Chapter 7

Mull slowly makes his way through the crowded streets of Whiterun's lower districts, weaving between columns of evening commuters and shoving through impromptu gatherings of gregarious townspeople. Whiterun is a sprawling city, easily large enough to house tens of thousands of people – especially if you include the farmlands to the south and east. The city is separated by ringed walls into distinct levels, each higher in elevation than the last, like a nesting doll sliced in half. The lower districts appear to be where most businesses, industries, and residences of the average folk are located, while the middle districts are home to the city's various religious institutions and the dwellings of the wealthier. The highest district is where Dragonsreach, the great hall of the Jarl of Whiterun and his current destination, overlooks the rest of the city. When he briefly questions a handful of fellow pedestrians, Mull learns that this uppermost district is called the Cloud District.

Whiterun can best be described as bustling. Merchants hawk their myriad wares at every corner and market square, priests of all stripes shout fiery sermons to the masses, and children dodge between legs as they run through the streets. One of them – a boy no older than ten – unexpectedly bumps into Mull, prompting him to grasp his rucksack protectively out of habitual vigilance for an attempted pickpocketing. He's been on the receiving end of that trick more than once, and the reverse is also true. But as it turns out, these particular children don't seem to be harboring any ulterior motives. The boy shouts an apology and dashes into an alleyway in pursuit of his laughing colleagues without so much as a second glance.

Firelight shines through shuttered windows and smoke spills from within clerestory openings as matrons and tavernkeepers prepare dinner for their respective dependents. The sounds of clattering tableware and ale-fueled merriment occasionally reach the street.

The local architecture is nothing particularly special, but is beautiful regardless. The streets are lined by multistory timber-framed buildings adorned with sculpted cornices depicting horses and dragons. Along the main thoroughfares are rows of businesses festooned with hanging signage depicting anvils, tankards, mortar-and-pestles, and a plethora of other symbols advertising their services to passersby. Homes and shops alike appear to be clean, orderly, and generally well cared for.

However, signs of the Civil War are to be seen all around as well. Groups of refugees are congregated in alleyways and on vacant plots of land, set apart from the general populace by their tattered clothing, gaunt faces, and watchful eyes. Food prices are almost absurdly high, something he discovers when he tries to replenish his meager provisions at a meat stall. There are also fewer non-Nords than he'd expect from a commercial center of Whiterun's size, though he does see some here and there, predominantly Cyrods, Bretons, and Orcs. There are also a few Redguards, Reachmen, Dunmer and even a Bosmer or two. Those Wood Elves are a long way from home.

The further he delves into the city, the more evidence he sees of this decline, and not all of it is so recent either. The majority of Whiterun's towers and other fortifications look to be partially ruinous, not necessarily poorly-maintained, but simply worn down by age. Whole sections of the space enclosed by the outer walls are little more than fields of paving stones and collapsed chimneys, the uninhabited remains of a once-greater metropolis. And I'm sure things will only keep getting worse. Skyrim doesn't only have the Civil War to worry about anymore. Now there's a dragon to contend with too.

As he walks, he notes that many people have swords or long-bladed daggers hanging at their belts, no different from what he saw outside the walls. He hadn't expected the practice to extend into the urban populace of a major city, but it seems that the Nords have little regard for his expectations. You'd think city folk carrying weapons wherever they go would be a recipe for chaos, with fights breaking out on the streets. He wonders if the act of remaining armed at all times and in all places is somehow of cultural significance to the Nords. Or maybe it's just Skyrim being Skyrim. Everything here is trying to kill everything else at the earliest opportunity. I suppose you can't blame people for having the means to protect themselves.

Something similar could be said for the beards. Practically every single adult male Nord is sporting facial hair in varying styles and combinations. Mull has a beard too, of course, but he can't avoid noticing the differences between the Nords and the inhabitants of Cyrodiil, whom he dwelled among for much of his adult life. Most Cyrodiilic men are studiously cleanshaven in stark contrast to their northern cousins. He snorts at the memory. Cyrods and their insistence on presentability. Even the lowliest peasants were like that.

It's been a long time since he last entered a city this large, a few years at least, and it takes him a while to adjust to the seething mass of humanity swirling in all directions. He's overwhelmed by it at first, being pressed in from all sides by dozens of strangers, but he does his best to smother his burgeoning unease and presses onwards. It's too easy to be robbed or assaulted in an environment like this without any warning whatsoever.

The stairs though are the worst of it all by far. He climbs hundreds of the damn things as he makes his way further into the city, the earth rising beneath him on a constant upwards slope. He can't imagine how the locals are able to deal with this every day. The picturesque view as he glances over his shoulder down onto the sections of the city he's already traversed is really something special, but in his opinion, it isn't worth the physical effort.

About three-quarters of the way up the city-hill, he emerges through one of the inner curtain walls into a section of Whiterun called the Temple District, if what he overhears from some nearby locals is to be believed. It's admittedly a charming area.

The central area of the district is a sprawling plaza, with an expansive grove of green-leafed oak trees forming the nucleus. Buildings of all different shapes and sizes are positioned around the edges of the plaza and grove, ranging from massive granite edifices to simple timber cabins. From the dozens if not hundreds of robed figures milling about, Mull intuits that these are probably sanctuaries to the gods.

As he ventures into the central plaza, he curiously examines several of the temples. Not all of them are grand in appearance – some, like what he's pretty sure is a sanctuary of Kyne, are little more than glorified houses. Others, like those surmounted by statues of wing-crowned Talos and golden-scaled Akatosh, are sprawling complexes with gilded roofing and doors wrought of precious metal.

Alongside the paved streets and among the grove of trees, there's also a series of tumbling streams bounded by cobbled stonework flowing from somewhere further up the hill. There must be a spring up there somewhere. With the wind rushing through leaves and the cheerful burbling of unrestrained water, this plaza gives off the air of a place straddling the edge of the wilderness despite being located in the middle of a huge city.

A white-painted pergola overshadows a circular walkway around the perimeter of the central grove, casting Mull in shadow as he traverses the district to its opposite end and Dragonsreach beyond. The intricate trellis strikes him as vaguely Cyrodiilic in design, much more so than he would've expected from a city in the geographic heart of Skyrim. Though most Nord cities wouldn't have a temple of Akatosh either, from what I understand. I've always heard that the Nords have a strong dislike for the Time Dragon, but it's always possible that the issue has been overstated. You'd think they would've burnt down the temple of Akatosh by now if they really had a problem with it. That sounds like something Nords would do.

He soon leaves behind the sylvan grove and arrives at the end of the Temple District, presided over by the lofty heights of the Cloud District upon the city-hill's peak. He looks up at a flight of stairs zigzagging along the side of a particularly steep section of the hill, the only visible avenue for ascending to the summit. Great. More stairs. The most so far, by my reckoning.

As with the arrangement of the outer walls around the gatehouse complex, it's again quite clear that the layout of these stairs is primarily defensive. They're only wide enough for a few men to walk abreast at one time, and bowmen or spear-hurlers on the walls bounding the Cloud District above could rain death upon them with impunity. Though the defenses themselves are in a semi-dilapidated state, they're still plenty impressive. It wouldn't be wrong to say this city is one enormous fortress. With a weary sigh, he mounts the first step and begins the climb.

By the time he reaches the entrance to the Cloud District, he's panting and sweating like a half-dead dog, doubtlessly an unimpressive sight to the armored men guarding the gates. It takes several minutes of back-and-forth argument before they finally allow him through, and only then after he mentions the dragon attack at Helgen and shows them the letter from Riverwood. They insist on confiscating his weapons despite his protests, which he doesn't appreciate in the slightest. He feels naked and vulnerable without a means of defending himself within easy reach.

After the grandeur of some of Whiterun's larger temples below, most of the Cloud District's buildings are surprisingly simple, with single-story heather-thatched longhouses predominating the confined space atop the city-hill. Of course, the massive structure of Dragonsreach is the outstanding exception to that rule.

A row of freestanding archways lead to the front doors of Dragonsreach, before which are assembled yet more guardsmen. These men are clad in richly-decorated hauberks and brigandines, and perched atop their blonde heads are helms with faceguards inlaid with silver and gold. Swords ornamented with precious stones and huge bearded axes are held casually in their hands. A single man's raiment is probably worth more than any amount of money that Mull has ever possessed.

From the equal parts impressive and troubling sight of these guards, Mull's gaze rises upwards, beyond the doors and the archways. And rises. And rises. And rises still.

Dragonsreach is massive. Being located on top of the city-hill with no other natural or manmade features to be compared to, he failed to realize its true immensity when seeing it from a distance. Only now that he's standing before its doors does he understand how remarkable it truly is.

It superficially resembles a longhouse, but is far too large to be properly described as one. It rises at least eighty feet from base to roof, easily. The roofing is composed of shingles the color of burnished gold, gleaming magnificently in the rays of the setting sun. Every spare inch of the roof ridges and eaves is decorated with carvings of all kinds, every animal, plant, and creature imaginable. The walls are an eclectic mixture of wood paneling and dark granite bricks, as if a newer Nord-style structure was tacked onto the remnants of an older stone citadel. For all that the Nords of Skyrim are characterized as rebellious barbarians, Mull has to admit that the sight of Dragonsreach would assuredly knock even the most vainglorious Imperial onto their ass in wonderment.

His sightseeing reluctantly concluded, he returns to the business that brought him here in the first place. Though he's gained entry to Whiterun's uppermost district, he still needs to get past the splendidly-arrayed men at the doors of Dragonsreach itself.

Perhaps unsurprisingly, they prove to be even more troublesome than the previous. He's forced to impatiently repeat all of what he said to the first set of guards as well as display the signet on Gerdur's ring. That finally convinces them of his authenticity, prompting them to shove open the fifteen foot tall wooden doors as they gruffly order him to enter.

"And mind your tongue, messenger though you may be," one of the warriors adds as they swing closed the doors behind him. "For the Jarl of this land is merciful and wise, but even he does not abide men who show themselves to be unworthy of his regard. You are dark of countenance, and so may face greater difficulty than most."

Gee. Thanks.

The interior of the building is dim in comparison to the harsh light of the setting sun, and Mull is rendered temporarily blind in the darkness. He steps cautiously into the unknown building, blinking and waiting for his eyes to adjust. When they do, it takes a conscious effort for him to avoid gaping like a fish.

From what he cansee, Dragonsreach is even more impressive on the inside than the out, and that's saying a hell of a lot. Engraved hardwood columns and ribbed arches line a set of wide stairs leading from the liberally-carpeted foyer up to what he assumes to be the beginning of the great hall, an indistinct open space further within. A brief glance reveals that the A-framed ceiling is three or four stories high, shaded red and purple by the light of dusk filtering through distant windows.

Once he's confident he won't trip over his own feet, he continues deeper into the hall and ascends the flight of stairs. On either side, twin rows of steel-swathed guardsmen wordlessly watch as he passes. He's keenly aware that they could draw their weapons and turn him into mincemeat at any moment, and he'd be powerless to stop them. But they make no aggressive movements, content to observe without interference.

At the top of the stairs, he finds himself standing on the periphery of the Jarl's great hall. Braziers and an open hearth give off flickering auras of light, permeating the shadowed gloom. White and gold banners hang listlessly from the high walls. A jumbled assortment of men and women – most girt with swords – stand in groups or sit at long trestle tables. He assumes they must be the various functionaries of the Jarl's court, though he isn't knowledgeable in the slightest about such things. Their murmuring voices cast a layer of soft noise over the hall.

At the far end of the hall is a beautifully-carved throne, and on the wall above it is mounted what can only be the skull of a dragon, gnarled horns twisting outwards like a grotesque dremora to give it a truly demonic appearance. Mull shivers as the sight conjures up memories of unpleasant recent events.

Upon the throne sits a man, well-built in the manner common to most Nords. He's deep in animated conversation with a handful of others. That must be the Jarl. Aela called him… Balgruuf, I think.

Mull begins making his way through the crowd of nobles, doing his best not to shove anyone too roughly – though he still garners some dirty looks – as he draws nearer to the throne and its denizen. The distracting aromatic scents of spices and alcohol waft tantalizingly from all directions. Many tongues grace his ears, both foreign and domestic – Nord, Imperial Tamrielic, Dunmeri, Bretic, and others he doesn't recognize.

Suddenly, he's stopped dead in his tracks by the blade of a sword pressed against his throat. He goes completely still, not daring to even breath. A hand creeps to his thigh, the usual home of his dagger, and finds nothing there. In the moment, he forgot that the guards at the entrance to the Cloud District still have his weaponry.

"What is the meaning of this? Jarl Balgruuf is not receiving uninvited visitors."

In the corner of his eye, he catches a glimpse of a grey-skinned woman with pointed ears, prominent cheekbones, and glaring red irises. Dunmer. The offending sword is held rigidly in her gloved hands. She's armored in boiled leather of impressive craftsmanship, denoting her as a warrior of some significance.

He gulps against his will and feels the blade prick his bare skin. The woman readjusts her grip to give him just enough leeway to speak. He takes advantage of the small indication of mercy to plead his case. "I bring a message from Riverwood and news from Helgen. About the dragon attack. I was there."

He cautiously reaches into his pocket, removes Riverwood's letter and Gerdur's ring, and stiffly holds them out to the woman. She takes both in her offhand and gives the ring a brief onceover, eyebrows furrowing as she notices the signet. She then tucks the ring into a pocket, opens the letter, and quickly scans its contents. Mull is grudgingly impressed by her ability to do all of the above without lowering her weapon.

Once finished, she considers him for a long moment, taking note of his travel-stained clothes and generally disheveled appearance. She doesn't look very impressed.

Finally, she harumphs and sheathes her sword. Mull exhales with relief.

"Well that explains why the guards let you in. The Jarl is currently meeting with his thanes and housecarls, but I believe this matter takes precedence."

He nods mutely and scans the crowd around them. Only a handful seem to have noticed their exchange, and none have made any hostile movements.

The Dunmer irascibly clears her throat, turns, and gestures for him to follow. "Come on then. Follow me, and don't even think of running off somewhere. The Jarl will want to hear from you personally." Somehow, she makes that sound incredibly menacing.

She leads Mull directly to the Jarl himself, still seated on his throne, and interrupts the man's current conversation to whisper in his ear. She hands him Riverwood's letter and the ring.

Mull uses his unexpected proximity to study this Jarl Balgruuf in detail. He can't deny that he's interested by the chance to meet a noble in his own ostentatious abode. He doesn't imagine there are many common folk, bandit or otherwise, who can claim to have found themselves in a situation like this.

The Jarl is an older man with a mane of braided blonde hair, a beard neatly trimmed into a point, and a rather large nose. A jeweled circlet adorns his wrinkled forehead, its numerous inlaid gemstones each glittering alluringly in the firelight. I don't even want to imagine how much that thing must be worth. Despite his advanced age and grandiose dress, it's apparent that the Jarl is a warrior, or at least was a warrior at one time. He has that air about him, as well as the musculature to match. A man of action.

I don't know what exactly I expected, but he seems to fit the mold of a strong Nord leader. I wouldn't want to get into a fight with him. Though if I was fighting a Jarl, that would mean things have already gone to Oblivion and back, and I'd definitely be a dead man then. So it's a moot point either way.

Once the Dunmer finishes her report, Jarl Balgruuf directs his attention to Mull. His deep blue eyes gleam with curiosity. "So you were at Helgen? You saw this… dragon, with your own eyes?" His accented voice is one that demands respect, though its sonorous regality is somewhat undermined by the eagerness with which he asks the question.

Mull notes with some nervousness that the attention of the entire hall is now on him. This is a new one. I've never spoken to a noble before, much less before his entire thrice-damned court. Well, there was Ulfric Stormcloak, but we never actually spoke to one another. He was gagged the whole time. The ridiculousness of that statement isn't lost on him. Shor's bones, what a time it's been. I've been meeting all kinds of people, Jarls and all.

Pushing aside his ruminations, he hastily replies to Balgruuf's query. "I did, though it was the better part of two weeks ago. It was flying northwards, about in this direction from Helgen by my best guess." He recalls the old woman in Riverwood who was yelling about seeing a dragon. "I'd be surprised if it isn't somewhere in this area, or at least has been at one point."

With that revelation, the hall erupts into a raucous flurry of panicked questions, whispers that are louder than intended, and poorly-repressed expletives. From Mull's vantage at the front of the crowd, it appears that several arguments break out, some of which quickly become physical as blows are exchanged. The Jarl bickers with his advisors for perhaps half a minute before falling silent. They continue to squabble amongst themselves, debating best courses of action and potential consequences. As they do, the Jarl's hooded gaze sweeps across the tumultuous hall. Mull feels distinctly uncomfortable, but a glare from the Dunmer woman tells him that he isn't allowed to leave. He doesn't like being at the center of this commotion.

This goes on for several excruciating minutes, during which his unease grows steadily worse. Judging by what he overhears, Balgruuf and his court already received news about Helgen from the Empire several days ago, so his assumptions were correct in that regard. However, they apparently haven't spoken to someone who was actually there. So that's where I come in, it seems.

When it becomes clear that the hall's occupants aren't going to settle down anytime soon, the Jarl leans over and murmurs something in the Dunmer woman's ear. She makes eye contact with Mull and gestures for him to come closer.

As he draws near, he catches the last of their exchange. "We should have this discussion somewhere more private. See to it."

The Dunmer leans over, grabs Mull's arm, and steers him sharply to the right, away from the throne. Her grip is like an iron shackle. "Walk," she orders.

He hesitates, but then obliges when the Jarl stands and moves to follow along with a handful of others. Several guardsmen join the burgeoning procession to escort them through the crowd. With the nobles and housecarls focused on their own conversations, few mark their departure.

They ascend a flight of stairs at one of the rear corners of the hall. Irileth prods Mull in the back, encouraging him to take the steps two at a time. The woman's intense demeanor and apparent willingness to hold innocent strangers at swordpoint is enough for him to go along with her impatience.

When he crests the top of the staircase, he finds himself in a respectably large room with a high ceiling, though not nearly as high as that of the main hall. Illumination is provided by candelabras in the corners and a circular chandelier overhead. The walls are lined with suspended sepia maps and sturdy bookshelves filled to the brim with tomes of all colors and thicknesses. A varnished holly desk takes up the center of the chamber with more maps laid across it, as well as goblets of silver and blue enamel stacked empty and unused. A marigold rug blankets the otherwise bare stone floor. A stuffed bear's head adorns one wall high near the rafters, peering down at them with unseeing black eyes.

Balgruuf walks to the desk and settles into a solid oaken chair with an aggrieved sigh. The other warriors shuffle into the room behind them and line up along the walls, standing like statues in their hauberks and polished helms.

Mull feels conspicuously out of place among all these people wearing their dignified tunics and flamboyant robes. He doesn't exactly look the part for a lord's great hall. Even the warriors are outfitted with equipment that's far higher quality than just about anything he's ever seen. The pommels of their swords and axes and gilded with all manner of valuable materials, clearly ceremonial weapons rather than practical, and their armor is too clean, especially compared to what was worn by the guards at the lower city gates and elsewhere. In contrast, his roughspun tunic and faded cloak – clothing he acquired courtesy of Gerdur – are mundane and dirty. Not that he would usually care about something like that, but right now he cares because it makes him drastically more noticeable. And that's never, ever a good thing. Especially not with all these people looking at me like I'm an ant.

The Jarl instructs a servant to bring a decanter of wine and periodically grumbles to himself, but otherwise says nothing, leaving Mull to stand in uncomfortable silence with the rest of the study's occupants.

Only after the servant has returned with the wine and poured the Jarl a cup does he finally get down to business He straightens his posture and cracks open one eye to regard Mull with utmost seriousness. He indicates the Dunmer woman with a nod. "This is Irileth, my housecarl. She speaks with my authority in all things."

Mull grunts his understanding, not sure what else to say. This situation is moving far too quickly for him to keep up. One minute he was walking into the hall, and now he's in the middle of the closest thing to a private conversation he'd ever expect to have with a Jarl.

The Dunmer – Irileth – transfixes Mull with an offended glare and bares her teeth, angered by his unintentionally insolent response. The Jarl doesn't outwardly react. He doesn't even seem to notice.

Just as the Dunmer opens her mouth to give Mull a dressing down, the Jarl continues and inadvertently cuts her off. "If it's true that you encountered your dragon on the 17th of Last Seed, then it was likely the same creature that we ourselves have also seen. Just as you say, it was about two weeks ago that folk throughout Whiterun Hold witnessed a creature in the shape of a dragon soaring high above the plains, moving northwards with incredible speed. Not so many people witnessed its passage for this to become common knowledge among the masses, but they were enough to inundate the Hold with all manner of rumors. The dragon vanished into the Skyborn Mountains and we have yet to see any other sign of its presence. As far as anyone is aware, it's still lurking out there on the fringes of my Hold. The confirmation you've provided about the events at Helgen is worrisome indeed, to know that the very same creature was willing and able to cause such destruction."

The Jarl taps his fingers restlessly against his armrest.

"When we first received word of Helgen, we believed that the Empire was trying to cover up news of some Stormcloak raid gone wrong. A dragon? Pah! How ridiculous!"

Not really, no.

"But then we began hearing reports of scattered folk sighting a great winged beast, and those Imperial tales suddenly didn't seem so ridiculous anymore. It was then that we assumed these two dragons were one and the same, and your testimony seems to confirm that." The Jarl frowns. "I only wish you had not said what you did before my entire hall. That will cause no small measure of needless panic, unfortunately. As you saw, it has already begun."

Mull grimaces and scuffs the toe of his boot against the plush carpet. Getting off on the wrong foot with a Jarl is… unideal. It certainly doesn't help his chances of getting his well-deserved payment, whatever and whenever that may be.

The Jarl notices his discomfort and sighs. "Ah, do not worry. You couldn't have known. These things happen, I suppose." He picks up a sheet of parchment from his desk – Mull recognizes it as the now opened and unfolded letter from Gerdur – and rapidly scans its contents. "Riverwood will get their men, of course. I couldn't refuse them in good faith."

"The river valley is in the most immediate danger," Irileth agrees. "Riverwood's proximity to Helgen is worrying, and Divines know what else could now be lurking in the mountains with a dragon flying around."

"The Jarl of Falkreath will view any reinforcement of Riverwood's garrison as a provocation!" One of Balgruuf's subordinates loudly interjects, a balding Cyrod with a pinched face. "Siddheir is hardly an understanding or considerate man, and especially not after that sordid business with his uncle. He'll assume we're preparing to join Ulfric's side and attack him! We shouldn't-"

"That's enough, Proventus." Jarl Balgruuf raises his voice in anger. "I'll not stand idly by while a dragon threatens to burn my Hold and slaughter my people! Do not contradict me on this! Irileth, ready a detachment to be sent to Riverwood! Go at once."

The room is hushed after the Jarl's outburst, save for his own heavy breathing. He settles back into his chair and tiredly rubs his creased forehead.

"Yes, my Jarl," Irileth softly replies. She quietly exits the study.

The room again descends into tense stillness. Mull watches his surroundings warily, increasingly paranoid that something bad might happen to him. He's the bearer of bad news after all, and he isn't used to being trapped in confined spaces like this. Being unarmed with so many guards everywhere is a singularly unpleasant feeling.

Some of the other men in the room begin speaking to one another in muted voices, careful not to disturb the Jarl. He doesn't seem to mind, apparently stewing in his own thoughts and taking solace in his goblet of wine. Mull remains alert for any kind of duplicity, and nobody tries to speak with him.

After a good fifteen minutes – though it seems like an eternity – Irileth finally returns and takes her place by the Jarl's desk. They trade a few words before Balgruuf clears his throat and lifts a hand for silence, which his subordinates immediately obey. His attention turns back to Mull.

"Don't worry, I haven't forgotten about you. If you would, tell us everything you can about Helgen and the dragon attack. Any information you have to offer might be invaluable, and all the more so if we must contend with this dragon in the future. Don't leave out any details."

"…As you say." Mull takes a moment to gather his thoughts before diving into his recollection of the last couple of weeks. Contrary to the Jarl's command, he chooses to exclude many of the less savory details, especially those pertaining to his capture by the Imperials and intended execution at Helgen. There's no need for these people to be aware of those things. Instead, he emphasizes the dragon's invulnerability to the Imperial Legion's arrows and magic, as well as the apocalyptic devastation it wrought on the hapless garrison town. Balgruuf, Irileth, and another Nord man with red hair occasionally interject with questions regarding the dragon's capabilities and potential weaknesses. He doesn't have much to offer there, but they seem to accept his opinions for what they're worth.

As he speaks of his experiences, the events of the past weeks sound increasingly unbelievable even to his own ears, most of all the fact that he somehow managed to survive. He probably owes it to Hadvar leading him and their Stormcloak companions underneath Helgen's fortress. If they'd remained aboveground… well, he still vividly remembers the burnt wasteland they emerged into when exiting the tunnels. They would've shared that fate with hundreds of unfortunate others.

He also narrates his group of fellow survivors' journey through the forest, their losses to the local wildlife, and their eventual arrival at Riverwood. He avoids describing Gunjar or Rana's deaths in too much morbid detail, but still feels sickened when he briefly recounts their final moments. Not because of the gruesomeness of what happened to them, but because of just how pointless their deaths really were. They survived something insane like a dragon attack only to be killed by godsdamn Frostbite spiders, pathetic creatures in comparison. That doesn't make for a very good story, does it?

When he finishes, the Jarl hums contemplatively and nods. "I believe that's all of our questions. Everything you've said is corroborated by Riverwood's message." He glances at Irileth, who mimics his satisfied nod. "What is your name, son?"

"Mull." Finally, we're getting to the good part.

"Mull, know that this task you've performed for my Hold is commendable. In these trying times, those who would be willing to undertake the journey from Riverwood alone are few and far between. And not only that, but you're also a man who has personally encountered a dragon and lived to tell of it. Few can claim such a thing. It speaks to your competence." The Jarl then gives him a hard stare, as if attempting to decipher his features, stature, and guarded stance.

This is a familiar sensation. The Jarl is sizing him up, one fighter to another. Mull matches his gaze, unwilling to show weakness but also avoiding anything that might be perceived as a challenge. It worked with the wolves a couple days ago. He doesn't see why it wouldn't work with a Jarl too.

Balgruuf grunts noncommittally, perhaps having found whatever he was searching for, and leans back. "And you've the look of a capable enough warrior, I suppose. Experienced, certainly."

Mull shifts his weight and his expression tightens, fingers brushing against his empty sword-sheath. That description annoys him for some reason. 'Capable' and 'experienced' aren't typically words he would use to define himself. Not in the way this Jarl is probably thinking.

"I'm afraid we will have great need of men with such traits in these coming days," Balgruuf continues. "First we were beleaguered by both sides of the war, and now we must contend with dragons of all things…" He shakes his head glumly. "To think we were so short of warriors before, and yet now they must necessarily be spread more thinly than ever. Our Hold is in for dark days ahead, I fear."

"By the Nine brother, are your own warriors not good enough for you? What do I look like to you, a three-legged skeever?" The speaker is the red-haired man who asked a few questions during the interview. As the man gains the room's attention with his exclamation, Mull analyzes him in greater detail. He's rugged, clad in scaled armor, and has a massive greatsword sheathed across his back. He's definitely a warrior too. Seems like Whiterun has no shortage of them. The man spreads his arms and laughs heartily at his own jest, echoed by a few others.

Balgruuf smiles in a tolerant manner, though one of his eyes twitches with restrained annoyance, and he waits until the resulting commotion has subsided. "As I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted, I find myself in an increasingly precarious position. Quite frankly, Whiterun needs all the help it can get." The Jarl's lips turn upwards in an expression that Mull can only describe as shrewd. "Forgive me for making assumptions, but as I said before, I'm willing to wager that you're exactly the sort of man that my Hold needs. Capable and experienced."

Mull doesn't like the way this Jarl is looking at him. He doesn't think there's anything inherently malicious in the man's demeanor, but it's too calculating for his taste. He feels like an animal about to be sold off to whichever farmer can bid the highest. He's seen this same exact thing many times across many different bandit gangs, from leaders and chieftains trying to decide whether or not he's worth the trouble to recruit. The circumstances couldn't be any more different, obviously, but he still wonders about the Jarl and his subordinates' intentions. If they were going to throw me a bag of gold and usher me out the door, they would've done it already. I don't like this.

The Jarl continues, oblivious to Mull's thoughts. "It is for these reasons, and especially given your expertise on the matter of dragons – relatively speaking, of course – that I am willing to offer you an opportunity to serve as a lesser retainer in my household. Unless there's someone who might take issue with that. Fearing for his own position, perhaps?" The Jarl glowers lightheartedly at the man with red hair, who responds with a facetious shrug and a grin.

"…What?" Mull's jaw drops in astonishment. Not wanting to look like a fool in front of these people, he swiftly closes his mouth and prays that nobody noticed. This isn't at all what he was expecting. His reward was going to be some gold, maybe an above-average set of armor or weaponry if the Jarl was in a generous mood, and an invitation to be on his merry way. That's a fair notion for the value of the service he provided.

The same couldn't be said for this. This is just… ridiculous, and all the more so because of the sheer unexpectedness of the offer. An opportunity to serve in a Jarl's court? Him? Him, serve a Jarl? That doesn't even make sense.

His eyes narrow. I might not be a noble, but try to think about this from his perspective. What in Talos' name does he possibly have to gain? I'm not a mage, I'm not a warrior – not really – and I'm not anything else worth a Jarl's notice. So what is it? It's absurd, that's what.

He realizes that while he'd been dithering, the Jarl sat up a little straighter and quirked an eyebrow in anticipation, waiting for an answer. He needs to say something.

"You… I, uh…" He stutters. Several men chuckle behind him, and even Irileth's lips twitch. He exhales heavily, equal parts frustrated and dumbfounded, and swiftly tries to reorder his thoughts. "…Jarl, I don't really understand. Why would you be making me this offer? I must be missing something here. Uh, no offense intended," he hastily adds.

The Jarl doesn't appear to be upset by his question, which is a good start. To the contrary, he coughs in a way that sounds suspiciously like suppressed laugher. "That's quite alright. It shouldn't take too long to explain, as my reasoning is quite simple. That fact is, son, that you're likely the only man in Whiterun who has not only seen a dragon up close, but who has survived an attack. You've adequately described its actions and patterns of behavior, and this information is incredibly valuable to us. 'Know your enemy and you will defeat him in one thousand battles.' So said Gaiden Shinji many centuries ago, and yet that maxim still holds true today. He was a wise man indeed."

Several men makes noises of affirmation. Mull joins them, not wanting to appear ignorant despite having never heard of Gaiden Shinji.

"You have offered meaningful insight and I believe you might be capable of continuing to do so. You could say that I've begun to view you as a potential long-term investment."

I don't know what that means, but it doesn't sound explicitly bad. Doesn't sound explicitly good either. This Jarl seems to be placing an inordinate amount of faith in him, a complete stranger. Perhaps Balgruuf simply wants every advantage he can get if a dragon were to come to Whiterun. He isn't sure how much help he would actually be, but you just don't turn down this kind of opportunity. Besides, if nothing else, he hasn't yet received his reward. He doesn't want to say something to jeopardize it. Still, I might as well be honest. I don't want to lie and get myself executed for not being able to deliver. Aela said the Jarl isn't one for unwarranted beheadings, but I don't want to put that claim to the test.

"I survived the dragon attack by luck and cowardice alone. I'd hardly say that's 'expertise,' as you called it."

That gets a chuckle from the Jarl. "Perhaps not. But it's more than any other man here can say, isn't it? I would argue that the very fact you survived is sufficient proof of your worth as a warrior."

Mull hesitantly nods. I suppose so. "I won't claim to be much of a warrior by Nord standards. I'm not even from Skyrim, though you've probably guessed that already."

"A fair question, though you may have noticed that my own housecarl is in fact a Dunmer," Balgruuf drily replies. "So believe me when I say that I value one's actions and the results they produce over such trivial things as their origin and appearance. In all things, I merely wish to protect my Hold and my people, and I believe you may be able to help me fulfill that desire. Trust my selfishness if nothing else."

He decides to stop pressing his luck. "You… uh, honor me with this offer, Jarl." He struggles to avoid tripping over his words. "I accept, though I'd like to ask what exactly you want me to do." Committing to a job without knowing all the details is rarely a good idea. It's a fast and reliable way to get yourself killed.

The Jarl responds with a faint grin before rising from his seat. "Ah, yes. Come, let's go find my court wizard, Farengar Secret-Fire. Given your experiences at Helgen, he may find your input to be of some use. Ever since we sighted the winged monster two weeks ago, he has been looking into a matter related to these dragons and… rumors of dragons."

-x-

The two men make their way down the stairs and back into the great hall, with Irileth stalking close behind every step of the way. By now the majority of the Jarl's retainers have departed, and as a result the sheer scale of the interior of Dragonsreach seems that much more pronounced than before. Indistinct voices echo throughout the enormous space.

As they walk, Mull can practically feel Irileth breathing down his neck. If he attempted to harm the Jarl or even wandered a little too close to him, he'd be dead before he even knew it. He doesn't doubt that in the slightest.

"Farengar has been working on translating a language of the dragons, or something to that effect," says Balgruuf. "He believes that if he can succeed in this endeavor, he'll uncover more information about the creatures and the true scope of the danger they represent. Gods know we need all the advantages we can get." He glances down at Mull. "I've decided that you should aid him in this endeavor. According to your account, you're the only man here who's seen a dragon up close, and I'm inclined to take you at your word due to the items you carried from Riverwood as well as the detailed nature of your report. You would be well-suited for this task, I think."

Mull isn't sure about that, but he doesn't voice his skepticism. He does have one question, however. "If you want me to help protect your city against the dragon, why don't you just ask me to swear a warrior's oath and send me off to join the guards? Isn't that how this sort of thing usually works?" He's no expert, but that's his best guess. "I'm not complaining, so don't take this the wrong way, but having me work with a wizard seems… well… you said it yourself. I'm a fighter. Not a thinker."

"Bah. It's the politics, son. Were I to solicit the fealty of an unqualified outsider with no local connections and thrust him into my personal guard, then the nobles would be yammering about it day and night. As long as you're somewhere on hand for whatever may happen next, then that's good enough for me."

"And this… Farengar?"

The Jarl smiles wryly. "He can be a bit difficult at times. Mages, you know."

Oh boy. Mull hasn't met many mages in his life, but he's heard enough about them to know they're eccentric at best and psychopathic at worst. It might be something about having the means to kill a man literally at your fingertips at all times, that power worming its way into your head. Or maybe using magic fries your brain without you realizing and makes you crazy. I don't know which of those is right, but I might be about to find out. Whether I want to or not.

"Ah, here we are."

They navigate a narrow lacquer-floored hallway into what appears to be a scholar's study. It's smaller than the Jarl's but no less aesthetically appealing. Carved timber pillars support the ceiling, colorful tapestries adorn the walls, and a rectangular desk dominates the space. However, the effect is somewhat ruined by the room's severe clutter. Most of the available space is taken up by an eclectic variety of alchemical and arcane equipment, as well as a few bookshelves and a conspicuously large map stand. Vials and tubes are stacked haphazardly on overcrowded shelves. At the back of the room, tucked away into an open closet, is a hexagonal table with a goat skull and glowing green runes. It's cramped, in a word.

He looks around warily. In a wizard's abode, one wrong step could mean a painful and agonizing death.

Balgruuf frowns. "Farengar, I thought I summoned you to our meeting with the thanes. Was it not so?"

A man sticks his hooded head out from behind a crate filled to the brim with hairy orange fungus. "Ah, my Jarl. I do apologize for my unannounced absence." He climbs to his feet and relocates to the desk with as much dignity as possible for someone whose hands are dripping with orange mushroom goop. "I simply found myself wrapped up in my work, and-"

"And you forgot, and you were busy, and you simply couldn't be bothered. Aye, I've heard it all before." The Jarl takes a deep breath and waves Mull forward. "At any rate, I've found someone to assist you with your dragon project. He was at Helgen as a matter of fact. Perhaps some of his observations could aid you in your endeavors."

The wizard in question appears to be in his thirties. He's noticeably skinny, with lanky arms and a narrow face. His blue mages robes hang loosely from his lean frame, his scrawniness not entirely concealed by the large desk he's standing behind. And that's… quite the set of mutton chops he's got there.

At Balgruuf's signal, Mull briskly introduces himself. Farengar does the same with exactly zero enthusiasm. Trust me, the feeling is mutual. A wizard's assistant, he scoffs to himself. That's definitely a first. What is my life coming to?

"This is a priority now, Farengar," continues the Jarl. "Anything we can use to fight this dragon, or dragons, we need it quickly. Before it's too late."

"Of course, Jarl Balgruuf," the wizard replies courteously. He adjusts his robes and stands straight-backed, his soiled hands hidden behind him. "You seem to have found me an able assistant. I'm sure he will prove… most useful." That last bit isn't quite as polite. Mull can feel the cynicism radiating from the man.

The Jarl, however, doesn't seem to notice and nods in acknowledgment. "Very good. I'll leave you to make further introductions and discuss whatever specifics you feel are necessary. Good luck." After patting Mull on the shoulder, Balgruuf takes his leave with Irileth dutifully following.

Mull and Farengar stare at one another for a long moment, each wordlessly assessing their newfound colleague. Eventually, the wizard lets out a long sigh and turns his back, swiping a nearby rag to wipe off his hands as he does. "So the Jarl believes you can be of use to me? Yes, I suppose the assistance would be welcome for some of my more… menial tasks. This is a rather time-consuming undertaking, after all, deciphering a long dead language. I must devote the entirety of my not-insubstantial intellect to this illustrious task."

Mull groans internally. Oh, Kyne's breath, he's one of those types. "Just tell me what you need done and I'll do it," he gripes, already growing annoyed by the wizard's verbosity. "This kind of thing isn't my strong suit, but your Jarl apparently thinks otherwise."

"Yes, I had guessed as much," Farengar muses. "In fact, I do believe this might be my punishment for failing to answer the Jarl's summons in a timely manner. You are a child and I am the nursemaid obligated to watch over them. Truly, the woe is mine."

As hard as he tries not to, Mull stop himself from bristling at the snide reply. He's always had difficultly in brushing off backhanded insults.

But before he can muster a response, Farengar stops at a bookshelf, removes several leather-bound volumes, and deposits them on his desk in an uneven stack with a muffled thump. He also grabs a number of potions and some other objects, no doubt of a magical nature, that Mull fails to recognize. "There are some things I can have you do today," the wizard says indifferently. "There's no point in wasting time with pointless trivialities. First, I need you to deliver these frost salts to one of my associates in the lower city." He holds up a small ceramic bowl with a lid. Mull hears something shifting inside, like sand. "It shouldn't be difficult for you to find your way. You're clearly better suited than I to carrying out such a simple chore."

Mull glares at him, even more unimpressed. "Do I look like a courier to you, wizard?"

Farengar gives him a wry look. "Well let's see. Travel-stained clothes, worn boots, a blank and unintelligent expression… yes, in fact. You do."

You've got to be kidding me.