Muraid awoke, hands bound and moving. His ears perked up first, then his eyes opened. He had come a long way from the barren sands of Elswyer, and now he was a prisoner.
He shrugged his wrists, trying to slice the bind with his claws to no avail. He was in a cart with three men, one's mouth bound shut with a filthy rag. The other men were silent, one was clad in blue and silver chain mail, the other in nothing more than rags.
The man in chain spoke, "Ah, the cat's awake! Tell me, brother, when did you arrive in Skyrim? My name is Ralof."
The Khajiit looked at him quizzically, as if he had not understood what he said. The man looked nervously at the Khajiit's claws.
"Do not worry, Ralof, Khajiit will not kill you. I arrived in this land many moons ago, before your leader used the Voice to overthrow the king..." The Khajiit smiled wryly, then exclaimed, "...Khajiit also knows the suffering to come. We must cease this speak." Muraid said abruptly.
Helgan, the very place Muraid had been running from. He had stolen an heirloom, and set off to fence it, all along having the Whierun Guard chasing him. The Guard caught him, sure enough, but the ambush had cut off his escape.
The mousey man in rags had said nothing until then, "Suffering? Cat, if you don't speak sense I'll remove your tongue with my hands bound!"
The Khajiit looked at him starkly, and smiled, revealing large fangs and incisors. The little man shrunk away from his tough words, and the Khajiit grinned wickedly. "I am Muraid of the Sands, I come from Elsweyr."
The wagon driver barked back at them, "Pipe down back there!"
The mousey man spoke again, "What's gotten into him?"
The guard glared back at the sickly man.
"And you are Lokir. Muraid knows much about you, horse thief. You have done many foul things, killed many good things. For which I'm certain... you will perish."
Lokir's nostrils flared while the Khajiit continued to grin.
Helgan. They had arrived after a half a day's , this particular Imperial person, the Khajiit did not know much about, but his shiny armor gave it all away. He was the man in charge, and he was aiming to behead all of them.
"Well, this is it, cat," Ralof jested grimly, "The end of the line."
They stepped out of the wagon after all that time, the Nords almost staggered face-first into the dirt, when Muraid slinked gracefully down onto the cobblestones. He stepped forward, trying to push his way in front of the others, as if he were trying to buy some time. Then a grunt came ominously from behind him. Ulfric Stormcloak stood next to the cat and glanced at him. He certainly had a commander's bravado, even when his mouth was covered and gagged, Muraid thought.
One by one, the prisoners stepped to the block. First, Ulfric, Jarl of Windhelm, then Ralof of Riverwood. The horse thief ran from his fate, and met his demise at the fate of arrows.
When the axe started swinging, Muraid heard a very peculiar sound. It sounded like thunder. Abruptly, the clouds shifted into a vortex, and out of the clouds a giant black dragon appeared.
Muraid's head was splitting with agony, he stumbled forth into the mouth of madness, and grinned, because Fate had dealt his hand in his favor.
Ralof shouted at Muraid, "Come, cat! Come! We must escape!"
Muraid grimaced as he ran, a piece of stone was lodged in his bare footpad, and was bleeding heavily. He collapsed once he reached the tower. He pulled the bit of stone out of his paw and wrapped his tunic around the wound.
Muraid leaned against a wall for a moment for respite, but found none. Ralof insisted that they move. Muraid chuckled through his fangs, "End of the line."