Chapter 35
AN: Another big one.
-x-
After two more miserable days of trudging through glacial mountain roads beneath an unrelenting snowfall, the bedraggled trio finally emerge from Steelhead Pass and descend into the aspen woodlands of the Rift.
As they enter Skyrim's southeasternmost Hold, they're greeted by two towering pillars facing outwards, away from the serpentine pass and towards the Rift. The pillars are crowned with the regal heads of eagles covered in undulating plumage, bearing a close resemblance to the bird sculptures that protruded from the roof of the semicircular structure at Skybound Watch. At a glance, they're both extremely weather-worn and one of them is canted at a slight angle.
Mull wonders how old they must be as he walks beneath their shadow, beyond which lies the comparatively open terrain of the Rift. They feel… liminal, as if they're more than just a physical representation of this boundary being crossed. Whatever their original purpose might've been, there's no doubt in his mind that they've been standing for a long, long time. Constructs of this grandeur and magnitude are a rarity in Tamriel these days. More often than not, the people of the modern Empire make their dwellings within the remnants of its past glory rather than the other way around.
One of the first things he notices about the Rift is that it's significantly warmer than Steelhead Pass. The air has a different feel compared to the desiccated frigidity they endured for the previous segment of their journey. It's still drier than elsewhere in Skyrim, but it carries a distinct scent – a sweet fragrance of moldering leaves and abundant life, very different from the inodorous sterility of the windswept highlands.
There are a colorful variety of leaves on display here, a diverse assortment of reds, oranges, and yellows at the tail-end of autumn. He'd anticipated that the trees would already be barren as they were in Whiterun Hold, but those of the Rift are still adamantly clinging to the final vestiges of their foliage. The Rift is one of the most temperate regions of Skyrim despite its comparatively high elevation, and the winter snows currently inundating the Jeralls haven't yet arrived. It's still pretty damn chilly, but it's nothing close to what it like it was in Steelhead Pass.
However, it isn't quite cold enough to ward off the local insect life, which are making nuisances of themselves as they buzz around Mull and his companions' ears and mouths. Torgen curses and swats at a particularly obnoxious fly. "One nice thing about being in the mountains is that there aren't any bugs to bother you up there."
"It's always something," Mull tiredly replies as he pitilessly crushes a mosquito against his forearm.
For her part, Lydia ignores the diminutive pests in favor of enthusiastically examining their surroundings. She seems to take great interest in the beehives hanging from tree branches and swarms of multicolored butterflies fluttering between patches of lavender that occasionally brighten their route through the vibrant forest. The trees and undergrowth are inhabited by an abundance of songbirds and many species of smaller mammals, including voles, hares, and foxes. They also spot the yawning entrances to an inordinate number of caves embedded in nearby hillsides and cliffs. They don't investigate any of them for fear of possible repercussions from the local wildlife, but it's good to know they'll be able to take shelter from bad weather should it be encountered.
This woodland is distinct from the forested regions of Falkreath Hold or the White River Valley. It's much more open and spacious, with a conspicuous lack of the dense underbrush that characterized Orphan Rock Vale and other similar locales. In a word, it's pretty. It's certainly a nice change of pace.
Also unlike the mountains, this forest has been partially tamed by man and is much less of a wilderness than many other areas of Skyrim. It's thickly strewn with an assortment of small villages, farmsteads, and a few ruinous watchtowers perched on stony hilltops. The trio passes through several settlements that are clustered along the road, thriving off its transitory commerce as well as their fields of cabbage, radishes, and wheat nestled in clearings among the white-trunked trees. Wooly sheep, shaggy brown cows, and other hardy livestock are also a frequent sight.
The locals seem nice enough, though the trio doesn't bother to stop and interact with them while they still have daylight to travel. On several occasions, a child waves to them or a peddler calls out to hawk his goods. All the normal hallmarks of a serene rural village.
However, Mull doesn't fail to notice that some of the native Nords seem guarded as well, watching them intently with shadowed eyes from the moment they enter a township until they step beyond its borders. It occurs to him that this region of the Rift is very close to the intra-provincial boundary between the Stormcloak Holds and loyalist Falkreath, as the presence of Thorygg Sun-Killer's party had previously indicated.
I'm willing to bet they encounter Imperial Legionaries more often than they'd like. Speaking of which, these people probably saw the caravan from Darkwater Crossing that took me and Lokir to Helgen earlier this year. We went through a few areas a lot like this one. I wonder what they thought of that.
He finds it interesting to see the path he once took to Helgen – to his execution – but this time in reverse. It's surreal in a way. A lot has changed in such a short time.
He scoffs at the senselessness of that thought. That's like saying fire burns or the sky's blue. A whole hell of a lot has changed, and that's the understatement of the century. Half a year ago, I would've never believed people would be calling me Dragonborn with a straight face. I still don't believe it. And I could say the exact same thing about a dead dragon living inside my head, or becoming a Thane and having a housecarl following me around all day. The gods really do have a sense of humor, and I've got to say, I don't think very highly of it.
He glances sidelong at the housecarl in question, still surveying the new landscape with rapt interest. Journeying with Lydia has been interesting. The girl is tough, but Mull can tell she doesn't have much experience with prolonged travel. On the first few mornings of this journey, she took her sweet time arranging her hair into intricate braids with threaded beads in her usual fashion. But as they continued deeper into the wilderness and she became more accustomed to a lack of basic amenities, she gradually fell out of the time-consuming habit. She initially glared at their cold, tasteless meals with poorly-veiled disgust, but that's since faded to despondent resignation.
He's willing to cut her some slack for being an honest-to-gods princess, but even so, she's repeatedly surprised him with her ability to adapt to the rough life of a vagabond so quickly. She's learning. She'll get there eventually.
-x-
They spend their first night in the Rift at one of the many small villages dotting the autumnal forest. It's an entirely unremarkable settlement with the exception of a quaint alchemist's hut nestled in a grove of alders on the edge of the otherwise universally Nord community.
The resident alchemist, a wizened old Dunmer with a snow-white beard of impressive fullness and length, agrees to examine Lydia for potential issues stemming from her earlier… inadvertent mistreatment… at Orphan Rock, as well as Mull and Torgen to confirm their wounds are healing properly.
Following a brief inspection, he declares the housecarl is as healthy as can be except for some minor digestive discomfort that should work itself out on its own. Lingering effects of the activated charcoal, he informs them. Mull tries to ignore the halfhearted glare she sends in his direction when they receive the news.
He idly wonders how a Dunmer ended up all the way out here, especially one with a valuable and easily marketable skillset like alchemy, but he doesn't care enough to bother asking. Dunmer aren't exactly a rarity in this part of Skyrim.
What he does care about is this old Elf's ability to brew some of the best frost mirriam tea he's ever tasted. It's a staple product of Skyrim as a whole, but the hoary alchemist's recipe is uncommonly delicious. He thinks there's a hint of canis root hidden somewhere in the mixture, which is probably what makes it so good. He wouldn't have ever guessed the dry fragrance of frost mirriam would pair so well with the bitter aftertaste of canis, but now he can say it does. It's a true stroke of genius.
After the conclusion of the medical examinations and a simple but hearty dinner of rabbit stew , the Dunmer graciously gives them permission to spend the night in a fenced garden behind his home, where there's a rickety wooden fence to separate them from the broader wilderness. They also have beds of deathbell, nightshade, and some sort of lumpy white mushroom to keep them company while they rest. Not exactly auspicious, but its much better than whatever hostile wildlife might be lurking out in the forest.
Mull is able to identify the deathbell and nightshade on sight due to their uniquely distinctive appearances. He's not a botanist, but any person who's spent a substantial amount of their life living in the wilds is able to recognize what is edible and what isn't. These plants lean decidedly toward the non-edible side of the spectrum, as implied by their strangely-shaped violet flowers.
They spend the twilight hours lounging around the garden along with its Dunmer proprietor while sipping on delicious steaming-hot tea. Lydia and Torgen listen attentively to the old alchemist as he regales them with tales of his youth in the Dunmer homeland of Morrowind, away to the east beyond the Velothi Mountains. He's delighted to have somebody to talk to and goes into great detail as he describes the eastern province's unique indigenous flora and fauna, including insectoid kwarma, towering spindle-legged silt striders, and terrifying reptilian cliff racers. The two Nords are enraptured by his recountings of enormous fungal jungles, fertile plains of black volcanic soil, and obsidian wastelands awash with smoldering magma flows.
But Mull is too distracted to remember much of the old Elf's dissertation despite the fascinating topic. His eyes are drawn inexorably time and again to the immense snowcapped peak that comprises the northern horizon, his ultimate destination on this hectic journey.
Mirmulnir has been restless, and so he's also been restless by extension. The dead dragon's rumblings constantly brush against the edge of his hearing, low enough to be indecipherable but still there all the same, eternally present like the echo of a far-off waterfall.
It's extremely obnoxious. He's hardly had a single minute of peace and quiet since the incident at Orphan Rock Vale. He's constantly fatigued, is unable to sleep well, and has grown unusually irritable. He needs to get this sorted out soon or else he's going to go completely neurotic.
The longer this goes on, the more he's convinced that he desperately needs whatever the Greybeards have to offer. They're sagacious monks who study the way of the Voice and trained the previous Dragonborn, so surely they'll know how to deal with something like this. If there's anyone in Skyrim who can help him, it'll be them.
And if not, well… he doesn't want to think about that possibility. The mere thought that this trek could've all been for nothing is enough to make his blood boil.
His briefly closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and shoves those worries away. There's a time and a place for them, and this isn't it. He needs to rest, both to recover from their arduous crossing of Steelhead Pass and to prepare for the final stretch ahead.
Once he's gained some semblance of a clear head, his gaze meanders back to the shadowy mass of the Throat of the World above the treetops. He leans back against a smooth log, slices into a juicy apple with his knife, and idly eats the piece of succulent fruit off the tip of the blade in a bid to relax.
"My Thane, that is dangerous."
"Huh?" he grunts. His awareness returns to his companions for the first time in at least half an hour. A few chunks of mashed-up apple escape from his gnashing teeth and leap into the garden, vanishing beneath the fronds of multicolored plants to become food for the ants and other insects.
"Injuries to the tongue are often serious in nature and can easily prove fatal," Lydia chides him. "You shouldn't take undue risks by using a sharp utensil improperly. You should use your fingers instead."
He glowers at her. "The sentiment is appreciated, but I'm a grown man. Don't baby me. I learned how to feed myself about thirty years ago."
The housecarl stands rigidly with a dark scowl. Despite her lithe frame and below average height, she somehow manages to look menacing. "My Thane, I am sworn to guard you from all threats, even from yourself. Don't make me take action to rectify your unsafe habits."
His eye twitches against his will as he engages in a staring contest with his housecarl. She's being ridiculous, and her overbearing attitude is frankly ticking him off. After everything they've already lived through in the short time they've been together, this is what she's concerned about? A tiny little knife?
Torgen snickers into his beard. "Nothing beats free evening entertainment."
Their heads slowly turn as they look at him with varying degrees of indignation.
"No, keep going." He gestures with a half-eaten sangria carrot. "It was just getting good. Don't leave me hanging."
The old Dunmer shatters the tense standoff with an easy chuckle. "I can see that the three of you are very close." His voice is scratchy but defined, and his Dunmeri accent is hardly noticeable. "It's good to see that there are still young people getting along so well together in these difficult times. Dark days have descended on Skyrim. We need good cheer wherever it can be found."
Mull and Lydia share a final unhappy glare. Torgen salutes with his clay mug of tea.
The Dunmer gingerly rises from his seat with a satisfied nod, pauses to rest a hand on his hunched back, and excuses himself as he retires inside the cabin. "That's all for me tonight, I'm afraid. I'm getting long in the tooth and I need to get my rest for tomorrow. That's the curse of living to my advanced age, even by the standards of my people. The years inevitably take their toll."
Lydia politely tells him to have a good night and he responds in kind. He closes a birch-panel door behind him, a simple latch of rusted iron falls into place, and the three travelers are left alone in the garden.
The environment is inundated by the humming of countless insects concealed in the foliage. Here and there, fireflies announce their presence with orange pinpricks of light hovering above the grass. A gentle wind causes the treetops to sway. They spend a while basking in the tranquility of the Dunmer's verdant plot of undisturbed land.
Until Torgen decides to ruin their quiet moment with his customary nonsense.
"You know, horkers have some long teeth even when they're young. I always thought that was kind of odd. I mean, how's that supposed to work?"
"…What?" Mull squints at his companion with irate bemusement, trying and failing to figure out what in Oblivion he's blabbering about.
"If you're long in the tooth, that means you're old because your teeth have kept on growing for however many years. They start out small and they get bigger over time. But I don't think it works that way with horkers – they all have those big teeth sticking out of their mouths practically from the moment they're born."
"Horker teeth?" Mull frowns. "Don't you mean tusks?"
"What's the difference?"
"They're more like horns than teeth, I think."
Torgen's brows inch upwards in disbelief. "Now that's just doesn't make sense. They're teeth! I've seen them for myself in the Sea of Ghosts! You don't use horns to chew your food. That's what teeth are for!"
"Horker's tusks aren't for chewing food," Mull argues. "They're too long for that."
"Oh, and you're an expert?" Torgen crosses his beefy arms. "Then what's the point of them?"
"I don't know. They could be for stabbing things. Or the male horkers could show them off to the females. Maybe they're attracted to the ones with the biggest tusks."
Torgen turns thoughtful for a fleeting moment. Then his expression morphs into a wolfish grin. "What do you think those females look for most in a tusk? Girth? Or length?"
Lydia palms her forehead with an audible smack. "Gods above," she piteously groans. "Please spare me from listening to any more of this idiocy."
The sound of the old Dunmer chortling at their antics reaches their ears from inside the rustic house. Torgen's grin widens, proud to have gotten a laugh out of somebody for once.
"We should be more courteous to our host," Lydia scolds them once she's overcome her secondhand embarrassment. "Please keep your voices down."
"Aye," Torgen waves her off. "Mother says it's bedtime. I suppose we have no choice but to listen."
"Ugh."
With that, the three travelers roll out their furs and finally settle down for the night. The earth isn't particularly soft, but most of the loose stones have already been removed by the Dunmer as he tilled and weeded his garden, so it's about as comfortable of a natural mattress as they could reasonably ask for.
Once she finishes her nighttime preparations, Lydia hops the fence and roams off somewhere, probably to relieve herself. While Mull unlaces and yanks off his smelly boots, he decides to ask something he's been wondering for a couple of days.
"I've been curious ever since we ran into those Stormcloaks. If you're such a devoted follower of Talos, why haven't you joined the rebellion? It seems to me that you'd make a good fit, and I'm sure they would welcome someone with your aptitude for chopping off heads."
Torgen huffs with wry amusement. "That's true enough, but I've never had any intention of becoming a soldier. Chopping off heads on my own terms is a lot more lucrative than a grunt warrior's measly salary. And besides, do you really think one more man going off to die in a battle against the Legion would make any lasting difference in Skyrim? I don't. There are things worth dying for, but a war between feuding lords isn't one of them no matter how pretty the reasons they claim. If I meet a lord who sincerely cares about his warriors, then that could be the day I change my mind. But until then, no thank you. I'm not interested."
"Aye. Can't fault you for that." Were Mull asked a similar question, his answer would closely align. What's the point of dying for an ideal if you'll never see it come to fruition?
Torgen rolls over into his bedroll and drapes an arm over his head. "The girl's taking her sweet time, so she can take first watch. I'm going to sleep."
"Same here."
As Mull reclines against his cloak and drifts away into an uneasy slumber, his mind is plagued with memories from many years ago that have been summoned by this talk of wars and warriors. They're of a father he scarcely remembers and of a life left irreconcilably behind, never to be regained. His father was a soldier, so he can relate to Torgen on the subject more than he would like. He was a man who went off to die for nothing, the same as so many others.
What reason is there for a death like that? It doesn't do anything for anybody, least of all yourself.
But Morven's imagined voice expresses her disagreement with scathing words that only he can hear. Her sharp frown appears in the darkness behind his eyelids, heralding a beautiful face that he dearly misses. If she were here, she would argue for the value of a so-called honorable death and the sanctity inherent in the act of earning one's entrance to Sovngarde. That's what she believed with all of her being.
She was just another idiot Nord. And he loved her for it.
Sleep offers him no sanctuary from the troubles of the waking world. It's fraught with shades of the past and ghosts of dead dragons, and most of all his unease about an undeserved and unearned future, whatever it might bring.
-x-
They continue on to Ivarstead bright and early the next morning, and spend the entire day traveling through a relatively unchanging landscape of rolling hills and birch groves. An outlying spur of the Throat of the World stands between Steelhead Pass and Ivarstead, so they aren't able to turn north for their destination immediately. Instead they gradually angle from east to north as the main road cuts through more easily traversable low-lying forests. Despite their circuitous route, they rapidly eat up the distance.
They strike camp in the forest for one more night before arriving on the southern outskirts of Ivarstead around midday of the following day, their third since exiting Steelhead Pass. After a long and eventful trek, they've finally reached their destination.
Their first view of the isolated town and pilgrimage hub is from the opposite bank of a sluggish river flowing out of a gleaming lake to the immediate east. Ivarstead is wedged tightly between the northwestern shore of the lake and the rising pinnacle of the Throat of the World.
It looks to be a small settlement, much smaller than Mull had anticipated for such an important religious site. Although to be fair, this is an extremely remote location as evidenced by their difficult journey to get here. His expectations might've been prematurely inflated by all the speculation about the Greybeards and the Seven Thousand Steps.
Regardless of its size, Ivarstead is an exceptionally beautiful town. It's perfectly situated in a triangle between the utterly vast World's Throat bathed silver by the sun peeking from behind its slopes, a calm lake of the deepest blue with a single island rising from the center of its hazy depths, and a gurgling river flowing across a bed of smooth stones. A smattering of clouds are scurrying overhead, thankfully cotton-white instead of a more ominous grey. The aspen trees that were so pervasive further south have been interspaced with evergreen conifers, making the local vegetation especially diverse. It's a scenic area even by the lofty standards of Skyrim.
Without further ado, they cross over an arched stone bridge spanning the burbling river and enter Ivarstead proper. A single warrior is standing guard in the middle of the bridge, a burly man wearing a steel scale hauberk beneath a mauve tunic with a warhammer slung across his back, but he nods gregariously and waves for them to enter the town without any hesitation.
I'm guessing they don't have much trouble with unseemly types this far out in the middle of nowhere. I'd hope not for their sakes, because that guardsman is as lax as can be.
The town of Ivarstead is a hive of activity – not anywhere close to the never-ending busyness of Whiterun, but certainly more so than its size and geography would suggest. Everywhere he looks as they walk among the outermost buildings, townspeople are carrying bundles of firewood or jars of water, feeding livestock, operating grain mills, and performing the innumerable other tasks that are necessary for a community to function independently.
A little further downstream from the bridge, the town straddles both banks of the river in addition to its shorefront along the lake. On the lake itself, there's an expansive dockside with a plethora of small boats moored against the quays or embarked upon the waves. The vast majority of Ivarstead's watercraft are festooned with nets, lines, and other related equipment.
"Looks like they do some fishing here," Mull observes.
"I would too if I lived on a lake like this," replies Torgen. "It's big enough that you can barely see the far shore, but the waves don't look too rough for its size. I'm sure they haul plenty of fish out of those waters, more than enough to feed a small town."
Just as with Riverwood, this town's architecture gives off a distinctly earthy impression. The majority of its houses and other buildings are constructed with sod or thatch roofing and predominantly lumber framing. Stone blocks and mortar have also been used to fill out some of the larger structures, and many of them have exposed timber support beams carved all over with the likenesses of bears and dragons, as well as other more mythic creatures that Mull doesn't recognize.
Most of the houses have garden plots teeming with an assortment colorful shrubs and herbs. They're mirrored by larger fields on the far side of town, where rows of winter wheat and barley are being cultivated. On the river itself, there's a minimalistic lumbermill with a waterwheel spinning to match the current. Ivarstead doesn't have much to boast about, but it's a picturesque settlement nonetheless.
One exception to Ivarstead's stylistic monotony is what Mull assumes to be some sort of temple located on top of a shallow ridge just to the east of town. The low domelike structure of unhewn grey granite doesn't quite overlook the town due to its diminutive height, but it still commands a unobstructed view from its position atop the mostly treeless ridge.
When his gaze alights on the primeval edifice, he feels something throb uncomfortably inside his skull, like the beginning of a migraine but worse. In that same instant, Mirmulnir's omnipresent murmuring increases in volume for the first time in several days.
Something about that place is significant. He isn't sure what that means precisely, but he somehow knows it's true. I'll have to ask someone about it. Whatever that building is, it definitely isn't normal.
The whispers grow louder and louder, and he soon realizes Mirmulnir isn't the only one speaking inside his skull now. There are multiple voices vying for his attention, murmuring and hissing as their words coil around one another, combining into a muted cacophony in which only a single phrase can be discerned.
'Dovahkiin. Dovahkiin. Dovahkiin.'
The place atop the ridge is… calling to him. He feels the intent behind the words, seeking to redirect his footsteps and draw him closer to the hilltop. Everything around him dwindles into an indistinct blur as he hyperfixates on the megalithic mound. Its smallest facets and details seem to leap out at him with painful clarity even though it's still at least a hundred yards away. His soul strains against the boundaries of his body, yearning to enter into that place and seek out whatever powers and eruditions are sequestered deeply within. Mirmulnir agrees wholeheartedly with the notion and insistently urges him forward. 'The path before you is clear, Qahnaarin. Will you not take it?'
But the dragon's words are overtaken by those of another, much louder and closer. "I believe there's an inn here, my Thane. Should we investigate?"
His housecarl's questioning voice draws him out of his inexplicable fugue. Her timing was impeccable. If he'd continued walking through the town's increasingly-busy main thoroughfare with his head in the clouds, he probably would've bowled over somebody. That wouldn't be the best way to introduce ourselves to the locals.
With a shake of his head, he follows Lydia's pointing finger to a roadside building to their left, on the side of town closer to the river and the mountains. It stands out from the surrounding homes and businesses primarily due to its size. While it wouldn't be anything out of the ordinary in Whiterun Hold, it's unusually large in comparison to the rest of Ivarstead.
The tavern has a steep reed-thatched roof divided into multiple sections to better account for its sprawling construction. An expansive wing that looks like a recent addition is abutting to the road on the left side of the building while a covered veranda takes up most of the right. A lattice of pale green vines has spread across the exterior walls, but they look unhealthily brittle and likely won't survive much longer as the days continue to shorten. Bulky wooden ridge-pieces are intricately engraved with swirling designs incorporating all sorts of animals, images of the sun and moons, and a few mountain motifs thrown in for good measure. Mull concludes that this tavern is as close to a civic center as anything else they've seen so far. Just what he was looking for.
Having now wordlessly examined the inn to his heart's content, he belatedly gets around to answering his increasingly-impatient housecarl's query. "Aye, let's see what the townsfolk have to tell us. I've got a few questions lined up for them already."
He takes the lead as they approach the building. They're welcomed by a sign hanging in front of the veranda that depicts four stylized serpents with their mouths open wide to consume the words 'Vilemyr Inn.'
"Vilemyr. What does that mean?" Mull asks nobody in particular.
"Uh…" Torgen scratches his cheek. "…Joyful swamp? Or maybe delightful swamp. Close enough."
Mull makes a show of looking around. He doesn't see anything remotely resembling a swamp in the vicinity. "Huh. There's another tally for the Nords giving names to things that don't make sense."
"The more correct rendition would be 'desire for a crowd' or something comparable," Lydia impatiently sighs. "There are multiple different ways you could disassemble the word."
"That… does seem more likely," Torgen concedes.
As they ascend a set of shallow steps to the veranda, a group of boisterous men and women exit from the front door. Mull steps aside, waits for them to pass, and slips inside after they leave with his companions close behind.
His first impression of the tavern's main room is generally positive. It's a nice place, one of the nicer he's seen in Skyrim to date. He's surprised to find an establishment like this in such a backwater area. It's clean, well-lit by a series of clerestory openings in the roof, and smells as good as a tavern could realistically be expected to smell.
A masculine voice calls out to them as they enter. "Welcome to the Vilemyr Inn. If there's anything I can get for you, just let me know." A quick scan of the room reveals that it belongs to a middle-aged man in an olive-green tunic standing behind the bar.
Mull raises a hand in acknowledgement as he takes in the sights. There isn't much in the way of decoration, but all the tools of a tavern's trade appear to be orderly and efficiently organized. About a dozen rabbit and pheasant carcasses are strung from a low rafter behind the bar alongside clusters of garlic, onions, and frost mirriam. Massive copper-bound barrels of alcohol are arranged against the far wall. Dozens of mugs and tankards are distributed across the room. Where the natural light fails to reach, illumination is provided by ox-horn candelabras dripping with molten wax, none of which have been allowed to flicker and die without being promptly relit.
Men and women are scattered around the tavern, both solitary and in groups. Two in particular catch Mull's eye – a blonde woman with a lute sitting by herself, and a gathering of men with tanned skin and rough-spun clothing who appear to be local laborers, hunters, and the like. The woman's lute informs him that she must be a bard of some kind, and the local working men look sufficiently inebriated for the purposes of effective information-gathering.
"Lydia, go have a chat with her." He indicates the girl with the lute. "See what you can find out about the Seven Thousand Steps. And Torgen…" He jabs a thumb at the gaggle of laborers. "Same with them. Try not to start a brawl if you can help it."
"And what'll you be doing, boss?" Torgen inquiries. There's already a festive twinkle igniting in his eyes.
"I'll be speaking to the man behind the bar over there. He looks like an innkeeper, and their kind are rarely willing to turn down a bag of septims in exchange for local information. It's practically part of the job." Torgen starts to leave, but Mull stops him with a firm hand on his shoulder. "I know it goes without saying, but we're simple pilgrims and nothing more. Make sure you stick to that story. Keep a reign on your tongues, especially if you start drinking."
"Will do."
"As you say."
With a course of action now established, they go their separate ways and seamlessly meld into the Vilemyr Inn's crowd of patrons. Mull weaves between tables, chairs, and men to reach his objective. The vast majority of the clientele are Nords with the only exceptions being a few Cyrods and a single oddball Elf. That isn't much of a surprise in this rural region of the Old Holds.
The innkeeper looks up as Mull arrives at the bar and rests his arms atop its unvarnished surface. He's an older man with a narrow face, ruddy cheeks, receding dark hair, and slightly sunken eyes.
He speaks before Mull can get a word in edgewise. "Need a room? Or perhaps a drink? Whatever it is, you name it." His tone is gruff but not unfriendly.
"I'll just take some mead for now."
The innkeeper nods and leans down to reach beneath the bar. "Does local brew work for you?"
"Sure. I assumed you'd be saving up the imports for winter."
"Then you assume rightly, friend. We've had unseasonably good weather in recent weeks, but the snows will be coming soon enough. Up here, we can expect to get more than our fair share of it."
"I bet," he grins with false friendliness. Feigning amiability has never come easily to Mull, but it's necessary for these sorts of situations. Most people are willing to work with you in good faith if you express a little geniality first.
The innkeeper produces the requested bottle of mead, unceremoniously wrenches it open, and sets it before him as the amber liquid overflows with creamy foam. Some tavern workers like to show off their talent by sliding their products across the bartops in a display of dexterity, but this man keeps things simple and straight to the point. Besides, if he tried to do something like that, the drink wouldn't make it far before spilling over this bar's pockmarked and uneven surface.
Mull quaffs an exploratory mouthful of the mead and smacks his lips appreciatively. It isn't the same quality as Honningbrew, but it's close. "This is good. You have some tasty stuff here."
"I'd hope so. I brewed it myself using honey from our own bee skeps."
"Then I'd say you definitely know your craft, uh…"
"The name's Wilhelm."
Mull grunts and extends his hand. "Mull."
The innkeeper, Wilhelm, returns the gesture and grasps his forearm. "A pleasure."
Feeling that he's sufficiently buttered up his new acquaintance, Mull goes ahead and gets down to business. "I've got a couple of questions for you, if you don't mind. I'm new in town."
The innkeeper snorts. "Most folks are. We get a lot of travelers passing through here, though you likely know that already if you're one of them. The Throat of the World never suffers from a shortage of pilgrims, and they consistently make it a habit to pester me for information. So you see, I'm afraid I'm not in the business of answering útlendings' frivolous questions." 'For free' goes unsaid.
He hesitates as Mull unveils a stack of coins and sets them discretely on the bartop. "Then maybe I can give you a little something to earn myself a place in your esteemed confidence. If you ask me, it never hurts to, uh, 'lubricate the process' so to speak."
The innkeeper sighs, scrapes them onto his waiting palm, and stuffs them in his pockets faster than Mull can blink. "Alright. Ask away then."
He suppresses a smile. All business. I like him already. "First off, I'm curious – what's that stone building on the other side of town towards the lake? I caught a glimpse of it on my way through the streets and couldn't help but wonder. It looks old."
"Oh, that? It's Shroud Hearth Barrow." Wilhelm shrugs. "I couldn't tell you why. It's always been called that for whatever reason. And you're right about it looking old – local legend says it's been there since the time of the Dragon Wars thousands of years ago, when our people were newly-come from Atmora. As for what it actually is…"
He pauses to top off Mull's flagon of mead.
"We mostly use it for ceremonies and the occasional burial. We don't have any proper temples here, just Hearth-houses, but there are a couple of Talos priests who like performing their rites at the barrow. Not inside the barrow mind you, but in the antechamber. That's the portion above ground, which is what you saw."
"What about the part below ground?"
Wilhelm clicks his tongue, though Mull isn't sure if it's a sign of annoyance or something else. "That's the barrow proper. We don't often venture down there. Disturbing the resting-grottos of our ancestors would be not only unwise, but dishonorable also. Some of the older folks in town like to spin tales about the ghosts of the dead guarding their sanctuaries as if they were still living, but we both know old folks like to say lots of things, and few of them true."
Mull scoffs, but quickly masks it as a cough when Wilhelm gives him a probing stare. Keep thinking that. I envy your ignorance.
"Whatever the case, we've had trouble with that place in the past. There was an adventuring Dunmer wizard who came through here several years ago by the name of Wyndelius Gatharian, or something equally ridiculous. The Elves could use some input from we Men for their tastes in a name, couldn't they?" he jibes.
Not from you Nords, they couldn't.
"That business was ugly, but at least it was over quickly. The wizard spent weeks lazing around town while boasting about his past exploits and insisting he would discover the ancient secrets hidden within the barrow. Then once he'd had his fill of the local scenery, he somehow convinced the priests and the heads of our folkmoot to loan him the key to the lower barrow – a claw ornament, all wrought gold with sapphire inlay. It's been passed down through Ivarstead's more prominent clans for as many generations as we can count, but again, nobody ever makes use of it for fear of disturbing the slumber of the dead. Well, that Dunmer wouldn't be dissuaded.
"He made a ruckus like you wouldn't believe out of gathering his tools and potions, readying his gear, and descending into the underground tombs while blowing kisses at our wives and daughters the whole way." He scoffs and shakes his head. "But the idiot didn't resurface, and we never heard so much as a peep from him again. I don't know what's down there, whether it be the ancestor's ghosts or otherwise, but whatever it is, he wasn't a match for it. That's all I care to say about the place."
"Good to know." Mull sips more of his mead. It rolls down his throat, more bitter than sugary and sweet, but he isn't going to complain. It's excellent mead regardless. "I'm sure people ask you this more often than you'd like, but my second question is about the Seven Thousand Steps."
"You aren't wrong, but that's fine. What do you want to know?"
"Well… I'm not sure about much except that the Steps are a path for pilgrims to High Hrothgar. Is it a difficult climb?"
Wilhelm sets aside a tin tankard he'd been cleaning with a rag. "To be frank, I couldn't rightly tell you. I've never made the pilgrimage myself, although I'm acquainted with several who have. What I can say is that it typically takes four or five days. And if you do plan on trying your hand at the Steps, you'd better bundle up well. It gets much colder on the Throat of the World than other mountains in this region, and the path can be treacherous at the best of times. There's a local man named Klimmek who often guides pilgrims as they traverse the Steps – for a fee, of course. You can speak to him if you want to hear more."
"I'll keep that in mind." Mull lays out another handful of septims on the bar, clinking them against the varnished wood one by one. "I've got one last question. I'll drink another bottle of your mead if you're willing to answer."
Wilhem nods, scoops up his payment, and produces two more bottles, one for Mull and the other for himself. "Let's hear it."
"What all do you know about High Hrothgar and the Greybeards?"
Wilhelm gulps down about half of his drink in one go. "The Greybeards are a solitary lot. Once their new initiates enter the monastery, I don't think they ever venture beyond its walls again. We see plenty of pilgrims passing through here on their way to the monastery every spring and summer, some to request entrance to the order and others simply to walk the Steps, but many of them return disappointed."
"How so?"
"It's a difficult climb for one thing," the man harumphs. "The Seven Thousand Steps aren't for the faint of heart. I couldn't tell you how many milkdrinking noblemen or snowback city priests I've seen embarking on the Steps only to return to town before nightfall of the same day. The gods' favor must not be worth the effort to those types." He eyes Mull critically. "Is that what brings you to Ivarstead? To climb the mountain also?"
"Aye." That isn't strictly a lie.
"Then you've chosen a poor time of year to do it, although you're also damn lucky. The path up the mountain is still open, which is practically a miracle this far into Frostfall. The priests have been saying it's an unnatural occurrence and not just a quirk of the weather. My guess is it's the Greybeards' doing. They must be keeping the snows in check for the arrival of the Dragonborn, whoever they are. I assume you already know about that business. By the gods, you probably heard it with your own ears just as we did. Recent travelers have said the Greybeards' call could be heard across the whole province."
Mull barely keeps himself from cringing. Yeah, I heard it alright. To say the least. But he can't let the conversation end abruptly on that note, so he hurriedly voices the first response he comes up with. "It was a memorable experience, that's for sure. It seemed like the whole of Nirn was shaking."
"It practically was. For us being this close to the mountain, it was like an earthquake. Some villages further north had to be evacuated due to the landslides, as a matter of fact."
"Really?" He heard about that in Riverwood, but they were only rumors. Here, Wilhelm states it with much more certainty than the gossipers in Ralof and Hadvar's hometown. It's still somewhat surprising, since he wouldn't have expected something that destructive from the supposedly virtuous and pacifistic monks of High Hrothgar.
Wilhelm sternly nods. "Oh yes. We still hear rumbling on the north wind as it blows down from the mountain on clearer days. Many believe it's the Greybeards still Shouting to keep winter at bay."
"Can they do something like that?"
"My understanding is that there are few things they can't do. Their power of the Voice is a fearsome thing indeed, even if they use it for the glory and worship the gods. Makes you wonder what the Tongues of old were capable of, doesn't it?"
"Aye…"
Wilhelm has given him plenty to think about. He says as much as he grasps the man's forearm once more in farewell.
"I appreciate the help. And the mead."
"I appreciate the coin," the innkeeper sardonically replies.
Mull's lips quirk upwards as he takes his leave and wanders back into the middle of the tavern. He quickly spies Torgen sitting backwards on a bench against one of the tables, the same that the large group of intoxicated local men is occupying.
The Nord bandit catches Mull's gaze and stands with a platter of sliced meat in hand. "Fellas, it's been a pleasure, but duty is calling me. Until next time." He raises the plate, prompting his new associates to do the same with their drinks. Having thus exercised his social graces, he makes his way over to Mull and thumps his shoulder good-naturedly. "Did you learn anything interesting?"
"A few things, actually. Let's track down Lydia and find somewhere quiet to talk. We can go over our findings then."
They soon discover that his housecarl and her target, the blonde girl with the lute, are no longer seated where they were at the beginning of their intelligence-gathering operation. Mull isn't too worried, as he's confident Lydia can handle herself perfectly fine, but a twinge of panic still causes his chest to tighten. Losing someone in an unfamiliar setting is never a good feeling. He and Torgen circle the perimeter of the tavern with eyes roving for any sign of their brunette comrade.
It isn't long before they spot her. They find Lydia sitting at a small circular table in an isolated corner near the bar, where she's sharing a pint with the lute girl. Mull didn't notice them despite his earlier proximity due to a row of lumber pillars secluding this section of the main room from the rest of the tavern.
The lute girl seems to be doing most of the talking, with Lydia listening and interjecting every now and then but otherwise quietly nursing her half-full mug. She seems energetic and gregarious – a very different disposition from that of Mull's taciturn housecarl – but as he and Torgen draw closer, he gets the impression that the two women are getting along well. It sounds like they're discussing current fashion trends in Whiterun, which nearly makes him laugh out loud. He wouldn't think of Lydia as the kind of girl who would care about those things, but what does he know? At the moment, they're weighting the pros and cons of wearing a… tragerrock, whatever that is.
"Did you make yourself a friend, girly?" Torgen calls out. "That was fast. I didn't think you had it in you, always being as stern and serious as you are."
Lydia responds to the interruption with a scathing glare, but her companion regards the pair of newcomers with a sunny grin. "Hello there! Welcome to the Vilemyr Inn." She parrots Wilhelm's opening greeting but with much more enthusiasm. She glances between the trio and makes note of Lydia's reaction to their arrival. "You look like you know each other."
"That we do. We're… colleagues, I guess you'd say." Mull approaches an adjacent table and pulls away two unoccupied chairs. "Do you mind if we sit with you?"
"Not at all!"
He and Torgen arrange the pilfered chairs to their liking and sink into their unyielding wooden embrace with stifled groans. Mull hadn't been sitting down during his visit to the bar and has just now started to feel the soreness of his legs after spending the last week and a half on the road. He's been on his feet since waking up this morning, which hasn't helped matters in the slightest. He grudgingly admits that his time in Whiterun has made him soft.
Everybody looks to him for some reason, so he leans back and waves for Torgen to handle the introductions.
"You can call me Torgen." The former bandit introduces himself before motioning to his employer. "And he's Mull."
"My name is Lynly Star-Sung. It's a pleasure to meet all of you." She hops to her feet, executes a graceful curtsey, and elegantly returns to her seat. "I play the lute for this wonderful establishment, so please tell me if there's anything you'd like to hear."
She speaks with a thick Old Holds Nordic accent, but her diction is refined and intelligent. It's a very attractive manner of speech – in Mull's opinion, at any rate. Equal parts exotic and smart.
"Lydia told me that you're mercenaries from the west who are here to make the pilgrimage of the Seven Thousand Steps," the blonde girl continues.
"Aye, that's about right." Inwardly, he praises his housecarl for spinning the truth. I should've thought about it earlier, but I was worried she wouldn't be able to carry a story. Looks like I was nervous for nothing. That's close enough to the truth for us act normally as we tell it, but it doesn't give away too much. Perfect.
He catches Lydia's eye and allows his expression to soften a little. She doesn't react, but he's fairly sure she understands the unspoken compliment.
"So you finished your most recent quest and decided to take a detour to honor Lady Kyne for your success?" Lynly asks.
"Pretty much." Torgen snags Lydia's mug and takes an unsolicited swig. Her glare redoubles. "And the job was on behalf of the Sanctuary of Kyne as it happens, though we'd prefer not to talk about it too much. Maintaining the privacy of the client and all that."
"Sure. I understand. Not much happens in Ivarstead, so you'll have to forgive me for seeking out tales of the broader world. I'm one of the few sources of entertainment available to the people here, so what does that leave for me?" She cradles her lute in the crook of her arm while strumming softly at the strings, not seeming to pay any heed to the movement of her fingers.
Torgen rests one elbow against the table as he leans closer to examine the instrument. "Are you any good with that thing?" he asks.
"I like to think so. Certainly good enough for a rustic place like this," she replies cheerily. "It'll only cost you five septims for a jaunty tune to liven up your day. Trust me, you can't beat the price!"
Torgen smirks. "Only five septims? I'd pay twice that to hear the music of a pretty maiden like you, easily."
The girl's smile subtly shifts downwards, no longer reaching her eyes. It's an artificial expression, like she's accustomed to receiving flirtatious compliments and dismissing them without making it seem like an outright rejection. "Hmm. That's awfully sweet of you." Her saccharine voice is positively dripping with practiced charm.
She idly thumbs the neck of her instrument. Her smile shrinks as her gaze dances across the strings.
"I'll tell you what. I'll play a special song just for you, for no charge at all. Consider it repayment for the pleasant company. It isn't often that I get to make new friends who are close to my own age." She indicates Lydia. "Ivarstead is one of those towns where everybody knows everybody else, which can be either a good thing or a bad thing depending on the day. So this has been… nice."
"…Well, I won't say no to an earnest offer like that." Torgen reclines in his chair and finishes off the last of Lydia's ale.
Mull crosses his arms and settles in to listen. Lydia must've done an even better job at ingratiating herself than I thought.
Lynly lowers her ear closer to the instrument, picks at the doubled strings, and murmurs something to herself. After a few more seemingly random notes and two adjustments of the brass pegs, she nods and begins playing without fanfare.
The tune is mournful and slow-paced, very different from other melodies performed by Nord bards in taverns elsewhere in Skyrim. The combination of low notes and the husky scraping of strings against her gliding fingertips creates an intriguing melody that ebbs and flows like the dusky waters of a mountain tarn. It's a bit difficult to hear over the hubbub of the tavern, but her lute's muted volume also lends a private air to the performance.
Mull unconsciously sits up to listen more attentively. She's very good, even to his untrained ears. He doesn't think amateur country bards are supposed to be this talented, but he doesn't venture asking where her skills came from. Maybe she's naturally that good.
After playing for about a full minute, she strums the final chord and falls still. The four sit in contemplative silence for a while as they process her music. It's a performance that leaves Mull feeling something, though he isn't sure what. That most of all is what convinces him the girl is inordinately proficient.
Eventually, he lightly slaps his hands against his knees and proceeds with the interrogating. This has been a nice diversion, but they've spent enough time in the Vilemyr Inn already. They'll need to move on sooner rather than later. "Lydia might've already asked you, but I was wondering if you could tell us anything about the Throat of the World or High Hrothgar."
"Of course. I don't know as much as some other people in town, but I can try." She continues to pluck at her lute periodically without paying much attention to her random chords. "The Greybeards are a strange lot. They rarely interact with us in the lands below their peak, and by that I mean never. There are a few townsfolk who barter with them and help deliver supplies to the monastery – things the Greybeards can't craft or grow for themselves – but that's the extent of our interactions."
She lowers her voice conspiratorially.
"Sometimes, I'd swear I can hear echoing noises like thunder rolling down from the mountain, but then it doesn't rain. The Greybeards and their Voices are an ever-present feature in Ivarstead, and recently they've been even more active than usual. That's probably because of the new Dragonborn. Isn't it so exciting? With another gods-appointed hero appearing in Tamriel, I'm sure pilgrims from all across the province will show up to the ascend the Seven Thousand Steps this coming spring." She exhales wistfully. "I've always dreamed of making the journey to High Hrothgar. I envy you the chance, if you're able to make it that far up the mountain. The snows might block your path."
"I wouldn't envy how badly my knees would be hurting after a climb like that."
She smiles. "Maybe, but I would do anything to alleviate the boredom of living in this town. It isn't bad, but it's certainly a slow life, and I haven't worked up the courage to venture onto the mountain myself. Other than making the pilgrimage, there's only so much you can do here."
"You could always leave," Torgen remarks. "With your looks and the way you play that lute, you'd do well for yourself anywhere."
Her expression tightens minutely. "I don't disagree. But to be honest with you, I don't see myself ever abandoning Ivarstead. Wilhelm is too good to me." They follow the girl's gaze to the older man behind the bar.
"Is he your betrothed or somethin'?" Torgen diplomatically inquires.
The question makes Mull wince. Wilhelm must be at least in his fifties and Lynly doesn't look much older than Lydia. She's twenty-five, tops.
Lynly pulls a face. "Absolutely not. He's like an adoptive father to me and he's a good man, but that's all. Nothing like what you're thinking."
"Torgen is an exceptionally depraved individual," Lydia interjects. "Do not presume to know what goes on inside that thick skull of his. The truth is likely far worse than you could imagine."
"Now that's just unfair."
A round of bickering commences as Torgen, Lydia, and Lynly fall into the back-and-forth of mindless banter. Mull joins in occasionally but is otherwise content to observe. Now that they're in closer proximity, he's able to examine the Vilemyr Inn's resident bard in greater detail.
In many ways, Lynly is physically similar to the majority of other Nord women. Her honey-blonde hair reaches just past her shoulders and is adeptly arranged to frame her pale face. Her features are strong, more rounded than sharp, and soft in that way he's only seen from people who are fundamentally honest. Oddly enough, her skin is unblemished to a degree that he would normally associate with high-class ladies or other aristocratic individuals.
But most noteworthy of all are her uniquely striking eyes. They look green at first glance – not an uncommon hue among Skyrim's natives – but a closer inspection reveals that the area around the pupils is actually the color of amber, which abruptly fades into green in a broad ring around the outer edge of her irises. The coloration evokes the image of a field of swaying grass in the height of summer, warm and rich and inviting.
He's repetitively drawn back to those stunning heterochromatic eyes, and he forces himself to look away for fear of making himself out to be just another witless fool enchanted by her beauty. She likely gets enough of that already.
Unfortunately, it might already be too late. The woman graces him with a teasing smirk, signaling that she probably noticed his interest. She thankfully refrains from commenting.
Her attire is also worthy of mention. An egg-white sleeveless dress with a not-quite-obscenely low cut is suspended by straps across her otherwise bare shoulders and accentuated by a brown corset that displays craftsmanship of high quality. The ensemble is completed by a collection of plain gold bangles dangling from her arms and an expensive-looking necklace glittering against her collarbone.
All told, this Lynly is a very beautiful woman. That fact combined with her radiant apparel is enough to pique Mull's curiosity. Something about this girl is simply out of place. Lydia seems to get along with her fine, so he isn't going to make a big stink about it, but gold bracelets and pendants are hardly befitting for a simple country bard. How did a girl like this find herself in a little town up in the mountains? Surely she would be more at home in an expensive city tavern or a nobleman's entourage.
He pointed her out to Lydia on a whim when they first entered the tavern, assuming her to be a bard due to her lute and knowing that those types of people tend to keep up to date on local matters. But this woman almost certainly isn't your run-of-the-mill bard, not unless she gained the favor of some wealthy lord passing through town and reaped the rewards of that connection. Which now that he thinks about it, is an entirely viable explanation. He then begins to question why he's concerning himself over this bard so much in the first place.
Whatever her circumstances might be, it definitely isn't any of my business. Leave well enough alone. Getting involved with prospective acquaintances of noblemen or other important people is rarely a good idea. And while that isn't necessarily the case here, he thinks the possibility is high enough that some additional caution would be wise.
Now feeling distinctly paranoid, he leans down and fakes scratching an itch on his calf to give himself an opening to furtively scan the room. The first thing he notices is that Wilhelm is watching them from behind the bar. Upon meeting his gaze, the man looks away and goes back to cleaning a row of mugs with such practiced casualness that Mull is almost convinced he imagined the innkeeper's interest. Almost. He must be keeping an eye out to make sure we aren't bothering his bard. Good entertainers aren't hidden under every boulder and bush.
He continues to scan the room until he's completed a full circuit, but nothing stands out to him as unusual. Again, something is off about this girl, but he isn't sure what it is. For some reason, his instincts are telling him that he's too exposed in this tavern. He's assaulted with the animalistic urge to flee to safer pastures, and although nothing has perceptibly changed, he suddenly doesn't feel welcome here anymore.
If nothing else, he at least retains the presence of mind to recognize that this paranoia is the curse he bears for surviving everything he's endured over the course of his career in banditry.
I think I could use some fresh air. Let's wrap this up then. He disrupts his companions' lighthearted quarreling with another question directed at Lynly. "When I asked Wilhelm about the Steps, he said I should speak to a man named Klimmek. Do you know him?"
"I do. He's a kind soul, though he can be… acerbic at times. But I suppose the same could be said for Wilhelm. I like Klimmek well enough. Just not as much as he seems to like me," she finishes dryly.
Her brows quirk in an expression that says 'what can you do?'
"If you need to speak with him, you might find him at the northern bridge near the beginning of the Seven Thousand Steps. He often looks at the path in the evenings to gauge the next day's weather. He's been guiding pilgrims up the Steps and delivering trade goods to High Hrothgar for a long time." She frowns thoughtfully. "Klimmek isn't an outgoing person where strangers are involved, so you might mention that it was Lynly Star-Sung who sent you to him. He'll be more amiable then."
"I'll do that. Thanks."
He slides back his chair against the worn-smooth floorboards and stands to leave.
"Are you going so soon?" asks a nonplussed Lynly.
"Might as well. My questions about the mountain aren't going to ask themselves, and I want to see if this Klimmek is at the bridge like you said." He then addresses Torgen and Lydia in an undertone. "Stay here to listen for local rumors and whatever else people decide to talk about. Don't do anything I wouldn't do."
"Does that mean I-"
"Yes Torgen, whatever you're about to say, that is what it means. Got it?"
"…Aye."
Lydia stoically dips her head.
"Good. I'll be back in a few."
With that, he initiates the slow and cumbersome process of shoving a path through the common room – now much more crowded than when they arrived – and manages to struggle his way to the front door.
His eyes inadvertently slide to Lynly one last time as he exits the tavern. She matches his gaze for a fleeing instant before the door closes behind him. He curses himself, attracting a few odd stares as he steps down onto the street. She's just another cute face, and odds are you'll never see her again. Keep your head on straight, you idiot. There's a lot of pretty women in this province and it's never mattered before. It still doesn't now.
He navigates towards the river to search for Klimmek with those wonderful thoughts stewing in his head the whole way.
