In Exile

[Kazahan]

Poster's Note: This is pretty much the same shtick as Unraveling; a series of one shot posts that will likely not be in chronological order, detailing scenes and ideas I had, have, and will have concerning Kazahan in Skyrim.

In Exile
by Vince

The first job he managed to get after coming to Skyrim was as a caravan guard, running the route from Riften to Winterhold.

It wasn't like there was much opportunity for him elsewhere, save perhaps as a bounty hunter or a bandit. But he wasn't willing to try and fight his way through the pecking order in a bandit group likely composed of mostly Nords. Even if he did manage to somehow earn some sort of respect at the least, or even headed a group at the most, he'd always have to keep an eye out for the ambitious and racist bastards looking for a moment of weakness. So he'd spoken to Ahkari, and while she was more than a bit cautious, she had in the end hired him.

And that is a long-winded explanation for how he met Kharjo.

"This one does not share your optimism," Kharjo was saying, just as annoyed, but infinitely more patient than the burlier and frankly larger dark furred Kazahan, his fellow guard, sitting on a log somewhere between Riften and Windhelm. Zaynabi would just not shut up about her hopes of one day being accepted in Skyrim. Almost everything she said was about it.

"The stars are bright tonight. Do you think there are more stars visible here, or in the deserts of Elsweyr?" Kazahan turned to Kharjo, who wasn't looking at him, but was leaning back, his clawed fingers only slightly digging into the worn wood serving as their seating, and was looking at the infinitely dark sky, studded with stars.

"The deserts grow cold during the night, so it is likely that the difference is small," he said shortly in return, looking up at the stars. The moons hung low, near the western horizon, only barely peeking over the forested mountains that were the border to Morrowind. He did not look for long; his longsword, taken from a bandit, needed whetting. The iron was somewhat well worked, but it had not been well cared for, and it showed.

"The stars make me think of home," Kharjo said absently. Kazahan grunted. His companion's eyes drifted to him. "Is that not a comfort to you?"

"Khajiit finds no comfort in thoughts of home," Kazahan replied. "This one is in exile as punishment."

He instantly regretted saying that, as curiosity and sympathy sparked in Kharjo's eyes. He could feel the questions burning up through the other's throat, but after a moment Kharjo looked at the fire.

"This one hears many things like that from home now," was all he said. Kazahan felt a stab of gratitude for his compatriot. Silence fell over them. Zaynabi went to her bedroll to sleep. Ahkari was humming something quietly while she mixed potions in her tent.

"There once was a woman, as a fair as an evenin'..." Kharjo began to hum. Kazahan huffed.

"...of springtime of old Stros M'Kai..." Kazahan continued. Kharjo raised his voice louder.

"...Her hair like the night sky, her skin like the twilight..."

"...And two stars burning bright in each eye..."

"...I loved her, but left her, to find fame and fortune..."

"...Away from the evenin' of springtime of old Stros M'Kai..."

"Are those really the lyrics? This one has only heard the first line. Which is quite odd, now that one thinks about it."

Both Kazahan and Kharjo blinked, and looked up to see Dro'marash standing at the edge of the firelight, looking at them in curiosity. The singers looked at each other, each shaking their head slightly.

"Khajiit does not know more than you," Kharjo answered for the both of them, amusement coloring his tones. "They were simply whimsy. But the words fit well, do they not?"

"Indeed," Dro'marash laughed lowly, walking up to the pot and ladling some stew into his bowl. "Sing it again, and this one will join you."

Kazahan left the caravan two months later, but on occasion, while sitting at a fire and eating, especially with little Tana, he would hum the tune they had made and look up at the stars.