Chapter 1: A Worthy Patron
The sun blazed down on the markets of Dune. Brightly colored awnings fluttered in the dry, suffocating breeze. The Bosmer leaned against a towering palm, the only source of shade in the bazaar, and adjusted the veil that shielded her nose and mouth from the abrasive clouds of ever-present sand. Her bestial orange eyes narrowed to slits with her disgust as she surveyed the cat-like creatures that milled about the marketplace. Only these skooma-addled fiends could enjoy an existence in this inhospitable wasteland.
Hatred coursed through her veins as she watched them. These animals were in league with her enemy. They were just as much to blame for the "cleansing" at Falinesti. Cleansing … a Thalmor euphemism for genocide.
The Wild Hunt take you all, she thought, a defiant snarl grew beneath her veil. The peace of this place disgusted her. They should be screaming, and burning like her people, instead they haggled over dates and hibiscus oil in their strange savage tongue.
She had not intended to stop until she had reached western Cyrodiil, but she had underestimated the hostility of the terrain. With meager coin, and no food or water, Syl had little choice but to remain in Dune until the prospect of work arose.
Quick movement weaving through the throng of beasts caught Syl's eye. Breaking out of the crowd, an elven youth ran to her and she eyed him suspiciously, her hand subconsciously reached for her already light purse.
"A message for you, ranger," he said as he thrust a roll of paper at her. A courier, working for the cats, no doubt. Her frown deepened as she snatched scroll in one hand and with the other grabbed the boy up by the arm before he could dart away into the crowd.
"Who do you work for?" she growled. The young mer's golden eyes darted around the market as he plotted his escape.
"A merchant, I think" The boy explained, unperturbed by her aggressiveness. "I don't even know his name, and I don't ask no questions. I stay below notice. Joharrah brings me the messages, and I just take 'em to the ones she says, and they give me food. It ain't the best life, but the Bosmer ain't looked highly upon here. You oughta know that by now, ranger."
"And your parents, boy?" The young Bosmer shook his head and looked at the sandy cobblestone, and Syl nodded brusquely. The Thalmor "alliance" had cost the lives of many Bosmer, in this he was not alone. She took stock of the boy, fourteen years, at the most. Had he remained in Valenwood, he would have been near the age of apprenticeship. His black hair hung in dusty matted ropes. Those would have to go. Rangers didn't keep hair often as it invites ticks. Golden eyes pierced through the layers of grime that covered his face, hawk-like in their scrutiny. Sharp, cunning, and confident, all attributes needed to survive the prey they hunted. She nodded approvingly. He had not lied about being well fed. His well-developed muscle tone was not symptomatic of malnutrition; perhaps he would be strong enough to draw a bow. "Forget about these mangy cats, you work for me, now. I will teach you to honor Y'ffre again, lest you have forgotten how amongst these mongrels."
The young Bosmer studied her, suspicion lingering in his yellow eyes. "What makes you think that I want to go anywhere with you?"
She choked back the urge to laugh. Impetuous little runt, she thought. However, his suspicion was the mark of a survivor. A necessity if he ever hoped to live beyond the hunt.
"Your choice, boy. If you would rather live as a dirty rat in a den of cats, it will not be me who stops you. However, when you lie in your filthy gutter tonight, consider that you could have been greater, a proud hunter instead of cowering prey."
With that, Syl turned on her heel and stalked off into the crowded bazaar. She wondered if the boy, who stood alone now beneath the tree, had the courage to follow. If not, it was no matter. She had no patience for weakness; it would only lead them both to death. The Thalmor would not care that he was barely more than a child; there could be no mercy for either side. She turned into a dusty alley way that head towards the city gates, and disappeared into the shadows of the tall mud-bricked buildings that flanked her. Finally alone, she unrolled the scroll, curious at the contents within.
Khajiit knows a worthy patron, and Bosmer needs coin, an expedition to the jungle. Much treasure you will find. Joharrah waits for your words.
Syl paused to consider the words. A worthy patron? Syl could not help be suspicious of this all too convenient prospect for coin, and even more so that this Joharrah seemed to know so much of her needs. Her stomach rumbled in anticipation of coin, the anticipation of food, quieting her thoughts of conspiracy. She checked her small pouch of coins, dismayed at the paltry amount. Nonetheless, she headed towards the tavern; at the very least she might be able to gather some information about this "worthy patron."
A thick layer of smoke hung in the air of the dimly lit tavern. Khajiit lounged on dusty velvet cushions that covered the sandy floor surrounding strange glass devices with long woven tubes that issued streams of aromatic smoke. Silence swallowed the din of conversation and laughter as the Wood Elf broke the threshold. Bestial eyes followed her steps through the tavern, and Syl's skin seemed to crawl under their surveillance.
"Welcome, Bosmer," a thick sultry voice purred from the back of the tavern. "Fine spices, and skooma to its liking, yes?" The Bosmer walked towards the voice, her eyes instinctively scanned the hazy room, finding nothing but shadows hiding amidst the heavy violet draperies that hung from the ceiling.
"I do not seek your wares, Khajiit. I seek only information," Syl said coldly to the female Khajiit who languished on an ornate Imperial-style couch. The cat's tail twitched seemingly in response, and a sound not entirely unlike mocking laughter rumbled through the tavern.
"Information, is it? Bosmer knows there is a price for everything in Dune," the cat purred, the multitude of bangles around her wrist clinking together as she absentmindedly examined her claws.
"Then what will you ask for information about Joharrah?" At this, the female Khajiit's ears perked, and she leaned forward towards the Bosmer. A host of tiny bells braided throughout her sleek brown mane jingled tunelessly.
"Joharrah is who it seeks? Khajiit knows this one. Come follow me, and we can speak more," the cat said, gesturing wordlessly to another Khajiit lounging on cushions not far off. With surprising agility, the cat rose and held back a curtain that opened into a brightly lit room decorated in vibrant fabrics. The servant scurried in behind them with hot coals that were deposited into the top of the smoking device, more ornate than the ones present in the outer room of the den.
"The sweetest moon-sugar in all of Dune," the Khajiit crooned, delicately pouring a bit of the sparking pink granules into the pipe. "Does the Bosmer wish for a taste?"
Syl's shook her head, her eyes narrowing. It did not take much to stoke the embers of the Bosmer's hatred, and the sloth and decadence of these cats threatened to overwhelm her fragile self-control. The Khajiit seemed to sense the change in Syl, her green eyes dancing in amusement as she took a long draw on the mouthpiece. Smoke streamed out the Khajiit's nose in two grey plumes, as she reclined against the bright orange and pink cushions. "So, it comes seeking knowledge, yes? It has great fortune, that, by chance, it comes to the warm sands of Joharrah's den."
"So, you are Joharrah, then? It is a strange turn of fate, indeed. Then, do tell, Khajiit, of this 'worthy patron' who would require the services of a refugee." The cat gave a pointed stare, and the room seemed to close in around the Wood Elf. Syl couldn't help but shift uncomfortably under the intensity of the Khajiit's scrutiny.
"Khajiit has many eyes in the city, and Khajiit knows much. Does a simple refugee escape the clutches of the Thalmor? Joharrah thinks not. Besides, one would not call the mate of the Silvenar a simple refugee," the cat's voice was low, in hushed tones that spoke of violence.
A menacing growl rumbled in the Bosmer's throat as her hand reached for the bone dagger concealed in her boot. The mangy cat would dare utter a word of him! For this, she would kill the arrogant beast, and take her leave of this miserable den of sin. However, he hand grasped at nothing, and her fury dissolved in a strangled gasp of surprise. Her blade was gone, without her notice. A smug look from the Khajiit's servant begged the question as to its whereabouts.
"Oh, did Joharrah's words cause offense, Bosmer?" The Khajiit asked in a feigned innocence. Unarmed as she was, Syl resigned herself to play the cat's game or risk losing her life. A flash of bared teeth, concealed within a smile, told the stakes for which she played.
"No, Khajiit. It appears that I am at a… disadvantage. That is all," Syl chose her words carefully. It was the first time that she experienced any sense concern that bordered so closely on fear.
"Ah… So, it is true, Bosmer." A knowing light gleamed within the cat's piercing green eyes, and she nodded. "Joharrah is the keeper of many secrets. But one question yet remains, does the Bosmer intend to accept employment, or does it wish to seek elsewhere?"
"It seems you know much of me… however, I know little of the offer," the Bosmer said. Syl fought to keep the edge from her voice. She was not familiar with the game of words, more accustomed to navigating winding deer runs than a conversation. Not to mention, that one of the players, evidently, had a network of spies at their disposal. Syl was not only outmatched, but also most certainly outplayed by the sly Khajiit.
"An ancient tomb lies deep in the jungle. Bosmer will act as a guide through the dangerous wilds of the south…"
"-Why not choose a local who knows the land?" Syl interrupted. In her land, outsiders seeking passage to the villages on the migrating oak-graht hired their Bosmeri guides locally. It seemed not only the most convenient solution, but also the most logical. In fact, a Khajiit cub would serve as a better guide than she, an outsider in this land.
"Many tribes of the jungle…" The Khajiit began to explain before trailing off. She sighed impatiently, appearing to grow weary of Syl's questioning. "It is a complicated political matter, not for Bosmer to understand. It knows what is required. All that remains is its answer. Another will tell it more, should the Bosmer accept."
Syl was wracked with indecision. So much about this felt wrong to her, but accepting the job would mean the opportunity to continue on with her journey, albeit with a slight detour. Death surrounded her people, and those whom it did not were subjugated. The Bosmer people longed for fall of the Aldmeri Dominion, and, so, it was also His wish. And there was no refusing the wishes of the Silvenar.
"I accept."