Enslaved to Suffer

by KuribohBBQ

Stripped from his caravan family and held in an auction to be bought, young Do'kir is reduced to a petty slave. With nowhere to go and no clue where his dear sister is, Do'kir accepts his fate. But maybe being a slave to this family of two isn't all bad? Especially when a small, little Nord child takes a certain curiosity at the cat. FLUFF, and Khajiit Dragonborn in future chapters

7. Skyrim Travels: Riften

Do'kir the Khajiit let out a deep sigh as he relaxed on the wooden seat of the carriage. If he were any other traveler, he might have complained about the near-constant creaking noises of the rickety-old carriage or how the splinters below him dug into his buttocks like spears but being fresh off the transformation and the next full moon a month away, he was in paradise. He looked to his right to see a familiar, redheaded Nord happily immersed in the large book in her lap. Beyond her was the broad back of the blonde Nord, dressed in simple clothes, sitting in the drivers' seat, reins in hands to ensure the horses stayed on the dirt path. Do'kir looked to his left, admiring the bright, green grass slowly roll past.

Lost in the land's simple and soothing beauty, the Khajiit's thoughts replayed the recent events. After Tallowhand's sudden proposal for a surprise trip to Skyrim, everyone was quick to pack up for the trip. Tallowhand packed up basic supplies such as food, tents, bedrolls, and a large barrel full of mead bottles; necessary for good spirits on the road, Tallowhand told him. Cereza had brought with her her knapsack stuffed to the absolute limit with books. The poor knapsack was so close to bursting that the Khajiit didn't doubt Cereza would stuff a whole library if she could. One swing of that literal weapon of knowledge can break a man's skull in two. As for Do'kir, what he packed… well… the Khajiit hardly owned anything. The only things of value he brought for the trip was the tuft of brown hair on his head and his trusty iron sword strapped to his hip.

The Khajiit had questioned Tallowhand why they were putting so much effort for a trip to Skyrim, and Tallowhand only gave his slave a vague answer. The Nord said he was friends with a group of warriors who were experts on lycanthropy. At first, the hopeful Khajiit thought these warriors would have a cure for his condition, but the paranoia of the Beast quickly invaded his mind. What if these warriors were experts on lycanthropy, not because they know how to cure him, but because they know how to efficiently kill him?

Tallowhand explained that the plan once they passed the border was to make a stop at a city called Riften which would take a few days to reach at least. There, they will restock on supplies before heading to their main destination: Whiterun. While Do'kir was unfamiliar with Skyrim and its cities, he at least heard about Whiterun thanks to his merchant father. He recalled his father explaining how Whiterun was a city that stood in the middle of Skyrim, a position ripe for opportunity where traders from all the distant cities can converge and share their products. His father dreamed to sell his goods there, not for the gold, but for the experience for his children to see so many cultures and races mingle in the city bustling with trade. The only thing that prevented their small caravan from venturing to Whiterun was that their mother hated the cold; a sentiment shared by her son as his shivers got worse the farther north they traveled.

"Kitty, are you okay?" a concerned Cereza asked Do'kir, rubbing his furry arm to provide extra warmth.

"Yes yes. Khajiit is doing fine," he assured through chattering teeth.

She frowned. "I'm… I'm sorry you have to go through this. If it weren't for me-"

He stopped her with an honest smile. "On the contrary, Khajiit is actually quite happy. This reminds Do'kir so much when he traveled with his caravan."

A look of curiosity replaced her guilty expression. Rarely did her guardian talk about his old life.

"Traveling on the road… admiring nature as we go… and exploring the grand cities of Tamriel and their unique cultures." A longing sigh full of nostalgia escaped his lips. "And the people… Do'kir met so many different people in his travels." A mischievous grin spread across Do'kir's lips. "This one and his father very much enjoyed tricking the racist customers out of their coin. One particularly rude customer made a not-so-subtle comment about how we Khajiit would make better money catching and eating the rats in her home than as merchants. So Do'kir's father presented her a perfume promising that its smell would drive away the pests in her home. She was skeptical, of course, but as soon as my father offered it to her at half-price, she couldn't refuse. Now, what she didn't know was that the perfume would do the opposite, potent enough to attract every single kind of pest in a neighborhood. It wasn't long before she chased Khajiit's caravan out the city with guards on her back and rats and cockroaches crawling all over her hair!" he finished with a hearty laugh.

"Your father sounds like a really nice man," Cereza giggled alongside him.

He nodded in agreement. "Yes, this one's father can be a trickster sometimes, but he was also a firm believer in respect. Those who treated our kind with respect my father ensured they were given good prices for our best goods."

Cereza listened intently as he continued to share with her stories of his old caravan and his love for his family. His smile was like the sun, shining brighter with happiness with each tale told; Cereza felt her heart warm in its radiance; however, the brighter it shined, the longer Cereza's shadow of guilt was cast. Do'kir was happy living as a merchant together with his family, but then to have it all stolen away just so he can babysit her? Guilt ate at her from the inside, hidden behind false smiles and laughs. She knew he'd try to comfort her, and it would only break her heart further.

The travel was long but uneventful. Sometimes during the day, they all would stop and take a break; Tallowhand and Do'kir would use that time to spar one another. Tallowhand noticed a huge difference in the Khajiit's skills the last time they sparred; Do'kir was sloppy, unfocused, and unrefined. It was like Do'kir was fighting a battle on two fronts: the Nord in front of him and the vengeful Beast within. Sparring with an uncontrollable werewolf was like playing with fire. If not careful, his rage would become wildfire, uncontrollable and destructive. His claws would suddenly sharpen to unnatural levels, and his eyes become feral. One time, the Khajiit even tossed away his sword, catching Tallowhand off guard, and tackled the Nord to the ground. Do'kir would have torn Tallowhand's throat to shreds if the Nord hadn't punched the Khajiit's lights out.

When the sun retreated below the horizon and the moon rose, they'd set up camp for the night. After a filling dinner of stale bread and dried meat, Cereza would retreat into her tent and snuggle into her bedroll. Tallowhand said he would keep watch for the night, but almost every time the minute after those words left his mouth, he'd drown himself in mead, knocking himself out cold with alcohol. Do'kir would sigh and roll his eyes and take it upon himself to be lookout, and he honestly doesn't mind; the Beastblood boiling in his veins had robbed him of whatever restful sleep he could have had.

A couple of days traveling and Do'kir remembered that Cereza attended school! The whole Skyrim and werewolf situation had caused it to slip past his mind. He expressed concern over her education, but Cereza assured him that a few days before they left, her teacher had announced that the school would be temporarily closed and everyone was advised to return home; it was news that sent a wave of shock amongst the students but was soon dispersed with excitement when she elaborated that it was closing due to a field trip that students can volunteer to join. Cereza did want to join the many students who had raised their hands; it's just that she was too concerned to leave her guardian in his disheveled state. Do'kir noticed Tallowhand had looked back to give his daughter a suspicious glance when she mentioned the teacher and the field trip, lasting only a brief second before his attention returned to the long road ahead.

An array of rocky mountains loomed over the horizon dotted with snow and misty clouds. Fortunately, the mountain pass wasn't too steep. UNFORTUNATELY, the path was excruciatingly long. Do'kir felt like the mountains were closing in on him, like they were ready to topple over and bury their puny carriage under an avalanche of rock and snow. A single, falling pebble was enough to trigger an explosion of a panic-infused frenzy, clawing at wood prepared to jump off; he would have abandoned ship if Cereza hadn't given him a good whack to the head with her makeshift weapon of knowledge. By the time Do'kir woke up, they were back on flatter ground surrounded by green grass.

"Kitty, look! Over on the horizon!" Cereza cheered.

"Mmmragh?" Do'kir mumbled as he stirred awake from his cat nap. He strained one eye open to see a blurry image of the young child poking her head out the side of the carriage wagon. "Hmmm wassit?"

"I see a tree!"

His head crashed back onto the uncomfortable wood, sleep overtaking him once again. "That is nice, Little One." A loud, fierce yawn escaped his lips. "Now let this tired Khajiit go back to sleep…"

Cereza returned his weary gaze with an annoyed pout. "Ok, fine. But when was the last time we saw a tree?"

Do'kir's eyes snapped open. Quickly he joined her and poked his head out. And there it was. Finally! After days of seeing nothing but boring green grass and tiring brown dirt, they have come across a tree! With strong, sturdy white bark and glorious, yellow leaves! And the further they traveled, the more the forest graced them with the vivid colors of fall. Golden rays of sunlight streamed through trees. Red, orange, and yellow leaves fell from their branches, spinning and dancing with the gentle breeze before joining with the colorful menagerie of beautiful flowers below. Do'kir admired the wildlife around them: the graceful deer, the small foxes, and the delicious rabbits. Do'kir and the Beast salivated at the sight.

"Have you ever been to Riften, Little One?" Do'kir asked. Cobblestone had replaced the dirt on the road, meaning civilization must be close by.

Cereza shook her head. "Nope. But I have been reading a lot about Riften. See, look!" She presented him one of the fattest books the Khajiit has ever seen; he feared her arms would snap off if she held it out for too long. A Wandering Skeever's Guide to Skyrim read the title. Enthusiastic, she shared her knowledge with the curious cat. Among all the cities, Riften was special as most of it was constructed over one of Skyrim's largest lakes. The city can be separated by two sides: the dryside and the plankside. The dryside was solid ground that provided homes for the citizens while the plankside were wooden docks that held most of the businesses. Water canals ran through the city like veins through the body, and just like veins, the canals were essential to carry the lifeblood of the city. Do'kir fondly remembered the port cities his caravan visited; memories of extravagant ships of the most intricate and unique designs sailing into the harbor, dockworkers lifting and carrying crates of exotic goods, and fishermen boasting to each other that they'll be the one to catch more than the other before departing for the seas filled his mind. Nostalgia, anticipation, and excitement shook the Khajiit's body like impatient little children. Being blessed with one of Skyrim's largest lakes, Do'kir believed Riften must be a wonderful and lively city.

It wasn't long before the travelers spotted other intelligent life passing by; two armored guards with swords strapped to their hip. They were the Rift Hold's soldiers garbed in fur boots and gloves and a light scaled vest wrapped in purple cloth. They gave acknowledging nods to Tallowhand and Cereza, their fellow Nords, but for Do'kir, he could see their suspicious, snarling glares behind their helmets. The Khajiit merely smiled back and waved. One of the guards must have taken it as a death threat because he started to walk menacingly towards the carriage only to trip and fall on a log.

Perhaps intelligent was too strong of a word.

More evidence of civilization crossed their paths. Wooden towers supported by foundations of stone stood by the sides of the road. Occasionally, Do'kir saw archers stationed at the top, and the way they eyed the Khajiit, they were probably deciding whether to use Do'kir as target practice.

Suddenly, excitement lit Do'kir's eyes as he shot up from his seat, claws hooking themselves to the wood to keep himself steady as he leaned dangerously far off the carriage's side.

"What do you see, Kitty?" Cereza asked, curious to what's so interesting to risk falling off and head trauma.

"Up ahead. Do you see the campsite?"

Cereza followed his pointing finger to see tents set around a small campfire. At first, Cereza couldn't understand what was so interesting about a couple of salmon cooking over a fire. Maybe Do'kir was hungry? Then stepping out of the biggest tent, a person dressed in fine clothes woven of emerald silk appeared. Set on her golden rings and necklaces were expertly crafted gemstones of a variety of colors glittered beautifully under the sun's light. But what was most striking to Cereza was that this person was covered in brown fur! In addition to her slender muzzle and pointy cat ears, Cereza realized, "A Khajiit?"

And she wasn't the only one. From the depths of the woods, another Khajiit in steel-plated armor stepped out hauling a freshly hunted deer over his shoulder. This one was similar in build and age to Do'kir, but Do'kir's copper red fur contrasted with the other Khajiit's; this one had a coat of grey with the exception of the splash of black fur on his head and ears; the combination brought out the brilliance of his sky-blue eyes. And Cereza spotted the beginnings of sideburns on his cheeks. Two more Khajiit with their own unique coats stepped out from their respective tents.

Do'kir smiled proudly. "Correct, Little One. But that's not all."

The Khajiit dressed in fine clothes had rolled out a rug beneath her where she sat comfortably on top. Not long after, a couple of farmers approached her; they spoke for a few seconds before the Khajiit presented them a set of green potions. No doubt they were stamina potions for the long day of work ahead. They thanked the Khajiit with smiles and coin, setting off to work.

"Are they a caravan? Like you and your family?"

He nodded. "Correct again, Little One." When they passed by the caravan, Do'kir and Cereza waved and smiled, and the finely dressed Khajiit returned their gestures with a wave of her own and an honest grin. The peace was broken, however, when a skinny, dirty man dressed in rags approached the Khajiit. The Khajiit greeted the man with a polite smile, and the man responded with a spit on her face. The man's shouts of racist curses faded into echoes the farther away they left. Concerned, Cereza looked to her guardian for answers, but all he had was an emotionless frown and distant eyes.

It wasn't long before they approached the stone walls of Riften, the entrance locked behind wooden doors guarded by two soldiers. To the right nearby was a stable house. Curiously, there was a lot less horses than Do'kir expected. Surely a city as potentially profitable as Riften would have more travelers across the country, yet the stable was almost completely barren. Further to the right, the famous Lake Honrich glittered like a lake of diamonds under the sunlight. One of the guards approached Tallowhand as he disembarked from the driver's seat.

"Hail, traveler," the guard greeted. "Lookin' to get into Riften, are you?"

"Aye, soldier," Tallowhand responded with a nod. "The horses 'n I are weary after days traveling. We won't stay long. A night of good mead and a warm bed 'n we'll be off first light."

"Good to hear. Riften always appreciates good business. My partner and I will let you in in a moment."

Tallowhand gave the soldier one last grateful nod. "Thank you, soldier."

"But there is one more thing…"

Inside the carriage, Do'kir's ears twitched at the sudden change of tone. Years working as a merchant trained him to recognize when a serpent bared its fangs of deceit dripping with the venom of greed.

"Riften recently installed a visitor's tax, you see," the guard continued. "50 gold per person. And from what you said earlier…" The guard glanced at the carriage behind the big Nord. "I'm guessing you have passengers back there. You'll have to pay for their entry as well."

"Oh really?" Tallowhand said, acting surprised as folded his arms.

"The book said nothing about a visitor's tax," Cereza whispered to Do'kir, eyes crossed with worry. "Do you think we'll have enough gold leftover for supplies?"

Do'kir shivered as the Beast within felt the ice-cold air of animosity emanating from the Nord. If the guard just looked a few inches above the Nord's false smile, he'd see the eyes become the burning furnace of murderous rage. The whimpering Beast covered its eyes and shrunk with fear in its cage. "Khajiit thinks that will not be a problem," he whispered back.

Noticing Tallowhand had not moved a single inch, the guard took (what he believed to be) a threatening step forward. "Well, did you hear me? Or do you have ice for brains? Pay up."

Do'kir closed his eyes and covered his ears to brace himself for the explosion of screams and bloodshed. Luckily, a hand on the soldier's shoulder stopped him from escalating the situation further. "ARE YOU MAD?" the new guard hissed angrily at his ignorant partner. "Do you know who that is?" He leaned in to whisper in his fellow guard's ear.

Once he was done, the guard who was inches away from death staggered back and stumbled to the ground, the revelation a punch to his ignorant brain. "Bloodbringer!" Words stumbled and fell out his mouth to form a barely coherent sentence. "F-forgive me. Had… had I known-"

Tallowhand raised his hand, motioning for silence. "Enough. You've already shat in my eyes when you dishonored yer pride as a Nord. I don't need yer moaning cowardice raping my ears." With a single hand, Tallowhand lifted the guard up by his purple cloth until the quivering coward was face-to-face with death itself. "Open the gates. NOW."

The guard was shoved back to his feet. Not willing to gamble with their lives, the guards quickly opened the doors. Tallowhand motioned Cereza and his slave to hop off the carriage and follow; together, all three entered the city of Riften.

Grand and glorious: those were the thoughts Do'kir had imagined of the city. And when he finally took in the city's true beauty with his very own eyes Do'kir can proudly declare without a shadow of a doubt that this city…

Was absolute troll shit.

Whatever grand and glorious image Do'kir envisioned of Riften, the Divines robbed it from his mind, stabbed it to death, pissed on it, and then inspired the builders to construct this city to every exact detail; from the rot eating the wood of the buildings in horrible disrepair, to the weeds growing through the cracks of the cobblestone path, and to the sudden gloomy clouds that swallowed the sun and enveloped the land in hopeless depression. And the distant mountains felt like tyrants looming over the city.

Cereza sped through the pages of the book in her hands. "Wait. This isn't how Riften is described in my book…"

Do'kir summarized the broken buildings around them was the residential district of Riften. Through shattered windows, the lifeless eyes of families in dirty rags watch the three as they go. Thrown garbage and broken mead bottles littered the many alleys they passed by. Do'kir even spotted a large lump of what could only be a body slumped in one of the alleys. Whether that body was dead or sleeping he was determined not to find out.

They soon reached the plankside of the city where Cereza's foot accidently broke through one of the planks, the rotten wood splashing into the water canal below. From then on, Do'kir and Cereza kept a close eye on the wooden floor below them; it was a better alternative than seeing the dull, hopeless eyes of the citizens who passed by.

"I don't understand. Why are all the boats tied up?" Cereza asked. They had come across a wooden bridge where Cereza took the chance to inspect one of the water canals below. All the boats' freedom to venture the waters, their purpose, tied down cruelly to the docks.

"Sad, isn't," Tallowhand sighed. "Riften was much livelier than this rundown den of thieves. But this accursed war gutted the trade routes essential for the Rift Hold, leaving this city ta rot. And in just a few years, becomes the perfect breeding hole for Skyrim's lowest scum."

"If the lack of trade has caused Riften this much decay, what about Whiterun?" Do'kir asked, concerned.

"Don't worry yer head about that, Boy. Whiterun has declared itself neutral so trade routes there are mostly unaffected." Tallowhand's lips creased to a foreboding frown. "Fer now…" He turned to face Do'kir, fishing out a large coin purse from his pocket. "Here. Catch." He tossed the purse to the Khajiit, impacting his chest; the surprisingly immense weight knocked the air out of his lungs. "Take this gold toa the market district ahead and purchase supplies for the road tomorrow. I'll head back ta settle the horses in the stable. By the time yer done, I'll have already arranged rooms fer the night at the inn."

Do'kir nodded. "Yes, Sir Tallowhand, and thank you."

"What about me?" Cereza piped up.

"Stay with the boy and have him buy you a sweetroll." With that said, Tallowhand turned away, but stopped before a step was taken, a new thought in his mind. "One more thing: whatever ya do, do not draw attention to yourselves. Attention is the last thing you want in this rat hole." With that final bit of wisdom shared, he left.

Pocketing the purse and securing Cereza's hand in his own, the two continued venturing deeper into the city, crossing bridges, avoiding rotten pitfalls, and doing their best to not let the oppressive atmosphere drain their spirits like the rest of the citizens. As they walked, Do'kir's mind went over Tallowhand's words. The Nord had mentioned a war was the cause of this city's disease. His thoughts strayed further back to his life with his caravan. There was another reason other than his mother's distaste of cold weather why he and his family never traveled to Skyrim; his father explained small trouble brewing in the northern lands too dangerous to risk his two children. Never did Do'kir think that "small trouble" was a full-blown war that would cripple cities. The Khajiit planned to question Tallowhand more about this war the next time they meet.

Soon the two reached the market district of Riften: a circular plaza of stone with a large well in the center, surrounded by some trees and a variety of stalls. Do'kir could see armor and blades in one stall, gleaming jewelry in one, and a variety of wine in another. And this part of town was much more lively than the residential district. A wave of nostalgia washed over Do'kir as the sounds of haggling between persistent customers and merchants mixed with the hammering beat of metal from the blacksmith's nearby forge. A Dark Elven woman boasted the quality of her wagon of meats nearby the "Bee and Barb", the inn Tallowhand had mentioned. Surprisingly, the inn wasn't as run down as the rest of the buildings. From a distance, the Khajiit spotted a large group of people crowded around one particular stall. Through the cracks, Do'kir caught glimpses of a finely dressed Nord holding up a red potion for the crowd to see.

Do'kir looked down, firm eyes locking with Cereza's. "Stay close, okay, Little One? A place as busy as this will be ripe with pickpockets."

Tightening her grip on the strap of her knapsack, Cereza nodded in understanding. Together they merged with the bustling crowd.

Though a little rusty, the Khajiit's haggling skills proved invaluable, pointing out the smallest imperfections in the products to warrant a lower price. At first, Cereza and whatever merchant in front of them could not spot any kind of imperfection Do'kir mentioned, but Do'kir's words were as smooth as the finest silk, woven together like a master weaver. Maybe there really were tiny smudges on the apples Do'kir chose? Maybe the dried meat Do'kir picked out did look a little dryer than the rest? Maybe the bread Do'kir held was a few crumbs lighter than usual? And maybe if you had the super sight of a Khajiit as Do'kir claimed, you can see the tiniest speck of mold on the cheese?

"Kitty, you're amazing!" Cereza cheered, astonished at the buckets filled to the brim with food. She lifted the coin purse her father had given them, testing its weight. "And it feels like we hardly spent any gold at all!"

Do'kir chuckled. "Khajiit thanks Little One for her praise, but if you think that's impressive, you should have seen Do'kir's father; his silver tongue makes Do'kir's look like moldy cheese. He would have haggled twice the supplies here for half of the gold spent." Cereza handed him back the purse which was quickly pocketed. "Now, with how much gold saved, Khajiit says we deserve more than one sweetroll," he finished, licking his lips in anticipation for the feast of sweets.

Not far was a stall full of tantalizing pastries on display, their sugary sweet scents triggering a fountain of drool, almost like he was high on skooma. They were about to make their way over until Do'kir felt a slight shift in his pocket. Normally, with a shift so subtle, any other person might have blamed it on the wind or an ant in their pocket; however, Do'kir's merchant experience immediately warned him otherwise. Tallowhand's training kicked in. Without even turning around, Do'kir's hand shot out to grab and hook around this unknown's person arm, claws locking firmly in place. His other hand soon joined in, grasping the chest strap of the thief's armor, and together with deft precision, they easily threw the person into the air and over his shoulder, slamming the would-be-pickpocket's back against solid stone. Precious air was forcefully knocked out from the thief's lungs, and before he could even take a single breath, Do'kir planted his knee firmly into the thief's chest, weight increasing and painfully crushing his lungs every passing second. The thief could barely even struggle, his wrists pinned by the Khajiit's hands powered with strength built through years of grueling training.

Unbeknownst to Do'kir, the anger and adrenaline pumping into his veins had weakened the Beast's cage, the feral, yellow eyes of the Beast overtaking the Khajiit's own. Now it was his turn to play.

Do'kir's strength exploded to inhuman levels, crushing the thief's wrists, bones breaking and cracking, the pinned thief not even having enough air to scream as the Khajiit's claws darkened and grew sharp enough to pierce through his prey's leather armor and into vulnerable skin. Do'kir opened his salivating maw, a sudden hunger for blood and raw flesh gnawing at him from the inside.

"Kitty, stop!" cried the voice of a small child.

The Khajiit felt like he had awoken from a nightmare; the first thing he saw was the dirty face of the thief drenched in drool, eyes closed and face turned away in fear. He was surrounded by a crowd of spectators, the redheaded Nord in fine clothes among them; every one of them shared an expression of horrified shock at the display in front of them. Two guards broke through the crowd, swords drawn.

"Halt!" one of them demanded. "What is going on here?"

Breathing heavily, Do'kir answered. "Khajiit… Khajiit caught a thief trying to pickpocket his gold." Do'kir suppressed a growl at the end. How he'd love to finish what he started.

The guard scoffed at his answer. "Hard to believe. With your kind, it's usually the other way around. I suggest you come with us, and my partner and I can beat the truth out of you."

This time, Do'kir did not suppress his beastly growl as the guard approached to apprehend him, but before the Khajiit could pounce and tear him apart, Cereza ran to stand between them. "Wait, please, sir! This Khajiit is my guardian, and he is telling the truth! He would never steal gold!"

The guard laughed. "I'd sooner believe a troll marrying a Hagraven. Listen, little girl. That filthy cat over there is probably slipping extra coins in his pocket without your family noticing. Now, stand aside. The adults will handle this."

"Wait," a new voice from the crowd spoke up. All heads turn to the source: the red headed Nord with a goatee dressed in fine clothes. "I can vouch for the Khajiit. The one you're looking for is pinned right there on the ground for you."

The guards stared at each other, confused. "Well…" one of them began. "If Brynjolf says it…"

The other guard nodded in confirmation. Together, they hauled the thief away as the crowd dispersed. In utter disbelief, Do'kir stared at the man who saved him, Brynjolf, who departed with one last wink and a smile to the Khajiit.

Cereza rushed to her guardian, kneeling to his level. "Kitty, are you all right?"

Do'kir took deep breaths to calm himself, the Beast receding in his cage for now. He looked the other way, too ashamed to face Cereza's caring eyes. "Yes, Khajiit will be all right." With one last big sigh, Do'kir raised himself up, dusting off dirt from his pants. He extended his hand, thanking the Divines he had returned to normal, to Cereza. "Come now. We have sweets to feast on."

Carrying the buckets of food in one hand and Cereze's hand in the other, the two walked over to the pastry stall. The Wood Elf who owned the stall was understandably wary of the Khajiit, but the colorful array of pastries and candy had mesmerized Do'kir, reducing him to an enthusiastic child as he asked the Wood Elf the details for each sweet; the elf quickly warmed to the Khajiit's cheerful demeanor and happily engaged in small talk with him, sharing their love of everything sugar.

Cereza gazed up at her guardian, admiring the kindness in his eyes and smile, then her mind unwittingly forced that image to twist and contort; his yellow, kind eyes distorting to feral, vicious rage and his innocent smile replaced with a snarling, drooling maw of a savage animal. Cereza shut her eyes and shook the horrible image from her mind. It wasn't that she was scared of Do'kir. Her past interactions with the Beast had long rid of any fear of him harming her. Rather it was the fear of the Beast harming others is what scared her the most. First her father, then the thief, and finally the guards. How many close calls can they afford before the Divines decide to stop interfering? The thought of anyone full of life reduced to torn flesh and mangled bones was enough to bring Cereza to tears. And the thought of Do'kir dying because of the Beast's recklessness, the fear a cruel arrow aimed at her heart, threatening to let loose and shatter it should that thought become reality.

"Please… someone… anyone… spare a coin for an old man?" a weak voice whimpered, distracting the troubled child from her thoughts.

Cereza turned her head to the source: an old, male Nord malnourished to a skeleton laying on a ragged bed of hay next to a nearby tree. Head bowed and palms outstretched to every one who crossed his path, his begging was met with stoic stares and disgusted scoffs as they walked the other way. Pity welled up in Cereza's aching heart. Taking a few pieces of food and putting it in her knapsack, she walked away from Do'kir, too busy chatting with the elf to notice, and made her way towards the poor man. Noticing her approach, he bowed until his head bumped against stone and outstretched his palms where Cereza could see cuts and bruises that were too many to count, and many more hidden behind the dirt that stained his arms. A spark of determination lit the fires in Cereza's eyes as she willed golden light to envelop her hands.

The poor man raised his head off the ground, speechless, as the child's golden light engulfed his arms in soothing warmth as if the benevolent Goddess Mara herself was in front him, mending and stitching every cut and bruise seamlessly with her divine presence. The last of the light faded, and the old man stared at his hands in total disbelief, twitching every finger. The cold numbness was gone… He can finally feel them!

Instead of gratefulness, the man backed away in fear, treating Cereza a demon from the darkest depths of Oblivion. "P-please, spare me!" he cried. Confused, Cereza moved to console him, but the man held out his newly healed hand, stopping her in her tracks. "I-I can't afford this treatment. I have nothing else to give!"

"Oh, no, please, don't worry about any payment. I just wanted to help." The man did not believe her, the fear still rampant in his eyes, so Cereza opened her knapsack and took out an apple. "Look, see? You can have this. No charge."

Was this some sick prank from Maven Black-Briar? While pranks were out of character for her, the cruelty of sending a child to do her dirty work wasn't far off. His eyes scanned the surrounding area, searching for any of Maven's thugs, ugly brutes who'd look like they'd murder an innocent puppy if the tyrant if so commanded. Once he made sure no head was poking out any of the fish barrels, his gaze locked onto the shiny, red apple, its ruby surface drawing out the hunger he had neglected for so long. He reached for the apple, slowly, afraid any faster the illusion would shatter. His hand was so close… inches away… three inches… two inches… one and a half… then SNATCH! He DEVOURED the apple, sweet bursts of juiciness with every bite of its crispy flesh, until all that was left was its single stem,

Tears of happiness welled up from the poor man's eyes. He felt like he had been blessed by the gods! "Divines… Divines bless your kind heart!" he cried and bowed once more, unflinching when his forehead slammed against stone.

Cereza gave him one last bit of healing to his forehead just to be sure. Then she walked away, the healed beggar's cries of praise fading to echoes behind her. A strange warmth filled her heart. Helping that poor, old man felt good. No, it felt more than good! It felt amazing, as if the oppressing atmosphere of this city was lifted just a bit. She surveyed her surroundings, seeing more homeless beggars in similar, if not worse, conditions; some did not have beds, slouched against freezing stone or splintering wood, and some were missing entire limbs! Cereza felt around her knapsack. She still had enough food to share to stave off their hunger, and enough Magicka to ease their pain.

With each person she aided and with praise cheered in her name, the warmth within and her smile grew brighter and brighter; the same can not be said for her Magicka supply, however. Her mind started to fuzz up and carrying her heavy knapsack around so much was starting to take immense effort. Cereza planned to remove her knapsack, reasoning that had long run out of food and that there was no point to lug the heavy sack everywhere until Do'kir was done picking sweets. The only problem was finding where to hide it. Just dropping her knapsack to the floor in a city overrun with thieves is just asking for it to get stolen. A hiding place was needed. And she found the perfect spot: a lone, empty, and unremarkable barrel next to a group of other unremarkable barrels. Though, Cereza noticed the barrel she chose did have a weird symbol where what looked like a small ladder at the center of a circle. Whatever, it'd at least help her discern which barrel held her knapsack in case she forgot.

Walking the gloomy streets of Riften, white mists wandered in her path like aimless phantoms; she continued to heal as many as she could, but with one unfortunate soul healed, at least five more awaited deeper into the city. Not much time passed before Cereza's reservoirs of Magicka had reduced to a mere trickle. She fell to her knees, exhausted. "One more…" she told herself between heavy breaths, "I can heal one more…"

At the corner of her eye, she spotted a figure lying on the wooden docks of Riften's lower level, half its body dangling dangerously over Riften's dark waters. Spotting a set of stairs, Cereza dragged herself up and walked down the steps on wobbly legs. Once she reached the bottom, her patient lied just beyond the other side of the docks. All she had to do was cross the bridge in front of her; a poorly maintained, rickety old bridge that looked like some lazy construction worker gave his tools to a dumb troll, pointed at the gap between the docks, and said "BUILD". It also didn't help that pushing the limits of her Magicka reserves had left her a little lightheaded.

She might have to be careful here.

Cereza began crossing the bridge, treating each step as if she were treading on broken glass. She DID NOT want to return to Do'kir dripping wet; the scolding he'd give her would scar her for the rest of her life! The dark waters below tormented her mind, trying to create as many cracks in her concentration as the wood she stepped on.

With one final hop, the Nord child reached the other side, breathing out a sigh of relief. Approaching the slumped figure, Cereza got a better look of the body. The body was of a woman in ragged clothes, as far as she could tell, horribly malnourished as if she were a bare skeleton wearing skin. Much of her head was bald, only stray, thin, black strands clung to her head now. Cereza reaching out with the palm of her hand, golden light bathed the poor woman. At first, nothing happened, Cereza realizing she should have checked if this woman was even alive. Then, Cereza saw a twitch of life. First the fingers. Then the shoulders. Then evolved into a pained groan as the woman stirred from her uncomfortable nap.

Cereza fought to not look away when their gazes met, not wanting to be rude. Hagravens must be this woman's cousins; she tried not to stare too long at the woman's gnarled nose or her wrinkly skin that looked like it was ready to peel off at the slightest touch, instead focusing on the woman's crazed, bloodshot eyes. Because that's the respectful thing to do, Do'kir once told her.

"Um… hi," Cereza reluctantly greeted, giving the woman a small wave of her hand. "Don't worry about giving me anything. I just wanted to help and-"

The woman's hands shot out and grabbed Cereza's shoulders with strength betraying her frail appearance. Cereza, stunned silent, could only watch as the woman inspected the child in front of her, her rank breath worsening the closer she drew to Cereza. After one last sniff to Cereza's hair, she drew back, a wicked smile on her face.

"Lookie lookie lookie here!" the woman cackled, her raspy voice grating her ears. "A gift from the gods, you are!"

Trying to be polite, Cereza responded with an awkward smile and a shake of her head. "I-I thank you for the compliment, Mam." Her subtle attempts to escape from the woman's hold was met with a grip becoming hard as iron. "But I'm just a kid traveling with her father and guardian."

"Nonononononono! Old Mera can see these things!" She held out a hand upwards, revering the grey skies as though the Divines themselves were watching. "For so long, I have been praying for salvation. And here you are! The merciful Divines have answered! My salvation! Your light is proof of this!"

Seizing the chance, Cereza shook the old woman's hand off her shoulder. Taking a step back and fighting the dread bubbling up to prevent revealing the fear in her voice, Cereza continued, "Once more, I thank you for the compliments, but I really must go. My guardian must be shedding his fur in worry if he found out I'm missing."

The wrinkly woman's smile collapsed, replaced with a scowl seething with frustration. "You are my gift from the gods! You have no right to deny yourself for me." The deranged woman made motion to grab Cereza's wrist; however, Cereza was prepared this time. She pulled away just in the nick of time, turning around and run back the way she came. Crossing the bridge, and nearly falling off into the dark waters, then bounding up the stairs, Cereza dared not to look behind her as she rushed back to the market district.

She turned around a corner and crashed against something solid, knocking her back to the ground. Since when did they put walls in the middle of the street?

"Is Little One ok?" a familiar voice asked her. Cereza looked up to see her guardian standing over her, buckets filled with fresh food in each hand. "Where were you? Khajiit almost shed his fur with worry!"

"I didn't mean to scare you, Kitty," she stood up and brushed the dirt off her dress. "But I wanted to do something useful while I waited."

Do'kir raised an eyebrow, his curiosity piqued by her words. "Oh? And what is this useful thing Little One has done?"

"I went around using my healing magic to help people!" Cereza explained happily.

"Ah, Khajiit did think it was strange seeing smiles on the beggars of the market district. Never did he think you were the cause of it all." He smiled proudly. "Well done."

Cereza's smile beamed with pride. She put hands on her hips, feeling like she stood taller than the mountains themselves. "If you think that's amazing, I did more than heal the beggars in the market district. I went deeper into the city too!"

Do'kir's smile dropped. "What did you say?"

The child was visibly confused by Do'kir's sudden shift to a grave tone, looking at her as if she caused a murder. "I went deeper into the city to heal more people. That was a good thing to do, right?"

Carefully, the Khajiit set down the buckets to kneel to the ground, placing a firm hand on her shoulder. "No. No it was not a good thing for Little One to do. Kind? Yes. Good? No. Absolutely not."

"What? What do you mean it wasn't good?" Irritation growing in her voice at the vagueness of his answer. "I healed people. Now they're not hurting anymore. How can that not be good?"

"So Little One is telling me that she went deeper into a city rotten with scum and approached strangers who could have easily killed her?"

Cereza's breath caught in her throat, finally realizing Do'kir's logic.

"What Little One did wasn't good! It was foolish! Dangerous!" he cried in a near roar. Never has Cereza seen such terror drive him this far over the edge of sanity.

"B-but I came back unharmed, didn't I?" Cereza countered.

"And thank the Twin Moons for that! But can you look straight into Do'kir's eyes and tell him nobody tried to hurt you? Or worse, kidnap you?"

Cereza prepared to assure him nobody tried to harm her, but then she remembered the woman who looked like a Hagraven, the insanity in her eyes not unlike the one in Do'kir's own. She looked away, unwilling to meet Do'kir's frantic gaze and said nothing.

Her silence was all the answer Do'kir needed.

He grabbed both of her shoulders, shaking her to near violent levels, his claws unconsciously digging almost too deep, and the absolute terror in Do'kir's crying eyes stunning Cereza's voice. "How could you be so careless? Do you know how PAINFUL it was when they took you away, K'ara? How much Khajiit has suffered without you? Do'kir promised himself it would never happen again!"

"Kitty, what do you mean took K'ara away?"

Her question jolted Do'kir back to reality. "K'ara?" he stammered, continuously blinking at Cereza to make sure the right person was in front of him. Quickly he let go of her shoulders, now looking at Cereza as if she were a demon holding his life in her hands. "K-K'ara is… she is…"

Cereza shook her head, holding Do'kir's hands to comfort him. "It's okay, Kitty. You don't have to tell me. And I'm sorry that I made you worry. I promise to never do something so dangerous again, okay?"

Do'kir nodded, both in agreement and in thanks, the shame a wall that stopped him from finding comfort into her caring eyes. Even after all this time he'd known her, the pain and guilt strangled the courage from his heart every time he tried to tell her the truth. As far as Cereza knows, Do'kir was the only one kidnapped from his caravan. "Hmm? Where is Little One's knapsack?"

"Oh! I had it hidden in a barrel when it got too heavy for me to carry."

"In case Little One didn't notice, Riften has many barrels. What if she forgets which one she hid it in?"

"That's not a problem. I put it in a barrel with a weird mark on it not far from here. Watch, I'll show you."

Picking up the buckets of supplies from the floor, Do'kir followed Cereza to this marked barrel. True to her words, among the unremarkable barrels there was one marked with a strange symbol of a ladder at the center of a circle. Cereza slid the cover off and hopped to lean over the top. At first, there was confusion in her eyes, then shifted to disbelief and worry.

"Is everything all right, Little One?" Do'kir asked.

Cereza hopped back down. Even from a distance, Do'kir could hear her heart beat rapidly. "I… um…"

"Finally. It's about time I get the chance to speak with you, lad."

Before Cereza could finish her half-thought-out excuse, a new person joined in the conversation. Brynjolf, the man who saved Do'kir from jail, stepped into view, confidence brimming in his smile. Do'kir's eyes sharpened into a suspicious leer at the man. There was just something about this Nord his merchant instincts were warning him about.

The Nord sensed the Khajiit's suspicion. "Perhaps proper introductions are in order. The name's Brynjolf: a humble merchant of this fine city."

"Do'kir: a Khajiit," he responded plainly. "Now, what does Brynjolf want with Khajiit?"

Brynjolf smirked. "Straight to business. That's what I like to see in a business partner."

"Business partner?" Do'kir asked, confusion mixing with his suspicion. "What makes you think this one is qualified?"

"When I heard the legendary Bloodbringer is paying our city a visit, I've been keeping an eye on him and his company. And I'm glad I did; that was quite the spectacle you pulled back there. I just happen to know the thief you took down too; a skilled pickpocket he is. It takes similar skills for the victim to catch him on the act."

Do'kir immediately knew where this conversation was going through the shady tone of Brynjolf's voice.

"I have a little test for you, Do'kir. Pass, and along with a hefty reward of gold, you can expect a future partnership with yours truly."

Do'kir's angry glare bore down on the man. "Forgive this one, Brynjolf, but Khajiit is looking for something far more important than gold right now."

Brynjolf nodded, his smile unwavering. "Right. Then…" From behind his back, the man produced an object in his hands. "Perhaps this is what you're looking for…"

When Do'kir laid his eyes on the familiar knapsack, it all clicked into place. Cereza's hesitance… his merchant instincts' warning… and the knapsack in that man's hands… This man was a thief! Do'kir dropped the buckets to snatch Cereza's knapsack, but Brynjolf pulled it back at the last second.

"Now now," Brynjolf teased, wagging a finger at the glaring Khajiit. "That is not how a business transaction works."

"You're a thief!" Do'kir hissed.

In mock hurt, the man responded. "Me? A thief? As far as I know, I bought this knapsack from a fellow merchant for a fair price. But I am willing to part with it in exchange for a small favor." He offered the Khajiit a handshake. "Do we have a deal?"

Do'kir was tempted to turn this man to the guards, but he remembered what the guards said when he took down the pickpocket.

Well… if Brynjolf said it…

Hell, it wouldn't be farfetched to assume the soldiers at the city entrance were a part of this too!

Brynjolf's smile broadened when the Khajiit accepted his handshake, their eyes locking together. Then, Brynjolf felt a tickling sensation at the back of his neck. He didn't even need to look to know what happened, and how it did. "Impressive, lad. You might even give Vipir a run for his gold. If you ever need extra coin, come down to the Ragged Flagon. It's just a stroll through the Ratway." With that said, the man left Do'kir who held the purple knapsack in his clawed hand.

"The Ratway?" Do'kir asked, watching the man disappear into the crowd.

Cereza, cursing herself for blinking the moment he took her knapsack back, answered for him. "Oh, I know! The Ratway is a series of sewer tunnels that run underground Riften. The book never described a place called the Ragged Flagon though."

"Hmph. It doesn't matter. Khajiit is confident he will never have to venture to such a disgusting place." He handed Cereza her knapsack, the child thanking him in return. "Let us head to the inn. Your father must be waiting for us."

Do'kir and Cereza headed to the inn, buckets of supplies in each of the Khajiit's hands. Cereza complained about wanting to help with the luggage despite his protests, so Do'kir allowed her to carry the bucket of pastries and candy so that she may feed him as they walked.

"Kitty, can I ask you something?"

Do'kir swallowed the last of the sweetroll, licking off the white frosting around his lips. "Little One actually already did, but I will permit her another."

"Khajiit caravans are merchants, right?"

He nodded. "Why, yes. You saw it yourself outside the city walls."

"That's what I'm confused about. Why are they selling outside the city? Wouldn't they make more gold inside the city where all the people and other merchants are? And… Kitty?" Cereza stopped, turning around to see Do'kir had rooted himself on the spot, his eyes downcast and frowning.

Finally, he sighed. "We Khajiit caravans are not usually welcomed in cities."

She tilted her head. "Why not?"

"Because all Khajiit are thieves, skooma dealers, and liars wanting nothing more than to rid you all your gold," he replied coldly. Hurt spread across Cereza's face. Do'kir sighed and shook his head. "Please, forgive this one. Do'kir's anger was not directed at you. It's just that…" He paused for a few moments, contemplating whether he should continue. "Does Little One remember the stories Khajiit shared about his travels to great a many cities in Tamriel?"

She nodded.

"Khajiit left out the part where his caravan was barred entry from many of those city."

"But why?"

"Thieves… skooma dealers… and liars… often those are the words other races describe us Khajiit."

"But you're none of those things," Cereza protested strongly. She remembered how the guards called her guardian a filthy cat and unfairly accused him of stealing from her, igniting righteous fury burning in her eyes. "You even saved me from a skooma dealer!"

"I am afraid you will have better luck talking to a deaf rock. Fear of the unfamiliar is an effective earplug," Do'kir chuckled sadly. "Discrimination makes life hard for the common Khajiit, crushing us until the only hope to crawl out of the hole we were forced in is to give in to those same stereotypes, furthering those beliefs. It is a vicious cycle."

"That's not fair, though. Maybe if we tell them to give the Khajiit a chance…"

"You have a kind heart, Little One," Do'kir interrupted with a sad smile. "The kindest the Khajiit has ever seen. But I must warn you to be wary of that heart. The greatest threat to yourself is your own kindness."

With that said, they continued their way towards the inn, Do'kir's words a heavy burden in Cereza's mind.

The Bee and Barb was a relatively pleasant inn. Next to the counter manned by an Argonian woman, a roaring fireplace provided a blanket of warmth for the inn's residents scattered across the wooden tables. And the delicious scents of hot food from the kitchen tickled Do'kir's sensitive nose. A nice interior, a warm fire, and delicious food, the only thing that honestly needed replacing were the customers themselves. Nearly every one of them looked half dead, their heads slumped down against the table drowned in mead. Especially one particular grey-haired, balding Nord where a poor, green-scaled Argonian was building a mountain of empty bottles picked from the humongous pile of mead near the Nord's sleeping head and onto the Argonian's metal tray.

Tallowhand was easily discernible amongst the measly crowd since he wasn't blacked out drunk and slobbering all over the table, though he certainly was getting there evident from the mountainous pile of mead rivaling that of the other grey Nord.

"Oye! Boy! Cereza! Over here!" the boisterous Nord shouted as loud as he could so that they could hear him over the silence, waving them over, a drunken smile on his lips.

Do'kir rolled his eyes and sighed, keeping Cereza close as he guided her past the passed-out residents. Waiting for them were two plates sitting across Tallowhand, each having a steaming slab of cooked beef, bread, and cheese.

"Better eat yer fill while ye can," Tallowhand advised. "This will be yer last hot meal fer while when we get back on the road tomorrow."

Cereza and Do'kir nodded, taking their seats and digging into the food. As they ate, Do'kir felt the intensity of Tallowhand's gaze.

"So…" Tallowhand started, a knowing glint in his eyes. "Did anything happen in the market?"

Do'kir froze midchew.

By the Twin Moons, he knows.

Cereza moved to speak up, but Tallowhand motioned for her silence by raising a hand.

There was no point in lying. Tallowhand would find out the truth somehow. All Do'kir can do is to tell the truth himself and brace for impact. "Khajiit caught a thief trying to pickpocket the gold Sir Tallowhand gave him."

"Oh, did ye now?" Tallowhand grabbed his tankard of mead, taking a long sip as he kept his eyes trained on his slave. "And I suppose you reported this thief to the guards 'n nothing else, remembering my advice ta not draw attention?"

Do'kir bit his bottom lip. "That is not exactly what happened…"

"Then tell me what happened yerself since ya happened ta be there."

Do'kir closed his eyes, taking in a deep breath through his snout as he gathered the courage and strength to push the truth out his mouth. "Do'kir may have slammed the thief to the ground a bit too hard…"

Tallowhand raised an eyebrow. "And how much was a bit too hard?"

Do'kir winced. "Khajiit may have broken some bones… and might have almost eaten him in front of a crowd…" He finished that last bit as quickly as he could.

Without warning, Tallowhand slammed his tankard onto the table, mead sputtering out his mouth as he slapped his knee and broke down into a fit of wheezing laughter. "Attaboy!" the Nord cheered, raising his tankard to the Khajiit in a proud salute. "Nothin' like a few brokens ta teach these filthy thieves a lesson!"

Do'kir's shoulders shrunk with embarrassment, caught off guard from Tallowhand's praise. "Sir Tallowhand is not angry at this one?"

"Angry? You used what I taught ya to protect yerself. How could I be mad at that?"

"B-but what about your advice not to draw attention?"

Tallowhand waved off the Khajiit's words. "Bah! I was sober when I gave ya that advice! Here's some real advice! Never listen ta me when I'm sober!" He finished with another hearty swing of mead.

Do'kir leaned back in his seat, breathing out a sigh of relief as the tension left his body. Thank the Divines for intercepting Tallowhand's soul-crushing scolding with alcohol. The Nord was in such good spirits that maybe Do'kir's next question won't be met condescending frowns and glares? "If it is not too much a sore subject, may Khajiit inquire about the 'war' you mentioned earlier?"

Tallowhand's drunken smile and eyes dropped, usurped by a condescending frown and a glare.

Or maybe not.

The Khajiit thought conversation was over before it even started. Then Tallowhand took another heavy swig of mead, belched, and let a sigh reeking of alcohol and sadness. "Maybe it's bout time I fill you in about the war I've been fightin'. You remember how the final battle between the Empire and Aldmeri Dominion ended?"

Do'kir nodded. His father had told him the about bloodbath that was the final, deciding battle between men and mer; the battlefield was scorched to a fiery hell, the ground painted with the blood and guts of lifeless oldiers disfigured to monstrous abominations by the cruelest of magic. And in the end, the elves stood victorious above the carnage.

"The damn elves beat us, badly. And it wasn't enough fer them. They wanted to humiliate us, shove their superiority complexes up our arses. So they forced the Empire to sign a peace treaty where the Empire would throw away their honor 'n ban the worship of Talos! I guess their ego can't handle a MAN ascend to godhood." He slammed his tankard once more onto the table, letting out a haunting laugh. "And they believe we Nords of Skyrim to follow the demands of a weak Empire? That sending their honor less soldiers to trample on our Nord pride will be enough to scare us to abandon our mighty Talos?" Tallowhand rose to his feet, raising his tankard to praise Talos himself. "No matter how many proud Nords the Empire falls in battle, their deaths will only ignite the fighting spirits of a hundred more!"

"So you're saying if one Nord dies, a hundred more will follow?" an old voice ambushed the conversation from behind.

Do'kir and Cereza turned their heads around to find the source: the grey-haired Nord. Now that he was actually sitting up instead of drooling all over the table, the two could get a better look at him. Splashes of mead stained his fine clothes and bushy full beard. He stared at Tallowhand, rage building in his bloodshot eyes.

"You think this war is all honor and glory, don'cha?" the elderly Nord accused.

"Vulwulf, please," the green Argonian who attended him pleaded. "Perhaps you would like another bottle of-"

"NO!" Vulwulf shouted. "This blubbering fool thinks death in war is something to be proud of. How about I regale you all the tale of my daughter's death and see for yourself how glorious her demise was? Lilija… my sweet Lilija… she wanted to follow in her old man's footsteps and joined the Stormcloak army… not because of the call honor and glory… but the cries of the suffering she knew only her healing arts can answer. She never lifted a blade in her life! All she wanted was to heal those in need. But did the Imperials care? They slaughtered her like an animal, leaving her body in the mud to rot!" His chair screeched against wood as he suddenly stood up. With drunken mobiility, Vulwulf floundered his way towards Tallowhand, knocking down more chairs and spilling tankards of mead to the floor along the way, until they were face to face. "Now look me in the eyes, Tallowhand, Bloodbringer, and tell me how glorious her death was!"

Any trace of drunken pride in Tallowhand had disappeared as he clashed glares with Vulwulf. "Cereza. Boy. I've arranged a room for you two to share upstairs."

Do'kir nodded without a second thought. He asked his question and got his answers. More than he expected. There was nothing more to learn here. Talen-Jei, the green Argonian, introduced himself and lead the two upstairs to their room, Do'kir carrying the buckets of supplies as they went. The room Tallowhand arranged them was a bit cramped, barely holding in two hay beds and a cupboard. Do'kir and Cereza were quick to settle into their respective beds, Vulwulf's tale too heavy in their minds to initiate any conversation.

Even long after the candles have blown out and darkness consumed the room, Do'kir's eyes remained wide open as he stared at the ceiling. Normally, it was his Beastblood that kept him up late at night, but this time, his mind was too wild with thoughts to follow the call of sleep. It all made sense now. Why Tallowhand keeps leaving his home. And why the Nord bought the Khajiit as his slave in the first place. It was so he could babysit his daughter as he goes off to fight this civil war brewing in Skyrim. But this just brings more questions than answers. Why doesn't Tallowhand just settle in one of Skyrim's cities than live a distance from the country's border? Why go to a slave auction and hire a Khajiit who could have easily just murdered his daughter and run off to the sunset? Why not just hire a housecarl to do it for him? And is it even safe for them to be in the crosshair of this civil war?

Do'kir finally closed his eyes into unrestful slumber, all his questions asked.

Cereza had remained awake, the sounds of her sleeping guardian tossing and turning in his sheets filled the room as he struggled against his Beastblood. Emotions of everything she went through kept slumber at bay: anger at the unjust discrimination Do'kir and his kind face, guilt at her powerlessness to help Riften's suffering citizens, and sadness at the death of Vulwulf's daughter and the many more tragedies this war have caused. These emotions were too much for an eight-year-old child to bear, swirling into a violent storm in Cereza's heart tearing it apart. Living in a house in the middle of nowhere for most of her life, she never realized how much suffering existed in the real world; everything she knew about the real world was learned through books and they hardly ever touched these problems that plagued Tamriel. Cereza cursed her uselessness. Power. If only she had power to change the world… to end everyone's suffering and create a world of love.

Before the call of sleep could claim her, Cereza felt a strange pulling sensation… as if an astral rope was tied to her spirit and someone from the other side was tugging it. Unable to resist its persistent pull, Cereza stood up from her bed, put on her shoes, and walked out the room.

It was like Cereza was in a trance, her mind shrouded in a foggy haze. She blinked, and the next thing she knew, she was out the doors, greeted by the cold bite of night and the silver and crimson moons overhead.

Blink.

She walked the wooden streets of Riften, passing by the occasional night patrols of guards. They too seemed to be enthralled by a mysterious force because even with the torches they carried, they failed to take notice the strangeness of a child wandering the streets at night.

Blink.

Cereza was looking up at a set of stone stairs, a grand temple sitting at the top.

Blink.

She found herself inside the temple. Around her were wooden benches arranged in a neat array in front of an altar. The altar was decorated with candles, and in the middle stood a small, stone monument; a stone disk with a cross in the middle, and in the center of that cross was the face of man. Standing behind the altar was a large, bronze statue of a robed woman, her beauty aglow from the warmth of the braziers, and arms outstretched to embrace those with her loving presence.

Cereza immediately knew who this was: the Goddess of Love, Mara.

Her legs moved on their own, closer to Mara's altar. A few inches away, and Cereza felt a pair of warm, unseen hands on her shoulder. They weren't forceful. The hands were gentle, encouarging her to her knees then guiding Cereza to bring her hands together in a form of prayer. The child closed her eyes, allowing the divine aura emanating from the altar to seep into her very being. When Cereza finally opened her eyes, there was a divine spark in them. Feeling a surge of new power growing within her, Cereza looked down at her hands and summoned golden light so intense it was almost blinding!

Cereza had power. And she knew what to do with it.

Blink.

Cereza was outside once more, standing high above the temple's stone stairs, surveying the city below her. Even hidden behind the darkest corners of Riften, Cereza could hear them all, the silent cries of everyone's pain and suffering.

Blink.

Before she knew it, Cereza had returned to the cold streets of Riften, her golden light bestowing comfort and warmth to the shivering and homeless beggars of the city. Her Magicka reserves were infinite! Barely a drop was needed! And with one person healed, she was more than ready to heal the hundreds more that awaited deeper into the city.

Blink.

Cereza was happy, unbelievably tired, but happy. The divine power she was blessed with had long left her, replaced by the warmth knowing she had brought relief to so many of Riften's suffering souls. Too tired and proud was Cereza of herself that she failed to notice a pair of wrinkled, gnarled fingers with nails yellow with filth emerge from the darkness of the alley behind her. Before Cereza could scream, one hand wrapped around her mouth, silencing her. Before Cereza could run, the other grabbed the scruff of her dress, dragging her into the alley, disappearing into the shadows. And no matter how many times Cereza blinked, she always found herself trapped in the same place.

Darkness.

---

Do'kir sat up from his bed without warning, breathing deep and heavy, fur matted with cold sweat, and his eyes wide and alert. What in the Twin Moons was that nightmare? So vivid and real. Every second he spent trapped in that hellish nightmare was burned into his memory. Even the Beast within was disturbed by the nightmare they shared, whimpering inside his cage instead of trying to break it.

"Little One, are you awake?" He just needed to be sure.

No answer.

He looked to her bed, expecting her slumbering form tucked in the sheets.

She wasn't there.

Alarm shot through Do'kir's system, the Khajiit bolting out of bed with every strand of his copper-red fur bristling in panic. Do'kir lifted his snout to the air, sniffing for Cereza's scent and found that it led directly out the door. Do'kir fetched his iron sword and strapped it to his hip, wondering what could have possessed her to leave the room at the dead of night. He made his way downstairs, surveying the room. He spotted a couple of people eating or passed out drunk on the tables, but none of them were his Little One.

Do'kir approached the green Argonian. "Excuse me. Talen-Jei, yes?"

Talen-Jei nodded and smiled, grateful at least one person had the respect to say his name right. "Yes. How may I help you?"

"Khajiit is wondering if you saw a child wandering here earlier?"

"Now that I think about it…" Talen-Jei's face scrunched up, his memories a foggy haze he struggled to navigate through. "There was a small, Nord child who walked out the doors not too long ago."

Do'kir's brow furrowed. "Did this child have a blonde, Nord man accompany her?"

"Afraid not. She was completely alone when she left."

"And did you not think to stop and ask her why a child would venture alone at night?" Do'kir growled, irritation growing in his voice.

The question was a punch to the Argonian's senses, waking him from the strange haze in his mind. "I… I did not think about that at the time. B-but I assure you! I would have stopped her… it just never crossed my mind for some reason…"

The Argonian stepped back in fear as the Khajiit's growl rumbled like angered thunder. Do'kir walked past the Argonian, out the doors, and into the freezing and empty streets of Riften. There was no time to bring Tallowhand since the fool was probably already knocked out drunk. His investigation led to him to staring up the stone steps of a temple. He recognized from his experience traveling that the symbol on the banners hanging over the stone walls were that of the Divine Mara. No doubt this was her temple, and Cereza's scent led in and out the doors. Did his Little One come here to pray? Strange. Not once has he seen Cereza pray to any Divine in her life. Why start now? And why Riften of all places?

He continued to follow her scent and wander the streets of Riften. Unlike Do'kir himself, he spotted many of the city's homeless citizens unfazed by the shivering cold, surrounded by a faint, golden light. They even seemed happy, a light smile on their lips as they slept peacefully.

Do'kir had come across a dark alley, his eyes narrowing as he noticed a spike of fear in Cereza's scent. Without a moment's hesitation, the Khajiit rushed into the alley unimpeded by the darkness thanks to his sharp night vision. Coming out the other end, he broke through the shadows and stopped, leaning over the wooden fence to peer into the canal below. Just on the other side of the docks Do'kir spotted a rusted, iron gate blocking further entry to the market district's stone interior. Even from up there, the rank, putrid odors of all the city's filth reached the Khajiit's sensitive nose, setting his sense of smell on fire! But underlying all that foul stench was the innocent scent of his precious Little One. He wasted not a another second, leaping over the fence, air rushing through his fur, landing nearly breaking wood, and vaulting over the rickety, wooden bridge, his reflection a red blur in the waters.

The iron gate swung open without resistance; the lock rusted beyond repair. Inches away from entering another door, Do'kir took in one last deep breath of fresh air.

And entered.

The Ratway was a fitting name. The sound of water continuously dripped down the cracked, stone walls stained with green moss. Skeevers rabid with hunger lied in wait behind the multiple of sewer grates, kept only at bay by Do'kir's unsheathed blade illuminated by torchlight as he navigated through the compact corridors. Occasionally, Do'kir spotted remnants of life: hay beds soaked with dried blood, food too rotten even for the rats to eat, and buckets filled with shit and other things he dared not to guess. The sewers were like a labyrinth full of twists and turns. If it weren't for the faint scent of Cereza in the air guiding him, Do'kir feared he would have been trapped wandering these corridors until he starved to death and became food for the skeevers.

Suddenly, in one moment Do'kir was on solid ground, and the next, he stepped on nothing but thin air. Panic kicked in. He flailed his arms with desperate abandon to rebalance himself or else suffer tipping over and cracking his head onto the stone floor far below. Do'kir let out a sigh of relief when he regained his footing. His path onward was blocked by a large gap between paths, Cereza's scent lying just on the other side. Fortunately, he saw a raised wooden bridge on the other side; he just needed to lower it to bridge gap between the paths. Unfortunately, Do'kir could see no button or lever on his side that would lower the bridge.

He'll have to take a detour.

Spotting another path on the lower floor, Do'kir hopped down and made his way through the alternate path. After passing through another tight corridor, he ended up in a large chamber riddled with shallow pools of oil where lanterns hanged overhead, tied to the ceiling by thin strands of rope weary with age. The slightest disruption to the ropes would cause the lanterns to fall onto the oil puddles and transform this entire room to a burning inferno. On the other side of the chamber was an open door leading to another room, Do'kir poking his head through to inspect it. It seemed to be a storage room with broken vases and half-eaten bread littering the shelves. Do'kir's eyes narrowed at the laid-out bedroll. The bedroll combined with the lack of mold on the bread meant there was someone nearby.

To his left, another door. And when he opened that door, before he can even blink, a fur-gloved fist came flying at Do'kir, the harsh impact against his skull stunning him for a brief moment, long enough for those hands to grab the collar of Do'kir's shirt and hurl him deeper into the new room. Do'kir's body slid painfully against the cold ground, rough stone cutting through his fur. And when he opened his eyes, he gasped in shock when the first thing to greet him was the rusted metal of a bear trap. Had he slid an inch more, Do'kir's entire head would have been ensnared and crushed in its metal maw.

"Lucky me! I've been looking to decorate my new home with a nice rug."

Do'kir pushed himself back to his feet and growled at his attacker, a balding Imperial man in a roughspun tunic and furred gloves. The Khajiit surveyed the room, taking note of the various bear traps that littered the floor. One wrong step and his foot will be imprisoned in the rusted jaws of metal. And with the way the man held his fists up, his defensive stance lacking weak points, meant his opponent was no stranger to combat. Recklessness could spell his doom.

Unfortunately for Do'kir, the Beast wanted to be nothing but reckless.

Do'kir charged with his blade raised. He made multiple slashes at the man, but because of the conflict between Tallowhand's training and the Beast's wild nature, his strikes were sloppy; the Imperial easily dodged them all as if the Khajiit was a child throwing a tantrum. The Imperial saw an opening and delivered solid bursts of punches against Do'kir's skull, each one having the force of an entire mountain behind them!

Khajiit blood splattered against stone as he stumbled back, stopping inches before his foot landed on another bear trap! Hissing and frustration boiling, Do'kir made a jab at the Imperial, but with deft movement, pivoted to the side with one foot, the tip barely grazing his tunic, grabbed the wrist of Do'kir's sword arm to throw him stumbling forward, and delivered a devastating elbow strike to Do'kir's cheek. Dazed and desperate, the Khajiit tried to block the Imperial's next punch with the flat of his blade.

A costly mistake.

Do'kir wide eyed watched in utter horror, his blade glass as the Imperial's punch shattered his sword in two, iron fragments glinting over his eyes before the fist collided with his face.

Shaking the hazy dizziness from his eyes, Do'kir stared at the jagged stump of his shattered blade in complete disbelief. Even with experienced combat training, there was no way such a skinny man can pack so much power into his punches! There had to be a secret. Do'kir analyzed his opponent once more, ignoring the smug smirk of the Imperial and focusing on his furred gloves. His gloves seemed shrouded in a strange glow.

Were his gloves enchanted?

He didn't have any more time to think about it. Impatient, the Imperial rushed at Do'kir. All the Khajiit could do was defend, raising his arms to form a shield in front. After a storm of punches, the Imperial finished it off with one last punch to his defense with strength rivaling a troll! Though managing to stay standing, the force sent Do'kir sliding back on his feet, a bear trap snapping near his feet when his tail accidently brushed against it. The Khajiit stared at his clawed hands; they were shaking and almost numb from pain. If Do'kir does not end this now, he really might just end up this man's rug!

It was Do'kir's turn to attack. He rushed forward, gambling on a feint then a right hook, only for it to be easily blocked and punished with a crushing uppercut under Do'kir's chin sending him flying into the air, and once more brushing with death when his head crashed near another bear trap.

"Persistent little cat, aint'cha?" the Imperial taunted, overconfident eyes watching Do'kir stand up and spit the blood out his muzzle.

Do'kir desperately needed a new plan of attack. The war between Tallowhand's training and the Beast's savageness was holding him back. An idea popped in his head.

What if he allowed the Beast to win?

Do'kir closed his eyes and took a deep, calming breath, leaving himself open for attack. Insulted by the display, the Imperial charged forward and swung his fist at the Khajiit's head. To the Imperial's shock, Do'kir moved his head back at the last second, fist brushing against whiskers, without even opening his eyes, and when he did open them midswing, there was a new, feral glint in them. The Beast didn't waste this moment of freedom. With elongated fangs, Do'kir clamped his maw onto the Imperial's arm, blood gushing out. Whatever overconfidence the Imperial had in this fight was RIPPED from him as Do'kir tore out a chunk of flesh from the Imperial's arm, the Imperial screaming in terrible pain. Do'kir spat out the bloody hunk of meat before he became too tempted to swallow, watching the Imperial with twisted satisfaction as the Imperial mourned his missing flesh.

And too busy was the Imperial staring horrified at his exposed, bloody flesh and bone that as he stepped back from the crazed Khajiit he failed to notice a bear trap behind him. His foot activated the trap, metallic jaws clamping onto his leg, and the Khajiit relished the sound of that gory squelch and agonizing cry.

The Imperial was trapped in place and too busy screaming to defend himself. Do'kir seized the chance. Throwing away his useless blade, he rushed forward and delivered a flurry of punches to the Imperial's vulnerable face, splashes of blood staining the stone walls and floor, and finished it off with a devasting uppercut to the chin. The Imperial fell back to the floor, unconscious.

Breathing heavily, Do'kir inspected his body. Splatters of blood stained his clothes, and he could taste that same blood on his teeth and the fur around muzzle. If he were to encounter more scum like this, Do'kir would be in deep trouble, especially without his iron sword.

But as if it were a blessing from the gods, Do'kir moved onward and came across a circular room. It seemed even life can grow in a filth hole like the Ratway. Three pillars of brown vines hanging from the ceiling surrounded bushes of green fern. An open hole above allowed the moonlight to illuminate a tree stump in center of all that life.

And etched to that tree stump was an iron battle axe.

Judging from the patch of blood on the stump and the large basket nearby, this area was a center for execution.

With both hands grasping firmly onto the axe's handle and a foot on the stump, Do'kir plucked the axe with one mighty tug. He tested its weight; the axe felt heavier with all the souls it damned to Oblivion. He gave it a few test swings. Too used to a sword, his swings were clumsy and off balanced, each swing dragging his body along, and yet Do'kir found something oddly satisfying with this axe. The power and strength he could put into each swing was addicting.

Even the Beast within growled with approval.

A new weapon in tow, Do'kir moved on to the next room comprised with a set of stairs leading to a higher floor. Do'kir motioned to walk the steps, but something thin on the stairs caught his eyes. With cautious steps, he approached the thin strand of rope tied taut in the middle of the stairs.

It was a tripwire.

Do'kir looked up to see a giant log hooked on the ceiling, ready to let loose and crush whatever foolish soul triggers the tripwire.

Someone definitely doesn't want anyone to reach what's up ahead. Stepping over the tripwire, he ascended the stairs and entered a new room. Unlike the rest of the other rooms he encountered, this one seemed designed for friendly get togethers. In center was a wooden table where a miniature barrel sat, a spigot attached if anyone wanted to pour themselves some mead using one of the tankards scattered around.

Up ahead, Do'kir spotted a familiar, raised bridge and the lever that must be the way to lower it! He dashed for the lever, pulling it down, a breathing out a sigh of relief as the bridge was lowered, the other side where he came from now in view. Once he rescues Cereza, escaping the Ratway should be much easier.

He returned to the room, following his nose until he came across a small set of stairs leading to another door. From behind the door, multiple scents of people mingled together. Do'kir gripped his new axe tighter. No matter how many foes stand before him, he will never let that day repeat itself. He WILL save her.

Do'kir opened the door, fully expecting another fist to the face, but what greeted his eyes packed a hell of a lot more punch. Silver rays of moonlight rained down from above and into a large, shallow pool of clear water that ran down into two separate rivers into the dark tunnels. About half the pool had a wooden dock built over it where tables and chairs had been set up to make this entire chamber look like an elaborate tavern. The odor of sewer filth was nonexistent, replaced with the warm scents of delicious, spiced meat cooking over a fire and freshly baked bread. Do'kir could see so many people chatting and laughing over tankards of wine and mead. Such a sight would make the Khajiit feel at home…

If it weren't for the fact many of them wore the same armor as the pickpocket in the market.

"A young Khajiit with copper-red fur and yellow eyes. You must be the one Brynjolf told me about."

Do'kir was taken aback. He didn't even hear this man's approach. He was an Imperial with tanned skin, wavy grey hair that descended to shoulders, and brilliant green eyes brimming with sly confidence. Through his fine clothes, Do'kir can see his lean musculature.

"Though, I admit you were a lot less intimidating the way my friend described you," the man continued, taking note of the blood stains and the battle axe in the Khajiit's hands. Despite all that, he offered his hand to Do'kir, not a trace of fear in his eyes. "Welcome to the Ragged Flagon. The name's Gallus. A pleasure to meet a potential partner."

The Ragged Flagon? Then this place must be… Do'kir hissed at Gallus' hand as though it were a dagger. It might as well be considering the type of people that lurked here. "Khajiit does not have time for this! Have you seen a child wandering around here?" he demanded, straight to the point.

Gallus retracted his hand frowned, though his cool remained unfazed by the heat of the Khajiit's broiling anger. "The Ratway is no place for children. If you're accusing one of us…"

"Then why does Khajiit smell his Little One's scent somewhere here?"

The Imperial thief placed a hand on his chin, deep in thought. "It might interest you to know that one of Riften's more deranged citizens has a habit of dragging random people in the Ratway. She likes to pretend that they're gifts to her from the Divines themselves."

"Khajiit can smell the child's scent on the other side," he hissed with accusing eyes. "Why didn't you stop her?"

"The place you're referring to is called the Ratway Warrens where the worst of the worst gather. We may be thieves, but even we don't know all the nooks and crannies of the sewers. Believe me, if Old Mera tried dragging a kid there through here, we would have stopped her."

Do'kir's anger did not waver, but at least it was no longer aimed at Gallus. As much effort as Gallus put on to maintain a cold and calm demeanor, Do'kir could spot the cracks of concern and worry over the missing child.

"Follow me. I can take you to the Warrens, but finding your kid is up to you."

Do'kir nodded. He followed Gallus to the other side of the Ragged Flagon, its residents, eyeing the blood that stained the Khajiit's fur and the axe in his hands, quieting down as he walked through them. And maybe Do'kir was imagining it, but he thought he felt a slight breeze against his fur when they walked past a suspiciously large storage cabinet. Gallus led him to another door, fishing out a key from his pocket."

"Now, a final bit of warning before you enter, my friend," Gallus said as he unlocked the door. "The residents up ahead don't take kindly to strangers."

Do'kir readied his axe, the fire in his eyes unyielding to the dangers ahead.

Just wait a little longer, Little One. Your Khajiit is coming for you…

---

Cereza slowly but steadily opened her eyes. Her vision was a dizzying haze, her hearing was a numbed ringing, and it felt like her entire body was covered in hundreds of pounds of rock, movement impossible for her feeble frame. But she could at least feel the hay bed she was laying on. After a few more blinks, she could finally make out two blurry figures from distance within the haze. One was an elderly Nord man who appeared to be wearing a chef's hat on his head, and the other was wrinkly figure with a hunched back.

"Damn it Mera," the elder Nord exclaimed. "How many times do I have to tell you to STOP using your paralysis potions? It ruins the texture of the meat! Makes it too tough to chew."

The wrinkly, hunched figure scoffed at the Nord. "And how many times do I have to tell you, Knjakr, that I DON'T give a skeever's ass about the texture. You should be grateful I bring you flesh given to me by the Divines themselves."

Cereza recognized that voice: that harsh, raspy tone that could grate your ears belonged only to the woman she met at the docks. And her faze-filled mind could not understand their talk of meat. It certainly didn't help there was this rotten smell coming off not far to right of her. Shaking with great effort, Cereza turned her head towards the source.

Her blood froze, her mouth open to a silent scream.

A pile of severed limbs sat at the corner of the dark room, dirtied skin peeled off revealing black, rotten flesh beneath. And sitting at the top of that pile of bloody gore, a severed head as rotten and filthy as the rest of the flesh stared back at her with its single, dull grey eye, its mouth agape to scream its endless torment. Though withered from time and tarnished from rot, Cereza could tell this poor soul's final moments were filled with excruciating agony. Acidic bile burned in her throat, unable to escape due to the paralysis poison running through her veins. Now she understood what those two were.

They were cannibals.

And she was their next meal.

Before she knew it, they were by her bed, both sharing a gaze of sadistic hunger at Cereza's vulnerable form.

"Remember, the deal," Mera warned.

"Yeah yeah," the Nord said. His cold, filthy hand grabbed Cereza's wrist. He raised his butcher knife, stained with dried blood and rust; its edge blunt from years of negligence. Its poor condition meant it's going to be far from a single clean cut; the fear forced Cereza's unwilling mind to picture the knife hacking away at her arm, blood and fragments of bone arcing in the air with each swing. "You get the heart, and I the rest of the meat."

Cereza shut her eyes, her breathing rapid as her beating heart and tears streaming down her face. Waiting for the blunt knife to strike her arm was mental torture, Cereza caving in to peep one eye open fully expecting the knife to come down the moment she does.

Instead, an iron battleaxe came flying and lodged deep into the side of Knjakr's skull, the impact sending his lifeless body into crashing into the nearby wall.

"Foul Daedra beast!" Mera suddenly screamed at something beyond Cereza's vision. "Stay back! Her heart is mine to consume!"

Struggling against the poison, Cereza turned her head to the source of Mera's distress. Cereza can only describe what she saw standing near the fallen iron gate was a monster; its bristling copper-red fur and savage, drooling maw were stained with crimson blood. Its yellow eyes gleamed with murderous intent within the fog of Cereza's muddy vision. A terrible, bestial roar was unleashed before it lunged at Mera, the monster a red blur tackling the screeching woman below the bed. Cereza watched, helpless, as the monster raised one fist before hammering it down to the ground. As the monster pummeled Mera, each strike its fists darkened with liquid crimson and splashes of blood splattered its snarling face. When Mera's screams were finally silenced, it ceased, all Cereza could hear was the monster's heavy breathing, its chest heaving.

Cereza made a throaty gasp, and instantly the monster turned its head to her, teary sapphires meeting feral yellow. With all of her might, Cereza fought against the paralysis, pouring all of her strength in her lips to move… TO SPEAK.

"I-I… I-I'm… sorry…" she croaked out, voice barely above a whisper.

Do'kir carefully lifted her off the bed and onto his lap, hugging her.

"I-I'm sorry," she said once again, more strength behind her voice. Do'kir's arms tightened around her as he buried himself into her shoulder. She glanced over at Knjakr, an axe lodged into his skull as his lifeless body twitched against the wall, then over to Mera's, her face a bloody mush.

"I'm sorry!" Cereza's voice finally a cry. "I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry!" With each apology, Do'kir's arms wrapped tighter around her as she felt his hot tears stream onto her shoulder. "I should've listened to you…"

"No, Little One…" he pulled back, hands on her shoulders. Cereza felt her heart twist as she realized how much pain and suffering she put him through to create such loving eyes filled with tears of relief. "That doesn't matter now. You are safe, and that is all Khajiit cares about." The Khajiit embraced her once more, Cereza sobbing into his chest as her hot tears mixed with the blood.

Khajiit did not lose you again... That's all that matters