A Job like Any Other

The dungeon was dusty.

Dungeons were pretty much always dusty, and he didn't much care for dust. He didn't much care for dungeons, either. Unfortunate facts, seeing as these days he seemed to spend most his time in them. In dusty dungeons.

Just like this one.

With no one there to hear him, Bashnag let out a long sigh, though it most likely sounded more like a growl. The door closed behind him, he set out to descend the stairs in near pitch darkness. If there was such a thing as must then that was exactly what the place smelled like. Like must.

Why do I feel like that's how everything smells these days?

With another sigh-growl, he stopped at the bottom of the stairway to dig out some flint and tinder. He lit the single torch bolted to the wall beside him, then stalked across the room to light another. On his way he glanced at the prisoner shackled to the wall. The feline appeared to be sleeping.

Once there was some light in the dungeon, he stopped to stand by the insensate prisoner. He cleared his throat. The rumbling sound echoed in the barely furnished chamber.

The Khajiit's head popped up. He eyed the dungeon with bleary eyes, as though trying to once more figure out where he was. Then he seemed to remember, the way he slumped. Finally he fixed his gaze of wary hostility on Bashnag in front of him.

Bashnag stepped closer. "I take no pleasure in this," he declared. He then punched the prisoner in the ribs. The prisoner cried out, and sagged with the wind driven out of him. It hadn't been a particularly hard blow, as Bashnag had no intention of killing him. Not yet, anyway.

After some moments, the Khajiit's head rose again.

"Say a number between one and ten," said Bashnag.

The prisoner scowled. "Wh-what?"

Bashnag struck him in the face.

"Say a number," he repeated patiently, "between one and ten." He leaned in, close to the prisoner's ear, and murmured, "I'll give you a hint: aim low."

"Uh." Blood dripping out of the cut on his cheekbone, the prisoner hesitated. As Bashnag moved, about to deal another punch, he hastened to say, "T-two?

Bashnag withdrew the additional blow. He studied the cat. "Huh," he grunted contemplatively. "Woulda said one, myself."

The prisoner's confusion changed to shock as Bashnag reached out to seize one of his paws fettered to the wall beside him. He singled out the index finger.

Khajiit fingers were just the same as every other creature's, underneath all the fur and even with the talons. Just another finger. The same skin, the same cartilage and bone. He bent it back in one swift motion, felt the snap as the bone broke. The Khajiit screamed. An animal cry. In that, also, he was just the same as any other.

"That's one," Bashnag said. He proceeded to take hold of the prisoner's middle finger and repeated the procedure with similar results. "And two. Alright."

The prisoner's screaming soon guttered out and was replaced by a ragged moan verging on a sob. He sagged in his bonds, breathing heavily, as Bashnag walked off.

Bashnag pulled a chair under himself, and sat down to regard the prisoner from a couple strides' distance. As he sat, the chair groaned under his bulk.

He studied the Khajiit: this strange humanoid, bipedal beast-thing in all his magnificent feline grace. This was a body built for a wholly different sort of existence than what reality seemed to be willing to permit the creatures. How would the world be, he reflected, if the likes of the two of them, the limber and dexterous Khajiit and the big sturdy Orsimer, could live free in whatever way they chose; could take and utilize what was supreme and most vital in themselves, to use in service to each other and work together for the betterment of all, instead of spending what limited days and years of life that they had with their hands locked around each other's throats, vying for space and resources, killing each other for reasons they more often than not couldn't have properly explicated, or frankly even understood—fighting this endless, pointless war that seemed to sum up existence. In other words, if the world wasn't ruled by the likes that he'd spent his entire life working for.

But it was. So there was that.

"Well, now," he said, "I take you for softened up. Now we have a little talk. Who sent you?"

The Khajiit painstakingly picked up his head, affording his tormentor his best defiant glare. "Shadya of Da'kheavek."

"And who would that be?"

"A Khajiit. An innocent who was brutally murdered by your boss, the Nightingale."

"Aha," said Bashnag. "So, did then the ghost of this Shadya of . . . —Da'kheavek, was it?—send you to kill the Nightingale?"

The prisoner gave something like a puzzled frown, then hissed. "The dead never truly rest while their unjust deaths go unavenged!"

"So, in other words, you were not in fact sent by her at all?"

The prisoner said nothing.

Bashnag sighed, and rose. The chair groaned, as if to demand he make up his mind about standing or sitting up. He walked up to the prisoner, and once more punched him in the face.

"If I may request," he then growled in a low voice, leaning in closer "please stick to words pertainin' to the immediate reality as it actually stands; in other words, refrain from the use of metaphor, allusion, and the like."

The Khajiit stared at him in confusion. With a pang of shame, Bashnag realized that he had spoken too much. This shame immediately morphed into the most acute irritation, which he then contemplated assuaging by pummeling the cat again. But no, he shouldn't take the misworkings of his own mind out on this poor hapless creature. Instead, he grunted. "Alright."

He ambled back to his seat, and sat his bulk down as the chair protested. "Okay, let's try this again, shall we. Who sent you?"

The prisoner remained silent.

Bashnag grunted.


Runa belched. The beers she'd downed at Dawnstar had already lost their buzz, but that didn't keep 'em from revisiting from time to time. The aftertaste sure left room for hoping: it seemed as though Windpeak Inn's brew had gotten increasingly worse over the years. That Thoring had always been a standup fella, but perhaps his absent-mindedness had gotten out of hand with age and was now affecting his work. Why the man had ever insisted on serving his own brew instead of just supplying the usual stuff was a whole 'nother question.

Whiterun city poked out of the rocky ground of its surrounding plains like a sore thumb. The tall and narrow shape of Dragonsreach had always worked as a beacon of sorts, helping one to navigate to the city even if a bit more sauced than usual. But the drink wasn't hampering Runa this day. The damn sun, though, could have done with some tuning down the way it beat down on her. And it wasn't even noon yet! Sweat runneled down her temples and made the shirt under her armor stick to her back. The downside of being made to withstand cold seemed to be that she'd never handled heat all that well. One of the main reasons, she told herself, why she'd never set foot outside of Skyrim. Even the alcohol, which she'd often found helped cool her, didn't seem to be working this time 'round.

She stopped at the stables outside of the city and swung off the saddle. Paying the stablehand a small handful of gold, she left her horse, Frost, to be tended to while conducting her business.

The Khajiit camp stood in its usual place by the city's outer gate. As Runa stomped toward the large main yurt consisting of furs piled atop a wooden frame, the head of the male sitting cross-legged on a small mat by the entrance came up.

"Welcome!" the merchant crooned. "How may I—"

"Dra'Ajira," Runa said. "She in there?"

"Ah," he replied. "You must be her."

"No, you're mistaken. I'm me. Her is the one I'm looking for."

The merchant's furry brows knitted.

"Never mind. Look, is she or is she not—"

"Send her in," said a tattered yet sharp female voice from inside the tent.

The Khajiit motioned with his head. "Step right in."

Nodding and flicking a coin into the lap of the bemused merchant for his trouble, Runa ducked through the entrance.

Inside the yurt it was even more intolerably hot than it was outside, and the smell in there was a minor riot. The saccharine fragrance of skooma mixed with the tang of furs and spices and candles and who knew what. A touch of that vague, sweet natural scent of the cat-people underscored the whole.

A large elk hide had been spread out onto the straw floor, and at one end of it sat a slightly hunched female. Whether it was despite or because of the Khajiit's evident age that she looked all regal-like, Runa wasn't sure—but a single glance at the old cat was enough to convey that she was indeed the one who ran things here.

The elder feline offered her guest a warm smile. "Runa Fair-Shied, this one presumes." She eyed her appraisingly, then gave a nod.

"That one presumes correctly," Runa replied, taking a seat at the other end of the hide without waiting for an invitation.

The Khajiit leader grunted softly, studying Runa. "Your spirit sort of reminds me of someone," she said, and as she did so, her smile took a somewhat melancholy twist.

For a second, Runa fished for a sufficiently clever response, but for lack of one then decided that perhaps, for once, silence was the best option.

"It is with a heavy heart that I welcome here you this morning."

The Khajiit, Runa noted, kept her affable smile on in spite of the undeniable sadness in her voice. Somewhat untrusting of her ability to respond to her words with sufficient reverence, Runa resorted to a mere solemn nod.

"However," Dra'Ajira continued. "This is, of course, no reason to neglect courtesy."

As she spoke, another figure ducked into the tent. A female, that one as well, carrying with her a hookah.

"We appreciate you coming to us on such short notice," said Dra'Ajira. "I know that you are a busy woman, so this greatly honors us. Perhaps, before we begin the negotiations, you would like some skooma?"

"Thanks," Runa replied as the younger female laid the hookah beside her, "but no thanks. It is still early, and I like to keep a clear head . . . Say, is that ale?"

Dra'Ajira followed Runa's gaze to the bottles sitting in a crate in the far corner. "Ah, yes. Yet this one is afraid that it's quite warm."

"That's alright," Runa said. "Don't bother me none."

"Ashni-do," the old female said to the younger one. "Would you mind?"

Without a word, the other one, Ashni-do, went over to retrieve a bottle and then bring it into Runa's waiting hand.

"Appreciate it," Runa said, grinning at the Khajiit.

Ashni-do replied with a brief and tight, cordial smile, then went to take a seat next to her leader.

Dra'Ajira looked about. "Now, there should be a cup somewhere around—"

"Never mind that," Runa said. She took the stopper between her teeth, pulled it out with a pop and spat it over to the side, then took a big swig from the bottle.

"So far," said Dra'Ajira, "This one feels that what they say about you is indeed all true. This is encouraging."

"Yeah?" Runa released excessive air from her stomach with a low rumble, then blew it out from between puffed cheeks, simultaneously suppressing a smirk of amusement; she'd always found the way the Khajiit spoke funny. "Well, my reputation always did precede me. One day, though, I mean to catch that bastard and show 'er what for."

See that perplexity on their faces, which the old one at least is trying to conceal. That there is your humor going over like charm.

Well, not everyone appreciates banter.

Don't you mean blather?

Ah, shut it, will ya.

"But I suppose reputation is something you folk know all about, huh?" Runa almost grimaced right after she'd let that particular toad leap out of her mouth. Heh, what a silly idiom that is. A toad . . . Leave it for the Nords to come up with something like that.

Ashni-do scowled. "Do you find that amusing somehow?"

Dang. Runa realized that she'd let her impassive mask crack with that latter thought.

"Shatter to pieces" would again be more accurate.

Thought I told you to shut it.

Dra'Ajira raised a placating paw at the younger female.

"Uh," Runa said. "No, you, um, misunderstand me. A, uh, wayward thought came to me. Something funny that happened to me recently."

This is actually kind of funny, come to think of it.

"That's alright," said Dra'Ajira patiently. "And as to your question: yes, this is something we know very well."

"Well I ain't ever had trouble with you people," Runa rushed to reply. You people? "Uh, I mean. . ." Ah, shit on it! She took another—long—swig from the bottle. Once she was done with it, she decided, she'd pretend she never said anything.

The bottle gave a hollow ring as she drained the last drops.

"You are thirsty," Dra'Ajira observed. "Would you like another one?"

"If that won't strain your stock overmuch, sure. Thanks."

"Not at all."

Without separate prompting, Ashni-do sprang up and, perhaps a bit petulantly, retrieved another bottle. As she handed it to Runa, she barely deigned to give her a single glance.

The Nord, on the other hand, gave the feline a good surreptitious study while unstoppering the second ale. There was certain undeniably alluring grace to their race, particularly the females. The way those hips—which would have been the envy of any human female—swung as Ashni-do walked—practically prowled—was as good as an invitation, while the raw wildness of her bestial being served as a clear warning to keep your distance. Made Runa acutely aware of the fact that she had, in fact, never once bedded one of the creatures. Seemed the most woeful oversight right now. She wondered how it would be.

Pretty much have find out now, don't I.

Ashni-do sat down and noticed Runa's scrutiny, replying to her grin with an unmistakable glower.

Comes with a temper too, I see. Never could resist that. Hmm, how do those tongues feel—?

"So, Miss Fair-Shield—" Dra'Ajira begun.

"Please," Runa cut in, bringing her focus back. "Call me Runa."

"Alright. Runa. As pleasant as it is to have you with us this day, the meeting, unfortunately, has a grimmer purpose behind it . . . as I wrote."

"Aye," Runa replied slowly, unable to shake the feeling that the old cat's heart had not quite fully been behind the first part of the sentence. She shrugged. "Those, generally, are the sorts of meetings I have with folks. Those," she tried another smile directed at Ashni-do, "and, on occasion, some more pleasant ones."

Careful. She looks that close to scratching.

Promises, promises. . .

"Yes," said Dra'Ajira. "I am sure that you, like us, are quite familiar with the underbelly of Tamriel."

Underbelly, eh? Feeling some devil tickling inside her, Runa grinned even wider at Ashni-do. "Aye. Quite. Some of 'em, leastways."

The younger Khajiit hissed, turning to the elder. "T'har," she said. "Can we please dispense with the pleasantries and get to the heart of the matter."

Without looking at her brethren, Dra'Ajira gave Runa a longsuffering smile. "The youth," she said. "They are all urgency. Beg do not take offence from Ashni-do, she has a good reason for her lack of tact. This is even more painful for her than the rest of us."

"That's alright," Runa said. "Tell you the truth, I'm rather happy cutting straight to the chase myself."

"Very well." Dra'Ajira nodded. "First, however, let this one briefly describe the history of our business today."

"Must we?" asked Ashni-do.

Yeah, I'm with her.

"I'm afraid so," Dra'Ajira said gravely. "Yet let us keep to the essentials. You see," she told Runa, "the wound is still fresh."

Runa let a nod suffice as a response, mistrusting her mouth.

"This one shan't tire you with detail, but there was one individual of our clan who did not feel satisfied with our ways. It should be pointed out that this is by no means unheard of in the Khajiit society, but it is nonetheless always unfortunate. Be that as it may, this individual, like so regrettably many, felt the call of the life of crime instead; thus participating, in her way, in keeping up the lamentably persistent negative ideas that others have of our race."

Runa nodded, only half worried that it could be construed as a tacit admission of herself holding such ideas.

"Yet we never gave up hope that one day Shadya would see the error of her ways and return to us."

"How very forbearing of you," Runa observed.

"Yes." Dra'Ajira's smile was a sorrowful one. "Well, perhaps, had she not been the blood-sister of Ashni-do here, we would have been slightly less patient."

The younger female shunned Runa's gaze.

"But blood, as they say, is thicker than water. So we yet held hope."

Runa hesitated for a few heartbeats, then said, "But I gather that, in the end, such hope turned out to be futile."

Ashni'-do's eyes swung to Runa, and there was a flame in them. Now it was the Nord's turn to ignore it.

"Yes," Dra'Ajira acceded. "Time, sadly, was not on our side."

"When is it ever?"

"Alkosh, alas, rarely aligns his plans according to the wishes of us mortals."

"That's one way of putting it."

Dra'Ajira studied Runa for a few moments, then heaved out a breath. "Yes, well, be that as it may, Shadya's destiny was determined by her own choices at least as much as the will of any god. For it would seem that it was during one of her unlawful endeavors that she had her fateful brush-in with Sangiin."

Lady, could you please stop talking in riddles? "And do you know who killed her, then?" Runa said, with more impatience than she had intended to convey.

Dra'Ajira paused. Then said, "Yes."

Well, don't keep me in suspense!

"However," Dra'Ajira said, causing Runa to groan inside. "This was not an easy task for us to find out."

"Fado —" Ashni-do said, but was waved silent by the elder.

Runa raised an eyebrow at the word.

"No," said Dra'Ajira. "She needs to understand."

"Understand what?" asked Runa.

Another stretch of silence, then, "Despite everything, in her heart, Shadya was . . . an innocent."

What's that got to do with anything, Runa thought. Besides, who's ever innocent? And what's innocence anyhow? Out loud, she said, "I see."

"And that, I believe, is what proved to be her downfall. For all her mistrustfulness she could still be far too naïve."

"So she was betrayed?"

"We thought so at first. There was a . . . man whom she was last seen with. But it turned out that it was more complicated than that. This man got her into contact with the wrong people, and then, it would seem, they were both killed."

"Ah." Well, if that isn't a song I've heard countless times before.

"Yes. Now, these wrong people . . . and in particular the person in charge, by whose hand it more than likely was that Shadya met her death. . ."

"Is the one you need killed."

Dra'Ajira nodded. "Aye."

"And who, then, are we talking about here?"

The Khajiit smiled at the question, seeming apprehensive somehow.

Why do I get the feeling she's about to say something I'm not gonna be too happy to hear?

"Shall I tell her?" asked Ashni-do.

Dra'Ajira replied with a staying hand. "This one told you that the work would be dangerous, and that was no understatement. Now, there was also mention of a generous reward, which, incidentally, was no exaggeration either. Would you perhaps like to hear about that first?"

Errrr . . . Runa shrugged. "Sure, why not."

"It turns out that Shadya had been amassing rewards from her works. We were approached by the owner of a local Inn, and she told us that she'd been keeping Shadya's gold for her. Furthermore, apparently the latest, eh, customer who had commissioned the work during which Shadya was killed had supposedly felt some kind of guilt over the whole thing, and had magnanimously agreed to donate the full sum which he'd had paid for a successful job, given that the gold would be paid as compensation to her family. A considerable amount. . ."

"Well," said Runa. "Let no one say that chivalry is dead." That Innkeep she mentioned must be Ysolda. She always was the soft-hearted sort. For a drug dealer, at least.

"Indeed," Dra'Ajira said. "Anyway, altogether we are talking about not a trifling amount of money. And so we agreed, once we had ascertained the personality of the killer, to get that money together to use it to hire an external party to act as the hand of justice if you will. Before we knew the personality of the person, we considered the Dark Brotherhood, but have since learned the impossibility of that."

She paused, seeming to weigh out her words. "Now, understand that this was not a decision made lightly. Since time immemorial the Khajiit have dealt with their own blood feuds. But times are complicated, and the stakes too great for us to take this quest for justice into our own hands. Besides, we fear the adversary is beyond any of us." She sighed. "Unfortunately, not all of us agreed on this. Particularly one of us railed against the decision. We allowed him to keep his own opinion, but perhaps we underestimated his temperament." She sighed another time, deeper this time.

"What happened?"

"Apparently J'darzi decided that since we're not going to change our mind to his way of thinking, he has to take it upon himself to extract justice."

Ashni-do hissed. "Fool!"

"Yes. And so he went on his own to find this man. And, we fear, he also found him. J'darzi has not been gone for longer than couple days, but . . . well, let us just say that this one needs no confirmation of him having gotten himself into big trouble."

"Killed?" asked Runa.

Dra'Ajira shook her head. "It cannot be said for certain, but it is my belief that he yet lives. Call it . . . hope."

Hope. Now there's another dead end! "Sure," Runa said with a nod.

"In any case," Dra'Ajira exhaled, "this, I believe, lends our cause even more urgency."

"Certainly."

"And so, the question is . . . will you help us?"

Slowly, Runa smiled, feeling an ominous stirring in the pit of her stomach. And it wasn't the ale. "And who, then, is the lucky fella?"

"Alright," said Dra'Ajira with another exhale. Then paused.

Go on, dear.

"Now, I know how this will sound."

Out with it already!

"The man we want you to kill . . ."

Damn you, furball, you're doing this on purpose!

". . . is the man known as the Nightingale."

Runa stared. Huh?

In the following silence, Dra'Ajira gave a shaky smile. "So there it is." Beside her, Ashni-do studied Runa with half-lidded eyes.

You've been smoking something else besides skooma, you mad old lynx! You don't really expect anyone to be so utterly foolish as to even for a second consider your insane proposal!

"Aye," Runa said. "I'm intrigued."

What?!

Dra'Ajira looked a bit surprised at the response, and Ashni-do's eyes narrowed even further.

"Of course," Runa studied her nails—dirty and chipped as usual, "this considerable amount of money will have to be rather considerable. As you well understand."

"A hundred thousand gold."

If Runa hadn't just swallowed the last swig of her ale, chances were she would've had a difficult time keeping from spitting it all over the two Khajiit. Now, that is not a piddling sum, I gotta hand it to you.

"Could you please repeat that?" she said composedly.

Dra'Ajira smiled. "A hundred thousand gold. In Septims."

That's a lot of Septims.

As a practical woman who only ever lived from one adventure to the next, Runa had never thought about being rich. What would she do? She could buy a manor, or have one built. Start a business like her mother and become even richer. Not that she'd ever dreamed of ending up like the old lady. Of course, being hunted by the entire underworld for the rest of her life would doubtfully make for a good backdrop for enjoying her wealth… She would have to find a way to do this so that no one would ever know.

You're actually considering this?! This is insane! You have finally lost it! There's no way—NO WAY—this is going to happen! There absolutely has to be a limit to the extent you're willing to go to try—

Runa nodded. "We've got ourselves a deal."

The hell we do! Little good that coin will do you in the Void!

Hmmm, now, now. It ain't written in no stone that this can't be done.

Oh no, don't you start—

Everyone shut up!

Dra'Ajira, once again, seemed taken aback by Runa's response. What, she hadn't actually expected to get a positive answer?

Can you blame her? You don't look unhinged. . .

Look who's talking.

As so often at times like these, faced with perplexity, it was as though Runa were once again a little girl of six: lying in her bed, pretending that her own little hands were two, sometimes more, persons having an argument. She'd always found it easiest to treat all the incongruent impulses of her mind as if they were each a separate entity. After all, who could say that they weren't?

An abrupt memory of having conversations with her rag doll, Molla.

One which she just as soon pushed away.

"Well?" she said. Cat got your tongue? she almost added, but thought better of it.

"Yes," replied Dra'Ajira. "This one begs your pardon. Admittedly it's a bit surprising, your response."

Aha, I knew it! Runa shrugged. "Well, I'm no Dark Brotherhood. You'll need no magical ritual to get me to do your bidding. In fact the only ritual you'll need is the one where you take a bit of your gold and transmutate it into my gold. The bigger the bit the better."

Dra'Ajira smiled. "As you say."

Ashni-do had gone on to light the hookah, and was puffing the sweet-smelling skooma smoke into the air between them, still studying Runa from behind the smoke screen.

See, she likes you already.

Dra'Ajira shifted, seeming to hesitate. "Just out of curiosity," she then said, "how are you planning to pull this off?"

Lady, I haven't a fucking clue! Runa gave a shrewd smile. "I'll find a way."

Yeah, a way to get yourself slowly chopped to bits—certainly!

The Khajiit nodded. "Aye. Believe it or not, when you say it with such conviction, this one has no choice but to believe you."

Then you're an even bigger fool than the one you're looking at!

Enough of that!

"You've contacted the right person," Runa said, "I can tell you that much. Most would run away scared when faced with what you've thrown at me this day." As they well shou "However, I ain't gonna lie to you." That's what you're doing right now, you— "Not gonna lie to you," she repeated emphatically.

Both of the Khajiit frowned.

"Uh, anyway." Runa cleared her throat. "A walk in the park this ain't. And, yes, there's a chance—no matter how slight—that I will fail you. We're talking a very well connected person here! Not someone you simply waltz up to and casually slit his throat. And it may take a while for me to figure this out."

"We understand this," said Dra'Ajira.

Runa glanced sidelong at Ashni-do. The feline was still regarding her with something not quite mistrust yet not far from it either. "But it ain't for nothin' that they call Runa Fair-Shield 'the queen of cunning'."

No one calls you that!

Ashni-do rolled her eyes, but Runa contained her own frown. "So, if anyone, I will be able to pull this off."

"You have our deepest gratitude," Dra'Ajira said with a slight inclining of her head.

Runa grinned. "S'long as your gratitude gleams and jingles and weighs like my sins, then we're good in my book."

Dra'Ajira returned the smile. "As you say."

Their eyes remained locked onto each other for a nearly dozen heartbeats, and Runa was beginning to wonder whether the old Khajiit was trying to stare her down, to find a crack in her mask. Well, let 'er try!

"Very well," Dra'Ajira finally exhaled, surrendering her gaze, and stood up with surprising grace. "We shall not keep you for longer."

Aw, does that mean that I actually have to go and figure this out?

Runa sprang up in turn. "I was already itching to get to it!"

"Yes," Dra'Ajira said with an appreciative look. "You truly seem to live up to your reputation."

"Damn straight," Runa replied.

Ashni-do was looking slightly less convinced, but Runa elected to ignore her.

Dra'Ajira then offered her paw for her to seize. A pleasantly furry texture. "We wish you the best of luck on this dangerous journey! May the ever-fickle Sangiin guide your steps."

I believe his more typical incarnation, Sanguine, is more up my alley, but I'll take 'em where I can get 'em . . . "He'd better take care if he intends to keep up with my stride!"

Dra'Ajira's smile was a tad uncertain. "As you say."

What she means by that, by the way, is "whatever, you loon."

Runa shook hands with Ashni-do as well. Although a tall woman, she found herself looking up at the cat. And it bugged her that she could not read her expression. "Perhaps, when this is done, we can have that skooma."

Although her words were directed at the younger one, Dra'Ajira was the one to reply. "Indeed. At that day, we shall have a celebration. This, I believe, is what Shadya would have wanted."

Wresting her hand free from Runa's, Ashni-do flashed the elder a less than pleased look, but kept her silence.

"Aye," Runa mused, her eyes still on the moody Khajiit. "While I never met her, sounds like she was my kinda gal."


Slowly shaking his head and sighing, Bashnag climbed the stairs out of the dungeon. The sheer futility! There were days—entire weeks—when it grew very near impossible to tolerate.

Why did it always come down to this? These hopeless, useless fights against the inevitable, he should well be inured to them. Then why did they still always leave one with such an . . . ache?

It's because you are weak! Your always were and always will be. That is why your father was ashamed of you; why your brother hated you.

As usual, his inner detractor spoke in the voice of Malacath. This had ever been the case, but it seemed as though it had grown worse these past few years. Probably his conscience talking. Although, truth be told, for a conscience it sure did speak dark things. But then that probably fit well enough, given the life he'd lived.

He muttered, "I am not weak."

Your mouth speaks the words. But does your heart burn with them?

His heart was burning, alright—had been for a while now. But with what . . . well, that was more complicated.

In any case, what he had he knew wasn't weakness. He would never have uttered it out loud, but there were things in the mortal soul that his kind had for ages disregarded at their peril. In the yoke of the ever-austere god of the ostracized, they had forgotten a lot about what actually make life in this world worth living. Sentient beings, as a rule, remained blind to virtues that they themselves did not possess; and when it came to the Orsimer, they simply could not comprehend the virtue of retaining one's purity—the refusal to become fully tarnished by the taint of the world. And thus, perhaps worse than any other race, they had come to epitomize it.

Just be glad that such treacherous words remain trapped inside of your skull! Your kin would not be content to simply have you as an outcast, could they hear them.

"I'm not an outcast," he muttered. Unable to fully convince even himself.

The fort, as usual, seemed deserted. Earlier, he'd heard some footsteps and voices somewhere down the hallways, but those were now gone as he walked across the large circular main foyer. The place honestly seemed a bit overblown to mainly serve as the Nightingale's personal haunt, but as of now it did not seem to be serving a greater purpose in his operation. And so these vast hallways mainly echoed emptiness.

Soon, however, Bashnag came across another soul. And a truly lost one at that.

"Aah! And here is Bashnag." The way Dexion Evicus always pronounced his name gave the Orsimer the strangest feeling. In the mouth of the crazed former Moth Priest the name had the ring of an unconsecrated oath in some long-forgotten language.

The tatty-robed ex-priest seemed to study him through the dirty rag covering his eyes. "Evening, my big, silent friend," he said. "Tell me, does the sun still shine in the sky?" He chuckled. "Aye. For now . . . for now." Another cackle, and then he ambled off.

Bashnag sourly stared after the madman. Why the Nightingale kept him around was an utter mystery to him.

Grunting, he turned on his heel and continued to the stairway in the east wing. He climbed the stairs to arrive at the closed door of the Nightingale's personal chambers. The man was possibly having someone over for a meeting, as Bashnag though he could hear strange voices through the heavy wood. He hesitated mid-knock, fist perched in the air.

"Come in, Bashnag."

Bashnag grunted. Then he opened the door to poke his head in. To his surprise, there appeared to be no one in the sparsely furnished room other than the Nightingale himself. He was sitting down, supping, at the end of the long table otherwise surrounded by empty seats. The thin-whiskered Imperial, dressed simply but expensively in all black, looked up from his plate and offered a courteous smile.

"Glad to see you old friend," the Nightingale said. "Why, is something the matter?"

"Sir, I thought I heard voices."

The man's eyes scanned the empty seats around the table. "No," he said, "I'm here by myself."

"I see."

"And have you met with our guest as I suggested? Did you have a fruitful heart-to-heart?"

"It is as I surmised, sir," Bashnag said. "He ain't talkin'."

"Surmised," the Nightingale mused. Then chuckled low in his throat. "Well, no matter. I wouldn't worry overmuch: we shall find out sooner or later."

"Aye, sir. As you say."

The Nightingale studied his bodyguard. "Take the remainder of the day off, Bashnag. Get some rest. Take a nap or something. Or, alternatively, retire early tonight. Whatever you do, get some sleep. You don't look so good." He set his utensils down and sipped his wine. Candlelight from the above chandelier shone on his jet-black hair just long enough to slick back. "On the morrow we have much business to conduct, places to go. We'll talk more come morning, yeah?"

A moment of silence. "Aye, sir."

"And Bashnag."

Bashnag stopped in the door crack. "Yes, sir?"

"I mean it. Don't worry about the cat."

Pause. "No sir. I won't."

"Splendid. Very well, then: goodnight."

"Er, yes, sir."

Pressing the door closed felt like a relief.


A cuckoo has laid its eggs in your nest, that's for sure!

A tempest was brewing inside of Runa as she strolled out of the Khajiit yurt and toward the stables. Despite the warm air, she felt cold to her skin and right down to the bone. You couldn't have told it from her studied confident smirk and swagger, but a profound numbness had stolen over her.

Yeah, can't deny feeling just an itty bitty bit frazzled about all this.

That was as ruthless of an admission she was able to conjure, even to herself.

What the hell am I gonna do! How am I supposed to lay waste to the most prominent criminal mastermind in the whole Empire? Or that, at least, is what they call him. Could be it's all bluster: smoke and mirrors. Maybe he's not all that in the end.

Like someone else we know. . .

She gave her head a firm shake, stopping to stand in front of the stables with her legs defiantly apart and her fists pressed, just a tad too tightly, against her hips. It would not do! She'd get ahold of herself, and then she'd figure this thing out! After all, is was not in vain that they called Runa Fair-Shield the . . . the. . .

The what?

The most bloviated sack of—

Runa hawked and spat, just missing the shoes of a bemused-looking citizen walking past. "Sorry," she muttered. Then she set her jaw, lifted her gaze on the city. For a second, she considered paying Bannered Mare a visit, then decided against it. No use complicating matters any further. After all, it wasn't likely there was anything valuable that she could learn from Ysolda. Probably better if the woman remained ignorant of the identity of the person foolish . . . er, courageous enough to take this impossible . . . nay, challenging job.

Ysolda was old friends with Ma, and back in the day she had given the old lady a boost in her becoming a merchant. Though the latter had greatly surpassed the former in wealth since then. In any case, Runa and the woman were familiar enough to make it awkward.

She sighed, then set out to collect Frost.

As used as she was to getting things done on her own, it looked as though it would not be so this time 'round. She'd definitely need some consultation, and perhaps even some help.

Better head out to the Rift.