Hi there all,

I've been reading the material here on and off for a good couple of months. It's great stuff to read, and I thought I'd have a go myself. I apologise in advance for any poor quality, as fanfic isn't my normal line of writing. It's just a spinoff from one of the quests in Oblivion, but I might evolve the main character in further updates if people are interested.

-------

It is nigh on impossible to get a good high in the Imperial City.

I never understood why you staunch Imperial types banned moon sugar. It means that to obtain my treats, I must go through… unsavoury channels, and today I was entirely unable to find one. Your blasted thjizzrini - your ‘laws’, although our closest translation is ‘foolish concepts’ - and your over-enthusiastic guardsmen saw to that. So instead, I defaulted to legal vices.

I was in the Bloated Float, to be precise. Run by an Altmer, which always struck me as rather odd: shouldn’t he be in a mage’s tower somewhere reading empty books, instead of helping the layabouts of this city drink themselves into Oblivion? I did not, and do not, like this place, but when you’re a Khajiit people tend to look at you funny in what you would doubtless call ‘high-class establishments, not for the likes of you beasts’, and expect you to steal the bar stool.

Oh, for Alkosh’s sake. You’re all confused because I’m a Khajiit, yet I don’t talk like I just took a paralysis spell to the throat. So close-minded. If you ever really listened with those tiny ears of yours, you might learn things.

Anyway. The place was, as always, too crowded. I’d actually had to wrap my tail around my waist to prevent the less agile - or more malicious - punters from standing on it as they go by. It was almost like a skooma den, which is both good and bad. Good, in that no-one is watching you too closely, but bad, in that there’s no skooma.

It would be fair to say that on the moon sugar/skooma front, I am like all Khajiit there ever were.

So there I am, huddled between a Redguard with his nose in the glass, and a boorish, black-haired Nord who wants me to show him a backflip. Neither of these two is any fun. The Redguard is far too quiet. I suppose he’s thinking about stabbing things. Even that, though, would be more enjoyable than this infernal Nord, who now apparently wants to show me something.

“Listen, kitty, I’ve got an offer for you.”

Great. I bet he’s not going to ask me to steal something. Not a chance. He probably wants me to help him compile a history of Summurset Isle. He’s not assuming I’m a born thief. None of that sort of thing. No.

“Ever… ever heard of the, whajemacallit, the, the Golden Galleon?”

Who hadn’t? The Altmer made his living on it. You could just tell by the ten or so self-styled ‘adventurers’ - none of whom looked like a threat to a mudcrab - lounging around the room in leather and cheap swords, hoping to discover the mythical treasure hidden on this boat (and, presumably, buy armour that wasn‘t stitched by a blind man with the proceeds). This place, most days, was filled to the brim with fools who either wanted to be the Nerevarine or the tenth Divine, and it was one of the reasons I tried avoiding it.

“Of course, friend. You don’t believe that silly rubbish, do you? The Golden Galleon is a story I wouldn‘t tell to kittens.”

“Trust me, mate,” the Nord blinked, slowly, “I believe it very much.” Well, that was wonderful and all, but did he have a point here? Oh yes, he probably assumed I could steal it. “What if… if I wanted to get it?”

“In that case, big man,” I said, grinning, “you could always put on some cheap armour and join the twenty other fools chasing that false scent.”

There’s something about a Khajiiti grin that unsettles even the toughest man or mer, I’ve noticed. It’s one of those natural weaknesses: the very idea of a person who has weapons growing out of his paws and face probably does worry those of you who have to lift their own kit with two hands.

Suddenly, he made proper eye contact. “It’s not false. Meet me outside.” The Nord rose - I only then noticed he was the size of at least two and a half Bosmer on top of each other -and walked out the tavern, with only the faintest hint of a stagger. Well, would you look at that. That insobriety was (almost) all an act! To give him his due, this snowwalker was sharper than he let on.

Still, I had a couple of things to ponder before I got on with figuring this out (would I ever leave such a tantalising little titbit hanging? I think not). Firstly: what did he want? Secondly, what on Nirn made him ask me? He couldn’t be choosing his business partners for such an obviously shady activity based on their fur, could he?

I’d just got the impression he wasn’t stupid, so I didn’t think it was as simple as ‘all Khajiit are thieves’. No, he had far more complex reasons, and if they were what I suspected, I would have a serious problem.

This merited a look on those grounds alone, but I also suspected that whatever was going on here would also be rather fun. At least, more fun than this hole. So, after paying my tab, leisurely finishing that brandy, and making sure no-one was watching, I left.

The Nord was dawdling outside on the street, partially obscured by the dark of the night: of course, this presents no problem to my kind, but I also noticed one other, minor problem. Either that figure crouched in the shadows behind the crates in an alleyway was a law-abiding commoner who’d come to check on his investments and taken a wrong turn at the Waterfront or he was connected to the Nord. I assumed the latter, which was something of a bad development. Still, what kind of fool tries to hide from someone with a cat’s eyes?

I was right; as the Nord turned to the shadow as I walked out, and said “It’s alright, he’s unarmed.” Out from the shadows stepped a female Dunmer, clad in leather and carrying an iron blade, which she sheathed as she walked.

Great. Another one.

“We’re sorry about that,” she said, as she reached us, “but you can’t be too careful around here. Those Imperial s’wits are always trying to trick people like us.”

So, criminal to boot. No surprises there.

“I’m sorry.” I said. “I seem to have got myself into a bad situation here…”

“Oh, goodness no!” The Nord laughed, which sounded somewhat akin to an earthquake, or possibly a collapsing building. “We just wanted to have a little businesslike chat, without being listened to by everyone in that cesspit. Sorry about the deceit, m’boy, but there’s no better way to get people to do what you want than when they think you’ve had ten too many.”

“Ah, I see. So you wish to talk… business? Can I still assume this Golden Galleon is involved?”

The Dunmer spoke. “That’s right. You see-”

I dismissed this with a flick of my paw. “You’re wasting your time, girl. That thing doesn’t exist, or if it does, it’s gold leaf on lead.”

“Oh really?” Her red eyes flashed. I probably shouldn’t have called her a ‘girl’. “Well, maybe you can confirm that for us.”

Uh oh. Time to stall. “Perhaps, before we begin such a sensitive discussion, some introductions would be in order.”

The Dunmer shrugged, and looked to the Nord. He nodded: it looked like he was the boss of this outfit.

“Fair enough. I’m Wrath and this is Minx. We’re… two members of a larger whole. And, frankly, your name isn’t important. We know enough about you already, even if not that.”

And now we came to it. “What, exactly, do you think you know about little old me?”

Minx cut in. “You’re a Khajiit-”

“Bonus points for the lady.”

“- and we know you’re likely to help us. We’ve heard you bandied about in, uh, select places, which implies to us that you’re not Thieves’ Guild. But at the same time…” she trailed off. “We suspect you would be interested in our offer.”

I sighed. I would have to follow this up later. “Lady, I am not going to join you on this foolish wild goose chase. The Golden Galleon is a story, it is a lie, it is a legend, it is an urban myth; it is, indeed, many words and phrases which imply falsehood, and, frankly, I don’t think I’d want to associate myself with you two anyway.”

“Listen, furball,” the Nord was clearly not pleased with my implication, “all we want you to do is to nip onto that ship after closing time, and have a look around. That’s all we’re asking. If you find it, you don’t even need to steal it: you can just tell our leader where it is, and we’ll come in and get it. We have our own plans for this heist, and all you have to do for an equal share of the profits is a quick look around in the boat. What’s so hard?”

I looked at them. The idiots! They genuinely believed that the Golden Galleon existed, and that the owner hadn’t thought of moving it. He was hardly going to leave it in some chest under his bed with this sort of rumour going around, now was he? Even if the blasted thing did exist, I wouldn’t be surprised if these two had just walked off of a prison ship, eyes agleam - and blinded - by the promise of riches.

I looked at them again. “I am not interested, and that is final.”

The Nord grimaced, and glanced around him. “In that case, we’re going to have to silence you, and that is final. Minx, we’ve got something to clean up.”

But before either of them could draw their swords, I had glided the six feet between them and I. Why do people insist on thinking they are faster than us? By the time the big Nord’s hand had reached his scabbard, both he and the female were writhing in the grip of my unsheathed claws on their throats, which, besides causing them to fear for their lives, confused them, as said claws are, of course, made of burnished steel. Far sharper than mere bone, and the shock value is also useful.

“Not so, Nord. I am afraid that I do not like that game.” I said, tightening my grip. Small drops of blood rolled down my claws. “For your information: you can call me J’Dar, I am no criminal, I am not going to help you, the Golden Galleon is not there, and you cannot beat me. I think this is all you need to know. Now, drop the weapons.”

Grudgingly, after a shared glance, the two bandits slowly and exaggeratedly dropped their swords, which I swiftly pushed into the Niben with my feet.

“And now, I believe, I shall make my leave.” I said, let go of them, and let them fall to the ground holding their throats as I walked off in the direction of the Elven Gardens. Those two - and their ‘leader’, would probably do something stupid, like try and ransack the place themselves. I shrugged. I supposed I’d go look for Shady Sam again. Let a hero deal with it.

No need to apologize for the quality, as this is quite good. I'm eager to see what lies ahead.

Definitely a solid story. I really like that Khajiit. He's definitely got a personality to him and we actually don't see too many cat-people in the stories around here. It's refreshing.

Yes you carried the story well. I'll be interested to see how it develops.

And yes, the Kajit is a refreshing character.

And yet another one who likes the Khajiit. I especially like his attitude.
'Yes, I may look fuzzy, but don't bloody waste my time.'

I always loved this quest!!!
I think it's a very nice story so far to read!

Cheers for the input, folks. I've decided to continue with J'Dar after all: I'm liking his attitude myself. I always played Khajiit in Morrowind, and I'm running through it again with one - it's just a pity that hand-to-hand and unarmoured skills were so useless. Still. I think I've concocted a promising framework for him to work in, so, without further ado, I present the second instalment.

-------

“So, in short, it is as I suspected.” I said. “The Imperials are at a complete loss, now that the heir is dead.”

I was - and I intend not to make a habit of this, dear reader - in another bar. This time, it was The Five Claws in Leyawiin, which can, for all intents and purposes, be considered my base of operations. I was sitting opposite a cat so famous that we will all have heard of him: some call him Liar, but they have missed something. When we are lying, we are telling the truth.

“Merrunz has most certainly helped us out.” M’Aiq said, sipping his flin delicately. “The first time that foolish kitten has done something useful, I might say.”

This merits explanation. The Daedra Lord you call Mehrunes Dagon may have appeared blistering like a red-hot hurricane in the Imperial City with the intent of destroying the world, but in our mythology Merrunz is but young: like a kitten, tearing reflexively at wool. So do we explain his, uh, tendencies. He is a destructive child with the power to level Nirn, which I have never considered a good combination of traits.

“Useful? You didn’t see the three cultists that jumped me on the way here. Their lord may have run to Oblivion with his tail between his legs, but these people are not as good at giving up their dreams as they are their possessions. If you had not taught me to walk on water, you would be explaining your intriguing theology to an empty chair.”

M’Aiq’s Cyrodiilic is not so good. We were talking back and forth in Ta’agra: in this area, in this city, in this bar, it was nothing special. It also helped keep secrets.

“That is as may be, J’Dar, but it is partly your fault for carrying no real weapon. Those fancy claws of yours are not good for parrying swords, are they? I told you that strapping yourself up like some wild animal would cause you trouble, in the end.” M’Aiq is not a fan of disturbing the natural order of things. When I first had them fitted, he bought me a nail file.

“I did have knives as well, M’Aiq.”

“Yes, but you insist on throwing those away. If you were not so keen on throwing away your weapons, you would only need one.” He grinned, showing a row of battered yellow teeth.

“Enough of this, my friend.” I laughed. We had this discussion almost every time we met. “How do we progress?”

“Your information has helped, fortunately. I am just waiting for one more piece of the puzzle: she will be here soon, and then I can show you the completed picture.”

I downed my flin in one go, partly to disguise my shock. “You mean…?”

“Yes,” M’Aiq grinned again, and if he smiled much wider he could probably have swallowed his flin whole, bottle and all, “your old friend is here to see you, and to update me on the situation at home.”

As I said this, ‘she’, Si’Valit, walked into the bar, axe on her back.

Si’Valit was, simply, not an ordinary Khajiit. The axe, I have already mentioned - she spent a year in Solstheim, where the Nords cling to the far edge of Nirn - but when you also note that her name, chosen herself, literally translates as ‘to be adult’, it is not hard to realise that she was not quite Clan Mother Ahnassi. She was not a woman to cross, at any rate, and this was why we liked her so much.

“Si’, my girl!” I smiled. “It has been too long.”

“Not long enough, more like.” She growled as she sat down. I liked to think she was joking.

“Charming as always, I see. You clearly picked up a lot in Skyrim, and not just with that small house you’re carrying.”

“Enough.” M’Aiq managed to diffuse the tension that was building with a word. We generally listened to him. “Si’, what is the stance on our cause at home?”

“It’s complicated, and there‘s no real answer.” She scratched her ear. “The Mane is, I hear, coming around to the idea of reasserting his authority: you know he always thought the Septims were some sort of gods, but he has no fear of the Elder Council. He is in favour of the principle, but he is bound.

“The northern chieftains, of course, still agree with us. Some of them were forced to leave when that blasted Count made his move, and their hackles are still raised. However, the pampered kitties down in the south-”

“Hey!” I interjected. “You do remember where I’m from, yes?”

“That’s why I said it, J’Dar: you’re the right sort, but still just the exception that proves the rule. As I was saying, they are not keen on any sort of conflict, political or military. And, of course, they control the Riddle’Thar during Masser…”

Again, I suppose I should explain. It will make no sense to you, but I am bound to try. The Mane is de facto ruler of Elsweyr, but this is because he maintains the Riddle’Thar: the division of power between our northern desert tribes and the city-states of the south. Which side is in power on a given day depends on the phases of the moons, like the rest of our lives. It is difficult, therefore, for one side to act over any period without the other’s consent - a balance of power, as it were.

“In other words, nothing has changed.” M’Aiq grimaced. “I expected as such. The city-cats care about nothing but their skooma.”

“What is this, Pick on J’Dar Day? You know I have no problems with my skooma… when you do the maths, you’ll actually find that very few of us do. It's really a condition of men and mer. If you two didn’t come from a barren desert where all that grows is your fur, you too would love the fruit of the moon.”

“We know you are an exception, J’Dar,” M’Aiq, to his credit, adopted a placatory tone, “your work testifies to that. But does it not strike you as odd that, in our entire group, you are the only southerner to take up arms for Leyawiin’s freedom?”

“This, my friend, may have something to do with Leyawiin being in the north.”

“See!” Si’Valit cut in. “Typical southerner talk. All fine words and wit, but when it comes to defending our ancient homelands-”

With that, the claws came out. Si’ has never used her claws in her life: she is fast, no doubt, but to unhook a two-handed battleaxe from one’s back is not as quick, or as satisfying, as a quick and quiet flick of one’s claws against the table. Steel cuts wood: the scratch marks around my empty bottle made it clear that I was not pleased, to put it lightly. In Khajiiti parlance, this is the equivalent of ‘three strikes and you‘re out’.

“Enough!” M’Aiq was also not pleased. “The two of you are acting like kittens. Si’: there is a difference between a skooma fiend and a cat who fights for the right cause, even if they are of the same litter. J’Dar: put those ridiculous things away before you cut yourself. Do not be so rash again, if you value your pride.

“Now, Si’, leave us. J’Dar and I must talk secrets.”

With bad grace, Si’ mumbled an apology. I reciprocated, and thus allowed her to get up and leave the table. She was always full of fire, that girl. She meant well, I suppose, but too much time with nothing but Nords for company had changed her.

M’Aiq leant across the table. “I mean that, J’Dar. You are still young, and you must control your temper. It is your one flaw.” He winked. “Excluding your insistence on not using real weapons, the fact that you are from the south, and the skooma.”

I grinned. “Who told you this? A wereshark?”

“Wereboar, actually, but this is neither here nor there. I now know where you should go.”

“I am listening, my old friend.”

“We need increased political clout if we are to convince the Empire to return Leyawiin to its rightful Khajiiti owners. I would rather avoid more bloodshed than is necessary.’ I nodded. Peaceful solutions were generally better, even if it was just to save me the effort of cleaning my claws afterwards. “I have a list here. On this list are all the Khajiit I am aware of who hold influential positions in the Cyrodiilic guilds. Your job is to persuade them to openly - or in some cases, as openly as they can - back our cause. It should be a simple job, in truth.”

“To persuade Imperialised strangers to support an idea they have never heard of?” I shook my head. “I bet most of them couldn’t even pronounce ‘Renrijra Krin’.”

“Maybe, but they need not know our name to agree with our arguments, hmm? Besides, stranger things have happened. I have seen dragons!”

I laughed, and ordered another flin.

Excellent, excellent. And I do so enjoy khajiti culture.

Despite the fact that I didn't comment initially, I must say that this fic is one of the more refreshing ones I've read in the last few days. Almost as refreshing as Canis' The Dark Operation though that fic has a more direct. factual style that I've yet to notice in other fan fictions, including my own work.

Coming back to your own work, I was hooked since the first part and I'm really glad you've chosen to continue this character. Khajiiti are always great characters which are really enjoyable, especially when it comes to their culture, as Canis said. I like J'Dar and his sarcastic (at least that's how I see it) personality and how he always sees trouble as coming to him, not the other way around. To say the least, hanging about in shady places like The Bloated Float or traveling by your own is bound to bring you trouble, one way or another.

I also find the addition of M'aiq to be refreshing since I don't think he was ever included as a fan fiction character. I like how you make his personality (basically a shout box for the devs to vent their frustrations in-game) seem like the wise, esoteric sage guy what with all banter like his dislike of throwing weapons like darts or throwing stars. Also, this whole idea of using high-standing Khajiiti guild members as plot coupons is an interesting one which I've not really experienced before in fan fictions.

All in all, a great start to a (potentially) great series.

Awwww, kitties are awesome! I love the Khajiiti-people, I really do! This is now on my "must-read-list" Good work!

The conversation between the three Khajiit was very well written. Very engaging and character development of all three of them was evident.

The purpose and goal of the group is rather interesting as well. I have a feeling it won't be as easy as M'Aiq claims it to be.

Heh. When was the last time M'Aiq said anything simple?

Anyway, here's the next instalment. J'Dar does seem to have a gift for attracting trouble, and that's not changing today.

-------

My trip to the Imperial City passed uneventfully. Well, I lie: the last part was uneventful, speeding past as I was on a horse recently liberated from a bandit suffering from grievous wounds to his face. He should’ve kept his guard up, really.

I had been sceptical of M’Aiq’s plan when he first unveiled it. It was not exactly as if Khajiit even existed in most of high-level Imperial society. None in the Fighters Guild in any real positions of power. There used to be a few in Blackwood, but it turned out they’d found something worse than skooma. Not one in the Imperial Watch - not even polishing the armour - and none in the visible parts of the Blades. I didn’t see how we could possibly leverage public opinion like this.

Then, of course, I read his list, and realised I’d forgotten the loudest three voices in Cyrodiil.

I’d entered their offices in the Market District early that crisp and cool morning, after having failed to find a bed at The Bloated Float (what did you know? It looked like the big Nord and his friend stole it after all). I am, to put it lightly, cheap, so I slept in a cellar instead. I would have paid for the pleasure, but this would mean I’d have to tell the owner I was there.

Still, it was worth it. Ra’Jiradh and his two brothers - Khajiit to a cat, all with the wrinkles and lazy eyes of old age and sugar use respectively - ran the Black Horse Courier. For those who are unaware of their work, consider them as town criers who use paper instead of voice. Copies of their newsletter ran everywhere across Cyrodiil: I’d even found a few in the saddlebag of my horse, which said something for how up-to-date my bandit friend liked to keep himself. If we could harness that reach they had, we would be onto something.

“So, remind us again why Leyawiin is so important to us as a people.” Ra’Jiradh asked, lounging on a chair.

I was there under the guise of a concerned citizen of Leyawiin, and an amateur scholar of Elsweyr history: I had brought a copy of A Brief History of the Empire, to give the impression I had just walked out of a bookstore: I left it sticking out of my robes with an air of practical casualness. All in all, I thought I’d done pretty well, although disguise was never really my thing.

“Because it is ours, Ra’Jiradh.” I said, with a serious attempt to hide the stress on ‘ours’. “That capricious Count and his cat-hating wife have no right to our shores, even if they could govern their way out of a wet paper bag - which they cannot, I must say.

“It has been twenty years since that false-faced Imperial declared his sovereignty over those last stretches of our ancestral homelands, and only ten since he built that castle over the city. But you know this. You are Khajiit. Our history is ingrained in our bones. The River Malapi - not the Niben, no matter what the maps say - is as natural to us as our mother’s milk.

“All I ask-”

“Stay your tongue.” One of the brothers interrupted. I hadn’t learned their names, which made things harder. You know when you forget someone’s name, and the longer you spend with them, the ruder it becomes to ask? Eventually you reach the point of no return, and this is how I was with the two brothers of Ra’Jiradh. “You speak very fancy words for a fighter. You must be a southerner. What possible business of yours is a northern territory dispute?”

I swear, one of these days I’m going to grow my mane like the northerners do and communicate by growling. It would save so much hassle. Besides, how did he know I was a fighter?

Ra’Jiradh chimed in whilst I searched for a suitably cutting reply. “Maybe he is another soft little kitten who heard silly stories about the noble life on the sands, hmm? Here is news for you, brave freedom fighter: it is not noble, it is scum. It is the laugh of the landless; it is the mercenary’s grin; it is ‘Renrijra Krin’, and that is what we are.”

It would seem I’d been sent to get people to help me out who are already members of the group I wanted them to help out. It was never easy to track M’Aiq’s little games. He was like a kitten with wool, that cat.

“And, in that case, M’Aiq has sent me up here just to talk shop with some grizzled oldtimers then? The Liar wears his name well.”

I really have a talent for angering people at inappropriate times. One of the brothers burst out with a “tcha!” and got to his feet. “For your information, kitten, he has sent you to us to test you. After all, we wouldn’t want you running into a fight and tripping on your tail, would we?” As he said this, he unsheathed his claws. Looked like this could be messy.

“That’s as may be, friend, but I hate having to kill the over fiftys. For some reason you all leave my clothes smelling like mildew.”

“Enough of this idle chit-chat.” Ra’Jiradh got to his feet. “This is serious business, Hassiri.” Now I knew his name, at least. “You both know the rules of the Traajijazeri?”

I nodded. Traajijazeri - or ‘honour fight’ - rather explained itself. It was a northern tradition, evolved to settle disputes without inter-tribe wars: cat versus cat, claws versus claws. It carried the virtue of rendering the winner’s argument logically sound, as often with these disputes either side was as good as the other. It was just an issue of choosing any one at all, rather than choosing the right one.

In many cases, it was most certainly messy.

I coughed. “One question before I embarrass your brother. If M’Aiq is so keen to influence popular opinion - if he still is - why haven’t you done that already?”

Hassiri grinned, and I could see he had filed his teeth to sharp points, like he had twenty chitin daggers in his mouth. “That, little one, is because there is a time and a place for-” And he lunged. Clever.

It was a large room. So, I leapt backward towards the door, unsheathed my own claws, and took up a fighting stance.

Fights like this are about long periods of watching, then short moments of perfect strikes. One cannot try and block, or grab the offending hand: the fact that both sides have sharp objects sticking out of their hands means both move with a degree of exaggerated caution. We circled each other, hissing: with the occasional feint or half-hearted probe at the other’s defences and reflexes, it was all about finding a time and place.

A swipe from him. A duck from me, with a swift uppercut as I rose. He jumped back. He had no chance of using those teeth: he just couldn’t get close enough.

“Oh, not a stalemate! I thought southerners like me were soft!”

A rustle, and then a smack to the side of my skull: one of the brothers had thrown something heavy at my head. I fell to my knees.

I grasped at the wall for support, to see Hassiri jumping at me, victory dancing in his eyes. But he wasn’t looking hard enough.

Seizing the moment, I threw out a leg. It caught him square in the knee. As he fell yowling, his face met my knee heading in the opposite direction. Crunch. He tried to roll away, but before he could move I was up, kneeling on his shoulders with a claw at his throat, slamming his face into the floor with my other hand.

I really am too nice for my own good, but he did say there’s a time and place for everything.

“Had enough, tough cat?”

A moan.

“That sounds like a yes to me.” I unsheathed my claws, but gave him a punch in the face for good form’s sake. This whole show had been totally unnecessary, and I was not particularly happy with any of these three clowns. Or, for that matter, M’Aiq.

I stood up, and turned to Ra’Jiradh. Speaking up a little to drown out the pathetic mewlings from the oldtimer on the floor, I spoke. “I am glad I don’t have to talk you into agreeing with us: I can just say that you now know what M‘Aiq wants from you. I mean, I would of course love to stay and talk, but I am actually lying when I say that, so… you get my idea. With any luck, you can do this properly so I don’t have to kill one of you next time you want to ‘test’ me.”

With that, I turned for the exit. I’d persuaded them to help out - if not in the way I’d expected - and I’d won their stupid honour fight. I mean, it’s not as if this’d stop them dismissing me as a lucky skooma-addled city-cat, anyw-

“May you walk on warm sands, friend.”

I smiled as I walked out the door. Maybe they weren’t so bad after all.

Nicely done... very nicely done. Again, I love your use of khajiti culture.

Wonderful update. I share canis' sentiments.

Yup its moving along nicely. Interesting bunch these Kajits, you capture them well.

Hey, folks. A little late on the update front, I know: this is due to my computer effectively melting, and I’m still trying to put it back together. This is a bad thing.

So, anyway, to keep my hand in, here’s a very brief update. Enjoy.

-------

M’aiq,

I hope this letter finds you well. Actually, that is a lie.

I am not pleased about the little, shall we say, ‘test’ you have had our mutual friends lay out for me. I shall not go into details, but I am proud to report that one of our brothers is suffering from more than a bloody nose. Please accept this as evidence of my competence.

After I send this letter, I shall, on your advice via our brothers, be traveling directly to Bravil. Why you did not suggest I stopped there on the way to the Imperial City is a question I shall leave for when I next see you. I do, of course, know my target there very well, but I am skeptical of how much ‘political clout’ such a one can carry. Do they have history in their entrance exams now?

Nonetheless, I remain your good friend,
J’dar

Ahh! You've returned!

A factual letter to reintroduce us into the story. We're all eagerly expecting the next update, you can be sure of that.

Muaha! Seeing as I've now managed to find a computer in the university library that is not mobbed by twenty or so bawling students, here's the next installment. I have returned indeed.

-------

After firing off the aforementioned note in M’Aiq’s direction (by an unusual coincidence, the riders for the Courier were quite happy to add him to their rounds), I did as I promised: I headed to Bravil.

Bravil, for those who are blissfully unaware, is the cesspit’s cesspit. Lorkhaj was quite clearly slipping when he shoved these hopeless piles of mud together. With the exception of the castle (your leaders always lie on warm sands, even in a marshland), it is a city – a town – made solely of rotting timbers and cheap locks. There are skooma dens, there are side alleys, shadows, scuffles and slip-ups, and naturally I loved it.

Once again, I was in a bar. It seems that I just can’t avoid the places. In particular, the ones where trouble ends up happening, for which I have something of a talent.

I was in what the owner, presumably in a fit of pretentious fancy, had called ‘the Lonely Suitor Lodge’. I did not attempt to understand the name: I had always thought that a suitor was not lonely by, well, by definition, and I was not interested in debating semantics with the big Orc who ran the place. I doubted he could even spell ‘semantics’, let alone debate them.

Well, that was cruel, and probably wrong. Knowing my ability for reading people, he probably went to the University and wrote crime fiction. Besides, I was still angry about the whole incident in the Imperial City: I had, effectively, been sent into a trap, and I was suspicious. Did M’Aiq not know already that I could fight? I had been sorely tempted to demonstrate my abilities first-hand, but I suspected that would end badly. M’Aiq was tougher than he looked. Besides, all the northern sandwalkers were like that. It was all about whom you could trust, out there in the deserts: and, out of those, whom you could rely on when metal met meat.

We’d have a word, was all.

Besides, it wasn’t important. I was here today on the lookout for my next target; M’Aiq, with that paranoia that made him such a wonderful playmate, had refused to pass on the name by paper lest, somehow, some sort of Imperial learnt Ta’agra (there is not one in the world who could). All I knew was the obvious - look in a bar - and the heart-warmingly predictable - Thieves’ Guild.

The statistics do not lie. There are more of us in the Thieves than there are in the rest of Cyrodiil’s noble and less noble institutes put together: ironic, cats led by a fox.

Besides, this wasn’t important either. What actually was important was that, lo and behold, not one Khajiit had strutted their way through these doors all cursed day. I had been here since midday, and the dawn chorus had just started up: any longer and I would start to look like more of an alcoholic than I actually was.

To Oblivion with it. I was not waiting any longer for this nameless thief. I would show up tomorrow, and, if I felt like humouring M’Aiq, the day after that. How he expected me to pull this off without any actual information was, like almost everything he has ever done, entirely beyond me.

With that, I rose, nearly threw a few coins at the barkeep, and wandered off. You see, I mentioned skooma dens, and skooma is what we would call my wool. It is, for lack of a better word, fun. Other races – those who can’t take their skooma – call this ‘addiction’, ‘madness’, ‘self-destruction’: but we are Khajiit, and we know nothing is bad in moderation. Why stop what you enjoy?

But enough of my justifications. It is me talking in ta’hujji again, in ‘meaningful nonsense’: we have so many ideas and concepts that defy translation into your pitiful shadow tongues, that we came up with a word for them.

Of course, I do not deny that the effects of skooma on the mind are much like being kicked in the head by a tiger-like Senche-raht: this I could confirm several hours later (I have left out the details, for the sake of the weaker stomachs in the crowd). I had been trying to find my way back to the Lodge, where I had the politeness to actually purchase a bed, but for some reason I had forgotten where it was. It must have been the bread I ate.

I was just performing a slow and exaggerated mental playback as I walked when I went down like a tonne of bricks. OW. My head was spinning… well, spinning more. I tried to roll away from my attacker, but had no idea where they were, and found myself rolling straight into a wall. Again, OW.

“You… robbing… me now?” I managed to get out, rubbing my temple and trying to focus.

“Well,” my assailant purred, “you looked rich and soft.”

As my vision unblurred, connections started make themselves all of their own accord. Khajiit, thief…

!

“You Guild?”

“Everyone worth knowing is Guild, friend.”

“Need… to speak with your leader.” I was starting to come around – the cold mud in the gutters around here has that effect. I needed to buy some time. “I’ve a- a message from M’Aiq…”

I think I saw her frown. “The Liar? What does he want?”

I moaned. All I got in sympathy was a kick, and a menacing prod from the cosh she carried. At the time, I was extremely proud of the dent my skull had left in that. “I asked you, you pampered kitten, what M’Aiq wants. Please do not be wasting my time.”

I rolled away, massaging the freezing sludge into my temples, as feeling surged back into my joints. Seriously, OW. “He, he, he-”

She raised the cosh. “Tell me now, little southern cat, what your anarchist friend wants!”

“Well, I’ll tell you what I want first,” I said, as I tripped her over and unsheathed my claws at her neck, “I want my knives back. Then we may talk secrets.” She shouldn’t have called me a southerner like that.

Stunning work. If you don't have prior experience in writing, you definitely have raw talent.

I like this

It's always nice to read something that has a really distinctive voice, and your lead character is quite the charmer. Nice use of sly humour throughout the story so far as well.

Enjoying this, please keep it coming

Hey, shall we totally not mention that this update is about three months late? Awesome. You might want to re-read the prior posts to get the feel of it, particularly if you're new.

-------

I have always been a great believer in improvisation.

There was my grandfather, who accidentally walked in on a local laird’s highly dubious private time and blackmailed him for enough land to grow sugar; there was my father, who married a rich city-cat after she caught him with his hands in the jewellery box; and there was me, who never really planned anything.

It was for this reason, and this alone, that I was having this meeting, and around this table.

“It’s been a long time, jungle cat.”

“And you, sandwalker. I believe it has been too long.”

S’krivva - for that was her name - leant back and laughed. “And if it were not for the resistance you built up with me, you would probably still be out cold or screaming about faeries.”

“I still don’t know why the Doyen of the Thieves Guild is wandering the streets like a common thief, though. Are the others resting at His Lordship’s leisure or were you just lost?”

Trust me to walk right into the leader of the local chapter; and trust me to find an old friend.

“I think you of all should remember, J’dar: I do not get lost.”

“Ha! Tell that to the thousand and one nights we slept in the streets!”

“That was not ‘lost’, you silly young cat,” S’krivva drew breath, “that was ‘lazy’.”

“These semantic details aside, good lady,” I said, grinning, “M’aiq does have a message for your own ears.”

S’krivva leant back and laughed. “The Liar! Do you not remember how I loathed him, back when we were young?”

“S’kriv, do remember that it is only you who is no longer-”

“Silence then, kitten. I know what he desires. He has desired the same thing as long as he has been Khajiit. Understand that the… current state of affairs is good for shadow-walkers like us. What possible interest do we have in his mad grand schemings?”

“My guess, my friend, would have something to do with the number of our kin the Duke and his lady are providing with free lodgings.”

The Duchess hated our kind. This would have made her a natural ally of those scaly marsh dwellers, the Argonians, if it were not for the minor detail that she hated them too. The charming lady seemed to have a problem, simply put, with anything not as pale as herself (given that she never ventured into the sun, meeting such was a tall order).

Naturally, this meant the young men and women of the noble city guard were forever finding ‘beasts’ who had committed some crime or another: you claim to be different from us, above us, but you are still pack animals, and you know who is alpha.

“We are thieves, Khajiit. Prison comes with the territory.”

“And do you not care about those who are not thieves?”

This sentence requires explanation. To some degree, ‘Khajiit’ means ‘thief’: sneaking, subtlety, and stealth are in our souls, and to us, that is more ‘thief’ than simply taking another’s things. But to get to my point, when we say that a Khajiit is not a thief, you should imagine us adding ‘just now’.

“I care for my kittens, J’dar, but,” S’krivva leant across the table, “I do not care for yours. Besides you and that mad Nordish cat, who else works their tricks with M’aiq?”

“We are more than you know, old friend, but we are not yet enough.”

“So you avoid my question? Such an obvious feint is insulting.” She smiled.

“I will not throw away our position - and thieves have ears in high places - on a wild gamble. You are here as M’aiq’s emissary, correct?”

I nodded.

“Then you are one of his best.”

“S’krivva, I am the best.”

“Then show me. I have an item that needs procuring. It is… very important. I do not exaggerate when I say that with this the benefactors will become some of the greatest thieves that ever lived.”

“Jungle burning, S’krivva, don’t tell you still want-”

“Yes.” Her eyes glinted, which was always a bad sign. “I do.

“You will find it in a fort. It is south of the city of Cheydenhal, and it is called Naso. If you bring this to me, I will be eternally in your debt.”

“Is eternity enough time for you to repay any debts, S’krivva?” I said. “I remember many things, and one of them is that you still owe me money.”

She pulled a coin out from behind her ear, and tossed it to me. “We are even,” she said, “now go.”

As I turned and made for the door, she spoke again.

“And, J’dar? Walk softly. I have already lost three operatives to that place.”

This is why improvisation has its detractors.

I can totally relate to updating a story months after the last time you wrote something for it. That happens with all my stories. I write and churn updates like a machine-gun for a few days, then go in stasis for months on end. It might be writer's block, but I call it plain laid-back laziness.

Great update though. In a phrase, you might call it:

'Enter the plot-coupon'

Plot-coupons, however, are a staple part of all great stories, and I believe yours can firmly be called as such.

I simply love how J'Dar words his phrases. He has a nice and sardonic way of talking to people. Such characters make stories great or make them suck. In your case, I suspect it doesn't take much guesswork to figure out how J'Dar contributes.

Very good piece here-sardonic, clever and original. J'Dar is definately one of the best fan-fic characters I've seen and this has been a joy to read. I look forward to more.

Excellent stuff, excellent. Everything fits so well together.

Cheers, folks. It's definitely the patter that makes J'dar. The plot coupon took a lot of thought - I changed my mind a couple of times (I edited the last post to switch a few 'thems' to 'its', after I decided not to go with the Boots of the Apostle), but I'm happy with what I've got here. Let's see how J'dar handles situations where insulting people isn't enough.

-------

A race such as mine, drowning as we are in sugar and tied as we are to the dance of the moons, knows all about lunacy.

One of the most important things about madness is that there are two types - not that one would notice, the way your kind treats anyone whose spirit softens. There is stark, raving insanity - the sort that involves painting oneself blue and pretending to be a Xivilai - and there is zi’kantha, which has an odd echo in your phrase ‘so crazy it just might work’.

I had not yet worked out which of these S’krivva had sunk into. Of course, I didn’t really care, because this was something I had to chase anyway. This was so crucial to the Guild that three operatives had died?

Regardless, S’krivva still knew me well: I simply cannot leave loose threads be. It is, in one sense, a curse - I always find myself in the wrong place at the wrong time - and, in other, a blessing - I always end up somewhere interesting.

Fort Naso could indeed be described as ‘interesting’. I had never understood why big blundering men came to the middles of forests to build their little stone huts; it was obvious that the trees were here first.

It wasn’t even as if they were at an advantage in places like this. As I walked through the door, it remained pitch-black, even with the torches lit-

Wait.

Someone had lit the torches.

I threw myself up against a dark patch of wall for cover, and raised my nose to the air. Great. Absolutely wonderful. This would not be the slightest bit difficult. I detected no major problems. No.

In case my readers are not aware, I am here struggling to convey sarcasm in print.

I could smell death. It permeated the stone, the air, the wood… consider how bad death smells to you, and then consider that we could not smell so ineffectually as you if we plugged our nostrils with cork.

My hands went to my belt, and each readied a throwing knife.

We Khajiit have, of course, an advantage in the dark. Without light, Merrunz himself would be at a disadvantage against one sharp jungle cat. It was because of this… confidence that what happened, happened.

I knew that he was not a friendly fellow the moment that I saw him. I may have dubious connections, but not even I am on good terms with old men in black robes with cowls.

Well, maybe I could be, if it wasn’t for the skeletons. Three of them, armed with very sharp-looking swords, blocking my way down the corridor.

“Thieves Guild, I suppose?”

The words, I am ashamed to admit, caught me off balance. I was not used to giving people the chance to say anything. I was most certainly not used to being asked questions.

“I belong to no Guilds, deathmaker,” I growled.

“Oh, nonsense!” The old man actually laughed. “You smell the same as the first three. I’d wager you even have the same master!”

…smell…

“What did you do with them?”

“Need you ask, cat-man?” He gestured in front of him, at the skeletons dividing us. “Don’t you recognise your colleagues?”

Me and S’krivva were going to have serious words about this.

“I’ve got Talos, Kynareth and Akatosh already: I’ve been naming them for the Nine Divines,” the old man giggled, his canines glinting uncomfortably in the dancing firelight. “You look like a Zenithar to me: lucky, but never lucky enough.”

…teeth…

“You do not know the half of it, you demented old fool,” I said coolly, adjusting my balance. “You see, the thing about luck is-”

I had no intention of finishing my sentence. A steel knife had already left my right hand, sailing straight through the skull of one of my bony foes. I didn’t know which god he was, and frankly I didn’t care. Truth be told, I was more worried about the two other skeletons.

“The perennial weakness of a man who relies on range is that his friends always get in the way.”

A shining piece of M’aiq’s wisdom. I relied on it very much as I drew two more knives, backing up slowly to keep the caster obscured. A pair of silver swords gleamed worryingly in the firelight.

“Finish him, you useless husks!” The man roared. “I am thirsty, and I wish for a drink!”

…thirst…

A sword swung. I dropped to the floor, under its swipe, and rolled backwards, rising again onto my feet. I threw a knife.

It severed one of the skeletons’ hands right at the wrist. It dropped the sword, smiling emptily, as I sent another through its head. My hands went to my belt-

And I had to duck again. As I tried to get up, a rough backswing slapped me in the jaw with the flat of the blade. I staggered, and hit the wall. I had nowhere to go. If the skeleton actually had facial muscles, I suspect it would have been smiling properly. It swung the sword again, bearing straight down on my skull.

Then the claws came out.

The thing about our claws is that they are controlled by instinct, not by choice. Normally, this is good enough for us: many of us can trick ourselves at will, bringing them under a vestige of control; those who cannot, carry swords.

I was no good at the former and too proud for the latter. Switching them with steel had not improved the matter.

I caught the blade under the claws on my right. This looks impressive, I assure you.

With all my strength, I pushed the blade sideways, away from me; it sent the last skeleton spinning in a circle, and, as it turned away from me, I grabbed its neck and pulled.

There was something of a crunching sound. The skeleton, instantly beheaded, collapsed, sending its sword skidding towards the old man. I looked up and grinned.

It did not have the effect I expected. Spellcasters usually enter paroxysms of terror when their friends are removed. Given that they are men in skirts, this is not wholly surprising.

But this one was different. This one looked at me, straight in the eye, and grinned right back.

“In that case, furball, I will eat raw.”

He tore off his cowl with the sort of force better seen on a Dremora. That face… it would be fair to say that the cowl did wonders for it. That face was scarred and sunken and soulless, and all of a sudden I realised where most of the deathsmell was coming from.

The vampire.

He leapt at me, the image of a hunting cat. I slipped to the side, and advanced with my claws, but even before he landed he had prepared a fire spell, which he sent flying in my direction with an unholy scream.

If we take as a given that my entire body is covered with fur, you will understand why I do not like fire spells. I ducked again, and lunged at the vampire. I caught him right in the face with four points of steel, and yet I didn’t cut him.

If I needed any more confirmation that this was a man with supernaturally enhanced abilities that came with the price of sharp teeth and bloodthirst, that was it.

He laughed. “Steel claws? Very cute, catman,” he said, with a sneer. “Could you perchance try something stronger - for example, a few rude words?”

Oh, jungle burning.

“I know what it is you seek!” He laughed again. “But it is beyond you. Only one of your kind ever truly mastered it, and even he was so foolish that he lost it!”

He lifted a necklace from out of his robes. A simple gold chain ran through the item S’krivva’s zi’kantha desired: a ring.

“I am not done studying this quaint little token,” he said, advancing on me. His look hardened. “It has many secrets left to yield, and I shall not be disturbed by petty thieves. It is not your fault you were sent here, but you did destroy a third of the Imperial Pantheon. That merits the death penalty, don’t you think?” As he asked, a maddened look entered his eyes, and he punched me in the face.

He really did have the strength of a Dremora. He sent me spinning across the room, skimming and rolling to a stop alongside the fallen silver of my dead predecessors.

…silver…

Talk about deus ex machina.

I grabbed a sword, silently thanked whichever god I hadn’t just metaphorically killed that had intervened, and took a stance. All of a sudden, I wasn’t woefully under equipped.

It only took one swing.

I aimed it straight at the jugular, as fast as I could. He stepped back, but I released the blade from my fingers as it swung, and that extra length brought it across his neck. As he fell to his knees, clutching his throat, the necklace, severed, fell to the floor and the ring ran free.

Finally, S’krivva’s childhood dreams would be realised.

I slipped it on my finger and turned invisible, as the mad vampire struggled for breath.

“The thing about luck,” said the air, “is to take your chances.”

Great follow-up with the battle against this vampire necromancer!

I especially liked the vampire's quiet confidence but it was pretty stupid of him to arm his minions with silver-coated weapons. Oh well, the kind of luck only a leading character can have.

Yeah, I was kinda obliged to give him that way out. I was considering getting J'dar to pontificate for a bit about the raw idiocy of leaving your one weakness lying around in sharp, weaponised forms, but it would've totally ruined the last line, and if there's one thing I like doing, it's pithy one-liners.

But when J'dar slips on the ring, does he turn invisible? At first I didn't understand who was speaking. I thought it was a parody on the narrators seen in some works of fiction and movies who seem to speak out of thin air at first, but then I started thinking about the Ring of Power from LOTR.

Hm, is J'dar now the Ring-Bearer?

All I can say on that front is that, although J'dar does have hairy feet, he is taller than four foot five.

I might edit that last section to make it more clear, come to think of it. But it'll have to be tomorrow.

Damn good as always Marcel. I especially liked "It did not have the effect I expected. Spellcasters usually enter paroxysms of terror when their friends are removed. Given that they are men in skirts, this is not wholly surprising."
Good show old boy, good show!

Very nice work. I love it.

I just got around to reading this, and I must say it is VERY good. What I like most about this story is the cultural atmosphere and attitude you've been able to establish. There are all kinds of little turns of phrases that contribute to this.

My favorite quote so far is "The Golden Galleon is a story, it is a lie, it is a legend, it is an urban myth; it is, indeed, many words and phrases which imply falsehood..."

I like that one too, Platypus, which is why I shoved it in my sig, but I'm starting to think I prefer "I would of course love to stay and talk, but I am actually lying when I say that, so… you get my idea."

I'm starting to worry I'm pushing this Khajiit 'tone' of voice a little too far in this piece, but I still like it: I invite critical comments.

-------

“The Ring of Khajiit,” S’krivva sighed, from somewhere in the room. “This is… interesting.”

“Do you know what has interested me of late, S’kriv?” I asked. “In order of importance: The Real Barenziah, the question of whether magic or a pick is most suitable for a rotting door-”

“Use a magic pick.”

“-and fighting the last three souls you sent after this toy, minus their flesh, plus a vampiric deathmaker.”

She took off the ring, and put it down on the table between us. “Their ends are not news, J’dar,” she said, “as you well know.” She began pacing up and down the room like a caged wolf. “It does not make for a story for kittens, it is true, but the value! This artefact will make kings into paupers and gods into men.”

“Both of those events, S’kriv, are nothing new.”

She grinned. “I suspected we would come to history soon enough.”

“History is a very interesting study, sandwalker,” I said, picking up the ring and watching her eyes follow, “most of all, that of debts owed.”

-------

It was a reasonably short ride to Leyawiin. I say ‘short’. In this day and age, one’s best method for timekeeping was to count the highwaymen. The sun might melt, and Masser and Secunda could return to the void, but bandits would still appear on the Emperor’s roads more reliably than clockwork.

Of course, at that point there was no Emperor.

In honesty, not a soul seemed to have noticed. A man in a skirt may have summoned a dragon god in the skies of the Imperial City, and a mer in a dress may have attempted to hold the Empire together, and it may have become the fashion for Daedric influences to show up wherever their inexplicable desires, well, desired, but I have always suspected that the only way to get a point across to a man of Leyawiin would be to ram a wooden one in his face.

It was for this reason that a Leyawiin separatist group could meet in a bar.

“I don’t trust that mad Thieves’ Guild girl,” Si’valit (do you remember? She had an axe!) noted, as politely as a Nordish cat could. “You know what she thinks of our struggle.”

“Si’,” M’aiq said, with the beginnings of a smile on his face, “if you are willing to ‘struggle’, as you put it, for Khajiit, you should also be willing to talk like Khajiit.”

“Can she help it?” I asked, playing along. “Is it her fault she spent twelve months on the snow-covered edge of the world speaking that dull tongue?

“Oh wait,” I shrugged, “yes, yes it is.”

Si’ glared at me. Frankly, I was not surprised. Still, it had the effect that M’aiq intended: we lapsed back into Ta’agra, which is the best tongue for telling secrets.

M’aiq downed his flin and spoke. “As we were saying: the fact that those abominations in your hands stopped a blade, J’dar, does not make them a wise investment.”

I grinned. “At the rate the Empire’s economy is sinking, I shall be able to sell them back at a profit.”

“Less of that, jungle cat. It is an important point; you can barely control the things. Between that and your hopelessly short knives, how do you intend to survive a real battle?”

I leant back on my chair. “M’aiq, let me tell you a story about my grandfather-”

“Do you know what saved you, J’dar?” Si’ suddenly hissed from beside us. “It was not your temperamental metal hands, and it was not your assassin’s knives, and it most certainly,” she snorted, “was not your useless magic. It was a sword, J’dar.”

I narrowed my eyes. “What are you implying?”

She leant across the table, fire in hers. “I am implying that it is time you gave up this mad nonsense and carried a real weapon.” She unhefted her axe. “Do you see this, J’dar? This is a real weapon. The Nords are not as stupid as they look.” She held it out to me. “Try lifting that.”

It must have weighed as much as myself. Straining to lift it to a combat stance, it slipped out of my hands, the handle smacking my foot. OW. As I sat down, nursing my foot and cursing under my breath, Si’valit picked it up and continued.

“You are weak, skooma fiend,” she said, as the patrons turned to watch the stupid kitties playing with the axe, “and that will kill you. Claws may have kept you alive in the Senchal alleys, but here, you need a sword.”

I stood up.

“That is interesting,” I forced a smile, “given that I never needed one to beat you.”

We looked at each other.

It is generally considered bad etiquette for a male and a female to come to blows. It harkens back, once again, to the deserts: it is not so much that females are weaker - they are so by birth, but not by destiny - as it is a simple fact that fights that remove members of both genders from a breeding population is tantamount to tribal suicide.

This gave M’aiq time to intervene.

Before we had time to think, he was on his feet, a hand on both our shoulders. He muttered a word, and I instantly lost all feeling in my body.

“They call this spell ‘paralysis’,” said M’aiq, as we toppled, “but I prefer ‘peacemaker’”.

It was a short effect. Consider the amount of effort one invests in tying someone up, or cutting all their tendons, and realise that even a nine-tenths saving of energy still asks very much of a caster.

Si’ said not a word as she got to her feet, unsteadily. Neither did I.

“In the name of all that is sweet and holy!” M’aiq roared. He seemed to grow in size, as if his robes were filling out from the inside. “Here, now, after everything we have seen, you choose to scuffle like moonless kittens? You are many years more than a month old, children, and the moons have chosen your forms. There is no excuse for this. None!

“Si’valit, you are dismissed. Leave this room, and do not return tonight.”

With a last piercing stare at me, the Nordish Khajiit turned on her heel and slunk away. It stung.

“As for you, mad city cat,” M’aiq gestured to the chair. “Sit.”

I sat. There are times to resist orders, and this was not one of them.

“She does it for your sake, you know,” he said, softly. He caught me by surprise: I had expected him to turn me inside out with words alone.

“She knows you, J’dar; better than I, at any rate. I, for one, totally fail to understand your… decisions, at times.

“She cares for you, young one, and she fears for your safety.”

“M’aiq, if you had not so adroitly stopped us from moving, I suspect she would have given herself more things to be afraid of.”

He waved a hand. “Enough of this. We shall speak again tomorrow, of your next assignment. I do not approve of your style, but you finish what you start. Go.”

I rose, and headed for the door. “More skooma, city cat?”

“Yes,” I said, with a grin, “I always finish what I start.” As I turned to the door again, I heard him speak again.

“Tell me, J’dar: what did your old friend ask you to find?”

I laughed, loud and harsh. I reached into my pocket, and I brought out a simple trinket. It was a ring. “This, my friend. I thought that, if it must cost three lives, it should go with one who saves them.”

M’aiq smiled. He twisted a finger, and the ring shot across the room into his outstretched hand.

“In that case, I should hold onto it for now.”

Hey folks. Yes, I know, three months late, et cetera, your father and I just don't know what to do with you, et cetera. I've been tied up with my professional projects and my move to Aberdeen, which is a lovely city (sorry, did I say 'lovely'? I meant 'not lovely'). Still, most of that's out of the way now, so I've managed to cobble something together. Enjoy!

-------

Skooma has numerous side effects. There are the well-known ones, such as turning your mind to mash, eliminating your motor skills, driving you mad, consuming your soul, and being as addictive as air, but there are others. The most important one is what it does to your dreams.

I tossed and turned under the thin sheets. It had been a good night, in that sense, but Si’valit had the ability to put a dampener on anything. That was the sort of cat she was. She had been since I met her, all those years ago.

It was to there that my thoughts wandered - no, were forced - as I simultaneously froze and melted in the numbing heat.

---

We burned the Plague Quarter back in the Second Era. Before it earned that title, it had been the pride of Senchal; a cat from here could buy your entire Empire with a few petty trinkets.

The stories are divided on the wisdom of our action. If you ask the sailors, our fires angered the gods. If you ask the locals, then the gods started it, not us.

But we tore the heart out of it, like Lorkhaj. It has been two Eras since our ancestors writhed with a malady beyond the influence of the Mane himself, and yet those charred husks still tower above the city like rotting giants. And where there are carcasses, there are vultures.

That was what they called us.

No dungeon, bank or manor has ever been as thoroughly picked over as the remnants of the Plague Quarter. Two Eras of hosting the desperate dregs of a port city had done nothing for the décor.

Imagine, if you will, that you have a talent for flight. Perhaps you are a true scavenger bird. So, as you swing down over the city searching for prey, one particular feature would grab your attention.

People never stopped dying in the Plague Quarter. We were poor, we were hungry, and we were mad; any one of these is considered a challenge, but all three in concert moves into far more serious territory. So you, our scavenger, are naturally interested by the body propped up against a crumbling fountain, lying as still as the rainwater filling the basin to the brim.

This, I believe, is your cue to circle slowly.

Such a laborious approach (why must you take so long?) gives you considerable time to assess the state of play in this city. To the south, you can still see the port; to the east, you see the new Noble Quarter: built on the open plan we so love, with green and verdant squares inside each and every home. The west, the sea; the north, us.

I can only assume that you are some kind of cultural boor, because you are circling ever lower.

They built this place out of granite. They quarried that grey sparkling stone out of the cliffs a hundred miles to the north, just because they could. How that exuberance is mocked by the black charcoal stains on every wall! As you drop, the soot should form shapes; pointed peaks mirror the fires that pointed straight up, presumably to get the gods’ attention.

Not that it helped, of course.

Bodies were nothing new in the Plague Quarter. Your avian self survives on them, when you are not taking our livestock from the fields; truth told, more concern is raised over the latter than the former.

It is for this reason, as you settle beside the still body and crane over its chest, that you find yourself extremely surprised by the hand that has shot out around your neck.

I snapped your spine in half neatly, stretched awkwardly (have you ever lain still against stone for five hours? I think not), and proceeded to eat for the first time in three days. I do apologise, but needs must.

Have you ever starved? I do not mean in the sense of ‘I think it’s time for dinner’, or ‘I’m so hungry I could eat a horse’. I mean in the sense of a rumbling pain that consumes you, constricts you, mocks you - like your soul is fighting to get out of a breathing tomb. A desperate need - there is a reason that such needs can be called ‘hungers’ - to feed, to survive; to sacrifice everything that you have ever been for an all-important now, chasing sustenance more than any sugar in the world.

It was at that point, just as I was about to assuage the animal roaring of my stomach, that an arrow neatly parted the hair on my head.

Interesting flashback. I look forward to seeing where you take it.

One of my "start of autumn" resolutions was to read more of the work being done here at Chorrol.

And it was my great good fortune that this story was one of the first....

You asked for critical input; you mentioned that you feared you were coming on too strong with J'Dar's voice.... My considered opinion:

Don't change anything! And now go back and write some more! Please?

I have to say that I just decided to give this story a read-through today, and I've enjoyed it very much so far. I think your main character is quite compelling, and the choice to make M'Aiq feature so strongly is unique and refreshing. I hope to see more of this story in the future.

Yeah I think most of the writers here understand the how difficult it is to update consistently. Gotta say I often write short stories myself because I end up starting something I believe I'll have time to finish but things get hectic and I just lose the inspiration I had. Thats the only real downside about waiting months between writing, there's always a chance you'll simply not want to continue a story.

Eh enough rambling, continue please...I was just saying that I hope you update more frequently so you don't decide not to finish it.

Hey folks, thanks for all the feedback. I've been a little bogged down with university (my fee-paying body still hasn't bothered to, well, pay me the money they owe me, and it's been two months), but I can say that another installment is in the pipeline. It might even be done today, but please continue to breathe in and out.

I am not particularly good at judging people. However, despite the considerable time it took for my thoughts to slowly grind together like a rusted Dwemer contraption, I became aware extremely quickly that the individual shooting at me could conceivably wish me harm.

Weapons were rare here. The Senchal police, such as they were, technically did patrol this area; however, their primary method of engaging with the local community involved little more than beating it with the flats of swords and confiscating anything ‘thief-ish’ from its person. On their priority list, unsurprisingly, weapons came an unquestionable first. What this meant, in the deductive sense, was that this was not a local. What this meant, in the more pressing sense of not dying young, was that I was unarmed.

In theory.

A set of claws, propelled by ancestral memories, flipped out like the arm of a catapult. My father - a pretentious know-it-all if there ever was one - insisted that our claws were made of the same ‘essence’ as our fur, but given that I have never seen a man impaled on hair, I have since discarded this theory in favour of what they actually are: bone.

With their tips scraping across the stone ground, I dived to my left as another arrow swept past me, carrying a gust of wind with it. This one was good.

I rolled as I landed, and I scooped up a good-sized splinter of rubble in my hand. I flipped slightly clockwise as I did so, the momentum of my body flinging the stone at my attacker far better than a mere throw. It whistled towards her, and I swear that the term was literal.

She caught it right out of the air with her right hand, slammed it downwards into the fountain that now separated us, and notched another arrow.

---

Hunger, as has already been explained, does odd things to the psyche. It is, in its most primal form, our natural state of existence, the cornerstone of our mad struggle for survival; with this in mind, it is unsurprising that it reduces you to the level of an animal.

---

So I charged her down.

Launching myself at a full run towards the fountain, I raised a hand and muttered a word; as I leapt onto the surface of the water, I stayed above the surface, my feet staying dry as I made the final lunge-

At which point, her arrow caught me in the left shoulder. If it weren’t for my near loss of balance, I would not have noticed, but as it was the shock prevented my claws from getting a good grip on her throat as I drove her to the ground.

So I settled for pinning her against the stone flags, claws at the ready, with the heavy breathing that comes from a torso wound.

Si’valit (although at this point, we had not been formally introduced) simply looked me in the eye and said, “you’ll do.”