Chapter 14

AN: Sound the horns! Beat the drums! Light the signal fires! OC backstory monologue incoming!

I'm sure some of you aren't happy to hear that, which I completely understand. If you don't mind it, then great! Read on. But if you do, then feel free to skim. I don't think you'll miss too much important stuff in this chapter. The last thing I'd want is for these slower chapters to discourage any of you, so if you need to skip ahead to stay interested, then do what you gotta do. Either way, thanks for reading!

-tetrapod

-x-

That night, the two travelers strike camp in a wooded dell ringed by a hedge of blackthorn bushes, offering shelter from the wind and potential hostile eyes. It's the best spot they can find on short notice, but Mull is keenly aware that it won't do much to protect them from wild animals or other creatures who might pick up their scent. He still worries about encountering those same wolves that stalked him during his trips to and from Whiterun. For a threat like that, the best they can do is keep their eyes and ears peeled and hope for the best.

Torgen sets about building a fire while Mull pokes around the vicinity for something to eat. They have a few days' worth of rations purchased from a hunter in Riverwood, but they're rations made to last rather than taste good. A dinner of only dried squirrel jerky and flavorless bread would be tolerable but little else.

Unfortunately, his attempt at foraging is mostly a waste of time. They're too far from the river for much edible vegetation to grow. It's predominantly pine trees and thistle up in these hills. The nearby blackthorn bushes are festooned with clusters of midnight-blue berries, but he's heard before their seeds are poisonous and unpalatable. He could use his knife to pick out the seeds, but doing so would be time-consuming and there's always a chance he might miss a few. Resigning himself to a bland meal, he trudges back to the campsite with nothing to show for his efforts.

He finds a small fire already smoldering under Torgen's ministrations, with the jerky and bread arranged atop a flat stone resting over the embers. With a murmured greeting, he takes a seat on the leaf-blanketed ground and scoots closer to the flames, basking in the heat they provide. These Skyrim evenings can become chilly with a swiftness that always manages to take him by surprise.

It doesn't take much longer for the food to get warm. He and Torgen each grab a handful of meat, thump their waterskins together in a mock toast, and chow down.

Torgen proves to be a rather talkative individual over the course of their meal, though Mull notes approvingly that he always seems to be aware of their surroundings even while eating. That was also true while they were traveling today. The older man's constant vigilance almost bordered on excessive at times, though he supposes that isn't a bad thing. If Torgen weren't so alert, he probably wouldn't have lived to his age. Thirty- or forty-something is old for an outlaw in Skyrim.

Lounging on either side of the fire, eating shitty food, and talking about nothing of consequence makes for an oddly nostalgic scene. It reminds him of the time he spent travelling with Lokir not too long ago. They shared many evenings almost exactly like this one, hunkered down in the middle of a deserted forest or field with only the sounds of chirping insects and small creatures moving through underbrush to keep them company. Overhead, clusters of stars begin wheeling across the sky as the sun sinks further behind the horizon.

He tries to avoid dwelling too much on Lokir and his unenviable fate. He spends far too much time thinking about Morven as it is, even by his own estimation. He doesn't need yet another dead person to occupy his thoughts, and he certainly doesn't need anything else to remind him of that day at Helgen. But still, at times like these it's often difficult not to reminisce.

After a while, a soft noise of amusement prompts him to glance up from gnawing at a chunk of rock-hard bread. Torgen is staring at him with a slight grin. He quirks an eyebrow, but the blonde bandit merely continues to smirk. With a mental shrug, he decides to ignore the man and continues chewing, waiting for him to go back to minding his own business.

Somewhat predictably, he doesn't.

Finally, Mull grows sufficiently irritated by the constant staring to put down the bread and say something about it. He glares back at the bandit. "The hell are you looking at?"

Torgen represses a chuckle. "I'm sorry kid, but I just gotta ask. What in Shor's name happened to your nose? It looks like a good tale waiting to be told."

He automatically raises a hand to touch the appendage in question, tracing the outline of its uneven shape. He often forgets that his nose is badly crooked – he doesn't spend much time looking at his own face. That doesn't change the fact that it's objectively one of his most distinctive features, though not in a good way.

"It isn't much of a story to be honest. I got this during a scuffle with some ranchers in the moorlands out west of Bruma. They owned money to the wrong kind of people, and those people hired me and a few others to go collect on it. We tried to intimidate those swineherding idiots into coughing up the gold and going on with their lives – talking nasty and showing off a couple of swords, the usual approach – but they were a stubborn bunch and didn't want to back down. We started arguing, things got heated, and someone threw the first punch. It all went downhill from there. We ended up with some nasty wounds on both sides."

"And you were one of them?"

"Aye, I'd say I was. One of the ranchers blindsided me with a shovel and gave me a solid whack straight to the face. It broke my nose and made my cheeks swell up like a chipmunk. I couldn't smell anything for three weeks."

Torgen winces, though a little amusement slips through the otherwise sympathetic expression. "Ouch."

"Ouch is right." Mull rubs his jaw, vividly recalling the pain of that injury even so many years later. "I don't remember what the man looked like or how much money I made on that job. Mostly, I just remember thinking it wasn't worth the trouble. You don't know how much less enjoyable life can be without being able to smell your own food. Trust me, it makes a bigger difference than you'd think."

He picks up a stick and lazily pokes the fire, stirring up the embers and sending sparks fluttering towards the sky.

"Alright, my turn. What happened to your ear?"

It's often hidden behind braided strands of blonde hair, but one of Torgen's ears is noticeably missing a sizeable chunk. Mull first caught sight the odd feature in Bleak Falls Barrow. The edges of the tear are jagged, as if the cartilage was torn away rather than clearly sliced as might be expected from a blade.

Unlike him, the older man smiles fondly when asked about his personal mutilation. "Heh. Now this is a good one. It was at a dinky little tavern in some nameless town up in the Pale. Me and a few others were in the middle of your average night of drinking and carousing. You know how it goes."

"Sure."

"And, well, I'll admit the details are a little hazy, but somehow I ended up getting into a real bad fight with this local man. I'm pretty sure both of us were as drunk as drowning horkers – I definitely was – and before long, we were rolling around on the floor trying to get our hands around each other's throats. I remember bashing my forehead against his, hoping to knock him out or at least daze him. That was a stupid thing to do since it hurt me just as much as it did him. And next thing I know, this milkdrinker suddenly lunges at me and clamps his teeth around my ear. He tore part of it off, and not cleanly either." He indicates the pertinent ear. "You can see the results for yourself."

"Damn. I bet that was painful."

"It probably was, but I sure don't remember it. I was a dozen tankards deep at the time."

He gives the man a dry look. Sounds about right. "You know, I think I liked you better when we were still stuck inside the barrow."

Torgen leans back with his hands behind his head, chewing on a mouthful of squirrel jerky. "How's that?"

"You did a better job maintaining the illusion of a respectable leader."

The bandit doesn't deny it. He laughs and keeps chewing. "It's different when you've got other people depending on you. You have to do right by them, just like they have to do right by you. You've got to set an example. But now it's just you and me out here, and I'd say you can take care of yourself just fine. Nobody's relying on me, which means I get to settle back and relax for a while – and well-deserved if you ask me. You know what they say, kid. Work hard, play hard."

He snorts. He can't imagine a more stereotypical Nord response than that.

They finish eating, pack up the remaining food, and settle in with drinks warmed over the fire. It's watery snowberry tea, nothing especially tasty, but better than flavorless water.

"I've been wondering," Mull begins. "How did you and shield girl first learn about the draugr and ancient Nordic barrows?"

"Who, me and Soling?"

"Yeah. Whatever her name was."

Torgen huffs with amusement but doesn't deign to comment. Instead he reclines further back against his seat, a smooth rock overgrown with moss, and thoughtfully scratches his beard. "That's a bit of a tale, though it isn't like I have anything better to do. I enjoy hearing myself talk if you hadn't figured that out already."

"Could've fooled me."

"Well, where to begin. A while back, our clan decided to investigate this underground cairn called Volunruud, an old Nordic burial ground near the border between Whiterun and the Pale. Our chieftain at the time was named Heddic Volunnar. He was an old man by then, but he was still an able warrior and was a good leader in most ways. Most, but not all. His biggest failing was that he had a bad habit of sending members of the clan on wild goose chases for hidden treasure, lost artifacts, and other stuff like that. His final expedition was to a place called Volunruud. Me and Soling were a part of that one."

His tone turns increasingly serious.

"We were searching for these legendary ancient swords that supposedly once belonged to Heddic's ancestors. According to him, they would've been worth a lot of gold. We never found any sign of them, but what we did find in that barrow were draugr. A lot of them. Though really I should be saying that they found us. When we were already deep inside the crypts, they showed up without any warning and attacked us from everywhere at once. Heddic didn't think there would be any draugr, so we were completely unprepared for it. It was nothing short of a massacre. Soling and I survived, but Heddic and a bunch of the others didn't make it out alive. I wish I could say my heroic strength and cunning are what carried the day," the bandit japes. "But if I'm telling the truth, the two of us just got lucky. Nothing more, nothing less."

"There isn't anything wrong with that." Mull is perfectly willing to admit that he's only alive today because of luck, and often undeserved luck at that.

"You're right. And if nothing else, we did learn a lot about the draugr simply by managing to live through that mess. The downside is that our clan lost of a lot of good people for no reason. It messed us up badly in the long run, and ole' Heddic going and getting himself killed didn't help matters either."

"Hmm. Sounds a lot like Bleak Falls Barrow."

Torgen grimaces as his gaze drops to the fire. "Aye. In a lot of ways, it really was." His voice lowers. "If Arvel was here right now, I'd wring his scrawny neck. That damn elf. We made some good coin, don't get me wrong. Better than I expected. But if you ask me, it wasn't worth the trouble in the end."

"I'm with you there."

"Though you did find your Dragon-rock or whatever you called it. You must be happy about that."

It's Mull's turn for his tone to darken. "Oh, I wouldn't say I'm happy. The man who sent me to find this thing didn't do a very good job of describing what the barrow would be like. That dumbass wizard said I wouldn't have anything to worry about. Pah." He spits into the fire. "I've been fantasizing about putting a knife through his ribs ever since that Frostbite spider dropped on top of us. I don't care how much he pays me."

"What is it, anyways? It looks heavy," he comments.

"It's just some old tablet. I think the wizard wants to use it to translate runes or something." He swiftly changes the topic, not willing to risk piquing the bandit's interest in the Dragonstone or the true motive for his participation. "So why'd your clan move south? The women mentioned they're all moving to Falkreath, didn't they?" He doesn't want to explain that he can somehow magically read the dragon language. Gods only know what Torgen would think of that.

"That's right." Torgen shuffles in place and clears his throat. "Our clan stronghold was a fortress northeast of Dunstad, in the Pale. It was a good location – not too isolated, easy to defend, and still in decent condition despite its age. It was actually too good as it turned out. When the Civil War flared up last year, the Stormcloaks started putting some serious pressure on us to abandon the place. They got sick of us causing trouble on the Red Road, I guess, or maybe they wanted the fortress for themselves. To make things worse, the Snowpoint Clan and Driftshade Clan were being constant pains in our asses as always. They hated us and we hated them. That feud had been going on for a long time, about as long as anyone in our clan could remember. So all around it just wasn't a good situation. In fact, it eventually got so bad that we were trying to raid some of the local giant tribes just to have enough supplies to survive. Trust me kid, you've gotten really desperate if you're willing to pick a fight with giants."

He nods in agreement. The giant that Aela the Huntress killed at the cabbage farm seemed like a truly formidable opponent. There's no way he would've willingly risked getting up close and personal with the enormous humanoid, not like Aela or her fellow Companions had done. If it hadn't been for his intervention, the younger female Companion would've almost certainly been killed. And seeing how a single giant was that dangerous, he's sure that an entire tribe of giants would be a terrifying sight indeed.

"So we eventually decided to call it quits, packed up, and left. Moving from one place to another is a normal part of life for most clans, so it wasn't too much of a problem. We came south to Whiterun Hold, where the Civil War hadn't reached quite yet, and were doing pretty well for ourselves. Then we took that dumb detour into Volunruud and the rest is history. I think Heddic believed that finding those swords or whatever other treasure was down there might've helped turn our luck around."

He scoffs.

"That didn't happen, and the plains clans in Whiterun weren't exactly friendly towards us outsiders, so after Heddic died we kept moving even further south. When we heard about Helgen getting destroyed, we changed course for Falkreath. Going into Bleak Falls Barrow was just a side job for a few of us. And… if you ask me, it seems like our luck still hasn't changed. Sai must be angry with us for some reason."

Helgen, huh? It sounds like news of what happened is already spreading across the province, not that it's surprising. An entire town getting wiped off the map by a random quirk of fate isn't something normal, even in Skyrim.

The older man chugs what remains of his tea and stands with a faint groan as his knees audibly pop. "Well, that's enough for one night. I think I'll take the first watch if you don't mind. I'll plan on waking you a little after midnight, so get some sleep while you can. We've got a full day of walking ahead of us." He rolls his shoulders, stuffs his hands into his trousers, and wanders away from the steadily waning campfire. Mull is left to stare into the dying embers alone, with only his thoughts to keep him company.

I'm starting to think Sai might have it out for me too. It sure seems that way right now. I've had more than enough absurd near-death experiences since coming to Skyrim to last me a lifetime.

He's also gotten more than his fair share of lucky breaks, his unexpected employment by the Jarl and his survival of those aforementioned near-death experiences being the most worthy of mention. He wonders if the good luck and bad luck balanced each other out, or something like that.

I think I'd rather have middle-of-the-road mediocre luck. But I suppose that isn't up to me. Not for the first time in recent memory, he wonders how things might've gone if Morven had survived. Would she be where I am now?

He sneers to himself. She wouldn't have allowed herself to get wrapped up in a wizard's nonsense like I did. She always had a good head on her shoulders. More so than me. I…

He sighs and shakes his head like a dog shedding water. His thoughts don't make for very good company at the moment, and these topics aren't anything he hasn't spent plenty of time thinking about before. He gives up for the night, lies down next to the fire, and wraps himself in his weather-stained cloak, not especially tired but keenly aware that he needs to get some sleep soon. The softness of the damp leaves layered beneath him is a comfortable as a wool mattress, and it doesn't take long for him to doze off. He's lulled to sleep by the crackling of the flames in their last few minutes of life, steadily dwindling without the guiding hand of their progenitors to sustain them.

-x-

Torgen shakes him awake several hours before dawn, little more than an indistinct shadow looming over him in the darkness of night. Without so much as a single word in greeting, the older man shambles over to a nearby tree and huddles between its roots with a fur blanket draped over his head. His loud snoring resounds across the glade at annoyingly irregular intervals not even half a minute later.

Good grief. He sounds like a dying bear. With an exasperated shake of his head, Mull repositions himself to the edge of the dell, strings his bow, and sits cross-legged in the shadow of the blackthorn bushes. There must not have been anything amiss earlier in the night – if there had been, Torgen would've told him – but just in case, he remains still and listens intently to the sounds of the surrounding forest, resisting the urge to blearily rub his eyes.

It's quiet. Wind whistles softly through the overhead branches. Insects buzz from within the foliage, though not as loudly as during the evening. Torgen continues to wheeze.

After the chaos of the last few days, the grey predawn stillness is peaceful. He knows better than to let down his guard, but he nonetheless derives some enjoyment from the calmness of this solitary moment. There are no thoughts or fears or troubles to bother him here. He can simply exist.

The remaining hours of the night are entirely uneventful. The wolves don't make an appearance, nor do any other dangerous creatures. The only denizens of this area of the forest seem to be a few squirrels and rabbits that emerge from their burrows in search for food. It's a monotonous watch, but those are the best kind in his experience. If it's exciting, that means something went wrong.

Just as the first rays of the sun begin filtering through the trees, Torgen suddenly mumbles noisily, twists around to scratch his back, and rolls out from beneath his furs with an expressive yawn.

Mull unstrings his bow and produces his flint and striker to relight the fire for breakfast. The night was dry, so the sparks catch easily on the twigs and moss he gathered for tinder.

Once they've eaten their fill of tasteless rations and drank a few more cups of bland tea, they pack up their meager camp and return to the road, continuing onwards to Whiterun.

-x-

They arrive on the edge of Whiterun's high plains two days after departing from Riverwood. Undulating banks of clouds hang overhead, a smoky grey carpet shot through with veins of blue. Far ahead, the distant city comes into sight upon its lonely hill, framed by columns of sunlight interspaced across the surrounding grasslands.

Mull breathes a sigh of relief at the long-anticipated view. I never thought I'd be happy to see this place again. Not only did he survive this unexpectedly hazardous mission, but the end of his laborious trek with the heavy Dragonstone is also nearing its finale. He tries not to think about how terrible it will be to transport the heavy tablet to Dragonsreach at the pinnacle of the city.

They continue along the road and enter the townlands, swiftly passing between homesteads and pastures including a certain familiar cabbage plot. It looks like the damage wrought by the now-deceased rogue giant has already been undone. The field is tilled and flourishing with crops no differently from its neighbors.

The occasional farmer stares at them with curiosity or veiled suspicion as they walk along the perimeter of their fields. Mull does his best to ignore them, but Torgen waves and grins like a fool each time. When he does, the suspicious frowns usually deepen. Despite having washed their gear and restocked their supplies in Riverwood, they both look just questionable enough to attract attention beyond the ordinary. Bleak Falls Barrow wasn't kind to their equipment, and intermittent blood-stained bandages poke out from beneath their ragged apparel in various places.

As a result, Mull finds himself worrying about what will happen as they draw closer to the city's main gate. This could very well be like my first arrival all over again. As far as I know, the Jarl's ban on unverified entry into the city is still in effect. The guards should know that I work for the Court Wizard and that I'm expected to return around this time, so I don't think getting inside will be an issue for me. At worst case, I can tell them to go find Farengar and haul his scrawny ass down from the Cloud District.

He grimaces. Even so, there are a lot of ways this could go wrong considering my present company. If the gates are still closed, that could mean the guards will be more vigilant, and that would increase Torgen's chances of getting arrested. If we went through the gate separately then I'd get inside just fine, but he definitely wouldn't. Maybe I should just throw him to the crows and be done with him. He isn't my problem, and he's liable to make this more difficult than it needs to be.

"Torgen." At the sound of his name, the bandit turns from ogling a golden-haired farmgirl in a green dress busily milking a cow. "How are you planning to get inside the city? Remember what I said about being seen with a wanted man. If the guards recognize you, I could be in for a rough time too."

"…Oh yeah." Torgen rubs his chin thoughtfully. "Hmm. That's a good question."

He tries and fails not to groan. "When you answer like that, it makes me think you've forgotten to come up with an idea."

"Pshaw." The older man waves away his concern. "Of course I didn't forget something that important. I just… kept putting it off. We've still got time."

Mull points ahead to Whiterun's southern gatehouse complex already steadily approaching. The dozens of merchant tents and stalls arranged before the entrance to the city are also now distantly visible. There don't appear to be any fewer than before – if anything, they've grown more numerous since he departed for Bleak Falls Barrow – and he takes that as confirmation that the gates are still closed to all outsiders except those on official business.

"Wait, that's the gate?" Torgen seems take aback.

"…Yes, it's the gate. What did you think it was?"

"I dunno. Didn't really think about it." Torgen squints as he more closely scrutinizes the fortification. "Ye gods, that looks big. What are they planning to defend against? A horde of rabid mammoths?"

Mull resists the urge to palm his forehead. "I thought you said that you'd been to Whiterun before."

"No," answers the clearly distracted bandit. "Our clan never came to the city itself. We went around to the west, I think. Damn, but that place is huge. Dawnstar was nothing like this."

Ahead of them, the squat outer walls of Whiterun are now fully in view. They really aren't that large in comparison to the fortifications of other cities that Mull has visited – Elinhir and Cheydinhal specifically come to mind – but by the way Torgen is starting to stare, he guesses the older man has never borne witness to Imperial fortifications of this scale, dilapidated though they may be.

"And they go all the way around the whole city?"

"As far as I know."

"…Huh," he softly murmurs. "How about that?"

It's difficult for Mull to remain angry about the man's lack of foresight as his wonderment visibly grows. And we're not even inside the city yet. But he still needs to figure out a plan of action for their entry, and Torgen doesn't seem like he'll be doing that anytime soon. He's too busy gawking at the walls.

As they reach the outer edge of the merchants' encampment situated before the first gate, he halts and holds out an arm for Torgen to do the same. "So what're you going to do? Like I said, if you get us arrested, I'm not gonna be happy."

"Alright, I hear you. Let's see what we're working with here."

Torgen refocuses and looks at the gate with a changed demeanor. More professional, with a cunning glint in his eye. He analyzes the gate from a different perspective, that of a bandit.

"…It's obviously a massive city. I bet there's a lot of folks going in and out of those gates at all hours of the day. If we walk next to or behind a cluster of people and act like we're with 'em, then we could probably manage to get through without a fuss. The guards can't get a good look at every single face. And besides, that's assuming they would even recognize me on sight, which I think is unlikely. There's a lot of wanted men in this Hold, and I guarantee I'm not even among the worst fifty on that list. Riverwood was too small for me to be sure about blending in, but I've got a better feeling about this. It shouldn't be a problem as long as I keep my head down."

"I'll have to take your word for it." Mull's sarcasm seems to go unnoticed. "Unfortunately, there might be one problem with that idea."

"What's that?"

"Ever since Whiteurn received the news about Helgen, the gates have been closed to all outsiders. You need an official reason to be able to get inside. That's why all these people are waiting out here."

The bandit works his jaw and grumbles unhappily. "…Kid, why didn't you say that before? That kind of detail is important, you know."

"I wasn't sure if the Jarl's ruling would still be in effect. It's been over a week since I left for Bleak Falls Barrow."

Now that he and Torgen are directly outside the encampment, it's readily apparent that not all of the tents are inhabited by traders. Numerous groups of refugees are huddled dejectedly beneath every tree and along every unoccupied curb. They must not be allowing any more of them to enter. He wonders how many are from Helgen.

"But judging by all the merchants and refugees camped out here, they must not have changed their minds quite yet."

Torgen exhales loudly through his nose. "Okay. Since you're the bearer of bad news, you can come up with the next idea. What do you got, kid?"

"…I don't know. At this point, I think I'll go inside by myself and leave you out here to your own devices."

The bandit glares with something like paternal disappointment.

"The bounty is your problem to deal with, not mine. We only ever agreed to travel here together. That was it. If you can't get inside the city, then that's just too bad."

Torgen chews on his beard and nods. "Alright, I can't argue with that. I'd probably do the same in your shoes. There's just one thing, though." He scans the surrounding buildings, some clustered near the gate and others positioned further away, on the other side of fields or closer to the river. "It doesn't look like there are any taverns or alehouses out here. Just merchants, stables, and farms."

Mull follows the man's gaze. "Yeah. So what?"

Torgen levels a grim stare. "Kid, I haven't had anything to drink since before Bleak Falls Barrow. I'm not sure how much longer I can last. Listen. I'm going to get inside that city and find myself a barrel of ale even if it kills me. I mean it. This is life or death."

Either the man is one of the better liars that Mull has ever met – which he sincerely doubts – or he's being completely serious. He returns the stare, though with significantly more vitriol. "I hope I don't need to tell you how stupid that is."

"I'm a Nord, kid. Sometimes we just gotta do what we gotta do."

"I won't risk accompanying you through the gates for an icebrained reason like that."

"Don't ask me to stop being a man."

With a frustrated growl, Mull twists and takes out his anger on a nearby fencepost, kicking it with all his might. It shifts a few inches but remains planted firmly in the earth. A handful of refugees squeak with fright and scurry away.

"This is serious, you idiot! Do I sound like I'm joking with you?!" he hisses. "Anymore of this trollshit, and I swear I'll cut your throat and roll you into a ditch."

"Thanks kid. I try."

"…Fuck. I'm sure you do."

Not for the first time, he sorrowfully reflects that there are almost certainly better provinces to which he could've relocated rather than Skyrim. He's never met a Breton who was this obstinately unreasonable, for example.

With an unhappy sigh, he orders his companion to get a move on and together they enter the merchants' encampment. He delivers his verdict as they walk. "If it's that big of a deal to you, then Ysmir fucking Talos. Fine. Let's go. Your job will be to stay behind me and look inconspicuous." The man towers over him and is significantly bulkier, rendering his chances of remaining discreet practically negligible, but he doesn't have any better ideas. "Think you can manage that?"

"Sure thing. It'll be as easy as a sweetroll."

"And if you get arrested, I'm not going to help you. Hell, I'll throw you under the cart myself if it means I get to walk away. So if they decide to toss you in the dungeon, you'd better not try to take me down with you."

"Again, thanks kid. I knew I could count on you."

A vein throbs in Mull's forehead at the bandit's jovial reply – he knows when he's being teased, and he doesn't like it – but he resists the impulse to whirl around on the man as he continues stomping towards the gate.

There's an area of cleared space in front of the gate just as before, about fifty feet across, where the guards aren't allowing people to pitch their tents. As he and Torgen emerge from the crowd and begin crossing the open area, three armored men loitering beneath the shadow of the gatehouse rouse themselves and heft their weaponry.

"Halt!" one calls out. "The gates are closed by order of the Jarl. Only those with legitimate business may enter."

Mull calls back. "I was sent on an errand for the Court Wizard about a week ago. My name is Mull. Let me through."

The guards briefly confer among themselves before waving them closer. "Come here then."

He and Torgen share a look. The older man shrugs – let's see what happens – and they do as they're told.

When they reach the gate, another one of the guardsman – this one with a full-face helm – leans forward to peer intently at Mull. "Ah. I recognize you from Dragonsreach. You were that útlending always huffing and puffing up the stairs, weren't you?"

Mull ruefully snorts. "Aye, that was probably me."

"And who's your friend there?"

Torgen sweeps his gaze across the battlements and whistles innocently. It's one of the least inconspicuous performances imaginable. Mull withholds an exasperated sigh. "He's a stray I picked up along the way. He helped me finish my job for the Court Wizard, so I thought I might as well bring him with me." That isn't strictly a lie, which he hopes is enough to cover for the fact that his poker face has always been terrible.

The guardsmen scrutinize Torgen for long enough to make Mull start to sweat. Finally, the one who first called out to them steps to the side and nods. "That's fine. Just make sure you keep him on a short leash. He looks like a rough sort." As do you, it goes unsaid.

"I'll do my best." He and Torgen wait impatiently for the gate crews to open the massive iron-bound doors wide enough for them to slip through. Once they gain entry, they continue along the upwards-sloping causeway to the walls of Whiterun itself and the second gate. "One down, one to go," he mutters.

"Wait, there's two of them?" Torgen asks.

He very deliberately doesn't look at the man. "Yes."

"…Of course there are two. Why wouldn't there be? It must be for the giants hopped up on skooma that'll come after the rabid mammoths."

The bandit's concern proves to be unnecessary. The guards at the upper gate wave them through without a word, and none seem to stare at Torgen with any interest beyond the ordinary.

That went better than I expected. He's grateful they didn't encounter the gate warden from the day he helped kill the giant, the one who nearly instigated a fight before Aela intervened. He also didn't expect Torgen to make it through with so little hassle. "I guess you were right about your bounty not being that big of a deal."

"Like I said, kid. I'm not even close to the most wanted man in Whiterun Hold, and I've never been to this city either. I would've been more surprised if somebody did recognize me in a place with so many people, though I didn't want to assume. That'd be a quick way to get yourself killed or worse."

As the final gate rumbles shut behind them, the two men cross a lowered drawbridge into the busy streets of the city. Mull catches his companion staring at their surroundings with something approaching awe. In the fortifications above them and in the streets all around them, hundreds of townspeople and warriors are bustling about their business. "It really is a lot of people, isn't it?"

"Aye. It sure is." Torgen cranes his neck to get a better look at one of the soaring, crenellated stone-and-lumber watchtowers overshadowing the gatehouse. His inattention causes him to stumble into a pair of Redguard men swathed in the flowing scarlet robes of their arid homeland, who grumble something unpleasant in their lilting native tongue before stalking away. He gawks at the curved swords hanging from their belts.

Mull grins faintly at the man's antics, and also at the Redguards' parting words. He's fluent in Yoku and could understand them perfectly. What they said to Torgen was extremely vulgar even by his standards. "Is this city really that much bigger than Dawnstar?"

"Dawnstar is an important town in its own right, but Whiterun's got it beaten hand over fist when it comes to sheer size. None of the buildings there are this tall." He points to the watchtower.

"You get used to it. Sort of."

That prompts a snicker from the bandit. "Heh. I bet you never get used to the smell, though."

Mull inhales involuntarily and makes a face. "Well, at least Whiterun has good drainage." Even now, a pair of stone gutters running parallel along both sides of the road are gurgling with narrow streams of water and Mauloch knows what else. "The same can't be said for a lot of places."

They stop outside a small blacksmithing shop and watch as a man and woman work diligently at a smoldering forge, crafting what appear to be horseshoes. Heat shimmers around them in waves and rivulets of sweat trickle from their brows in spite of the cool weather. "And you've been to a lot of places?" Torgen inquires, seeming genuinely curious.

Might as well humor the man. "A few. More than most people, I'd imagine. I've got three provinces under my belt."

The bandit turns thoughtful. "I've never been outside of Skyrim myself," he says. "And there's a lot of places in Skyrim I haven't seen before. It's a big province." He glances sidelong at Mull as they continue walking. "So where's home for you, kid? We talked plenty about me while we were on the road, but not a whole lot about you. You make it sound like you've done some traveling."

He sours at the question. "I've been on the move for a while. For a lot of that time, I was jumping between different bandit gangs. 'Home' would've been wherever they decided to set up their hideouts for a season. Right now I'm on my own here in Whiterun. I've been living in this city for the last month or two. Going to Bleak Falls Barrow is the only time I've left since then."

"And you've been working for this Court Wizard?"

"Right."

"How in Oblivion did that happen anyways? I don't think you ever explained it."

"Was I supposed to?" he gripes. Despite his curt response, he doesn't truly take issue with the man's question. It's something he's already asked himself more times than he can count.

"No, but it goes without saying that you don't look much like a wizard's servant. You look like… well, me. Bjorn. Harknir. Soling. If you had blonde hair, blue eyes, and spoke the language a little better, you'd fit right in with our clan. I can't imagine any one of us landing a position in a wizard's cadre, so naturally I'm curious how you managed to pull it off."

"…Honestly, I'm still trying to figure that out myself." He considers the rest of his response carefully. He hasn't mentioned anything about Helgen or the dragon – the less said about all that, the happier he'll be – but discussing it at least in passing is going to be unavoidable. It was a big deal, to put it mildly.

He swiftly formulates a reply. Omitting some of the truth shouldn't hurt anything.

"I was down in Riverwood during Last Seed when some… acquaintances of mine asked me to deliver a letter from the town's folkmoot to the Jarl of Whiterun. I reached the city and handed over the letter without too much trouble, but the Jarl decided to take an interest in me for some reason. That wasn't too long after Helgen was destroyed, so maybe he didn't expect a messenger to be willing to make the journey with a dragon flying around. I don't know."

He does know, obviously – the Jarl was interested because he survived the disaster at Helgen and provided information about the attacker – but that isn't something he wants to advertise.

"So he offered me a job and that was that. Now I'm an errand boy for his Court Wizard," he sarcastically finishes. "Hence the Dragonstone."

"An honest-to-gods Jarl, huh?" The bandit whistles. "I'll be damned. I can't say that's the answer I was expecting. It sounds like you've done some moving up in the world," he chuckles. "Having a steadily stream of gold doesn't seem so bad to me, even if it does mean you have to dig up old rocks for wizards or be corralled inside these walls."

He pauses, then frowns.

"But that Helgen attack was some bad business, wasn't it? It's hard to believe a dragon appeared out of nowhere and razed an entire town, like something right out of a storybook. I still halfway don't believe it. Can't imagine what that would be like," he rumbles.

"Aye, it was a terrible thing. Now can we pick up the pace? I've got places to be and wizards to bloody up, and this Dragonstone isn't getting any lighter." He pulls ahead of the bandit, hoping he'll drop the subject. He doesn't have any interest in allowing the topic to turn even further towards that day at Helgen.

Torgen mutters under his breath – something about ale, to nobody's surprise – and dutifully follows.