps of his pack and cautiously enters the ravine, craning his neck to keep a careful eye out for unseen hazards.

He quickly discovers it's slightly warmer inside the gorge than on the exposed mountainside. It must be because there's less wind. The frigid breeze has been an ever-present feature on this trek so far, drying out his eyes and chapping his lips, and he's grateful to be rid of it for a while. The Steps themselves, now represented by uneven ledges of flat stone every fifteen or twenty paces, also lack the layers of ice that have made him so wary of plummeting to his death. Something else to be thankful for.

The floor and walls of the crevasse continue to rise together, taking Mull higher in elevation even as the proportions of the ravine itself remain relatively unchanged. It alters course a few times, twisting and turning through the living rock, but never becomes tight enough to prevent his passage. In contrast, it periodically widens into little dales or clefts inhabited by scrawny bushes clinging to life.

His fears of a rockslide prove to be unfounded. Either the wind isn't strong enough or there aren't any loose stones on the mountainside above.

After about half an hour, the chasm enters a longer and flatter stretch that allows him to see further ahead. He peers through the roofless tunnel to a brighter opening at the far end. The path widens and remains so, marking the impending terminus of the icy gorge. He's nearly to the end, which he has decidedly mixed feelings about. I know I hesitated to come in here, but now I'm not looking forward to going back into that wind. Not at all.

At the far end of the chasm, just beyond the exit, he spots a patch of something darker than the surrounding flurries of snow. Judging by its shape, he's pretty sure it's another one of those etched shrines, though it's difficult to tell for certain. The frozen precipitation hasn't gotten any lighter – quite the opposite, to his disappointment.

The left side of the gorge is the same as ever, but on the right side an angular overhang now protrudes from the top of the cliff. Something catches his eye and he squints against the wind. There's a dark thing up there too, a distinct silhouette against the colorless sky. Is that another shrine? How is somebody supposed to reach that?

Out of curiosity more than anything else, he briefly searches the gorge for signs of a staircase or another means of ascending to that overhang. He doesn't find anything.

Huh. That's strange. He rubs his arms to give himself some heat and starts trudging for the ravine's end, venturing beneath the shade of the overhang. Maybe the path doubles back or you're supposed to-

Whump.

Something slams into the ground a few yards to his right, sending up a plume of powdery snow and scattered bits of gravel. Not expecting the sudden impact, he leaps away on pure instinct and whirls as one hand falls to the hilt of his sword. He hurriedly paces backwards to put distance between himself and the anomaly.

Within the cloud of disturbed whiteness rests a bulky shape, amorphous and uncertain. What in the…?

He slowly looks up. The dark thing on the overhang is gone.

His gaze returns to the object before him. Is this… did that shrine or boulder or whatever was up there almost fall on me?!

An uneasy chuckle escapes his cracked lips, hoarse from his voice's long disuse. Shor's bones. Turns out, I was right to worry about a rockslide. Wow. He runs a gloved hand through his lanky hair, soaking wet from flakes of melted snow. If I ever tell Lydia about this, she'll skin me alive for sure.

Thoroughly spooked by the miniscule chance of this random object falling right as he walked beneath it and now decidedly more eager to be out of the ravine, Mull only spends another moment marveling at his luck – I still haven't decided whether Sai has it out for me or not – before releasing his sword-hilt with a relieved sigh and turning to leave. Investigating the thing wouldn't be worth the trouble. He's already read several of these shrines over the course of his ascent, so missing one of them surely wouldn't hurt – assuming that's what it is, of course. That, and he's more shaken that he's willing to admit. The rigors of his pilgrimage have been taking a toll on him.

Something moves in the corner of his eye.

That isn't necessarily noteworthy. There's a lot of background motion in this environment, especially with the snow that hasn't yet settled from the mysterious impact and the additional flakes perpetually tumbling from the sky. The only reason he notices this movement in particular is because it moves against the grain, so to speak, of everything else. It's out of the norm.

Without thinking or considering what it might be, he cranes his head to peer over his shoulder at the source of the inconsistency.

He stops in his tracks, freezing in place as an unholy combination of shock and terror washes over his body. The fallen shrine – if only that's what it could've been – shifts, but not in a way you'd expect from a recently-dislodged lump of granite. No, it… stands.

The silhouette takes on an undeniably humanoid shape as it rises on a pair of bowed legs. Sinewy arms hang from its sides, much longer than what a normal man or mer could possibly exhibit. A shadowy blob that must be its head surmounts the rest of its body.

An animalistic grunt emanates from the definitely-not-a-shrine-or-boulder. It sounds like an nasty combination of an angry bull and an aggressive giant.

His breath hitches, piercing the inside of his throat with freezing air. He tries and fails to swallow as he grasps the pommel of his weapon once more. This time, his hand doesn't dare leave it.

The shadow moves closer, now huffing loudly. A new scent tickles Mull's nose. It's utterly disgusting, like fetid meat and unwashed bodies.

For a brief instant, a particularly strong gust of wind temporarily clears his section of the gorge of fog and snow, giving him his first good look at the new arrival.

It's big, with broad shoulders and muscular arms as thick around as his waist. Its hunchbacked form makes it appear bulkier than it actually is, not that it isn't plenty bulky already. It's covered from head to toe in a bristly coat of pale white fur, beneath which is a layer of leathery greyish skin. It has three clawed fingers per hand and its shoulders are pockmarked with horn-like black growths. Its head is stooped, as if it lacks a neck entirely.

The face, by a very wide margin, is this creature's most troublesome feature. It's horrific.

Its chin is covered with coarse hairs in a gross imitation of a beard. Its mouth is open in a vicious snarl filled with rows of needle-like yellow teeth. It has one hell of an ugly pug nose. Two inky-black eyes are set to either side and a third is directly above, in the middle of its grotesquely wrinkled forehead. A bald head sporting patchy fur and another handful of small horns, similar to the lumps on its shoulders, completes the bestial ensemble.

Mull knows full well what this thing is, unfortunately. It's one of Tamriel's most pervasive predatory monsters, a solitary yet fearsome species that always causes trouble wherever it appears.

It's a troll. A frost troll, to be precise. Arguably the most dangerous and aggressive breed of an already dangerous and aggressive creature.

As if emphasizing that realization, the white-haired beast releases a blood-curdling growl and advances, leaning forward and using its long arms to propel itself with unexpected speed.

He's never personally encountered a troll, although he's seen them from a distance in the Jerall Mountains once or twice. More significantly, he's known a few people over the years who were themselves confronted by trolls and lived to tell about it. Their stories were always memorable – to say the least – and there's one maxim regarding these simian creatures that has stuck with him ever since then. 'Never run from a troll.'

But right now, he doesn't think he has any other choice. How idiotic was the person who coined that saying? Who in their right mind would stand their ground against that ten-foot-tall mound of muscle and claws?

Not him. That's for damn sure.

So he runs. He draws his sword just in case, even though it prevents him from pumping his arms to gain more speed. He figures leaving the weapon in its sheath would be a death sentence if he's unfortunate enough for the troll to catch up to him. He sprints down the remaining stretch of ravine, boots thumping over permafrost and loose rocks as he makes for the exit ahead. The troll's filthy breath and rancid stench wash over him from behind. The pounding of its feet and knuckles grow steadily louder, echoing off the glacial walls.

It doesn't take long for him to realize he won't be able to escape so easily. He's weighed down by his equipment and provisions as well as his weariness from the journey. In stark contrast, the troll's pursuit is relentless, threatening to trip him up and savage from behind if he should falter for a single step. Even if he manages to outrun the monster for now, he won't be able to keep it up forever. If it's tenacious enough to follow him for the next ten or fifteen minutes – which is a distinct possibility – then he'll be a pile of carrion before sundown. Or what passes for sundown on this mountain.

With a sharp curse, he mentally accepts that he'll have to turn and face the creature.

The distant shrine beyond the end of the ravine is getting closer. He isn't sure if he'll have better odds trying to fight the troll in the confines of the ravine or out in the open near the shrine, but he's inclined to go for the latter. He needs room to maneuver. That's always a necessity when facing a larger and stronger opponent.

About five paces after he clears the end of the ravine and reemerges onto the exposed mountainside, he skids to a halt and pivots with his sword raised protectively.

At that same instant, the troll leaps with one meaty arm poised to smash him into the ground. It roars, giving him a lovely view of its shark-like maw.

If he tries to block or deflect a blow like that, with the entirety of the troll's strength behind it, he'll be a dead man in a heartbeat.

Instead, he hastily throws himself to the side and tumbles into the snowy dirt, executing a clumsy roll over his shoulder. Jagged rocks dig into his tender flesh and wet clumps of snow get stuck in his clothing and hair as he scrambles back to his feet. His pack jostles awkwardly against his back but isn't dislodged by the impromptu somersault.

The troll isn't able to arrest the momentum of its charge and goes skidding across the trail, completely missing its target. It slams its fists into the ground, roars at the sky, and reorients itself to face him as it stands to its full intimidating height. Mull feels the predatory weight of its eyes boring into him, black and pitiless as the Void.

The troll is now blocking the path. Its forward rush brought it close to the shrine – which he now confirms is indeed a shrine. The last thing I thought was a shrine was, evidently, a troll. Doesn't hurt to make sure.

The trail passes directly next to the shrine, and a cursory inspection doesn't uncover any alternative routes for continuing up the mountain. There are no other options. He can either run back through the ravine or he can fight his way past the troll to High Hrothgar.

Gods dammit. He hocks and spits to get the taste of dirt out of his mouth, never once taking his eyes away from the creature. He's still scared – terrified, if he's being honest – but now that he's had an opportunity to get his bearings and overcome the initial gut-wrenching alarm of the troll's ambush, the habits and memories ingrained into him by many years' worth of battles are finally seizing the reins.

He takes a deep breath, steadying his erratic heartbeat and clearing his mind of distractions as he forces his tensed muscles to relax. Right now, there are only two things in the entire world he needs to worry about, and those are himself and the troll. Everything else is extraneous.

The troll doesn't attack again, at least not straightaway. It's huffing and puffing loudly, generating clouds of vapor with each breath as it stares at him. Several seconds pass but it still doesn't take the initiative. Gale-force winds churn through the snowfall around them, whistling and shrieking through the crags.

When he feels confident that the creature is preoccupied with sizing him up, Mull spikes his sword into the frozen earth and eases his pack from his stiff shoulders. He tosses it away, takes up his blade again, and rolls his sore neck. A few rapid hops loosen up his calves. The last thing he wants is to get a cramp in the middle of… whatever's about to happen next.

The troll finally starts creeping toward him, ambling unhurriedly with its lankly limbs as if somehow aware that he's either unable to retreat or is refusing to do to. He can still smell the damn thing from several yards away, rotten and nauseating.

He curses again. He was hoping the creature would charge heedlessly like it did in the ravine. If it did, he might be able to use its own impetus to inflict some serious damage. But unfortunately, this monster seems to be taking things slow. That isn't good. It has a major reach advantage with those lanky arms. How in Oblivion am I gonna do this…?

He's objectively weaker, shorter, smaller, and less durable than the troll, and he probably isn't a whole lot faster. Trolls also regenerate their injuries at a prodigious rate, meaning this will be a battle against time.

His greatest advantage is his ability to strategize. Trolls are stupid as shit. Everybody knows that.

He once heard a tale about a troll on a bridge somewhere in the southlands. While a pair of fisherman were watching from their boat in the middle of the river, scared out of their wits, the troll ambled over to the edge of the bridge, looked down at the water, and jumped in for no apparent reason. It promptly drowned and the fishermen were able to go on with their merry day.

Trolls are dangerous, but gods above are they dumbasses too.

He readies himself as the troll enters melee range, tightening his grip on his sword and widening his stance. The troll commences the festivities with a telegraphed swing of one elongated arm, its three clawed digits outstretched to tear Mull's flesh asunder.

He sidesteps and delivers a swift slash, opening up a line of crimson across the burly arm as it wooshes harmlessly past him. The troll snarls angrily and swipes twice more, to the same result.

On the fourth swing, Mull commits to a heavier counter and slams his sword in the troll's arm, embedding his blade into its flesh with the goal of severing the limb entirely. But he miscalculates the strength needed to pull off something like that, and his blade sticks fast into the creature's dense sinew and muscle.

His eyes widen as he throws his entire body into yanking the sword free and backpedaling furiously. The troll swings at him again and its meaty paw barrels at his face faster than he anticipated. He just barely ducks beneath the blow and stumbles away, seeking ample space to get himself turned back around.

The troll's patience has worn thin and it's no longer in a waiting mood. It lopes after him with a furious growl, not allowing him to retreat to a safe distance. He thrusts the point of his sword at its face, but it angrily bats aside the attack and nearly manages to disembowel him in the process.

He retaliates by bringing his blade down atop one of its shoulders, but the weapon literally bounces off, vibrating in his hands. Its knobby hide is too durable in that spot. A few more lighting-fast slashes into the front of its torso also accomplish nothing.

Their exchange of blows lasts no more than thirty seconds and Mull is already breathing heavily, gulping mouthfuls of thin alpine air to replenish his lungs. He overestimated his ability to inflict critical damage. This thing is tough. Its dense flesh and thick layers of fat are making it impossible to score any deep hits. A quick glance also reveals that the scratches on its arms have already regenerated, leaving behind harmless bloodstains.

He never stops backing away before the troll's persistent advance, and he soon finds himself kiting it around the mountainside as it chases him down. Whenever he slows his pace and tries to sneak in a few strikes, the troll either ignores them or retaliates too quickly for him to fully commit. It's a race against time and he's losing badly.

This isn't going to work! I need to think of something fast.

He takes cover behind an icy boulder, hoping to use it to blunt the troll's charge and give himself a window to attack – a tactic he's used against horse-mounted enemies in the past – but the troll surprises him again. Instead of going around or stopping entirely, it instead raises its massive arms and uses them to effortlessly vault over the top of the obstacle, positioning itself to drop on top of him and crush him underfoot.

He grits his teeth and scrambles away from the boulder, narrowly avoiding a pitiful death as the troll jumps onto his former hiding spot. He rushes to his feet and swings his sword at its head, but the troll deflects the blade with one of its arms and doesn't flinch at all from the ensuing spray of blood.

It opens its fanged maw much more widely than a human ever could, to the point of being either unhinged or very, very close. It propels itself forward with all four limbs and lunges at him, turning itself into a missile of dense muscle and sharp ivory.

He leaps to the side again, but his foot slips on a slippery patch of ground and he tumbles beneath the troll's onslaught, avoiding its gnashing teeth by luck more than skill as they snap together right next to his head. The troll's brawny form slams into him and one of its sturdy knees is buried into his gut, bending him over like a naughty child. The collision tosses him like a ragdoll and leaves him sprawled on the ground while heaving for air. Spittle flies from his mouth as his body is wracked by violent coughs.

And still the troll doesn't let up. It comes right after him, grunting and growling the whole time. Mull barely manages to get back on his feet.

As he does, he's greeted by one of the troll's paws smashing into the right side of his face, twisting his head to the side and knocking him down again with all the grace of a battered prizefighter in an underground cage match. Its bear-like claws rake agonizingly against his skin, leaving three long lacerations across his jaw. Blood weeps into his beard and trickles distractingly down his neck.

The impact leaves him lying spreadeagled on the ground, gasping from the unexpected shock of the troll's attack. The entire right side of his face is throbbing with each heartbeat and feels like it might be on fire. The coolness of the earth beneath him is a relief to his feverish flesh and his clouded mind begs him to remain there.

Instead, he groans wretchedly into the dirt as he shakily pushes himself onto his knees. He can feel the dull vibrations of the troll's footsteps getting closer, and they spur him into grasping his sword with tremulous fingers and using it as a cane. By sheer force of will, he staggers upright with the help of his weapon and spits a viscous globule of blood, staining the churned snow red.

The troll is much too close now. It'll be right on top of him before he can get out of its way. All things considered, this really didn't go how he was hoping it would. Trolls are stupid, but he's just learned the hard way that they're ferocious and stubborn as well.

But this isn't the first time he's found himself in this kind of situation. And just like that first time, he has an ace hidden up his sleeve still waiting to be revealed. He was hoping he wouldn't have to do this, but the circumstances are frantically calling for it. At this point there are no other options. Sorry, future me. This is going to hurt.

Pressure builds rapidly inside his chest, becoming heavier and heavier until he feels like he's going to explode. The unnatural density roils within his lungs and surges upwards through his esophagus, rushing for freedom beyond his widening jaws. His lips, teeth, and tongue move in concert to generate a single spoken word.

"FUS!"

The troll stumbles with an alarmed growl as an outflowing of azure energy blasts into it, buffeting its robust body. It swats at the empty air, but nothing is there to accept the blow. It's been stunned for at least the next few seconds.

An all too familiar burning sensation overtakes Mull's throat, causing him to writhe with anguish. Bright red saliva oozes from between his lips, joining the blood already streaked across his cheeks and chin. The searing pain threatens to overwhelm him, making his entire body go rigid, but he knows he needs to act right now.

He lifts his weapon with a strained exclamation and forces his legs to move, gingerly at first, but with increasing surety and swiftness as he gains speed.

He dashes into the troll's range, raises his sword skyward in a two-handed grip, and throws everything he has left into a brutal overhead strike. His blade squelches diagonally into the troll's forehead and destroys its left eye, popping the black gelatinous orb like a grape. The putrid creature recoils and howls like a wounded bear.

But the troll's skull is thick and unyielding, and protects its brain from taking decisive damage as Mull had been hoping. It screeches and swipes a long arm at him, making him release his weapon and evade once more. His blade remains trapped in its face like a macabre ornament, causing blood to cascade from the terrible wound.

Mull draws his knife, darts beneath the troll's guard as its arm passes over his head, and pushes with all the strength in his legs as he stabs upwards into its throat just beneath the chin. He reverses his grip on the knife, tears it free in an arc of blood, and dodges to the side in the same motion, escaping from the troll's attempt to envelope him in a devastating bearhug.

The troll wobbles and faces him, teetering on its stubby but powerful legs. His sword is still stuck in its head, and one entire side of its white-furred body is now stained dark with its lifeblood.

With a raw yell, Mull charges with his knife outstretched and throws himself bodily at the troll. It's a dumb move, but he needs to end this fight quickly. All this exertion immediately after taking such a nasty hit is causing his vision to start blurring at the edges.

He slams into the troll's abdomen and pierces its hoary skin with his much smaller blade. The wound is ineffectual and accomplishes absolutely nothing, but the weight of his body causes the weakened troll to trip and fall, slamming onto its back in the snow.

Mull barely stifles his maniacal laughter as he clambers over the troll's arms and chest, no longer caring about the blood seeping from inside his mouth. He positions himself over his opponent's face, brandishes his dagger, and starts stabbing away.

He stabs it in the head again and again and again, at first aiming for its eyes and then attacking randomly once those have been destroyed. Gore splatters all over him, but he hardly notices. Every iota of his mind is devoted to killing this hateful creature in a blood-soaked rage.

Once its arms and legs have stopped flailing and the rise and fall of its chest has fallen still, he gives it a few more stabs for good measure before heaving himself to his feet. The troll's face now resembles a platter of mashed beans more than something that once belonged to a living thing.

As it should be. He snarls as he viciously kicks the troll cadaver. First it was a dragon.

Kick.

Then Frostbite spiders.

Kick.

Then a whole horde of draugr.

Kick.

Then another dragon!

Kick.

And a hagraven, because why the hell not.

Kick.

And now a stupid – kick – fucking – kick – shitstain – kick – godsdamn – kick – troll!

Kick. Kick. Kick.

With his wrath finally sated and his toes aching more than they once were, he whirls away from the inert mound of white-furred flesh. I'm really starting to hate this frozen hellhole of a province. And to think winter hasn't even fully begun.

He reaches up to prod at the wounds from the troll's claws on the right side of his jaw. It's already swollen and incredibly sensitive. He flinches away from the abrasive contact.

He's also dizzy and nauseated, but it's a good sign that he's still able to move.

His throat is aching fiercely. He knew it would, but he still viscerally regrets having to use the Voice. At least he has something to lessen the symptoms, but it's currently nestled inside his pack somewhere off towards the ravine. He needs to go get it, but he doesn't think he could walk that far right now without falling over.

Leaving that for later, he stumbles over to shrine and leans heavily against it. The surface is comfortably cool after the intense exertion of the battle. His bloodshot eyes rove curiously over the inscription on a whim.

Man prevailed, shouting Alduin out of the world

Proving for all that their Voice too was strong

Although their sacrifices were many-fold

So they Shouted a god out of the world, and I can't even Shout down a single troll? Shit.

He painfully lowers himself onto the front plinth of the shrine, presumably where pilgrims place their votive offerings.

This whole trip has been one disaster after another. But maybe that's just Skyrim. He croaks a feeble attempt at a laugh.

Sitting there next to this ancient monument worn smooth by centuries if not millennia of wind and snow, in quite possibly the most desolate and isolated location that he's ever visited, makes for a strangely serene moment. Yes, even with the dead troll laying there, stinking up the place and sullying the Steps with its blood. Its blood as well as his own.

He exhales deeply and runs his filthy hands through his beard. He winces as his wounds flare up, complaining at his lack of gentleness. I'm exhausted. But to his immense frustration, he's keenly aware that he can't allow himself to stop here. He needs to keep pushing for High Hrothgar. The sooner he reaches the monastery, then the sooner he can eat some proper food, receive some proper healing, and get some proper sleep. Preferably of the twenty-four-hours-with-no-interruption variety.

Unlikely, but a man can dream. At least Mirmulnir is keeping his mouth shut. I half-expected he'd be on my case by now for being a weakling.

Twice now, he's been in situations where he would've died if it weren't for his Thu'um. At the beginning, he was angry about being given the power of the Voice in the first place – and still is, to some extent – but now that he's seen its utility, he wants to be able to better control it. Whether this is actually a gift from the gods or not, the facts are that I can use the Voice and I've needed it to save my ass multiple times. The way things have been going, I'm sure this won't be the last. He scowls angrily, stretching his wounds and making them sting. I have a lot of questions to ask the Greybeards.

With that, he plants his hands atop his aching knees and gets to his feet with an agonized groan. Maybe I should've tried my luck at running from the troll. Even if it caught me, I doubt it would've felt any worse than this. He hobbles across the battlefield to his pack lying in the ever-deepening snow, now coated in a fine layer of frost. What's done is done. Let's get this over with.

He fishes out a bottle full of blue liquid and quickly guzzles it down. It's a potion for healing magicka burns that Danica Pure-Spring gave to him before his departure from Whiterun, intended for this very eventuality. It's repulsive and he nearly wretches, but it instantly soothes the fiery pain in his throat.

He also takes the opportunity to drink a lot of water, which seems to help with the headache as well as the foul taste of the priestess' concoction. Water at least is plentiful on this mountainside.

With the necessities taken care of, he threads his arms through the straps of his pack and settles it firmly onto his shoulders. He begins ascending the path once more, now well and truly ready for his pilgrimage to be over.

-x-

After the troll's ravine is left behind, the trail becomes paradoxically easier to follow. Instead of incessantly meandering into switchbacks and skirting perilous cliff-faces, it's now a straight slope upwards with a constant curvature to the right. It's colder, the air is thinner, and the weather is worse, but Mull feels like he's covering ground much faster than before.

Over the next two days, he stumbles across the occasional crumbed stone tower or abandoned bothy huddled against the cliffs to his right. He takes advantage of their meager shelter to rest whenever he can. Up here, there aren't any larger structures or terraces like the ones further down the mountain.

It's extraordinarily cold at this altitude and he bundles himself up with every single article of clothing in his possession. This is the kind of cold that'll kill a man in minutes. Snowback Nords, he curses. I'll never understand how they can tolerate living in this frigid wasteland.

He also discovers another three shrines with inscriptions that continue where the last one left off.

With roaring Tongues, the Sky-Children conquer

Founding the First Empire with Sword and Voice

Whilst the Dragons withdrew from this World

And that's after Kyne taught the first Tongues. It sounds like the Nords defeated the dragons in the Dragon Wars.

The Tongues at Red Mountain went away humbled

Jurgen Windcaller began His Seven Year meditation

To understand how Strong Voices could fail

I've never heard of this Jurgen Windcaller, and I'm not sure why they're referring to Red Mountain either. Was there a battle in Morrowind?

Jurgen Windcaller chose silence and returned

The 17 disputants could not shout Him down

Jurgen the Calm built His home on the Throat of the World

Huh. Neat.

Now far too exhausted to give serious thought to the shrines, he continues trudging ever onwards, clinging to the desperate hope that the end of his torturous trek is close at hand. Soon High Hrothgar will be in sight.

I hope.