-Prologue-
-1-
The Dremora watches the pale furred Khajiit pace back and forth. His Daedric armor gleaming in the shimmer of blue torchlight, his tail twitching agitated. Curiosity grows within her and a small smile graces her face. "Xahrshi. Perhaps you should return to Nirn."
The Khajiit turns on her, vampiric fangs bared as his orange-red eyes glow in fury. "This one would never leave his Prince," Xahrshi growls as he starts to stalk toward her before remembering his place and halting a few steps away. "Zen'la," he growls anger still tainting his voice. "Do not ask that of this one. Do not."
Zen'la regards her Khajiit. Yes, he is hers. She found him near death, poisoned by the hunters, and abandoned by his pack to die alone under the moons. And yet, he was not to die that night, for she saw strength in him and wanted to...adopt him. Adopt the werewolf who hated what he was, hated that his soul belonged to Hircine, all because he was viciously attacked upon the grasslands of Reaper's March in service to the Dominion. For a chance to live, she gave him the choice to undergo transmogrification at the brutal hands of the Daedra of Coldharbour, who delighted in experimenting on mortals. Of course, his soul now belonged to Molag Bal, but unlike Hircine, it was his choice. Unlike other adoptions of hers, however, Molag Bal had taken a personal interest in the Khajiit, seemingly delighted at having what had once belonged to another Prince as his own. Xahrshi had embraced the attention and had done everything his Prince had asked. Although he was a little too...deferral at times. In fact, the Daedra had a nickname for him. Molag Bal's Puppy, despite the fact he was a vampire in all regards and no longer a werewolf. And it is this thought that causes her smile to turn into a frown. Her puppy could be stronger than a mere pion. If he could only learn to act more on his own. "Xahrshi," she says and as his attention focuses on her she slowly makes her point. "I serve our Prince in all matters, as you do. But our Prince is greatly weakened. Breaking the Compact and having his stolen mortal shell destroyed by his spawn..."
Understanding crosses the Khajiit's face and the anger at last fades. "We must not appear weak," he softly says. "We must not...hide."
She steps closer to him and raises her hand to his furry cheek. "I know why you cease to rest. Why you pace hour after hour. You lack purpose. And that disturbs you."
Briefly, he leans into her hand before snorting and turning his back to her. "That is not the only reason. This one hears whispers. The whispers..." Xahrshi trails off.
A tilt of her head as she puzzles over his words. Mortals were curious creatures and the tug of destiny could pull them in so many interesting directions. "Go," she instructs him. "It can only make you stronger. And...perhaps you could keep an eye on the other matter as well."
He turns back to her and long moments pass before he bows his head. It is not a request. It never is with Zen'la. With a few words, she has banished him, in a way. Until he hunts down the whispers and makes them submit at his feet. Without another word he turns from her, his practiced claws summoning a portal to Nirn and he crosses through without a second glance.
