4E, 202 Early Morning Star

It was well past midnight, the moons watery tendrils choking, smothering the crisp, blackened trees chalked up into the sky. The grass was almost black, as was the water that clung to it, almost like a drunken love affair between the strange, shifting marsh and the blazing shoal of grasses that speckled the land mass around –and in- Morthal.

Artan himself was a rather sorry sight.

The ghostly apparition looked much better, in her pearly gown, pale face, and unmistakably dead aroma of crushed tulips and wet mud. She was tiny, a good half of his size, and as she whimpered and pleaded, Artan found himself almost ready to cry. Lydia was at his back, bristled like one of those prickly bushes that seemed to love growing here, and he knew they were good to go. The ghost girl disappeared, and they began the dreary, incredibly depressing game of hide and seek.

Artan let Lydia kill the vampire.

She was pale, dark haired, cropped short around her sharp, angular face. It reminded him detachedly of a snake, predator, devourer. The next forty-eight hours were draining, if he was honest. He just wanted to go back to Markarth, demand his Thaneship, take his new housecarl, fuck him, and go about his business like he was supposed to; free and full of humour. Usually he didn't get like this.

Other people always wanted something, and it was always something stupid, or gross, or simply physically ill-recommended. Usually, he would get the good stuff, and dodge the weird. Especially after that Sanguine fiasco. Lydia quirked an eyebrow at his shiver, but he motioned for her to carry on burying the girl's coffin. The ice princess was quite observant, and usually Artan thanked any Daedra, Aedra or deity for that. But when he's thinking about the beast with two backs, not the best quality for her to have. He shivered again.

He guessed he was a weirdo.

It wasn't that he didn't enjoy it, because he really did. He just didn't like what you usually had to do to get to that point. Sharing thoughts, feelings, ect. Give him smoke and dagger any day. Getting naked with someone needed either a lot of trust or a lot of self-confidence. Either you trusted them enough not to kill you while you slept, or you had to have the confidence in yourself to be able to survive such an encounter. He survived that encounter many times. Other people were not to be trusted. They are only trustworthy when belly-up in a ravine.

J'zargo taught him that much.

The other feline was brilliant, tactical, and completely dependable to run the other fucking way when a Dwemer automation starts running at you.

Artan grimaced. He hated the idea of talking about himself. About his life. About his thoughts. He talked bullshit. It was another mask. If people think you're an ass, they will most likely believe you misplaced most morals, and most regular feelings too. Such as feeling hurt, getting sad, falling in love. It is assumed that these asses don't feel, and therefore questions that make him feel uncomfortable are not asked.

It creates a whole set of other problems, but Artan takes them.

Rather that than the alternative.

xxx

Artan drives a stake through the chest of the thrall, rather disgusted with the amount of blood that surges from the man's violated sternum. He figured stakes as a fun alternative to his regular war hammer, and well. It was. Got his head out of the clouds, thinking about the sharp silhouette in the Markarth throne-room. Hands-on. Messy. No time to think about no big, hulking man.

Lydia and that fool was at his side, and bluntly, Artan was sure he would kill the stupid dirt-farmer. He was screaming, whining, and bringing every bloodsucker in the whole place down on their heads. Eventually, Artan put a muffle spell on his mouth, and the silence was beautiful. Lydia visibly relaxed.

The three snaked further into the cave system, crouched low, sneaking, stealing inside amongst the bones, the flesh, the pulpy innards of the feeding room. God. All these freaks needed was the blood. Why eat the person too? Artan grimaced. It just seemed like having a bottle of wine and eating the glass as well.

When they came to a fork, well, a ladder and a ground path, Artan chose the ladder.

And thanked Boethiah that the vampire Mozarth was on the lower level, sat at a lavish table of human remains, small goats-heads and what looked to be a plate of rather extraordinarily large carrots. Artan got out his bow, and with a deep steady breath, took out the thrall on the balcony above his head. There wasn't even a twitch from the master vampire, picking at his plate of kidneys as if they were small unremarkable apple pies.

Artan killed three more before the alarm sounded.

The stupid dirt-farmer cried and fell to his knees during the fight, Lydia and Artan having to keep the fool between them, backs together, faces to the vampires, trying to keep him out of the firing line.

A short, stumpy vampire lashed out with that red magic, zapping Artan's leg, sucking it dry. The cat threw his warhammer. It crushed the vampire's throat, collarbone and some of his chest, the energy returning to Artan's leg, and the cat taking full advantage of it. Drawing both of the swords lashed to his thighs, he turned on Lydia's assailant, driving the golden blade through the thrall's gut with nail-through-thumb ease. The thrall at his back didn't have a chance. Lydia swung her battleaxe with a precision that made Artan rethink his witty banter with her. It floated over his head as he lunged; fully decapitating the fool trying to stab him in the back.

If this is what she did to vampires, imagine what she could do to him if he proper pissed her off.

The thought, unbidden, almost screwed him.

Mozarth had him by the other arm, the arm holding his mace, and in a flurry Artan was on his back, shrieking in that awful, vampire way, and the bloodied red aura engulfed everything in Artan's vision. Only one thing saved him.

"FUS ROH DAH."

xxx

4E, Late Morning Star

When he first met the man, he didn't know what to think.

At first, when the Jarl told him the hold was to get a new thane, well. He didn't really think the hold needed it. They were imbedded into the mountainside, guarded by nature herself. They had repelled a few dragon attacks, and were far enough from Solitude and Windhelm that the battles didn't reach them. The only thing they had to contend with was the Forsworn, and the amount of sell-swords in the area kept them at enough of a distance.

They said he was the legendary Dovahkiin, which fought in the battle of Whiterun, who ran with the cannibals of Namira, that he was both daedric champion and daedra hunter, that he had one foot in the dark and the other in the light. That he was Thane in two other holds and that the crime rate had dropped to almost nothing during his ascension to the role. All bards folly. It had to be.

They still didn't need a thane, though.

Argis was disturbed from his reverie by a visitor to the Jarl's court, the recently ascended Archmage. The Bulwark simply took him apart, piece by piece. From the looks of him, he wasn't only gifted in magic. He held himself like a warrior, but he didn't have the build. He was lithe, like a runner. The feathery Archmage robes made him look birdlike, hood up and a strange bronze mask across his face.

But when he tugged it away, the court unanimously gasped.

Then the jarl stood, and opened his arms. The court bubbled with excitement, happy faces, and the usual. Argis was confused. A Khajiit? Why were they so happy to see a Khajjit as Archmage? Then he understood it, as Ondolemar clapped him on the shoulder, that this guy was the new thane. That it was this guy who put Faleen and that insufferable wizard together. That he had wiped most of the Forsworn from the hills.

This scrawny clod was the new thane.

The new thane was relatively short, maybe 5'7. Well, he was short compared to Argis. The nord himself was 6'3. A kitten really, Argis knew he wouldn't last a week. The Khajiit storms in, all grins, smiles, jokes and swapping small talk with Faleen. He didn't have the backbone to be thane. Not here. It was a bone crushing city, built on the backs of slaves, on the backs of barbarians that the guards threw into jail, Blood and Silver.

He had to have been loaded to afford one of the bigger houses in Markarth, but how this airhead managed to get his paws on that kind of dough was a huge question mark. If you didn't believe the shady rumours about him. This couldn't be the same khajiit that did all the things that the courts praised him of. What they cursed him for.

Argis just had to ask, "Who are you?"

The cat-man smiled, "I'm Artan. Pleased to meet you, Mr. Bulwark."

Xxx

4E, 202 Suns Dawn

When the cat finally said the words, Argis was sat in the kitchen with a sweet roll a month from their first meeting.

"Follow me."

A day later, and they were up to their armpits in vampires. When one of them appeared at his flank, sword raised high, and the ugly red pulse of magic sapped his strength, forcing him to his knees, he cursed the damned cat to the gods. And then there was a yowl. Dumbass got himself kill-

The vampire hit the dirt with a black blur, and with a terrible shriek she was dead. The figure removed its hands from her hair, shaking fingers and claws free from the matted clumps atop the unnaturally floppy head, straightened and turned to Argis, tail flicking. Artan crouched by him, and suddenly his hands were glowing gold. Before the Nord could hiss out any expletives, he felt the pain in his side recede and the weakness in his legs fall away.

"Why?"

"I brought you here. It's only right to watch your back. Besides, you're my housecarl. Your duty is to protect me. I am your thane, so it is my duty to protect you, too," the cat smiled. Argis stared at him, and the khajiit laughed.

"Pick your jaw up, we still have more bloodsuckers to go!"

That was a few hours ago, and they were far from the pond-haven in which that particular coven called home. The cat was stripping a buck of its hide, humming some ridiculous tune about some warrior or other, and for some unbeknownst reason, Argis found it immensely irritating.

"Well, I think that went rather well," Artan smiled, throwing one of the antlers towards his pack.

"How?" Argis asked, not even bothering to keep the anger from his voice.

The cat scoffed, sounding incredulous, "we are alive, well, and have a set of awesome new robes to flog."

The Nord frowned, "fair point. But it shouldn't have got that tight in there. Aren't you Archmage? Couldn't you just incinerate them?"

The Thane seemed to fluff up, abashed, "Well, I sort of saved the college, and they elected me Archmage. I am actually a novice in magical endeavours."

The disapproval that melted off Argis was palpable, malleable. Artan could have made a waxen sculpture taller than himself if the stuff was material. The Nord crossed his arms, one ice blue, and one milky white eye staring at him over their meager fire. "So we could have easily died today. And you are meant to be Thane?"

Artan bristled, "if you want I can rectify that for you, Mr. Bulwark. I might not be able to smoke your ass into charcoal but I can still kick the living-"

The roar was monumental. The landing almost deafened them. Argis attacked first, the cat was gone. The sword didn't even dent the dragon hide, and in one movement, the thing swung its tail, shattered Argis' shield against him, winding him, sending him flying, and the foot was crushing him. The blinding oh fuck flashed through him, and in that terrible, mind-numbing movement where the dragon reared its head, its throat and chest expanded, and the flames licked around its dreadful maw, Argis knew he was going to die.

The dragon opened its mouth.

And howled.

The crack was loud, and Argis felt the toes around him loosen phenomenally, and as he watched the dragon flop to the ground, head landing heaving a few feet from his own boots, he took especial note of Artan, crouched low on the creature's head, battle-axe practically up to the hilt in the skull of the beast, tail twitching, eyes blazing, and completely awe-inspiring.

The cat straightened, and in a dreadful, twisting yank tore his weapon from the carcass of his kill, whipping his head aside to fling the blood from his eyes, before taking a gentle skip down from the dragon's head. With the head of his axe, he gently pried apart the claws holding Argis, and offered the other, free hand to the Bulwark. Shakily, stunned, completely bewildered, Argis took the hand, and allowed himself to be hauled upright.

"Next time, don't run at them head on. Weave, zig-zag, make a harder target. Knights always go for the straightforward approach, and it always gets them killed. So please," Artan patted a heavy shoulder, slightly bringing Argis back to earth, "be careful. I don't want to bury you too."

The Nord's ears perked, "Too?"

The feline soured, and returned to the fire.

"Too."

xxx

Watching Artan was an experience. That is being mild; astounding amounts of 'mild.'

The cat was an enigma, even three months on. They were still traveling, and Argis was intensely, utterly, and completely confused as to whether Artan was good or bad. One moment, the Nord was sure that Artan would never get into Paradise. And the next, he was all but assured that the cat was going somewhere nice in the next life. He did silly things, like kill and thieve and in one case run around near-naked in the neighbour's flowerbeds blind drunk. The next day he was running errands for the assistant in the temple of Mara, playing matchmaker for a farmer's daughter, and not forgetting his intervention between the court mage and Faleen, the Jarl's housecarl.

One moment he was giving oranges to starving children and the next he was sniping at a soldier from a pub window. Argis couldn't peg him, and doubted he every really would.

Even stranger, he was finding himself growing fond of the fluffy rat.

He checked his temperature, and it was normal.

Maybe he was going soft in his old age.

Or maybe, he wasn't the golem he always told himself he was.

Absently, the bulky Nord rubbed a thumb down the scalloped facial scar, the same one that claimed his sight. Artan looked to him, cocked his head, but the Nord shook his head in reply. Artan extended the stare, before shrugging, and motioning for Argis to stay seated. He called for more wine.

The next few moments were a blur, but when he blinked, the lanky elf was trussed up on the table, hog-tied with his own scarf. Artan had his thin, dark hand at the elf's throat, murmuring quiet, almost sweetly in the shivering creature's ear, and a quiet exchange was made. Argis didn't move throughout the exchange, even if a few barmaids shrieked and the innkeeper looked ready to start kicking them out. He had grown rather use to people attacking his Thane, and Artan rebuking attacks before Argis even registered danger. He attributed it to magic, but he wasn't certain. Artan was too good.

The cat kicked the elf to the floor, before looking to Argis.

"Looks like I have pissed off another official. Argis, if anything happens; it's been a good run."

The Nord snorted, "What?"

"I am glad that the Jarl picked you to be my housecarl. Even if you are moodier than Lydia, you are a good man. And I am pretty damn happy I met you. Before you, my plan was to destroy the Nordic people, and maybe keep Lydia as a pet. But you have made me rethink that completely. If any of the other Nords are a fraction of you, then I wouldn't have it in me to hurt them. You are loyal, and crazy, and by Talos do you have a set of balls. But if anything happens to me, I want you to take care of yourself. Well. Live till you're grey, and for the love of Talos, don't throw your life away for some asshole."

The cat eyed him, before he stood, yawned, and led the bewildered blonde out of the pub.

The peace was short lived.

xxx

The temple was dark, and to be honest, Argis was completely and utterly confused as to why they were here at all. A crazed man was suggesting there were traitors in the aristocracy. That there were men in the court who were throwing innocents into Cidnha mine. That they were political prisoners. He was disgusted. And appalled at this stupid little man. But Artan believed him. It was enough for Argis to hear the man out. It was enough to make Argis doubt the city he had lived in for the last decade.

"I have seen many bad apples. I wouldn't be surprised to find another rotten one here."

The sweet, cloying and ultimately stuffy smell of the incense was overbearing, and Argis could see Artan practically stomping down the slope to where they were meant to meet the man. Argis forgot what his name was. But Artan stopped, and motioned for the big man to hide. Argis was about to ask, but the cat put a finger to his mouth, and motioned again. The blonde growled, but complied.

The feline loped down the short slope down into the belly of the temple, and Argis understood when the guards popped out.

"You have been sniffing around too much, Khajiit. Thane or not. To the mine with you, murdering filth. Spilling blood in the home of Talos. You should be hung for this."

Another guard snickered, and Argis could only watch as the four of them escorted Artan away. The cat motioned for him to stay where he was, and he did as told. But it wasn't out of choice. The spell held him fast, bottling and corking that rage inside him, the searing, almost volcanic heat that was bubbling in his guts. His fingers twitched to his axe, and too late, he was barreling up the stairs towards the entrance. It was much too late. Because Artan was already gone, and there was nothing he could do.

xxx

4E, 202 Early Second Seed

It wasn't his first time in prison. But it was his first time in such a ratty, disgusting place. He guessed it was because it stank of abused justice, forgotten heroes and a violated legal system. Might've been the intense body odor, decaying skeevers and human defecation. Could have very easily been either. He didn't know how justice smelt.

It had been three hours, and he had acquired four shivs, a bottle of skooma, a small sandstone dog sculpture that looked more like a duck, and what looked to be the remains of a small rodent. As well as making friends with who seemed to be one of the crazy cultists that he had made his entire fortune killing. It also seemed that the crazy cultists had crowned this guy their king. Artan didn't know whether to be impressed or terrified of their incredibly democratic hierarchy and voting systems.

It didn't matter much. Especially when the fool started leading him up the beaten path, through some old caverns and out into Markarth. And straight into the faces of the waiting authorities.

Corrupt, but authoritative none the less.

A huge, hulking Forsworn leapt forwards, bowling three corrupt guards off their feet, his fellows hurtling in after him, and Artan skipped away from the fighting. Back pressed to the wall, he tried his dandiest to keep out of whatever tiff staggered his way. That is, until something grabbed his threadbare shirt and hauled him into the sky. For a moment, he thought maybe Namira had taken pity on him.

That is, until he was greeted by thick arms, a puff of blonde locks and his sword.

Then he realized that Lady Luck had blessed him instead.

"Come on, my Thane. Let's get back to the house and some food in you. You're making the twigs look like trees right now," Argis grunted, half carrying Artan through the streets. He seemed more observant than usual, and was easily able to get them to the base of Vlindrel Hall's steps without much effort.

"But what about the Forsworn? They're escaping," Artan managed to ask, in between the irregular bouts of blindness and feeling like his entire stomach would come out.

"The Guards will deal with them. And then the Jarl will deal with the traitors who have broken their vows to Lady Justice," Argis snarled, eventually just forcing his other arm under Artan's knees and carrying him up the steps.

"You seem to have everything under control," the cat chuckled, patting the Nord's breastplate.

"I learnt from the best," Argis bit out between dodging the guards barreling down the steps and towards the front gates.

"Lydia is a brilliant tactician. And… oh lord the sun is bright today…" Artan sighed, feeling like whatever eel had made a home in his gut had suddenly given birth and all her babies were just swimming upwards towards his head.

"My Thane…?" Argis didn't look down; too busy trying to push his way up to the house. He had just about got to the door before he realized that Artan had fainted.

xxx

"Eat your eggs," Argis said, and Artan didn't have to see his face to know he was frowning.

"But Argis-" the cat whined.

Argis cut him off, turning from the stove to glare at the cat. "I don't care. Eat them or I will make you eat them."

The cat pouted, and for a moment, the Bulwark debated on going a little easier on the cat. And then he figured that he escaped only two days ago from a prison that had starved him for the better part of three months. The determination came back, and he pushed the plate closer to Artan.

"What do I get for it?" the cat asked, claw tracing around his fork but not picking it up.

The Nord raised his eyebrows, looking like he had just found a three-headed unicorn that pooped gold and diamonds in his man-shed. "How about I don't hit you? That sound good?"

The cat pouted more, ears flickering down against his skull, eyes sparkling. It was a technique that made Queen Elisif melt, that stopped Lydia mid-rant, and thawed even Maven Black-Briar's icy stare. It even made a tiny, almost-buried part of Argis squeak with an equally miniscule fleck of happiness.

But the cat didn't expect a rebuke, and not such a powerful one.

He looked alarmed as Argis' hand shot out, but the moment the fingers began pressing, massaging, he was already arching, shivering, purring. Argis would have pumped a fist in the air, a victory against the enigmatic Thane, but that would have been demeaning. He carried on scratching the cat behind the ears, down his neck, under his chin. The deep, throaty purring didn't stop, and the feline got so completely enthralled by the feeling that when Argis stopped, he clutched at the hand with both hands, sending a vehement, borderline monstrous glare at the Nord.

The blonde gave him a pointed look, "not until you finish your plate."

The cat soured, frowning as if the Bulwark had puked in his mouth, "You are a monster."

"Monster, Housecarl. Potatoe, Potato," Argis shrugged, turning back to the stove.

xxx

"Argis, meet Lydia. She is my first, and took my Housecarl virginity a good year ago now. Be careful, she's like a wolf with a bear carcass," Artan stage-whispered to the Bulwark, cupping his hand around his mouth to better direct the noise. How Artan didn't cut his face with his claws, Argis didn't know.

"Better that than a kitten with a saucer of milk, my Thane," Lydia snorted, folding her arms across her breastplate and slouching a little in her armour. It was the sign of a young warrior, the slouching.

"I happen to like milk. It's not my fault you prefer blood," the cat poked his tongue out at her before he actually went to poke the icy woman in the stomach with a few fingers, ignoring her half-hearted swipe at his head.

"You are such a pussycat," she grinned at him when he dodged away from her, shaking her head.

"Trust me. I am not. I prefer sausages," the cat poked at her side again, but was surprised when she lurched away from him to settle a mighty glare on him instead.

"You are such a vulgar shit sometimes, you know that?" Lydia growled, pushing him a few feet away from her.

"Talos almighty are you blushing?" Artan half shrieked, half squeaked.

Argis didn't bother to help the Thane trying to patch the bloodied nose, nor help him up off the floor. He rather figured the Thane deserved that one.

Xxx

4E, 202 Second Seed

He had lost count of how long Artan had been his Thane. He had similarly lost count of how long ago the stupid infatuation started, too. Typical. Spend a little time with him, and as usual, the ridiculous critter had charmed him, the same way he had charmed the inexorable Lydia. The cat had actually made her smile, the last they were here. They were off to some witch nest or other. Argis just nodded politely, zoning out whatever the cat was saying, instead wondering how the silvery fur spread across his throat would feel. Whether his belly was soft and fluffy like real cat. He sighed, and tucked the ridiculous thoughts away. Artan was his Thane. Nothing more. Nothing less.

The crash almost shook the jars off the shelves.

He returned in a rush, carrying a bloodied lump in his arms and howling at the healers that followed him like sheep. Argis leapt to his feet, watching in shock as the thane swept all the things off the kitchen table with a deft tail, and placed the dripping mess on the surface. Then he swore and ordered the healers around the table and the glow started.

They stood and chanted for hours.

Eventually that bloated lump began to scream.

The day bled away into night, and eventually the screams turned to sobs, dry and cracked, and Argis watched as the healers filed out, passed out and puked up. Others always filed in, however, to replace them. Artan never left that room. His eyes were cold and brutal in his face, and every time his fur rippled and he dry heaved in the corner, he would bite out a roar and shake himself. Then he would straighten, down a potion or four, and go back to healing.

And eventually, when the morning sun rose and turned into a noonday blaze, the lump looked like a girl again. The healers slumped and rolled around on the floors, pale and drawn as if they had just run several miles with dragons up their asses.

Artan fell onto one of the stools littered through Vindrell Hall, eyes trained on the girl on the table. Then he huffed, once, and went to pick her up. Argis pushed his tired arms out of the way and picked her up, wandering out through the hall and out to where his own quarters were. The stupid Dovakiin had spent all his money on the rest of the house and had left a tiny nest of dry hay and a few jugs of wine as his own room. So Argis left Lydia in his bed, and simply closed the door on the way out.

"Now. You go to bed, Thane. I will see to the other healers."

"They have food. We sleep. Follow."

Artan simply grabbed a gauntlet and dragged the nord across the hall to his pit, and Argis was incredibly surprised to actually see a bed had been installed in the room. The wardrobes were still empty, and spiders still hung out in the corners. Still. The khajiit had thrown a rather haphazard sheet of fur over his bed instead of a blanket, and to be honest, Argis liked the concept.

Who wouldn't like soft fur compared to hemp?

The cat simply growled, and Argis felt the Thu'um wash over him. He was mildly surprised when his armour practically shuddered off him. The khajiit shoved him, and he landed square in the middle of the bed and for an instant, his brain did a back flip. That was before the dovahkiin yawned, stretched, flumped on the bed and passed out face down with his ass in the air.

Sexy.

xxx

Argis woke up to something warm on his chest, vibrating soothingly against him. The thing was fluffy, like his wonderful pet dog when he lived on the farm. It saved him from a bear, years ago. The thing had attacked him and his brother on a hunting trip, and when the bear turned on him after gutting his brother, the dog leapt between them. Somehow, the duo managed to kill the beast.

But this was softer. Leaner. It felt wonderful, all melted across him, keeping him warm. Then it yawned and stretched languidly against his side, mewling softly in his ear. Mewling.

He didn't want to believe it.

He cracked open an eye.

Yup.

They had fallen asleep with the door closed. There were two of them. In the middle of summer. With furs sprawled all over the floor and bed. Where the dovahkiin had kicked them off. With most of his clothes. And was now laid butt naked across Argis and a few of the furred blankets like a furry sex god.

And for a moment, all those ridiculous thoughts were real.

Legate Rikke could have fucking knocked.

The woman didn't even flinch. "Get your ass out of bed. We need you to stomp out a small camp of Stormcloaks. They have taken-"

"Fus."

The woman flew from the room, and for an instant, the furs shuddered. Then with a growled "Ro," the door slammed shut. Then Artan returned to snuggling into the warmth underneath him, and that was that.

"Ta-Dah!"

xxx

4E, 202 Midyear

Three days.

Artan was bound by his vows to help the Legion, and Argis was bound by his vows to Artan. Seemed ridiculous, but sadly, such is life. They had sped to another meeting place, half a mile from another Stormcloak fort, the third this month, and got ready to start a siege. It was the last before they were to sweep Windhelm, and the air was palpable. But Artan wasn't looking at his soldiers, shivering in the dusty snow drifts. He was staring at Argis with those big green eyes.

"Are you okay with this?"

"Attacking a fort? We have done this three times already. I think I'm used to it."

"These men aren't bandits. They are Nords. Your brothers. Does that bother you? I will send you back to camp if you don't want to fight them."

The Bulwark simply blinked, stupidly at the fluffy rat, almost like a fish would gape. "You're asking this now? Seriously?" Artan nodded once, and Argis resisted the want to shove him in the snow bank. "You are my Thane. I may share a God with those men, but we do not share an ideal. The Thalmor banning Talos is an outrage, but civil war is not the answer. Ulfric must pay for his crimes, against Skyrim and against its people. All of its people."

Artan seemed to shiver into alertness at that, before looking back towards the fort. "And once again, I have Talos to thank for putting you here, Argis."

Argis scoffed, ignoring the soft tone, "No, you would have to thank my mother for that."

"Maybe over tea and a Sweetroll," the cat glanced back, hopeful.

"More like a beer and a horker steak," Argis corrected, deadpan.

Artan grinned from pointy ear to pointy ear, "I think I will love this woman."