Chapter 31
Mull, Lydia, and Torgen finally set out for the Throat of the World early the next morning. They've delayed their response to the Greybeards' summons long enough, the Jarl's unsolicited assholery notwithstanding. They'll need to reach the mountain as soon as humanly possible if they want to beat Skyrim's heavy winter snows.
So with the essentials packed and the barracks locked up, the three soon-to-be travelers take their leave from Whiterun through the city's southern gatehouse. Mull will be leaving behind Whiterun Hold for the first time since his escape from Helgen.
Proventus Avenicci and Hrongar are waiting for them at the gate to say their goodbyes. Hrongar barely spares a glance for Mull and Torgen, instead reserving his attentions for Lydia as he pulls her aside for a murmured discussion. Mull paces out of earshot to respect their privacy and ushers Torgen along with him.
Avenicci offers meaningless platitudes pertaining to a safe and fruitful trip, but his words go in one ear and out the other. Neither Mull nor anyone else pays much attention to him. He can't find it within himself to care about the Jarl's steward and his need to make himself seem important.
If you ask him, that's a good rule to live by where the Cyrod steward is concerned. And Cyrods as a whole, arguably.
What he cares about much more than the pandering Cyrod's inane drivel is that Aela the Huntress has also shown up this morning, and rather unexpectedly at that.
She's casually leaning against a partially-ruinous Imperial portico in the shadow of the gatehouse with her arms crossed and a smug expression, patiently waiting to be noticed. When she catches his gaze, she smirks triumphantly.
He never told Aela anything about their impending departure, but he supposes her sudden appearance shouldn't be that surprising. She probably overheard them talking about it from halfway across the city or something equally absurd.
"Keep the steward company," Mull curtly orders Torgen as he strides towards the Huntress, overcoming his initial hesitation. She's always trouble, no matter the place or time.
Torgen shares an unhappy glance with Avenicci. "Why me?"
The Cyrod isn't thrilled either. He probably recognizes Torgen from his former bounty documents.
Mull ignores the complaint as he crosses the gatehouse courtyard to Aela's position. When he gets close enough, she pushes away from the portico colonnade with her characteristic lithe grace.
It's then that he notices she isn't alone. Partly concealed behind a pillar next to her is a familiar older man with silver hair, wearing scuffed leather armor and armed with a plain sword sheathed at his hip.
Mull recognizes him as Skjor, who he met during his most recent adventure at Jorrvaskr. It looks like Aela dragged him along for some godsforsaken reason. Mull can't say he's especially happy to see him, and the grizzled Companion doesn't look like he's enjoying himself either, currently staring off into the distance with a sharp frown.
He reflexively rubs his jaw. Their mutual introduction was a memorable one, and he still has the bruises to prove it.
"It's nice to see you're in a gregarious mood today," Aela says to him in lieu of a greeting. "I half expected you to ignore us and keep carrying on with your business."
As she speaks, she reaches over and snags Skjor's hand. The man reluctantly allows it, though he pointedly refuses to acknowledge Mull's presence. His steely gaze roams aimlessly across the rest of the courtyard, anywhere but in Mull's direction.
"It certainly crossed my mind. So what do you want?"
His brusqueness elicits a lighthearted glare from the Huntress. "Are we not allowed to drop by for a chat whenever we feel like it? Or are you Thanes too important to waste your time on us common folk?"
"No comment, and you didn't answer my question."
She snickers. "Be that way. Well if you must know, I don't want anything specific. I just came to see what all this ruckus is about. It's an unusually big hubbub for three nobodies leaving the city on an unimportant journey no one cares about."
Mull tracks her gaze back into the middle of the courtyard, where Lydia, Hrongar, Torgen, and Avenicci are still mingling with each other. Other than them, the only other people present are a handful of guardsmen and locals passing into or out of the city, all studiously minding their own business. There are no ruckuses or hubbubs to speak of.
He returns a baleful eye to the Huntress. "Your sense of humor could definitely use some work." He's assuming it was a joke, anyways. The alternative would be decidedly odd.
"I've heard that one before." She raises her hand with Skjor's own still unwillingly captured in it. "There are some people who are always so needlessly quick to criticize. I've got one of them right here already. I don't need another one to deal with, Mull. Try to be a little more supportive next time. Laugh even if you don't mean it."
"…I'll be sure to do that."
Skjor harumphs expressively.
Now that they're out here in the open sunlight rather than inside a dingy mead hall, he realizes Skjor is on the doorstep of becoming an old man. He's definitely much older than his redheaded mate. Mull is willing to guess Aela is around his own age, but Skjor has to be pushing fifty at the very least. His hair is too grey and his skin is too wrinkled.
The gap in years is a little odd, he admits, but perhaps not overly so. Wealthy Cyrodiilic merchants have a reputation for committing worse offenses where that particular subject is concerned, and there's no shortage of young women willing to take advantage of elderly noblemen's riches. That sort of thing is hardly extraordinary.
No, these two Nords certainly aren't the strangest couple he's ever seen. Not even close.
That distinction goes to an especially memorable pair. It can't get much worse than the time he witnessed a male Dunmer and a female Argonian walking together down a street in the city of Cheydinhal with fingers tightly intertwined, their gleeful faces radiant with lovestruck grins as they stared longingly into each others eyes…
He blanches at the horrid memory. That just ain't right. It isn't natural, and if that makes me a hard-hearted asshole then it's a title I'll wear with pride. Shor as my witness. He shudders to imagine how that would work in the physical sense. Actually, he doesn't much care to imagine it at all. He would be a distinctly happier man if he had never been unfortunate enough to witness that biological aberration.
Aela interrupts his ghoulish ruminations with a teasing question. "If you all get yourselves eaten by bears or decide to never come back, can I have that house I heard you renovated on the eastern side of the city? It sounds like a cozy place, and I'm sure living in Jorrvaskr will get old eventually. Me and Skjor need to start making plans for our retirement. You know how it is."
Mull snorts. He very much doubts she's going to become a retiree anytime soon, spending her days sitting in front of a warm hearth and knitting scarves. As a general rule, he's willing to bet a werewolf has many more exciting things she could do with her time.
"The property technically belongs to the Jarl, so no," he replies with ill humor. "It isn't mine to give away even if I wanted to."
"Oh, that's a shame. I was looking forward to becoming a real homeowner. The quarters in our mead hall are cozy in their own way, but sometimes a girl wants something more." She nudges Skjor with an impish grin. "What d'you think, handsome? Are you disappointed you won't get to settle down with your beautiful lady quite yet?"
Skjor gives her a flinty stare but still refuses to speak.
"Did he have a bad night or something?"
Aela guffaws. "No, he's just being a grouch. He's mad because he didn't want to waste his precious morning blowing you kisses as you leave on your grand adventure. His words by the way, not mine."
"Then why'd you bring him?"
She shrugs. "Social courtesy."
"I know for a fact that isn't something you care about."
"I don't," she easily agrees. "But on the off chance we never see you again, I thought I'd be a good friend and do my part. Besides, he doesn't get out of the mead hall often enough. This little excursion will do him some good."
"Don't dishonor me more than you already have, woman," Skjor finally rumbles. "You're making me look like a cuckolded Breton, to be talked down by his own wife like this."
"I'm not your wife."
"You've been my woman for five years, and we've lived together and fought together for much longer than that. By Nordic tradition and the laws of Skyrim, we're unquestionably a mated pair."
"Still doesn't mean I'm your wife." Her playful tone makes it clear that there's no malice in her response, only mischief.
"That's only because you disdain the priests of the Nine and refuse to participate in a ceremony of Mara." Skjor exhales long and loud, like an angry boar stamping its hooves in preparation to charge. "That sharp tongue of yours could flay a wild mammoth down to its bones."
"You would know, wouldn't you?"
Mull curses under his breath and squeezes the bridge of his nose, exasperated by Aela's suggestive rejoinder. He really didn't need to hear that. "Alright, that's my cue. I'm gone. Have fun, you two."
Their increasingly animated quasi-spousal bickering fades into the distance as he escapes while he still can and marches through the gatehouse. The warriors of Whiterun stationed on either side of the gate straighten their spines and stand at attention as he passes by, but he doesn't pay them any heed. The whole Thane thing still makes him feel awkward when it comes to stuff like this, so he finds it easier to pretend the posturing warriors don't exist.
Torgen falls into step beside him, eagerly leaving behind Avenicci's stunted attempts at initiating a conversation, and Lydia finishes saying her final goodbyes to her father before hurrying to catch up.
After descending from the gates to the grassy plains below, they take a half-hour detour to acquire a trio of horses from a stable in the townlands, something they'd arranged beforehand with Avenicci's assistance. The Cyrod steward might be an insufferable prick, but Mull reluctantly admits that he's good at what he does.
Well…
He recalls the unpleasant state of the barracks when they first visited, right after he picked up Torgen from the White Whale.
…He's good at planning things, at least. Maybe not much else.
He was fully prepared to march right back to the gatehouse and beat Avenicci's scrawny ass if their mounts weren't ready yet, but that turns out to be unnecessary. Now that they're finally departing for High Hrothgar, he's feeling very impatient. He just wants to get on the road.
Once they're saddled up and fully underway, they quickly make good progress. They ride through the wide lanes of Whiterun's townlands unimpeded and cross an arched bridge spanning a fast-flowing fork of the White River. As they leave the gurgling stream behind, they emerge onto the treeless expanse of the Hold's southeastern plains.
They intend to take the southerly route to Ivarstead, a village resting at the foot of the Throat of the World and the site of the Seven Thousand Steps to High Hrothgar. Not only does their job for the Sanctuary of Kyne lie in that direction, but it also presents less of a risk for tangling with Stormcloaks. That's the hope, at least. The downside is that the southerly road is riskier in terms of the weather, which will determine if they're able to traverse the mountain passes or not.
The northerly route to Ivarstead follows the White River Gorge before circling around the eastern side of the Throat of the World through heavily-wooded foothills riven by precipitous gullies and tumbling waterfalls. It arguably would've made for an easier trek despite the rugged terrain, as that route sees a significant amount of overland commerce between Whiterun, the Eastmarch, and the Rift.
The downside is that it would also be a great deal more conspicuous than the southerly route. And not only that, but there have also been recent reports of Stormcloak patrols sighted in the windswept vales and craggy valleys dotting the piedmont between the White River Gorge and the Throat of the World, some of which are less than a day's travel by horse from Whiterun. That's unusual, apparently. Lydia seemed worried when she'd mentioned it. Until now, the Stormcloaks have rarely been bold enough to trespass on the territory of Whiterun Hold.
Whichever way you look at it, running into a band of Stormcloaks would almost certainly cause a delay, especially if they're held for questioning to ensure they aren't clandestine Imperial spies. That would be unideal, to say nothing else of the matter.
The border passes between Falkreath and the Rift have been contested between the Empire and the Stormcloaks for some time – and even more so now that Helgen has been wiped off the map – but that means traffic along the route is kept to a minimum, thus reducing their chances of encountering Stormcloaks overall. It will be easier to travel unobtrusively, and as long as they don't run into any patrols, it shouldn't be an issue.
Or that's what Avenicci claimed, for whatever it's worth. Only the gods know if there's any truth to it.
I guess we'll find out soon enough.
They're inauspiciously shadowed by drizzling rain that begins a few minutes after their departure from Whiterun. The precipitation isn't especially heavy, but it's uniformly ice-cold. Mull huddles beneath his woolen cloak, struggling to balance himself atop his horse while clutching the hem of his weatherproof garment. If this is how our journey is kicking off, then I'm sure we're going to have a really great time.
Torgen and Lydia somewhat surprisingly don't seem to share his trepidation. The older man turns his face to the sky and laughs merrily, allowing droplets of rain to wash over his wrinkled forehead and cheeks. "Kyne is blessing our travels, boss! Try not to look so gloomy!"
From where she rides in the lead of their procession, Lydia twists in her saddle to offer a faint grin of her own.
"I'll look a lot less gloomy when I'm not freezing and wet," Mull grumbles. They prepared for this eventuality with heavy trousers, tunics, boots, and mantles fit for traveling in addition to their cloaks, but even the highest-quality furs and wool can only go so far. Nothing is ever truly waterproof. That's something he's learned from abundant prior experience.
"On horseback we should reach Riverwood in well less than two days," Lydia calls back to them. "Until then, my Thane, please endure as best you can. The winter climate of Skyrim isn't friendly to those who are unaccustomed, and the snows will be upon us soon."
She holds out a hand to collect a few errant raindrops.
"Frankly, I would've expected this to be snow rather than rain. It would seem the Lady of Storms does favor us."
Mull studiously ignores Torgen's mocking smirk at his housecarl's insinuation, intentional or otherwise, that he isn't man enough to handle Skyrim's weather. He's learned by now that getting into that kind of argument with his fellow former bandit will only end with his abject annoyance. Instead his gaze rises from the muddy road to the vista ahead.
In the southwest is the range of mountains that Bleak Falls Barrow calls home. Their barren peaks look like a row of sharp teeth biting into the billowing layers of dark clouds overhead.
Directly ahead of them lies their present destination, the southern valley of the White River. The road inclines smoothly and steadily on the heather-gold plains until vanishing into the valley's forested depths.
To the left, the ever-present towering mass of the Throat of the World lances skyward into the heavens, its grand height swathed in banks of unbroken mist. The mountain seems deceptively close due to its immensity, which is as unfathomable as it is misleading. It's infinitely taller than all the other peaks around it.
Mull is no stranger to mountains, but Skyrim is unique among the regions he's visited for the sheer changeability of the terrain. Here it isn't uncommon to see rolling plains, dense forests, and steep-sloped highlands packed together within the same square mile. The geography of Cyrodiil was much less rugged, and not even the highlands of Craglorn were this schizophrenic.
Lydia slows her horse's gait to ride alongside him and Torgen. Her sky-blue eyes twinkle from beneath her hood, all the more brilliant for the grey dullness of their surroundings. "To be honest, I didn't expect the two of you to be such capable horsemen. I thought that I'd need to teach you how to ride over the course of our journey." She grimaces. "I wasn't looking forward to the possibility."
"What can I say? I'm a man of many talents." Torgen lounges atop his beast completely at ease. "It isn't too different from standing on the deck of a ship, and I've done plenty of that in my time."
"When have you ever been on a ship?" Mull asks with sincere curiosity. "I thought you're a clan boy."
"That I am, but the clans do more than raiding farmsteads and pillaging villages. Sometimes," he adds as an afterthought. "I think I mentioned once that I spent a little time in Dawnstar way back in the day. There's a lot of ship captains who call that city home. I went on my fair share of voyages into the Sea of Ghosts, mostly to salvage wrecks or hunt horkers. Nothing glamorous, I'll admit."
"Sure. But it was probably better than drudging though old crypts."
The older man barks with laughter. "No doubt about that."
Lydia shifts her inquisitive gaze to Mull, silently requesting that he also answer her question.
Fine. Can't hurt. "I traveled with a horse thief once, and even aided in a couple of his heists. I've never been much of a rider, but I learned enough from him to get by."
"A horse thief, huh?" Torgen leans close to better hear over the pattering rain. "That's a rare profession in Skyrim. What was he like?"
"An idiot," he chuckles. "And irritating. He'd pester you over the smallest things like you wouldn't believe. He complained all the time, even when there wasn't anything worth complaining about. It was like a hobby for him. But he was a good man," he finishes. "One of the best, although I didn't know him for very long."
Lydia seems uncomfortable at his glowing description of a career criminal, but Torgen predictably has no such reservations. "Was he a Nord?"
"Aye."
"Hmm. I wouldn't mind meeting him. Sound like he'd be a fun man to drink a tavern dry with."
Hidden under the folds of his hood, Mull's expression falls. "You might get to meet him if we pass through Helgen. He's there somewhere."
It takes his companions a few seconds to parse through his sentence. Eventually, Torgen asks what they're both clearly wondering. "Did the dragon get him?"
"…No, actually. It was the Imperials." He grits his teeth as he relives the sight of Lokir's disgraceful death for the dozenth time since that cursed day. As always, the memory fills him with revulsion. "We were involved in an… altercation with the authorities just before the dragon showed up. He tried to run away, so they shot him in the back. Didn't even do him the mercy of a clean killing. They just let him bleed out on the street."
"Damn. That isn't an end I'd wish on any man." Torgen spits into the willowy grass on the side of the road. "Fuckin' Imperials."
In spite of it all, Mull huffs with amusement. On that, I think we can agree.
Lydia murmurs. "I'm sorry to hear that, my Thane." She hitches her steed and accelerates to retake her position in the front of their little column.
They ride without conversation for some time after that. It isn't uncomfortable, but rather more reflective. Remorseful. The stillness is broken only by the continued splashing of the rain onto the stone-paved road and the steady clopping of their horse's hooves.
They don't remain morose forever. The surrounding landscape, veiled in precipitation though it might be, is nonetheless extravagant in that naturalistic way which Mull has only ever seen in alpine regions. It's a nice change of pace from the city. The rain is freezing, the wind only makes it worse, and the total lack of cover on the plains is extremely regrettable, but even so, he finds himself almost enjoying this opening act of their journey.
He still can't quite wrap his head around the idea that he's going to visit the Greybeards. They're practically living legends, philosophers of unrivaled wisdom and the foremost masters of the Voice in all of Tamriel. It doesn't seem real. He suspects it won't until he's literally standing on the steps of High Hrothgar.
He raises his eyes to the clouded sky above. Moisture drips from the rim of his hood into his beard. Vapor puffs from his lips. If this rain really is Kyne's blessing, then hopefully she's looking out for us. Or if not her, then somebody up there.
He tightens his gloved fingers around the reigns of his mount as he considers the many potential obstacles standing in their way. The weather could turn at the drop of a hat. They could run into Stormcloaks or Imperials. The Orphan Rock witches could kill them or skin them alive for some heretical ritual. They could arrive at their destination only to find the Seven Thousand Steps snowed in, or buried in a landslide, or a hundred and one other things.
He's never been the sort of person to excessively worry about issues outside of his control, but in this particular instance, he can't help it.
To his own surprise, he begins mentally reciting a prayer to whoever happens to be listening.
I have a feeling we'll need all the help we can get.
-x-
True to Lydia's word, they reach Riverwood in about a day and a half. Their one night spent camping on the road wasn't too unpleasant despite the rain – which even now hasn't yet relented – due to the arboreal cover provided by the plentiful trees. Mull is still paranoid about the local wolf population after his close encounter with them during his first journey from Riverwood to Whiterun, but the forest's lupine inhabitants appear to be hunkering down to wait out the weather.
He makes an effort to practice his nascent dragon-sensing ability as they travel – the Sight, as it had been called by Mirmulnir. Whenever they stop to rest or eat, he takes a minute or two to close his eyes and mentally extend his awareness. He never feels anything abnormal, so he isn't entirely sure if he's doing it right, but he assumes Mirmulnir would speak up if he were wasting his time and energy. Maybe. That might be giving him too much credit.
When they reach Riverwood, they spend what remains of the day turning in their horses to the local stabler and purchasing additional supplies for the next stage of their journey, which will be much longer and more perilous in part because they aren't keeping their mounts.
Mull is adamantly opposed to the idea of completing the rest of the trip to Ivarstead on foot, but Lydia insists that taking horses into Steelhead Pass would be a terrible idea. It might be doable if it were earlier in the year – the Imperial caravan that transported Mull, Lokir, and the Stormcloaks to Helgen had traversed the pass with little difficulty – but with the very present threat of snow and ice, doing so at this juncture would be incredibly risky. According to the housecarl, losing a horse is a costly mistake due to the beasts being so expensive in mountainous Skyrim, and the likelihood of that happening in the pass would be high.
While they're going around town, they ask a handful of the locals about Orphan Rock Vale. Neither the Jarl nor the letter from the Sanctuary of Kyne provided much in the way of useful information, and Mull doesn't want to go into this task without a decent idea of what they might encounter.
He remembers the witch who lived near the shores of Lake Ilinalta, who's home he and the surviving bandits of Torgen's gang had stayed in for a night. She seemed amiable enough and didn't take advantage of them in any perceptible way. Will these witches be the same? Or will they be of a rougher disposition?
They're unanimously informed that Orphan Rock Vale isn't a place to be traversed carelessly.
"There's a blasted hagraven coven there, practicing their foul magic away from civilized folk," one exceptionally talkative guardsman had said. "Only a fool would take their chances in such a dreadful place."
Rougher it is, then. Wonderful, Mull thinks wryly. This Orphan Rock job is sounding more and more promising with each new thing I learn about it. What in Oblivion did you rope me into, Balgruuf?
Hagravens are bad news. Mull doesn't know much about them beyond that they're powerful with magic and the barbarous Reachmen of the west supposedly worship them, but that knowledge is enough for him to never want to encounter one without adequate preparation and a healthy dose of luck.
And even if this man is wrong and there aren't any hagravens up there, it would still be smart to take precautions for defending against spells. Regular witches use magic too.
To that end, he sets aside some time to visit to a certain Cyrod businessman who he's fairly sure should have a few potions in stock.
Lucan Valerius recognizes him on sight and seems pleased to see him as he enters the Riverwood Trader, which he finds somewhat amusing. This place doesn't seem too different from when he last saw it. An impressively wide variety of goods are still for sale. The golden dragon claw from Bleak Falls Barrow is still displayed proudly on a countertop, glittering in the firelight and clearly visible to whoever might enter the building.
The shopkeeper is even more pleased when Mull produces a sack full of clinking septims and asks to browse his supply of elemental resistance potions. Lucan enthusiastically ducks behind a cabinet, rustles around for a few seconds, and rises with half a dozen bottles cradled in his arms.
Mull frowns as they're deposited on a table for his examination. There isn't quite as much to choose from as he was hoping for, but it'll have to do. He supposes he shouldn't have expected too much from a country town like Riverwood in the first place. He doubts there are many professional alchemists residing in the area.
He chooses three potions from Lucan's limited selection – one potion of fire resistance, colored burgundy red like an expensive Nibenean wine, and two potions of magic resistance, both a rich cornflower blue. The potions of magic resistance are cheaper, weaker, and won't provided the same degree of boosted protection as the potion of fire resistance, but they're also more generalized for defending the user from all manner of spells. I hope this is enough.
He forks over the requisite amount of gold with a scowl – potions are expensive, and Lucan's only-for-a-friend discount didn't do much to mitigate that – and gruffly says farewell as he exits the shop. He carefully stows the glass vials of lifesaving liquid alongside a few others already tucked inside his knapsack. You should never go anywhere without at least one or two healing potions and stamina potions on hand. That's a lesson he learned the hard way.
Torgen and Lydia rejoin him in the muddy street, and together they make their way further into town. This area is an eclectic mixture of businesses and homesteads, with shops like Lucan's, bustling taverns, and well-kept houses all scattered amongst each other. The buildings aren't packed close together like they are inside the walls of Whiterun, and almost every plot of land includes space for small gardens as well as grazing land for cows, sheep, goats, chickens, and other livestock.
As Mull's gaze falls on a group of white-feathered chickens strutting about in a nearby fenced yard, something strange happens. Mirmulnir suddenly decides to wake up.
The dragon greets him with insidious whispers, drawing forth the darkest desires of his soul with each spoken word. But this time, what he has to say is a little different from the norm.
'Slay these creatures, Qahnaarin. Exert your strength upon them, as is the deserved fate of all lesser beings. What can mere mortals hope to do as you destroy their slaves before their very eyes? They will tremble beneath the shadow of your might and know that you are greater.'
Mull stops in his tracks, completely overcome by incredulity. He ignores his companions' confused glances as well as those of random townsfolk passing by.
…Are you serious? You want me to kill those people's chickens? For the love of Kyne, why?
One of the chickens scrapes at the dirt, clucks, and twists its head to peer at him in the abrupt manner unique to avians. It's blissfully unaware of his inner turmoil or the possibility of its own untimely demise.
Mirmulnir, please tell me you're making some pathetic attempt at a dragon joke.
The dragon remains conspicuously silent, because of course he does.
Mull tenderly massages his temples. Ysmir fucking Talos. I must be going insane.
"My Thane, are you…?"
"Yeah, I'm doing great. Let's hurry it up and go." He waves off Lydia's concern and continues walking, unwilling to devote any more thought to that… whatever the hell it was supposed to be.
She shares a glance with Torgen, who simply shrugs, and they dutifully follow after him.
From additional questions and snippets of dialogue overhead in the street, they learn that the Call of the Greybeards' call shook the earth, literally. It caused seismic activity throughout all the regions surrounding the Throat of the World, inundating them with shakes and tremors as the Greybeards roused themselves for the first time in centuries.
Riverwood and the broader valley weren't exempted from Nirn's rumblings, though none of the damage was significant or long-lasting. It was problematic in other places however, as the townsfolk speak of reports from villages at higher elevations that were forced to evacuate for fear of landslides and avalanches.
Seeing as they'll soon be traversing those higher elevations, Mull isn't especially pleased by the news. But at this point, all they can do is continue towards Ivarstead and see what happens. There's no way to get there that won't take them through earthquake-affected regions.
As they replenish their supplies at a hunter's kiosk near the riverside, they make their selections with the knowledge that they'll have to carry it all themselves. It's light foodstuffs for the most part, jerky and bread and a few meager herbal ingredients for soups. One upside is that the mountains are awash with swift-flowing streams, so finding fresh water shouldn't be an issue.
Still, Torgen nearly bursts into laughter when he catches sight of Lydia weighed down by her enormous pack as she preemptively tests the straps for chafing or wear. It's practically as big as she is.
He won't be laughing when he sees his own pack tomorrow. Being the largest of the three, Torgen has been assigned the most weight to carry by Lydia, who handled the logistics of their supplies. It remains unclear whether this was done purely out of pragmatism or if there was any spiteful intent involved.
Once the housekeeping is out of the way, they spend the second night of their expedition resting in a shoddy inn adjacent to Riverwood's main thoroughfare. They're carrying a limited amount of coin which restricts their options, especially after the money Mull spent on the potions.
The establishment where they decide to rent their two rooms reminds them a lot of the White Whale. Not in a good way either.
Mull and Torgen don't mind – it actually pleases the older bandit to some extent – but Lydia is disgruntled by their accommodations, to put it mildly, and delays going to sleep for as long as possible to avoid subjecting herself to her frankly disgusting bed.
As a result, the three find themselves loitering in the inn's common room far into the evening despite needing to wake up early the next morning. With little else to discuss and Torgen bored out of his mind for a woeful lack of loose women, they find themselves planning for the upcoming segment of their journey.
"I meant to ask you this tomorrow morning, my Thane, but we may as well discuss it now." The housecarl subjects her tankard of foul-smelling ale to a venomous glare. She speaks loudly to be heard over the commotion of the inn's common room. "There's little else to do in a place like this."
"Aye. Ask away." Mull tears a chunk out of a loaf of rock-hard bread and washes it down with a mouthful of sickeningly-sweet mead. He fails to hide a grimace and shares a sorrowful look with Torgen. This food is terrible, but it's still better than the travel rations they'll be eating for the next week. That's a sad thought.
"Maybe we should've gone to the Sleeping Giant instead, even if it's more expensive." If Torgen of all people is complaining about the quality – or lack thereof – of a cheap tavern, then you know there's something genuinely wrong.
"I'm about to speak, bandit. Don't interrupt me." Lydia doesn't look like she explicitly disagrees with the man's remark, but once she's started on one of her lectures, there's no stopping her. "I've waited to present this information until now so we could see for ourselves what the weather looks like in the mountains. It appears to be fairly clear for the time being, so that means we have two options for how we might proceed from Riverwood to Steelhead Pass. The first is to go directly south to Helgen and then turn east into the pass. This would be the easier route and would allow us to continue with horses until reaching Helgen, but it's also more circuitous." She glances at Mull from the corner of her eye. "I also assumed you wouldn't want to go through Helgen for personal reasons, my Thane, though that obviously isn't my choice to make."
Mull disregards her unspoken inquiry. "What's the second option?"
"We could go through Skybound Watch Pass. It will take us southeast, more directly toward Steelhead Pass and thus presenting a faster route overall. It also coincidentally terminates in Orphan Rock Vale, where we must go regardless to fulfill our task for the Sanctuary of Kyne. However, Skybound Watch Pass is also potentially more hazardous than the Helgen route."
"I've never head of that pass," Torgen mutters through a slice of ham.
"Me neither."
"That doesn't surprise me. It's a little-known path," Lydia supplies. "Skybound Watch is the remnant of an ancient Nordic ruin. It's used as a smuggling route into the White River Valley by Stormcloaks who wish to circumvent Helgen. Jarl Balgruuf knows of its existence, but he can't take any meaningful action against it due to its location in Falkreath Hold. Jarl Siddgeir of Falkreath would be extremely unreceptive to the idea of Whiterun's warriors marching anywhere near his borders, much less within them."
"On that note, aren't you worried about the Stormcloaks taking advantage of Helgen being destroyed?" Torgen pointedly asks. "There could be a bunch of them down there now too, getting ready to invade Falkreath. It wouldn't surprise me."
"I concede that it is a possibility, but I – and more to the point, my uncle – are inclined to believe the Imperial garrison at Neugrad will be more than enough to dissuade the Stormcloaks from any large-scale activities in eastern Falkreath. Besides, if we avoid Helgen entirely then it shouldn't be an issue." She turns to Mull. "What do you think, my Thane?"
He doesn't spend long thinking it over. He's already made his decision, so he only takes a few seconds to quickly weigh the pros and cons one last time. We don't know what Helgen looks like right now. It could be abandoned or it could be crawling with soldiers. On the other hand, it sounds to me like this Skybound Watch Pass is guaranteed to be discreet. That's more important in my opinion, and it's worth the risk of the weather taking a turn for the worst or us running into a few smugglers.
"I say Skybound Watch," he says aloud. "Going to Helgen could be a mistake. We don't know what the Empire is doing with the place, if anything. Maybe nothing. A clan could've occupied it for all we know. Besides, time isn't on our side. If we can save a few days by going through this smuggler's route of yours, then I say that's our best option."
Lydia gives a swift nod. "As you say."
"Aye, boss-man. As you say." Torgen sardonically salutes with his ale before downing it all in one gulp. The face he makes after pulling away from the empty drinking horn is enough to steal a chuckle from Mull.
"Pretty bad, isn't it?"
"Gods. Yeah, it's really bad."
"Just remember, you're the one who was so excited about checking this place out."
"Don't remind me. Next time, I'll have to-"
The older man is cut off by a violent hiccup.
"Ugh, that was a good one." He puts a fist against his mouth and hiccups again.
Unfortunately, it doesn't end there. The hiccup morphs into a full-fledged belch, one that rumbles from deep inside his throat like a hundred frogs being slowly ground to death by a millstone.
Lydia wrinkles her nose and scoots away from the table.
The burp – which is of such impressive length and volume that it captures the attention of most of the tavern – suddenly terminates with a retch that doesn't sound promising at all.
"Oh shit." Torgen croaks a handful of other vulgarities as he shoots to his feet and scrambles for the door, with one hand clutching his mouth and the other his abdomen. He bashes open the door with his shoulder and hangs an immediate left, vanishing around the corner of the building into the gloom of night. A few seconds later, the sound of him vomiting violently reaches their ears.
The tavern explodes into laughter, with a few "milkdrinkers" and "snowbacks" thrown in for good measure. The patrons' amused uproar continues for a couple of minutes longer, until the novelty wears off and they return to their own beverages. Mull and Lydia are on the receiving end of quite a few lighthearted stares in their capacity as Torgen's companions.
"That's what he deserves for insisting on ordering their cheapest ale," Lydia grumbles.
Mull nods grimly. "He prides himself in being able to stomach that swill. I guess he finally met his match." With a sigh, he pushes himself to his feet and plants a few septims on the table. "I'll go check on him. If anyone gives you trouble, just scream. This looks like a rough crowd."
"My Thane, I am many things, but a helpless maiden is certainly not one of them." His housecarl frowns indignantly. "If I'm given trouble, I will give trouble right back with interest."
The corners of his lips tug upwards. He turns away quickly enough for her to hopefully not notice. "I'm sure you will."
He steps out the door still swinging open from Torgen's mad dash and closes it behind him, heeding the innkeeper's shouted request to keep out the evening chill. The clamor of the tavern grows abruptly fainter, superseded by the myriad noises of twilight.
Beyond a row of sod-roofed houses, the White River burbles faintly as it continues its long and arduous passage to the sea. A dog barks insistently somewhere nearby. A group of children laugh and squeal a little further down the street as they chase one another in circles.
It's no longer raining, which Mull counts as much more of a blessing than Kyne's supposed grace at their departure from Whiterun. The sky has even cleared up, though a few clouds are still hanging above the mountains to the west and north. Not to the south or east, fortunately. He hopes Lydia will be proven right about the weather along their route remaining agreeable.
After enjoying the sight for a while longer, he rouses himself and peers into the narrow pathway between the inn and an adjacent building only two or three yards away from the door. If he had to run somewhere to empty his stomach, that's where he would be.
His guess turns out to be correct. Just within the shadows of the timber-lined alley, a hunched figure is propping himself against the wall of the inn with one arm and breathing heavily. Even with a respectable distance between them, Mull can already smell the vomit. "How're you doing over there?"
"Urgh… brrgh."
"Should I call the guard and tell 'em I found a vampire laying in wait for poor innocent women?"
"Boss… please… have mercy on an old man." He belches again, though luckily it's only a belch. "Older than I thought, I guess."
Mull critically examines the ground. He can't make out much in the darkness, but it doesn't seem like there are any pools of vomit between himself and his acquaintance. Still, he isn't going to take the risk. "I'm not gonna risk tromping through a puddle of your stinking ale, so hurry up and get yourself over here," he beckons. "I'll buy you a sweetroll or something."
"It's… it's fine." Torgen unsteadily stumbles toward him, never removing his hand from the wall until he emerges from the alley. He doesn't look too worse for wear, but his beard is coated in bile and his boots are caked in mud and gods know what else.
"Talos above," Mull swears. "Your beard has seen better days." He hastily passes his waterskin to the man, who accepts it with a grateful nod and turns away to wash the detritus out of his hair. He finishes quickly and thoroughly enough for Mull to assume he's probably done this before.
The two men ascend the shallow steps back onto the front porch of the inn. Mull reaches for the door and looks questioningly at Torgen, but the older man shakes his head. "I need a break. I'll just stand out here for a while."
"Alright. I'll do the same then."
Torgen ambles over to the wooden railing separating the porch from the street and rests his hands atop the roughshod barrier with a deep purgative breath. Following his example, Mull leans down and places his weight on his elbows.
They stay there long enough to lose track of time, engrossed by the pale glistening of the river and the cries of owls and bats as they hunt for their dinners. Although the sky isn't fully dark yet, the stars are already shimmering into existence overhead one by one. The children continue to play as their mothers converse in front of their homes. The dog resumes barking, now joined in its revels by two others. The river that gives the town its name keeps flowing ever onward.
It's peaceful. Mull greatly enjoys the moment and makes sure to commit it to memory.
These sorts of experiences are always his favorites. Not a raucous celebration in a mead hall nor the grave ceremonies of self-important lords. Rather the least of these are what hold the greatest importance to him, a simple recognition and acceptance of the beauty of the world as he basks in tranquil mindlessness.
Mirmulnir doesn't see fit to ruin the moment with his usual gibberish, for which Mull is grateful. He hasn't said anything since his bizarre comments about the chickens earlier.
Mull finds the fact that he's thankful to not be hearing the voice of a dead dragon inside his head simultaneously disheartening and droll. The past few months have been utterly ridiculous in more ways than one, and it doesn't look like that'll be changing anytime soon. He survived a dragon attack, a cursed Nordic barrow, and another dragon attack. He discovered that he's apparently the godsdamn Dragonborn. He became a Thane. The list just keeps on going, and it's enough to make his head spin.
But right now he tries to ignore all the worries and frustrations, unwilling to let them ruin his serenity. He isn't entirely successful, but the moment still manages to be enjoyable. I somehow doubt I'll get many more of these, given the way things have been going.
Torgen also seems to be appreciating the scenery despite his bout of alcohol-induced sickness. A smile peeks through the golden mass of his beard, still wet from its recent washing.
Their quietude is disturbed by a handful of voices from a two-story balconied building down the street. They watch with wry amusement as a pair of men, a young blonde Nord and a sallow-skinned Bosmer, stand over a brunette woman in a yellow dress seated on a bench. From what they can hear and see, the two men are probably trying to woo the woman.
Unsuccessfully. Very unsuccessfully. Their attempts to flirt are downright appalling even by Mull's standards. He vaguely recognizes the Nord, though he doesn't recall from where.
"You don't see many of their kind up here," Torgen comments with a gesture to the Wood Elf.
"That you don't, although Whiterun does have a few more than you might expect."
"Really?"
"Aye. Two Bosmer brothers own a place called the Drunken Huntsman not far from the eastern market square. You ever heard of it?"
"I guess not. Is it any good?"
"If you ask me, yes. They've got some quality mead in stock, which is always a big plus in my book." He scratches his cheek. "Too many Elves though. There's always a lot of their kind hanging around in there for whatever reason."
"I thought you Thanes are supposed to be more noble-like," Torgen chortles, sarcasm dripping from his every word. "You're supposed to be a bastion of tolerance and wisdom. You can't go around talking about your poor subjects like that."
"I'm not," he retorts. "And gods forbid that I ever become that kind of Thane, with responsibilities and a public image. If I do, then do me a favor and kill me. It would be a mercy. But all I'm saying," he continues, "Is that it feels a little strange when you're the only Man in the room, like the Elves are watching you from every direction the moment you enter until the moment you leave. It makes my skin crawl."
"Alright, I see what you're saying. But maybe they're like that because we Men do the same to them. Or something. I dunno."
He has a point there. "I never thought about it, but yeah. Maybe. They are a long way from home."
The older man steps away from the railing and moves back toward the entrance of the inn. His teeth gleam in the starlight. "Aren't we all?"
Mull quietly chuckles as they go back inside, greeted by firelight and laughter and the scent of greasy food. And as the tranquility recedes and the busyness of the tavern takes its place, he reflects that this isn't so bad either.
-x-
AN:
In-game, Skybound Watch Pass isn't accessible from the Riverwood side of the mountains. You have to go through Helgen to get there.
I always thought the two entrances to the pass were positioned weirdly. They don't geographically connect locations in a way that's actually useful, which in my opinion is what a pass is supposed to do. So I decided to change the pass to have actual geographic significance. For the purposes of this story, let's pretend you can reach it from Riverwood without having to go all the way to Helgen.
