The Keys of Khagemar
Prologue
The working day in Whiterun had ended. Labourers had gone home or to the nearest tavern to spend their hard-earned gold. City Guards had exchanged shifts, the night owls beginning their watch over the city for thieves or back-alley skooma deals. It was the third month of the year, First Seed, meaning the snows of the new year were waning and only a brisk chill remained to let people know that the land of Skyrim remained a cold and bitter place.
In the Bannered Mare, it was a night like any other, however. Patrons drank and laughed as they exchanged pleasantries and chatter about their days work. Veterans of the war sat by the fire-pit, telling stories of the battles they had seen and the friends they had lost.
Drinking to someone's memory was a common sight nowadays, the Stormcloak Rebellion had seen more bloodshed than Skyrim had known for the past decade, but the Imperials presence remained strong in the country despite the unrest the Nords had caused. Even one of the esteemed Companions had descended from the nearby hall of Jorrvaskr, Farkas. He'd come to play drinking games and get to know the townspeople - especially the women.
But in a shadowy corner of the tavern, an ageing Nord man approached a figure sitting alone at a table, wrapped in a hooded cloak that shrouded his face from view. The candlelight flickered around him, the shadows almost bending to keep him obscured from the scrutiny of the rest of the patrons.
The hooded figure tended to his bow while listening to the noise of the tavern absent-mindedly. He waxed the bowstring carefully, rubbing the material up the length of the string carefully with his fingers. The figure caressed the weapon as gently as another man might touch their lover. Each movement was slow, steady and coordinated. The only reason the figure ever paused the maintenance of his weapon was to take a swig of ale from his tankard.
The Nord cleared his throat to gain the figure's attention once he was close enough. The figure raised his head ever so slightly, a pair of piercing yellow eyes staring at the Nord who had interrupted his cleaning ritual.
The eyes of a Khajiit.
"Um, hello." The Nord spoke, his voice shaky and nervous. "My name is Ragvir. I'm here to offer you a contract."
"Three hundred Septims. That is this one's starting price." The figure in the cloak spoke with a voice like gravel; he didn't bother to even glance at Ragvir. He knew he'd crumble, the cloaked figure had seen it all before. The nervous approach, the pleasantries, the bargaining and then the request. The Khajiit would rather the Nord just cut to the chase and be done with it.
"I don't... I can't..." Ragvir sputtered, a peasant, judging from his bedraggled clothes and dirty face. "I work at the Honningbrew Meadery, that's more than I make in three months!"
"That sounds like your problem, Ragvir." The figure replied with a cocky smirk. His face obscured by his hood, only his lips on show. The Khajiit's focus never wavered from his tankard for more than a few moments. "Did you know that the Argonians on the Windhelm docks do not make a single Septim for their back-breaking work?"
"I, er, I don't..." Ragvir stuttered, rubbing the back of his neck as he tried to find the words, but stumbled at the first syllable.
"As a matter of fact," he took a long swig from his tankard, turning on his stool to regard the man who had offered him this contract, "This one doubts you've ever even been to Windhelm, no?"
Ragvir was silent.
"Well?" The Khajiit asked, an eyebrow raised.
"Oh, er, n-no. I've never been beyond Riverwood. I went to Helgen once with my Da, when I was a boy-"
"This one does not care, Ragvir." The mercenary cut him off. "This one doesn't care about you, or your 'Da', or your job at the Meadery. All Khajiit cares about are the three-hundred Septims he is going to make off your contract."
"But, sir, I've already told you, it's-"
"It's too much." The mercenary chuckled. "Honestly, it's nothing this one has not heard a hundred times before. Would you like to know why Khajiit's price is so steep, Ragvir?"
"Uh, o-okay?" The Nord replied, his voice fluttering with nerves.
"It is because Khajiit will get the job done. No matter what it is you ask of him. If you would like someone to clear out a bandit camp, hunt giants or track down the man who stole your lover – this one is the one you come to." The figure shrugged. "For this one, there is no such thing as a job 'too big' or a contract 'too small'. And the best part is that this one doesn't ask questions."
"But what if-" Ragvir started.
"Listen closely, Ragvir, if you would like Khajiit to get something done, you are going to have to show him some gold soon, if you cannot – then this conversation is over. You could ask the Companions for their help. Mind you, they will probably say no, especially if there is no honour or glory in it for them. And if they decline, politely ask the Jarl to send some city guards to do it. Although this one guarantees they will not however."
"Why not?"
"If it is not for the glory of the Hold, or if they do not personally get anything out of it, they will send you home disappointed." Ragvir sighed. The hooded Khajiit finished his drink and looked the Nord up and down.
The man was desperate, at the end of his patience and was practically eating out of the Khajiit's palm.
"If you still want to this one to see to your contract, and you are going to pay me - in full - take a seat, and we shall talk business." He finished, fully expecting the man to turn and walk away.
The Nord must have been desperate though, because Ragvir sat down almost immediately, nodding his head as he did so. "Okay, sell-sword. Let's talk."
The Khajiit nodded and grinned a feline smile, his fangs gleaming in the candlelight. He gave the Nord a hand to shake, a gesture acknowledging that they were now working together, even if the Khajiit was going to do all the heavy-lifting.
"This one is happy to do business with you, Ragvir." He smiled, yellow eyes fixed on the Nord's face.
VIIIIIV
Three days later…
VIIIIIV
The morning dew on the grassy plains of the meadows surrounding the city of Whiterun was steadily being burnt off by the warm morning light. The Khajiit mercenary walked calmly over the wet cobblestone road leading to the city regarded to be one of Skyrim's most esteemed cities. The archer strode past the city's Western Watchtower. It had been almost a year since the Dragonborn had battled a dragon here and discovered the power in their blood, but repairs still hadn't been made to the tower. While the watchtower itself remained intact, massive chunks of the mortar had fallen as rubble, strewn across the grass around it and even some parts of the road. The Khajiit wondered about what might have happened to the Dragonborn since then. After the Dovahkiin had ridden on the back of Odahviing to face the World-Eater Alduin, she had disappeared. The world had been saved from the Dragon Crisis, although some of the overgrown reptiles did occasionally appear to cause trouble, but the hero who saved them never returned from her journey.
The people of Skyrim were left to wonder whether the Dragonborn had given her life to defeat Alduin, or if she had retreated into obscurity after saving the world from damnation. The Khajiit believed that the hero had seen such responsibility being put on her shoulders during the Dragon Crisis, becoming the people's last hope for survival, that he wouldn't blame her if she wanted to retreat from the public eye for a few months, enjoy some anonymity for once.
As he wandered past the watchtower, he looked over to one of the several Hold guards stationed around it. A single guard glared at him with distrust and contempt. The Khajiit simply averted his gaze. He'd learned the hard way that staring at a Nord too long, especially one you weren't acquainted with, typically ended up in a brawl. It didn't bother him though; his kind had always been ridiculed as the runts of society, mocked and stereotyped in every province in Tamriel as thieves, skooma addicts and criminals.
The mercenary had always done his best to ignore the knives their judgmental eyes shot at him, but since the overwhelming majority of his kind justified their criticisms and stereotypes, he doubted their opinions of him on a surface level weren't going to change any time soon.
As it turned out, the job Ragvir had assigned him was far simpler than even the Khajiit had expected. The Nord had only wanted the mercenary to retrieve a family heirloom from a bandit camp, his mother's wedding ring or something of the sort. Apparently, the Nord was going to propose to his childhood sweetheart, as it would be their anniversary within in the next few days and he wanted to make it special. The mercenary wondered whether Ragvir would've tried to find someone cheaper than him if he'd had a bit more time to find the ring.
The Khajiit shrugged. It was none of his business. All he cared about was the coin he'd receive from this job, and the next one, and the one after that. It wasn't in his nature to pry or stay to see whether his actions would enrich the lives of those he took contracts from.
His work was shunned by many, but it was a necessary one. Many of the contracts he undertook were too dangerous or too risky for other folk to handle. He was a highly-trained killer, his heightened feline senses gave him an edge in combat that he needed. As an archer, he was a deadly adversary, nocking and loosing arrows on unsuspecting targets from afar before any of them had a chance to react.
He'd actually received quite an infamous reputation as one of the greatest archers that Tamriel had ever produced. Since childhood, in his home in Elswyr, the Khajiit had been trained in the art of the Hunt, particularly of the Bow and Sword. But he had a knack for archery. He couldn't explain it, but ever since picking up his first long bow, it had felt like second nature to the Khajiit. It was only in his adolescence, when he had seen nineteen winters, that he was allowed into the wider world to make his own way in life, and set off on the Path.
As a result of the infamy, he was widely sought after by many for his abilities. From highborn Jarls to lowly peasants like Ragvir, he received anything from simple fetch quests to monster contracts. And this was where he'd excelled. In Tamriel, no matter where folk were, there always seemed to be a monster to slay or a local menace to be put down. From Highrock to Cyrodiil, the Black Marsh to Hammerfell, the Khajiit had travelled far and wide. His exploits had earned him a list of trophies over the years.
Frost Trolls, Werewolves, Sabre Cats and Giant Spiders. He was no stranger to hunting the supernatural prey; Vampires, Draugr, Atronachs and Dremora. He'd yet to face a challenge that truly tested him.
In doing so, the Khajiit had earned a few monikers and titles, too many to count. The Bow of Black Lash, the Swift Shadow and the Honour-Bound came to mind. But one had stuck, and it was a name that he quite liked. He had kept it, in fact.
The Lightning Arrow.
The Khajiit smiled, thinking back how he earned such names, but shook off the thoughts quickly as he drew closer to the city. The retrieval of the ring had actually been deceptively simple. It had caught the eye of one of the bandits after the burglar who had stolen it from Ragvir had tried fencing it with some other stolen items. Of course, since Bandits weren't known for their intelligence, instead of haggling for a better price, the bandit had simply caved in the thief's skull with a swing of his mace, taking the ring as a trophy.
The Khajiit had found the new owner of the ring attending the Cragslane Cavern Dog Fighting Pits a few miles north of Riften. All the mercenary had needed to do was make a bet for the ring. The bandit obliged, asking for the Khajiit's bow if the mercenary lost. The archer simply smiled politely and agreed.
Of course, halfway through the dog fight, the Khajiit took out his dagger and sliced off the other man's fingers.
He'd screamed so loud the mercenary wondered if the Jarl of Solitude had heard his cries. After that, he only remembered running. A lot of it, as fast as his legs would allow, for as long as he could manage. As good as he was at fighting; the Khajiit had known he'd never be able to fend off so many attackers in such a confined space.
The trek back to Whiterun had taken time, but the thought of his payment kept the mercenary going. That, and the reward of a mug of ale and a hot meal when he bunked for the night at the Bannered Mare. Hulda, unlike other Nords, always greeted the Khajiit with a warm expression. On his travels, he'd been to Whiterun more than any other city. It was certainly his favourite, even if the settlement wasn't as infamous as Markarth, the city carved into a mountain. And it certainly wasn't as grand as the shipping ports of Solitude.
Maybe one day he'd own property here. Nothing too extravagant, just a small place to call his own. The Khajiit smiled warmly at the thought. But he shook away the daydream as he neared the city gates. The guards eyed him up and down before nodding, unlocking the large entrance into their settlement. The Khajiit sighed in relief; it was always a moment to savour when he was sheltered by the stone walls of a city. It made him feel just that little bit safer.
VIIIIIV
"Oh, my favourite customer. Back so soon?" Hulda grinned as the Khajiit entered the Bannered Mare, closing the door carefully behind him. He smiled as he removed his cowl, rubbing a hand through his small mane atop his head to get rid of the discomfort he felt after taking it off.
"Ah, you've probably had a long journey. So, what'll it be? We got some Black-Briar stuff that just came in yesterday, want to try some?" Hulda asked, welcoming as ever.
"This one will have his usual. And a room upstairs." The Khajiit responded as he blew out a breath, taking a seat at the wooden counter. As Hulda prepared a tankard of Honningbrew, the Khajiit looked around the tavern.
Ragvir was nowhere to be seen, but that was to be expected. The Khajiit knew that it would be a few hours before he arrived. Apparently, his job at the Meadery was an early start, and at this time in the morning he would be at his job. The mercenary was slightly irked by it, but wasn't about to complain about the opportunity it gave him to have a drink and rent a room to catch up on some sleep.
Hulda handed over his beverage, then leaned over the counter as she tried to make idle conversation with him. The archer passed over fifteen Septims to the woman, who took ten and returned five.
"I haven't seen you in a few days." She started. "What have you been doing?"
"Business." He quickly replied, putting his change into his money pouch. He didn't like to divulge the nature of his work. When people learned that he earned his coin by killing men and monsters in cold blood, they changed their opinion of him to something a little colder.
While it certainly made him a legend among those who knew him, his moniker as the Lightning Arrow seemed sour to some, due it being earned through slaughter and profiting off others misery. They only saw the killer, the monster hunter, coated in the blood of those he had cut down to earn his gold.
In other words - it was easier to lie.
"Oh? What kind of 'business'?" She pressed, a playful smirk on her face.
"Just..." He trailed off, wondering what to tell her, "...business."
Hulda hummed her disapproval of his stoic answer, but she just shrugged and walked away to tend to her duties. "Damn adventurers, you're all the same..."
The Khajiit sighed and sat quietly, alone at the bar, a hand on the tankard of Honningbrew Mead in front of him. He stared at the bubbles frothing at the top of the liquid, his face a mask of concentration. He was in no mood to drink so early in the morning, but he was glad for the rest. He turned his other hand and opened his fist, looking at Ragvir's ring in his palm. It would surely be worth a pretty penny, if he could find the right fence, if only he wasn't bound to give it back to the Nord who had hired him.
The mercenary shrugged off the thought, and instead finished his drink, retreating upstairs to lie down – at least for a few hours.
VIIIIIV
Later that evening…
VIIIIIV
"You found it!" Ragvir beamed, sitting across from the Khajiit, who presented the ring to the Nord. "Thank you, you don't know what this means."
"Actually, I do." The mercenary responded, closing his palm as the Nord reached for the bauble. Ragvir shot him an odd, disgruntled look, but the Khajiit tutted. "It is time for you to pay what you owe, no?"
Ragvir sighed, nodding, though his expression turning slightly bitter. "Yes, of course. Don't worry; I hadn't forgotten your gold."
The Nord produced a knapsack from beneath the table. The Khajiit tensed up as Ragvir placed his hand inside, placing a wary hand on his dagger's hilt. He could pull out anything from the bag – a shiv, for example. Not something the mercenary hadn't prepared for.
The Khajiit had known some of his exchanges to go in a way he hadn't expected, and he'd been ambushed in taverns more times than he cared to admit. Not a lot of honest men left in this world.
But Ragvir was an honest man, the Khajiit could tell. Skyrim needed more like him.
"Here." Ragvir said, producing a heavy pouch. The Khajiit peeked inside, the tell-tale gleam of gold twinkled inside. But the weight was heavier than it should have been, this wasn't the amount they'd agreed upon.
"This one thought we had settled on three hundred Septims?" He asked.
Ragvir shrugged and smiled. "You deserve a little more. There's three-hundred and forty pieces in there."
The Khajiit smirked. This one certainly was a good man. Too good for a place like this. His wife would be a happy woman, the Khajiit could tell.
"It's from our wedding dowry. If not for you, I wouldn't be able to make Lisene my wife. Consider it a bonus." Ragvir explained.
"This one appreciates your generosity, Ragvir." The Khajiit replied, nodding his thanks. "But Khajiit must go; I have other contracts to pursue. This one wishes you a long and happy marriage."
"I understand. Thank you again, sir." Ragvir hummed in thought.
The mercenary looked from the Nord to his drink, lifting the tankard to his lips. The Khajiit finished his drink and stood, pulling the hood on his cloak over his head. It would be a long journey to Falkreath. Rumour had it that a Giant had been bothering hunters in the region and the Jarl needed someone to handle the issue.
The Khajiit made his way to the door, making sure his bow and quiver were attached tightly to his back. His weapon was due for a new bowstring soon. The mercenary was internally deciding whether or not he could make the trip on foot in a day when he heard Ragvir approach him from behind.
"Wait." He asked. "What if I need your help again? The Meadery's had a skeever problem before. What happens if they come back?"
"Send a courier." The Khajiit replied. "They have a way of finding people like me."
"But who should I ask them to look for?" Ragvir responded. "I don't know your name."
"Hush." The mercenary replied. "That is what people have come to know this one by."
"Hush?" Ragvir lifted an eyebrow. "Why that name?"
The Khajiit rolled his shoulders, tapping the pommel of his dagger with the tip of a claw. "Pray you never need to find out, Ragvir. There is a reason this one does not have many enemies."
"What do you mean?" The Nord probed.
Ragvir was a good man, but his questions seemed to have no end. It vexed Hush to no end. Hush's voice dropped to a whisper.
"It is because they are all dead,Ragvir. When Hush kills, he doesn't make a sound as he creeps up to a target, not even the slightest noise before Khajiit slits their throat." Hush leaned closer to Ragvir, who remained completely still, too scared to move. "There is only the quiet before their death, only the hush of their approaching doom."
Ragvir nodded, swallowing a nervous lump in his throat. "Y-yes, sir. I'm sorry. I don't mean to pry."
"I know." Hush replied, his eyes looking around the tavern. No one had heard their little exchange. "Goodbye, Ragvir. Enjoy your wedding."
With that, the Khajiit turned and left the Bannered Mare into the chilly air of the night. A moment went by after the door had closed and Ragvir exhaled a breath he hadn't been aware he'd been holding.