Guards in golden togas patrolled the walls of Whiterun, anxiously watching the roads and the skies. At the base of a stone watchpost, four Khajiit set out bed rolls as their silver-haired leader sat cross-legged in front of a patched leather tent, trinkets and wares laid out on a red silk rug.

In the distance, the beats of horse hooves against the paved road grew clearer as a carriage approached. Their emotions concealed beneath their helmets, the Whiterun guards watched as the carriage-driver Alfarinn and his passengers approached their city.

Though cracked and worn by time, Whiterun's pride was unmatched. To many, the hills surrounding Dragonsreach were far preferable to the Imperial grandeur of Solitude or the crumbling legacy of Windhelm; not a thing of the Empire nor of ancient Nords; but a people with prosperity and desire, with both honor and wealth, the embodiment of all Skyrim.

The guard up in the watchpost watched as a Khajiit and the Bosmer dismounted from the carriage. A leather helmet covered Dar'raan's feline jowls and brow stripes, his pronounced muzzle almost vulpine. Ri'saad's caravan eyed their fellow Khajiit with disdain. "Heretic," hissed one.

As the duo approached the gates, the guard in the watchpost held up his hand. "Stop right there." Faendal watched as two more guards strode down toward Dar'Raan.

After examining the pendant hanging from Dar'raan's neck, the guards inspected his pockets and bag. The Khajiit did not appeaf surprised or insulted by this inspection, only irritated.

Finding nothing, the two guards nodded in satisfaction and stepped back. "Looks like you're good to go," said the guard in the watchpost as Dar'raan pulled his pack over his shoulder. "Come on in."

Nords stared at Dar'raan as he sat in the Bannered Mare, staring at the crackling fire in the vast, cheerful pit. Khajiit walked among them, sat among them, drank their mead; his bestial, shaggy presence was a drain on their tolerance and their patience.

How could the guards let such vermin into their fair city, they wonder? Many held their children close, afraid that the silver-tongued Khajiit would lurr them into a life of skooma and misery.

But the Dragonborn had vouched for Dar'raan and his people before the Jarls of Skyrim, both those loyal to the Stormcloaks and those loyal to the Empire. With the words of man and the blood of the dragons, he had pressured many Nords to accept these feline foreigners.

And yet they opened their doors, but not their hearts! Though some lone Khajiiti had found lodging across the holds of Skyrim, no caravan had yet been permitted to enter and do buisness. And no traveling Khajiit had yet entered without a thorough search.

Surely, the Nords could never accept him. In their eyes, his whiskers were sinister, his eyes had the cunning of a jewel thief. His claws were a public menace, his fur a sign of his bestial blood.

"They say the Aretino boy was performing the Black Sacrament, in Windhelm," mumbled a Nord in battered iron armor. Mead sloshed out onto the bench as he put down his tankard. "What madness could possess a boy to summon such vile men to his side?"

"It was the Imperial roads that first brought the Dark Brothehood to Skyrim," shot back an older Nord savagely, seated on the bench across from Dar'raan. Dar'raan recognized his fine robes, rich brown and velvet red; this was Vignar of Clan Gray-Mane. "When will we learn to cut our ties with our oppressors?"

Amused, Dar'raan drank deeply as a man in brown-and-red Imperial armor got up. "By Shor," declared Idolaf Battle-Born angrily, pointing at Vignar. "The only oppressor here in Whiterun is your voice that oppresses my ears with your demagoguery!"

The tavern fell silent as old Vignar rose to meet the younger man's glare, face worn and creasing in the fire's light. In the corner, Mikhael slowly lowered his lute"Mine ears hear only the language of Imperial gold," growled the bearded Nord. "Put your fists where your mouth is, boy."

Ah, a classic example of Nord civility. Dar'raan smirked as Vignar and Idolaf raised their fists. Still clutching their tankards, other patrons began to gather around the duo.

As Idolaf and Vignar began to swing at each other, the watching patrons' chants filled the Bannered Mare, spurring the combatants on.

"Get him!"

"Make him pay!"

"You must really enjoy watching these brawls," commented Faendal from next to Dar'raan. "A penchant for violence is a dangerous thing, you know."

The Khajiit simply smiled, listening to the clamoring crowd. "Says the mighty hunter of Riverwood."

Faendal chuckled; but after a moment, he leaned in toward Dar'raan, his voice growing stern. "Listen. Don't take the contract. Don't get mixed up in all that."

Calmly, Dar'raan drank from his tankard. "Orphans have no one," he said smoothly." They should not be tricked into believing Grelod will care about them."

There was a loud groan as Idolaf sent Vignar reeling to the floor with a blow to the jaw. "Isn't it better to have Grelod than no one?" muttered Faendal. "Yes, Grelod might be nasty, but she feeds and clothes them, doesn't she?"

The front doors opened as Olfrid Battle-Born strode inside, followed by Eorland Gray-Mane. Over by the counter, Sam Guierre watched calmly as the two combatants were pulled apart.

"Didn't I warn you about picking fights with old men stuck in their ways?" glowered Olfrid, glaring down at his son, holding him by the scruff of his shirt. "You'll disgrace us, carrying on like this, boy."

Eorland looked only slightly calmer than the Battle-Born patriarch. "Save your strength for the battles that matter, brother," advised the blacksmith, helping Vignar to his feet.

Dar'Raan watched with amusement as Vignar and Idolaf were dragged outside. "Hey, aren't you supposed to be a respectable Khajiit?" muttered Faendal, nudging him with his elbow.

The Khajiit's smile vanished. "I consider myself above most of this rabble," said Dar'Raan stiffly. Setting down his tankard, he rose to his feet. "They take to their mead like desert-walkers addled by the heat. Surely I am more civilized than that, yes?"

The Bosmer's expression turned grim. "Civilized? Killing an old woman isn't civilized, doesn't matter what your race is," he warned. "You can't take a person's life when they're not after yours. "

Turning, Dar'Raan looked his friend in the eye. An odd smile formed. "I assure you, this woman deserves death, and I will not be convinced otherwise," he said firmly, a feline hiss slipping into the edge of his voice.. "If you would rather not partake in this, perhaps it is best that you return to Riverwood."

Gripping his bow, Faendal stared as the Khajiit headed for the door. A man in dirty, mead-stained clothes with sunken eyes looked up as Dar'Raan passed. "What're you looking at?" mumbled Malborn, his eyes unfocused.

Paying neither Faendal nor Malborn any attention, Dar'Raan stepped outside and alone, one hand on the hilt of his dagger. He had work to do before the sun set.