Disclaimer: I don't own Skyrim, or any Skyrim mods.

Written by: jlatales.

Warning: Spoilers for Skyrim & Skyrim mod, Khajiit Will Follow.

Note: -

Dragonborn

The sky hung low, a blanket of mist and muted gray that clung to Whiterun's towers and cobbled streets. Early morning held a quiet desolation, as if the world was bracing itself for the battles to come. The Dragonborn stepped out of Breezehome, her gaze settling on the distant horizon where mountains stood dark and indifferent, like silent sentinels guarding their secrets.

A shiver rippled across her skin, and her hand instinctively went to the mark on her wrist. It glowed faintly beneath the morning light—a swirl of symbols that seemed to breathe with her, pulsing softly against her will. This mark, this cursed symbol, was her constant reminder of a bond she'd never chosen, a connection that fate had branded upon her soul without asking permission.

She pressed her thumb over the mark, almost hoping to extinguish it, to rub it away as if it were no more than dust from the road. She had faced dragons, she had shouted ancient words that split the air, but this mark... this was a foe she could not vanquish. The thought of a "fated mate" filled her with a bitter frustration. Love, companionship—these were luxuries for those without the weight of prophecy on their shoulders.

For the Dragonborn, there was only duty. Duty to Skyrim, to her title, to the endless cycle of battles that left her victorious yet hollow.

With each step away from Whiterun, her boots left imprints in the damp earth, shallow and fleeting, soon erased by the morning's chill. She let her mind drift to all the battles she'd fought, each a memory as jagged as the mountains rising in the distance. She had faced death countless times, stood at the edge of despair and looked it in the eyes without flinching. Yet this loneliness was a different kind of battle, one she could not conquer with blade or shout.

The soul mark itched under her armor as if mocking her resolve. "A mate," she thought, lips curving into a scowl. "I have no time for a mate." The notion felt trivial, almost insulting, a distraction from the grander callings of her life. And yet, deep within, in a quiet part of her heart she tried to bury, there was an ache she could not name—an emptiness that neither victory nor glory had filled.

As she neared the bridge at the intersection, she overheard the faint murmurs of a passing guard speaking to a merchant, voices carrying through the still air.

"Heard there's a Khajiit at the gates," the guard was saying, scratching his helmet. "Odd one, looking for a locket or some such. Said he's got his eye on joining the Companions."

She paused mid-step, a strange prickle of interest stirring despite herself. A Khajiit seeking a locket—why did the thought cling to her like the morning mist? She shook her head, forcing her thoughts back to the task at hand. Bandits, a cave, the next battle to claim.

And yet, as she walked away, the image of that soul mark lingered in her mind, and with it, the curious shadow of the Khajiit searching for something lost.

The journey to the cave was peaceful, the cave however was not. She was forced to use a Candlelight spell as the fetid breath of decay, a sickly sweet stench that clung to the senses like a shroud flooded her senses. The damp, musty odor of the cavern, mingled with the nauseating perfume of death, hung heavy in the oppressive stillness. It was a blessing she was not a Khajiit.

A labyrinth of gossamer threads, hung suspended in the every dim corner. Each delicate strand glistened under the light, forming a macabre tapestry of light and sense of doom. The shout of a dying man echoed throughout the cavern accompanied by the sinister rustling, dry, rasping sounds. Their many legs scratching against the cold, damp stone as they protected their eggs.

It was a a familiar sound, one she has encountered encountered countless times before—but this time, something within tugged beneath the surface. A sense that the gods themselves had paved this path before her. She tightened her grip on her axe, resisting the pull. Being called the Dragonborn was a burden enough, had the gods not played with her enough? Demanded enough?

To bear such a mark was to be shackled to the gods' whims themselves, it was a bond that she neither wanted or consented to. It glowed faintly, soft as a candle's flicker yet impossible to ignore - wound tight around her soul, imprisoning her in an invisible cage. Though others might call it destiny, to her, it was a prison. A silent guard that denied her the freedom she had fought so desperately to claim back.

Her soul wriggled and wrestled beneath its weight, thrumming with the fierce desire to sever herself and walk untethered by promises she never remembered making.

Distracted by their hunger, the spiders made off with their prey leaving behind a few of the bandit's items. Curiosity is the cat that always wants to play and she couldn't resist, she reached for the note, and drew it close-

"Ramsey

I finally tracked down that bastard cat down for you, he's hold up in some dump of a city with bunch of wanna-be fighter rejects. Companions of Esmeralda or some such nonsense. If you sneak in there, steal that necklace of his and bring it back to the cave I'm sure he'll come running after it. There's more than 1 way to skin a cat and we'll make him regret making it out of Morrowwind alive after what he did."

Her soul mark pulsed faintly, a soft, persistent throb beneath her skin—a reminder of the gods' golden prison tightening ever so. It was feeble yet persistent, a whispered promise she had never invited yet could not ignore and she glared down at it so. Resentment crawling around her heart as if it were a creeping vine, with sharp thorns.

Yet, reading the note, questions weaved through her distrust and disgust like fresh air drafting through one of her ancestor's tombs. This mention of a Khajiit, searching, longing—what pull was this? She felt an urge, subtle but unmistakable, to look beyond the symbolism of this mark and peek into the the mystery of this strange Khajiit.

Just who was the big cat? And why was he seeking a home amongst the Nords? Was it possible, she wondered, that fate, though unwelcome, that he came in search for her? The thought unsettled her, yet she held it close, like a fragile seed not yet willing to take root.

The blood-soaked note crinkled as she stuffed it under her armor — unwilling to allow it to slip past her fingers. She slid deeper into the cave, each step quiet as a hunter's, her breath barely disturbing the thick, foul air. But the mother spider sensed her intrusion, its screech splitting the cave, and in a furious blur, it lunged.

Her heart drummed hard against her ribs. With a practiced roll, she veered out of its path, swinging her blade and carving into the spider's forelegs. It collapsed forward, screeching anew and unleashing a vile stream of poison. The acidic spray hit, and her vision blurred, knees buckling. Through the haze, she caught the shout of a Nord, heard the wet, tearing sound of another leg severed—a moment of perfect opportunity.

She surged forward, sword in hand, and plunged her blade into the spider's thorax, feeling the coarse resistance of its body before the sword broke through. It fell with a squeal, going still however she wasn't safe yet.

"Well, well, what do we have here?" The voice came low, slithering through the fog of her poisoned vision. She stayed still, crouched and vulnerable. Not good, not with a bandit approaching, his steps heavy, like a wolf circling wounded prey. "Looks like that cat sent his girly to do his dirty work for him. Only a coward sends his soulmate."

His outline blurred but moving closer, she waited, every muscle tense, coiled. As he drew near, she whipped her blade forward, slashing low. He let out a roar of pain, crumpling, and she followed with a blast of fire that caught him square. He went down quickly, smoke rising from his burned cloak, and she exhaled, ragged, her breath forming a small, thin cloud in the cold air.

For a fleeting moment, she felt safe.

Exhaustion weighed on her limbs as she lifted her hand, summoning the soft glow of a restoration spell. Its warmth seeped through her skin, erasing the lingering sting of venom. Bit by bit, the pain eased, and soon it was as if the poison had never touched her—a fleeting miracle of magic.

Once healed, she stepped past the sprawled bodies of spider and Nord alike. In the corner, a chest beckoned to her, as if with the seductive allure of a lonely tavern maid. Being a Nord, and a lover of treasure, she could hardly resist its call, sweet as a whispered promise.

What the bandit—'Free,' she'd discovered while rifling through his pockets—had said lingered in her mind like the bruising blow of a warhammer. A bitter taste rose in her mouth as the thought took root—that this Khajiit might be the one whose mark branded her wrist, the one who haunted her dreams. This stranger might be the one who held the key to her prison of gold—the prison the gods had fashioned and condemned her to.

It pleased her not; yet she had no certainty, no way of knowing if fate's chains truly bound her to this stranger. Perhaps the Khajiit sought another—maybe the Redguard woman who swept the floors of the Bannered Mare—and all this was but a trick of fate.

Or, perhaps, her fated match had long perished beneath a bandit's cruel axe, leaving her to wander alone in the shadow of a bond she'd never know. Either way, she wouldn't let this mystery prey upon her.

She was the hunter - she was the Dragonborn.

Author Notes:

And so it begins!

Please let me know what you thought, I'm open to thoughtful criticism. I'm always looking for ways to improve my writing, so were there too many metaphors or was it not focuses enough on the character's thoughts?

Even suggestions on how to improve it ~

Find me at -

/jlatales