Warning: Contains inter-beastrace sex, if you don't like it, don't read it.
Scar-Tail believes in destiny.
Plucked away from his home in his youth, he joined the hundreds of others who served Black Marsh from the shadows. His previous life was all but forgotten, as he and thirty other Argonians were brought together to train in the arts of stealth, deception and assassination. And they were trained to be cold, calculating and indifferent, as their companions were cut down around them, because Sithis was not interested in those who were weak.
When they came of age, when they were to approach the Hist tree, of the thirty one young Argonians, only four made it to maturity. He remembered the day he, the egg-twins, Ocheeva and Teinaava, and the gray-scaled mage-assassin, Walks-Through-Walls, had approached the god-tree. The sap from the tree slid down its rough bark like liquid gold, the smell sweet and cloying. That had been the first of many times they would visit the tree, and that the four of them, minds clouded by Hist induced lust, would rut beneath the tree's benevolent branches.
Destiny arrived again, and the four of them were divided to go their separate ways. Ocheeva and Teinaava were taken by an up-and-coming Speaker of the Dark Brotherhood, and whisked off to Cyrodiil. Scar-Tail, and Walks-Through-Walls were taken to served Argonia as her Shadowscales. There were no sad farewells, because they served Sithis, and Sithis had no need for compassion. Scar-Tail was sure he would never see the egg-twins again.
He was right. However, judging by the presence of the assassin in front of him, news of his betrayal had reached even their ears. Part of him couldn't help but scoff, however, at the Sister they had sent to dispatch of him. Barely more than a novitiate, she was strong, but unskilled. She stood no chance against him, he who had spent his life refining the taking of life to an art. He was patient, blocking and dodging the blade of her short sword, and barely reacting when she managed to land a hit, sinking the blade a good inch into his side. And when exhaustion made her sloppy and slow, he severed her head from her neck, and left her body to bleed itself out on the dark soil.
Grimacing, he made his way back to his small camp near the water, and sat by the fire, peeling the shirt away from his wounds. Nearby, empty black eyes stared at him with blank hatred from Walks-Through-Walls' corpse, efforts of Black Marsh to neutralize their renegade assassin. That fight had lasted far longer, and had been far more difficult. They had trained together, and each had easily anticipated the other's moves. But Walks-Through-Walls had been full of anger, and bitterness and hate over his betrayal, and had broken the rules, because assassins should feel nothing. And as always, the punishment for that was death.
With the last torn scraps of his shirt removed, Scar-Tail was able to better assess his injuries. The newest, from the Brotherhood assassin, was still bleeding, but it had slowed and began to show signs of coagulating. But his greater concern was the bandages on his upper shoulder that were stained a deep red, a parting gift from Walks-Through-Walls. The mage had caught Scar-Tail by surprise when he caught the renegade's glass long sword in his hand, biting deep into the flesh, before destructive magicks turned the sword to dust. He reacted almost too late then, to prevent Walks-Through-Walls' iron sword from cleaving his own head off his shoulders. The result was a deep cut to the bone on his collar, now opened again by his recent exertions. Various other nicks and scratches cover his scales, but this was by far the worse. Without treatment, even his hardy Argonian physiology would succumb to infection.
The sound of heavy steps had Scar-Tail on his feet, Walks-Through-Walls' sword in his hand. His eyes widened in surprise at what he saw.
It was a Khajiit, looking about a foot from death at the moment. He was wearing good quality Ebony armor, but it had seen better days. The breastplate had been shattered inward, probably the only thing that had saved the Khajiit, though undoubtedly he was sporting several crushed ribs. Blood was smeared across the breastplate and sword that was drawn in shaking hands. The cat's face was pulled into a snarl, sharp teeth glinting against a red muzzle, where he had obviously attempted to bite his enemy. The eyes were hazy in a way that Scar-Tail recognized from skooma-addicts, the foggy look of someone just emerging from the strange hallucinogenic world. Then he smelled it, thick and sweet.
Even in the short weeks since he had left Argonia, he had been left with a longing in his soul for the comfort and presence of the Hist trees. Absentmindedly, he wondered if Ocheeva and Teinaava had felt this way when they had been taken from Black Marsh to live in secret in Cyrodiil. Had they felt the persistent twinge of desire for what they would never see again?
The Khajiit's rumbling growl pulled him out of his musings, and he answered with a hiss, and dropped into a fighting stance. The Khajiit came at him with far greater speed than he would have thought possible, given the injuries. As he brought up his sword, the impact from the cat's strike left his arm shaking. Slicing in a wide arc in front of him, he was able to buy a few feet of distance as the other warrior jumped back. Scar-Tail noticed that the broken armor was now impeding him, and the Khajiit seemed to come to the same conclusion. Sharp claws tore into the leather that held the ebony pieces together, and the broken parts came off, leaving a simple linen shirt. Without the armor there, Scar-Tail was able to see the devastating chest wound, blood leaving the fur matted against the torn shirt.
A slight twitch in the tail was all the warning he got as the Khajiit came at him again. This time, instead of attempting to block, Scar-Tail dodged to the side, the sword just barely cutting into his side. Grabbing the hilt of the silver blade, he planted a kick into the damaged area of the Khajiit's chest, causing him to release the blade and stumble backwards. Bringing clawed hand to one of several small glass bottles at his side, Scar-Tail noticed they were filled each with the thick gold fluid he smelled earlier.
Hist sap.
The Khajiit caught his longing look at the bottle, and chuckled.
"Recognize this, don't you pond scum?" he sneered, his voice the gravelly timbre possessed by all his kind.
Biting off the wax seal, he drank the gold sap, then letting the glass fall from lax fingers. A perverse smile pulled at the cat's face, eyes dilated and glazed. All signs of pain had left his expression, and Scar-Tail had to bring the silver sword up to block the black claws coming at his face. But his eyes kept going to the innocent bottles clinking at the warrior's waist. His distraction cost him when sharp claws cleaved into his flesh, leaving deep gashes.
Swinging the iron sword in a wide arc, he anticipated the Khajiit's jump backwards, and followed up with sweeping kick. With the Hist sap inhibiting his reaction speed, as well as the pain from the injuries, the normally agile enough cat couldn't react fast enough to dodge both assaults. The kick sent him a few feet away, on his back. As he groaned, his eyes opened to meet the shimmering edge of his own silver sword. He couldn't move without risking cutting himself on the sword pointed at his throat. The Hist sap in his veins, however, still burned, leaving him writhing against the heat.
Scar-Tail ignored his captives movements, as he pulled the bottles of Hist sap from the belt. Breaking off the wax seal, he swallowed the liquid, the heady smell bringing his mind back to his homeland. The burning filled his veins as the sap worked its magic. His eyes returned to his captive, who's claws were digging into the earth and mouth was open in a snarl. Pressing the blade against his throat, he watch the trembling body try to still itself against the Hist's influences.
Perhaps it was the Hist, but the Khajiit was rather attractive for a desert rat. All gold fur matted with blood, it appealed to his own predatory tastes. Pressing a knee lightly against the chest, just to keep him from moving, Scar-tail licked a long path from the Khajiit's shoulder to just under the jaw, the salty tang of blood singing to his senses. The Khajiit shuddered against the ministrations. Smirking against his neck, Scar-Tail bit down lightly, taking delight in the slight hiss that escaped the throat. Shifting to straddle the dazed Khajiit, he placed the silver sword to the side, far enough to be out of reach, but still obtainable if the cat decided to be a pest.
His own claws were not nearly as sharp as the Khajiit's, but they were adequate for tearing off the remnants of the linen shirt that he wore. He felt the clawed hands of his companion rake across the scales of his back. Meeting his eyes, the Khajiit spoke the only four words he'd hear him say.
"My name is Ja'Fazir," he said, gravelly voice a little more breathless, as the Hist sap augmented his lust. Scar-Tail smirked, and ground against him, a trill of pleasure curling up his spine.
"Scar-Tail," is the only thing he says, fingers tracing their way across the wounds on the Khajiit's chest, and down towards the laces of his pants.
Ja'Fazir's eyes widened, but a second grind of their hips turned the protest that rose up in his throat into a moan. Scaled fingers worked to remove their pants, as claws explored his body, occasionally scratching across various wounds, causing Scar-Tail to hiss in pain and pleasure.
When he finally managed to remove the rest of their clothes, the Hist in his veins burned like fire, and the agony of wounds and claws became cruel pleasure twisting inside of him. With a hiss, he thrusts into the body beneath him, rough and merciless. He feels claws sink in deep into his shoulders as he thrusts, the pain as addictive as the golden sap of his homeland. Wounds spill lifeblood between them, and as they reach completion, everything is red and gold.
As his strength leaves him, Scar-Tail collapses next to Ja'Fazir. He feels as the other pulls long claws out of his shoulder, pleasure still overriding all his senses. The Khajiit's eyes are already closed, and Scar-Tail soon follows him into golden dreams. They may die in their sleep, or live to go back to fighting tomorrow, but Scar-Tail can't bring himself to care.
After all, destiny works in strange ways.