Unmatched Baggage (Kazahan)

[Calloway Sharr]

Four days had passed since Calloway stepped through the gates of Solitude, a young mage having vouched for him due to his race. Solitude had been profitable for the Khajiit tailor, but it had also come with heavy cost. He had been blamed for an assassination attempt on the Jarl herself, lost one of his finest gowns, and spent two days in a dungeon cell until at last he was released, presumed innocent. Those two days had put him behind in his work schedule, and he worked feverishly to regain the trust of those he had sold his wares to, performing fittings and sewing custom pieces. His evenings, though were free from tailoring work, and he spent his last one getting a lovely woman out of her dress instead of into one - much to the surprise of the male patrons of the Winking Skeever, who had until that point been worried bout him coming on to them.

But an evening of fun did not make up for a significant loss he had sustained at the hands of the Thalmor. While imprisoned, they had emptied his carpetbag - at least what little it would yield to them - then filled it again after finding nothing of interest. Therein lay Calloway's problem. His carpetbag was enchanted, yes, but the enchantment came with limitations. Unrestricted in its capacity for him, his carpetbag would only allow him to remove items he himself had placed inside, but nothing more. As he could hardly ask the Thalmor agents to empty his bag again so he might re-pack it properly without arousing suspicion, Calloway was left with only one choice: he had to cleanse the bag and unlock its full potential. And, unlike most enchanted items upon the face of the Nirn, his bag was not shaped by any mortal hands, but by those of a Daedric prince, Sheogorath. As such, it could only be cleansed by another Daedra, which left the tailor in a perilous position. He needed to not only find a Daedric shrine, he needed to convince an almighty Daedra to help him somehow without losing his soul in the process. From what he had learned, there was a shrine to Azurah, but it was several days travel through harsh terrain, and she was notably dangerous.

Dangerous, yet clean, and of the Daedra, she had the reputation for being the most honest, even if what she desired was barbaric.

While Calloway's original thought was to have Clark travel with him, the mage had other duties he needed to attend to first, though agreed to have Calloway meet him at the College of Winterhold after the Khajiit was done, as it was not far from Azurah's shrine, which he had marked on the Khajiit's map. No roads led directly to the shrine, or really even to Winterhold, which left Calloway in serious need of a larger, more capable - and most important, more manly looking - traveling companion. The roads into Skyrim had been safe enough, but now that he needed to venture off of them, the tailor feared for his safety, and knew a bodyguard would be required.

Unfortunately, those available inside Solitude he either did not trust, or were not willing to go to a Daedric shrine. Well, those that would even consider talking to a Khajiit in tight trousers and rather camp overall fashion sense, that is. Again and again, he was turned down, despite offering a handsome fee. In a week some Imperial soldiers would be going that way, and they said he would be free to travel with them, but time was of the essence, and Calloway could not wait. After his final rejection, he knew he would have to go it alone, and he headed out the main gates, garbed in his most practical outfit yet. Earthy green woolen traveling clothes with leather trim and golden contrast stitching fit well to his body under a studded leather overshirt, while his footpaws trod softly despite their thick leather boots reinforced with ebony ringmail. A pair of supple leather gloves were pulled up near to his elbows, leather padding over their length accented with lightly stained toolmark patterns. About his waist was a broad, leather belt, also laced throughout by ebony ring, to match his boots, and his saber and buckler hung off it, both of them thumping quietly as he had slid leather wraps around their exposed metal as to not annoy himself with the constant jangling and clanging of their sweep as he walked. tying it all together was a green, woolen cloak, trimmed in leather and patterned with several shades of green in the image of a tree, its roots and branches each forming their own endless knots at each end, and his signature shield emblazoned upon the tree's trunk. Inside, the cloak was lined with thin, expertly tanned brown leather, supple as butter which allowed the cloak to flow with little hindrance. Matching it was a broad-brimmed hat upon his head, brown leather again, to match the rest of his outfit, with a green puggaree about its base, and a pair of flashy hawk feathers accenting it, while his ears poked through perfectly sized holes. All told, he looked quite the traveler, but unfortunately, quite the rich traveler. Especially carrying a colorful carpetbag in one paw.

As he strode down the main road, he heard footsteps coming up from behind, and quickly. His paw moving to a dagger hidden at his side, the Khajiit turned, ready to defend himself already, when he saw it was only the beggar man from Solitude's courtyard.

"Mr. Cat! Mr. Cat!" the beggar cried out.

Calloway's brow wilted as he bit his lip. "It's Mr. Sharr, actually," he replied, his voice heavy with annoyance.

"Oh, my apologies," answered the beggar, coming to a stop before him. "They said you was looking for a bodyguard, someone to go to a Daedric shrine. Well, I hear there's one more you might try. Khajiit, like yourself. I got word he stayed the night in the stables down yonder. Khajiit don't fear no Daedra, some of 'em worship the things. Might try him, if he's still there."

The tailor relaxed, releasing the handle of his dagger, and stood straight. He wasn't sure if he wanted to travel with a Khajiit he did not know, as he feared the rumors about them being thieves would be more true than he already knew. Still, he had little choice. "Thank you, my good man, I'll take that under advisement," Calloway replied, giving a slight bow before turning and heading down the road once more.

He was stopped by the beggar clearing his throat, and when Calloway turned about, he saw the man holding out an empty hand. "Begging your pardon, but I think you might be appreciative for that information," the man said.

Biting his lip once more, Calloway reached a gloved paw into his coinpurse and dug out four septims. Pressing them into the beggar's hand, he grunted, "Fine. Go... get drunk or something." The beggar needed no second instruction, taking the money and immediately returning to Solitude, while Calloway looked at the stables not too far ahead.

On his way into Solitude, he'd ducked behind them to change, and so he found it funny that the simple structure might be able to help him going as well as coming. Throwing his cloak back over his right shoulder to free up his arm, Calloway marched toward its door. If there was a Khajiit sellsword here, he'd likely be glad for any work offered him, and that meant he should come cheap. Calloway liked cheap. Rapping upon the door, a large man appeared on the other side. "Can I help you?" the Nord asked.

"I dearly hope so," Calloway replied, reaching up to remove his hat out of respect. "I was informed that you may have rented the use of one of your stalls to a Khajiit mercenary, last night. I came to see if he is still here."

The Nord appeared slightly off-put by the Khajiit's.... normal way of speaking, but he nodded. "Yeah, last stall, don't think he's up, yet."

"Thank you, my good man," Calloway gave a short bow, then flicked a septim to the stablemaster before heading down toward the final stall.

Finding the gate closed, Calloway put his hat back on, cleared his throat, then knocked upon it. "Excuse me, Master Khajiit? Have you risen, yet?" he called out in a clear voice. The sun had only been up for a half hour or so, and he hoped he would not be disturbing the sleep of what he hoped would be his hired muscle for this terribly necessary journey.

[Kazahan]

The grounds were cooling off in the waning evening; enough that most of the household was out and enjoying the breeze and wait out the residual heat that still hung within the house itself. The Master was there, reclining on a cushioned divan next to the oasis itself in the shade of a large palm. His wife was sitting next to him, humming a song while writing numbers down in the ledger. The family business, for all intents and purposes was hers. Kazahan blinked away some lingering sunlight that had caught his eye and turned back to the wall.

Beyond it on one side was desert, as far as the eye could see. On the other, a river cut through and down to the bay which was just barely visible in the distance. The savannah dominated that side.

"Kazahan!"

He turned, resting one clawed hand on the pommel of his sword. "What service may this one do for the Master's daughter?"

Adhahana's ears flicked back and her eyes narrowed; she was annoyed with him. Her dark brown fur was lightly oiled and perfumed. He could smell it on the breeze.

"Why does Kazahan avoid me?"

His ears ticked forward. "It is dangerous to speak about this at any time, much less here."

She stepped forward brazenly. Kazahan dropped his head to hers, and reveled in her closeness.

"The next convoy," he breathed into her ear. "This one has arranged for a raid. In the confusion we can escape into the deserts, where none may find us. A fire will unfortunately reduce Adhahana's wagon to the sands."

She pulled back, her dark eyes glinting.

"Unless you have changed your mind."

She opened her mouth to speak, the wind pulling her bright dress to the side...



He shot up, grunting and looking around quickly. A second passed before he remembered where he was; a stable stall near Solitude, where he was going to meet the Thalmor.

"Master Khajiit? I hope he's not left yet."

A voice, Imperial by the sound of it, filtered through the stall door. Kazahan grunted as he stood, pulling his sword from the hay and stalking over to pull the top latch loose. Swinging the top half of the door open (it opened inward, causing Kazahan to move aside to allow it to pass), he pulled the sword and it's scabbard onto his shoulder.

"What impels you to wake Khajiit?" he asked sourly, only then looking up to see another Khajiit looking back at him.

[Calloway Sharr]

Calloway's nose wrinkled from the smell of the stables. While he did enjoy riding horses, he often thanked his lucky stars that he had been adopted by a couple that were not stablehands. His ears perked as he heard rustling in he hay beyond the stall door, as well as the clink of metal. Either this Khajiit sellsword slept in armor, or was very quick about donning it, as the next thing Calloway knew, the upper portion of the door opened, and he could see at last what might be his salvation.

The tailor did not appear impressed. Kazahan was taller, yes, and certainly more muscular, but with errant bits of hay clingling to his fur, and the mismatched appearance of his armor, he hardly cut an imposing figure at the moment. Especially standing in a horse's stall, the curled impression of a nest still visible in the straw on the floor behind. And then he spoke.

Calloway removed his hat, waiting to do so, so that this Khajiit would witness his act of civility and politeness. "Oh, I'm terribly sorry, I hadn't meant to wake you," the tailor said, nodding an apology. "But, I was told you are a sword for hire, and I am in need of such a man as yourself." Pausing, he looked about, then back to the black-furred Khajiit. "That is, unless you're already employed by another, of course. If so, I'll take my coin elsewhere and bid you a good return to your sleep."

[Kazahan]

Kazahan grunted, opening the lower half of the stall door and stepping out. The other Khajiit spoke as if he were completely Imperialized, which put off the mercenary.

"You did mean to wake this one," he answered. "And if Khajiit were employed, he would not be sleeping in a stable stall. For what do you need Khajiit's sword, hm?"

As he spoke, he closed the stall doors behind himself, and made his way to the water pump. Splashing water over his head and wiping his face, he turned back to the other Khajiit, who looked wealthy enough to have Kazahan rethink for a moment a return to a life of banditry. The inclination passed; life was hard enough here without having to worry about bounties and avoiding guard patrols.

[Calloway Sharr]

The tailor was not so inexperienced with the world that he did not know mercenaries to often be a bit rude, and a lot selfish, so he made no fuss about Kazahan's delivery. Instead he studied the Khajiit's movement, sleep-addled as they might be, and found grace and power to be in adequate abundance for his needs - a good sign that this sellsword was not all talk and nothing to back it up. That said, the Khajiit's odd, cultural way of speaking didn't fail to put Calloway off a bit, encouraging a bit of stiffness to Calloway's own voice.

"I found myself with a need to pay a visit to the shrine of Azurah," he stated. "However, I am not of these lands, and while it is marked on my map, I don't know the best way to get there. Also, traveling alone in Skyrim seems to be a poor idea for a Khajiit, these days, what with the Stormcloaks having the sudden desire to express their xenophobia."

Placing his hat back on his head, Calloway widened his stance in an effort to look more commanding - it didn't really work, despite how well he thought it did - and he continued, "So, I thinking it might be best for one Khajiit to help another, being as we are both so far from home. I would like for you to be my escort to Azurah's shrine, near Winterhold, and from there to the College of Winterhold, should Azurah require nothing of me. If she does, there may be further work at that point for which you shall receive additional pay. But, for the part of the trek I know will be needed, you will be guaranteed in your pay. I believe the going rate for a bodyguard in these parts is five hundred gold septims, is it not? Oh, and food and board, too, naturally"

[Kazahan]

"Going rates are flexible things. For a scrawny guard going down to Rorikstead such an amount may suffice, but as you say, this journey will be going through dangerous places, and farther besides. Six hundred septims, and Khajiit will show you the straightest and — relatively — safest paths through the wilderness. Should we be waylaid, this one gets first pick of loot from dead bandits. This is fair, no?"

He had gauged the traveller already, and so was brushing errant hay strands from himself while he spoke. The state of his armor could have been much better, but then he'd worn little else since arriving in Skyrim some months past. Or had it been a year? he wasn't sure; the passing of time was hard to measure in this land of unending winter. Six hundred septims would be enough to see it repaired, but Kazahan missed the medium leather armors he'd worn back in Elsweyr. This stuff, though it had served him admirably, was little more than padding and metal pieces over a simple shirt and breeches.

[Calloway Sharr]

Haggling was always part of the process when attempting to gain goods or services, but Calloway felt that this Khajiit didn't truly grasp how hard one should try and haggle. Calloway had come in at five hundred, naturally this fellow should have countered at a thousand. Then some back and forth and settled around seven hundred, which Calloway thought was fair for a rush job. Had he more time, he surely could have found a qualified man for five hundred, but time was of the essence, so there was a premium to be paid.

Second pick of loot, however, did rather irk him, but that was the way it had to be. After all, this vagabond would likely be doing the killing, so Calloway could not begrudge him for wishing to claim those spoils.

"Six hundred it is, and you get first pick off of any dead bandits you kill, but I get first pick from any chests or locked containers," he said, then held out his gloved paw to shake upon the accord. "Do we have a deal?"

It was unfortunate that Kazahan had been short-sighted in mentioning only the dead, and bandits at that. My, but how terms could be twisted by one with an actual grasp of the language in which a deal was conducted.

[Kazahan]

Kazahan paused, mentally adjusting how wealthy this traveller was. He'd made some assumptions — Khajiit, Skyrim, and travelling rich was something he'd never heard of, much less seen — and so he'd expected five hundred and fifty or so to be the end amount. But to simply stop at six hundred, and give him first choice of loot from the dead (no one who'd tried to waylay Kazahan survived the error, either in Skyrim or Elsweyr) without arguing or haggling for a few minutes? This fellow was wealthier and more in a hurry than most he'd been hired by.

"This one agrees," he said. "Though a renegotiation may take place if I must take you farther."

He girted himself with his sword, and stretched. After going back to the stall, he returned with a bow and a quiver on his back. Then he gestured for the traveller to follow him. The two Khajiit made their way up the hill to the road proper, and turned left.

"Khajiit is called Kazahan," he said. "Kazahan must take you down the road and over the Dragon Bridge to begin our journey. It will be two days and one night, at least; we will not travel at night. Our road takes us by the mountains before we ascend to the shrine, and frost trolls and sabrecats and wolves prowl the foothills, especially in the light of the moons. Khajiit supposes bandits will be enough of a problem."

[Calloway Sharr]

"It is a sad state of affairs when the Empire can't muster enough manpower here to keep the roads clear of bandits," Calloway said. "Or provide enough in the way of gainful employment to the people so that they would not feel they needed to steal from innocent travelers."

His step was light, and very quiet, despite his boots, and in the warming morning sun, the tailor let both sides of his cloak fold back over his shoulders so that it hung more like a cape, a small strap fastened to keep it from wrapping back around him until he so desired it. "You know, I crossed the Dragon Bridge on my way up here. Marvelous piece of work, that, wouldn't you say? It looks so old, like the ruins you see in the hills. So odd that someone would just build a bridge, though, and not build up the town around it. Unless, of course, there had been something there, and it was dismantled to build the town. That happens, you know. Almost makes you wonder how much history has been lost to ages of men tearing down the past to build the future. Funny how they only seem to use a few types of architecture, though. You never see a Dwemer ruin torn down to build a stable, or an Altmer treehouse being turned into a barn. No, only the structures of men seem to be vulnerable," the tailor rambled on and on, his voice light and musical with his patter. "I suppose the Khajiit do that too, in a limited way. What with breaking down their camps to set them up again. But they're designed for that, so I wouldn't really lump them in the same category, would you?"

Calloway turned to see the look he was getting, though he didn't know quite why. Then it dawned on him. He hadn't introduced himself yet.

"Oh, my apologies!" he stated. "You gave me your name, Mr. Kazahan, but I didn't give you mine. I'm Calloway, Calloway Sharr, finest tailor in all the Empire, come north fro Cyrodiil to further the spread of my handiwork. Pleasure to meet you."

[Kazahan]

Kazahan merely grunted in answer, his long legged gait taking them to Dragon Bridge within minutes. As far as he was concerned, the sad state of affairs made him money protecting and/or hurting people, so it wasn't so sad for him. As they neared the bridge which had given the town its name though, Kazahan had slowed.

Standing there by the bridge was a High Elf in Thalmor robes, holding a small package. The Altmer gave both of them an assessing glance, before her eyes stopped on Kazahan.

"Kazahan Raihasin?" she said, still looking at them both with an unreadably stern expression. "This is for you."

Kazahan accepted the package with narrowed eyes. The high elf nodded to them both, and began walking up the path to Solitude. Kazahan watched her go, before regarding the package. It was obviously an article of clothing, wrapped in a thin brown paper. Tearing open the package revealed a thick faded beige cloak, coarsely stitched with dark brown fur dominating the top half. Warmth and a muffled feeling emanated from it.

As the cloak spilled open, a small folded piece of paper floated out and hit the ground. Kazahan did not notice; the cloak seemed to have him in a trance, despite it's less than stellar look.

[Calloway Sharr]

Calloway had little difficulty keeping up with his guide's pace, though the tailor held back a bit further at the sight of a Thalmor. His gloved paw moved to the hilt of his sword, ready to... well, he wasn't quite sure, but after a few nights in their care, Calloway did not wish to be taken so easily by another. But then something unnexpected took place - the Thalmor woman greeted Kazahan by name.

Immediately Calloway considered parting company, taking a loss and finding a new guide. If this Kazahan was in league with the Thalmor, he could not be trusted, and would very likely be more dangerous than just traveling the roads alone. Still, the tailor could not make visible how he felt in front of a Thalmor officer, and so he played off the paw on his sword as if he were only adjusting it, watching from beneath the brim of his hat as Kazahan accepted a package, giving no coin in exchange. Curiouser and curiouser, still. Calloway gave the woman a wide berth, giving a bow as she went by, but mostly to hide his own face by use of his hat's wide brim as he did so. When at last she was gone, he could hear the tearing of paper, and watched as... a rather ugly cloak was drawn out. The fur wasn't even trimmed level. Obviously Khajiit construction, Calloway lamented, then lamented further as he knew he was going to have to look at that untidy mess for the rest of the journey.

He was not so lost in his annoyance that he missed the paper, and as Kazahan studied the cloak, Calloway deftly scooped it up, glancing inside as he raised it to hand it back to its intended recipient. "I live. Fatima." was all it read. Obviously a gift from a woman, and a woman in dire need of fashion sense, at that. Extending the folded paper, Calloway cleared his throat. "That elf a friend of yours, I take it? You dropped this." His tone was light and casual, a stark contrast to how he felt inside after the exchange.

[Kazahan]

"This one would slit her throat and water the road from here back to Solitude with her blood," the mercenary growled, his tone menacing as he read the note, "before calling her 'friend' just once."

Despite that, he folded the paper up gently and placed it in a pouch that hung off his belt.

"Let us go."

They passed over the bridge, and followed the road south.

[Calloway Sharr]

As he feared, Kazahan donned the unfortunate cloak, and Calloway was left looking at its back - a decided blight upon the landscape, in his opninion. Even if it was real zahsilisk fur.

There was little said between the two, despite Calloway's chatty nature. The encounter with the Thalmor woman had given the tailor much to think about, especially with Kazahan's depiction of her. So they both hated the Thalmor, there was an even footing between the two very different Khajiit after all. In an attempt to lighten the mood, Calloway, grinned and said, "Don't worry, I've got a few exes I wouldn't have minded doing that to, myself."

The joke did not appear to go over well at all, so Calloway sighed, trying to at least take pleasure in the scenery as they walked. Had the shrine simply been on a main road, Calloway would have purchased a horse instead of a bodyguard, but the mountains ahead did not look so friendly to mounted riders, and then there was stealth to be concerned about. Stealth. If there was one thing that unsightly new cloak of Kazahan's did, it was add a modicum of stealth, both muffling the clinks and clanks of his armor, as well as camoflauging it. Stealth was something else they had in common, natural to their race, and for that, Calloway was thankful. He'd much rather sneak around an enemy instead of engaging, even with some hired muscle. Any attack opened the chance of injury, or worse, to himself, and Calloway didn't much care for pain or the idea of death. Or his body stripped of his excellent handiwork and left to rot naked behind some unknown bush or tree. Shuddering, he quickened his step, catching up to walk side by side with Kazahan.

"That fur is zahsilisk, isn't it?" he asked, hoping to strike up some sort of actual conversation. "I've worked with it before. Had to have it imported, obviously, but I did find it easier to work with than the average sabre cat you find around here. More pliable, and the leather was tanned beautifully. Sadly my supplier didn't know the tanning method, other than it was some Khajiit way. I take it as you received that cloak as a gift, it must be from someone in Elseweyr. Is that where you're from, Kazahan?"

[Kazahan]

This Khajiit would not be quiet. Kazahan hoped sincerely that he was not this loud when they were off the road, or they would find more trouble than either of them wanted. As it was, he had trouble scoffing at the tone in Calloway's voice. It seemed a bit self-satisfied, tinged with a city-dweller's sense of cosmopolitan surety, that grated on his nerves. But Kazahan was a diplomatic sort; he kept his annoyance out of his voice and confined to his body language. To a Khajiit from the caravans, that was barely hiding anything at all, but to Calloway, it just might keep him from getting offended.

"Yes, Khajiit's home lies in the sands and grasslands of Elsweyr," Kazahan answered. "Why?"

[Calloway Sharr]

Other than exaggerated tail movements, large changes in ear direction, or brow movement, Calloway had great difficulty reading the body language of a Khajiit, indeed. Oh, sure, he knew his own mannerisms well enough, having spent a great deal of time observing them in a mirror, but that was the body language of an Imperial, adapted to be displayed on the frame of a Khajiit. In all fairness, Calloway's inability to read Kazahan's body language was likely only a few shades worse than Kazahan's ability to read Calloway's. The tailor's voice more than made up for any ambiguity, however.

Eyes lighting up, Calloway grinned. "Really? I've only heard about it from traders or in books. What's it like? Is it really as warm as they say? With golden sands, and dense jungles? Are there many tribes, or just a few? Are there wars? Has much changed since the Aldmeri Dominion took over? What kinds of foods do you eat there?" the tailor rattled off his questions in rapid succession, eagerness bursting through in his voice. Though he hesitated, glancing around for a moment before lowering his voice for the final questions in his first volley, "Is it true that in some of the more savage lands, some females don't wear any sort of top at all, and in some cases, go about in only their fur?"

[Kazahan]

Despite himself, Kazahan found himself amused at the string of questions Calloway was throwing in his direction.

"There are stories and legends of such tribes," Kazahan answered the last question first. "Of maidens and males of such beauty and grace that the Daedra and Aedra forbade them clothing, for it only dimmed their beauty, and the gods wished to revel in their finest creations. Khajiit spent years travelling across Elsweyr, from the southern forests and jungles to the deserts and badlands where rains fall only once every few years, if that. But alas, this one never saw such tribes."

He answered the other questions, and the myriad other queries the Imperial Khajiit asked, as they walked. Perhaps it was due to Calloway being Khajiit (at least in form), but the familiar bitter anger failed to rise as he spoke of the Darkened Nights, where no moons shone, and how close to complete collapse Khajiit society had been; deranged parents had killed their cubs born during the moonless nights, and they, as well as those who had not done such terrible deeds — the vast majority, he assured Calloway — were shunned. Caravans exiled those tiny babes and their parents to the desert, or pushed them to the periphery of their life. Such was the importance of the moons to the Khajiit, and when the moons rose there was such celebration and joyous relief that the Thalmor who came and claimed they had brought the moons back had to wait three weeks before the Khajiit were lucid enough as a people to heed them.

The memories and retelling of the dusty badlands and prairies, waves of tall grass extending forever like an ocean of gold earthen air, and the moon-lit deserts, where the winds could make and level mountains of sand in a single night; these evoked a deep sadness and longing for home, but perhaps sharing those stories turned away the constant recollection of why he was not there. Oases protected by ornately crafted wood and stone buildings which provided the links in the caravans' trails he described: how three caravans could meet and an oasis which had seen only thirty people in the last year now would support even up to five hundred souls, and the busy periods of early morning and the twilight into the night hours which were spared the worst of the heat of the day; the young sneaked off to share in their lustful explorations, and the merchants sold and traded their wares, and the guards made sport and challenged each other to mock or real duels and great feats of endurance and strength and cunning, and showed of their trophies of slain zahsilisk hides and teeth, or even the trophies won from desert bandits and raiders.

At night the fires would be lit, and the guards would watch in awe as the young girls would dance in the starlight and firelight, shadows dancing along the sands with them, and in jealousy as the rich and high status young men went through and courted and seduced and monopolized their time, but a few of the more handsome and charming and heroic caravan wardens would be graced with the attentions of a lovely desert flower.

Kazahan spoke of the moon sugar plantations, largely horrible places rife with addiction and crime, but so expansively wealthy that the Imperials and Altmer high classes would blush in envy as they saw the carved ivory, the golden and silver threaded garments and the supplest of leather, oiled and worked over a period of months such that it was as easy to move in as cloth, but as strong as iron, and so expensive that they were more statements of the smiths' artistic achievements, because none, not even the wealthier foreign patrons of the highest aristocracy could afford them.

"A war broke out between two of the largest caravan confederacies, over the rights to a yield of a field that had been discovered to lay atop a deep cavern that was said to be filled with jewels. Khajiit and his warriors were hired by one of them to stake a claim. The battle for the field was immense," Kazahan said. "Hundreds of warriors, both hired as was this one and family warriors, took part. Arrows flew, but archers are rare in Elsweyr, so most of the combat was done hand to hand, the traditional way for a Khajiit warrior. Claw and sword and shield. It was this one's first battle, and one where he was first blooded and bloodied."

He hadn't spoken so much in months, perhaps even from before he'd come to Skyrim. So many words gave him a great thirst, and he drank yet again from his waterskin.

[Calloway Sharr]

Calloway listened in awe, not daring breathe a word whilst Kazahan spoke, lest he break the magic spell that had allowed the gruff Khajiit to suddenly open up to him. While he had seen a great deal more of the world than the average man, so many of the sights Kazahan described were so foreign to him that Calloway could only imagine what they must look like, and he was certain that his own fertile imagination had left gaps so large that another world could live within them. But still, it was enough. Elsweyr was the cultural and spiritual home of his race; it was where he should have been, and likely would have returned to had his parents' caravan not been so ill-fated.

But he also knew he could never truly appreciate Elsweyr, its people and its ways. He was an Imperial, and he thought and acted like one. The idea of so brazenly courting and seducing a woman, with guards present, was not something he could wrap his head around, though he had seen plenty of soldiers engage in both bock and real combat. When Kazahan got to desctiptions of what the wealthy wore, however, the tailor perked up. He had seen rare few examples of such finery, often worn and faded, likely second or third-hand by the time they reached the traders who made it as far as Cyrodiil. Still, they had been lovely, and had inspired him to make something similar, though as always, his design wound up more Imperial than anything. Eventually he had persuaded one merchant to part with such a garment, and he had spent weeks altering and re-fitting it to his own frame. He had never worn it in public, only admired himself in it before a mirror, imagining that must be what it felt like to be a real Khajiit.

"Elsweyr sounds to be a place of great and terrible beauty, with a people as rich in culture as the lands are in form," Calloway stated. "I should very much like to go there, someday. To perhaps find out where it is that I am from, and who my true family line really is."

The lack of verbal reply from Kazahan to that, but the crease of his brow was enough for Calloway to catch his surprise, and it was one Calloway had dealt with all his life. Producing a waterskin from his bag, he took a drink as well before clearing his throat. "As I said, I am from Cyrodiil, the Imperial City, to be precise. But, that is only because my memory does not reach back as far as the actual place of my birth," he began. "Twenty seven years ago, when the Aldmeri Dominion attacked the Imperial City, there was a small camp of Khajiit traders camped outside the city walls. When the Aldmeri came, they considered the Khajiit to be possible spies, and would not let them just leave. The Imperials, likewise considered the Khajiit untrustworthy, and would not let them in. So, when the battle began, the Khajiit were caught between the two forces, and slaughtered to a man.

"Except, as chance would have it, for myself. Likely overlooked as but a mere infant, I lay in the battlefield until someone, man or mer, I don't know, found me, and took me into the temple, laying me there. I suppose they meant to leave my fate to the Nine Divines - as there were nine, at that time - so that they could craft a new life for me. As it so happens, they did. My adoptive parents were Imperials who could not bear children of their own, and they found me there. They took me in to raise as their own, and even when they fled the city for some time before it could be retaken by the Empire, I was raised as their child, not as a Khajiit. Of course I always knew I was different, but I knew not of my own race. For the most part, I still don't know much about my race, and often I forget I'm not truly an Imperial by birth. It is... difficult, at times. Thank you for indulging my curiosity, Kazahan."

[Kazahan]

Kazahan grunted in reply, thinking about what Sharr had said to him, but also noting that the day was beginning to wane; and snow was falling. There was no wind, and the world seemed still and silent around them, as if it were sleeping. Up ahead, he could one of the stone markers that indicated there was a turn or a path off the road, and the mountains were beginning to loom on their left.

"We are nearing Stonehills, a small mining camp," he said. "There we shall rest and sleep."

[Calloway Sharr]

Calloway unfurled the edges of his cloak, letting them fold around his shoulders, a pair of straps and buckles securing it in front to keep out the snow, and to insulate himself as he felt the air beginning to cool. Fashion ineptitude seemed to be common in Skyrim, but after seeing how its people bundled up for necessary warmth, he could almost forgive them for it. Almost.

What he couldn't get past, however, was that here he was, traveling with a fellow Khajiit, and he had no idea how to relate to the man. He had tried small talk, or asking things about the area, but beyond Kazahan's eloquent description of Elsweyr, the larger Khajiit said very little. Had Calloway offended him in some manner? Was he not asking the right questions? Did Khajiit not tak to each other when traveling? Or, as Calloway suspected, did Kazahan feel that the tailor was not a proper Khajiit, and not worth his conversational time? Whatever it was, Calloway was glad when his guide spoke of stopping for the night. Despite his very comfortable boots, Calloway had grown very tired of walking, though he felt energized to hear that they would be staying in a camp of some sort. Camps typically meant cabins, or lodges, to him, with a nice longhouse complete with toasty fire and spiced wine. Maybe even some roast pheasant, if he was lucky! A spring in his step, the tailor pushed on, keeping pace with his guide, ready for a night of rustic luxury.

When at last Stonehills came into view, his face soured as if someone had force-fed him a lemon while insulting his mother. There were no cabins. There was no lodge. There was no nice longhouse complete with toasty fire and spiced wine, and he sure as hell didn't see anything resembling a peasant. Well, there was a chicken wandering around, but for the sake of mental semantics, Calloway didn't count it.

"This is it?" he asked, unimpressed.

If the wealth of the mine at Stonehills was to be judged by the appearance of its workers and their creature comforts, Calloway could only presume the chief export of the mine was rocks. And not the pretty sort of decorative rocks that would look good at the end of a walk, or appear interesting if flipped on their side in some sort of garden installment. No, the ugly sort of rocks that are just rocks, not good enough to be called stones, or worthy of the important title of boulder. Simple tents ringed a fire that didn't even appear to be well-built, while a crummy old wooden building - likely the mine's sales office - squatted behind the camp in the trees as if trying to take a dump as to improve the scenery with its excrement. A slight change in the direction of the mild breeze carried the unwashed scent of the miners to Calloway's nose, and he imagined an office's excrement might have been preferable to that, as well.

A glance at Khazahan, easily the most appealing sight in the area, other than himself, of course, revealed that this was, indeed, their overnight stay. A gloved paw reached up to rub the bridge of Calloway's muzzle near his eyes, and he whispered a silent prayer before striding down into the camp. "Good evening, fine fellows, and ladies," he said, putting on his salesman's smile. He would make no sales here, but providing he could charm his audience, he would at least be granted permission to set up his own tent in a decent location. "We are but two weary travelers seeking shelter for the night. Would you be so kind as to oblige us a small portion of your land here so that we might set up our own tent, and possibly share your fire?"

The miners stopped and stared at Calloway, having never seen a Khajiit so well-dressed, nor one who spoke with such elegance. An open-mouthed nod came back from one of them, and Calloway smiled, removing his hat in a sweeping bow. "Thank you, my fine fellow. I assure you, you won't even know we're here," the tailor said.

There, formalities were done with, and he still had daylight enough to erect his tent. Plopping down his carpetbag, Calloway took a moment to locate his spectacles from his breast pocket, then slipped them on before flicking open the bag's latch. Kazahan could see him studying the interior of the bag for a short while before reaching in and pulling out a long pole, a bronze stud at one end, followed by a sack of tent stakes. "Hold this" Calloway instructed, passing the eight foot long ashwood pole to his guide, then began to tug out something made of heavy canvas. Pale green, with darker green patterns and accents, the canvas pulled from the bag, and continued to pull until at last Calloway was nearly engulfed beneath it. "Pole," he commanded, reaching out a paw. When he felt it pressed into his grasp, the tailor did, indeed, vanish into the mass of heavy green cloth and its patterns of stylized lions and eagles, until at last the fabric wad poked up at the top, and Calloway emerged from a flap in the front, revealing the canvas to be tall, square pavilion tent, and the ash pole its central support. "Hold that straight, please," he then commanded Kazahan before reaching into the bag for a mallet, then went about stretching and securing the base of the tent, pounding stakes into the ground before pulling taut the lines that would form the tent's upper shape. In but a manner of minutes, Calloway had his tent erected, and he smiled, taking up his bag to head inside. "This'll do," he said.

A small hook on the central pole was enough to support a little brass candle lantern, which Calloway lit from the campfire, then set about his interior needs. A rug was the first thing, obviously, and he pulled one from his bag, rolled, before laying it across the exposed dirt floor, asking Kazahan to briefly lift the central pole so that he could get the rug beneath it. Next was produced a small folding table, where another candle lantern was placed, and after that, two cots and two plush bedrolls, followed by bearskin blankets to top each one. Stepping back to admire his handiwork, Calloway couldn't keep himself from straightening one of the cots as it was slightly crooked. "Not quite as fine as an inn or something, I know, but I hope this will do for the night," Calloway said, looking to Kazahan. "You don't snore, do you?"

[Kazahan]

The inhabitants of Stonehills all watched incredulously as the Khajiit designer went about setting up what looked to be a pavilion, and then both entered it, whereupon lights began appearing and the sound of cots being set up filtered through the heavy fabric.

Kazahan was equally as astonished, but when Calloway seemed to be finished with setting up their 'simple' sleeping arrangements for the night, he looked intently at the Imperialized Khajiit, his hand close by to his sword hilt. His first worry was that he'd taken up with a daedra-worshipper; pact-makers of that sort were all sorts of trouble. If he was, Kazahan would need to take extra care; he had no desire to pledge himself to an uncaring lord's service.

"We will need to wake earlier than planned," was all he said. "We need to leave before sunrise, and this will take some time to put away. If Khajiit snores, you will have to sleep regardless."