Chapter 36

Sundown isn't far off as Mull navigates the narrow lanes of Ivarstead. A good number of townsfolk are going about their end-of-the-day business or ambling through the streets, so he has plenty of opportunities to ask around for Klimmek. He focuses on learning more about the man's physical appearance, his attitude toward strangers, and his propensity for visiting the Steps in the evenings.

Most of the locals easily divulge whatever relevant information they happen to know, likely assuming he's just another faceless pilgrim. Over what's left of the evening, he gathers that Klimmek is a prolific guide during the warmer months and is something of a leading authority on the pilgrimage. Sounds like exactly the kind of person I'm looking for.

He doesn't want to make the first stage of his pilgrimage solo. He fully intends to arrive at High Hrothgar alone, but he also hopes for somebody knowledgeable about the lay of the land to accompany him for at least a couple of days. Scaling an unfamiliar mountain by himself at the beginning of winter seems like a singularly bad idea, and if what he's heard about Klimmek so far is true, then he might be a worthy candidate.

Unfortunately, the whispers from the barrow he spotted on the edge of town still haven't gone away. They aren't so bad when he's talking with people or focusing on something, but in the quiet moments they become extremely irritating.

'Dovahkiin. Dovahkiin.'

It's mentally exhausting, but he pushes through the fatigue brought on by the murmuring chorus and stubbornly pursues his objective.

Once he's armed with sufficient knowledge of his target, Mull wanders around the riverfront for a few minutes until eventually finding a man loitering near a bridge who closely matches the descriptions of Klimmek. It isn't the same bridge he and his companions crossed over to enter the town – this one is further to the north and west, connecting Ivarstead to the southern slopes of the Throat of the World.

He pauses at the foot of the bridge to examine a street marker with multiple signs shaped like arrows pointing in various directions. Two of them are labeled 'Riften' and 'Windhelm,' which makes him laugh under his breath. Both of those cities are an entire Hold away. What's the point of having signs for them all the way out here?

Across the bridge, the path snakes upwards into the heavily-wooded cliffs looming over the town. By now the sun is already on the cusp of vanishing behind the mountains, leaving his environs shrouded in dim orange light. Dabbled rays of glimmering gold are dancing through the tumbling waters of the river, illuminating the scales of submerged fish and the polished surfaces of stream-smoothed stones.

Klimmek is standing on the near side of the bridge with his arms resting atop its chest-high balustrade. He's a middle-aged man with a shaved head, a full brown beard pulled into a single braid beneath the chin, heavy brows, and a rather large nose. Based on his somewhat haggard appearance, Mull imagines he must work too much or worry too often. But other than that, he looks like any other regular Ivarstead townsman, with the only discrepancy being that he's leaner and lankier than average. Hiking up the continent's highest mountain for a living will probably do that to you.

"Hey there." He semi-successfully modulates his tone into something almost pleasant. "Are you the Klimmek I've been hearing so much about?"

The man's head twitches just enough to place Mull in his peripheral vision. "I might be. What's it to you, stranger?"

"If you are, then I'd like to have a talk with you. Word around here is that you're the best guide in Ivarstead. You've trekked up the Seven Thousand Steps dozens if not hundreds of times if your neighbors are the be believed. D'you think there's any truth to their claims?"

The man slowly unfolds his arms and steps away from the balustrade as his expression takes on a severe slant. "If you know that much, I'm guessing you already have something you want to ask. I'm a busy man and don't have much time for making small talk."

Mull takes the hint and moves on to the heart of the matter. "I'm making the climb tomorrow and was hoping you'd consider joining me for at least a few days, long enough to get my feet under me. Lynly Star-Sung sent me to you. She claimed that you know your stuff."

The man straightens at the mention of the Vilemyr Inn's beautiful bard. "Is that right?"

"Aye."

"…And how exactly are you acquainted with Lynly?" he asks in a vaguely accusatory tone. His lips twist like he's taken a bite out of something sour. "I don't recall ever seeing your face in town before."

"You're right, I'm new here, and I only met her for the first time this afternoon. I asked her a few questions and her answers led me to you. I wouldn't be asking you to work for free, of course. I'll compensate you as best as I can." Mull's coinpurse has gotten much lighter over the course of this journey, but he still has enough disposable income to pay out the equivalent of half a week's wages for a working man.

"Hmm…" Klimmek rubs his chin and stares upwards at nothing, deep in thought. "Compensation, huh? You should know that I never work for cheap, stranger. I've had clients from all across northern Tamriel come asking for my services. Nordic lords, Imperial priests, wealthy Cyrodiilic merchants, even noblemen from as far away as High Rock. They know that I'm the best and they're willing to pay for it. If you're serious about this, you'd better have deep pockets."

His gaze returns to Nirn. His eyes are dark and stormy, swirling with disquiet. He seems troubled.

"But regardless of how much gold you intend to offer, I think I'll have to decline. I never take parties onto the mountain this late in the season, not even in small groups or as individuals. The weather makes it too dangerous, to say nothing of the cold. I'm afraid you're fresh out of luck, stranger."

Mull tsks. That's exactly what he didn't want to hear. "You sure you won't reconsider? Even if you only agree to a day or two, that'd be good enough for me."

Klimmek shrugs. "I've given you my answer. It's no skin off my back if you're fool enough to go climbing the mountain at the onset of winter."

"The sky looks clear right now, doesn't it?"

"It does, but that could change in a heartbeat. Kyne is a fickle mistress and she's unforgiving to those who lack preparation or wisdom. The wilderness is her domain and shares her temperament." He scans Mull up and down in a critical manner. "You seem to have neither of those qualities, if you don't mind me saying so."

Mull frowns. "I do mind."

"Oh, you do? Then that's just too bad." The Nord crosses his arms. "No amount of coin is worth freezing to death in a snowdrift or dying in a landslide. I won't be going onto the Steps anytime soon. You can try taking your offer to somebody else, but I doubt anyone in Ivarstead will have a different answer. Look there." He points skywards, to the mass of unchanging clouds hovering around the Throat of the World.

The nebular formation doesn't look especially dark or otherwise worrisome to Mull, but this man seems to think otherwise.

"See that? The clouds are gathering more densely than usual around the mountainside, and they've drifted lower over the last several days. I've been in this line of work long enough to know the signs when they appear. If the priests are right about the Greybeards using the power of the Voice to hold back the snows, then they must be nearing the end of their forbearance. Rough weather is coming to the high places soon. I'd bet my life on it."

Mull taps his foot impatiently. "Okay, let's say you're right. Could you at least tell me anything that might be useful to know?"

"Why are you so dead set on going up there at this time of the year? Most of you pilgrim types at least have the common sense to know it's a fool's errand with the snows already gathering."

He'd hoped nobody would think to ask that question, though it was inevitable in hindsight. He hurriedly improvises. "Ah, you know how it is. The gods wait for no one. Sometimes you need all the divine favor you can get, and I figured making the pilgrimage would be a good way to do that. Maybe the gods will look down on my suffering and find it in their hearts to forgive me, or something like that."

Klimmek squints and works his jaw as he considers Mull's non-answer. "Is that so?"

"Yep."

When he doesn't provide clarification, Klimmek scowls and leans over the side of the bridge to spit a globule of saliva into the waters rushing below. "It's your funeral then. What goes on between you and the gods is your own business, not mine or anyone else's. But I suppose I can tell you a little, if only because you're being so damn persistent."

He turns to the veiled heights of the mountain.

"I've seen the monastery of High Hrothgar many times with my own eyes, but only ever from a distance. I don't make the full climb often – it's hard on both the body and mind – but it's usually a journey of four to seven days depending on the weather and your physical fitness. I've only directly interacted with the Greybeards a handful of times and have never actually spoken to them. Not that I'd care to, of course. Being masters of the Voice, they could kill you with a single whispered word."

That's reassuring. "Would they do that? The legends say they're a peaceful sort."

"You're right, they do seem that way, but I still wouldn't want to risk provoking them. They value their privacy very highly from what I've seen. They stick to themselves, even to the point of growing most of their own food despite the difficulty of sowing fields so high on the mountainside. They're more self-sustaining than you might expect. They can cultivate all kinds of things using those old terraces on the southwestern slope near the ruins of the lesser monasteries. I've seen radishes, beets, turnips, parsnips, cabbage, potatoes," he lists while counting on his fingers. "Even some varieties of mushroom, oddly enough."

Mull frowns. "What do you mean by 'lesser monasteries?'"

"To hear the old folks tell it, there aren't as many monks living on the mountain as there used to be. High Hrothgar has always been the largest and most important monastery on the Seven Thousand Steps, but it wasn't always the only one. There were a lot more located lower on the mountain at one time, some less than two days' walk from Ivarstead, but that was far before our lifetimes. Nowadays only High Hrothgar remains."

"What happened to them?"

"I don't think anything happened. Time went on, the Empire came, and Kyne's holy mountain gradually became less important. Well, it's always been important to us Nords, but there's a difference between simply acknowledging that importance and truly valuing it enough to make the journey to the Steps. There were fewer pilgrims and fewer monks, so fewer of the monasteries remained in operation. As far as I'm aware, only High Hrothgar is currently anything more than a pile of moldering rocks. The monks use some of the ruins as storehouses and shelters whenever they descend to work their gardens, but that's all that remains of them."

"How fascinating." Also irrelevant, but he'll take what he can get at this point. Klimmek has made it abundantly clear that he isn't going to cooperate much more than he already has. He hates to admit it, but this endeavor has been a failure. The damn whispering from the barrow hasn't gone away either, which is making it hard to concentrate.

Mull rubs his forehead and steps away, signaling the end of their fruitless exchange. The beautiful scenery isn't quite enough to mitigate his aggravation, but he does his best to remain civil.

"I appreciate the help, for what it's worth," he says.

Klimmek sharply nods. "If you do decide to make the pilgrimage like a witless fool, try not to get yourself killed up there. Depending on how far you make it, your frozen body might not be found until the spring thaw."

He grimaces. "Thank for that encouraging thought."

"You're welcome."

As he turns and walks away, Klimmek calls after him one last time.

"And be sure to tell Lynly Star-Sung that I helped you like she asked. Please express my gratitude to her. It's heartening that she would think of me for something like this, and I would be honored if that were to continue."

He raises a hand in acknowledgement as he steps off the bridge and returns to the town proper, leaving behind the worthless Nord and the mountain vista.

He allows plenty of distance to grow between himself and the bridge before a string of expletives tumble from his lips. Helped, my ass. I was looking for a guide, not a history lesson.

He stops next to a tailor's shop and bangs a fist against its timber wall, drawing a few puzzled stares from people walking or loitering nearby. Looks like I'll be making the climb by myself after all. Great. Wonderful. Godsdamn fantastic.

There goes his grand plan for soliciting someone to show him the way to High Hrothgar. The sun is already sinking beneath the horizon and he still intends to set off for the monastery tomorrow, so the chance that he'll be making the pilgrimage by himself is starting to look more and more likely.

He could always take Torgen and Lydia with him, but his current plan involves leaving them here in Ivarstead with instructions to return to Whiterun after a week or two – which I still need to talk over with them – for a couple of reasons. Sure, having them along would make the climb safer, but that isn't his only concern.

For starters, he's expecting to spend multiple months at High Hrothgar based on what Hrongar told him about learning to use the Voice during their discussions about the Greybeards. There's also the fact that he won't be able to descend the mountain during winter. He wouldn't want his companions to get trapped up there with nothing to do for so long. That'll probably be his own fate, but why inflict that same suffering on them? Besides, a bored Torgen in a monastery sounds like a disaster waiting to happen, especially if there are any celibate women around.

I need to ask the Greybeards about figuring out how to use the Voice without killing myself from the inside out, and also about these dreams of Mirmulnir. Beyond that, I have no idea what's awaiting me up there. I could very well spend the entire winter meditating in a cave and sniffing skooma.

There's more to his reasoning, however. He also has a feeling that the Call of the Greybeards was intended for him and no one else. Their invitation was for the Dovahkiin, not the Dovahkiin-and-Lydia-and-Torgen. Having them tag along to answer his summons would just be… wrong, like he would be sullying the generosity of a gracious host. Which doesn't make much sense, but… whatever. None of this does.

So, point being, it looks like he'll be going up the Steps by his lonesome. He could always find another guide and he's willing to bet there are plenty to go around in Ivarstead, but it's already getting late and he fully intends to have a good night's rest before setting out early in the morning. At this point, it is what it is.

Before turning onto Ivarstead's main street, he takes one last look over his shoulder at the mountain and the sacred path snaking across its barren slopes. It doesn't seem too perilous from down here, but looks can be deceiving. It's always wise to prepare for the worst.

I'll see you up close and personal tomorrow. Then I'll know what I'm in for, one way or the other.

-x-

No longer in the mood to lurk around Ivarstead's alleyways while pestering the locals with his questions, Mull gives up his mission to find a guide and returns to the Vilemyr Inn sooner than he'd originally intended. He enters the tavern and surreptitiously examines the main room for signs of anything out of the ordinary, but his nascent fears are assuaged. He's greeted by the familiar sight of Nord farmers and fisherman eagerly feasting, drinking, and socializing. The feeling that Lynly Star-Sung is more than she seems is still hovering at the edge of his mind, convincing him that something about her presence in this mundane rural inn is inexplicably abnormal, but by now he's accepted it must not be anything dangerous. If it were, then something bad would've already happened with the amount of time they've spent in her company.

He finds Lydia still deep in conversation with Lynly. This time it sounds like they're talking about their respective preferences for using Cyrodiilic ingredients in culinary applications, specifically the qualities of star anise and whether or not fennel is an acceptable alternative in Imperial oxtail soup. Most of their verbiage goes right over his head.

Torgen is nowhere to be seen. That's never a good sign, but he doesn't feel like going off to look for him and decides the consequences of the old bandit's dalliances – whatever they might be – can be dealt with at a later time.

For the second time today, he takes a seat next to the two women and settles in with a grateful sigh. He quietly eavesdrops as they talk about nothing of consequence and only breaks his peace to order a bowl of apple cabbage stew from a serving girl.

Torgen teased Lydia about this earlier, but it really does seem like she's getting along well with this Lynly girl. His housecarl stiffens when he arrives at the table, but after he's sat and done nothing for a few minutes, she relaxes and goes back to acting normal as they discuss various Imperial foods. Lynly's fervor on the subject is amusing to witness as she gesticulates energetically while preaching about the properties of different Cyrodiilic spices. Most of Skyrim's more exotic seasonings originate in the Spice Islands of the Padomaic Ocean, so it's a bit strange for this country bard to have such in-depth knowledge about a topic usually reserved for the wealthy and those with Imperial mercantile connections. He quietly files it away with the rest of Lynly's odd quirks. Whatever the girl's story might be, it definitely isn't any of his business, but his curiosity is growing with each interaction despite knowing he'll probably never see her again after tomorrow.

He doesn't bother honoring Klimmek's request to tell Lynly that he was a good boy. The Nord guide was ultimately unhelpful, so Mull doesn't see why he should. He also isn't above admitting that the idea of telling Lynly about another man is enough for a spark of jealousy to flare in his heart, as utterly ridiculous as that is. Yes, it's petty and childish, but he'll never claim to be a paragon of virtue or anything remotely close to it. Lynly is a beautiful woman and he's a physically healthy man. End of story.

The two women's dialogue eventually turns to Ivarstead and its environs. Mull listens with growing interest as the bard begins describing the local terrain in detail. It's always good to maintain working knowledge of the regional topography.

Nobody can agree on the precise date of Ivarstead's founding, but according to the blonde bard, the surrounding area has been inhabited by the Nord herdsmen and famers for hundreds if not thousands of years. It apparently isn't uncommon to stumble across the remains of old farmsteads or burial mounds in the forests and valleys around Lake Geir – not that Lynly does much exploring, she admits, but that's what she's heard from the Vilemyr Inn's more adventurous patrons.

There's an island in the middle of Lake Geir that's home to some old ruins, including an ancient subterranean grotto called Geirmund's Hall. The local populace generally leaves the island alone since tradition holds that it's a sacred burial ground where mighty heroes of the ancient Nords were once interred. The taboo carries enough weight that Lynly isn't aware of anyone venturing onto the island in recent memory.

She also speaks of a place called Nilheim located on the opposite – western – side of Lake Geir. It's inhabited by a clan under the leadership of a man named Telrav, who's recently gained infamy for waylaying travelers and tradesmen through trickery and other deceits. Nilheim is too geographically defensible to be pacified by the Jarl of Riften's men stationed here in Ivarstead – of which there are few enough to begin with – so the presence of undesirables has been allowed to fester there for some time. She assures them that Telrav's clan never dares to threaten Ivarstead itself, but they're still a frequent nuisance for the townsfolk.

As if he's been summoned by this talk of bandits, Torgen suddenly materializes from deeper within the tavern and stumbles over to their table. He steadies himself against the edge of the tabletop, causing it to wobble back and forth. A splotchy purple and black bruise is swelling beneath his left eye. It's the aftermath of a punch, which Mull can tell from previous experience.

He exasperatedly massages his forehead. "I thought I told you not to do anything I wouldn't do," he grumbles.

Torgen grins with blood-crusted teeth. "I know, boss. I tried my best." In one hand he's carrying a platter of various cheeses and meats, which he sets in the middle of the table as a peace offering. "But I come bearing gifts! A tribute for your eminence from those fine gentlemen over there." He jabs his thumb at a rugged group of local men, one of whom is sporting bruises of his own smattered across his face. "Maybe this'll convince you not to cut me loose for betraying your trust."

Mull snorts, reaches for a slice of ham that looks juicier than the rest, and tosses it in his mouth. He chews slowly as he savors the tenderness and flavor. There's a hint of smokiness accompanied by the musky sweetness of applewood. It's excellent.

He swallows and nods. "Sit down before I change my mind."

The bandit's grin widens as he drops into a chair and digs into the food.

At the same time, Lynly Star-Sung rises gracefully and exchanges a few parting words with Lydia, drowned out by the hubbub of the tavern as more patrons flood inside. She flashes a quick smile at Mull.

"Off to do your bardly duties?" he asks around a hunk of orange cheese.

"That's right!" she chirps. "I'm surprised Wilhelm hasn't gotten on my case yet, but now that there are so many people here, he'll definitely be upset if I don't start making some music. Taverns are supposed to have a certain ambiance and that's what I'm getting paid to create!"

"Best of luck then."

"Thank you!" The girl hoists her lute and waltzes away with her long dress swishing around her, leaving the trio with the table for themselves. As she weaves deeper into the crowd, Torgen stares after her receding form for a long moment. His intense blue irises twinkle with a strange light.

Mull notices his wandering gaze. "You have your eye on that girl?"

"Who, the bard?" he replies with a hint of perplexity. The odd look on his face vanishes just as quickly as it appeared. "Of course I don't."

"Huh," Mull blinks. "That's a first. Why not?"

"What do you mean, 'why not?'"

"You've made a move on every single remotely attractive woman we've ever met in a tavern. Forgive me for assuming this one wouldn't be an exception."

Torgen chuckles wryly. "Alright, you got me there. But like I said, I'm really not interested. Not in that one."

"Again, why not?"

"…I think she's too wily for somebody like me."

He raises an eyebrow. "Care to elaborate?"

"She saw right through me, boss. I'm sure you noticed how she was acting after that 'five gold' complement earlier today. She knew what I was trying to do and her swoony reaction was all for show. Those women are the good kind. They're the ones you leave well enough alone so a better man can come along later and sweep 'em off their feet. That, and I think she's young enough to be my daughter."

"That hasn't stopped you before."

"Heh. True enough."

Overhearing their words, Lydia blanches and stifles a disgusted gag. "Kyne's breath, that's repulsive. You're an incorrigible man, even for an honorless brigand."

He leans back with a smirk. "Aye princess. You've said that already, so no need to go repeating yourself."

She shakes her head, presses her hands against the table, and stands with a loud huff. "If this is to be the topic of discussion for tonight, then I believe I'll go ahead and take my leave. I've been anticipating a warm bath for days." She glares sideways at them. "And frankly, the two of you are in dire need of a washing as well. I'm surprised Lady Star-Sung didn't comment on your… fragrant aura. I can inquire on your behalf if you'd like, my Thane, though it's my recommendation that the bandit be directed to the riverbank instead. It would be more suitable for somebody of his low station."

"Godsdamn, princess," Torgen guffaws. "That's a cruel thing to say to a man."

"Is it a cruelty if it's undeniably the truth? Could it not be said that I'm alerting you to your own foul odor as a gesture of benevolence and goodwill?"

"Bah. Just leave me to stew in my filth in peace. Go talk somebody else into take a bath."

Lydia harumphs, turns to leave, and gives her Thane a questioning look.

"Go on. Enjoy your evening. I'll tell the innkeeper to get a couple of rooms ready for us." As the housecarl departs with a poorly-disguised spring in her step, he graces Torgen with a hard stare.

"'Don't do anything I wouldn't do,'" the older bandit quotes. "I'll remember this time, boss. I swear."

"…By the gods, you'd better." With that entirely unconvincing promise echoing in his ears, he meanders over to the bar and flags down Wilhelm. The innkeeper is running flagons of ale back and forth between a dozen cramped tables, but he stops for just long enough to hear Mull's request for two rooms, one for Lydia and one of himself and Torgen.

When everything is ready a few minutes later, Mull trudges into the room for two and tosses his pack onto one of the fur-laden beds. He pulls off his dirty traveling gear, dons a pair of fresh socks, and uses a small washbasin full of comfortably warm water to rinse his hair and wipe down his oily face.

Whoever set up the room also had the foresight to leave out a moist washcloth covered in ground sage and salt for cleaning the inside of his mouth. He appreciatively rubs down his teeth and gums, removing detritus and loose plaque from today's meals and leaving behind a crisp scent. Now this is good service. I'm starting to like the Vilemyr Inn more and more.

He flops onto his bed and closes his eyes, feeling refreshed and ready for his first – and probably last – good night of sleep in over a week.

But if only it could be that easy.

'Dovahkiin. Dovahkiin.'

The voices and whispers from the barrow make it difficult for him to relax. Whenever he draws close to the precipice of slumber, they resound within his mind with renewed volume.

It's a comfortable bed, he's clean, the air is cool, and the walls are thick enough to keep out the noise of the tavern room beyond. But none of that is enough to lull him into the merciful oblivion of sleep, and as with many others before it, this night turns out to be a restless one.

-x-

Early in the morning, Mull finishes packing the last of his supplies and pays Wilhelm for their two rooms on their way out the door. There are already a dozen people sitting in the common room at the crack of dawn, mostly local farmhands eating hearty breakfasts before their long days of working in the sun.

Outside, the three travelers stroll down an empty street bounded by rows of houses and barns made colorless by the pale softness of dawn. To the south, Lake Geir is an unmoving mass of featureless grey.

"My Thane, I still must protest this course of action," Lydia insists. "There are numerous reasons I disagree with your plan, more than enough for me to draft a comprehensive list if you should wish for it."

"I don't."

He understands his housecarl is simply concerned for his safety, but her nagging is really starting to get on his nerves. His patience was already thin to begin with and there isn't much left to go around.

He responds without facing her. "Just do what I've said. Start heading back to Whiterun a week from today and I'll meet you there when I return from High Hrothgar. From what your father told me about the Greybeards, I'm assuming they'll keep me up at their monastery for a fairly long time."

"That's likely a given, my Thane, but it doesn't mean I can't remain in your service for the duration of your stay."

And now we're going in circles again. She's already pursued that same point four times this morning. "The Greybeards' call was for me. You and Torgen aren't part of the package, Lydia. This is my final decision."

She grumbles unhappily. "You shouldn't base such an important determination on a mere feeling."

"It isn't a feeling, girl," he growls.

He bites his tongue. He really shouldn't start an argument – another one – seeing as his housecarl is technically correct. His belief that he's the only one who should go to High Hrothgar is mostly driven by an arbitrary sixth sense. Despite the lack of logic involved, he firmly believes there's something about this situation that runs deeper than rote intuition. The Call of the Greybeards had a significance, a weight, that he doesn't know how to explain. They summoned the Dovahkiin to the Throat of the World. He knows this is the right way.

But he couldn't possibly hope to put something like that into words when he can't even properly articulate it to himself, so instead he settles for a heavy-handed approach. "That's enough, Lydia. This conversation is over."

"…As you wish." The housecarl's tone is decidedly frosty, but he can't find it in himself to care at the moment. He's tired, he's angry, and he isn't looking forward to the upcoming hardship of the next several days.

At the same moment as his final proclamation, the three travelers reach the first of their two destinations for this morning – the foot of the shallow ridge that Shroud Hearth Barrow calls home. The tumulus looms over the town below in spite of its relatively diminutive height, but not only because it rests atop the crest of raised earth. The front of the structure is composed of cyclopean pillars holding aloft its turf-topped roof of stone and soil, like something that was assembled by giants rather than by the diminutive hands of men. Its recessed walls are perforated with shadowed portals reminiscent of dead eyes or gaping mouths, each overgrown with curtains of dead vines. What little can be seen of the interior through a pair of orbital entryways is as black as a moonless night.

Objectively speaking, this barrow is little more than a pile of rocks overgrown by nature, but it somehow possesses an forlorn majesty that Mull previously associated only with Bleak Falls Barrow, and to a lesser extent the eastern entrance of Skybound Watch. In the watery light of early dawn, it's also incredibly eerie.

"Remind me again why you wanted to see this place before you leave?" Torgen is bleary-eyed from having stayed up longer than was wise the previous night while drinking and trading stories with the locals.

Mull is seriously considering making a revision to his salary. At least his irresponsibility means I'm not the only one who's exhausted. But he isn't the one who'll be scaling a damn mountain today.

"It's interesting," he curtly replies aloud. Needless to say, that isn't all there is to it.

Torgen peers at him skeptically, almost certainly seeing the lie for what it is. He's been working with Mull long enough to know he doesn't care about 'seeing the sights.' No, their reason for being here isn't quite so mundane.

It's the voices. Even now they're continuously calling out to Mull from within the barrow, urging him to venture beneath the earth. They whispered to him throughout the entire night, unceasingly and unforgivingly. His sleep was anything but restful.

So he decided to come and see for himself just what in Oblivion the barrow wants from him, to have bothered him so incessantly. It honestly feels like the sole purpose of the whispering has been to screw with his mind. Other than a single oft-repeated word – Dovahkiin – they carry no meaning he can fathom. It's a constant background of meaningless gibberish and arbitrary syllables strung haphazardly together.

If the barrow wants to annoy him so badly, the least it can do is give him some hints about what it means to be Dragonborn like Mirmulnir did. The ethereal dragon is a huge nuisance, yes, but he's an occasionally helpful nuisance too. This barrow on the other hand hasn't even done that much.

And now I'm thinking about an inanimate structure like it's a living thing with conscious intentions, he tiredly ponders. That's a really good sign.

Torgen scuffs his boot against the gravel road. "What's so interesting about this place? It isn't much to look at compared to Bleak Falls – which was a hellhole, but at least it was pretty enough on the outside."

"…I don't know."

"That isn't much of an answer, boss."

"Torgen, just… be quiet. Let me do my gawking in peace."

His two companions hover anxiously behind him for a few minutes as he glares intently at the abandoned tumulus. He could enter through those yawning black openings and see what there is to see in the caverns within, but he isn't entirely sure how the locals would react. The last thing he wants to do is to inadvertently get the town riled up against him. From what Wilhelm told him, he doesn't think the locals would take well to him trespassing on a place used by their priests for holy rituals. And the story of that missing Dunmer wizard also comes to mind.

So with that option functionally off the table, he's restricted to watching from a distance and stewing in impotent annoyance.

No matter how long he spends examining it, the lifeless barrow remains as enigmatic as ever. Those damn whispers keep slithering into his ears at irregular intervals, but that's it. The only other odd detail he notices is that the locals apparently leave offerings of food, drink, and small trinkets at the front stoop. Wilhelm mentioned something about appeasing and honoring the ancestors.

Cynically, he wonders what happens to the tithed objects after they're left here. Do those Talos priests take the goods as tribute? Surely they don't let it all go to waste.

Now that his thoughts are starting to roam, he decides to call it a morning and leave the barrow for another time. He isn't going to accomplish anything here today. If he's serious about following the voices and seeing what's so special about it, the best thing to do would be to sneak inside one night, which would require him to linger for another day and make preparations beforehand.

But right now, he has a schedule to keep.

I'll be back. Just you wait.

Without another word, he spins on his heel and stalks away from the ridge. Lydia and Torgen hesitantly follow.

He hasn't gone more than a dozen paces back into town before he stops and rubs a fist across his eyes. His two subordinates' lengthening silence is damning. "Whatever you're dying to ask, just ask it."

They share an inscrutable look before Lydia speaks for both of them. "My Thane, are you… feeling alright?"

Mull tiredly snorts. "Do I look like it?" He noticed this morning that his reflection in the washbasin was sporting a pair of impressively large dark circles beneath his eyes, something that's becoming more common with each passing week.

The girl purses her lips and shakes her head. Torgen's stony expression indicates that he agrees.

"I know what you're about to say, but this isn't an argument I want to repeat. We already talked things out while we were in Steelhead Pass. There's nothing more to discuss."

She steps in front of him, blocking him from walking away. "But what is it exactly that ails you? Surely there's something we can do. It's my sworn duty to carry your burdens however I may, and if-"

"Lydia, I just said we've already talked about this." Accepting that he isn't going to escape his housecarl's badgering so easily, he leans against the trunk of a nearby birch tree and uncaps his waterskin to wet his lips. "I need to get to High Hrothgar and learn what I can from the Greybeards. That's it. There's nothing more to be said."

Torgen mirrors him as he takes a seat atop a nearby stone wall separating the trail leading to Shroud Hearth from an adjacent garden plot.

Lydia remains standing attentively. "Please, something is clearly troubling you. If only you could tell us what it is, then perhaps we might have a solution to offer."

I don't think you have the necessary skillset to exorcise disembodied voices or the spirit of a dead dragon, but I appreciate the sentiment. "If you really want to do something to help, go find me the strongest sleeping potion you can get your hands on, wait until I'm comatose, and then teleport me up that mountain. If that's beyond you, then I don't know what else you could do."

Torgen offers a toothy smile that doesn't have much heart behind it. "There's always wine, or maybe brandy. I've heard that Colovian stuff will put you down like nothing else."

"Already tried that. Didn't work as well as I'd like, and the headaches in the morning were probably the worst I ever had. Which is saying a lot."

"I don't remember seeing you getting piss-drunk. When did that happen?"

"It was the night we got back to Whiterun from White River Watch. You were even deeper in your cups than me, and you had all those women to keep your attention."

"Ah. Sounds about right." Torgen directs his next question toward Lydia. "That makes me curious. What's he like when he's doused in mead? Was he a handful? Did you have to carry him back to the barracks like a sack of potatoes?"

The housecarl scowls and crosses her arms. "I will not dignify that with a response."

"Come on princess, tell me! I've gotta know!"

Mull interjects before this debate can get any more pointless. Torgen is distracting them from the matter at hand and that isn't something they need right now. "The two of you will have plenty of time to ask each other stupid questions while I'm gone. Lydia, come here."

He pushes away from the tree, reaches into his pack, and withdraws an oblong object wrapped in oily cloth. He presents it to Lydia without fanfare. After a second of uncertainty, she gingerly accepts it.

"That's Nettlebane. I'm making it your responsibility now, so try not to scratch it up or drop it off a cliff. If it's scuffed or damaged, the Sanctuary of Kyne might not pay us as much as they're supposed to for services rendered. And trust me when I say we will be getting our fair share of gold for that mess at Orphan Rock. One way or another."

"…I will guard it well, my Thane," the girl murmurs.

"Good." He fishes around for something else, this time tucked into his belt, and produces a coinpurse from which he starts counting out money. He takes a handful of septims for himself before retying the purse and forking it over.

"That's for your stay in Ivarstead and the trip back. Do whatever you want with it. Stay at the inn again, camp out in the woods, I don't really care. Just make sure you have enough gold to get back to Whiterun in one piece."

Lydia hefts the small sack and eyes it critically. "My Thane, I worry this might not be enough for the supplies we'll need. We're short on coin as it is, and even with you taking so little for yourself…"

"I'll be fine, but if you're really that concerned then take on a job or something. I'm sure there'll be some work for you here. If nothing else, Torgen can chop wood for a septim an hour."

"Aye, I'm pretty good at that."

"Most twelve-year-old children are good at that," Lydia deadpans.

"And what do you know? I'm older than twelve," the older Nord jibes. "Perfect for the job."

"Ugh."

"Alright, that's enough. We're going." Mull sets off for the north side of town, not willing to listen to anymore of his companions' squabbling. I didn't get enough sleep to deal with this crap.

He doesn't wait to see if they follow, but the crunch of their footsteps against gravel indicates that they are. One set of steps is more rapid than the other and Lydia soon draws alongside him. She doesn't say anything, but he feels more than sees her sneaking glances at him. Subtlety has never been her forte.

They reach the northern bridge, the same place he chatted with Klimmek the evening before. Having traversed most of the town over the course of the morning, he's now starting to appreciate how small it is. There can't be more than fifty buildings in total if you exclude the outlying farms and homesteads occasionally visible at the fringe of the forest.

He stops where the arch is highest in the middle of the bridge and faces his companions. Lydia's pale features have been rearranged into a mask of stoicism, but she's still clearly upset with him. He's gotten better at noticing the quirks of her expression in recent weeks.

Torgen remains neutral as he hands over the spare waterskins and an additional bag of provisions he'd been lugging on his employer's behalf. Mull loops the waterskins' woven leather cords through his belt and hefts the bag onto his shoulder. "Thanks," he grunts.

"Sure." Torgen claps him on the arm. "Be careful up there. The mountains are always treacherous when winter comes, and this one is the biggest of them all. If it were me, I'd be more scared of climbing to that peak than I'd be of a minotaur let loose in a whorehouse – if you catch my drift."

Mull's face scrunches up. "Ysmir Talos, just… why? Of all the damn things to say…"

The older bandit laughs, but his demeanor just as quickly returns to solemnity.

After another moment, Mull exhales heavily and nods. "Aye, you idiot. I'll do my best."

His subordinate nods back. "Good." He pauses, then awkwardly scratches the back of his neck. "Bah. I'm terrible with goodbyes. See you in a couple months, boss. Don't have too much fun up there." He waves and saunters back to the southern end of the bridge. "I'll leave you to it," he mutters to Lydia.

Mull and Lydia watch one another wordlessly for a good while. The river gurgles merrily beneath their feet and the myriad sounds of a town stirring to life for the day are soon drifting over the water from Ivarstead. Doors squeak open on old hinges. Iron tools clatter together. Voices rise in greeting or farewell.

Lydia shuffles her feet and stares at the ground, refusing to meet his eyes. "I don't look forward to returning to my uncle and informing him that you sent me away before the most perilous stage of your pilgrimage. This will be the first extended period of time since I was pledged to your service that I won't be at your side, aiding you in your endeavors. I swore to myself that I wouldn't fail you more than I already have. But now, I…"

She nervously licks her lips.

"I… I can only say that I'll earnestly await our next meeting. Please act with due caution and vigilance during your journey. And, I hope that you… uh…"

She makes a soft noise of discontentment.

"…Be well, my Thane."

"…I will. And same to you." Mull is surprised to find that he truly means it. In spite of himself, he's touched by Lydia's sincerity despite his foul mood. This girl is a pain in his ass at the best of times, but she's also proven herself to be unfailingly loyal and honest to a fault. I really don't deserve her, do I? he grudgingly realizes.

With a final fleeting glance from beneath her lashes, Lydia turns away and follows in Torgen's footsteps. Mull stares after her as she goes. As the sun rises above the faraway mountains, its bright rays turn Lake Geir into a kaleidoscope of dazzling platinum, framing Lydia's receding form in its lustrous brilliance. It's an unexpectedly beautiful moment.

Not a bad way to start a pilgrimage.

As his two companions vanish into the increasingly-crowded streets of Ivarstead, he slowly tears away his gaze and forces himself to turn around. Each movement is laden with unseen weight down to the tiniest twitching of his fingers, as if his very bones are screaming at him not to leave behind his closest comrades since Morven died. But he does it anyway. The future awaits him, whatever it may bring.

On the other side of the bridge, the Throat of the World is soaring into the firmament high above. He still can't wrap his head around the massive size of this mountain. It's been consistently visible on the horizon for the past few months, ever since his escape from Helgen, and now he's finally here at its base. It's an odd sensation, like he's now reached a crossroads dividing one half of a journey from another, and as usual he isn't sure how to put the feeling into words. It's significant. It's momentous. It's…

He huffs impatiently and hitches his pack, training his mind on the expedition ahead of him. That's enough stalling. The sooner we start, the sooner we'll finish, so let's get on with it.

He sets off with sure steps and soon clears the bridge, after which he continues onto the unpaved trail beyond. Less than a dozen yards from the riverbank, the path ramps sharply upwards and simultaneously narrows into a long gorge cleaving into the otherwise sheer mountainside. On either side of the natural gallery, the trail is enclosed by tall stones and straight-trunked conifers as far as the eye can see, like servants and courtesans greeting the arrival of a monarch. A series of stone stairs provide traction beneath his feet wherever the incline becomes prohibitively steep. Here we are. The beginning of the Seven Thousand Steps.

He pauses once more to observe the cloudy expanse of mountain and sky looming miles overhead.

This is going to be a tough climb, isn't it?