Chapter 32

The following morning, they ascend a serpentine trail meandering up the southeastern mountainside behind Riverwood, the swiftest path from the White River to Skybound Watch Pass. Its numerous switchbacks give the travelers a scenic view of the town and river below, enveloped in opaque morning fog and the smoke of a hundred cooking fires.

As predicted, Torgen dejectedly laments the size and weight of his pack. The only comfort Mull is able to offer him is that it'll get lighter as they consume more of their rations. That of course will mean they have less food left to eat, so it isn't much of a reassurance. But it's better than nothing.

The climb to Skybound Watch Pass takes them the entire day from morning to evening. The path is a perilous one, and they come close to getting hopelessly lost more than once. Their chances would've looked grim if it weren't for the trail being delineated at irregular intervals by small cairns of wind-smoothed boulders showing them the way forward.

It becomes markedly more difficult when they reach the pinnacle of the switchbacks and delve into the rugged highlands beyond. They doggedly march through dense thickets of evergreen, maze-like canyons, and along narrow shale ledges that restrict them to shimmying sideways at a snail's pace. The route is so circuitous that Mull soon loses his bearings, unable to tell which way is which. If something bad were to happen and he needed to return to Riverwood in a hurry, he doesn't think he could find the way back without wasting several days wandering aimlessly.

Lydia is their saving grace. She navigates using directions provided by her uncle and augmented with the testimonies of townspeople she'd interviewed in Riverwood the previous day. Some of the locals were adverse to discussing this little-known smuggler's route, but others were swayed by a handful of septims and kindly words. Her foresight proves to be fortuitous. Through her efforts, she's been able to garner a decent understanding of the path to Skybound Watch.

Sometimes she hesitates at forks in the trail, squinting at her notes and considering the best route with her tongue slightly poking out, but she always figures out the right way in the end. Mull's opinion of his housecarl increases rapidly over the course of the day. If nothing else, she's certainly a talented guide.

By the time they reach their destination, the shadows of late afternoon are already starting to lengthen and the breeze is getting chilly. They enter a high-sided and partially-wooded basin that executes a sweeping loop from south to east to north, comprised of noticeably smoother terrain than the labyrinth of chasms and escarpments they're leaving behind. Tall mountains rise on all sides except for one – at the far end of the basin is a window of open sky and another overlook down to the White River, now even further below than before.

At the edge of the overlook, they find the dilapidated skeleton of a squat stone tower nestled against the side of a craggy outcropping. Lydia informs them that this tower should be the entrance to Skybound Watch Pass according to her notes.

Black clouds linger overhead. Gusts of wind are keening between pine branches and around the corners of rocky chasms. These highlands are forlorn and lonely, utterly isolated from the world beyond their precipitous borders. The only exception is the distant view of the White River, a shimmering ribbon undulating across the valley floor hundreds if not thousands of feet beneath their current elevation. They've done a lot of hiking today.

The tower itself is featureless and clearly quite old. The only spots of color are provided by coniferous trees, snowberry bushes, and an assortment of scraggly shrubs clinging to life in the zone of protection it offers from the scouring wind. A scant handful of icicles have formed along the structure's weathered exterior, glittering like jewels in the light of the crimson sun descending far in the west. Nightfall will be upon them soon. This place will be eerie when it's fully dark.

Each breath sends spears of frigid air piercing into Mull's lungs. If they aren't as high as they were during the climb to Bleak Falls Barrow, then they must be very close. It's no surprise that this area appears to be uninhabited.

"At this temperature, precipitation will almost certainly turn to snow or ice," Lydia reports. "We're fortunate the weather has been clear since Riverwood."

Mull sneezes violently. The noise echoes from the soaring bluffs around them.

"That was loud," she comments mildly. She approaches the entrance to the structure and peers curiously inside.

"I try," he replies with ill humor.

Torgen circumspectly backs away a few steps.

Mull frowns at him. "…What is it?"

The older man gestures uncertainly. "Since you're a Tongue now and all, isn't it dangerous to be going around sneezing like that?"

He gives the bandit a deadpan stare. "Torgen, my sneezes aren't going to kill you. Talos alive, man. Grow some balls."

"I don't know that!" he indignantly retorts. "After seeing what you did to Iron-hand, can you really blame me for being cautious? You turned his face into ground beef with a single word! His nose was squashed like a ripe tomato and his eyeball was about to spill out of its socket! If you aren't careful, that could be me next!"

Lydia curls her lip in distaste. "That isn't something I particularly wanted to visualize."

"I'm just saying-!"

"Gods above, that's enough," orders Mull with an exasperated groan. "Don't piss your pants. We can argue all we want about meaningless bullshit once we've made camp for the night. Until then, keep your heads on straight. I want to see what this pass looks like before we do anything else."

He nods impatiently for Lydia to enter the tower.

"Go on. I'll be behind you."

The housecarl returns his nod, now all professionalism, and ducks through the doorway with her shield at the ready. Mull steps inside after her.

There isn't much to see. The roof has long since collapsed, leaving the interior of the structure exposed to the darkening sky. He glances upwards beyond the shattered rim of the towertop to the circle of navy blue and grey above. The movement of scuttling clouds creates a mesmerizing effect that leaves him feeling a little dizzy, and he quickly refocuses on the situation on the ground.

The tower's other features include stacks of crumbled stone, a bronze brazier corroded green with age, and a layer of lumpy petrified mulch beneath their feet that indicates the former presence of timber floors and support beams, now reduced to practically nothing by erosion and the encroachment of nature. Seeing as the tower is little more than a three-story high oval of uneven granite blocks, he's surprised it's even still standing.

Torgen brings up the rear as he enters the tower and inquisitively examines their surroundings. "I can see why this is a smuggler's route. It's discreet and secluded, but still accessible from Riverwood in a single day's march. Some hard climbing isn't too harsh of a price to pay for secrecy. The Stormcloaks are a lot of things, but I don't think stupid is one of them."

Mull grunts noncommittally. He's too busy assessing the final and arguably most important characteristic of the tower's interior.

Against the far wall – the wall adjoining to the large outcropping outside – is an intricately-wrought double door that heavily resembles the style of architecture he remembers seeing inside Bleak Falls Barrow. It might be crafted from raw iron or some other metallic ore, though he's no expert on such things. Whatever it is, it definitely isn't mundane stone. The interweaving carvings decorating the doors are as intricate as they are incomprehensible, and haven't yet been destroyed by the passage of time.

"Does this look right, Lydia?"

"I believe so. This is a close match for several descriptions I was given of Skybound Watch, and through these doors should lie the beginning of the pass itself."

"Perfect." He rolls his shoulders and preemptively ensures his sword is loose in its sheath. "Let's get on with it then. Same idea, you go in first and I'll back you up."

"Should we not first consider resting for the night?"

He pauses and squints at the sky again. "There's still a couple of hours before full nightfall, and if the pass is too treacherous, then we can always turn back and strike camp here without losing much time. I think it's worth taking the chance."

"By your will, my Thane." Having voiced her concern and now content with his answer, Lydia obediently moves into position and tests the doors with a gentle shove from her boot. The hinges shriek loudly as they're forced open a few inches, just enough to provide a sliver of visibility inside. It looks dark in there.

"Torgen, light us some torches."

"Aye." The Nord bandit huffs loudly as he drops his heavy pack to the ground and starts digging around. After a few seconds of rummaging and muted curses, he pulls out two preprepared spruce brands and soaks them in oil from a gourd-shaped flask. It only takes him a few strikes each with a jagged piece of flint to set the oily wood ablaze.

He passes one brand to Mull and keeps the other for himself. The crackling flames grow in intensity with each passing second as the oil starts to burn, and soon the inside of the abandoned tower is alight with dancing shadows.

"We don't know what we'll find in there, so be ready for anything. We might need to draw our weapons faster than we can blink." Mull glances sidelong at Lydia. "Are you ready?"

"I am."

"Then the floor is yours."

With no further prompting, she heaves open the doors with her shoulder and reveals whatever lies behind them to the dying light of dusk. Mull and Torgen hold aloft their torches and peer inside, providing her with brighter illumination than what the distant sun can currently offer.

The inside of the pass is entirely unremarkable.

A tunnel slopes steeply into the earth, vanishing into a veil of blackness several yards further down. It's featureless and bland much like the tower itself, no different from any mundane mineshaft or cave.

They collectively share a look before Lydia takes the first step over the threshold. Her companions dutifully follow her lead. Torgen slams shut the doors behind them, blocking out the scant light and mournful wind of the highlands. The air grows noticeably warmer in seconds.

The tunnel is lit solely by their torches as they descend into the darkness. It's quiet except for the thumping of their boots against the floor and the chattering of a distant watercourse somewhere ahead.

They soon find themselves entering a roughly circular room at the bottom of the incline. It's covered floor-to-ceiling in vegetation and brightened by a shaft of watery orange sunlight filtering through an aperture above their heads.

The walls are covered in thick layers of hanging moss and a few leafy yellow vines bearing clusters of ovular blue berries. It's an impressive amount of plant life for an underground chamber, making the space feel like a farmer's cellar. The floor is coated in a sheen of flowing water emerging from some unseen source, giving life to more vines twisting and twining along the ground.

"How are those things able to grow down here?" Mull asks nobody in particular. "There's a little light, but it isn't much."

"I don't know, boss. I'm not a gardener."

Lydia wordlessly shrugs.

"Very insightful. Thanks everyone."

"Anytime."

Disregarding the way they came, there's only one exit. Taking up most of the middle of the room is a sizeable hole in the floor with paved walls akin to a well, about fifteen feet in diameter. Its edges are bounded by a series of narrow pillars rising to about waist height, presumably more decorative than functional. The hole isn't especially deep as evidenced by a spiral staircase carved into its sides that only goes through a single revolution before reaching the bottom. However, the bottom is just barely visible even with both of their torches and the ray of sunlight. It looks like Skybound Watch Pass will be taking them deeper into the bowels of Nirn.

Mull frowns heavily at this revelation. He addresses Lydia with a note of annoyance. "I don't think you ever said this pass would be underground."

She grimaces. "It pains me to admit it, but I wasn't aware of this either. All I knew was that this would be an ancient Nordic ruin of some kind, though ostensibly a small one. The possibility that it would be a subterranean passageway never once occurred to me. Now however, that's looking more likely than not."

That isn't good. Mull's thoughts immediately leap to the accounts they heard in Riverwood about tremors in the earth caused by the Greybeards. If there's any veracity to those rumors, then underground isn't where they want to be right now. The more time spent in these old places, the more that could go wrong.

"At least this doesn't seem too similar to Bleak Falls Barrow," Torgen remarks. "I'd hate having to deal with more draugr. I don't see any of those big coffins or hidden nooks, and thank Shor for that."

Mull groans. "I swear to the gods if you just jinxed us, I'm going to skin you alive."

"Come on, boss. We were both thinking it."

"Oh yeah? If you're so confident, then you can take the lead." He points to the murky hole in the ground. "Go on. Let us know what you find down there. Feel free to scream for help if you need to."

Torgen's expression tightens. "…Alright then. I won't say no, but I'm expecting a nice fat bonus for this," he mutters. He squeezes his torch in a white-knuckled grip as he treads carefully to the edge of the hole. He takes the stairs one by one, grumbling into his beard all the while about a proper allocation of responsibilities.

"Am I also to receive a bonus for my services rendered and perils otherwise duly rendered?" Lydia innocently asks. "I am a fellow member of the Mighty Mudcrabs, after all. Surely I too should be entitled to some form of compensation for undertaking hazardous activities."

Mull stares at her for a long moment, unsure whether she's attempting to crack a joke. "…No."

She impassively turns away, though a ghost of a smile flutters across her lips.

His disconcerted gaze remains on her for a while longer as he tries to puzzle out what she's thinking. I don't have to pay her a regular salary like I do Torgen since she's financially supported by the Jarl. All I'm supposed to do is make sure she gets room and board. But does she want more money? Is that why she spoke up? Or is she being tongue-in-cheek?

After thinking it over for a while, he comes to the conclusion that she isn't the sort of person who would care about the amount of money she earns and that her question was probably intended to be funny.

But he didn't find it amusing. He's personally witnessed more than one instance where a bandit chieftain was asked that question by his unruly subordinates, gave the same answer, and was on the receiving end of a dagger immediately afterwards. No. It isn't amusing at all.

Then he snorts as another one of Torgen's muttered complains reaches their ears from below.

"How're you doing down there?" he calls out, making sure to moderate his volume to a safe level.

"I just reached the bottom," Torgen distantly replies. "No problems that I can see. It's just water and more plants, so hurry up and get down here."

Mull gestures for Lydia to get moving, briefly scans the room for anything they might've missed, and heads after her without seeing anything worth stopping for. The only noteworthy items are some clay vases and other assorted pottery huddled together in cobwebbed corners, indicating previous occupation of some form or another.

At the bottom of the hole is an archway set into the wall that leads to another steadily-descending hallway. This passage is circular and the stonework has an archaic look to it. Grasping tree roots protrude from the ceiling and coil down the walls, giving the space a much more botanic feel than Bleak Falls Barrow. Mull winces as a squeaking bat flutters overhead.

Now he's paranoid thanks to Torgen's comment about Bleak Falls. He sweats buckets as they press further into the tunnel network, on constant lookout for ambushing draugr emerging from the sightless abyss beyond their torchlight. Thankfully there are no branching hallways, sarcophagi, or alcoves, and they only have to worry about keeping an eye on the single main passage. That's a blessing in and of itself.

There's a lot of water dripping from the ceiling and trickling along the floor in this segment of the underground pass. Pools have formed in some places, ranging from only inches deep to several feet. Navigating the tunnel quickly becomes a demanding chore as they skirt around bodies of water.

I'm surprised the roof hasn't already collapsed with it being flooded like this. What if our weight causes the waterlogged foundations to shift? Or what if they've already been weakened by the Greybeard's Call? He's starting to regret taking this route instead of staying on the surface. Not that they knew what they were getting themselves into at the time, but still. Hindsight and all that. It feels like I've been saying that a lot lately.

The hallway eventually levels out and finally begins sloping upwards. The changing elevation leaves a depression at the lowest point of the passage, which has filled with springwater to about knee-height. It's a bothersome obstacle, but they have no choice except to find a way past unless they'd rather turn around and climb back to the surface. And as much as Mull has been seriously considering that option, he doesn't want to give up quite yet.

So they tighten their backpacks, girt their weapons, and begin slogging through the water with arms waving about to maintain their balance. The submerged floor is slick beneath the soles of their boots. It's especially difficult for Mull and Torgen, who simultaneously struggle to hold onto their torches. Losing the firelight and being plunged into darkness would be disastrous in this situation.

Colorful salamanders cling to rocks protruding from the water, their brilliant orange skin glistening with moisture and covered in uniform black spots. Lydia pauses to admire one, but is scurries away and vanishes into the water when she ventures too close. The torchlight reflecting off the surface makes it impossible to see what might be lurking beneath.

Something drifts next to Torgen's leg, an indistinct blob of white and grey. When he lowers his torch to examine it, the light reveals an opaque crayfish with a pair of large pincers, six spindly legs, and multiple whiplike appendages trailing from the top of its head. It doesn't react to the man's presence at all, probably because it doesn't have eyes. It's an alien creature. "Makes you wonder what else is floating around in here with us," he jibes.

Lydia shudders. "Spare me the nightmares." Her movements take on a new sense of urgency and the far end of the pool soon comes into sight.

They reach the water's edge and reemerge onto dry land without encountering anything more problematic than wet trousers and socks – which has the potential to be very problematic, but only when left to fester for too long. Mull preemptively plans to make camp and start up a roaring fire as soon as they reach the exit.

Sitting next to the pond, they find a rusty iron-bound chest with some sort of booby trap and a lock. Mull can't make heads or tails of the mechanism, but Torgen cleverly uncovers a wire connected to the trap and traces it to a cluster of holes drilled into the wall. "These are usually set up to shoot darts or small arrows. It looks like it's been tampered with recently. There isn't much dust resting on it."

They're more alert after that. They continue onwards and upwards, unwilling to risk tampering with the chest. They're increasingly worried about encountering Stormcloaks, smugglers, or something worse.

Their fears aren't quite justified, but it's close. It depends on your definition of 'something worse.'

After a few twists and turns, they find the way forward blocked by a wooden door. It's unlocked, but it's also a big door, so Mull and Torgen both strain to open it while Lydia covers the opening with her shield. They shove it until it stops against the wall.

Before them, the hallway rises sharply upwards and a staircase begins. It's very steep, well beyond what would normally be considered practical. This must be the final section – they're surely nearing the surface by now unless they're underneath a mountain. Which is certainly possible, but Mull hopes that isn't the case.

However, what captures his attention the most is something much more ominous. The walls, floor, and ceiling ahead are coated entirely in white fibrous material. He easily recognizes them. Spider webs.

And that isn't all. Here and there, ovular bone-white eggs are embedded in the walls, and in a few places ambiguous objects wrapped in webbing are dangling from the ceiling.

As they step beyond the threshold of the door, small spiders scuttle across the floor and between their lairs of woven webbing. Some are easily the size of his hand with fingers included. Others are barely larger than a fingernail.

He curses vehemently and waves his torch back and forth to ward away the diminutive arachnids. He morbidly imagines them crawling up his legs, down into his boots, and across his bare skin. His stomach roils with nausea and he curses again, but this time the anger is directed at his own overactive imagination.

They gingerly start climbing the staircase, but they've only scaled about twenty steps before something else causes them to halt in their tracks. In the gloom of the hallway ahead, they spy a silhouette hunched at the extremity of their firelight. Whatever it is, it isn't human.

Its body is too wide and has far too many legs, for starters. The way it twitches is incredibly unnerving. Its skin – no, chitin – is the color of ivory. And its eyes… godsdamn, there's a lot of them.

If the webs weren't sufficient indication, this creature is undoubtedly a Frostbite spider.

"You've got to be shitting me," Mull whispers hoarsely. "This really is just like Bleak Falls."

He glares ominously at Torgen as his hand creeps toward the hilt of his dagger. The blonde man shuffles behind Lydia. Her shorter and smaller frame fails to offer him any concealment whatsoever.

"My hide wouldn't make for good leather," he hastily states. "Too old and wrinkly. Skinning me wouldn't be worth the effort, I swear it."

"I'll be the judge of that."

"My Thane, we presently have much bigger things to worry about!" Lydia hisses. "Leave this for later!"

As she speaks, the shadow looming above them shifts with muffled rustling. It's accompanied by a faint noise like two stones distantly clacking together. Or mandibles. If it hasn't noticed them yet, then it assuredly will soon.

"…Yes, we do." Mull releases his dagger with a sigh. "Enjoy it while you can, Torgen. You're off the hook for now."

Torgen grunts his acceptance as he glances at the waiting spider. "Good to hear. So what are we going to do about that thing?"

"We'll kill it, of course." They don't have many alternatives at this point. Mull lays a hand against Lydia's shoulder and guides her forward. The undulating surface of her chainmail hauberk is frigid against his fingers. "You're front and center. Occupy its attention and keep your shield up. Torgen and I will work around you on either side."

She nods without taking her eyes away from the shadowy arachnid.

"You hear that, Torgen?"

"Aye, boss," the Nord bandit affirms. He hefts his weapon and shuffles to Lydia's left, leaving the right side of the hallway for Mull.

The weapon in question is a bearded great-axe with a simple but high-quality steel head and a sturdy beechwood haft plaited with leather strips. Torgen purchased it in Whiterun shortly before their departure and has been enamored with it ever since. Mull has caught sight of him lovingly caressing the well-honed blade on more than one occasion, whispering sweet nothings as if it's a genteel lady and not an implement of death.

"I've been hoping for a good opportunity to put this beauty to the test. It looks like Stuhn is feeling gracious today. A Frostbite spider will be a worthy first victim."

Mull scoffs at the tall Nord's zeal. Only an idiot like him could be excited about fighting another one of these eight-legged monstrosities, especially after Bleak Falls Barrow and how unambiguously terrible it was. At least Lydia appears to be suitably cautious. Beads of sweat are coalescing on her dainty brows as she edges forward with wary prudence, never allowing her guard to falter. As always, her unfailing discipline is commendable.

Now that a basic plan is in place and his companions know what to do, he allows himself a brief moment to close his eyes and take a deep breath, indulging in his distractions and worries one final time.

Then he clamps down on the errant emotions with all of his willpower, stuffing them into a deep dark corner to be forgotten until this fight is over. His limbs tingle with tension and anticipation, the physical indications of impending violence waiting to be unleashed.

He scowls as he assesses the spider, now being drawn into the radius of their handheld illumination with each step closer. It's still hunched in the middle of the hallway without displaying any signs of aggression other than periodic chittering and abrupt movements of its chelicerae.

It's waiting for them. It must see them and hear them by now, so there's no other possibility. It knows it's outnumbered and that it can't easily maneuver in this confined low-ceilinged corridor. It has nowhere to run.

And neither do they. Skybound Watch is the only path through the mountains to Steelhead Pass unless they want to return to Riverwood and waste several days taking the Helgen route. Either they go through this creature or they don't go through at all.

Mull raises his sword and stalks ahead. Lydia quickens her steps to match his own, diligently keeping her shield between him and the spider. The enormous arachnid's many eyes swivel to follow their bobbing torches.

Torgen tosses his flaming brand to the ground in front of the spider and advances as its attention is occupied. He bares his teeth and brandishes his axe, poised to strike in the span of a heartbeat.

The tunnel is enveloped by that breathless instant which always precedes mortal conflict. The spider stares down at them just as they do the same.

Then the corridor erupts into frantic action as the spider screeches and executes a short leap, bearing down on Lydia and her shield. She yells in alarm and hunches behind her protective circle of wood and iron.

The spider's momentum is arrested as Torgen heaves his axe over his shoulder, takes a hopping step, and swings with all of his prodigious might like a man playing knattleikr.

The razor-sharp axehead slams into the front of the spider's bulbous body with a sickening squelch, piercing straight through its layers of hoary chitin like they aren't even there. Teal-blue gore splatters across the floor, Lydia's boots, and her uplifted shield.

The spider abandons its attempted assault and reels away with a deafening cry. Its spindly legs skitter in all directions as it backs against the far wall, desperately seeking to put distance between itself and the opponent who injured it so quickly and so severely. Its retreat coincidentally brings it closer to Mull, who's patiently waiting for such an opportunity.

He darts out from behind the protection of Lydia's shield and swipes his blade across one of the spider's limbs, not quite severing it but still drawing a line of weeping cerulean blood through its armored flesh.

It tries to back further away, but he stomps closer and attacks again. This time the leg separates cleanly and drops lifelessly to the ground, eliciting a venomous hiss from the grotesque creature. Its forelimbs spasm wildly and droplets of liquid toxins leak from its maw.

They circle closer and begin herding the spider down the tunnel, never giving it an opportunity to retaliate. It continuously concedes ground as Torgen and Mull alternate between attacking and defending, providing each other with openings while using Lydia's stalwart presence to anchor their line. They carve into the venomous creature again and again.

Another thunderous swing of Torgen's axe tears deeply into the spider's body, bathing the stones beneath their feet in torrents of putrid blue blood. They each slip and stumble more than once, soaking their hands and knees in sticky hemolymph.

Mull hacks and slashes with practiced precision, deftly severing two more legs and inflicting multiple smaller cuts across the monster's resilient hide.

Lydia sweeps forward and delivers a lightning-quick uppercut to the front of the spider's head, mangling its chelicerae and destroying many of its eyes. Gore and venom ooze disgustingly from the mutilative facial wound.

After they've meticulously turned the spider's life into a hell of suffering and pain, Torgen finally puts it out of its misery by readying his axe overhead and smashing it into the top of the creature's cephalothorax. Its brain is pulverized, minced, and otherwise rendered inoperative by the tremendous blow.

It collapses onto its belly with its few remaining legs splayed nervelessly, continuing to twitch as its body slowly realizes it's dead. After another ten or so seconds, its involuntary movements cease and the last of the wicked light goes out of its eyes – those that are still intact. All that remains of the thoroughly dismembered beast is an inert pile of chitin, spongy turquoise flesh, and spilled innards.

Once they're sure the creature is dead, the trio of travelers share a measured look.

"That was easy," comments Torgen.

Mull lowers his stained sword and inclines his head in agreement. "A lot easier than the one we killed in Bleak Falls."

"Heh. No question about that."

"This one must've been younger. It definitely wasn't as big."

"But it was still plenty big enough, if you ask me."

A sharp noise of revulsion draws their attention to Lydia. "And it was messy," she grumbles. "Ugh."

All three of them are drenched from head to toe in turquoise ichor, though the housecarl is the worst off by far. As their designated shieldwoman, she was in closest proximity to the spider as its bodily fluids were being forcibly ejected from its body. Her shield helped somewhat, but a copious amount of blood is still spattered all over her legs, arms and face. Her hair is hopelessly clumped together and dyed blue in many places.

She lifts her sopping-wet sword-arm and scowls with abject revulsion as she twists her hand back and forth, examining the spider guts clinging to her skin. Globs of viscous goop trail between her fingers, refusing to be dislodged by any amount of shaking. "Kyne take these wretched beasts."

The look on her face is easily one of the most emotive expressions that Mull has ever seen from her, and he struggles to avoid laughing out loud.

He snickers under his breath as he prods the dead spider with the toe of his boot. "Now you see why I hate these things. They're ugly as Oblivion. They smell like shit. And they don't even have the decency to die cleanly. Nirn will be a better place without this one living in it."

"That's little consolation, my Thane." Her eyes are stormy as she glares at the deceased arachnid.

Torgen leans in and examines her with a hand resting on his chin. "You might have to cut out some of those braids, princess. The blood got in there pretty good."

"Bandit… step away from me this instant," she tremulously demands. "I am currently liable to do something I might later regret."

The man quickly moves back, though a grin doesn't quite remain hidden behind his beard. "Point taken. Should we go back to that flooded part of the tunnel and wash off?"

"…Let's keep moving," Mull replies after a moment of consideration. "We can worry about how we look once we're outside. We aren't trying to impress anyone down here, and the sooner we're through this pass, the better."

Lydia is stricken by his decision and the fiery light of betrayal dances behind her eyes, but she doesn't verbally protest.

They hitch their packs, do what they can for their messy weapons, and continue to climb.

Lydia walks straight-backed with her arms held away from her body. She almost looks like a tottering child as she sways back and forth, doing everything in her power to prevent more spider-filth from getting on her hauberk.

The spiderwebs soon give way to bare stone and partially-submerged floors, though not to the same troubling extent as before. Mull's boots squelch in a distinctly annoying manner, and he looks forward to reaching the end of the pass so he can dump out the accumulated water and clean off the muck.

In one section of the passage, they find evidence of a campfire and scraps of discarded kindling. There are also a few rickety shelves screwed into the walls, which display the remnants of expired food, stagnant potions, and moth-eaten clothing. It's irrefutable evidence of recent occupation, probably by whoever set that trapped chest further down.

"Do you think these belonged to Stormcloaks?" Mull inquires.

"Maybe." Torgen reaches out to touch a bone-tipped spear leaning against a wall. "Or it could've been a clan. I'd say either is possible."

"Whoever they were, I'm guessing the spider scared them off."

"It looks that way. But you'd think they would've been able to kill the thing, even if they only had a handful of warriors. Look at us. We pulled it off without too much trouble."

"They might not have thought it would be worth the effort." He chuckles. "Or they could've wanted a pet to guard their cute little smuggling route. Hell, maybe they're the ones who lured it down here in the first place."

"That's quite a leap in logic, boss."

"Aye, but stranger things have happened. You never know what people might be thinking."

While the two men converse, Lydia uses a moldering blanket dampened with water from her flask to wipe herself down along with her equipment. It doesn't do a perfect job and streaks of congealed ichor still stain her hauberk and bare skin, but it's good enough for the time being.

They set aside a few minutes to rest among the trappings of previous habitation before setting off again. The tunnel continues to rise upwards, and upwards, and upwards. Mull is pretty sure they're now at a substantially higher elevation than when they first entered Skybound Watch.

Finally, at the top of a long flight of stairs, they find a pictograph-inscribed door just like the one at the beginning of the pass. Two dusty bedrolls are laid out in front of it and a handful of miscellaneous tools are scattered around.

Lydia and Torgen both look to Mull for direction. "We'll do the same as we did before. Lydia goes first with us right behind."

They share a round of nods, get into position, and march through the door with swift steps as Lydia pushes opens the way forward.

They're greeted by the scant light of pale moonbeams as they emerge from Skybound Watch Pass. Masser is hidden behind a bank of clouds, but Secunda is kind enough to provide them with just enough brightness to see by. Mull and Torgen hurriedly dowse their torches on the off-chance that somebody nearby might see them. It never hurts to be careful.

They find themselves standing on a narrow ledge, no more than six feet wide from the doorframe to a sheer dropoff. Beyond that, a cliffside plummets away into the dense gloom of night. They can't make out much of the murky landscape before them, but it's clear that falling from this height wouldn't be a pleasant experience.

There's a thin layer of snow blanketing the ground and scattered flakes are floating from the clouds. They've been lucky with the weather so far. Hopefully it stays that way.

To their right is a narrow archway protruding from the wall, and beneath it is an ascending staircase. Mull takes the lead, careful to avoid plummeting over the edge of the cliff, and his two companions follow.

At the top of the stairs they find an open courtyard overlooking the void below. To their immediate south is a blocky stone structure with a semicircular roof, weathered and worn with age. Frigid wind and grey lifeless rock lend the place a forsaken atmosphere, like they're teetering on the edge of the world.

They hurry into the building, eager to be out of the cold, and enter a somewhat cramped room bearing the features of habitation just like the tunnel. They discover the ashen remains of another fire, several rickety benches, a pair of low round tables, and bedrolls in various states of disorganization. A couple of wrought-iron lanterns are dangling from hooks embedded in the ceiling and a collection of furs and hides have been suspended from the walls, most likely to dry them out or to provide the otherwise barren space with adornment of a sort. Tucked away beneath one of the tables is a smattering of urns and coins that must've been scavenged from the ruin below.

Once they've confirmed there aren't any occupants, Mull reverses course and ducks out the way they came while he sends Lydia and Torgen to search ahead through another doorway on the opposite side of the building.

He realizes the archway-over-staircase they went under when exiting the pass is actually a supporting edifice for some sort of walkway that extends straight out into the emptiness of the open air, overlooking the lightless landscape below. At the end of the around twenty-foot-long protuberance, a pedestal has been erected. Over the pedestal is another archway, freestanding and much smaller, crowned by a carving of what Mull recognizes as the head of a dragon.

In a fit of curiosity, he ventures out onto the windblown causeway and takes a closer look at the pedestal. It doesn't look like anything especially interesting – it's a rectangular block of stone engraved with geometric shapes and topped with a flat slab. He wonders what the purpose of this structure could've been. Unless you just want a really nice overlooking view of the valley below, the only use would be if you could fly, and people can't fly.

But dragons can, his inner monologue whispers.

He shivers, and not from the alpine cold.

Is that was this was originally built for? A dragon?

He stands for a while longer on that pinnacle of manmade precariousness overlooking the empty vacuum of a shrouded night, wondering how many other men have stood in this same exact spot since the advent of mankind.

But eventually the biting wind grows too strong for his taste and he returns to the semicircular building to see what the others are doing.

They aren't there, so he continues through the vacant main room and out the other side, where yet another staircase rises to his left. At the top, he finds his companions loitering with uneasy frowns and palms resting on their weapons, still stained blue.

To the south lies an ominous expanse of a dense woodland, obscured by the impenetrable shade of countless leaves absorbing the luminosity of the moons. The land is molded into the shape of a bowl, with the forest growing most thickly at its center. By that analogy, their current position would be at the rim of the bowl, enabling them to look down on the forest from above.

"I believe we're now standing on the northern fringe of Orphan Rock Vale," Lydia informs him as he arrives.

"The home of that witches' coven," Torgen mutters. "I can't say I like the look of it."

"None of us do." Mull glances back on Skybound Watch. From their vantage, he now sees that the semicircular building has two tall pillars projected at a slight angle from either side of the highest point on its curved roof, resembling the spokes of a wheel. The top of each pillar is carved in the likeness of some unidentifiable creature. They don't quite look like dragon heads. Hawks, maybe. "We should stay inside for the rest of the night. We can head out into the vale in the morning."

No arguments are forthcoming, so they descend the flight of stairs and return to the room containing the abandoned camp.

They remain there for the night. They don't bother building a fire – this close to the purported haunt of witches and hagravens, it probably wouldn't be a good idea – but they do gather water from a nearby stream to thoroughly clean their gear. Once that's done and they've eaten a cold meal, they settle in and rest as best they can.

That isn't saying much, as none of them are able to sleep for more than a few hours. Torgen spends most of the night tossing and turning in his bedroll. Lydia quietly pads outside to relieve herself at least once every hour or two.

And Mull lies on his back while staring at nothing, unable to keep his eyes closed. There's something about Skybound Watch that's grating on his nerves. He's restless. It doesn't feel safe here even though they haven't seen any evidence of danger so far – or, evidence they haven't already killed. The spider is no longer relevant in that regard.

It isn't long before dawn that he finally manages to doze off as his body succumbs to the strain of their long and strenuous day. But as ever, his unconscious mind is prone to wandering, and his slumber is marred by a dream.

But it doesn't feel like a regular dream. It's much more akin to a memory, a distant recollection of something once lost to the morass of forgetfulness but now inexplicably found.

And that, in and of itself, is a very odd thing.

.

.

He gazes down upon a grand temple sequestered within the broad belt of highlands encircling the Monavhen. It's a massive edifice that seems pitifully small to him from so high in the air. The expansive stone complex is bustling with hundreds of joorre as they go about their everyday activities like ants tending to their minuscule colonies.

Cool wind washes over his scales as he adjusts the angle of his wings and his tail, executing a wide loop across the heavens. To his east, the vast pinnacle of the Monavhen rises far above him, colossal even from his current altitude.

In this era and in this kingdom, most Men reside not in the fertile valleys and verdant plains of Keizaal, but rather upon its lofty mountaintops where they can dwell in closer proximity to their winged overlords. The scions of Atmora are a hard-hearted and rugged people who seized this land from those who came before them with ravaging fire and bitter blades. They scrape out a meager existence from these steep hills and crags, and yet they are eternally content with their lot in life.

And who would not be, so long as they're counted among the privileged servants of a dovah?

This particular location is an abode of dragons, an artificial roost where they occasionally descend from the realm of clouds to bask in the adoration of their slaves. It's for that very reason that he has flown here today.

It isn't much longer before the joorre take notice of his presence in the sky above their heads, and they quickly become frenzied. He watches with wry amusement as they scurry beneath him, a throng of little black dots hurrying to and fro as they work to accomplish tasks that hold meaning only to themselves.

These are the joorre who have sworn themselves to him, Mirmulnir. Allegiance-Strong-Hunt. He presides over them in the same manner as did the primordial kings-of-the-land in elder days when the world had no name. They are bound to him, and he in turn accepts their offerings of fealty with the dignity and grace that befits one of his kindred.

As he watches, a small group of joorre venture out onto a causeway constructed over the edge of a sheer cliff, a familiar arrangement that can be found in many other temples and fortress-peaks across Keizaal. They reach the end of the bridge-like structure and linger there for a time as they converse with one another. When the majority of the group departs and retraces their steps back to their brethren in the temple, only two joorre remain at the far end of the causeway. One of them is a joor of elevated stature in the eyes of his own kind. The other is a zealous wretch patiently awaiting their impending demise.

This unusual structure was built for the express purpose of allowing the priests of the joorre to commune with the dov, whom they serve in both life and death. This temple in particular is not home to any of the highest priests of Keizaal, but it is still inhabited by a large number of joorre who have selected a leader from among their own ranks to represent them.

At this moment, the priest of these joorre is standing at the terminus of the causeway with the second joor laid across an altar before them. Despite the vast distance, Mirmulnir is able to examine the priest in detail due to the formidable keenness of his eyes, which rival those of the sacred eagles of Kaan. This joor is clothed in voluminous moss-green robes that leave only his muscular arms bare, and his face is covered by a mask of engraved hazelwood. The bare flesh of his forearms has been defaced with long lines and thick lattices of deliberate scarification, a physical testament to his devotion.

The priest raises a jagged knife, exclaims loudly in his laughably simplistic tongue, and plunges the serrated blade into the still-beating heart of his willing captive upon the altar. The sacrificial joor cries out once, high and shrill, before they succumb to the embrace of the Void. Their lifeblood gushes onto the altar of stone, which drinks deeply and greedily as it's dyed crimson. Wayward droplets fall beyond the border of the causeway and plunge into the nothingness beyond it, where the forested landscape of a valley floor awaits them hundreds of yards below.

Mirmulnir is pleased by this demonstration of their fidelity, contemptible thought it might be, and deigns to descend as a sign of his satisfaction.

He soars in ever-tightening circles with unhurried laxity as he draws closer to the earth, allowing the joorre to bask in the splendor of his shapely form. Not all are granted the honor of personally seeing one of the dov in their fleeting lifetimes, but he is feeling generous today. After all, it's not every day that a joor is slaughtered in his name.

Across the parapets of the temple and along the edge of the abyss dropping away into the valley, dozens of joorre clad in armor of forged bronze and whittled bone raise aloft long-hafted spears and woven banners to welcome his approach. They blow on horns of ivory and beat upon drums of tanned hide, filling the air with a din that only they could find pleasant, and yet which he welcomes for the meaning couched behind it. He is their god, and they look to him with wonder and awe – as they rightly ought to.

At the nadir of his flight, he slows his descent just above the causeway and hovers with periodic beats of his wings, buffeting the temple with powerful gusts of icy air. Banners snap and pull wildly at their restraints, and the chorus of horns and drums fall silent. Hushed stillness overtakes the temple as its inhabitants wait breathlessly at his beck and call.

Only the masked priest of the joorre is bold enough to move. He spreads his arms wide in a gesture of adulation and reverence, as if welcoming the dragon to his modest sanctuary. His saw-bladed knife hangs loosely in one hand, still dripping with the blood of the dead joor who voluntarily offered up their own life on the altar of Mirmulnir.

And Mirmulnir greets him kindly, as is proper for a lord to his vassal. "Lok Thu'um, mid aar. Sos stiis los aan vaat drun. The spilling of blood is not an oath-sign that is taken lightly, and I accept it as your admittance of due piety. Be grateful that I have come to you as a patron and not as a destroyer."

The assembled joorre fall to their knees and bow as one, worshiping him with their whispered words and their humble prostrations. Their hearts burn with fervor for his sake. He perceives the brightness of their eyes and knows it to be true. Male and female, young and old, healthy and sick – all have been gathered here to pay him their respects.

His gaze sweeps over his dominion and he sees that it is good.

"For you, I would Shout back the ravaging snowstorms of Kaan. For you, I would Shout life into the trees and the creatures of Nirn of which you to partake. For you, I would Shout away the pathetic joorre who you call your enemies – those who would dare to trespass upon lands that do not rightly belong to them. This is our hallowed compact, but not merely because you desire these things, no. It is because I am able, and because your groveling is pleasing to me. Continue to please me, little joorre, and perhaps I will be unto you a benevolent god as you surely desire. Or perhaps not," he rumbles with cruel laughter. "Only the Tides of Fate will tell you for certain."

The throaty echoes of his amusement reverberate from the encircling mountains as he flies away, reveling in this confirmation of his worldly authority. To be one of the dovah is to embrace the innate supremacy that Bormahu has granted to them, his divine children.

He lives to rule, and the joorre live to be ruled. They must accept his word as the law that governs every facet of their paltry existences, for if they do not, then they will assuredly perish to his Thu'um.

He is Mirmulnir, and he is strong. He is a mighty hunter. And there are none except for his omnipotent thuri and a scarce clawful of others who could dare to oppose him in the height of his power. The joorre will continue to venerate his name for generation after generation, even unto the ending of the world. There is no other recourse, for that is simply the position they have been born into within the grand workings of the cosmos. That is all they are, and it's all they will ever be.

It's good to be a dragon.

-x-

AN:

In-game, there's a wispmother and her baby wisps at the southern/western entrance to Skybound Watch Pass. If the MCs fight a wispmother at their current power levels, they would all definitely die. They aren't strong enough to take on an enemy like that. So for the sake of maintaining plot armor – ahem, excuse me; telling a good story – I decided to say the wispmother is absent for now.