Chapter 57
The canoe ride back to Morthal is a bit trickier than the first time around. The Mighty Mudcrabs are loaded with their spoils from Ustengrav and Folgunthur, including hacksilver of all shapes and sizes, a multicolored variety of precious gemstones, and an eclectic assortment of enchanted items. Mull couldn't be a happier man… but at the same time, their loot is weighing down the canoe so badly that they're swamped with water over the gunwales whenever Valdimar steers them around sharp turns in the Hjaalmarch's marshy waterways. They spend more time bailing with leaky buckets than rowing.
The old housecarl isn't too pleased to be transporting their hefty spoils, but Mull puts his foot down and refuses to part with any of it. He already left behind so much treasure in Ustengrav since it was too heavy for them to haul out. Abandoning more of it for no good reason would be unthinkable.
Between tossing out bucketfuls of brackish water and arguing with Idgrod's mustachioed retainer, Mull finds a few free minutes to twine together an unused leather band and laces it through the Gauldur Amulet fragment. He loops the band around his neck, nestles the engraved piece of ivory next to Morven's pendant of Kyne, and silently marvels at the way his body instantly feels … not lighter exactly, but denser. More grounded. More alive.
It's never a good idea to use an enchanted item without knowing what it'll do to you, but at this point he's willing to bend that rule for the Gauldur Amulet. It's already saved his life once. If you can't put your trust in something after that, then you never will.
They make landfall and strike camp before sundown, never straying too far from the boat for fear of encounters with the local fauna. Valdimar vocally reminds them more than once that the danger of vampires still needs to be considered. There isn't much dry firewood to go around in such a boggy area, but they make sure to gather a respectable pile that should last them through the night. They don't want to go tramping through the marsh in search of new kindling in the darkness.
Mull works with Valdimar to refine his firebolt spell for an hour or two after dinner each night. The housecarl is a wealth of practical knowledge and doesn't seem to mind answering his questions, no matter how neophyte they are. He offers several good pointers that expand Mull's understanding of Destruction magic. One of the older man's aphorisms is especially memorable, reminding him of Farengar's teachings.
"The most difficult part of learning a new spell is overcoming your fear of failure and its consequences. There should be no room for error nor risk of disappointment. You, the caster, must be utterly certain of your impending success. When fear's hold on you has been broken, the possibilities will become infinite. The fearless sorcerer can achieve anything in this world if he sets his mind to it."
His firebolts are still sputtery and lack penetrating power, but Valdimar says his accuracy is above average for a beginner. After watching him practice diligently for a while, the housecarl deduces he can conjure two firebolts in quick succession or three over a fifteen to twenty second window, which he says is about what he'd expect for an uneducated novice. Mull experiments with casting three in a short period of time and soon realizes it completely drains his body's magicka reserves, forcing him to wait a few minutes before trying again.
By the time they're finished, he feels more confident in his magic than ever before. He won't be shooting down dragons anytime soon, but at least he can distract enemies with suppressive fire or set things ablaze from a distance. You never know when a special talent for arson might come in handy.
Mull also reflects on Feim whenever he gets some alone time to sit quietly. Mirmulnir said he's on his own for this one, so he sets aside an hour or two each night for some good old-fashion meditating just like the Greybeards taught him.
That's what he's doing now – sitting on a flat rock near the murky banks of Drajkmyr Marsh a good thirty paces away from the campsite. Curtains of lichen are hanging from the trees on all sides, forming a sort of natural pagoda that gives him privacy while still allowing for a decent view of the water directly ahead and the sky above. Flocks of green and orange fireflies are weaving between mossy branches and frogs are croaking merrily in the bushes. It's an unexpectedly serene locale for being in the middle of a literal swamp.
His meditations on Fade have been revolving around one central question that was inspired by Mirmulnir. What does it mean for something to fade away?
That's extremely open-ended, so he does his best to narrow it down.
He looks up at the darkening sky, a field of black crisscrossed with streaks of purple and red. The distant stars are igniting one by one. A frigid wind is blowing through the marshland with the setting of the sun, rustling leaves and churning the dark waters.
The light of day fades into twilight.
He thinks back to his childhood village in Craglorn and feels a familiar pang of guilt at how little he can remember. The faces of family and friends, the houses, the landscape… all of these things are gradually slipping away from him as the years pass by.
Old memories fade into nothingness.
He recalls the eyes of the warlock leader in Ustengrav and how his pupils morphed into twin black voids as his soul vacated his body. Less recently, he recalls the look in Morven's eyes as she died. Something was there, a spark, a vibrancy… and then it wasn't.
Life fades into death.
As Mirmulnir told him a few days ago: 'Everything that is mortal must fade away in time.'
He doesn't have any breakthroughs or revelations over the next hour, but he does gain new perspectives on the word with each round of meditation. Mirmulnir wasn't wrong – this Word of Power seems much easier for him to grasp than Force, Balance, or Whirlwind, which is odd considering its abstract nature.
He did say mortals have a greater affinity for Feim than dragons. Though it could depend on the specific person too.
Morven's lifeless face reappears in his mind's eye.
Depends on how exactly you define it, but I'd say I've seen a lot of things fade over the years. I'm sure it's true for everyone. That's how life goes.
Before his time at High Hrothgar, there's no way he could've sat down and thought so deeply about this sort of metaphysical gibberish. Never in a thousand years would he have imagined himself reflecting on the nature of the world in a lotus pose like an enlightened philosopher… and yet here he is, doing just that.
Perhaps Arngeir was on to something when he insisted the Way of the Voice can work for anyone willing to put in the requisite time and effort, and not only their specific brand of mountain-dwelling pacifistic monks.
Mull holds back a snort. Maybe. I'm still withholding judgement on that one.
Still, the fact remains that the Way of the Voice has been central to his growing comprehension of Feim.
Conversely, his efforts to internalize Yol and Fo have been brought to a standstill. You wouldn't think Fire and Frost could be difficult concepts to grasp, but somehow they are.
One's hot and the other's cold. Simple enough, right? Flames burn and frost freezes. Fire and ice. What's so complicated about that?!
He gets sidetracked thinking less about comprehending the Words of Power and more about being frustrated by his inability to make progress, and soon his concentration is broken.
His mind wanders aimlessly. When it's clear he won't accomplish anything else tonight, he reaches down to take a whetstone out of his knapsack and starts sharpening his knife while talking to Mirmulnir under his breath.
"Hey. When we were attacked by that last draugr on our way out of Ustengrav, you said something about the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller being more important than we think. You also said you'd explain it later, and guess what? It's later. So spill. What exactly did you mean?"
'…The Horn of Jurgen Windcaller is not an artifact of the joorre. Its very name is a misnomer. It is a horn indeed – much more truthfully than you know – but it did not fall into the little joor hero's possession by any worthiness on his part. It bears his name by fortune and happenstance alone. He did not win it through legitimate tinvaak, but rather by manipulating and defrauding one of the greatest of our kindred into accepting his weakness as righteousness. Jurgen Windcaller was a self-aggrandizing deceiver and the Horn is tangible proof of his duplicitous nature.'
"The Greybeards spoke highly of him at every turn, so what makes you such a critic? You're talking like you knew him personally."
'I did, though it was in a time very different from your present day.'
"Arngeir said Jurgen's lifetime was during the First Era. That was a long time ago."
Mirmulnir smugly huffs. 'It was. Through many long centuries and millennia, wars and plagues and crises, never was I felled by the blades of joorre nor the claws of dov. I survived where many of my brothers did not – that is, until I encountered you and your allies. Alone you are weak, but together you have greater strength than your stature alone would suggest. I should have seen this, yet I was blinded by my arrogance and so I was slain. Do not mistake me Qahnaarin. Arrogance is one of the greatest virtues of a dovah. But you must always take care to rule over it lest it rules over you instead.'
Mull frowns as he works on a stubborn burr with his whetstone. "Good to know, but aren't you getting off topic? How did you meet Jurgen Windcaller?"
'I never interacted with him in the flesh, but I most assuredly knew of him. Many of the dov were slain by rebellious slaves and our own traitorous brothers during what you call the Dragon Wars, but some of us survived. We fled into the barren wastes and roosted atop precipitous peaks where none could reach us without wings of their own, and thus we persisted. I know this well, for I was one of them.'
Mull thinks back to the memories he gained from Mirmulnir after consuming his soul at the Western Watchtower. They're blurry and distant, but he can still picture the dead dragon's former haunts in the secluded mountains where he took refuge from the wider world for thousands of years – a mind-boggling amount of time. He cracked a joke about Mirmulnir being old, but now it occurs to him that the dragon is unimaginably ancient by human standards.
'Many centuries afterwards, a little joor warrior called Jurgen Windcaller climbed to the summit of one of Keizaal's highest mountains, which had been claimed by the greatest dovah still drawing breath in those days. His name was Paarthurnax.'
"…Paarthurnax," repeats Mull. The name sounds vaguely familiar but he isn't sure why. He doesn't recall where he's heard it before, or if he actually did. He might be imagining it.
Just in case, he files it away for future reference.
'The little joor was renowned among his own race for his ability with the Thu'um, but before the might of a dovah he would've been little more than a speck to be crushed underfoot. That's why this tale is so perplexing. Jurgen Windcaller confronted Paarthurnax and demanded his submission, so they held tinvaak together as honor demanded. But by some cruel twist of fate, Paarthurnax did not emerge victorious. He was defeated by the joor, and rather than being slain and consigned to the dust, he willingly submitted to his mortal foe's purported supremacy – not even to a Dovahkiin such as yourself, but to a miserable slave who could scarcely comprehend the true potency of his own Thu'um. To this very day, I do not understand how such a ridiculous thing could come to pass.'
"So Jurgen didn't kill the dragon, but he… what, overpowered him?"
'In so many words. I know not the egregious details, but I can only presume Paarthurnax pledged loyalty to the joor as his new thuri – his overlord. Any other possibility is inconceivable to me.'
"…I can't imagine what it would've taken to beat you so badly that you just gave up. Either you were dying at the Western Watchtower or we were. There wasn't any in-between."
'Verily so. The outcome of our battle was a testament to your prowess as well as my own. But Paarthurnax… he brought shame to the dov by surrendering to a joor while still yet living, and also through other things. Other betrayals and grim failings during the Dragon Wars. He may have been the greatest of us after those dark years, but he was not worthy of the strength he wielded.'
"Is he still alive?"
'I believe he is. Never once have I felt or seen the signs of his demise, and while that doesn't make it a certainty, it is an undeniable likelihood. Unless some unforeseen enemy has destroyed him, he must still be cowering atop that distant peak as we sit here today, wallowing in self-inflicted disgrace. At the time of my death, he hadn't deigned to answer the beckoning call of our one true thuri as all dov are obligated to do. Yes I was slain for fulfilling my primal duty, but at least I remained loyal to the end. The same cannot be said for him.'
"Your 'one true thuri', like I'm supposed to know what that means," scoffs Mull. "Stop being so cryptic for once in your damn life. Aren't I your thuri?"
'You are my Qahnaarin, my Vanquisher. But my thuri? Nay, you can never be. There's only one who is worthy to rule over the dov, and he is infinitely mightier than you or I could ever hope to become. He is the firstborn of our father Bormahu. The Arena is his cradle and the earthbones are his sustenance. They are his birthright to devour in the same manner that the feathered birds of the sky consume the very eggshells from which they were born. He is our eternal master, both yours and mine, for we will never escape from his voracious hunger so long as we're imprisoned within the realm of the living. There is no god, no demon, no kingdom, no power, no height, no depth, nor anything in all of creation that can defy his inescapable will.'
Mull shivers at the unexpected severity of the dead dragon's tone. "The firstborn of Bormahu. Is he a dragon too?"
'If a gnat could be equated to a mortal, then perhaps the comparison is an apt one.'
Ice creeps down his spine. "And what is his beckoning call?"
He doesn't answer.
"Talk to me. This shit sounds important, you stubborn lizard. Tell me what that means."
'…I cannot, for your own sake rather than my own. There are some things it's better for you not to know. I beseech you to trust my judgement, as this knowledge is too heavy of a burden for you to bear.'
"Is that… sympathy?" he demands. "From you? That's a new one."
'I am not being obtuse without reason. You will understand when the time comes, but until then I can say no more.'
"Really? You're just leaving it at that?"
'Really.'
He exhales heavily and scrubs his palms across his face. "You love keeping things from me, don't you? I swear I'll jump off another cliff one of these days just to spite you, and this time I'll make sure there isn't a friendly dragon there to catch me before I hit the ground. How'd you like that? Then the two of us can go to Oblivion together."
'Qahnaarin…'
"Hey, you don't get to act all sulky with me. You're the one who doesn't want to talk things out like a grown-ass man. Er, dragon. Dammit." He grinds his heel deeply into the muddy earth while imagining it's some unfortunate milkdrinker's bloodied face. It makes him feel a little better. "I won't forget about this."
'You would be wise not to. All will be revealed in good time, when the stars have aligned.'
"Poetic. I didn't know you had a talent for the arts," he snarks. "If you aren't gonna tell me more, then can we get back to the Horn? What in Talos' name does it have to do with any of this? Were you saying Jurgen used it to defeat Paarthurnax somehow?"
'No, Qahnaarin. It isn't a tool or a weapon.' Mirmulnir sounds palpably relived to be talking about something else. 'The Horn is a trophy that he won from Paarthurnax by his right as the victor. I meant it quite literally when I said it's a horn in truth. It is the horn of a dovah,' he emphasizes.
"…Ah."
'Yes. The Horn of Jurgen Windcaller once belonged to Paarthurnax. Could you not feel the residual power radiating from it? It was a part of him – his substance, his flesh, until it was harvested by the joor like a treasure seized from a wild beast.'
"Now that you mention it, there was something off about the Horn when we recovered it from Jurgen's tomb. I didn't think about it too much at the time, but there was this tangible sense of wrongness when I took it from the sarcophagus, almost like it belonged there and I was stealing it from its rightful resting place. Or rightful owner." He drums his fingers against his stone seat. "But I wouldn't say it gave off the same aura as a dragon or a Word Wall, if that's what you're getting at. I'm familiar enough with the Sight by now to tell the difference."
'That is rather puzzling. Hmm. For what reason would it lack the spiritual imprint of a dovah? Might it be due to the great span of years that have elapsed since it was broken free from his body? Or perhaps…'
Something languidly stirs inside Mull's mind, like the dead dragon is adjusting his posture despite lacking a physical form.
'I must think further on the matter for now. In the meantime… although it pains me greatly to suggest it, we may benefit from taking the Horn to the joorre dwelling upon the slopes of Monahven. Your Greybeards. There's a slim chance they could have more insight to offer upon its nature than I.'
"I'm giving it to Arngeir anyways so it's a moot point. But sure. We can ask them about it next time we're there."
Mull tilts his head as he hears soft footsteps padding closer from the direction of the campsite. They aren't heavy enough to be Torgen or clumsy enough to be Lydia, leaving two possibilities – and he's willing to guess which it is.
"That's enough for now," he mutters. "It sounds like I've got some company."
Jenassa announces her presence by purposefully scuffing a boot against a tuft of grass – it's rarely a good idea to sneak up on a dangerous person whether intentionally or by accident, which she seems to understand. She takes a seat on the opposite end of Mull's rock, leaving enough distance to avoid making things awkward.
"What can I do for you?" he asks gruffly.
"Oh, nothing special. I merely thought to keep my employer company while he's sitting by his lonesome on the edge of a perilous bog. For his safety, of course. What kind of mercenary would I be if I couldn't safeguard my client?"
It's a smooth lie, but it's a lie all the same. Up till now, Jenassa has shown a clear preference for keeping to herself. Coming over from the campsite just to shoot the shit with him is very unlike her. No, she definitely wants something. "D'you have a question for me or are you trying to solicit a pay raise by playing nice?"
"Can't it be both?" she leers. "But in all seriousness, I do in fact have a question. Unless I'm interrupting something important?"
He gestures in the negative. "Ask away."
"Very well then. I couldn't help but notice how you managed to cast two firebolts against the draugr in the most recent barrow, one right after the other. My people are specially attuned to the cosmic attribute of flame, but I've never achieved that level of proficiency with Destruction in all my years." She wryly grins. "That being said, I'm something of an outlier among the Dunmer in that Destruction has never been my area of expertise. To think a measly man would outdo me in magic…"
Mull gives her a side eye. "Was that your version of a compliment?"
"Not likely," she smirks.
"Yeah, that's what I thought." He finishes sharpening his knife, gives it a once-over with a critical eye, and resheathes it with a muted snick. "Still, you shouldn't sell yourself short. Without the fire ritual you used in Eldersblood Pass, the dragon's frost Shout would've turned us all into people-shaped icicles. You're quick on your feet when it counts and a spell that powerful couldn't have been easy to pull off under pressure. This is a bit late in coming, but good work."
"…Thank you, sera."
"Sure."
She shuffles into a more comfortable position and looks up at the sky. Insects are buzzing loudly in the undergrowth and frogs are croaking in the mud, giving them a nice backdrop of unbroken noise.
She inhales softly. "Are you what the Nords call Dragonborn?" she asks without looking.
Mull nods to himself. Can't say I didn't see that one coming. I noticed the way she's been looking at me lately – like a puzzle waiting to be solved. Knowing a lie would be pointless, he steels himself for an unwanted but not unwarranted explanation. "What gave it away?"
"I'm no expert on the Tongues or other esoteric elements of Nord society, but I've picked up a few things here and there during my time in Skyrim. For starters, it's said the Tongues speak a long-forgotten dialect from which they derive their powers – the language of the legendary dragons. It's also said these abilities take a lifetime to fully master, which is why most Tongues are old and decrepit by the standards of humans. I've never met one in the flesh before you, so I wouldn't know. But…"
She faces him and subtly leans closer.
"You simply don't fit the commonly accepted stereotype. At all," she stresses. "You aren't a robed monk with an impractically long beard, a wizened old shaman with a voice like sandpaper, or an highborn Jarl with hordes of golden-haired warriors at his beck and call. I've been given to believe that these are the conventional characteristics of Tongues wherever they may be found in this land. You on the other hand are in every way, shape, and form an unremarkable mercenary with a dubious background and a strong aversion for the law, yet there's clearly more to you than meets the eye. You've been a Thane of Whiterun for less than a year but somehow your connections with the Jarl and his court run exceedingly deep – and before you ask, I always investigate my employers. Don't take it personally.
"Then you were adamant to the point of paranoia about avoiding unwanted attention when we left Whiterun last month, which immediately struck me as odd. And most strangely of all, I've watched with my own eyes as you fell into a catatonic state of delirium in front of an ancient rune-wall, undoubtedly magical in nature, not once or twice but three times since this mission began. You claimed they have nothing to do with our task of recovering some dusty old artifact from a decrepit barrow, but wonder of wonders, that very same barrow coincidentally housed a rune-wall of its own."
She gives him a dry look. The effect is magnified by her piercing crimson eyes.
"Do you believe in coincidences, sera? Because I do not."
"…Not really, no."
"No," she agrees. "It's good to know we're of the same mind. So why then, in the sacred name of the Reclamations, did you withhold such critical information from me? I expect my clients to provide all pertinent facts about a job up-front just as I extend them the same courtesy as a matter of professional course. In fact, I believe that requirement is explicitly stated in my letter of contract. In bold print."
"Sounds like a problem for Lydia. She's the one who hired you, not me."
"With your money, unless I'm mistaken."
"Irrelevant."
"And speaking of your housecarl…" Her glacial stare morphs into incredulity. "What kind of mercenary just so happens to be a Thane as well? Or perhaps more accurately, what kind of Thane moonlights as a mid-tier sellsword in his spare time? Care to explain that one, sera? I never bothered to ask since it wasn't any of my business, but now I feel I'm owed clarification. There's too much going on here that doesn't add up."
He considers his answer for a few tense seconds. "…Well, altogether I'd say you're right on the money. Maybe I should've treaded more lightly from the beginning. You're sharper than you look."
Her lips tighten. "Is that your version of a compliment?" she mimics without much humor.
"It was supposed to be funny. I don't know if the New Temple outlawed comedy in Morrowind, but-"
"Then you'll note that I'm very conspicuously not laughing, so perhaps it wasn't as funny as you thought it'd be."
"…Right, my bad. Not funny. Got it." Prickly elf.
He sighs and gathers his thoughts.
"So yeah, I'm the Dragonborn. Surprise, surprise. Blessed by the gods with the power of the Voice, a student of the renowned Greybeards, and the born hunter of dragonkind. I can learn new Shouts faster than a regular Tongue and I'm also uniquely capable of fighting against dragons without getting squished into a pancake. Sort of." He scratches his beard. "Up till now, I've always had strong allies backing me up or just managed to get obscenely lucky. Like with Iizyoldrog, if you remember."
"With who now?"
"The blue dragon from Eldersblood Pass."
"…I wasn't aware they had names."
Mirmulnir grumbles indignantly.
She rubs her chin, deep in thought. "I assumed they were mindless beasts and nothing more, hellbent on destruction to sate their appetite for mortal flesh – or something to that effect. We've all heard the grim tale of Helgen by now."
Mull grows solemn. "If only we could be so lucky."
"And that means what, exactly?"
"Dragons aren't animals, Jenassa. For one thing, they're a hell of a lot smarter than most people on account of having been around for thousands of years. They're prideful and ruthless, but they're also cunning. Don't make the mistake of thinking you can outwit them."
He feels uniquely qualified to say that with a dragon's soul cohabiting his body.
"Hmph. You certainly make yourself sound knowledgeable, I'll give you that. Have you fought so many dragons that you've become an expert, or does it have something to do with being Dragonborn?"
"Being Dragonborn. I've only gone up against one other dragon besides Iizyoldrog so far."
She frowns. "That is… hardly reassuring."
"It's the truth. It isn't supposed to be."
"I see. And your status as Dragonborn is also the reason for the Jarl of Morthal's inexplicable favoritism towards you? I sincerely doubt she makes a habit of handing out court titles to outsiders left and right."
"I'm not gonna pretend to know what goes through that wrinkly bat's head, but yeah. Probably."
The Dunmer huskily chuckles. "Then may Azura have mercy on me. Never in all my years would I have thought to find myself in such a preposterous position. The Dragonborn, whom the Nords worship like a god, hired me for a job." She massages her scalp and shakes her head. "Unbelievable…"
"You seem like a smart gal with a healthy dose of cynicism, so let me ask you this. Who says I'm not lying through my teeth? Is there a reason you're so willing to buy this at face value?"
She levels an unimpressed glare at him. "Do you have some other more rational explanation? Again, I know little about Nordic myths and I care even less, but the fact remains that you've exhibited unusual abilities of a distinctly magical nature. Just because I'm not a Telvanni sorceress doesn't mean I don't know the first thing about magic. I can recognize the power of the Voice when I see it, no matter how rare it is or poorly understood. After all, everyone and their nix-hound has heard about Ulfric Stormcloak's mastery of the Voice and his accomplishments with it, such as the sacking of Markarth fifteen years ago. I don't think you're quite at the level of demolishing city gates with a single breath, but something tells me you aren't far off. Call it a mer's intuition."
"Maybe. Guess we'll see, won't we?" He stands and brushes off his trousers. "…So what'll you do now?"
"How do you mean?"
"You've officially become one of the few people in Skyrim who knows I'm the Dragonborn. I had my reasons for keeping you in the dark and I won't apologize for them, but now that the Alfiq's out of the bag… I need to hear what your next move's gonna be."
He discreetly rests his hand next to his knife, which he intentionally left loose in its sheath a minute ago. Jenassa is a mercenary through and through, beholden to the allure of gold and nothing more. If she can't be trusted to keep her damn mouth shut…
Unseen to her, he tightens his grip around the dagger's hilt.
The Penitus Oculatus are right on his tail and too many people know the details of his identity, like Balgruuf and Idgrod Ravencrone. The worst thing that can happen to a man on the run is for his to connect a name with a face. His life will get infinitely more difficult if it becomes common knowledge that the new Thane of Whiterun and the Dragonborn are one and the same.
Jenassa is a liability, plain and simple. So are Lydia and Torgen by a certain definition, but they're worth the risk. They've earned his trust many times over.
The elf on the other hand… well, he doesn't like liabilities, and you know what they say. Two can keep a secret if one of 'em is dead.
She joins him on her feet. "…I suppose I'll continue what I've been doing. This has been a fairly lucrative contract and I'm not eager to see it end anytime soon. We find ourselves in dangerous situations more often than I'd like, but that's just part of the job." She tosses back her hair while feigning indifference. "Admittedly, the generous salary is hard to beat."
He grunts neutrally. "Glad you think so."
"And so what if you're this mythical Dragonborn? All it means to me is that you're tougher than most clients I've had in the past. It's actually something of a relief to see you're capable of taking care of yourself. You start to appreciate these things after playing bodyguard for bumbling Breton merchants or Imperial bureaucrats a few too many times. The Nords might not view this subject so casually, but we Dunmer are more accustomed to the concept of living gods than most. It's nothing so extraordinary to us."
Her tapered ears twitch with curiosity as she peers at him through the gloom.
"Still, I'm sure our time together will continue to be fascinating and I look forward to seeing what oddities you uncover next. Until a time comes when that interest has waned, I don't plan on selling you out if that's what you're worried about."
"What makes you think that?"
"It's written all over your face," she deadpans. "For all your strengths, you aren't very good at hiding your thoughts."
He inwardly curses. Typical for a Dark Elf. You can't slip anything past them.
He hesitates for a moment as he thinks things through, then slowly slides his fingers away from his dagger. "If that ever changes, you'd better make sure you run far away or kill me first. Because if you don't…"
"Yes, yes, I'm sure you'll be very cross with me. Save the ominous threats for someone who might actually be cowed by them. I've no patience for such amateurish tactics."
She gives him a sidelong glance, brushes aside a curtain of lichen, and marches confidently away.
He waits until she's gone before hanging his head and groaning. "That went better than I thought it would, but godsdamn. First Aela, then Lydia, and now her. Why am I always saddled with the difficult ones?"
'This subordinate of yours… I must confess that I quite like her. She is fearless and fiery like a dovah.'
"I didn't ask you."
-x-
They're floating through an algae-infested lagoon early the next morning when they're attack by a monster out of Mull's worst nightmares.
Jenassa is the first to realize something's wrong when she spies a series of ripples in the water moving against the current, drawing steadily closer to the canoe from the left bank. When she points out the anomaly, Valdimar swears vehemently and starts bellowing orders at the top of his lungs.
Right on cue, the cause of the anomaly rises from beneath the surface.
The creature is close to the size of a horse in length and width, but that's where the similarities end. Its features are as alien as they are terrifying. A pair of snapping mandibles frame its slavering maw, too many eyes are staring from its malformed head, and an armored coat of glossy black chitin is covering its entire body. It reminds Mull of a grossly oversized earwig or silverfish.
"It's a chaurus! Row, all of you!" roars Valdimar. "All oars to the port side! Take us hard to starboard!"
The chaurus lunges from the brackish depths and snaps its jagged mandibles at Torgen's bicep. He responds with a hefty blow from his oar to the monster's head, causing it to angrily hiss and flail as it retreats back into the water. The others paddle like their lives depend on it – which they very well might – and swiftly bring the canoe into a shallow segment of the waterway where rocks and beds of kelp are visible beneath the hull.
The ripples on the surface of the water gradually die away and stillness falls back over the marsh. Their oars stop moving as they stare intently into the impenetrable lagoon, straining to see any sign of movement. Valdimar keeps one hand on his steering oar while summoning an ice-blue sphere of latent magic in the other.
"…Is it gone?" Mull dubiously asks.
"Wouldn't count on it," replies Valdimar. "These beasts are crafty and patient. They'll wait hours for a chance to drag you into the mire without taking their beady eyes off you the entire time."
"Lovely. I didn't need to sleep tonight."
With that encouraging thought, they resume floating down the river while keeping a sharp eye out for more trouble. The swamp is suffused with breathless tension as the native wildlife sense imminent danger and take refuge in their dens. Every creaking tree or swaying frond makes the canoe's passengers increasingly anxious.
Trouble isn't long in coming. A few minutes later, Jenassa spies the telltale ripples returning from the same direction as before. "It's back!" she yells.
Valdimar orders them to row as fast as they can, but the chaurus stubbornly swims after them with surprising speed. When it starts catching up to the boat, the housecarl strafes it with a volley of ice spikes that send up plumes of water and frost with each near miss. The creature evades most of his spells and shrugs off the few direct hits with seemingly no damage to its sable carapace. Mull contributes with a couple of firebolts that similarly accomplish nothing.
A torrent of bluish-purple acid sails past the gunwale and splashes into the water alongside the canoe. It sends up a cloud of noxious fumes that makes their eyes water and throats dry.
"Hoarfather's beard!" hollers Torgen while paddling furiously. "What in Oblivion was that?!"
"Chaurus can spit poisonous saliva about as far as a thrown spear," Valdimar reports through gritted teeth.
"Why didn't you mention that earlier?!" Mull harangues.
"There are a number of different things to worry about with these accursed beasts."
"Well now I'm worrying a whole hell of a lot-!"
"Look out!"
"Holy-!"
While they're busy yelling at each other, the chaurus climbs onto a fallen log protruding from the nearest shoreline and flings itself at the canoe, giving them an unobstructed view of its full arthropodal form. Its underbelly is armored just as heavily as the rest of its chitinous body, leaving no gaps or weak points. It only has four legs, but each appendage terminates in a razor-sharp point that could easily pierce through chainmail. A crescent-shaped protrusion from the creature's rear resembles a tail.
All three spellcasters unleash their magic in a last-ditch effort to stop the monster from slamming into the canoe while Torgen and Lydia keep rowing with all their might. Jenassa and Mull hose down the chaurus with flames while Valdimar impales it with a trio of ice spikes, but even though it screeches loudly in pain, they aren't able to stop its momentum as it arcs towards the boat.
With his flames accomplishing nothing, Mull protectively shoves Jenassa down into the belly of the canoe and stands to face the monster as its shadow falls over him. He doesn't have enough time to retrieve his sword or another weapon from their luggage, so instead he breathes deeply and gets ready to use Unrelenting Force to deflect the chaurus away from the canoe. Its body is large enough to destroy their only method of transportation if it lands on them, which would be a death sentence.
The chaurus opens its mandibles wide as if imitating him, but instead of a Shout it spews forth another torrent of acidic saliva. Valdimar's spell transitions from ice-blue to a warm gold as he summons a protective ward, but he isn't quite fast enough to make a difference.
"FUS RO!"
A concussive wave crashes into the chaurus and flings it away from the boat like a leaf in the wind along with its poisonous spittle. The overgrown insect tumbles through the air for a good five seconds before landing in the lagoon with a distant splash that belies its actual size and weight. A heartbeat later, a series of softer splashes and damp sizzles resound across the marsh as droplets of acid fall from the sky like rain.
His Shout violently rocks the canoe from side to side, causing some of their provisions and loose pieces of hacksilver to tumble into the swampy depths where they vanish forever. Once the surging waters return to normal, they gently drift to a halt as Torgen and Lydia collapse into puddles of their own sweat, panting with exhaustion. Jenassa grabs the gunwale and hoists herself up from the floor with a sour expression.
Mull wipes a film of salty moisture from his forehead. "That was too close."
Torgen heaves a relieved sigh. "No kidding."
After giving Mull a dirty look that informs him his assistance was unnecessary, Jenassa turns to Valdimar with a question on her lips. "I've never encountered that species before. A chaurus, you called it? Are they always so dangerous?"
The elderly housecarl answers while scanning the marsh to make sure the chaurus is gone for good. He's the only one still acting cool and collected, like this is just another day for him. "Sometimes they can fly. We're lucky this wasn't one of them."
Mull spits in the silty water. "Oh, it flew alright."
The others chuckle nervously.
"The chaurus is a fairly uncommon breed in Skyrim," Valdimar continues in an undertone. "They make their lairs in caves and other subterranean habitats, but sometimes they're also found aboveground here in the Hjaalmarch. They're tough bastards and aren't easy to kill with steel or magic. Your Voice is formidable, my Thane, but I doubt you slew it outright. If we're lucky, it learned its lesson and won't bother us again."
"It'd better not," he grumbles. "Why anyone would be stupid enough to willingly live in this swamp is beyond me. There's nothing out here but killer insects and vampires, for Shor's sake."
"I'll have to disagree with you," asserts Valdimar. "Drajkmyr Marsh offers a rich bounty to those with the wisdom to see it. Valuable flowers, herbs, fungal pods, and giant lichens all take root in this soil. You might find canis root, deathbell, or even nightshade if you're lucky."
Lydia tiredly pulls a face. "It isn't 'lucky' to stumble across a flower that can kill you if handled carelessly."
Valdimar cracks a rare smile. "Ah, but that's where you're wrong lass. A good alchemist can concoct all sorts of potent poisons from deathbell and nightshade. We warriors of the Hjaalmarch never shy away from an honorable battle, but that doesn't mean we won't give ourselves an edge against our enemies if the opportunity arises. A thimble of toxin can bring low the mightiest of foes."
"That is dishonorable," she sniffs.
Mull slowly looks at his exhausted housecarl, back to the suspiciously-calm Valdimar, and pieces together what the old man is doing. He's trying to take their minds off what just happened. Something tells me this isn't his first mammoth-wrangling.
The elder housecarl doesn't seem to mind her bad attitude. "By the standards of Whiterun perhaps, but don't forget that your plains and our swamps are very different. You harvest wheat in your rich fields and raise fattened beasts in your golden pastures, but out here we do what we must to survive against Kyne's challenges. If she gives us gifts of deathbell and nightshade, who are we to refuse her generosity?"
Lydia scowls and falls silent.
Valdimar and Jenassa spend the rest of the day discussing the pros and cons of their favorite poisons. Mull, Lydia, and Torgen are too paranoid after their close encounter with the chaurus and can't stop staring at the water, waiting for another monster to spring from the lagoon with mandibles opened wide.