FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

Some of you have probably seen that guy with the handle of "lyonlover" or the furry name of Kiwa. Goes around in bodypaint and a lion prosthetic mask, dressed like a Spartan, and unusually buff, as furries usually go. He posted a journal on FA a while back, lamenting the lack of Khajiit love thereabouts, and in agreement, as well as to provide him something of a going-away gift, I cooked up this little number.

You see, he's headed off to Africa, to pursue a PhD in wildlife management, and in the process, work with real lions--a long-held dream of his. I approve of this message.

Anyway, this story features many elements of Skyrim continuity, some of which those of you unfamiliar with the Elder Scrolls mythos will undoubtedly miss. I've done my best to ensure that the important references are spelled out, though, so that the work itself can remain accessible to most anybody. The Khajiit, as you'll soon see, are fond of speaking of themselves in the third person. In the game, they use "Khajiit" as a self-referential noun (e.g. "Khajiit greets you, traveler"), but I decided to adapt it as a second-person noun of address for use when speaking to other members of the same race ("this one thanks Khajiit for the excellent meal"), to lend more flavor to this peculiar dialect.

Enough of my blathering. Enjoy!

---

His name was Rakkan. A self-styled one, which, back in Elsewyr, would have qualified him as nobility. Or at least whatever might pass for one, in that desert realm of warm sands and parched lands.

He had adopted it after a close call--he'd nearly been executed, on charges exaggerated at best (though he preferred to think of them as downright fraudulent, and would tell people this instead), and decided that a change of name might be the best way to go about preventing a repeat attempt. He was, after all, one of only a few of his kind.

And how could this be surprising? This was Skyrim, a land of ice and snow, cold wind, and hard rocks. Everything but the deer and the rabbits wanted to eat you--even the foxes, though they knew better. And...maybe the Spriggans. Rakkan wasn't sure exactly what they did to subsist. Perhaps they simply drew strength from the earth, like trees. He wasn't about to try to find out, however.

A bitter cold wind was blowing. Tales abounded in the land of a mysterious Khajiit like himself, who could make the very sky yield, turning winter harshness into a calm spring day, simply by shouting at it. He wished he knew of such secrets. It sounded like a yarn, spun by a lorespinner, to little kittens around the hearth. Such a person would be hard to miss.

The rumors also said the person was known as "the Dragonborn." This baffled him. Though he had seen dragons sailing over the countryside, if there was one thing Rakkan knew how to do, it was how to make Rakkan hard to be found. But one thing Rakkan did not know, was how a dragon would conceive of giving birth to a Khajiit. Dragons were far too harsh and scaly, and belched fire and frost, like some kind of baffling trap in the ruins of the Dwarves. No, Khajiit, who spoke words mingled with honey and had pelts so soft, could never come from such creatures. Perhaps the Nords were enjoying the mead a bit too much. Or maybe those bards from Solitude were inventing histories again.

He was thankful, however, that the Nords also knew a thing or two about surviving the cold. Khajiit were designed to be good at surviving and losing heat, but not so much at retaining it; for this, an extra layer of fur would do wonders. And did--Rakkan paid the tanner in fresh hides for the mantle he wore, fur-side-in. It also helped conceal his scaled armor underneath, which would prevent would-be bandits from necessarily seeing him as an easy target. Though Rakkan was far from incapable with his blades and bow, bloodshed was an unfortunate thing, and wounds, of course, hurt.

Though Rakkan's mind was wandering somewhat, his eyes were ever alert. In weather like this, many animals might want to curl up and hibernate, but he knew that the sabre cats of this realm were like ghosts--silent and nearly impossible to see, until they were upon you, claws and fangs tearing what they saw as dinner with legs. Frost trolls and snow bears were also dangerous, but somewhat less so, as both were noisy. Ice wraiths, too, were a threat, but thankfully a rare one. And Wispmothers were something Rakkan had only heard of in books...and Rakkan hoped it would stay that way. They sounded fearsome.

A torch crested the hill above him, its light at once dancing in and veiled by the flurries of loose snow carried in the wind. Soon its bearer, a soldier clearly garbed in the Imperial uniform armor, was also to be seen. Rakkan was too much in plain sight to hide completely, so he drew his hood closer around his face and his mantle up near his chin, looking for all the world like a Khajiit simply trying to keep warm--Khajiit could be any Khajiit, as Khajiit might say, in the peculiar phraseology of the Khajiit. (Or at least, so everyone else told Rakkan. Rakkan thought it was quite proper.)

He did not meet the eyes of the Imperials who came by, but they were escorting a man heavily covered in cloaks, on horseback, and who, Rakkan noted with his keen eyes, was also sheltering a child upon his lap, in the cloaks.

"Hands to yourself, cat," said the lead soldier, invoking the popular notion of Khajiit as the sneakiest of thieves, and little more of worth. Rakkan said nothing, and continued walking as though nothing had been said to Rakkan.

"Da, who is that?" said a young voice. A little she-kitten, one of the daughters of men--not a mer, not an elf of some kind--but of what race thereof, he could not say. Rakkan was not sure if it was something that could be determined by voice alone, though he could just tell that neither of them were of the dark-skinned Redguard race.

"A Khajiit," the man said, matter-of-factly. A hint of contempt laced his tone.

"He looks nice," said the little girl.

"He is a stranger," the man under the cloak said, drawing the cloak tighter around the two of them. "You know what strangers mean."

Though Rakkan felt a bit stung by such words, there was harsh truth to them: the times in Skyrim were nothing like the tropical paradise of Elsewyr, and even during the Oblivion Crisis, they had been much less touched by war, there--Azurah's blessing was of course upon her favored race--and what he would give to be there again.

If Rakkan had much to give, that is. Like most in Skyrim, what he had was scratched out from the very ice, and he was not about to surrender it to another--despite the bandits being more plentiful than the rabbits, it seemed. The roads were dangerous, on account of the people; the hills and glens were a different hazard, bearing predators. Even in villages, there would be no telling if an agent of the Thieves' Guild or the Dark Brotherhood might bring ruin to the life of an unwitting soul--even if that soul was as lucky and clever as a Khajiit. Then again, it was said that even the Thieves' Guild had fallen on hard times, and the Dark Brotherhood commanded high fees for their work, making assassination primarily an implement of the wealthy.

Rakkan trekked on for some time, following the worn road through the Reach. This part of Skyrim had its own special flavor of danger, known as the Forsworn. He'd slain a number of them himself--grunts, from the looks of it. The ferocity of them would rival that of a sabre cat, but they were foolhardy. They could not dodge Rakkan's arrows well enough to stand a chance. Their weapons, too, were crude and peculiar, but Rakkan salvaged some nice pelts from their tribal-looking armor.

Rakkan was mystified by the Forsworn. From what he had garnered--mostly from Nords who were drunk, meaning that the source could not be guaranteed accurate--the Forsworn were madmen (clearly) who felt that Skyrim belonged to a race other than the Nords, and were determined to take it back at all costs. The Stormcloaks, would-be foils to the Imperial Legion, were Nords who insisted that Skyrim was for the Nords, and the Nords alone, meaning that of course they hated the Forsworn for beating them to the punch. The Imperial Legion, made mostly of...Imperials, naturally also ran into much trouble, but considered them rabble before their well-disciplined troops. And their high-elf "allies," the Aldmeri Dominion, being neither Nords nor even men, were even less pleased--or welcome.

But what Rakkan could not understand was what the Forsworn thought they were doing. Even with the assistance of the vile-but-powerful Hagravens, the Forsworn lacked any kind of unified training, and while they were very good at surviving and living off the land, they forsook any kind of advantage they might gain by stealth in that they were very given to screaming the attack, as they closed in on enemies. Terrifying to some, but against disciplined fighters, counterproductive. And Rakkan considered himself rather well-disciplined--self-taught, of course.

When he rounded a bend and heard the telltale whip-cracks of magic displacing air, he followed his instincts and immediately ducked for cover. He first established that none of it was coming at him, and then began to sneak toward it, silently drawing his bow. Mages rarely knew how to dodge arrows, either, and while they were light on their feet, most were far from nimble. Only the ones with good mage-armor and wards proved difficult targets--and even then, a well-placed shot from the shadows frequently foiled even such defenses. A mage who dies before he knows he's under attack has no chance to keep arrows at bay.

Rakkan discovered, to his surprise, a powerfully-built Forsworn--evidently a mage of some persuasion, too--casting ice spikes at a target darting in and out of the trees. "The Forsworn shall prevail!" crowed the man. Rakkan noted a strange thing on the man's chest--it looked like a spiky ball of something had been buried in his chest, right near his heart. Had the creature he was attacking done this?

As he watched the battle, he remembered another rumor about the Forsworn--whispers that some were made subjects of a strange ritual by the Hagravens, granting them immense power, at the cost of all identity and humanity. They became defenders of nature, pawns of the Hags, and despite knowing still how to speak and fight, they would not remember their prior lives.

An ice spike struck true, and the yelp-hiss that followed caught his ears: a Khajiit was the victim! Where before this battle might have been one he would merely watch to see what would happen, he no longer could stand by. He had to do something.

"Feel the wrath of nature, despoiler!" said the Forsworn, closing in. He drew a cruel-looking dagger, undoubtedly intending to finish off his mark. But the Khajiit was buried in a thicket of bushes and trees, and would be hard to find. This man's senses would be clouded by his own movements, which were far from graceful or deft. There would be no good shot for Rakkan, either--he would have to move in for his own kill.

He watched the Forsworn closely, using a pounce and a forward roll to close around behind him. Azurah favored him, and the snow was powdery, dispersing with the wind instead of crunching under his weight.

"I'll get you yet, intruder!" said the Forsworn, beginning to hack his way through the bushes. A dagger would not get him far very quickly, but it was clear from the flying of his clippings that he was immensely strong.

Rakkan drew his own dagger--a thing of elven make, and one of his greatest possessions. It was sleek and deadly, yet beautiful, and made of precious moonstone. Many nights he had whispered blessings to it at twilight, thanking Azurah during her hour for his luck in finding it. Today, he would hope that his wishes would serve him well, as he would have a difficult time overpowering this juggernaut in a direct fight.

As Rakkan drew near, the smell that greeted his nostrils nearly made him snort in surprised disgust--the smell of this man was not the musky, acrid mixture that accompanied savages and bandits, but rather, the scent of a forest, mixed with the slight pungence of the rotting dead. Rakkan was glad that he did not betray his position by reacting so overtly, but it made him wonder--just what was this man?

As Rakkan took a step to close and backstab the Forsworn, a crust of snow under his feet snapped, making a cracking noise quite unlike that of shattering brushwood. "Aha!" said the Forsworn, turning in a whirl, no doubt expecting his quarry to be attempting to sneak around him.

Reflexes carried Rakkan's blade forward, much as it would have in a conventional stab--but the turn of his target and the motion of his arm was such that he instead caught the edge of the strange thing in the man's chest, gouging it out with their colliding momentums. Instantly, the Forsworn fell over, limply, as though the very life had gone out of him in a flash.

Rakkan found himself staring at his dagger, which had much less blood on it than one would suspect of such a fatal blow. Truly Azurah had granted him great fortune in striking down such a foe without so much as a scratch upon himself, and Rakkan had never enchanted the blade, but the power of it was beyond what he had expected.

"Briarhearts..." he heard, in a strained and quiet voice from within the bushes, accented distinctly in an Elsewyr timbre. "That is what binds them to a body..."

Rakkan's gaze immediately flew to the bushes, trying to make out the Khajiit within. "This one greets you, Khajiit. May there be peace between us?"

"While this one yet breathes..." The owner of the voice coughed. It was a messy-sounding hack, probably involving the blood that Rakkan could smell upon the air. "Peace is all J'nylo can offer Khajiit..."

A bachelor, then, from the J preceding the name. Rakkan would use one himself, if he did not wish to sound more important than that! "Ah, but this one can offer aid," Rakkan said, sheathing his dagger and calling to mind one of the few spells he knew how to use--a Restoration spell, called Healing Hands. It had saved his life on more than one occasion, despite being a spell he could not use to heal himself; a bit of goodwill, expressed as uncommon magic, would go a long way to mend accidental slipups (even if they were in the wake of slightly less-well-intended deeds gone awry!). The paltry attention Rakkan paid it caused the signature mage-glow of the spell to bathe his hands, and would indicate to the Khajiit in the bush that he meant to help--as well as help illuminate the dark thicket a bit more clearly. With his other hand, Rakkan rummaged in his pouch for a potion of Magicka, knowing that he would need a bit of help if he were going to mend a wound that sounded this severe.

"Does Khajiit serve as a priest...?" Another hacking cough.

"No, Rakkan is no such thing," Rakkan replied, realizing he had not given his name. "But that does not mean that he must not help when Khajiit needs help." By now he had located J'nylo, and was fighting with the tangled underbrush to reach him.

"Ah...this one hoped Khajiit would serve Arkay, to be--" another cough, and a spitting sound--a red splatter showed up in the dim gleam of magic. "to bestow on J'nylo his blessing before death."

The Divine of birth and death was held in high importance in nearly all realms of Mundus, for his rituals could prevent the treated dead from being used in dark or necromantic rituals, many of which would make unliving thralls out of their bodies--and possibly spirits. "There will be no need for his blessing today," said Rakkan, finally drawing close enough to begin applying the magic to J'nylo. "Khajiit will be well again."

"Ah! Ah..." the wounded Khajiit initially tensed up, with the bright light and sound that accompanied the spell, as well as the feelings Rakkan knew it would produce. A surge of energy made the body feel almost unnervingly alive, even if grievous wounds were present, and it made one's heart beat strong enough to hear every pulse loudly, while the magic lingered. "J'nylo has not felt this magic before..."

Rakkan could feel the strange energy of Magicka draining rapidly from his body as he applied the spell, and he began uncorking the potion that would restore it; while he would not harm the wounded Khajiit by failing to heal him completely, he needed to at least get enough restoration in place to stabilize him, before cold and blood loss would end the other Khajiit's life. "It is good magic, but it uses much Magicka. This one must add more so as to keep using it." He finally uncorked the sturdy flask, and began to slowly drain it, knowing that to quaff it all at once often gave him pounding headaches and tingling extremities.

J'nylo merely lay still, eyes opened wider than casual, as he watched Rakkan amidst the swirling light of healing. Rakkan knew that it would take ever more willpower to force the deeper reserves of Magicka he possessed into the spell, but he saw no other option, and focused with grim determination. Then he noticed the ice spike tucked behind J'nylo, gleaming with magic within, and coated in the Khajiit's blood. While the wound might have been less severe if the other Khajiit had left it in place until help could be found, the glowing projectile, if still stuck in him and uncovered, would have betrayed his position in the thicket immediately--apparently J'nylo hadn't entirely given up hope, by then. Perhaps a death of mutual annihilation had been his plan. How cunning! But of course, such would be expected of a Khajiit. So, too, was his luck in having another Khajiit just happen to be around to help him actually survive the encounter after all.

Eventually the light sputtered and faded, no matter how hard Rakkan willed it to continue, and he knew it would be some time before enough Magicka returned to his body to provide much more aid. "This one is sorry," he said, putting the empty flask back into his pack, "but there is not enough Magicka on hand to do more just now. Rakkan will help Khajiit to safety. A tavern is not far from here." He removed some spare rags from his pack, salvaged from a would-be bandit, and used them to patch the wound, which now slowly oozed instead of actively weeping blood onto the snow.

"This one still suffers," said J'nylo, "but is feeling better than before. Perhaps Khajiit is right about J'nylo's chances, after all."

"Rakkan may not be the strongest in magic," he replied, puffing up a bit with pride, "but Rakkan is well-traveled and has faced much. This one can still provide aid of a physical type." He reached down to help the wounded Khajiit up and out of the thicket.

They traveled along the road for some time, with Rakkan wishing prayers to Azurah throughout for fortune. But progress was slow, for it was in twisting his ankle that J'nylo had become clumsy enough to be hit with the deadly frozen projectile that had wounded him. The exertion of supporting J'nylo, too, was preventing Rakkan's Magicka from recovering as it would under more favorable circumstances, though he was fortunate to not have a throbbing headache to go with it, as might often happen at other times.

Suddenly, Rakkan felt a gloved hand clamp around his muzzle. Instantly he traced it to J'nylo, who had panic in his eyes, gazing up the hill adjacent to the road. The wounded male removed his hand slowly, using it to point where he stared.

Rakkan squinted, and then barely made out the outlines of a pair of snow bears, fast asleep in front of a natural hollow in the rock. The fat predators were likely doing their best to stay out of the bitter cold, knowing that they would likely waste more energy chasing prey in this weather than they would in consuming what they might find. Rakkan knew firsthand, after all, that wind like this scattered the scent of prey and made it hard to see or hear, granting the advantage to those being hunted, rather than to the hunters.

Rakkan knew it was only a matter of time before they smelled J'nylo's blood on the wind, dispersed though it might be, and at this range, there was little hope of going undetected for long after they were roused. He drew his companion to a tree and set him down on the far side of it, knowing that it was easier to move silently and stealthily when unburdened. The Khajiit then drew his bow and a few flasks, readying potent poisons that he saved for critical moments such as this one. He found a good position from which to survey the cave, and prepared several arrows, laying them in the snow next to himself for quick use in succession.

The Khajiit nocked the arrow with the very strongest poison prepared, knowing that the first shot would have to kill, or at least maim, the first bear, as his accuracy would suffer once the second bear rose uninjured and sought the unknown hunter. He drew a bead carefully, knowing that much rode on this shot, and silently whispered a prayer to Azurah for guidance to his arrow.

Azurah's favor was evidently with Rakkan, for his shot went straight to the back of the neck of the snow bear--a blow that would cripple it and eventually cause it to die, whether from the poison, or difficulty moving and breathing. It was one of the luckiest shots a hunter could hope for, and from where he was situated, with the bear's back to him, was perhaps the best he could have conceivably done.

But the bear's death throes and grunts of agony woke its denmate, and Rakkan was already nocking the next arrow. He shot it, hoping the bear would hold position, but the bear moved, and in his haste Rakkan did not compensate so well. It stuck in the bear's flank, where it might prevent the bear from being as fast as normal, but would never take it down.

Rakkan watched in horror as the bear began coming down the hill--whether by fortune or misfortune, almost straight towards J'nylo. He had to make a decision: let the bear have the wounded Khajiit? Or risk his own life to draw the bear intentionally away?

At least, for many, it would be a decision. But there was no cunning or fortune in allowing a fellow Khajiit in shared peril to become a victim. The decision was made in Rakkan's mind as quickly as it arose. He let out a yowl, much like a common house cat, to ensure that it would be heard amidst the whipping wind, and the bear's own deep roars.

The bear angrily looked his way as it continued moving, and, seeing Rakkan, changed course, charging straight for him. Rakkan fired another arrow, but his reflexes were telling him to stand and run, at the same time, and as such, Rakkan's arrow struck the bear in the side of one of its forelimbs. Again, perhaps helpful, but far from incapacitating. He hoped the poison would start doing something soon, as he stowed his bow: the bear was too close now for it to be wise for him to use it. Though he possessed a sword, the close-quarters fighting of a bear would never make it a wise choice: it would be claw and dagger now.

Or perhaps it would be if Rakkan did not know better. But a cunning Khajiit knows that while claws are an advantage against those without, a creature of the size and durability of a snow bear shrugs off claw strikes like a duck shrugs off water. Its thick pelt would prevent much besides snags, and a trapped Khajiit would soon meet his end in a bear's powerful jaws.

The bear attempted to bite him immediately, but he turned his dagger sideways, catching its bite with the blade. A lesser thing of steel might have snapped under the powerful crunch of a bear's mandibles, but this dagger was of elven make: it held. The bear, still attempting to rend the thing like a particularly difficult bone, took a swipe at Rakkan instead and Rakkan, effectively trapped (if he did not surrender the only effective weapon he had), had nowhere to go.

Though Rakkan turned and tried to absorb the blow as best he could, he felt the mighty thud painfully, as well as the searing sensation of rips torn in his skin by the bear's claws. His motions caused the dagger to slide out from amidst the bear's teeth, slicing the edge of its mouth in the process.

The bear gave an angry and disgruntled roar, shaking its head, and Rakkan seized the only opportunity he could see: with a yell of mingled pain and determination, he thrust the dagger up under the bear's jaw, hoping he met it just right amidst the flailings of its muzzle.

The dagger's luck seemed to hold, and he plunged the dagger straight through behind its palate, pithing it instantly. The bear slumped over, effectively dead, and twitched erratically for a few moments, pinning the dagger and Rakkan's hand underneath its heavy head for a few moments.

For a few long seconds, Rakkan merely breathed, making sure he had accomplished the deed as presumed. Bears, however, were not wily prey--Rakkan knew this--and a feeling of relief washed over him, despite the unrelenting cold. He finagled his hand until he could get it and the dagger free, wiping it clean in the snow before checking on the first bear. Seeing it unmoving, he sheathed his dagger and drew his sword, preparing to put the animal out of its misery.

"Stay there," Rakkan said quietly, as he whisked past J'nylo, taking a slight detour during his movement. The other Khajiit nodded, knowing that Rakkan's lack of courtesy in the order signified its urgency.

The bear was very nearly dead by the time Rakkan came to it, but he still sank his sword into its heart. Though other cultures might have done this to honor the bear and finish it in a dignified manner, or perhaps to honor one's blade with the credit of the kill, Rakkan had something else in mind: dinner. With its heart stilled, any poison that had entered the beast's blood would halt and drain, preventing its meat from being poisoned as well--unlike the second bear, which would be risky for consumption. From the looks of things, there would be no reaching the tavern by nightfall, and the bears had unwittingly provided quite a boon, in the form of their grotto. It would be the perfect place to take shelter for the night, and predators would avoid the area, on account of its normal occupants.

Rakkan helped J'nylo up into the niche, cleared out some of the old bones that were strewn about it, and put up his tent somewhat kitty-corner, forming more of a drapery over the opening of the nook than a tent per se. It was too small to cover both of them directly, anyways, as anything other than a blanket. He then started a fire, using some brushwood and what bits of Magicka he had regained, to ignite it. With his dagger he set about butchering the beast partway, taking what he could to make them some food, and leaving the slumped carcass as both camouflage and partial cover from the wind, just outside the opening. No matter what, the time to rest and recuperate would help Rakkan recover more Magicka, which he could then use to further mend J'nylo's wound. It looked like it would be necessary, too, as the rags were nearly soaked through with blood--if nothing else, the magic could help nullify the exsanguination that had occurred since Rakkan found the wounded Khajiit.

"Khajiit's kindness to me is overwhelming," said J'nylo, as he held a trencher of roast bear and potato in his lap, huddled under furs. "J'nylo may never be able to repay it."

"Pray only for Rakkan's continued favor in Azurah's eyes," he replied, "and it will be more than enough. Her fortune today is all that has made any of this possible."

"This one may hope to differ...Khajiit has shown himself to be a master with both dagger and bow. Three fearsome foes, felled in one evening!"

"It is only luck," Rakkan reiterated. "This one is just as amazed by this night's events. Rakkan is clever and deft, but rarely is he quite as fortunate as this."

"You have impressed J'nylo, regardless. That blade--is it enchanted, perhaps?" The wounded Khajiit eyed its sheath meaningfully.

Rakkan removed the blade casually, the scabbard attached to his belt for the time being. "This one is not very skilled with Enchanting, and has better things to buy than Soul Gems. Or blades that trap souls." He flipped it by the piece joining handle and blade, offering the handle end to the other male.

J'nylo took it with one hand, slowly, and regarded it with focus. "It is...it is a beautiful weapon. Finer craftsmanship than any Nord steel J'nylo has held. It would be a perfect thing for Enchanting; any arcanist would be proud to improve it." He plied the blade on the back of his hand, shaving away some fur. "Hm, and so sharp. It would slip between ribs like a knife into warmed moon sugar."

Ah, moon sugar...the spice of Elsewyr life. Its natural narcotic effects were slight, and some scholars correlated its ubiquitousness in that culture with its bent towards peculiar mysticisms and alternate philosophies. Its ability to help the Khajiit watch the ja-Kha'jay--the Lunar Lattice; the interplay between Mundus' two moons, and the significance thereof--was key in portents and prophecies, and some remained in a state of perpetual intoxication for that very reason. Why moon sugar came from the sugar cane in Elsewyr, or more specifically, why it didn't come from any sugar cane in other realms, was a matter no one had solved. One popular story concerned Azurah having blessed her favorite children with it in order that they might decipher the secrets of ja-Kha'jay--certainly a unique gift of the Khajiit. Scholars speculated it was something in the soil, but remained oblivious, if contentious, over what could have that sort of effect.

Rakkan smiled. "Only some need feel the edge of Rakkan's blade. It is skilled at taking lives, but does not do so freely." He held out his hand, to reclaim the blade.

J'nylo held it for a few moments more, turning it over again and clearly admiring its make. Eventually, though, he did return it to Rakkan's waiting palm, sideways. "Khajiit is wise to take life sparingly, even with such a marvel. This land is harsh enough without more predators lying in wait."

"Yes," Rakkan intoned. "But this one is curious--what is Khajiit's tale? What strand of Mafala has led him to Skyrim?"

"Ah..." J'nylo looked down, expression pensive. "A sad story, but spun into something hopeful. Marauders in the deserts of Elsewyr likely slew J'nylo's parents. A caravan of Redguard merchants took this one in while J'nylo was yet young.

"But a rival cabal of traders soon chased them, sending the Alik'r after them, claiming that they were not paying tributes properly, and trading in secret. All across Tamriel they fled, taking J'nylo with them. J'nylo became very good at hiding, but it was easier for him, for the Alik'r were looking for Redguards, not Khajiit."

Rakkan nodded. "How fortunate to be Khajiit, then."

"Yes, always. Soon they came to Skyrim. There are many merchants here already, but it is said that some have the connections to call off the Alik'r. So they wander and do business, sometimes with the other Khajiit. J'nylo is sent to contact others on their behalf, especially when it is thought unsafe. It is easier for one to be hidden than for an entire caravan to sneak."

"And to be Khajiit is to be very clever at remaining hidden."

"Khajiit speaks truth."

"Did no one speak to Khajiit about the Forsworn?" Rakkan asked, wondering how the other male had been caught unawares. He knew that lone Forsworn were very rare, and wondered if perhaps J'nylo had already slain the strange one's companions.

"J'nylo had heard of them in taverns and from traders. Even the tales of the fearsome Briarhearts had reached J'nylo's ears. But this one expected that these lived in the Redoubts and the camps, and would not be encountered on the prime roads. Or alone."

"This one has only heard whispers of these "Briarhearts..." Rakkan slowly stated. "Rakkan knows nothing about them. Excepting, now, that the thing in their chests keeps them alive."

"It is a hideous transformation," J'nylo replied. "They gouge out the hearts of the men, and replace them with the heart of briar that Khajiit saw."

"Who are "they?"

"The Hagravens. Has Khajiit also heard of them?"

"Yes, but never has Rakkan seen one."

"Khajiit is fortunate, then..." J'nylo gave a little shiver. "They are fearsome. Easy to kill if one gets close, for they are frail of build, but their claws and magic let them put up a strong fight. Some use the mage armors, too."

"They do not sound like they are much stronger than some of the Forsworn Rakkan has encountered."

"Not up close, no," the other Khajiit shook his head. "But from afar, they cast magic of incredible strength. The Briarheart would have seemed a feeble mage by comparison."

"It is not every day that Rakkan encounters mages of even that strength...so to imagine one stronger is difficult. Fearsome."

"Khajiit must also remember that they are hideous, and smell like vultures." J'nylo rankled his nose, evidently recalling their stench. "But this one is also curious about things which are not unwholesome: what is Khajiit's tale?"

Rakkan, being clever and having good reason to obfuscate, had a thousand stories of his past, most of which would be impossible for someone to verify without leaving Skyrim. And he knew that most never did. But for this Khajiit before him, he decided to come nearer to the truth than he normally would: "Rakkan's parents were nobility in Elsewyr. They were loyal servants of the Mane, the right and left hands of the Clan Mother...but something went wrong. This one's father was slain at the tavern, relieving himself outside, and Rakkan's mother was poisoned, or some such thing, that left her unable to do anything. She wasted away, and this one could not bear to see her die.

"So Rakkan bid her farewell, with her blessing, and saw to it that she would be taken care of. This one searches for answers, not knowing where they will be found. But it may be the Thalmor...Rakkan has found clues that suggest the elves are involved, or perhaps responsible." His jaw was clenching progressively more throughout his retelling, something he often did when telling someone else's story to make it seem more like his own, but for a change, the anger welling up inside him was genuine. Rakkan took a deep breath to let it out. "In the meantime, Rakkan makes his living in Skyrim and keeps his ears open. It seems this place is the world's touchstone, in this era. All the change and turmoil seems to circle it."

J'nylo nodded slowly. "The times are strange, though to us, Skyrim would be strange in comparison to Elsewyr, no matter the era."

"Yes, Khajiit is of course right," Rakkan said, sighing. He noted that the rags covering J'nylo's wound were now simply a bloody mess. "But here, let us change Khajiit's bandages. Or--" he took stock of himself. "Yes...Rakkan has some more Magicka to expend. Let us do that first."

"This one would like to help, if he can," J'nylo replied, taking a glance at his wound.

"Khajiit can assist by removing the old bandages," Rakkan replied, clambering over to the other male's wounded side. "They might be a problem if the flesh attempts to mend through them." Rakkan really didn't know if that was the case, however, as he rarely had to actually use the spell for much. Mending a few scratches and scrapes was usually the most significant task presented to him--often in the aftermath of a tavern brawl, seeing as Khajiit had claws. (Rakkan had made a significant amount of money on bets that way.) Rakkan rummaged through his things to see what he could use as fresh bandages.

J'nylo began removing the old dressing, wincing as the textiles brushed the tender injury beneath, feeling like sandpaper, despite being nothing more abrasive than homespun wool. "J'nylo is--ahh--still grateful that Khajiit wishes--hnng--to help him like this."

Rakkan found something suitable, tore it up, and set the rags aside. They were far from spotless, but he could apply more healing magic tomorrow, to offset any chance of the wound beginning to fester. By the time they reached a bona fide healer, he might well have completely fixed it himself! "Well then, let us be ready. Does Khajiit believe he can dress the wound with the new bandages?"

J'nylo tossed the old bandaging into the fire, causing a foul smell to erupt from the hearth, and then regarded the new ones, slightly dubiously. "It is...this one will do his best."

Rakkan closed his eyes for a few moments, bringing his willpower to bear upon the modest pool of Magicka that he had regained over the course of resting, eating, and having a chat. All told, he could tell it was far more than had been replenished during his trek with J'nylo slung over his shoulder, but still nowhere near as much as he would have on a fresh new day. Being no real healer, he could not be certain how much more progress it would net him on J'nylo's wound, but he felt reasonably certain that it would assure the other Khajiit was in no danger of dying or passing into a coma during the night. "Alright. This one shall of course do the same."

Rakkan knew better than to try to cast the spell with both hands at once, in this circumstance; the magic had a lag time, of sorts, ramping up to its greatest effect-per-second, and to use both hands would drain what little Magicka he had twice as quickly, expending it before the magic could really get to work. Perhaps healers with some formal training could work around this, but the odds of him getting such education were slim to none--and certainly not this evening. His habit was to cast with his left and kept his dagger (or claws) at the ready in his right, so he prepared the spell in his left, hoping force of habit would give him something of an edge.

The other Khajiit was watching him with obvious interest. "J'nylo is ready, if perhaps that is what is awaited."

Rakkan merely nodded, and began to cast. The light of the spell, swirling and radiant, cast a bewildering pattern upon the walls of the niche, but Rakkan was too intent upon his actions to pay them heed. Weaving the spell was of course a substantial part of his mental effort, but he leaned in close, squinting at the wound amidst the brilliant magical energies, and attempting to will it to heal over and shut. He did not know if he could make the spell do what he wanted--most of the time, he simply held it in place until things were better--but he did not expect that it could be harmful to his efforts, and might even help.

Progress was slow, and he realized while casting that replenishing J'nylo's lost blood was probably consuming much of the magic. There was no telling what internal damage might have also been taking up the magic, and which was masked by the wound mostly closing over. With grim satisfaction he noted that he could, nonetheless, observe some improvement, if it was less than he'd hoped for.

As his Magicka dwindled away, the headache he'd been so grateful to miss earlier took the opportunity to finally arrive. The purely mental suffering eroded his willpower, despite his attempts to redouble his focus, and the spell soon faded out. He grimaced, both in frustration and pain, and slumped back into a normal sitting position.

J'nylo glanced at him, then back down at the wound, and then self-consciously began picking up the bandages. "J'nylo does feel better for that. Dinner was also helpful, of course." He gingerly began to dress the wound.

Rakkan brought a palm up to his forehead. "This makes Rakkan glad to hear it. A pity more could not be done..."

J'nylo glanced up at him alright. "Is Khajiit alright?"

"It is nothing," said Rakkan, shaking his head slowly. "Just...headaches are common, when this one runs out of Magicka."

"J'nylo is sorry to cause Khajiit this suffering."

"It is no matter," Rakkan reiterated. "It will lessen as Magicka returns. Rest would do well to fend it off."

"This one is also tired," said J'nylo, nodding slowly. "The cold and the pain do no favors."

"Rakkan will rest now, then. Has Khajiit also brought a bedroll?" He began to seek his own, amidst their belongings.

"Yes...although..."

Rakkan looked up at J'nylo, and saw that he was pensive-looking, albeit as he continued to dress his wound. "What is it?"

"It is a strange thing for J'nylo to ask. Pay it no heed."

Such conversational evasiveness was not merely common, but in fact expected, in Khajiiti culture, when one was asking for a favor. "Rakkan has already saved Khajiit's life, possibly twice. What could be as much of a burden as that?"

"Well, it is indeed cold, and not a tavern, where the elements are not at our very throats...and J'nylo has lost blood today..."

"This one is listening."

"To stay warm and comfortable, that is, of course, it might be ideal if we might...share."

Rakkan did not know what to think about this, but upon consideration, he realized that using one bedroll as padding would help cushion against the bare rock and its cold, while the other would retain their mingled warmth as the fire died away in the night. "If...this is what Khajiit wishes for, this one will allow it." He was not sure if perhaps J'nylo wished for more than that, but only time would tell. The still-wounded Khajiit was not likely to pull any fell tricks, at any rate, for the pelting snow and wind outside would not let him escape readily, and the smell of his blood would likely draw predators to his limping gait.

"Again Khajiit graces J'nylo with favor. So much to repay, this one has." Rakkan noted that the other Khajiit seemed to be finishing up the dressing with a bit more vivacity than he'd started.

"Perhaps it is best to use Khajiit's bedroll to share, since his blood may stain it." Rakkan unrolled his own, not too far from the fire, in a flattish spot, and then began removing his more sturdy armor pieces, such as they were. His underpieces of fur would be fine for sleep.

"Of course," J'nylo replied, obligingly. "Khajiit should not have to mar his bed with J'nylo's blood." He got up and searched for his own roll, then spread it over Rakkan's.

"Please, after you," Rakkan said, holding it open obligingly.

"Oh, no, J'nylo could not," the other male stated. "Khajiit is taller and stronger than J'nylo; it must fit him first. Else this plan might not work!"

There was a certain strange sensibility in the notion, and so Rakkan complied. "Very well." He got in, and found that there was plenty of room for him inside it, both in length and width--why did the other Khajiit have such a roomy bedroll? It was probably secondhand, Rakkan mused, before again holding it open for J'nylo--this time from inside. Probably secondhand from a Giant, more like it.

J'nylo slowly got in, wincing a bit as he had to fold his torso to fit inside. There was room for them to both lie flat on their backs, with shoulders touching, but it seemed that J'nylo was interested in lying on his right side, facing the open side, to keep his injured left off of the ground.

"May the ja-Kha'jay bring sweet sleep to Khajiit," J'nylo stated quietly. It was a kind blessing, the sort one might give to children or close friends.

"To you as well," said Rakkan, lying on his back. "Hopefully we will have Khajiit to a real healer tomorrow."

Rakkan lay there for some time, watching the glow on the cave ceiling growing slowly dimmer and moodier as it reflected from the embers. The night was cold and the wind outside merciless, but with their little shelter, and the warmth of another Khajiit here, he would be fine. It was almost too warm in the bedroll, really. But what a strange turn of events had happened that day! Mafala was probably involved; the inscrutable Daedra of fate, however, rarely bestowed favor without also spite. Only time would tell what might happen next...but he hoped that relief of his headache would be part of the deal.

He woke, blearily, in the middle of the night. Only the most sullen glow remained in the fires, and for a moment he blamed that for his coldness.

But wait, cold? Wasn't it just a moment ago that he was too warm? And then he realized, with a start, that J'nylo was no longer in the bedroll.

He sat up stock straight, thanking Azurah for the night vision she gave to her most cunning and lucky children. But J'nylo was no longer in the cave.

He felt for his dagger, which he had placed carefully aside the bedroll, as he always did--there was no sleeping with such a thing on, but to have it at hand was nevertheless important. But it was not there, either.

He cursed himself. J'nylo clearly had nothing but eyes for the dagger; the Khajiit had likely used his injury as a ploy to exploit Rakkan's good graces. The cat probably had a phial of regeneration or something to that effect, stowed in the folds of his pack, and was long gone by now. Even his order in getting in the bedroll had been carefully planned, for this very moment.

He could not help but hiss with his displeasure. He noted that J'nylo's pack was still present, though--had the Khajiit been so hasty as to leave without it? Perhaps it would have made too much noise to put it on...

And then he placed the strange taste in his mouth, which he hadn't noticed, up to that point, in his confusion and anger: moon sugar. Of course. The weak narcotic would have deepened Rakkan's sleep, making escape easy. Perhaps the thief had skimped on the valuable substance, underestimating habituated Khajiiti metabolism in consuming the drug, thinking it would last until morning--by which time he'd be long gone. How very clever.

It was too late that he noted the faint glow from the cave opening, behind him, and the whip-crack that followed. A green wave flooded his vision, and his body moved no more. He tipped over onto his side, like an unbalanced sculpture, and regarded the fire before him with unmoving eyes. A paralysis spell. Had J'nylo thought of everything?

But the smell that greeted his nose was of carrion and forest, and the musty stink of feathers--not the warm, desert smell of a Khajiit, perhaps tinged with moon sugar or skooma. Rattled breathing reached his ears, and he heard a strange clacking noise, coming from the rocks at the entrance.

"Hehehhhh," came a gravelly-sounding laugh of satisfaction. "Oika has done well tonight."

The clacking drew near, and he was abruptly flipped with ease onto his back, or at least so much as he could be in the peculiar pose in which he was frozen. His unmoving eyes showed him a sight he'd never seen, but nonetheless recognized instantly: a Hagraven.

"Oika's hunter died because of you, cat. But Oika will have another hunter! Yes, yesss..." She withdrew from her pack a bloody hunk of something. "His heart will take yours, take your body. You will be Oika's new pet cat hunter." In horror, he recognized it as the very briar heart that he had gouged out of a Forsworn earlier in the evening.

The Hagraven withdrew a cruel- but crude-looking dagger slowly, clearly relishing the moment. "Good kitty. Lie still now for Oika."

There could be no flinching as she raised the dagger, looking as triumphant as a creature with such an ugly face possibly could. He could only watch, watch as the Hagraven sealed his fate.

There was the unmistakable sound of flesh parting as a blade sunk within it.

But to Rakkan's surprise, the blood that splattered his body at the moment was not his own. In fact, the point of gleaming elven steel that momentarily showed through the front of the Hagraven's gaunt torso suggested rather well whose it might be.

Of course, the keening scream that echoed in the minute cave confirmed that notion--but already the blade had vanished, and in a brief moment it peeked out of the Hagraven's torso yet again, spattering the Khajiit once more. Of course, Rakkan could do nothing about that, as clever and lucky as he was.

The scream abruptly changed timbre as the second blow struck, but somehow the Hagraven managed to turn with the dagger still within her, to face her unseen attacker. She raised her foul talons to strike, and there was the unmistakable sound of claws tearing out a throat.

But it was her own screams of fury and pain that were silenced. Her body crumpled, then slowly fell over tipping into the gleam of the hungry embers. The smell of searing flesh soon spread from within.

And then, slipping into his fixed field of vision, he saw the face of another Khajiit: J'nylo. "What has she done to Khajiit?" he asked, urgently but quietly. When he shook Rakkan gently, and noted how the Khajiit's entire body moved, realization dawned on him. "Ah, a paralysis spell. Rare, and strong. See, now, what J'nylo said about the Hagravens?"

Rakkan could do nothing but watch while J'nylo explored the blood spatters on his body, ensuring they were not his. While his Khajiiti night vision would let him see it was there, its color would be lost, making it hard to tell; the other male was using smell, instead, to determine its origin. "Good," J'nylo said, finally satisfied. "Now all Khajiit must do is wait for the spell to wear off."

Rakkan felt J'nylo do his best to stuff him back into the bedroll, despite his awkward posture, occasionally wincing: Rakkan noted that the other Khajiit was still wounded. So much for the regeneration potion idea. Then he observed J'nylo taking the dagger--Rakkan's dagger--out into the snow, where he cleaned it, before returning it and its scabbard to Rakkan's side.

"J'nylo is sorry for having taken Khajiit's dagger. When this one heard the Hagraven coming, he could think of nothing else to do but take it and hide. Especially because Khajiit would not wake up...perhaps the moon sugar was a bad idea. This one thought it might help recover Khajiit's Magicka and remove his headache, for Khajiit was moaning slightly in his sleep."

Rakkan heard J'nylo sigh. "And now Khajiit has nearly been killed by a Hagraven. At least she is dead, now." He sniffed, and curled his whiskers. "And roasting. Feh. J'nylo would dispose of her, but isn't sure he can get her out the door."

Rakkan observed J'nylo kneel, and grunted a bit as it compressed his wound. "J'nylo will understand if Khajiit no longer wishes to help him. J'nylo can only imagine what waking to no Khajiit and no dagger and one Hagraven must have been like."

Though his body was forced to remain still, Rakkan's mind raced. Having woken and suspected the other Khajiit so strongly, it was difficult to turn about and regard him with thankfulness and understanding, now. Could it all be elements of an even more convoluted plot? Clearly no Hagraven would knowingly bargain to be killed, but could there be some degree of masterminding taking place here? Was J'nylo trustworthy, or the most fiendishly cunning Khajiit Rakkan had ever met?

But there was one constant in Khajiit culture that was nigh universal: veiled ego. While Khajiit language was couched in deference and self-objectification, the fact of the matter was that that object was always seated on a very high pedestal, well lit, and preferably surrounded by riches (to set off its color, of course). Khajiit would readily feign injury if it suited them, but taking an actual wound upon oneself, anything more than a mere scratch, was virtually never deemed worth it. The wound that Rakkan had healed was clearly real, as evidenced by the effects of his magic, and likely would have killed the other Khajiit if Rakkan had done nothing for it. And there would be no way to really manipulate the nigh-mindless Briarhearts into nearly, but not actually, killing him. Only the Hagravens controlled such creatures, and the fell creature sizzling on their hearth clearly hadn't planned on losing her "pet hunter."

More importantly, if all this fellow wanted was his dagger, he wouldn't have likely risked his life facing a Hagraven, and could have just as easily killed him and left him there--a scene that would have been easily blamed on Hagravens, or the native snow bears. And J'nylo obviously had his chance now, too, with Rakkan unable to move and even unarmored.

Though the possibility existed that a very, very elaborate ploy was in place, the more Rakkan considered it, the more it seemed unrealistic. While it might be perhaps a more wary sort, he felt he should continue to trust J'nylo.

After a few moments, there was a whoosh sound in his ears, and his entire body suddenly tingled unpleasantly, like a limb he'd sat on the wrong way. He groaned and tried to stretch a bit, and found he could move, if perhaps haltingly.

"Ah, it has finally worn off," J'nylo said, sounding genuinely relieved. "J'nylo is glad to see this."

"A very...strange night...this has been," Rakkan said, lingering tension in his jaw making it uncomfortable to speak. He opened and closed it, hoping to work out some of the tightness. He'd never before experienced or witnessed a paralysis spell of that duration, and wondered if perhaps the moon sugar has something to do with it.

"This one is at Khajiit's mercy," J'nylo said, remaining in a kneeling position. "J'nylo knows the penalty for thievery."

Rakkan slowly got up onto his side, staring into the other Khajiit's repentant-looking eyes. The classical penalty for thievery was to have one's hands cut off, but in this day and age, such penalties were eschewed in favor of bounties and prison time. Virtually anyone could attempt to accuse someone of such things...but it would rarely stick if the accused wasn't still in position of one's stolen things. And J'nylo had already returned Rakkan's dagger, and nothing else was missing. That the Khajiit was nonetheless expressing willingness to be punished was either bona fide repentance...or the craftiest of ploys. Rakkan wasn't sure what to think.

"Rakkan supposes," he began slowly, "that Khajiit has not truly stolen anything. And that you also saved this one's life. So," he continued, stroking his chin slowly, "it is fair to not pursue such a thing. Rakkan will not attempt to accuse Khajiit of this."

"Oh, many thanks," said J'nylo, relief in his voice. "J'nylo felt terrible for what he had to do, and is relieved to be forgiven." He slowly leaned forward, extending his arms to carry himself into something of a crawl. He extended his head in close towards Rakkan, eyes closed and mouth stretched into a smile. At first Rakkan leaned back reflexively, wondering what the Khajiit was intending to do in his space, but recognized it as a gesture of amicability: an invitation to gently touch noses. Also known as a "whiskerbristle," it was done amidst close friends...and lovers, too, but not always. It was akin to the men's practice of a kiss on the cheek--but with fur and whiskers in the way, such a gesture was not always so comfortable for Khajiit.

Rakkan hesitated for a moment, then slowly leaned in and glanced his nose lightly off J'nylo's, not lingering or going for a second rub in the other direction, as might be done by closer compatriots. He still felt a bit of turmoil from all that had happened so quickly.

He then got up, hefted the surprisingly light body of the Hagraven, and hurled it out the cave opening. "Rakkan was getting very tired of that awful smell," he said, offhandedly.

J'nylo had settled back into a kneeling position. "Khajiit is right, of course...perhaps, now that that is taken care of, we can sleep again?"

Rakkan rubbed his forehead, realizing that his headache was a mere whisper of what it had been before he went to bed. "Perhaps some kind of warning would be good. Some kind of trap or alarm over the entrance.

"J'nylo knows just the thing," the other male replied, scrambling for their packs. In a few minutes, he had rigged pots, pans, canteens, forks, and knives on a rope, making a rattle-like assemblage of them that would jostle and clang if disturbed. He passed it to Rakkan, to rig over the entrance. "This should do," he said.

Rakkan eyed it as he carried it to the entrance. "Rakkan wonders why he hadn't thought of this before." He strung it up from both ends, then experimentally nudged it. The resulting noise was quite noticeable--whether or not any moon sugar might be remaining in his own body, J'nylo would likely awaken if it was disturbed.

"J'nylo will understand if Khajiit no longer wishes to share bedrolls," the other male stated, reservedly, as Rakkan again neared the fireplace.

"Hmm...no, that is not necessary," Rakkan replied, giving it a moment's thought. "It is much more comfortable to have the second as padding. And warmer," he added, noting how the cold air was already beginning to bite. A quick shiver from J'nylo also caught his eye; perhaps the wounded Khajiit was getting chilled from kneeling on the rock floor like that.

"Oh, that is good," said J'nylo, waiting for Rakkan to get in before him, then following suit. "This one is thankful to have someone to keep him warm."

Again Rakkan found himself staring at the cave ceiling, though the glow from the embers was much more feeble--almost noncontributory, by now. It would be difficult to get sleep after all that had happened, but if he didn't get some, tomorrow would be simply terrible...

Though he woke several times through the night when the wind jostled the pots and pans enough to make noise, Rakkan eventually saw cloud-veiled daylight beginning to brighten up their little nook in the rock. He did his best to shimmy out of the bedroll without waking J'nylo, and stretched, his body sore from the still-palpable rock floor. He could only imagine what it would have been like without the second bedroll.

Rakkan stood, peering out into the moody-looking day. The wind had calmed, and it looked like the cloud cover had thinned somewhat--perhaps the sun would eventually make its way through at some point today. The snow would likely form a hardened crust if that happened, which could make traveling in the snow easier. They were not terribly far from Markarth now...with a good solid push through the day, he could finally get the other Khajiit to a real healer.

Rakkan turned, looking down at his companion in silence. A saying in Khajiit culture went "Azurah's twilight transforms Khajiit from adult to kitten, and back again." The kitten-like innocence and vulnerability of sleep was evident upon his visage, and even without the knowledge of the injuries and weakness the unconscious Khajiit had sustained, Rakkan might have found his heart going out to the fellow. It was, after all, such a peaceable, if uncommon, sight--particularly here in Skyrim. He sighed, found himself donning a small grin, and began to take down the pots and pans, trying to make as little noise as possible while J'nylo still slept. It would be much less useful, now that one of them was up.

But then, as he began to untie the parts of the dismantled alerting cable, a sound all too familiar perked Rakkan's ears...something between a grunt, a hoot, and a bellow. A sound that he never, ever enjoyed hearing: the characteristic vocalizations of Skyrim's fearsome troll species. Despite being faint with distance, it was not a sound one could forget easily--particularly as it frequently came with wounds as reinforcement.

He instinctively dropped into a crouch, using the things in front of the opening as cover, and attempting to peer outside to locate where it was coming from--the cave mouth would make it hard to tell the origin of the noise, if he was not close to the aperture. It took a bit, but before long he spotted the head of a frost troll, peeking over a nearby crest. The creature was looking for something, but had not yet become purposeful in his movements.

Rakkan lost no time in slipping over to J'nylo and shaking him awake. "J'nylo!" he hissed. "Arise!"

The Khajiit's eyes parted slightly, then snapped fully open. "What? What? What is it?" Panic and confusion wrote themselves upon his face.

"Take up a weapon," said Rakkan, his tone a quiet hiss. "A frost troll will soon be upon us." He went for his own pack, and retrieved his sword.

J'nylo stumbled out of the bedroll, rummaging through his own pack for his archery equipment. "This one must string his bow," he said, sounding legitimately disappointed with himself.

A night's sleep, if interrupted rather jarringly, had done well to assist Rakkan's Magicka reserves, but he was still not at his best. He called to mind the spell of Flames, which was absolutely necessary when fighting any manner of troll: the species was able to regenerate from wounds, which was part of their deadliness, but fire, which apparently did more to their flesh than a mere incision might, inflicted damage that their bodies evidently could not heal so well. In his left hand, magical embers began to roil, ready to be unleashed according to Rakkan's will. He began to put on his armor, as quietly as possible.

"J'nylo will attempt to snipe it...it will notice the carcass before our cave before long, so it is best to strike while we still have the benefit of surprise."

Rakkan crouched down low, ready to roll out of the cave mouth when the troll should come near. "Azurah's fortune to Khajiit's arrow," he remarked, as he continued cinching up his armor. He'd need every advantage he could get against the brute strength of the creature.

Rakkan waited and watched as J'nylo finished stringing his bow, put on his quiver with a visible wince, and then nocked and drew. They would have to wait for some time, as the troll was only slowly making progress towards them; an errant shot now would only make it more wary...and more angry. Neither option would be particularly good.

Time slowly crept forward, with two pairs of feline eyes monitoring the troll's every movement. It was unequivocal that the beast was coming towards them, probably drawn by the smell of blood and decay on the wind, but it would not be long before the smell and sounds of living Khajiit reached its senses--and then there would be no waiting. Both knew that J'nylo needed to take the first prudent shot.

Finally it came over the top of the nearby crest, and once its head had dipped below the apex of the rise, J'nylo loosed his shot. Rakkan flinched at the sudden sound of the string and arrow, breaking the relative stillness and anticipation of the moment, and saw it sink into the beast's chest. It was a good shot, one that might well be lethal in piercing the lungs of a lesser creature--but the wound would soon seal off, as the troll yanked the arrow out of itself with an enraged roar. A wound there on, say, a human or a deer, might cause the creature to drown in its own blood, but a troll would only risk pneumonia--if one did not pierce its lungs so many times as to literally flood them, by sheer dint of repeated-yet-self-sealing punctures.

Rakkan grimaced, and had to hold back an instinctive hiss of displeasure. There would be no simple way out of this one. He noted with at least a small modicum of relief that J'nylo was already drawing another shot, but there was no telling if it would buy them any more progress. Rakkan fumed that the cave did not have anything near the opening to surreptitiously hide behind, for it would have enabled him to strike a vicious blow once the creature neared.

Tension built in Rakkan's frame as the troll thundered closer. J'nylo missed with the second arrow, then hit it with a third in its leg; when the creature attempted to pull it free, the shaft snapped, leaving the head buried in its flesh. Rakkan felt a note of grim satisfaction at this, for even healing would not expel or nullify an object that was physically disrupting that leg's ability to move. It would give him an edge, in terms of mobility; he had no chance to rely on J'nylo as a source of close combat, so it would be up to him to ultimately go toe-to-toe with the troll.

When it seemed it was practically upon them, Rakkan rolled out, using the rise of his roll as an opportunity to vault the bear carcass out front. He twisted his body on the vault, going into a falling spin, which he arrested by extending his sword in the direction of the troll. It met flesh and hacked a deep gash in the troll's upper arm--another mobility advantage, if one that would not ultimately be lasting, but anything would suffice.

The troll roared again, swiping at him with its unharmed arm, but Rakkan reacted instinctively with a burst of flame magic that startled the beast, causing it to withdraw its arm from range mid-swing. Rakkan was thankful that the spell consumed far less Magicka over time than the healing spell he'd used so much in the past few days, but it would likely take much more of its use to vanquish this beast.

The beast launched another haymaker with startling speed, and though Rakkan was able to twist to avoid much of its brunt, it still clipped him hard on the arm, clattering off of the scaled plate there and rocking his arm with pain. The impact would likely have broken the bone if the plate had not been there to absorb and distribute its force. It threw the Khajiit off balance, but his acrobatic instincts tucked him into a backwards roll, and he recovered quickly, albeit sorely. The troll then began to charge at him, arms flailing wide and fangs bared in yet another roar. Rakkan turned and ran, putting on an air of retreat, in part to draw the creature away from J'nylo--but also because of its strategic advantage. He let the troll gain some distance on him, then, when it seemed certain the creature would be upon him, he leapt up against a tree trunk, kipped off of it, and flipped over the confused beast's head, using a downward thrust that could have cloven a lesser creature's spine in half.

The troll's agonized screech, quite unlike that of the Hagraven earlier that night, was nonetheless ear-splitting. Rakkan pressed his advantage by blasting the deep-cloven gash in the troll's back with flame, searing it and giving off the unmistakable aroma of burning fat. It turned on him promptly and began flailing blindly.

He realized his position was terrible, as he would be blocking nearly any chance J'nylo might have of taking a shot at the beast, so he ducked and wove amidst the creature's lumbering-but-mighty sweeps, taking a more perpendicular tack and using more fire to keep the beast off-guard. However, in the absence of an open wound, the magic would only do so much damage, and the back wound, despite its internal injuries, was still slowly sealing over, protecting the flesh inside from further harm. A whizzing noise ended in a meaty splatch sound, proving that J'nylo had been waiting for another opportunity. The beast gave a confused hoot, pulling the bolt wholesale from its arm, and tried to identify the source of the injury--having Rakkan in front of him would of course make a simple mind think that Rakkan was the source of all the Khajiit aroma the beast could sense, but where, then, were the arrows coming from? Even a simpleton would be able to pose that question.

Rakkan decided not to let the beast ponder that, and hacked at the troll's other arm, cleaving another deep gash, and following up with more fire. It backhanded blindly, making him momentarily see stars as it connected with his helmet, for he could not make out the motion well amidst the roiling flames between them.

It rose up and leapt at him, and it was all he could do to raise and extend his sword with both arms, causing the beast to impale itself upon the blade. It nearly pinned him as it fell, squealing like a stuck pig with a gland problem, but he blindly rolled away, using what momentum he had from the collision to his advantage.

While blood coursed down the stuck blade, the beast was quick to dislodge it at all costs, and he knew that even though he had likely stricken its heart, or nearby, the wound would heal quickly, even if the beast would weaken somewhat from blood loss. Worse yet, he had no sword now. He drew his fire magic into both hands, since he had nothing else to work with.

The beast took up the weapon with both hands, like a log, and hurled it sidelong at Rakkan. He let himself go limp, causing it to trim an inch or two from his furs as they lagged in his fall, and it lodged itself hard in the side of the nearby crest--there would be no retrieving the blade in the midst of this battle. It immediately started to come after him, and Rakkan scrabbled as best he could to regain traction, for he had no lateral momentum to convert into a rise.

Then another arrow bit into the troll's side, and it roared again--this time, a note of frustration mixing with its anger and pain. It turned towards the cave, and evidently put two and two together, as it unleashed a furious roar in the direction of J'nylo--a common tactic used to cow its imminent prey.

It was all Rakkan could do to rise and immediately take the foolhardiest route he could think of, but perhaps the only one that would give J'nylo, armed with a bow and already wounded, any manner of fighting chance: he pounced bodily at the troll, delivering a textbook predator's bite to the back of its neck.

His fangs scarcely pricked through the beast's tough hide, and it immediately reacted with rage, trying to beat and shake him off. He was dimly aware of its attempts, and the pain they brought him, but his mind was on but two things: maintaining the bite for all of his worth, and shoving his hands into the wound formed by his ersatz blade thrust. Two became three as he felt the wet warmth of the troll's innards surrounding his fingers; he coursed every bit of Magicka he could muster into his hands, converting all of it into flame as rapidly as possible.

The combustible fat and tissues roared into an inferno, creating a jet of flame that surged out of the troll's front, and causing it to give the first fearful noise Rakkan had ever heard from such a beast. The heat from the ignition was also giving him intense pain, where the magic of the spell was not warding him against his own fire, but this was not something that he could afford to shy from. He could feel the tissues eroding away from his hands, and pushed them outward, literally scorching a hole through the creature.

The precipitous loss of blood pressure and ability to breathe incapacitated the troll within moments. It fell face-forward into the snow, and Rakkan let go of his bite before the shock of impact would risk giving him a secondhand concussion--but he kept his hands inside the beast, pushing and pushing every last drop of Magicka. There would be no playing possum for this creature, not after what they'd gone through already.

Finally, the spell sputtered and died, and he simply stood with his hands in the empty space they'd forged, breathing heavily and quickly. It did not move, not one bit. Even its blood did little more than ooze, where there was any left to spill--for his magic had cauterized many of its vessels shut.

He heard footsteps coming down from the cave opening, and looked up to see J'nylo hastily coming towards him, one hand on his wounded side. "Khajiit is incredible! J'nylo has never seen fighting like what Rakkan has just done!"

Rakkan panted for a few more moments before grunting out his answer: "Rakkan has never...seen fighting like this, either."

"Even Malakesh would be impressed by such fighting," J'nylo replied, using the Khajiit name for the violent patron Daedra of the Orcs. "Again Khajiit has saved J'nylo's life."

"This one is not sure who saved whom," Rakkan stated, slowly standing and beginning to shamble back towards the cave. "Khajiit's arrow kept the beast from pouncing upon Rakkan while he was still on his back."

"Still, the monster had J'nylo dead in his sights. This one had no chance, if it had made it to the cave."

"Then let us not argue," said Rakkan, feeling immeasurably weary as the adrenaline of fighting to survive wore off, and his bruises and cuts began to register in earnest upon his awareness. "Let us pack up and leave this place, for it has been little more than bloodshed for us."

An hour later, they were far out of sight of the cave, and the many and diverse carcasses that surrounded it, and the two, bearing their respective wounds of battle, were a terrible sight to behold; it was hard to tell who was supporting whom.

A carriage drew up behind them, and they moved towards the side of the road, expecting it to have slowed a bit behind them only to let them get out of the way. Instead, however, it drew to a slow walk aside them, at the behest of the driver--a Nord man, with a simple cart behind it, designed for carrying passengers and general goods.

"Pardon me!" hailed the man, with politeness neither Khajiit was used to in Skyrim--so much so, that Rakkan did not initially look up. "Sirs Khajiit!"

Rakkan then turned his weary gaze upon the man. "If it is gold you want, this one regrets that he cannot spare it for a ride."

"No, no--I wanted to ask if you were the ones who caused all that carnage back there!"

Unsure of whether the man was happy or displeased about this, Rakkan chose a wary answer. "The beasts there did attack us, yes. It was by Azurah's fortune alone that either of us lives to tell of it."

"Great Talos!" the man breathed, awestruck. "Two snow bears, a Hagraven, and a frost troll--forces like that could decimate a rank of Stormcloaks, easily! You're fortunate indeed!"

"This one thanks sir Nord for his compliments," J'nylo replied, from the far side of the exchange.

"If you hadn't cleared them out yourself, I likely would have run across one or more of them on my ride. I don't know if Onyx here," he said, lightly tapping his horse's flank with a crop, "or I would have survived that kind of encounter. Where are you headed?"

"Shelter," said Rakkan, sensing a possibility for benefit. "A healer. Somewhere to patch up our wounds and recover."

"I'm headed to Markarth, myself--delivering for Arnleif and Sons. Could I thank you for your help by giving you a ride the rest of the way there?"

It was a common enough scam that a carriage-owner would take unwary "passengers" into unfamiliar territory, to encounter a cohort of bandits that would relieve them of any "fares" they might provide--and, more often than not, kill the victims, to avoid being turned in, lest the ersatz passengers eventually find their way to a guard of one of the Holds. But at this point, the notion of limping the remaining miles to anywhere that could--or would--help them seemed a fate far worse than anything a group of bandits might hope to muster. Perhaps this way he could have a chance to regain some Magicka, and then at least one of the two of them might be able to defend them, if something went wrong. "It is a gracious offer. We would be honored to accept," Rakkan eventually replied, denying any of his suspicion a chance to appear in his tone.

The carriage-man brought the cart to a halt, and Rakkan helped J'nylo up into the roughshod seats in the back, before climbing up himself. His limbs felt like deadwood, and it seemed a herculean effort to make it up there, but somehow he made it, and sat opposite J'nylo.

"We should make it there by noon," the man stated, whipping the reins over Onyx's back and goading it into motion. "I'll thank you two to keep an eye out for any other threats, since from the looks of things, you can probably handle them better than I can."

But somehow, the jostling and bumping of the cart, which would normally only serve to make the journey over the rough-cobbled road more uncomfortable and jarring, proved lulling to Rakkan's wearied body, and he spent most of the journey in a delirious haze, somewhere between consciousness and its utter deficit.

"Khajiit. Khajiit--Rakkan!"

J'nylo's urgent voice, and a shaking with substance behind it, instead of coming from the ground, pulled Rakkan back into awareness. He slowly straightened up, wincing on account of the aches that his poor-postured slump through the bumpy journey had earned him. He blinked groggily, trying to determine whether danger was again the source of his being roused. "What? What is it?"

"We are here--the city of blood and silver!"

"Aye, that we are," came the carriage-man's accented voice. Rakkan turned towards the sound, and realized that the man was no longer seated at the front of the carriage; he eventually located the Nord aside the horse, on the ground, dismantling the beast of burden's tack. "Your friend tried to wake you more gently when it was simply in sight, but you were out cold--like a youngling after too much mead!" He chuckled good-naturedly.

"Rakkan's apologies," he stated, his voice clumsily tripping over the syllables, despite his ingrained desire to sound capable at all times. "This one was...very tired."

"Let us get Khajiit into the city. Our driver has said there is a Temple of Dibella in this city. Perhaps they will help us." J'nylo had risen, and was gently pulling at Rakkan's arm.

Rakkan obliged, slowly and clumsily getting up--realizing that perhaps this was what J'nylo had felt like, while Rakkan had helped him make it to their questionably-fortuitous shelter. They got out of the cart, and Rakkan self-consciously palmed at where his coin purse normally stayed--then played it off as a conscious gesture: "Surely our driver is willing to accept at least a small token of our thanks?"

"Oh, no, I couldn't," the Nord said, waving it off. "Hagravens often have bounties on their heads these days. That you killed even one is a service enough to us all."

"Rakkan also killed a Briarheart yesterday," J'nylo chimed in. "Had he not done so, this one would likely not be here to tell of it."

"A Briarheart?" said the Nord, looking at them with incredulity. "What are you--some kind of legend?"

Rakkan gave a laugh that only half-concealed his inner cynicism. "Only the kind that blooms far from where it is sown."

The guards eyed them suspiciously as they entered, but having seen them come in upon the stableman's cart, evidently determined they were not marauders, at the least, and let them in. They entered the city of soaring stone and plunging water, and got directions to the Temple from another guard, who seemed a bit more sympathetic.

They opened the gold-toned doors to the place of worship--first dusting off their hands, to avoid soiling it--and found two Sisters waiting inside.

"My my, what have we here?" said one, donning a grin that was at once seductive and welcoming--two traits that any adroit follower of the goddess of beauty would aim to cultivate.

"Oh, hush, Alma," said the other, hastily coming towards them and offering a supporting hand. "Can't you see these two are injured?"

"I can indeed," said the one evidently called Alma, "but that doesn't mean I can't also see that they're both exotic...and handsome. Shall I help them out of all that dirty armor, or are you going to steal that privilege?"

"That will not be necessary--" J'nylo began.

"Hush now, shhh," said the other. "Sit down. Rest. You've come a long way, we can tell. Alma, you get the healing salves. I'm going to get them something to drink and soothe the pain. They can undress themselves--they're grown men! Er, Khajiit," she amended, as Khajiit and the reptilian Argonians were not considered "men or mer," as the saying went. It was not necessarily an insulting distinction, and her tone seemed to imply that she did not mean it as such.

"Many thanks," said Rakkan, wanting nothing more than to lie down and wait for the pain and weariness to go somewhere else. He instinctively fumbled for his bedroll as they sat down, so that he could have something to use to lean against the stone wall without it being so uncomfortable.

Alma returned first, bearing a few small jars. "I realize Kendra's one of the more...reserved Sisters, but don't let that fool you," she stated, unscrewing the lid upon one. A fragrance of mountain flowers and blisterwort wafted forth. "She can put nearly any man in Markarth under her spell, if she tries."

"Please, him first," Rakkan said, pointing to J'nylo. He set to removing his own armor as he waited; his legs were fine, but his arms in particular had been thrashed and clawed mercilessly when the troll had tried to remove the Khajiit from its back.

Alma raised an eyebrow, looking at him querulously. "Are you sure? You look like the one who's taken the greater beating."

"He has received a deep wound, and this one has only managed to stave it off with magic so well. Rakkan is worried that his friend's wound is not truly healed yet."

"Well, I'm not much of a healer, either, but I'll have a look. Can't hurt to slip some salve on there while Kendra's getting you something." J'nylo had removed the furs on his torso to reveal the bandaged wound, and, unsurprisingly, it had again soaked through--though the red seemed lighter this time; perhaps it was less blood, all told. "Ooh," Alma said, wincing, "that must have been terrible. What happened?"

"A Briarheart shot a lucky ice spike," J'nylo replied. "He would have killed this one if Rakkan had not killed him first."

"Uh," said Alma, looking a bit confused, "are you Rakkan?"

"No, this one is J'nylo."

"Oh. Sorry," she added, slowly removing the bandages, "I get confused by Khajiit...dialect."

For a while she worked in silence, until the wound was finally uncovered. "There we go," she said, wiping her fingers on the clean edge of one of the rags. "Now for some salve..." She pulled up a daub of the unguent, then hesitantly began applying it around the edges of the wound. J'nylo tensed visibly, ostensibly due to the tender tissue's intolerance to changes in pressure and motion.

Kendra bustled over, bearing two mismatched flagons and a few assorted flasks. "Now then, don't tell anyone, but our alchemist Sister put together an interesting mixture that relies on moon sugar to help dull pain...I'm pretty sure that it'd be simply perfect for you two. It takes a little while to work, though, so I'm going to give it to you now, and we'll let you sleep it off in the corner here, while we wait for the salves to go to work." She poured a couple of the mixtures together in an empty flask, then shook it up, and divided it between the flagons.

"They aren't the quickest thing," said Alma, continuing to apply some to J'nylo's wound, "as you can see. Kendra, we'll need the Mother to get a look at this one while they're out. Apparently it was a deep wound, an ice spike, and that one patched it up with magic, but he's not sure if it's safe..."

"I'll do that, then," she said, peering at it with a certain degree of reservation. "Now, I know it isn't skooma, dear ones, but still, drink this down," the more matronly Sister said, offering a flagon to each of them. "Your friend has the right idea," she added to J'nylo, tossing her head briefly in Rakkan's direction, "getting his bedroll out like that. If I'm not mistaken, you two will be out for the count in a little bit."

Rakkan was sufficiently out of it as to feel like it wouldn't matter what they gave him--so long as they assured him it would make him feel better, he might well drink tar. The smell that greeted his nose, as he approached the flagon, was an earthy, muddy one--no particular scent jumped out as recognizable. Still, he'd drunk creek water that smelled worse before, so he began to quaff it. Though not exactly pleasant, his practiced tongue could definitely pick out the flavor of moon sugar in the mixture, and he slugged back as much of it as he could in one fell gulp, ignoring the not-exactly-savory flavors that swilled along with it.

Whatever it was, it was quite potent--maybe there was some alcohol in it, but Rakkan couldn't be sure. He coughed a bit after he finished swallowing, as it left a strange sensation in his mouth and throat. "Rakkan--thanks you," he said, passing the flagon back to Kendra and wiping the corners of his mouth with the back of his spare hand. He noted, out of the corner of his eye, how J'nylo rankled his muzzle as he was drinking--perhaps the other Khajiit found it even more distasteful than he did.

The Sister put it down aside her, and opened up one of the other jars of salve. "You're quite welcome. Dibella may not be the goddess of healing, but wounds mar the beauty of a strong body," she replied, raising an eyebrow knowingly, before withdrawing some of the healing semisolid herself. "Let's get you started on getting patched up."

Rakkan did his best not to wince as she applied the salve; while her touch was gentle and not hasty, the tenderness of the wounded areas begrudged her the aid. "How quickly does this...salve substance work?"

"Not as fast as a spell," Alma replied, "but it's a more natural take. It hastens the body's own efforts, and keeps the wound free of infection. And of course, it helps fend off scars," she added, "since Dibella would never want those who come to her aid to be, like Kendra said, marred."

"To her aid?" asked J'nylo, passing back his own flagon. "How are we helping Dibella?"

"You'll yet see," said Kendra. "But don't you worry. We wouldn't dream of demanding anything from you."

Rakkan wasn't sure if it was the drink or the lingering weariness, but fatigue and drowsiness began to slowly flood his senses. He had the presence of mind to unroll his bedroll, and half-cozy into it, leaving his torso uncovered so that Kendra could keep working--even if his getting in interrupted her efforts for a bit. "Feeling drowsy?" she asked, seeing his efforts.

"Yes, Rakkan is--very tired," he said, taking a wide and rather undignified yawn. "This one hopes the Sisters will not mind if he...rests a bit..."

Though Rakkan didn't really have the wherewithal to note it, J'nylo, too, was experiencing a case of heavier-than-usual eyelids, and he finally took out his bedroll, using it more like an oversized pillow than a sleeping bag per se, as the temple interior was reasonably warm, and he was mostly still clothed. Instead, Rakkan noted that he was better able to accommodate the probing rubs of the Sister tending to his wounds, and felt comfortable enough to let his eyes close, letting them take care of him...

Had he the presence of mind to think of it, Rakkan's groggy return to consciousness some time later would have seemed like the continuation of a pattern, but to him, it seemed that only a few moments had passed. Though he might later reflect on it as feeling clueless, at the time, he felt quite peaceful, warm, content, and pleasant.

Rakkan turned over onto his side, and noted a few mild twinges that were not habitual for him; slowly he raised his arm, and beheld some scratches, glazed in a shining substance, that seemed part-healed. He would later wonder why he didn't think more of it, but at the time, he simply noted it as a minor inconvenience, and remained quite untroubled.

As Rakkan lowered his arm, J'nylo, just beyond it, came into his slightly hazy focus. Ah yes, J'nylo, his traveling partner, his trusting charge and wounded friend. Friend, yes, that was a good word. He'd been through less with others he sometimes called that word, though at times he used it primarily to smooth over relationships that benefited him in ways not obvious to his so-called "friends." He preferred to keep them oblivious to that, too, and it nearly always worked well.

But again Rakkan found himself watching J'nylo sleeping, quite at peace, in this place that felt quite safe and calm, and found himself captivated with the resting Khajiit's appearance: vulnerable, innocent, and natural, without pretense or defense. In his heart welled up strange sensations, and it took him a while to place them; was it...attraction? Of course it was, he mused. J'nylo was, when Rakkan took the time to be honest with himself about it, a beautiful Khajiit, with silken fur, intact and pert ears, and when they were open, eyes that glinted like the finest cut amber. He was not unclever, nor insipid, but clearly admired Rakkan, and demonstrated impeccable manners and respect. Having taken care of him, Rakkan knew, too, that his build was strong, but agile, in the Khajiit ideal, lending itself well to virtually any pursuit that the clever and lucky race would set its eyes upon (heavy lifting was best left to the Nords and the Orcs, after all).

And it was clear that J'nylo was, at the very least, amicable with him. And a bachelor, too, assuming that he hadn't invented a name for himself in the same way that Rakkan had done. Rakkan had never really kissed another male, so in a decision he would always question, but never really regret, he decided to lean over and give one to the sleeping Khajiit next to him.

It was a gentle kiss, lightly upon the mouth, not invasive, but he opened his mouth slightly to let the end of J'nylo's into his own. It was entirely silent, aside from the rustling of his bedroll, but at the moment, Rakkan didn't really care if J'nylo woke up then and there. Part of him, really, somewhat wanted it to happen.

At that moment, however, it didn't. J'nylo didn't react in the slightest throughout the kiss, and for a few seconds after Rakkan slowly pulled away to simply watch the peaceful countenance below him. But then, a beatific smile slowly spread itself across J'nylo's visage, and Rakkan couldn't help but share one with the sleeping Khajiit.

There was no further reaction from the sleeper, and in a little while, J'nylo's smile slowly returned to a state of resting neutrality. Rakkan, however, wore his for a little while longer, simply watching, breathing the same air, inhaling the scent of another of his species--a welcome change from the Nord-sweat stench of many taverns he'd stayed in. After a moment, it occurred to him that J'nylo had been wounded and treated, and he decided to check on the matter.

He shifted a bit to give himself a good vantage, and found that the wound had been dressed with cleaner rags than he knew he possessed. A very small amount of blood had pinpointed through in a few places, but it was dark in the way that soaked-up blood without further flow to moisten it tended to be. Still feeling strangely detached from concerns, he gently toyed with some of the bandage edges, to see if perhaps he could get a better glimpse of the wound beneath. Upon touching, he could feel a slightly greasy substance, which he soon recollected was the healing salve.

Though Rakkan couldn't really get a good look at the wound beneath, he could see a bit of an edge of the injury, which had already returned to normal, healthy flesh--if perhaps lacking the fur that would cover an uninjured area, but that would return in due time. He gauged by looking at it that the wound had probably shrunk in diameter, which made him feel pleased.

The Khajiit below him shifted, and came to a propped-up position, and Rakkan drew back to look at his face. J'nylo had roused, if sleepily, and soon grew a calm smile. "This one greets you," J'nylo said, sounding quite content.

"And this one you," Rakkan replied. "Rakkan hopes Khajiit does not mind his examining the injury," though at the moment, Rakkan felt rather confident that all would be alright.

"It is no trouble," J'nylo stated. "Is it doing better?"

"So it would seem," said Rakkan. "Though Rakkan did not remove the bandages completely, just in case."

"Khajiit is so considerate to look after J'nylo."

"It is a pleasure to care for a noble one such as yourself," Rakkan replied, continuing to feel full of the attraction to his companion in a calm and peaceful way.

"J'nylo is no noble...that is clearly the domain of one named 'Rakkan.'"

Rakkan chuckled quietly. "It is just a little thing. Titles only mean something to those who respect them."

"This one respects you...greatly," J'nylo said, slowly, vulnerability in his eyes.

"Is this so?" Rakkan asked, hints of a knowing smile toying at his affect.

"Yes, by the ja-Kha'jay, it is so."

"Khajiit is free to demonstrate it, if he likes," said Rakkan, opening the door with his words to whatever the other male might seek. At the moment, he felt as though anything that would happen could only be good.

J'nylo eyed him for a hesitant moment, then hastily scrambled forward, drawing his savior into an earnest kiss with both hands. It was clumsy and it was hungry, inarticulate in the way that expresses a long-held yet unfulfilled desire suddenly thrust into reach. He abruptly pulled back from it, a sentiment of distinct horror expressed in his appearance. "Oh...J'nylo is...sorry to be so forward--" His eyes scanned Rakkan's visage for any signs of reaction.

Rakkan simply smiled wider, radiating confidence and ease. "Khajiit may continue to express respect such as that. Rakkan could get used to--"

He was stifled as J'nylo came back in for another...this one a bit more tempered, less hasty, as the realization that the gesture was appreciated imbued the bachelor male with greater confidence in his actions. When J'nylo withdrew just a bit to take a breath, Rakkan then initiated a kiss of his own, enjoying this one much more thoroughly than the one he'd taken while the other male had yet been sleeping.

After their exchange of heated kisses, they both drew back a tad, breathing heavily. "J'nylo is usually much more...reserved in his advances," the eponymous Khajiit said, "but he feels more...confident right now..."

"Rakkan is much the same," said the adventurer. "Watching Khajiit rest made him feel unusually fond of his friend."

"If this is being simply fond, J'nylo wonders what Khajiit's love feels like in earnest..."

The mere mention of such a thing caused passion to flare within Rakkan. "Perhaps Khajiit would like to find out?"

J'nylo's pupils visibly widened at Rakkan's suggestion. "This one--Khajiit--but where?" he finally breathed, apparently overcoming any resistance or need for polite demureness.

Rakkan turned his gaze away to assess the temple more thoroughly. "See how the lights have been dimmed? It is likely to be night outside. The Sisters will have gone home...wherever home is for them. We will use Khajiit's oversized bedroll, and if they should happen to ask, we will say that we felt somewhat cold, on the stone floor."

"It is a clever idea," said J'nylo, already scrambling to remove his bedroll from its bundled-up status as an ersatz pillow, and unfurling it to full length and width. Rakkan extricated himself from his own, and yanked it hastily into a pile in the corner, so it would be out of the way.

J'nylo slipped into his bedroll, holding it open for Rakkan, looking up with thinly-veiled excitement in his eyes. Rakkan shucked off his boots, which in his weariness earlier, he'd neglected to take off. "Is Khajiit planning to remain dressed as well?" he asked mischievously of J'nylo, who, though wearing primarily furs, was still essentially clothed.

The other Khajiit looked towards his feet. "Oh. No, that would be...unhelpful, this one thinks," he said, sounding a bit embarrassed. He hastily stripped off his mantle-like assemblage of furs, then those around his waist, placing them aside.

Again he held open the bedroll. "Alright, J'nylo is--"

But Rakkan was already there, silencing him with a slow and deep kiss as he made his way into the bedroll aside J'nylo. The Khajiit slowly melted onto his back, letting the bedroll's upper leaf fall limply over them as he lost himself in the embrace of their muzzles. What started as mere kissing--if rather sensuous--soon progressed to wandering hands, slow movements of one furred body against the other, and contented purrs.

"Khajiit is very good at kissing," J'nylo finally breathed. "And tastes of sweet moon sugar..."

"The Sisters can be thanked for that," Rakkan replied, "but Rakkan kisses well even without it." As if to prove his point, he twisted his muzzle back in for another.

Soon Rakkan felt J'nylo's hands questing down his body, tentatively, as though a dragon might lurk around the bend of his hips or the prominences of his abdominal muscles. Rakkan balanced himself with one hand, and used the other to guide one of J'nylo's down more courageously, giving a devilish purr into their shared kiss. He let it go once it had reached the waistband of his breechcloth, letting the other Khajiit get the message while he resumed a position of better balance.

It didn't take long before J'nylo had disrobed the both of them, even if it took some squirming to get it done--neither one was bothered by such a necessity. Though it hadn't been hard to get the impression, being finally in the buff let them both realize that neither one was anything but aroused by the circumstances at hand--something Rakkan certainly hadn't expected, but in the moment, felt nothing but reasonable. Adventure-worn flesh, clad in lush pelage, slid unhindered over the body of the stealthy merchant, creating a slow dance to the beat of their liplock.

Rakkan felt J'nylo's fingers slide alongside his own length, slowly, provoking in him a purr as he enjoyed the touch along the sensitive flesh. "Khajiit is...gifted," J'nylo said, a tone of hushed awe in his voice. Rakkan felt the fingers press inward, as though to wrap around his lance, and with a touch of bemusement he lifted his hips just enough to give them room to do so. A quiet breath passed between J'nylo's lips. "Yes, very gifted..."

"Was it not so long ago that Khajiit praised Rakkan's dagger, and not his sword?" said Rakkan. "There are times and uses for both, and where one is less ideal." The statement, born of a sense of equanimity, was an unusual one for Rakkan, all told--but it came from him as though it were the simplest of facts. He punctuated it by slowly sliding his along J'nylo's own length, using a delicate amount of force that would make it ever so tantalizing.

"Oh..." J'nylo gasped, screwing up his eyes and tilting his head back. "Never has another male touched J'nylo like this..."

"It is rare that Rakkan desires such things," the warrior replied, "but for Khajiit, it seemed...right. J'nylo is lovely to him." He slowly nibbled alongside the neck of the Khajiit below him.

"J'nylo...hopes Khajiit will desire this often," the one below replied, breathing heavily. His hands were fumbling, sliding around inarticulately, drinking in via touch what he could not see between them--the body of the male who had saved him, and bestowed favor and kindness upon him.

For a bit they became silent again, exploring with hands and mouths, tasting, nibbling, scratching, sliding, two bodies becoming acquainted without barriers; two souls experiencing kindred in a faraway land of harshness. The bedroll, being roomy, left them space to share, and air to help dissipate the heat building up between their excited bodies.

Then Rakkan twisted smoothly, clasping J'nylo as he did so, causing them to invert. It provoked in J'nylo a nervous chuckle. "Ah...does Khajiit want something of J'nylo?", he asked, propping himself up a bit once he'd stopped rotating.

Rakkan paused for a beat, merely looking into the other Khajiit's eyes. "Look at Rakkan," he finally said. "Feel him with your body, and spirit. Can Khajiit not truly sense the answer, then?"

J'nylo looked aside, self-conscious. "...no. That is...this one can sense it, but..."

Rakkan eyed him with genuine concern. "Yes?"

"This one has never...done such a thing." The Khajiit sucked in his lower lip briefly.

Rakkan smiled wider, relieved that this was his mere concern. "Rakkan, too, has never done this with a male before. But he is sure we both know what is done, if we are honest." He slowly rocked his hips as he spoke, drawing his length back along J'nylo's loins in the process. "If Khajiit looks in Rakkan's pack, he will find a flask of Jazbay seed oil...it would be wise to get it."

J'nylo looked a bit confused, but he nodded, and scrambled out of the bedroll briefly. After a bit of rummaging, he returned with a vial of moderate size. "J'nylo hopes that this is the right one..."

Rakkan accepted it as J'nylo slid back into the bedroll, and undid its stopper, taking a sniff and immediately finding its heady aroma upon his nose. "Yes, this is the one. Would Khajiit like to be the one to apply it?"

A moment's consideration visibly percolated through J'nylo's awareness. "Yes, this one thinks so." Rakkan was not surprised, considering the Khajiit's eagerness to grasp and touch the pride of his loins.

"Then Khajiit will do well to apply it upon Rakkan's flesh, as well as where it will go." The declaration was a subtle act of dominance, but he did not expect to encounter resistance to the idea.

J'nylo slowly nodded, taking sort of a kitty-corner position in the bedroll, leaving his hands relatively easy access to Rakkan's groin, while maintaining a good degree of body contact. He seemed a bit clumsy as he poured some onto his palms, and then began slicking up Rakkan's member with it. Rakkan drew in the other male's head for another luxurious kiss, once the other Khajiit's hands had found their destination, to help draw him back out of his self-consciousness and into the erotic moment.

Fingering, however, was not an option with the clawed Khajiit. "How will J'nylo get it inside himself?" the Khajiit finally asked, when he was done with both the kiss and the application of lubrication to his well-endowed companion.

"See how the flask's neck is thin?" Rakkan asked, taking it briefly into his hands. "The oil on Khajiit's fingers is helpful, applied to the outside. The tip can then slide inside, and drizzle some into Khajiit's passages." It was a tactic Rakkan had never used before, but ingenuity was with him.

"If...if Khajiit says so," J'nylo said, sounding a bit uneasy. But he did as Rakkan asked, and Rakkan helped him guide the flask accordingly with one hand, while kneading the toned hindquarters of his companion with the other. J'nylo took in an audible breath as the smooth but cool tip of the flask entered him, and Rakkan tilted the bottle this way and that, to ensure that the oil would leave it while the opening was still inside him.

They withdrew it slowly, and Rakkan could feel the flesh between J'nylo's cheeks tense once it had escaped. He fumbled for the cap, not wanting to dribble oil all over the interior of J'nylo's bedroll. "Do not worry," he assured J'nylo, "that was the hard part." He wasn't sure if he was right, but it seemed the right thing to say.

"Is...J'nylo ready, then?" the Khajiit asked, nervousness and excitement mingling in his eyes.

"Only Khajiit can say," replied Rakkan, smiling wide, "but Rakkan believes he is."

J'nylo returned to a position atop Rakkan, his upper body propped up somewhat, creating space between their chests. He tilted onto one hand, and slowly reached behind and underneath himself to grasp the oil-slicked shaft that pulsed beneath him. He inclined it upwards, then pushed back, but missed, and tried again. He pushed back harder this time, but still didn't quite have the right spot, causing Rakkan to wince a bit as the force bent against his sensitive spear.

"This one doesn't seem to be doing it right," J'nylo said, self-consciously.

"Do not worry," Rakkan repeated. "Rakkan will assist."

He slowly took his time with his hands, palming and groping across J'nylo's rear, and he could feel the Khajiit's body relax with the intimate attention. He slowly used one hand to find the aperture between J'nylo's cheeks, being mindful of where his claws were going all the while, and with the other, he grasped his own shaft and aimed to bring the two together. When his touch satisfied him that the two were approximated, he said "Khajiit should push now."

J'nylo did so, and immediately winced. "Ah...that does feel different...somewhat sore..." But the Khajiit did not stop pushing, regardless, and Rakkan could feel the Khajiit's flesh begin to part as his turgid tip was pressed into that untried passage.

Rakkan kneaded, palmed, stroked, and caressed, as J'nylo continued slowly pushing, and he could feel the progress slowly accelerate, as the new sensation became less alien and novel to the Khajiit accepting him. Soon the head of his shaft was inside, and J'nylo paused, panting.

"Is it...inside J'nylo?" the recipient asked.

"Only the head of it," said Rakkan, reaching up to gently caress the Khajiit's cheek in encouragement. "But Khajiit is doing so well, and feels so good to Rakkan..."

J'nylo nodded. "This one will not lollygag, then," he stated, and promptly began pushing again, his face tightening in an expression of effort.

The intimate stimulation to Rakkan's member was a rarity in his own experience, and certainly not a recent one, and it was making him as hard as could be--letting him feel in exquisite relief the soft-yet-tight contours of J'nylo's innards, as they slowly flowed over it. Most of the ladies he'd been with had been non-Khajiit, with only one exception--but all were not tight like this. All did not have the sort of desperate hunger and admiration that clearly filled J'nylo now, and it heightened his passion for the experience of the moment. He had to fight to keep from thrusting up into that restrictive passageway, because he knew it would hurt J'nylo, as good as that movement would likely feel to Rakkan,

And then something novel happened...J'nylo's eyes popped open, and he simultaneously let out a "Hoh!--ohhhh..." Rakkan could feel the corridors of J'nylo's flesh abruptly loosen significantly, and suddenly he was sliding, rather than crawling, deeper within.

"What is it?" said Rakkan, feeling a bit mystified. But that did not last long, for soon he gasped as well, feeling so much of his shaft submerging into that delectable warmth, for the first time in so long.

But J'nylo could not answer. He was panting, instead, transfixed, until within a few moments, his rump came firmly to rest against Rakkan's loins, and he gave a moan of rapture.

Rakkan felt pleased to see that it had become so pleasurable, and held further questions, instead slowly moving his hips to feel all angles of delight his penetration could afford him.

"Oh...truly...this is a gift..." J'nylo breathed, continuing to take short and quick breaths, giving small twitches now and again amidst Rakkan's subtle movements.

"Yes?" said Rakkan, still savoring every second.

"It is tight...it is sore, yes, but there is...something so good...so lovely--ah!--ahhh...things--just such as that...please do not stop doing that to--to this one..." His composure was shattered, and he had become like putty atop Rakkan, responding rather than acting, and clearly bathed in euphoria.

Rakkan let out a purr of satisfaction that was wholly spontaneous. "Mmm...Rakkan is also delighted. Perhaps Khajiit would like to...take it again?"

J'nylo bit his lower lip, then slowly nodded. He slowly pulled away, inch after inch leaving him as he drew in an audible breath--then, stopping just below the head, he braced himself. "This...this is not quite so good to J'nylo," he said, breathlessly.

"Then by all means, take it in a--ahhh..." Rakkan was cut off by J'nylo beginning to impale himself more fully once more, and he was pushing harder now, which, coupled with the enhanced looseness of his insides, made it a swifter maneuver. J'nylo's fervent moan joined him in an instant, and punctuated itself with gasps along the way.

"Oh, it is...ahhh...it makes stars come before J'nylo's sight--ahn! Ahhh..."

"It is the best that--fff--Rakkan's flesh has ever felt," Rakkan responded, forthrightly.

J'nylo was shaky as he lowered his upper body, but his hunger to take Rakkan's mouth into his own again was too strong to ignore, and they kissed deeply, nasal moans and gasps peppering the exchange profligately. Not long into it, Rakkan began pushing upward into the other Khajiit, and though they were already hilted as one, the movement still struck chords within J'nylo's spirit, making it harder for him to stay connected in the kiss.

"Ah...ahh!" he finally said, breaking away. "It is--ah! It is so good!" He began to draw away and counterthrust in unison, the movement gradually increasing in both distance and frequency, as both wanted to intensify the moment.

All potential concerns about noise, if perhaps tangential before, became immaterial. Soon J'nylo had merely locked his arms in place, and was doing everything he could with his lower torso and hips to intensify the movement, making an incredible amount of satisfied sound as Rakkan took more of the impetus into his own hands. Neither was he silent, of course, for he was enjoying the encounter immensely...but as the heat rose within his body, this sort of limited involvement became less ideal to the passions of his spirit.

He eventually let out a hungry growl, and used his arms to sweep both of J'nylo's planted hands out from under him, causing the confused Khajiit to slump onto Rakkan's body. Rakkan wasted no time in twisting them back over into their original alignment, still embedded deeply within the other Khajiit all the while, and adopted his own posture of balance.

They paused and simply panted for a moment, reorienting. Then J'nylo spoke: "Please, Khajiit...take me completely..."

Rakkan did not respond verbally, letting his loins do the talking as he began to slam himself into J'nylo with a ferocity that would have made Malakesh or Talos proud. J'nylo was immediately beyond words, becoming yet louder in his expressions of guttural rapture.

Time and again, Rakkan hilted those ten-and-some inches of solid arousal within J'nylo's slicked flesh, occasionally diving in for carnivorous kisses, and tender bites along J'nylo's neck and shoulders. J'nylo's own arousal had begun leaking even while he was atop Rakkan, but now it oozed continuously, pulsing and jerking with the impacts and the beat of the receiving male's own heart. J'nylo's sounds reached a fever pitch, but Rakkan muffled them with a ferocity-laden kiss, and they still grew more insistent as he reached a climax between them, spattering their bodies in motion with the seed of his loins.

This made Rakkan louder, as J'nylo's insides clenched and contorted around his girth, but he was not ready to climax yet. He scooped up J'nylo under his armpits, and brought his strength to bear in standing up, the orgasm-racked Khajiit limp in his arms. Neither one could possibly care about the modicum of privacy the bedroll provided, and Rakkan braced the Khajiit's back against the stone temple wall, before resuming his impetuous rutting.

For a time, J'nylo was simply the subject of Rakkan's incandescent mating fervor, making much less noise, his eyes rolled up and his limbs limp and shaking with orgasmic weakness. But his wits soon began to recover, and for a few moments he was surprised at how Rakkan kept going--but as his own ability to experience arousal returned (and in a moment like this, it was bound to do so), he soon began to use his arms to draw Rakkan's body tighter to him, and clasp the other male with his legs, increasing the intimacy between them.

The predatorial impulse within Rakkan's spirit was immense, and he had the situation well at hand. He pounded J'nylo's hindquarters relentlessly, reaping every iota of satisfaction from the pleasure it awarded them both. His delight expressed itself often and loud, much of the time as growls and grunts that struck a counterpoint to J'nylo's more mellifluous vocalizations. But his body knew what it wanted, and the exertion of the new position taxed his endurance more rapidly than their previous arrangement.

Soon his thrusts suddenly stopped being long and deep, and a growl whose tone rose in several tiers came from his throat as he made a few short thrusts, then drew nearly completely out, quivering in anticipation--then it became a roar as he hilted himself with immense force, his issue coursing out of his shaft, deep within J'nylo, and his hips continued to pound even though he was embedded to the utmost of his length. J'nylo gave a masculine scream as another orgasm tore itself from his body, inspired and driven home without his anticipation of it, by Rakkan's own primal climax.

Rakkan continued to thrust without withdrawal as his orgasm had its way with his body, the energy of it only slowly dying away as his climax did the same. J'nylo's scream died away much sooner than did his own pressurized flow of seed, adding a second coat of glistening glaze to the layers of fur between them.

They breathed heavily and rapidly, the bliss of the moment tempered with the exertion both had experienced. J'nylo sought out Rakkan's muzzle for a tentative, plaintive kiss, and received one, if it was brief--both needed air even more.

J'nylo felt like an ever-heavier weight in Rakkan's arms, as the latter's adrenaline ebbed, and soon he sank to the ground, leaning his head against the wall as he continued panting.

"That...was the best thing...that has ever happened...to this one," J'nylo said, meaning every word.

"Better...than even skooma," Rakkan agreed.

"Perhaps it will addict us, too..." J'nylo mused.

"At least...it is no crime," Rakkan stated, citing the illegality of skooma and moon sugar in some locales.

"Even better," said J'nylo, giving a tired chuckle, before seeking another kiss.

Neither remembered how they got into the bedroll, but they would wake up in the morning, naked as jaybirds, within it--and each other's arms.

"You know," said Alma, in the inner sanctum of the temple, "that concoction knocked them out so very fast. Are you sure it wasn't too strong?"

"Not at all," Kendra replied. "But they did get a little bit of that new blend Therase has been working on."

"What?" Alma's eyes grew wide. "But--"

"It's alright," Kendra assured her. "They're not from here. No one will know if their actions are unusual, for them. They're even Khajiit."

"Is that really fair?"

"We're healing them and giving them quarter, for free. We could have always sent them down to the Warrens, you know."

The little girl of the temple, the prophetic Sibyl of Dibella, slowly walked over to them. "Dibella tells me that she is happy with the actions of the Khajiit on our temple floor. They are acting in her honor even now, though they do not know it."

Kendra smiled with satisfaction. "I had a feeling Therase might have gotten the brew right this time. I'll have to let her know...it won't be long before the passions of the town are at our fingertips."