Ysolda walked with her khajiiti companion back to the Bannered Mare. The two felt no need for words, simply walking quietly side by side down the cobblestone roads of Whiterun. The sun was hanging low in the sky, where it painted the winter storm clouds which swirled above a beautiful shade of pale orange. As usual, Ysolda stopped and said hello to all of her acquaintances along the way, having a brief word or two with every person she passed. This time however, she saw fit to introduce Mo'aksa and establish that he was to become a permanent fixture in the town. Mo'aksa felt awkward at the prospect of meeting so many people, for in each one he saw a potential threat. How did Ysolda seem so relaxed when she spoke with them?

After Mo'aksa had been introduced to more people than he had even spoken with in the entirety of the past year, they at last arrived back in the Bannered Mare. There was a modest crowd inside already, drinking and enjoying the company of fellow travellers.

Ysolda led Mo'aksa by the hand through the crowd and into the kitchen, retracing their steps from earlier that day into the dusty employee room which she had brought him into to change his clothes. She looked around at the condition of the room and frowned.

"Well, it's not much, but from today on," she traced her finger along the wooden bedframe, making a long trail in the dust. "From today on, it's yours," she said, holding her dirty fingertip up to Mo'aksa's face. She gave her finger a flick and sent dust flying into the air. "Hehe, I have a feeling that if you stay here your fur will turn gray!"

Mo'aksa let out an enormous sneeze, the force of which was enough to send him back a few paces. He sniffled.

"Are you allergic to dust?" Ysolda asked, trying her best to conceal her laughter.

"Mo'aksa thinks the only one who wouldn't sneeze from having dust blown in their face is a dead man," he replied, wiping the dust off of his face. Ysolda laughed nervously.

"Well, the dust isn't paying rent. Feel free to scrub it up if you so desire," Ysolda said with a yawn. She made her way over to the doorway and turned back around to face Mo'aksa. "You can use the washroom at the end of the hall. Hulda says she'll talk to you about the specifics tomorrow morning so make sure you are up bright and early."

"Mo'aksa is always up bright and early…"
"Well good! You won't have any trouble. Have a good night, Mo'aksa," she said with a wave and started off towards the stairs. Mo'aksa ran up behind her and grabbed her on the shoulder.

"Wait!" he called. Ysolda turned around. There was a brief pause. "Thank you, Ysolda. Really. May the moons light your path," Mo'aksa said at last. Ysolda's face turned a deep pink color.

"That's the first time you've called me by name, I think," she said with an awkward laugh.

"Oh, really? Mo'aksa had not noticed," he returned, a nervous smile on his face. They both had an uncomfortable laugh.

"I really ought to get back now. See you later!" She replied at last, scurrying down the stairs and off into the night. Mo'aksa remained in the doorway for a moment, feeling a bit lost in more ways than one. He drew in a breath and turned to face his new dwelling.

"A…. A… Achoo!"

First thing first, he would have to dust!

l===============================l

Several weeks passed. Mo'aksa returned to the plains many times, though he no longer used his camp there as a home. Instead it became a hunter's respite where he would butcher game before returning to the Bannered Mare and preparing it for consumption. By this time, winter proper had fallen, and the fields were coated in a powdery snow which glistened in the sunlight. Mo'aksa found he was quite well suited to hunting during a Skyrim winter, as his fur coat gave him protection from the cold as well as camouflage which gave him an edge when sneaking up on prey.

But the hunting was nothing new for him. On the contrary, it was the one familiar activity which gave him an escape from his new occupation: trying desperately to integrate himself into the community of Whiterun. The people there were willing to take him in despite his being a Khajiit, but that was only enough to get him through the gates; to get into their good graces would take a lot more work. They still saw him as an outsider, and trying to live in this environment was proving to be his greatest challenge yet. The Nords are a hardy people who survive harsh conditions through community, a cultural practice much unlike that of his homeland. As such, "camaraderie" was something he was not familiar with.

Throughout this turbulent time, his relationship with Ysolda only grew stronger. When he wasn't impressing Hulda with his Elsweyr Fondue or helping Saadia tidy the inn, Ysolda was there to show him something new. She invited him to visit her in the market and socialize with customers, or to come with her to the various inns and shops around town to network. He found that his skills as a hunter and forager were somewhat valuable in Whiterun where it seemed people had a neverending demand for exotic goods. Mo'aksa was more than happy to adventure off into the mountains for glowing mushrooms if it meant he got some extra gold for his efforts. Slowly but surely, he was able to become a familiar face around the city. Before long, he found that people he had barely been acquainted with would come to him whenever they needed something which was dangerous to acquire. Though he hadn't yet developed relationships that could be called friendships, he did find that he had developed a sort of connection to the city. When he went out for hunting trips he would make stops to procure whatever item was on his list that day, and when he brought it back they were always grateful. One thing was for certain: no matter where you are, if you do someone a favor, they'll remember you next time they need something! His days in the city continued along those lines.

On occasion he would meet Ysolda in the Bannerd Mare for an evening mingling with the guests. On one such evening, Hulda received a new shipment of Honningbrew Mead which had the bar bustling even moreso than usual. It brought in good money, but the barmaids were struggling to keep up with the masses. Ysolda thrived off the energy of the crowd and came to life when times were busy. She stepped up to help cater to the guests, stopping by Mo'aksa's seat at the bar every time she passed to share a quick laugh or drop off some food. Mo'aksa, feeling rather uncomfortable in such a large gathering of people, greatly appreciated her attention.

One who did not appreciate it so much was Mikael, who sat at a table across the tavern with his friends, seething. Mikael was a notorious flirt who loved to win the affections of any and every woman he could set eyes upon. His ideal lifestyle would include a circle of wenches at his beck and call, preferably young and beautiful ones. Every time he failed to charm someone though, he would always return to the Bannered Mare where simple city girls would dote on him. Ysolda in particular always seemed to be there waiting for him, and surely if his goals to win the produce vendor Carlotta Valentia failed, he would always have Ysolda as a backup. On this particular night though, he was nursing a sore cheek and wounded ego presented to him by none other than Carlotta herself. He returned to the bar, as he usually did, for comfort in the drink. But seeing Ysolda waiting hand and foot on someone other than him only added insult to injury.

"Hey Mikael! What's the matter? You're hardly talking tonight. I mean, usually we can't get you to shut up!" boomed the deep voice of one of his companions. Mikael turned to him, to make a retort when he happened to glance at his friend's burly arm which grazed his shoulder as he grasped a flagon. "If you're not going to drink this then I might as well!" he called, downing Mikael's drink in but a few large gulps.

"Say Falghir, would you say you're the type to never back off a challenge?" Mikael asked, snatching the flagon back from Falghir's hand.

"Well depends on the challenge I'd say! If it's how many wenches can I bed in a fortnight, there's no way I'd ever lose to the likes of you," he called, the table coming to life with laughter. Mikael only smirked and glanced around the room. His eye rested once more upon the white Khajiit across the way.

"You know what I've been wondering for some time now? See that big hairy fella over there?" he rested his arm around Falghir's shoulders and gestured to Mo'aksa. "I get the feeling he'd crush you in an arm wrestle!"

Falghir narrowed his eyes at Mo'aksa. "What, scrawny guy like that? He's nothing compared to me!" He said, flexing his muscles as the group of men whistled and goaded him along. "Hold on, I'll put this to rest…" he said, steadying himself and then strolling over to Mo'aksa's seat.

"You there. Khajiit." he said curtly.

"Can Mo'aksa help you, sir?" Mo'aksa rested his ale on the bar and turned to face the nord man before him.

"Word around town's that you think you're the toughest guy on these streets. I say that's a bunch of bluster. What say you and I have a little arm wrestle and settle this disagreement, eh?" Falghir said. Mikael and his pack gathered around and continued to cheer him on. He put his hands on his belt and puffed out his chest, posturing with great confidence.

"Don't know where that rumor came from, but if it is a challenge this one seeks…" Mo'aksa stood from the barstool and looked down at the gathering of nords with a devious smile. No one in the group reached to Mo'aksa's chin, and most of them shrank backwards a pace or two when he stood. "Mo'aksa would participate so long as there was something in it for him."

Rather than become intimidated by Mo'aksa's stature, Falghir instead postured even stronger. "Alright, you're on! 50 gold sayss I beat you, best of three!"

"Fine, let's go!" Mo'aksa replied. He pushed the stool out from under the bar and both men knelt down and rested their elbows atop it. One of the men from the group came between them and counted them in.

3… 2… 1… begin!

Almost instantly, Falghir was overpowered. The crowd went silent.

"Beginner's luck! Let's go again!" he shouted, raising his arm once more. Mo'aksa cocked his head to the side and laughed.

"Oh, Mo'aksa is no beginner, friend. He comes from a band of hunters in the dustlands of Elsweyr. Games like this were how we passed the time on our hunting trips!" Mo'aksa said with a laugh. Falghir did not seem to be dissuaded, and so they were counted in once more.

This time, the two stayed locked in place for a couple moments. Beads of sweat rolled down the nord's face, but after several moments passed he looked up at Mo'aksa and smiled confidently.

"I'm not going to go easy on you, khajiit!" he said with much effort.

"Oh, then should Mo'aksa not hold back?" he responded. Falghir's expression quickly evaporated, and the instant it did his arm was pressed against the stool. "Ah, it would seem Mo'aksa has earned that 50 gold!" Mo'aksa chided. Defeated, Falghir begrudgingly reached for his coin purse and handed over the septims.

"Hey hey, that was pretty good! But let's see how you handle a true warrior," came the call of an older nord gentleman wearing studded armor. "You there, barmaid! Bring a table over. We're going to do this properly!" A young nord woman in an apron nodded and slid over a tall wooden table. The man slammed his arm down and looked to Mo'aksa with fiery eyes.

"If you want to challenge Mo'aksa, you must make a wager," he said, taking his place across from the nord man.

"Loser buys a round for the whole tavern!" he said loudly. This drew the attention of the other patrons, who began to quiet and turn towards the table in the center of the tavern.

"Deal."

But just as before, though he did a lot of posturing, the nord man was no match for Mo'aksa, who swiftly defeated him. "Hear that everybody? Drinks on this one!" Mo'aksa called, the crowd cheering. After this, several other patrons approached Mo'aksa to make a wager and attempt to defeat him. Each time, Mo'aksa would come out victorious, and a few septims richer for his trouble.

Ysolda, busily tidying Hulda's ledger in the back, heard the commotion going on and rested her quill to investigate. She walked out to see a dense crowd of drunk men gathered around the center of the inn, and two pointed white ears poking above the crowd. She stomped her way through the crowd to find Mo'aksa, a couple ales deep, arm entwined with a member of the Whiterun guard.

"And just what do you think you're doing?" she said, almost perfectly in time with Mo'aksa earning another victory.

"Ysolda, I've never seen anything like it. He's undefeated!" exclaimed one of the regulars. Ysolda only lifted an eyebrow.

"I thought you were trying to lay low?" she chastised. Mo'aksa counted out 10 new septims into his coin purse.

"What's the harm? A little game, that's all! It's not Mo'aksa's fault the nords will never match him for strength," he said with a satisfied rustle of the coins in his bag. Another man approached and slammed down 30 septims.

"I won't let no damned cat talk about me that way!" he said, holding his arm out. He too was swiftly defeated.

"Hm. Looks like you've got a pretty secure venture here," she said with a chuckle. Mo'aksa laughed along.

Just then, another challenger approached. It was Mikael who stood across from Mo'aksa at the table.

"Yeah right, Mikael! No way you'll beat him at arm wrestling!" came a heckler from the crowd. Though Mo'aksa was a degree larger than the other nords he had faced that day, Mikael was an even more stark comparison. He was no taller than 5'8", and not particularly muscular. He was a bard after all, so what need did he have for muscles? Next to Mo'aksa, who stood at a menacing 7' with broad shoulders and muscles to match, Mikael seemed miniscule. The crowd continued heckling him, and Ysolda joined in with laughter.

"I'm not going to challenge you to an arm wrestle," he said simply. The crowd went quiet with anticipation. "I'm challenging you to a drinking contest!" he said with a flourish, and the men all began shouting once more.

Mo'aksa thought for a moment, and then pulled his arm back and rolled his shoulder a few times. "Your wager?" he asked.

Mikael glanced around the room. "I'm afraid I have naught to offer, but the affections of the lovely barwench beside you," he said with a smile.

"I'm sorry, what was that?" Ysolda snipped, closing in on Mikael. "You can't wager something you don't have Mikael!"

"You're on," said Mo'aksa, and the crowd erupted once more. Mikael smiled broadly.

"Oh ho my friend, you're going to regret that! If there's one thing a Nord will never lose it's a drinking contest!" Mikael said, walking to the bar and gesturing Hulda for two pints of mead.

Mo'aksa happily grabbed his flagon and downed it. "Please. Mo'aksa has been eating moon sugar pies since he was a kit. You've got nothing on him!" he said.

Mikael confidently raised his own flagon to his lips and with a stylish swing of his head, the mead was gone. The crowd cheered for him. "We'll see how long that confidence lasts. My sweetest Hulda! Another round, if you would."

"You're both idiots. I'm hope you're not expecting me to clean up your vomit after this goes poorly!" Ysolda said, making her way to the other side of the bar. She crossed her arms and watched the two as they downed pint after pint.

"Alright… that's 4. How are you feeling my man?" Mikael said, resting his hand on Mo'aksa's shoulder.

"Fantastic. I'm ready for number 5!" he said smiling.

"Alright… don't hold back on my account," Mikael said, calmly drinking the next round. Mo'aksa grabbed the flagon forcefully and tossed it back with much bravado.

"Mo'aksa never hholds bach…" he said. Mikael laughed and gestured for another drink. The crowd was abuzz with anticipation.

"Alright, I really think you two have had enough…" Hulda said, holding their empty tankards back.

"Khajiit is srrrong! He will newer loose to sginny man like this isozeva" Mo'aksa said, banging his fist down on the counter.

"I can't even tell if Mo'aksa is speaking Tamrielic anymore. You're both drunk and making a mess of my bar. Just call it a tie and go home already, would you?"

"Oh Hulda my darling, don't stop us now! You have to understand, it's not about winning or losing, it's about our honor as men. Neither of us can back down until we have a clear winner, and you wouldn't want to get in the way of that, would you? You're simply too delicate a lady to whether the storm of two men fighting valiantly for their honor! I fear you may wilt if you try to come between us now, little flower," Mikael said, gesturing with much emphasis on each word.

"And I know you're drunk because you started flirting with me, even though I know I told you last time I'd have none of that until your tab was paid," Hulda fired back, and Mikael's expression instantly soured. "Oh, and speaking of tabs, you're both racking up a rather large one right now. I don't know if you can afford to go on."

"One last drink, my sweet. One more and we shall decide the victor. Deal?" Reluctantly, Hulda filled their cups.

"Last. Drink." she said and slammed it down on the counter.

The two men grabbed their flagons and then turned to look at eachother. Mikael's face was completely red, and though he smiled, his eyes seemed to be unfocused. Mo'aksa's face was stern and he appeared to keep himself steady, but every time he opened his mouth his accent grew thicker and his sentences became peppered with words the other patrons had never heard before... whether they were slurred Tamrielic ones or completely foreign was anyone's guess. They each held their cups to their lips.

They gulped down their drinks and then stared at one another once more. The whole tavern was quiet as they waited for one of them to speak. Mo'aksa was first to stand from his stool, and the patrons gasped.

...With a loud creak, Mo'aksa fell face first to the floor.

And the tavern erupted for a final time with cheers for Mikael.

Amidst the ruckus, Ysolda rushed over from behind the bar. "Mo'aksa!" she cried, running to his side. She grabbed him by the shoulders, and with much effort, pulled him up into a sitting position.

"Var an khaja, Ysolda. Var an khaja. Hahahaha!" Mo'aksa said, almost slipping back to the floor. Ysolda supported his back and shook her head.

"You are such an idiot, I told you this was a bad idea. Now look what you've done! Come on, let's get you up to bed," she said, and attempted to pull him to his feet. He began to stand, but slipped on his own feet and started to tumble back to the floor. Luckily, another patron supported Mo'aksa from his other side and nodded to Ysolda. Then another nord came over and took Mo'aksa's arm from her, and she guided them into the back room and up to Mo'aksa's quarters on the second floor. With a thud, they managed to get his body into his bed.

Mikael watched them disappear into the back room, and dramatically leaned over the bar. "Ah… it would seem I've lost, after all of that!" he said, holding his empty cup out to Hulda. "Hulda, pour one out for a sorry loser, would you darling?"

"I don't understand, what do you mean? You won, didn't you?" she replied.

"The drinking contest? Of course. It was a sure bet from the beginning. Khajiit are notorious lightweights when it comes to alcohol, didn't you know?" he said, waving his tankard around.

"Why you sneaky bastard! That's hardly fair! So you knew he'd fail from the start!"

"Hey, not my fault if he's in denial about his own limits," Mikael said, continuing to gesture his empty cup at Hulda, who only furrowed her brow.

"So then how do you think you've lost?" she said, arms crossed.

"It would seem from this day forward my heart is finally set free. Count yourself lucky Hulda, for at long last, you have a chance to take home this handsome young bard!" He flipped his golden hair and gave her a wink. "If it goes well, maybe you'll even consider giving me your fine fortune after your passing, am I right?" he continued with a gentle drumming of the counter.

Hulda smiled, grabbed his cup, and hit him on the head with it. "Get out of my inn before I get the guards to drag you out."

"Ah, I do love a good challenge. Goodnight Hulda! I'll see you again soon," Mikael said, winking and blowing a kiss at the stout innkeep.

The crowd cleared out, and the Bannered Mare was empty at last. Hulda shook her head with a smile on her face.

"I'm really getting to old for this," she said, and set about closing the tavern for the night.

~Chapter 9 END~

*Ta'agra translation:

Isozeva ..."short tail", one who is poorly endowed

Var an Khaja ..."sugar and sands"