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A Tooth In The Hand

A quiet Turdas eve befell Rawl'ka. Citizens milled about outside, occasionally engaging in chatter with one another; vendors closed their stalls for the day, counting their earnings. To the north of the city, an inn-and-tavern by the name of the Waxing Crescent had garnered a small assemblage.

In the dim yellow light, the primary visitors were four or five Nords – always getting up to refill their flagons, it would be hard to keep count. Loud, obnoxious and in the center of the room, they drunkenly called to a bard, playing her lute by a window. Requests of "Do you know this song" interrupting her performance, the bard's growing irritation grew visible on her face. The Nords seemed to find this comical. If they weren't interrupting her performance with requests, they would taunt her with unwanted advances; trying to put an arm around her shoulder or asking what she might be doing later. The bard seemed to be used to this treatment, handling their unsavory remarks with grace, managing to continue her performance for the other patrons remarkably well.

Among the other patrons, who gathered in small groups or independently in the darker corners of the room, speaking in hushed tones and occasionally shooting judgemental glances at the ruckus in the center of the room. Of these patrons would be Al'khajir, leaned against the wall in the corner of an empty booth. His fingers danced through a woman's coin purse, inspecting its contents and placing the valuables in his own satchel. He turned the bag in his hands, deciding it held no value and placing it under the table beside him. The earnings of the day were meager, the market having been quiet. His pickpocketing skills excelled in a crowd he could slip through, and today he had to rely on unassuming prey wandering off on their own. An innocent collision of bodies, leaving the Khajiit with the contents of their pockets; this method had proven reliable, but a Khajiit so frequently clumsy got spotted easily. He made a few choice swipes and made a swift end of his own working day.

The observant Khajiit had noted a certain Nord in the center of the room getting up less frequently, now. One who harassed the bard less. His face was rosy, clearly having had too much mead. And his eyes... The bleary eyes had scoured the room, finding the cat leaned against the wall in the dark corner. Al’khajir could feel the gaze rest upon him every now and again as the Nord snuck glances. Not reciprocating the glances, Al’khajir did not need a conversation or even a look to know what caught the man's interest; men like him only paid attention to the things they wanted. Sometimes those desires were less than respectable – even dirty, plundering Nords such as he had an unspoken code they needed to conduct themselves by.

Al'khajir laid in wait. The group of Nords, tiring of their relentless verbal onslaught of the poor bard, made their way outside under the guise of needing to relieve themselves. As they stumbled outside, he could hear the men barely making it through the doors of the tavern before calling at a passerby, it seemed. However, they left one critical thing in their wake: The now-lone rosy-cheeked Nord, still sitting in the center of the room. He watched his companions exit, waited a moment for the commotion to commence outside, then reexamined the room. His gaze once again found the Khajiit.

Pockets still light for the day, Al'khajir’s eyes flitted up to Nord fleetingly, thinking. The man clearly valued discretion, which was something Al'khajir was happy to oblige... For a price. Finally receiving the Nord with a gentle smile, the Khajiit stood. He made his way past the Nord, whose head twisted to follow Al'khajir's tail as he passed by. Stopping at the bar, he greeted the Wood Elf who attended it, placing his elbows on the bar.

"Doldoniel," his voice was soft, yet raspy as he spoke her name.

"Mysterious Khajiit," she replied, with a sly smile. She recognized him, but had yet to learn his name. Al'khajir slid a few coins across the bartop.

"Could this one spend the night, perhaps with some tea?" His smile was just as sly as hers. This was routine for the pair. Doldoniel took the coins and obliged with a room key, placing it in the Khajiit's open palm. Al'khajir stood to his full height, closing a fist around the key and giving a curt nod to the barkeep. He then turned his head to the side, his eyes travelling further to glance at the Nord, whose head was still twisted in his direction. Al'khajir spun the key on his finger, sauntering forward to the stairwell that led to the rooms.

Al'khajir would only make it up three stairs before the heavy stomp of Nord footsteps could be heard behind him. Ascending to the top, the Khajiit made his way to the third door down. The hot mead-scented breath blowing over his shoulder, Al'khajir glanced up at the Nord looming over as he unlocked the door. The man was tall, with the broad shoulders of a warrior. His beard was long and unkempt aside from a few braids, the color of an unfrosted sweetroll with grey hairs here and there. Old scars on the exposed parts of his arms and on his face, tanned skin. Yellow scleras from years of overconsuming alcohol, decorated with ocean-green eyes. He still donned his armor, traditional Skyrim steel plates with furs padding it. Mead breath aside, he smelled of blood and sweat. Filthy, to be expected. Al'khajir did not let the judgement show on his face, looking forward as the door creaked open.

Almost before they could step into the room, the Nord grabbed the Khajiit by the shoulder, using one calloused hand to pin him to the wall and the other to slam the door shut. The man brought his face close to Al'khajir's, exhaling heavily through his nose as he inspected his dessert. Al'khajir showed no fear at this action. He knew this show of aggression was nothing more than the mere primal urge of a man asserting his dominance. Besides, the mead-drunk Nord would be easy enough to knock around if he got out of hand. Not to mention, such "fearsome" warriors, at their core, truly ever only wanted one thing: A warm, soft body to keep him company while he rested. The battle-scarred savage was always a facade for the desire of a tender touch.

Pressing a palm gently up against the Nord's chest, Al'khajir finally spoke. "Hmm, why not lay down... Relax... While this one prepares some tea, yes?" His voice was sweet and gentle now, still accented with a common Khajiiti rasp. The Nord pondered for a moment, before obliging with a low mutter. His eyes wandered to the Khajiit's waist, eyes trying to see beyond the form-fitting black leather armor, then taking a few steps to the bed and sitting, floorboards creaking under his feet.

Al'khajir turned to a table beside the door. On it was a flickering candle, a teapot, and two cups. Doldoniel always left some out for the guests. With his back to the Nord, Al'khajir began pouring some tea. His tail swayed as the Nord began to tell his tale, unprompted.

"We are headed to Valenwood, to trade," he bellowed. "We were sent by the jarl of Riften to collect goods from there. And whatever 'goods' we could find on our way, heh heh." The man chuckled to himself. Al'khajir approached, footsteps silent across the floorboards, holding a cup of tea and presenting it to the Nord, who promptly began to drink. As the man continued, Al'khajir slowly began removing the steel plates that adorned the Nord's body.

"There were some caravan bandits along the way, yeh? Not too far from here, a day's travel maybe. Waiting by the road for some of yer kind to come along 'n take yer wares." The man flashed a crooked smile. Al'khajir looked at his distorted reflection in the numerous gold teeth, not to be confused with the other rotting yellow ones. He didn't appreciate the insinuation that all Khajiit were apart of caravans, but maintained his soft smile. "We cut 'em up. Tore one apart with my bare hands," the man cracked his knuckles in an effort to impress the Khajiit, "So no more troubles. We took over their camp 'n stayed there last night. This place... much nicer though." With the last comment, the Nord's hand found its way to Al'khajir's side, slowly making its way down until it found the feline's behind. Feeling. Giving him a wink.

Al'khajir removed the last piece of armor, the chestplate; unhooking the straps, he pulled it off the Nord's chest. The fur lining was crusted with dried blood and sweat, the steel covered in cuts and dents. The Nord's chest was similar to the steel, chest hair matted against his scarred, rough skin. Placing the chestplate up against the wall, he then reached for the Nord’s tea cup, who handed it over while continuing to feel on the Khajiit. While he did so, Al’khajir looked into the cup: as he had hoped, empty. He put the cup on the nightstand beside the bed, now straddling the Nord’s thighs and sitting in his lap, placing his hands on the man’s shoulders.

“Don’t ye want to er, uh, get more comfortable?” The man smirked and slapped Al’khajir’s rear. Al’khajir retained his calm smile, letting his hands slide down to the man’s chest, giving a gentle shove.

“Mm, you first…” Letting the gentle shove push him down, the Nord now laid on his back. His hands rested on Al’khajir’s hips as the Khajiit leaned in, placing his hands between the man’s torso and arms.

“Ye know what ta do, kitty.” The Nord stared at Al’khajir expectantly now, his tone less asking and more commanding. Al’khajir nodded, slowly standing and making his way to the foot of the bed as the man watched. Turning, he began to fidget with the buckles holding his armor on his chest, but not removing them. His head slowly turned, using his peripheral to watch the Nord.

A look of growing concern grew on the Nord’s face. As he watched Al’khajir, he couldn’t help but want to reach out to… assist him in undressing. Alas, he found his arms heavy, fingers numb. Even attempting to lean up, he found himself entirely feeble and unable to move more than an inch. His entire body became more numb by the second; even his eyelids got heavy. His eyes darted to the teacup on the table.

“What… did you… do…cat…” The Nord’s speech was slurring, even his jaw working against him. He could barely keep his eyes open. Al’khajir took a few slow steps to the man’s side, leaning in a little and inspecting his now-agape mouth as the muscles failed to hold his jaw shut. Reaching into his sleeve, the Khajiit produced two vials and waved them in front of the Nord’s face, his once-soft smile now a taunting smirk.

“Like you said, Nord. ‘Kitty’ knows what to do.” The last thing the Nord would see before succumbing to the disguised sleeping potion was Al’khajir revealing a claw and reaching into his mouth.

–

Al’khajir counted the gold teeth in his palm. Six in total, not bad. After using the bedsheet to shine them and wipe the blood from his fingers, he placed the teeth in his pocket. Reaching into the slumbering Nord’s pockets, he pulled out a handful of gold coins, but nothing else of value. Al’khajir sighed, looking at the man’s possessions around the room. Beaten armor, worthless. Satchel, perhaps something inside… Aha, the boots. Al’khajir hadn’t removed the man’s boots yet.

His hands slid down the one boot, the inside warm and damp. Al’khajir frowned to himself, feeling around to no avail. Doing the same inspection with the other, he found a dagger stashed. Pulling it out, the knife was made of high quality silver. Impressive, for a Nord; surely this knife had been stolen from someone. Upon examination of the hilt, he found a few gemstones. Al’khajir produced his own knife, using the tip of the blade to wedge them out. Holding one up to the light and squinting, he believed it to be diamond. What a find! He stood, stuffing the knife into his own boot and the loose gemstone into his pocket. Another glint caught his eye, this time a wedding band on the man’s finger. Al’khajir grabbed it, and with a few yanks, the ring came off the thick finger. He couldn’t help but to think of the poor maiden who had the misfortune of marrying such a vile creature. Those Nordic women were a different breed, he supposed.

Satisfied with his findings, Al’khajir leaned down, kissed the Nord on the forehead, and grabbed the man’s satchel before opening the second-story window. The sound of wildlife chirping and croaking filled the room as the warm night air rushed in. The Khajiit sat on the sill, feet hanging out of the window, pulling up his hood before jumping to the ground below. Landing elegantly, he looked up and around to see the familiar Wood Elf, Doldoniel, leaning up against the wall beside where he landed.

“Get everything you wanted and more, yeah? Perhaps you’ll marry and get whisked away to Skyrim?” Doldoniel giggled as Al’khajir shook his head, producing the ring for her.

“Your cut.” Al’khajir dropped the ring and the room key into Doldoniel’s hand. “This one would not take that as a proposal. Perhaps get him to bathe first.” The two shared a quick laugh, before Al’khajir moved to step away. Doldoniel stepped with him.

“Wait,” she exclaimed, in a hushed tone. “You must tell me your name, by now. I keep helping you with your little heists. What is this, number three? Four?” Al’khajir paused, giving it some consideration. It had actually been six, but he had employed the chef for two of these so-called ‘little heists.’ He turned his head back to the elf.

“Khaji,” he said quietly, providing her with the nickname only those close to him used. Straightening himself out, he stalked off into the night, rummaging through the newly-collected satchel in search of a new prize.

“Goodnight, Khaji,” Doldonie’s voice trailed, her farewell going unreciprocated. She watched as Al’khajir rounded a corner, staring for a moment before slowly turning back to the tavern. The bard, who had since packed up her lute, was on her way out; the two stood in the doorway to gossip as the group of Nords approached to search for their missing companion.