Chapter 28

In sharp contrast to the events of that morning, the Mighty Mudcrabs' return to Whiterun is entirely uneventful. They sedately descend from the foothills of the Throat of the World to the stony banks of the White River, eager to return to Whiterun but also unwilling to push too hard due to Mull and Torgen's respective conditions.

The White River flows sluggish and meandering as it executes a wide turn from north to east, a formidable geographic boundary that acts as both an important defensive feature for Whiterun and an invaluable source of food. Fishermen ply their trade along the shoreline and among the murky waters as they cast woven grass nets and horsehair lines by the dozens. Their teeming hauls of trout, salmon, and river betty are substantial enough to feed hundreds if not thousands of the Hold's inhabitants.

Mull's voice gives out about two hours after their confrontation with Iron-hand. It's an annoyance but he can't rightly complain too much. At least Danica Pure-Spring's potion worked as intended.

It was good while it lasted. Although this does mean I'll need to make another trip to the Sanctuary of Kyne. Can't say I'm looking forward to that.

Rather than take a detour south to the only bridge spanning the river in the vicinity of Whiterun, Mull instead uses his status as a Thane to solicit transportation to the opposite bank from a pair of fishermen who don't seem too busy. The two young men are inordinately excited to be ferrying a Thane in their humble watercraft, but are equally consternated when he doesn't talk to them at all.

"He recently suffered an injury and cannot speak at the moment," Lydia informs them to assuage their worries. "Please pay his silence no mind."

Mull huffs with amusement in spite of himself as they rock back and forth atop the gentle waves. Lydia is a kind person through and through. He almost feels bad that she got saddled with a Thane like him. Almost. She's too useful for him to truly regret her presence.

Otherwise the trip across the river goes without issue. He doesn't particularly like boats – he hasn't had many opportunities to embark upon large rivers or lakes in his lifetime – but he patiently endures the incessant swaying and bobbing. He's just happy he hasn't gotten seasick. That would surely render him a disappointment to his father's ancestors, who long ago sailed throughout the seas and waterways of Tamriel in pursuit of wealth and glory.

Once across the river, they disembark and get underway towards Whiterun without much fanfare. Lydia pauses to leave a handful of septims with the fishermen, which Mull doesn't mind as long as it's her money and not his own.

They cross field after field hosting innumerable rows of winter wheat, vegetables, and tubers of all kinds. The eastern walls of Whiterun steadily grow taller in the distance. Behind them, the sun begins creeping towards the horizon as the afternoon wanes. The wind picks up and the air becomes increasingly chilly. It's pleasant, though still just a little too cold for Mull's taste.

They don't talk much in consideration of his current muteness, which gives him a good opportunity to plan out his next few days – for after his impending incarceration in the Sanctuary of Kyne, of course.

His most pressing concern is figuring out where to sell the frenzy potion and other valuable items his team looted from White River Watch. There's no point in stealing something if you don't know how or where to pawn it off, so he's already done his due diligence in selecting the most promising shops in Whiterun. The armor and weaponry will go to Ulfberth and his wife down by the western gate. They seem like an honest pair who'd give me a good deal. I'll take the potions to Arcadia at the southeast market square – at the very least she can identify them for me. And the less valuable trinkets can go to that shady Breton in the general goods store next door to her. I don't like that man, but I'll admit his prices are hard to beat.

Just as he nods to himself in satisfaction, Torgen shuffles uncomfortably and starts speaking without being prompted. "I've got something to say, boss."

Mull sighs at having his machinations interrupted and motions for him to get on with it.

"I didn't believe you when you made those claims about being the new Dragonborn. Not because I don't trust you, but because it's the sort of thing you'd expect to hear in a legend instead of in real life like this. Now I don't have any choice but to believe you. You used the Voice clear as day, and gave Iron-hand something to remember you by. Any Nord worth their salt would recognize the power of the Storm Voice."

Mull glares unhappily at him, wishing he would blabber about any topic except this one. The man doesn't seem to notice.

"You could always be a regular Tongue," he continues. "But I doubt that. There aren't many Tongues left in Skyrim these days, and those few that are, well… they're a cut above the rest of us. They're the greatest of the Nords, like Ulfric Stormcloak. It doesn't matter how you feel about him or his war. The fact is that he's a Tongue and a damn good one. They say he Shouted High King Torygg into bloody little bits at the start of the Civil War. No offense, but you don't fit that image of a glorious Nord warrior-king."

He grins toothily to show he means no offense.

"Kyne sometimes grants mortals the blessing of Inspiration, making Clever Men of those who were never clever before. Maybe that's what happened to you. But if it isn't… then the only other possibility is that you're Dragonborn, and that's something else entirely. They're heroes who are born with the blessings of the gods in them, destined to seize the world by force of arms and Voice. And I'd buy that," he solemnly finishes. "I know you don't, and I understand why. Trust me, kid. I do. But I'd buy it."

Mull would be lying if he claimed to fully understand what point the older man is trying to make. Should that spiel make him angry, like he has been ever since this Dragonborn Bullshit first started at the Western Watchtower? Should he be appreciative of Torgen's forthrightness?

He doesn't know, and because he doesn't know, he simply frowns and nods. He isn't sure how else to respond.

Lydia mercifully breaks the ensuring awkward silence with a tactful change in subject. "Torgen, is your clan similar to the White River Clan? That is, is your chieftain the same sort of man as Iron-hand? Was he the exception among your kind or the norm?"

The blonde bandit slowly shakes his head. "No. Most clan chieftains aren't like ole' Hajvarr. In the clans, we're a family. We're brothers and sisters, if not by blood then by our shared loyalty. Something like that…"

He gestures to Lydia's satchel and the journal belonging to Iron-hand contained within. He'd skimmed through it while they were being ferried across the river in the fishermen's boat.

"…That isn't our way. It never has been. I don't blame that Eisa woman and her folks for striking off on their own. I wouldn't have followed a man like Iron-hand either."

"That's… good to know. The insight is appreciated."

"I don't know what I helped you see," he chuckles. "But I'll take the thanks."

"Insight. It means understanding or awareness. Surely you've heard that word before," she complains.

"Can't say that I have."

She almost seems disappointed. "You truly are an ignoramus."

"Is that some kind of exotic animal?"

"In a manner of speaking, yes," she mutters as she hangs her head.

Despite how much of a mess this day has been, Mull can't quite suppress a smile as his two companions verbally spar, an increasingly common habit of theirs. It's nice. It almost feels normal.

Or it would if it weren't for everything else that's going on. He knows for certain that he isn't Dragonborn. How could he be? It would be unthinkable.

But if Torgen of all people is now advocating for that ridiculousness, then what does it mean? Are all of the Nords really that stupid? Are they blinded to the reality of his situation by their fervent zeal towards the legendary history of the Dragonborn? Or is Mull the one who's in the wrong here?

The first of those, without a doubt.

He can't bring himself to seriously contemplate the alternative. It isn't even a question. He simply isn't Dragonborn, and Torgen is mistaken just like the rest of them. That's all there is to it.

'…And once again, you allow yourself to fall unknowingly into the honeyed trap of spineless denial. There is no growth without struggle. Power is gained only through hardship. If you are to become greater, then you must tear asunder these vestments of humility. You dwell within the Arena, a realm where there is no peace. Complacency is a lie. You must not forget this – and yet so often you do. Indeed, my Qahnaarin is quite lacking for the role to which he has been appointed.'

Like water spilled on a woodstove, that faint sense of normalcy instantly evaporates into thin air. Deep-seated weariness and frustration take its place.

Mull marches onwards with his eyes trained on the walls of the city drawing ever closer, refusing to betray any outward sign of his irritation as he struggles to contend with the spiteful entity dwelling inside his mind.

Mirmulnir has been talkative today, not that it's a surprise. There's a lot for him to talk about.

Something tells him it's going to be a long and tedious next few days.

-x-

"Remind me again why we're here?"

"Aw, come on Mull. Do you really hate our mead hall so much? I don't see anything wrong with this place."

To accentuate Aela the Huntress' point, one of the round wooden tables next to theirs is pulverized by the falling form of an uncommonly large man clad in a coat of ringmail. Mull recognizes him as the big guy who helped fight against the giant at the cabbage farm when he first encountered Aela and her Companions.

Splintered remnants of the table and a couple of chairs go clattering loudly across the floor. A man who looks nearly identical to the first save for his shorter and somewhat neater black hair takes a running start and leaps on top of him. He uses his advantageous position to begin methodically pummeling the first man's face, whose features are soon obscured by lumps of swollen purple flesh.

Mull doesn't have anything against a good tavern brawl – it's free entertainment, after all – but this degree of ferocity is legitimately difficult to watch. It's going a little too far even for his taste.

A meaty thwack from the opposite direction draws his attention. A lanky blonde-haired Nord is currently engaged in a brutal fistfight with a shirtless male Dunmer sporting a ponytail. The elf's bare torso is awash with a mass of bruises. The blonde Nord's jaw and brow aren't much better. Their slouched postures and erratic movements make it obvious that they're both thoroughly drunk.

As a matter of fact, the same can be said for the vast majority of this mead hall's unruly denizens. Loud voices and hoarse shouts permeate the spacious timber-framed room, shrouded in smoke from hundreds of candles, torches, and a trio of massive hearths. Plates and utensils clatter together, cuts of meat sizzle and pop as they're roasted over open flames, and spilt mead flows across sticky countertops. In a word, it's pure chaos.

"Not to burst your bubble, but I really have to disagree," Mull responds to the Huntress' question. There is such a thing as too much entertainment, and he would argue Jorrvaskr has already far surpassed that threshold. Sometimes you just need to enjoy a pint in peace. After the last few days, that's all I'm asking for. But it's impossible in a place like this.

"You wound me," Aela snarks lightheartedly. "This is an integral aspect of Nord culture. Fighting, flirting, and drinking are part of what it means to be one of us! You have to embrace it!" She gestures theatrically at the pair of bear-like twins rolling around atop the sorry remains of the destroyed table, each trying to catch the other in a chokehold.

He doesn't deign to respond. Instead he indulges in a long draft of his Honningbrew mead, wipes a layer of creamy foam from his mustache, and glances at the other two individuals sharing he and Aela's too-small table. Well, technically three.

Lydia is sitting sullenly next to Aela, sipping from a mug of watered-down ale and assiduously ignoring the madness swirling around them. Their little gathering is an island of calm in this stormy sea of anarchy.

"Lighten up, snowberry!" Aela throws an arm around the housecarl's shoulders, pulls her close, and raises her own tankard to the heavens. "You're here to celebrate a hard-won victory, aren't you? Act like it!"

"…I am celebrating," she mutters before taking another sip.

"Don't be such a stick in the mud! If this isn't enough of a party for you, then what on Nirn would be? A giant mating festival?"

Lydia escapes from the Huntress' embrace and wordlessly returns to her own sphere of personal space.

"Hmph. Tough crowd."

Mull's gaze drifts to his left. And then there's Torgen

The older man is lounging in his chair with a girl sitting sideways on his lap, laughing uproariously as he recounts the tale of their battle against Hajvarr Iron-hand. Torgen isn't the sort of man to needlessly embellish. Rather, he mirthfully narrates the loss of his fingers and the unpleasantness of the healing process. The girl, a Nord with eye-catching platinum blonde hair, flattish features, and horizontal lines of red facepaint across her cheeks, seems to find the impromptu saga hilarious.

Her sleeveless rawhide vest hangs loosely from her shoulders, giving Torgen and the rest of the table an ample view of her curvaceous cleavage and some of her toned midriff. Mull spots the older man's gaze wandering lasciviously multiple times. The girl doubtlessly does as well, though she doesn't seem to mind in the slightest.

He's in his natural habitat here. Good for him.

"So! Are you going to tell me about this big fight? That's why you decided to swing by the mead hall, isn't it? To celebrate?" Aela enthusiastically leans across the table.

"It was Torgen's idea," Mull deflects. "He wanted to see what you Companions are all about. I tried to tell him what he was getting us into. He didn't care, as usual."

"Sure, sure. But you're here now and that's what matters." Her teeth flash in the orange light of the hall's candle-lit interior. "Enough beating around the bush. I want to hear about the demise of the great Hajvarr Iron-hand!"

"Was he really that great?"

"I wouldn't know. You tell me. I've never heard of him until today."

Mull sighs in exasperation. "He was just some jumped-up clan chieftain who turned to raiding in the river valley after a rough spell. The Jarl didn't like it, so he sent us to deal with him."

"And…?"

"And we killed them all, about a dozen altogether, including Iron-hand. He gave me a good whack on the head and cut off a couple of Torgen's fingers, as you've already heard – nearly choked him to death too – but Lydia stabbed him in the neck and put him down for good."

Aela watches him expectantly.

"…That's all there was to it. We went home and got our gold. Case closed."

Of course, there was actually more to it than that. Following their return to Whiterun, he was forced to spend a day and a half ensorcelled within the Sanctuary of Kyne while being treated for his magicka-burned throat. Danica Pure-Spring had dropped by his room and incredulously asked how he managed to suffer the same bizarre affliction a second time. He'd shrugged, suggested via writing on parchment that it might've been an unlucky relapse, and refused to divulge anything else. He's discovered that successfully telling lies is much easier when you're physically unable to speak. People tend to invent their own explanations.

"How much did you get paid?" Aela presses.

"You aren't supposed to ask that question."

"Not even as a fellow professional?"

"No."

The Huntress leans back and eyes him critically. "You're terrible at telling stories, you know that?"

"I do now."

Lydia fails to hold back a giggle.

Aela smiles triumphantly. "There it is, snowberry! I knew you had a fun-loving personality hidden away somewhere deep down."

The housecarl composes herself and hides behind her mug. Mull recalls that she once used a similar strategy back at the barracks when Torgen was cracking dumb jokes. "My solemn duty comes before any self-indulgence, and that duty is to protect my Thane."

"Oh, you're one of those responsible types. You're so cute, even if you do make the rest of us look bad."

"Irresponsibility is hardly something to be proudly declared."

"Yeah, yeah," the Huntress drawls. "I've heard that one before. But if you're good at what you do, then who cares about the pointless details?"

"Everyone around you," Lydia deadpans. "Most people appreciate dealing with someone who is professional and reserved more so than someone who is irreverent and childish."

Aela snickers and jabs a thumb at Lydia. "I like this one. She's got some fire in her. Where in Oblivion did you find her?"

"Uh…" Mull stalls by taking a bite out of a warm bread roll – this is surprisingly tasty – while he tries to think of a suitable falsehood. He doesn't want to tell Aela that his housecarl is the Jarl's niece. Not because he doesn't trust the redhead to keep a secret, but because he suspects that she'd find such an arrangement to be hysterically funny.

Unfortunately, Lydia doesn't share his qualms and takes it upon herself to provide an answer.

"I was appointed by my uncle, Jarl Balgruuf the Greater, to assume responsibility for my Thane's wellbeing. I am sworn to his service until such a time as my oaths are voluntarily released or I am taken by death. His burdens are my burdens." Her tone makes it clear that she's quite proud of this achievement.

True to form, Aela erupts into uncontrollable laughter. Torgen and his platinum-haired acquaintance suspend their incessant flirting to stare curiously at the Huntress.

"You… you… your serving girl… is the Jarl's… brat?!" The Huntress wheezes. "You've got… to be…" She's overtaken by a fit of coughing interspaced with a few throaty chuckles.

"Serving girl?!" Lydia shoots to her feet, shoving her chair backwards to the floor, and grasps the pommel of her sheathed sword. She looms over Aela as she's engrossed in her amusement. "How dare you dishonor my station?! You have no right to speak ill of me! I am a duly elected retainer to-!"

"Lydia. Sit down." As humorous as it was to watch the two women bicker like jackals, nothing good will come from it if Lydia goes on a tirade about why exactly he's a Thane or any other potentially implicating information. He could also say something similar about Aela, for that matter.

"…As you command, my Thane," she grumpily subsides. She slowly picks up her chair and returns to her seat, leaving noticeably more distance between herself and the Huntress than before. "I'm not the Jarl's brat," she adds for good measure.

The Huntress covers her mouth and snorts, still smiling.

The hubbub at their table dies down as Lydia returns to her drink and the Huntress' mirth subsides. Mull takes another appreciative bite of his bread roll, leans back, and closes his eyes as he chews.

Finally, we can have some peace and quiet over here. It's long overdue.

"What's got you so worked up, Aela? Did you find yourself some new whelps to shove around?"

Godsdamn it.

A pair of loud footsteps thump closer to their table and halt next to Aela. Mull swallows his mouthful of bread and cracks open an eye.

The uninvited newcomer is an older man with a wrinkled forehead, a stubbly beard of ambiguous coloration, and grey hair going white at the temples. He's balding heavily but still has enough hair left on the back of his head to be tied into a long ponytail with a simple leather band – more of a rattail, really.

His most distinguishing feature is that one of his eyes is colored a misty white that can only be a symptom of blindness, the result of a past injury as indicated by a ropey scar trailing down his cheek. All in all, he cuts a rugged figure. He's a perfect fit for this mead hall filled with rowdy mercenaries.

He rests a hand on the back of Aela's chair and gazes across the table, intently examining each of its occupants in turn.

Aela leans against his hand with a look of contentment. Her features soften in a way Mull has never seen before, though her lips splay into one of her familiar trademark smirks.

The newcomer's eye passes over Lydia, Torgen, and his lusty companion without pause before alighting on Mull with a fearsome scowl. "Who's this milkdrinker? I haven't seen his face before, and he doesn't look much like a Nord to me. The only útlendings allowed in this hall are those who've proven themselves worthy of that honor on the field of battle. His presence is an insult to the history of Jorrvaskr."

Ouch. Those are harsh words coming from a pockmarked geriatric.

Aloud, he answers in as much of a level tone as he can manage. "Call me Mull." He crosses his arms and feigns indifference at the Nord's belligerent tone. "And who in the blazes are you, if I might ask?"

Aela answers on behalf of the newcomer. "Oh, this is just my man, Skjor. Ignore him until he goes away. That's what everyone else does when he comes calling!"

Mull feels incredulous laughter bubbling up inside him. There are a lot of answers he might've anticipated, but that definitely isn't one of them. "Aela the Huntress snagged herself a man. Who would've thought? I guess miracles do happen every now and then."

Skjor postures menacingly. His hulking shadow wavers across their table. "You got something you want to say about my woman, you insufferable runt?"

I can already see where this is going. Without a doubt, this Skjor is sniffing around for a brawl.

"Nothing I haven't said to her already." He pauses and dons a spitefully thoughtful expression. "I can give you a summary if you'd like."

He kicks up his feet and continues sipping his Honningbrew nonchalantly, content to let the newcomer grandstand all he wants. He didn't come here to fight unlike the rest of the idiots in this mead hall, so there's no point in offering a reaction until hostilities have already commenced. Only then will he respond in kind.

"Skjor," snaps Aela.

"What?" he growls back.

"Be nice."

"I don't see why I should. This shitstain doesn't respect you like he ought to. Let me teach him a lesson. I'll tear him limb from limb, and paint you a pretty picture with what's left of his entrails."

That's a good one. I'll have to remember it for later.

Aela releases a long-suffering sigh. "Fine, you big oaf. Have it your way. If you're gonna beat him to a pulp, hurry it up so we can get back to our drinks. You're killing the mood – not that that's anything new."

Skjor grins at Mull and cracks his calloused knuckles. "You heard the lady. I've got my marching orders. What kind of man would I be if I disappointed her?"

"I just spent two days in the Sanctuary of Kyne getting healed up after a tough bounty hunt." A bit less than that actually, but who's asking. "Can't you have mercy on a recently injured man? Trust me, you don't want to make those dainty little priestesses angry by undoing all their hard work. They might be more than you could handle."

"Watch you tongue, milkdrinker," Skjor spits. "Or I'll cut it out and shove it back down your throat. Let's see you talk high and mighty then."

"Skjor," Aela repeats insistently. "He's goading you. Use your head for once, you stupid icebrain."

"Be quiet, wench. Let me defend your honor in the way I know best."

"Oh, that's what you're doing? I must've missed the memo." She shrugs. "Okay then. Defend away, moron."

Their words are harsh, but they speak with such ease and familiarity that this banter must be completely normal for them. This is about what Mull would expect from Aela the Huntress. Few and far between are the men who'd be able to keep up with a terrifying woman like her. Skjor seems to fit the bill in that regard.

At this particular moment, that isn't a good thing.

Mull rolls sideways off his chair in the same instant that Skjor lunges for him with brawny hands outstretched. He tosses his Honningbrew in the air as an attempted distraction and inadvertently spills the golden liquid all across the table. A grave sacrifice, but one he's grudgingly willing to make.

Aela's professed man isn't so easily deterred. He crashes into the vacated chair just as Mull hits the floor and scrambles to his feet. He throws up his fists in a hasty frontal guard.

Skjor chuffs like a mad troll as he violently tosses aside the unfortunate chair. He slams an open palm against his chest in mock salute, bares his teeth, and charges.

Mull barely has time to brace himself before the grey-haired Companion barrels into him headlong. Skjor wraps his heavily-muscled arms around Mull's torso, bodily lifts him in the air, and slams him into the ground with all the force generated by his prodigious momentum.

The air is driven from Mull's lungs by the brutal impact, and his ears start ringing as the back of his head cracks against the unforgiving hardwood floor.

He tries to leverage his legs beneath Skjor's large frame, but the positioning is too awkward. The best he can do is smash his knee ineffectually into the Companion's rock-hard abdomen.

Hoots and hollers fill the mead hall as an audience grows around them. Aela, Torgen, and his platinum-haired accomplice lead the throng as they boisterously shout their encouragement. Lydia watches with trepidation and a hand resting lightly on her sword, but makes no move to intervene.

Not that Mull would want her to. He didn't ask for this fight, but if there's one thing he's learned from half a lifetime of wanton violence, it's that you should always be the one who throws the final punch.

When Skjor wrapped him up in his bellicose bearhug, he didn't capture either of Mull's arms. He makes the Companion regret that oversight now.

Still tangled together on the foul-smelling floor, he rears back a clenched fist and slams his bony knuckles into Skjor's jaw. The man barely flinches. His fortitude is admittedly impressive.

So he punches again. And again, and again. Each impact leaves his hands coated with blood and saliva.

After the seventh or eighth punch in as many seconds, Skjor's head is finally forced to the side as he quails before the unrelenting beating. He roars angrily, grasps the collar of Mull's tunic, and surges to his feet. Mull is pulled after him against his will and goes airborne as Skjor abruptly releases his grip.

Smokey air whistles around him. Rafters flash by overhead, one after another. For a few seconds he wonders what just happened. Did he get flung across the room? How strong must Skjor be to pull off something like that?

His question is brusquely answered as he crashes into the side of a table. His group's table, he belatedly realizes.

The impact causes the table to flip over, pouring a chunky mixture of spilt ale and lukewarm food all over him. He distinctly hears Aela cursing Skjor with a colorful variety of expletives. Her flamboyant creativity is laudable.

His head is spinning and his vision is blurry, but he retains enough presence of mind to jump backwards and over the table just as an incoming fist whirs inches away from his face. Skjor follows after him relentlessly and vaults across the obstacle in a remarkable display of effortless agility. Mull wouldn't have guessed a man past his prime – as indicated by Skjor's grey hair – could move so quickly and gracefully, but apparently he can. That isn't a good sign.

As he hurriedly puts up his fists once again, his opponent raises his arms and bellows a resounding warrior's cry, basking in the crowd's fervent adulation. The Companions of Jorrvaskr raise their mugs and return the exclamation a hundredfold, inundating the mead hall with their deafening chorus.

Undeterred by the amplified ringing in his ears, Mull is more than happy to take advantage of Skjor's prideful distraction. Several swift strides bring him within arm's reach. He jabs viciously at his opponent's nose, sacrificing defense for greater speed in the hope that a single decisive blow can end this fight here and now.

Perhaps unsurprisingly, it isn't to be. With a reaction time that frankly astounds him, Skjor catches his fist in midair with insulting ease, stopping the attack in its tracks with a muted thump. His good eye blazes with unrestrained glee. "Is that really all you've got, runt? You'll have to give me a better fight than that!"

Skjor wrenches the entrapped arm painfully to the side, readies his own fist, and rockets a crushingly brutal blow into the side of Mull's head.

The Companions of Jorrvaskr scream their approval to the heavens as Mull stumbles away. His vision flickers nauseatingly and his skull throbs with white-hot agony, but he sucks in his stomach and stubbornly avoids succumbing to unconsciousness through sheer force of will.

He catches himself against a timber support pillar, forces himself to stand somewhat straight, and wipes his mouth with the back of his sleeve. The fabric comes away crimson.

"That was a good one," he rasps. His own words sound a thousand miles away. "You've got some guts for a limp-dicked old man."

Skjor scowls as he shakes out his bruised hand. Mull can already feel a matching bruise forming on his cheek.

"And you're awfully arrogant for a youngster, and an útlending at that. If you want to exchange boasts on even footing with Skjor of Jorrvaskr, the most senior subordinate and right-hand warrior of the far-famed Kodlak Whiteman, then you have a long way to go yet."

He advances with sure steps, crowding Mull against the pillar. He firmly presses his back into the grainy wood. To his left is a long table occupied by at least a dozen Companions. To his right is an open hearth blazing merrily with orange flames. Skjor has herded him into a corner before he even realized.

"I've fought many foes worse than you, runt. Much, much worse. A dozen elven bastards fell to my blade during the Siege of the Imperial City. Their magic and fancy tricks meant nothing before the unfailing strength of cold Nordic steel. Remember that the next time you decide to pick a fight with me."

You're the one who picked a fight with me, asshole. As he blinks the encroaching fog from his eyes, the significance of Skjor's statement jumps out at him. He says that he fought in the Siege of the Imperial City, which means he's a veteran of the Great War. That's… bad.

He further steadies himself against the timber pillar behind him. Very bad.

Skjor grins maliciously. Firelight dances across his weathered skin.

What follows afterwards isn't worth the time it would take to recount. But needless to say, in spite of all his considerable cunning and the advantageous dynamism of youth, Mull isn't the one who throws the final punch.

-x-

Mull, Lydia, and Torgen are busily laboring in the barracks' main room as they prepare for their upcoming journey to High Hrothgar. The trestle tables are stacked high with a plethora of mundane items. They're industriously folding clothes, organizing rations, mapping their route, and performing the dozens of other tasks, both large and small, that must always precede a lengthy expedition.

…Well, it's more Torgen and Lydia who are involved with the arrangements at the moment. Mull had a rough night.

He's currently preoccupied with more important matters. His face is still bruised black and blue from Skjor's tender ministrations the previous evening, and he's pressing a fistful of medicinal poultice against his puffy cheeks with one hand. The other is holding open a book with a forest-green cover. It's nice to be able to order other people to do things while he lazes about. I could get use to this.

He winces as his swollen flesh twinges painfully. …Maybe.

He's resting now while he still can, as there will be precious few opportunities to do so in the coming weeks. High Hrothgar won't be an easy place to reach, hence their thorough preparations.

It wounds Mull's pride that he had to rely on the Voice to survive Iron-hand's relentless assault at White River Watch, but he also pragmatically recognizes the usefulness of his newfound ability. It's something that can instantly turn the tables in a life-or-death situation and for that reason would be invaluable if he could learn to use it more effectively. He hasn't been too keen on the idea of going to High Hrothgar, but now he's starting to reconsider.

But that'll come later. For now he keeps himself entertained by flipping through 'An Explorer's Guide to Skyrim,' the book they recovered from White River Watch, while his two subordinates finish organizing the grand assortment of supplies needed for their travels ahead.

"Far too often, noble visitors from Cyrodiil see little more of Skyrim than the view from their carriage. To be sure, this coarse, uncivilized province is far from hospitable, but it is also a place of fierce, wild beauty, with grand vistas and inspiring natural wonders awaiting those with the will to seek them out and the refinement to truly appreciate them."

He stops and looks to his housecarl, who's presently rolling up a blanket while idly listening to his narration. "This is painful."

"Unfortunately that can be said for most Cyrodiilic literature," she drolly replies. "It's an inevitability where any form of academia is concerned. Now please continue. Despite its regrettable verbosity, I believe this book might contain useful information for us."

"If you are of a mind to see Skyrim for yourself, I recommend beginning your adventure as I did, by seeking out Stones of Fate. No doubt you are taken aback by the name, as I once was. The provincials and village folk have all manner of dark tales about these ancient monuments. Stories of necromantic rituals and fell spirits, of great and terrible powers conferred on any who dare to touch them. The stories are, as Jarl Igrof once told me, 'A load of mammoth dung.' A bit uncouth, but you get the point.

"That's uncouth? Seriously? I know Cyrods usually have sticks shoved up their asses, but even for them, this is-"

"My Thane."

"What?" he gripes.

"…"

"Aye, fine. I know when my opinions aren't wanted. Where was I…?"

"'A load of mammoth dung.'"

"Ah. Thanks." He scans the page until he finds the relevant line.

"To be sure, keep your guards with you at all times – brigands and wild animals are never to be taken lightly. But the stones themselves are nothing to fear. Quite the contrary, their proximity to cities and roads makes them ideal destinations for the novice explorer, and many boast spectacular views that make the journey well worth the effort. To whet your appetite, here are four such locations:

"Most travelers enter Skyrim by way of Helgen, 'Gateway to the North.' If you find yourself in this backwater hovel, consider taking an afternoon's ride to the north, keeping to the road as it winds down the cliffs at the eastern end of Lake Ilinalta. Just off the path, on a small bluff, lie the three Guardian Stones, the greatest concentration of standing stones in all Skyrim. The view of the lake here at sunset is simply sublime.

"Visitors from Cheydinhal will pass through Riften, city of intrigue and larceny since Tiber Septim's day. If you seek adventure in the Rift, leave the city by the southern gate and cast your gaze upon the bluff that rises to the south. Atop it sits the Shadow Stone, a fitting symbol for the city of thieves.

"Whiterun is the heart of Skyrim, its towering palace rivaling even the great castles of Cyrodiil. But should you tire of the Jarl's hospitality, another adventure awaits a few hours to the east of the city, along the road that rises above White River Gorge. The Ritual Stone can be found atop the lone hill that rises on the north side of the road, set into an ancient monument. Take time to soak in the incredible view of Whiterun, the tundra, and the gorge from this unique spot.

"That's funny. White River Watch probably wasn't too far from that stone."

"Hmm. You're likely correct."

"But what about these travel times? They're ridiculous even if you're on horseback. The White River Gorge 'a few hours east of the city?' Right, and I'm an Argonian. It took us half a day to reach White River Watch, and that was at best a third of the way to the beginning of the Gorge. Did this Viscount even bother to step foot in Skyrim before he wrote this?"

"That an Imperial for you. Cyrodiilic scholarship is noteworthy primarily for its consistent inaccuracies. Though I'm sure Councilor Avenicci would disagree with that sentiment."

"More seasoned explorers may wish to visit Markarth, the ancient city of stone far to the west. The recent Forsworn Rebellion has made travel in the Reach perilous, but for those determined to seek adventure no matter the cost, another stone can be found to the east of the city, perched on the mountain above Kolskeggr Mine. Though the climb is difficult, reaching the summit is a milestone any explorer could be proud of.

"There are other Stones of Fate to be found in Skyrim – I myself have seen several more, perched on the most remote mountain peaks, or wreathed in fog amid the northern marshes. But the true joy of exploration is in the discovery, and so I leave the rest to you. May the Eight guide your steps."

Mull closes the book with a conclusive leathery thump. Although the Viscount's commentary was fairly informative, he isn't sad that it's over. Still, it does raise a few questions.

"Do these Stones of Fate actually have mystical powers? When we were traveling from Helgen to Riverwood, we stopped at a cluster of runestones that might've been these Guardian Stones the Viscount mentions here, but nothing about them seemed out of the ordinary. Just regular old rocks as far as I could tell."

"We?" Lydia pauses stuffing bundles of socks into a knapsack and looks to him questioningly. "I do not believe you've mentioned this before, my Thane. Did you travel with other companions prior to your delivery of Riverwood's letter to Whiterun?"

"…I was with some other survivors from Helgen at the time," he says quietly. "It was only a few days after the attack. We rested there for a night."

Ralof told stories that evening. It was at Hadvar's insistence if he recalls correctly, as the Stormcloak was still angry after Mull's outburst about the other two rebels who died. It was a memorable night for reasons both good and bad.

He doesn't elaborate, so Lydia gracefully drops the subject. Instead, she answers his original question by diving into a dissertation about the Stones of Fate, better known in Skyrim as simply the Standing Stones, and the powers they supposedly contain.

"They're also varyingly called Mundus Stones, Wyrdstones, or in Cyrodiil sometimes Doomstones. They aren't clearly understood, but it's believed that they possess the ability to impart the blessings of the celestial constellations in some manner. This is doubtlessly related to the belief that each person bears a star sign determined by the constellation under which they're born. You've mentioned that yours is the Tower, for example. However, I must confess to be rather ignorant of this subject matter. I've never had much interest in or incentive to pursue these esoteric topics. Such uncertainties are better left for the mages and priests."

"And you wouldn't be much good as either of those."

Lydia graces him with a faint smile, evidently agreeing with his taunt. "Most likely not. I'm my father's daughter in the ways that matter most. That's something I can say with pride."

The speak of less consequential things after that, making trivial small talk as the housecarl finishes stowing the rest of their clothes. Torgen chimes in with jibes and ridiculous tales every once in a while, as is his habit. Mull eventually forces himself to give them a hand with the final chores – a hand, as one of his is still preoccupied squeezing the healing salve against his discolored face – and makes himself useful by inspecting everyone's boots for discrete holes and spots of severe wear.

He wouldn't say he's looking forward to this trip necessarily, but there is a part of him that's excited by the prospect of adventure. Although he's been to the Rift before, he hasn't ever visited the district near the Throat of the World. It's always enjoyable to see new places.

But there's also an element of danger to this expedition. He'll be wandering into an unfamiliar region, and neither Torgen or Lydia have much knowledge of their route either. Going into these sorts of things with too much naïvety or bright-eyed excitement is a sure way to get into unwanted trouble.

Hopefully there won't be any unforeseen surprises. If we can get everything ready and be underway without any problems in the next couple of days, then I'll be a happy man. That's all I'm asking for.

Predictably, that turns out to be asking for too much. It's only a few hours later that his hopes are thwarted by the arrival of a courier from Dragonsreach at their front door.

-x-

AN:

I just want to say thank you all for the favorites and follows. Personally, I'm stoked with the amount of attention this story is receiving.

And I appreciate the reviews both positive and negative. Constructive criticism and feedback are the best ways for an author to improve, and my main reason for writing this story is to do just that.

…But the keyword there is 'constructive.' Something to the effect of 'your MC is lame' isn't constructive because it isn't helpful. On the other hand, 'your MC is lame because xyz' is constructive because it helps me understand the reader's perspective, which is very valuable. The only way for me to learn what people enjoy is through trial and error. So be sure to let me know when you like something and especially when you don't! And most importantly, please tell me why!

As always, thanks for reading.

-tetrapod