Malsasa held his wounded face as he wandered from his home. At fifteen, he was now an outcast among the Swiftclaw Tribe. His own tribe. He knew that word would travel quickly across the sands and jungles of Elsweyr, and that soon he wouldn't even be welcome among the traveling merchants. He would have to leave...find his own place in the world. His only question...where?

Six years later...

All Malsasa could think now was that he knew it. He knew something like this...this exact scenario actually, would happen. He watched as the wagon trundled just ahead of the line of prisoners, especially the chest full of all his gear: his armor, his blade, his shield, and his other provisions. Ahead of him was a Nord, speaking lowly to himself about the Stormcloaks, and behind him was a Dunmer, pleading that he was innocent.

"It won't save you, fool," Malsasa thought darkly, "it was foolish of you to steal that coin purse...especially with this war going on." Malsasa didn't know much about the civil war in Skyrim, and he didn't really care. After years of traveling on his own, he had come to Skyrim, looking for a place to finally call home. It wasn't like the warm lands of Elsweyr, but it would have to do.

A cool wind blew across Malsasa then, making his black fur, complete with white tiger stripes, stand on end. His eyes, the right amber colored while the other glowed a strange green, were wary. His right eye was different only because of the curse his father had placed on him, for misusing the power of the Thu'um, for which the Swiftclaw were well known for. The green glow was representative of a sort of limit to his abilities: his knowledge of any Shout would have to be relearned if he wanted to use them. Along with the glow were three claw marks, showing the method in which he had been cursed.

"Keep moving, prisoner," ordered the Imperial guard, jabbing Malsasa in the side with the butt of his spear. The Khajiit snarled but said nothing before turning his attention back to the long walk. Death couldn't be too far now, right?

Fwip

Malsasa barely heard the sound of the bowstring before the arrow whizzed by, a blur that ended with a splatter of blood and a groan as on of the guards fell. Before they could react, Nords dressed in Stormcloak regalia burst from the shrubbery surrounding the caravan, blood flying and steel clashing as the battle erupted. The Dunmer didn't last very long, his head in the way of an unfortunate axe blow. The Nord, however, dashed forward, ramming the nearest guard and knocking him prone. Malsasa took his chance and pounced, a foot landing on the guards throat before he pressed down, hearing a sickening yet satisfying squelching sound coming from the man. Malsasa would have finished the deed as well, were he not almost instantly labeled a threat. He backed away and stood side-by-side with the Nord, who had somehow gotten his hands out from behind his back, though they were still bound. In his hands was a small knife.

"Can you fight, Khajiit?" he asked, eyeing Malsasa.

"What?"

"Can you fight?" he asked again, and Malsasa nodded in response. With a swift motion, The Nord got behind Malsasa and cut his bindings, freeing his hands as a Stormcloak fell nearby, his blade falling at the Khajiit's feet. Malsasa smiled menacingly, kicking the blade up and holding it firmly before him, other hand held up as balance, and with his claws they seemed more like a sidearm.

The first to approach was a guard using a warhammer. He rushed Malsasa and brought the hammer down, the head meeting with air as the more agile combatant sidestepped around, jabbing his blade into an open spot in his armor, the blade biting into flesh, with fresh blood running down the blade. Malsasa's ears swiveled as he heard the next guard stomp forward, brandishing a hand axe. Grabbing a part of the dying mans armor, Malsasa pulled his impaled victim around between himself and his new attacker, his enemies axe cutting through armor only to be stuck. The Khajiit pushed the weight of the now dead man to the side, forcing the axe out of the guards hand just as Malsasa's blade cut across his throat. He fell to the ground, sputtering. The third and final guard only stared in disbelief. Just from the sound of his breathing he could tell that this one was a new recruit, still wet behind the ears.

"If you value your life you'll surrender here. Lay your weapon down and lie in the back of the wagon," Malsasa said, and watched as the boy did exactly as he was told. The Khajiit then followed, jumping into the back of the window and taking a quick look back and forth before leaning down to the boy.

"Keys? You have the keys to that chest, right?" Nodding, the boy pulled a brass ring with several keys up from his waist, flipping through them shakily before holding up a small silver one. Malsasa snatched it and went to work, unlocking the padlock and finding what he was looking for: a steel blade and a set of iron plate armor, and a heavy iron shield. Perfect.

"What are you doing up there, Khajiit?" a voice asked, and Malsasa looked down to see that, somehow, the battle was already over, and he was now surrounded by Stormcloak soldiers. One man stood out among the rest, since he was the only Nord who was nude from the waist up.

"Leave him, brothers. He isn't one of them."

"But what if he still gives us away?" asked another. After a few moments of bickering the leader, wearing a bearskin helmet, spoke up.

"Silence, all of you! Our business isn't with him. We need to move on, before they find us," then, to Malsasa, "if you want you can travel with us, Khajiit, you may. We are on our way to Windhelm, to speak with Ulfric Stormcloak."

"No...I think I'll-" Malsasa started to answer, only to be interrupted by a thunderous multitude of voices ring out from the heavens.

"DOVAHKIIN!"

Startled, the Stormcloaks looked around in amazement.

"What in Nirn was that?" asked Malsasa.

"That was the Greybeards, up on High Hrothgar," said one Nord, "no doubt about it. With the dragons about, it was only a matter of time before the legends would come true, and the Dovahkiin, the 'Dragonborn', would walk among us. He who can use the Thu'um as the Greybeards do, without training."

"All right, off with it," the leader of the group yelled, "the Khajiit said he doesn't want to go with us, and the Greybeards speaking mean nothing to us. We need to move. If you ever need assistance, seek Ulfric in Windhelm." Then, almost as siwftly as they had come, the Stormcloaks left, making a loud clamor as they did so, leaving Malsasa alone.

"High Hrothgar, huh? I'll have to make a visit."