A Khajiit walks into Whiterun.
Perhaps walk is not the operative word. The guards have her by the elbows, wrists manacled, as she's dragged along, hissing and spitting. One cuffs her on the side of the head and she subsides.
"Who's this one?" Jon asks of the captain, who pauses in his dragging of the captive.
"Killed an Imperial soldier. Caught her on the road to Rorikstead, bounty hunters tipped us off." He scowls and strokes the hilt of his sword. "Killed two good men getting her in. Damn cat."
Jon doesn't necessarily agree, but he doesn't argue. He's just glad his brother isn't here to witness this, or there'd probably be more force than was good for the lass.
The Khajiit jerks off to one side, whether deliberately or a trip he can't tell, and the guard captain swears and pulls her back up by her chains, looking into her golden eyes angrily.
"Another move like that, cat, and you won't make the prisons."
She laughs, and there's a queer thrum of power in her voice. "Your prissson will not keep me, Nord."
He throws her away. "We'll see."
The guards pick up their pace and bundle her away. Jon leans back against the post of Belethor's store, folding his arms.
Just another Khajiit in Whiterun.