AN: After a kind heads up from Y-Ko, I want to quickly say that Artan/Garma isn't a regular Khajiit from Elseweyr, so he doesn't have the regular speech patterns that we find with the caravan khajiit. Wanted to get that out there! Its a plot point that comes up later, but there is actually a good reason behind it! Honestly! _
4E 201, Morning Star
Garma was sat rather happily on the cart, eyes watching the clouds. The wagon was full with Nords, and even an Imperial. He ignored them. He watched the clouds. He even ignored when they started talking about Stormcloaks, and missions, and Nord this and Nord that. He tried especially to zone that part of the conversation out. He doubted the others would take his opinion very well.
He sighed and lifted his bound hands to look at them, ignoring the squirming thief sat across from him.
Somehow, he had gotten arrested. They had told him he was a Stormcloak, and he would be slaughtered along with Ulfric and his fanboys. He was on the run from the Alik'r. There was a hilarious amount of money on his head, and these buffoons were arresting him for joining in a rebellion. In a country he had never been to before the day before yesterday. He tried reasoning with them. Why would someone like him side with the Stormcloaks? Seriously? He would have explained why he was there, but then he would get sent back to Hammerfell with a bow on his head. Garma simply glanced at the blonde Nord still gibbering away about Nord land. He dearly wanted to shove a very Nordic sword up the man's ass. But hell. The creepy bastard would probably brag about it. It really wasn't that much different than listening to one of the Isle natives, to be honest. Same pomp.
When they passed the Thalmor, it was like watching a really small dog bark at a really big dog. The elf didn't even twitch in her saddle. It was almost funny if it wasn't so pathetic. Garma blinked, and didn't bother to tell Rogvir that the 'pointy-eared devil' didn't care what he said. That she was probably more concerned about the bodyguard that she was obviously porking, or maybe what wine she would drink with her steak later. Whether to make it out of their blood or not. She was just as bored by his rant as Garma was.
Even Ulfric looked like he was about to pass out.
Garma grinned.
The man wasn't asleep. He was trying to glare at him.
Garma purred and rolled his tail. The man mottled in anger, and looked as if he was about to explode. The khajiit meowed and made a show of wiping his face with his paws. Rogvir kicked him. Garma made goo-goo eyes at the Nord. It was like trying to melt glacier ice.
They were bundled off the wagon, and made to stand like slaves in front of a man clad in gold armour and an angry woman, a muscled man at her side with a wad of paper and a pained, constipated face. When the muscled man asked for a name, well. Garma didn't really know what to say. His name was renown. He would be on the block for sure. Or maybe worse. The Bull. The Eagle. Ugh. Melted or snapped open? No thanks. He did what he did best. He lied.
"Artan. Of Elsweyr."
"Well, Artan, we have no record of you. And you have no valid permits allowing you into Skyrim. Captain, what should we do? He isn't on the list to be executed."
The woman looked at the poor man like a dog looked at a tasty bone; snap it in half and drink the marrow. "Send him to the block."
"But-"
"Did I stutter, Hadvar?"
The muscle man swallowed the retort. "Follow the captain, prisoner."
For a wild second, Artan had almost believed he had got out of it.
He still had hopes when he was pressed against the headman's block.
Who knew a ten tonne lizard would save the day?
Well. When the dust settled, it wasn't in any way shape or form of what Artan expected. Hadvar, the constipated scribe, cut his binds, gave him some armour, and told him to get his wiggle on. Before giving Artan a sword.
"I'm a wanted criminal, and you're giving me a sword," the khajiit snarked, glancing from blade to man and back.
Hadvar smiled tightly, "you won't kill me. You haven't got it in your eyes, Artan."
The khajiit smiled back.
Hadvar led him through a small door, but stopped dead and glared grimly into the adjoining room. Artan didn't have to look. Hadvar didn't have to turn to know the khajiit was grinning from ear to ear. The two Stormcloaks were pacing the room, searching their fallen comrade, saying quiet prayers, comforting each other that he was in Sovengarde now.
"Stormcloaks, maybe we can reason with them."
Artan purred back, "I don't think dumb and dumber over there are going to bend over long enough for you to hack their heads off. You might have to throw a sovereign on the floor. Distract them you know. I hear all you Imperials like killing a man while he's down."
Hadvar gave him a pointed look. "I'd smack you in the mouth for that, Khajiit, but I don't know where it's been."
"Ouch. Pulling a race card," Artan nodded in approval.
"Just let me talk to them," Hadvar huffed angrily.
"Shouldn't you be all about 'squashing the rebellion' and upholding the law?" the khajiit sniped, glancing at the Imperial.
"The Nords are our brothers, misguided, but brothers none the less," Hadvar huffed, sounding sincere.
"Ever heard of the book of Aedra and Daedra? And their story of Abel and Cain?" Artan asked mildly.
"No…?"
"Then you won't get it. Continue."
"Thank you."
Hadvar pulled the chain, and the metal grille separating the room and hallway disappeared into the ceiling. Stepping in, he was greeted by a big, burly Nord with his sister-daughter. "What? You give in to those pointy-ears and now start messing with the animals too? Is anything sacred to you people?"
"There is a dragon outside. We need to-"
"No, I tell you what we need to do," Sister-daughter growled, hefting her axe," get mamma a new fur rug for the living room."
Artan bristled, "I don't think she understands what I am. You, big man, tell your pet that if she comes any closer, it won't be my pelt warming her mother's toes in winter."
"As if vermin like you could do much harm. You have barely evolved thumbs, filth. Remember your place."
"Oh I remember my place, Nord," the khajiit growled, "Standing over your putrefying corpse and peeing over that monstrous beard."
Artan didn't understand how it had escalated into full blown warfare, but he never understood much when the adrenaline kicked in. He just felt his limbs moving, the air becoming warmer, the bodies colliding. If he could have betted the fight would get ugly, he would have been one rich fat cat. Fuck cream, he would be minted. What he didn't expect, was Hadvar's capability with a blade. Artan guessed it was to do with his extended exposure to so many men.
"Well done, Khajiit. You really held your own."
"What can I say? In some places, I'm considered a sword master."
Hadvar didn't ask why he was grinning while he said that.
xxx
Well.
The small, brown haired woman stuck another plate of potatoes under Artan's nose, ladled with sweet meat, some kind of strange turnip and what looked to be tiny orange logs tucked underneath. However strange this human ritual was, he politely ate, thanked the woman, and listened to Hadvar tell his uncle the story of their escape. He knew well that fucking with a mans wife led to misery, despair and ultimately castration. It was a wide held belief in Hammerfell.
One he planned not to learn from experience.
But what was just as surprising was how Hadvar called him by his name, and ultimately didn't seem to be a total ass. He actually seemed to be a nice guy. Even suggested Artan join the force. Artan had laughed, brushed the comment aside but it never really left his mind. Only when sat in the pub, ale in hand, ignoring all the stares and some lean blonde wandered into his vision, did the thought really leave. "Hey, can you do me a favour?"
Artan coughed, "Look man, I know you might've heard a few quirky stories about Khajiit, but trust me, not every one of us can-"
"Oh no! I don't want that! I wanted you to deliver this letter for me!" the lad choked a little, waving his hands in dismissal.
"Ahhh that's okay then. Who's it for?"
"A woman, Camilla. She lives-"
"A bonny little lass? I didn't have you pegged for that sort of thing kid, honestly. I figured you the type for diapers and maybe a wooden axe to hammer away at the bars of your crib."
The blonde gave him the same, ridiculous glare that Hadvar gave him. "She is funny, wonderful and the woman I want to spend the rest of my life with. But this damn elf wants her too! He shows up at her house, spewing his lies about me, making her lose interest. I need you to give her this letter, tell her it's from him. She will come running back, regretting she ever laid eyes on him."
"This sounds pretty sneaky kid," Artan frowned. "Shouldn't you just put on some armour and go kill a dragon? Win fair lady's heart the same way the dumb or the ugly do?"
Sven scoffed, "I was thinking of asking you the same thing."
"Oooo. That really hurt my heart; got right in there! What's to say I won't just tell her it's from you?"
"You only just strolled into town. You're obviously broke; you had to dance for that ale," the lad motioned towards Artan's table, but pointedly didn't notice the several or so empty tankards. You can lodge at mine until you're back on you're feet."
"I need a few more ales before that, sunshine," the cat grinned, but Sven just paled and shuffled on his feet.
The Nord seemed to shake himself and grimace, before eventually biting out "Just take her the letter so I don't have to talk to you anymore."
"Throw in another ale and you've got a deal."
"Fine."
xxx
Three days later, and after scrubbing himself raw in the nearby river, Artan got back to Camilla's house. Well, shop. She shared the quarters with her brother, and had asked him with her big brown eyes to go get some stupid claw back. So, Artan did what he always did. He talked to Faendal, and then Camilla. Then he decided who he hated the least. Then he told Faendal, the tricksty elf that tried to 'steal' Camilla from Sven, about his employment as a local postman. The elf practically had kittens when he realised how close he was to being canned by the woman, and gave Artan a new letter to give to her. She almost broke Sven's nose, Faendal decided to follow Artan into the nearby Barrow, and the rest was gravy.
"I am never following you ever again."
"That's fine with me, man. It did get a bit hairy in there. Which reminds me, have fun with our dear little Cammy," Artan shrugged.
"What…?" Faendal shook his head in confusion, ponytail bobbing.
"I'm just happy for you two love birds, that's all."
"I would love to believe that, friend, but you're grin is rather worrying."
"This is just my face. You should always listen to your mother, especially when she talks about wind," Artan grinned back, flinging the elf a wineskin and pressing forwards into the village.
xxx
Whiterun was cleaner than he expected. When the smithy asked him to tell the Jarl, Balgruuf, about the dragon, well he couldn't say no. It would be rude. And the smith had biceps that could crush a frost spider's thorax. It was smart and polite to say yes, oh god yes.
If he knew what would happen, he would have run the other fucking way, planned a route to Solitude and thrown himself at Tullius' feet begging a quick death.
"My Thane, going into that cave is a bad idea. The tracks leading in are bear tracks, and we are not equipped to deal with them right now," Lydia pointed out, monotone.
"Who's the Thane?" Artan snapped, barely looking over his shoulder to glance at her.
"You are, my Thane," Lydia breathed back, sounding bored.
"Then we are going hunting. Daddy needs a new coat," the cat sniffed, making a beeline towards the cave nestled in beside the road.
"As you wish, my Thane," the Nord sighed, before falling in behind.
xxx
"You just stood there and watched! That thing was ready to claw my guts out! If I hadn't stabbed it in the paw and gouged its eye out then I'd be dead!" Artan snarled, throwing his hands up before he turned on Lydia, fire in his eyes.
"You never asked me to attack, my thane," she said simply, shrugging her shoulders.
"How did you become a housecarl again? I can't remember the story you told me. Doesn't it co-inside with that story of how you got those greaves, the ones that cover your knees too? Cause they look pretty damn new," the cat sniped, folding his arms across his chest. Lydia was kind enough to ignore his tail puffing up in annoyance, but that was all she was kind about.
"I was going to ask a similar story about your new leathers my lord. That back-plate looks very fresh. I guess it must have been worn out rather quickly, considering your character," she replied easily, eyebrow raised and sending a rather pointed glance his way.
"You Nords always come back with the same shit," Artan sighed, idly checking his claws before he continued, "I guess that's what you get for bending over before getting on your knees."
"Speaking from experience, Master Thane?" she trilled, pushing the meat she had finished cutting into the stewing pot over their meager fire. She used her short knife to flick the last bits in before she settled back into the rock she had been sat on for the last half hour, picking up the leeks next.
"I bet that's what you had to say to the Steward to get this job. What did he tell you? That it was like milking a cow? Divine knows you have the hands for it. Must be all that backwater village hick blood in you, girl." The cat huffed, making a show of looking away from her in disgust.
"What's the matter Thane? Was your litter tray not cleaned out to perfection?" Lydia smirked, unable to hold the bitterly sarcastic tone any longer.
"You should know, we both know who has to scoop my poop around here," Artan chuckled, rubbing his hands across his arms. He still wasn't used to the chill of Skyrim, even with all his fur.
"Aye, that we do Thane," Lydia conceded, snapping her fingers to regain the cats attention before motioning towards the other rock beside the fire.
"You know what? You're not half bad," Artan hummed, taking the offered seat and tried in vain to not make it too obvious how cold he really was. Lydia didn't mention it, however obvious he was. She carried on cutting the leeks along one side before dropping them into the pot alongside the meat and carrots, ignoring Artan's slow fall towards the fire. She would stop him before he burnt himself, so she let him crowd it.
"Neither are you, Thane," she said, eventually.
"When we get to Windhelm, I'll buy you an Ale," the cat growled back, rummaging in his pack.
"You're charity astounds me," she smirked, the monotone almost completely gone.
"You should be happy you're getting that much. You only got crusty bread for your labour back when you stood on street corners," the cat scoffed, setting a tankard down on her rock and one on his own before pouring them both a drink from his wineskin. It didn't take a khajiit nose to smell the spirits that settled in those cups.
"I remember. It's all your mother could afford," Lydia shrugged again, taking her own tankard and taking a sip.
"Ouch," Artan hissed, grinning around his own cup.
xxx
"Kill her for me. Here's the contract. I'll pay you when you get back. Thank you, again."
He was practically thrown onto the street after that, the snow cascading down on his darkened form, still processing what the fuck that was. The whispers of Windhelm said that the Arentino boy was dabbling in the dark arts, and to be honest, he believed them. Artan expected black magic and an immense pay check when he told the rickety old witchdoctors holed up in the college about it. Instead? He got a crazy boy with authority issues giving him an assassination contract to kill a pensioner. Lydia was in the pub, sleeping off the spell that a wandering enemy mage put on her. Artan had to drive an axe through his head to stop the leeching spell, before carrying the exhausted housecarl to the nearest civilization; Windhelm. At first, he had to explain that he hadn't done her in, and that he was trying to save her. Only the town's priestess stopped the angry mob. "He has honesty in his heart, and this girl is in dire need of rest. Let them through."
Artan nearly snogged the crazy old raisin.
The city was a pallid, angry ghost of what the Stormcloaks in the other cities said about it. They called it a haven, a safe place full of beer, wenches, and ultimately freedom. Artan had only talked to three people, and already he wanted to join the Imperials, if only to put their leader's head on a pike, body still attached. They oppressed their dark elves to the point of throwing them all in run down slums on the edge of the city, and that was only because they were borderline humanoid. The Argonians had been thrown on the very edge of the river, and disallowed entry into the city. The only exception was a yellow ticket, allowing them to enter the market once a week to get fresh food.
The reptilians seemed happy, enough.
The dark elves were torn.
But that woman looked pretty much dead over it.
She was laying on her back, naked on a tombstone in the graveyard, a set of guards bumbling nearby, the rickety old priestess wandering around the body waving her voodoo-stick. Only the old man did anything special. He tore off his goat hide cloak and covered the poor young woman, giving her some decency in death. Artan couldn't help himself. The older man looked like he had eaten glass, shamelessly crying about the woman on the floor. Artan would have guessed that he was close to her. Maybe like a father to her. Maybe lost his own kids in the war. Now his only happiness was dead, ripped open by some nut job called the 'Butcher's handiwork.
"Do you need anyone to help find the fuckwad?"
xxx
He had come to a dead end at Hjerim, and sent Lydia back to Dragonsreach to recuperate some more. Nords might be frighteningly rigid with cold, but it didn't make them invincible. Artan had left for Riften the next day. The Arentino boy had promised him an heirloom, an old Nordic one. In this day, when the Nords had most of their heritage taken by Thalmor, well, anything to remind them of Grand-pappy and the good old days was worth a Mammoth's weight in gold.
The stink pervaded the city.
As did its rotten guards.
"Pay the tax, or you might as well turn tail, cat."
"We both know that I won't pay you. We both also know that this tax is a load of crap. We also know that I will skin your hide and use it as a nice winter coat while I roast your ass over a crackly, peaceful fire. As for your friend here, well. I guess my vampire friend Mozarth would like a nice bottle of Nord for his birthday." Artan leant in a little closer and whispered, "He does like them a bit chubby. More 'cushion for the pushing' he says. I don't know what he means, but maybe you could tell me. If he doesn't kill you. But if I were you, I'd be hoping to Ysgrmirr that he kills you."
"Just go inside," the guard bit out, shuffling on his feet away from the cat.
"Thank you. It's so good to see such helpful guards," Artan laughed, practically bouncing past the other, paler guard and into the city.
xxx
The old woman was asking for it.
At first, Artan got a bitter taste at the thought of battering an old woman to death in her own orphanage. Until he watched her with the kids. How she made sure to not bruise their faces, and made them wear long sleeves. He guessed he was going to Hell when he died. Two wrongs don't make a right. Murder wasn't right. Even if it was to free a bunch of parentless children, all of them wanting something stable to cling to in the days when they still believed in the bug bear and the monster under the bed. Instead they got a cruel woman who took the frustration she had with her own life out on the children she was meant to protect.
His claws were bloody, but it didn't matter much. He wiped them on her dress, straightened his tunic, and walked out with a spring in his step. The assistant's screams brought the hounds of hell down on the tiny orphanage, but Artan was already in the pub, enjoying a pint with a mouthy magician, who got quite riled when Artan asked if he could make flowers come out of his sleeves.
xxx
When he first got there, he wondered what kind of crazy people would live in old ruins on top of a crypt; full of inventions that killed on sight. And the he understood it. They were Nords. Mostly. He took a step into the stone city, and to be honest, he expected bloody cutthroats.
The market was tiny, set up right by the front gates, expecting the travellers to wander in and coo at their wares. Maybe be too tired to haggle for a deal. If they hadn't, Artan might not have saved her life. The man was shifty, and the khajiit automatically had him pegged. Artan slunk forwards, ignoring Marcurio's gibbering. The mage was intelligent, and downright brilliant. But he could talk the pants off an Orc, and Artan had to use a muffle spell on his follower more than once to get some peace. At least Lydia knew when to shut up.
In this instance, his gibbering helped.
"FOR THE FORSWORN!"
The man sprung, and Artan pounced.
The guards were on them in an instant, seeing the man jump at the shopper, just being too slow to intercept him. Artan drove Valdr's very lucky dagger into his armpit, and he slumped. Marcurio looked like he was about to keel over with shock, but he held himself a little straighter after that.
"So, care to tell me why I had to do that?" Artan practically snarled at the nearest guard, already shepherding people away from the corpse.
"Move on. This is none of your business, outsider," the guard growled back, barely even glancing at the khajiit.
Artan's brows rose, "So I save one of your citizens from a crazed-"
The guard took a few steps towards the cat, until he was practically nose to nose with him. There was a moment when Artan wondered whether or not it would end in a fight, but the guard snorted a large breath out through his nose and spat on the ground between them; "Move. On."
Artan frowned when Marcurio started maneuvering him down a side street, eyes boring holes into the guard's face the whole trip, until the walls of the city hid him from view. "What a heartless troll. He didn't even check on that woman."
"If you think that's bad, then you're going to love it here," Marcurio rolled his eyes, swiftly going from placating to sarcastic.
The two turned, and spotted the blonde in time to see him jam a wad of paper into Artan's hand. "You dropped this."
The khajiit's eyes lidded, brow rising in skepticism. "Oh did I?"
The boy shrugged, "Just being a good citizen, stranger."
After he loped off, Artan looked to Marcurio, "Do all you humans act so… weird?"
"Just don't do anyone any favours, unless they are a Jarl or a very beautiful woman with small hands," the mage huffed, rubbing at his hair.
"Why?" Artan asked, half expecting the mage to explode from the strain. He knew that he was difficult to travel with, what with all the 'pelt' and 'provincial.' Let alone the fact that he knew that the city's inn would probably turn them out or ask a ridiculous price to try and dissuade them from staying. It was only the fact that they did it with all outsiders that made it easier.
"Just," Marcurio hissed, waving a hand as if he could pull his words from the air before settling on, "don't."
xxx
The halls were beautiful. The warm glow of gold was everywhere, but it did nothing to stop the shivers of chill creep down Artan's back. This place smelt old, musky like beer and thick with burning wood. It also had a resident Thalmor. The thing was staring at him, emerald eyes analyzing him, as cold as the gold around them. "I bet I can warm up that ice queen."
"What are you talking about, creature?" the thing snapped, and Artan had to force a smile when it finally turned to him.
"Nothing. I am Artan. I'm guessing you're a new face around here," he said, conversationally.
"Ondolemar. Proud Altmer, the saviours of Mer. And no, I do not come from such a parasitic background as these cretins do," the Thalmor sniffed, motioning with a flick of a wrist towards the congregated humans in the throne alcove. He didn't even wave it properly, just a little flick as if they weren't worth the energy for more. Ondolemar turned back to Artan, eyes flicking the height of him, "And what, pray tell, are you doing here?"
"Sight-seeing, just like you," Artan sighed, rubbing at an ache in his shoulder. As he expected, the Thalmor didn't miss the movement.
"I am no tourist, cat. I am here to keep these humans in line," Ondolemar bit out, after a few moments of silence. He threw one of the sleeve-tails of his robes over his shoulder so he could tuck his arms across his chest. It was so he could feel along the knives hidden under the robes, probably belted to thin leather armour. It was a nervous reaction, and honestly Artan was surprised the Thalmor even allowed himself one.
"I'm glad a fellow non-human can understand that these brats need some discipline," Artan smiled, only half joking.
"We are not fellows," the Thalmor sniffed, but there wasn't any heat there.
Artan got confident. "What happened to the natural Altmer courtesy? You might be an amazing specimen of elvish lineage, but there's no reason to get all up in my grill about it. I thought that Altmer were so smart, they didn't have to go pronouncing their superiority all the time. It would just be universally known," the cat pressed a fist to his hip, waving his other hand noncommittally.
"Don't be sarcastic. It's asinine." Ondolemar half-grinned, showing teeth.
"I didn't hear 'his highness says.'" Artan bared his throat. This wasn't a proper one. He would have already been killed if Ondolemar was a proper Thalmor. He had either grown soft here, or he was just young.
The frosty elf actually smiled. "You might be what I need, cat," he hummed; almost to himself, but loud enough that Artan could hear him. He was obviously putting on airs, but Artan didn't care too much for that.
"I hate it when people say that," the cat grimaced.
"Hah. I am investigating a Nord in the city who is still worshiping Talos. The man does not understand the words 'banned' or 'illegal.' The Jarl's men are being rather, watery about his arrest, and just punishment. They want proof. Get me proof. And I will consider you a higher life form than the amoebae that forms the general masses," he waved his hand again, but this time he actually waved it properly and even held it out for a moment to appraise Artan before he let both of his arms drop to his sides.
"How could I ever skip such an opportunity?" The cat smirked again.
"You jest now, but I bet you will be coming back with that proof in the morning," Ondolemar smiled back, a hard little line on his face.
"If I had it my way elf, you would be nursing a wound and walking like a duck in the morning," Artan bit out, ignoring the way Marcurio practically shrieked behind him.
"I do not understand, but I guess it to be more drivel. Off with you," Ondolemar sniffed, waving a hand again, but this time in dismissal. Artan didn't miss the way he only half meant it.
The khajiit swept up the short walk to the jarl, Marcurio at his back practically hyperventilating behind him. "Thank Talos that he didn't understand you." The mage was shaking, his head, his hands, his entire chest. He was wiping his palms against his robes, almost as if he was drowning in sweat. A good gauge on what the mage-folk here thought of Thalmor Justicars, if anything.
Just as they pierced the bubble around the throne, Artan whispered back, "I do that every day."
"Who are you?" A weathered old thing asked, sitting forward in his throne.
"Artan, my Jarl," the cat replied, but didn't bow like Marcurio.
"What are you doing, interrupting my court like this?" The Jarl frowned, and Artan could almost feel the pressure his eyes had, the weight of them on his head. Balgruff didn't have these eyes, but hell. It was good that there was a leader somewhere who could actually hold some weight behind his words.
"I am the answer to all your problems," Artan grinned, holding his hands out as if he were presenting a gift.
"Oh, how so?" The old man asked, his crackly old voice almost sounding curious. He was blatantly ignoring the other old fart sat beside him, muttering loudly about rudeness and pelts. He was much better at hiding his dislike for the new arrivals than the Jarl's housecarl, who was stood a few inches from the cat with her sword drawn and her eyes like fire in her face. Her hair was still swishing around her shoulders with the force of her movement.
The cat grinned, "I came here to deal with your savage little problem. You take issue with the crazy people in the hills. And I want to help you."
The jarl looked at him, really looked. Artan knew what he saw. The man saw what all Nords saw. A tail. He saw a thief, a disaster waiting to happen, a murderer and a swindler. He saw a problem, sitting like a vulture on top of all his other problems, waiting for the other problems to crush him, so the vulture-problem could eat his liver. They all saw it. And it never became okay. He seemed to sit back after he was done with his staring, and eventually huffed out, "I hate sellswords."
Artan almost spat at the man, "I don't want your money."
The housecarl at the Jarl's side almost blew a vein at the impudence. Artan didn't flinch from her or her sword; even if she looked like she was about to catch alight with rage. "I don't need your silver. I do fine when it comes to paying my way. I'm doing this so that fiasco in the market never happens again. A woman who can't shop in the city market because she's scared of getting killed over a cabbage? It's disgusting. And since your guards are a bit slow on the uptake, I will just have to step in. AGAIN."
"You are the one who saved Margaret in the market," The jarl said quietly, almost as if he was making notes for himself.
Artan threw his arms across his chest and lifted his chin to better glare at the old man. "Give me a destination and I'll get the job done."
The jarl glanced to the other old man, who was still grumbling into his beard. After a few moments, a hard voice filtered out of that beard, "Red Eagle Redoubt." The old sod seemed to huff after that, folding his hands in his lap and pointedly not looking at Artan.
"See you in a few days, Jarl," the cat turned from them, throwing a hand up in goodbye. He forgot how much he hated talking to Jarls. He forgot, but fuck if he ever would again.
"That remains to be seen," he heard the old shit say, before they were fully outside that bubble of shit.
Artan was fully intending to do a walk out, but his eye caught something shiny in one of the small alcoves of the throne room. He was standing there, silent as a sabre tooth while it watched prey from the grass. His armour was what caught Artan's eye, shining silver in amongst all the gold and finery. His boots were leathery, old and scratched from what looked to be many battles, but still in good order. As was the rest of his attire, prim and proper, with the salty undercut of something else to rat him out as different in the throne room. His mouth was a set, pink line, almost marred by the ghastly silver scar that blinded his right eye. Only the other stark blue eye gave him away.
Artan snapped his trance and walked out, Marcurio at his heel.
They were barely out of the throne alcove and at the head of the steps before the magician was gibbering again; about forsworn being strong and how they were going to destroy a camp. Marcurio was almost at the bottom of the steps before he realized he was alone, that Artan had stopped beside the Thalmor agent again and was talking quietly with him.
"Who is in that throne room?" the cat asked lowly, barely able to keep the irritation out of his voice.
"The Jarl, his elderly uncle, and the woman is his housecarl." Ondolemar replied, pointedly ignoring the clawed hand around his arm.
"What about the blonde Nord. He looked like he could bite the head off a goat," Artan brought his hand up to his face and clacked his claws together, almost sounding like grinding teeth to the altmers surprise.
"That's Argis. The Bulwark. He's in line to be the Housecarl of the cities new thane. The Jarl just can't find a useful warrior in the dawdling fools he recruits to guard his gates to make the new Thane," the elf scoffed, hand waving again.
Artan clapped the elf on the back, ignoring the grimace of distaste.
"I am going to find you so much proof that you won't know whether to use the Orsimer burn or the Imperial titty-twister!"