In Exile

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.

Fehu

Summary: Kazahan is captured, but lives because of death.



"Up, cat," the Nord in charge said. Kazahan glared up at him, but stood uneasily. "What were you doing so near the shrine of Talos? Spying for the Thalmor?"

"Khajiit holds no love for the Thalmor," he said. The Stormcloak spat, his eyes fiery and clear.

"That is no answer," he said, danger prevalent in his tones, which weren't quite a bass, but still fit his huge frame. The large Khajiit still had to look up to meet his eyes. "Speak true and clear, cat, and we will not subject you to a painful death."

The other Stormcloaks gathered around, and Kazahan tested his bonds. But it was for naught; his wrists were bound too securely. He would have preferred to die with his sword bloody and his shield rent rather than executed with his arms bound.

"The talk that the Stormcloaks are all easily swayed and little more than berserkers is untrue, then. This one is surprised," he said aloud. Some of the other Stormcloaks grunted in anger, but their captain gestured to them and their voices quieted.

"You are brave, but you will not stir me to anger, Khajiit," the captain said firmly.

"Yes," Kazahan answered. The Captain scratched his thick black beard and continued to stare at him with uncomfortably clear blue eyes. "Yes. Khajiit was marking the location of the shrine for his masters."

"He was! Kill it!" one of the other Stormcloaks made to draw his sword, but the captain turned his eyes to the furious soldier, who shoved the sword back through its belt loop roughly.

"This one is enslaved," Kazahan said as the captain turned back around to him.

"Could you not run from them? You are not without ability."

"Where?" Kazahan answered his question with another. "Not in Stormcloak lands, to be sure. Khajiit would be branded a Thalmor agent whether the charge is true or not. Travelling with a caravan would be among the first places they would look. And there is no true escape from the Thalmor within Imperial controlled lands, either. They roam at will, though their numbers are few. They are not without ability. Elsweyr is also barred to this one. I can do nothing else."

The Captain's eyes stirred to pity, but the hard clear blue, like the daylight sky of the Nord's homeland, did not relent, until a Stormcloak soldier broke through the tree line.

"Imperials!" he shouted, "Caught us by ambush!"

The captain turned, and then the small clearing turned to chaos, as an arrow found its mark in the fleeing Nord's back. The treeline seemed to burst with Imperial soldiers, most lightly clad as the Stormcloaks were, but two or three wore heavy armor, shields, and helmets. The Stormcloaks drew their own weapons and charged the Imperial legionnaires, mostly Nords themselves, with the blue-eyed captain leading the charge. His greatsword cleaved through an Imperial soldier with little trouble.

Kazahan wasted no time, dropping to a low crouch and slinking off to the side of the battle. He made his way to the fire, somehow ignored as the clash of sword and spear resounded in the air. He found a knife, and with little trouble cut his bonds. His belongings were stacked to the side near a tent. His yatagan and bow and quiver of arrows, nearly spent, were largely untouched. He was quick about that business, as it was likely he would not remain ignored for long. He turned, and against his better judgement, which screamed at him to flee while he could, watched the battle of kinsman.

The blue-eyed Stormcloak was surrounded by soldiers, both Imperial and Stormcloak, his own sword slamming down on one of the heavily armoured Imperial's shield. Another of the Imperial leaders was pulling his sword out of a Stormcloak's face, when a battle-axe wielding rebel swung down and nearly parted his head and left shoulder completely from his body, the heavy armor he wore giving way with a screeching crack. The Stormcloak let go of the weapon, lodged as it was in the armor, and was cut down himself by two Imperial swords stabbing through him from both the front and back.

Kazahan shook his head and turned away, but stopped suddenly as he saw the Captain watching him from a relatively quiet place on the battlefield; the Imperials were being driven back by the ferocity of the rebels and their monstrously strong leader. Kazahan stood and nodded once to his once captor. The Stormcloak nodded in return, and turned to follow his men and the retreating Imperials.

Kazahan turned as well, and disappeared into the trees. He would take the way behind the Throat of the World that led to Helgen, and be once more in the slightly more safe, if yet still unfriendly Hold of Falkreath.

Gibu

Summary: Kazahan is unfriendly.

Long ago I was young,

I travelled on my own,
then I turned astray in my paths:
I thought myself rich
when I found another,
man is man's entertainment.
— Wardruna, Gibu

"Ah, you're a big one, you are!"

He flinched, and drew his sword, and swung it through the air to his right.

"Eep! Hold on will ya! I won't try nothin', I won't!"

A red haired girl was on the ground, her back to a tree and one hand raised to forestall her imminent demise and the other covering her face. When a moment passed and she was not butchered, the fingers of the latter spread out, exposing one twinkling blue eye. When he continued to stand there and glower at her, the hand fell away to reveal a freckled, white face that could only be described as 'mischievous'.

He should know, being Khajiit. Their own counterpart to Talos Stormcrown being quite literally a god of mischief and cleverness instead of an Emperor turned God.

"Sorry for the fright," she said cheekily as she stood and brushed the dirt and pine needles from her legs and rear. "But you should probably pay more attention to your surroundings, you should."

He didn't move, and she looked a bit put out. She'd caught him by surprise, but he hadn't missed the slight red glow hidden by the grass at his feet. A rune.

Mages were troublesome to fight. So he avoided fighting them when he could, like now.

She looked up at him, craning her neck back.

"I didn't know they made Khajiit this big," she said in wonder. He looked down on her, sheathed his sword and turned to walk away. "O—oi! That's not very friendly! I really am sorry, you know; you're the first person I've seen in days and I couldn't help myself, I couldn't!"

He continued walking.

"Oh don't be like that!" her voice shook; she was trotting to keep up with him. "The night's coming on, don't walk in it, so many beasties and rude folk out and about you know... I'll cook you a supper!"

He stopped.

"This one is very hungry," he grunted and turned around. She was slightly red in her face now, but she was nodding quickly.

"You'll not be hungry 't all when you're done eatin' my cooking, you won't!" she exclaimed cheerily, her spirits now returning in force that she had found some manner of keeping him.

"This one is very hungry," he said again, for emphasis. She almost nodded again without hesitation and then stopped, her eyes widening a bit as she took in how much larger he was than her.

"All right, all right, point taken. I've enough to feed you though I'll be low on supplies I will," she sighed. "But I don't eat with strangers unless I'm famished myself: the name's Ursula Beirne, (Bear-nyuh, she said, and he could her the history of irritating mispronunciation she'd had to deal with) magess-extraordinaire."

She stuck out her hand, and he looked at it in bemusement for a long moment.

"Khajiit is called Kazahan Raihasin."

He did not take her hand. She dropped it and shrugged.

"You're not a friendly sort of fellow are you?" she said, her hands going to rest on her hips, but shifting her weight back and forth from one leg to the other. Kazahan wondered if it was the magicka in her system that made her so antsy.

"What warned you of this? The sword and knife at my hip, or the greatsword at my back? Or perhaps it was the bow? You are quite unafraid for this one to believe he is unfriendly."

She laughed. It was such a happy sound; he had forgotten that people could make such noises.

"It's the shield on your back, actually. I saw a bounty for a bandit-chief who'd become known for having a shield with a distinctive hawk painted on it. I suppose that's a little collection of fingers with rings and other parts in that bag on your hip," she said, pointing. "Mercenaries aren't the friendliest people. But they're usually a sight better than bandits."

She gestured, and led him back along the road to a trail that wound up into the mountains. He followed; she had offered to feed him, and she didn't look wealthy enough to warrant a robbery and murder. She kicked at something hidden under a bush as she passed it. It was a dead man, burnt and wholly charred.

He offered no prayers.

"On your way back to collect?" she asked while they entered her camp, clearly disliking silence. He wondered how she'd managed to sneak up on him with such a proclivity, but remembered that mages could simply cast spells to make themselves silent.

Troublesome.

"Oh come on," she said as he remained silent. "Don't be such a mud-crab."

"Yes," he said, irritation coming out into his voice. He sat on the ground by her tent and pulled a whetstone and his knife out to keep himself busy. "This one is going to collect."

"Huh," she 'huh'ed, and set a pot onto the spit over her fire. With a wave of her hand, a globe of water manifested over the pot and after a moment of hanging in the air it fell into the pot with a splash and hisses where water had missed and hit the fire itself. "You any good, are you?"

"Do you wish to hire me?"

"Nah," she laughed, cutting up a thick hunk of venison. "You're a big fellow, and I mainly clean out tombs and the like. You'd only get in the way down in those tunnels and small rooms. More'n a few times I've caught myself and my allies in the blast of a rune or gout of flames or ice — accidentally mind you, no matter what Vilnjar, that rotten worm-ridden son of a diseased nag and a clam with syphilis, says."

He grunted, revising his estimation of her skills. She knew what she was about at least.

"You are a bitter, unfriendly fellow," she said again. He looked at her nonplussed. "I can't carry on a conversation by myself! And I've been desperate for another soul I can speak to. Skyrim can be a desolate place it can. Tell me something about yourself. There's got to be something you enjoy talking about."

"No."

"What about your family? How was that?"

"Khajiit was born in a caravan that was destroyed by a sandstorm. I wandered for four days before being found by bandits who put this one to work."

"Oh. Sorry." A pause. "Well (gods no) what about your homeland? I could go on about High Rock. Where are you from?"

"This one is banned from his homeland. Khajiit is in exile here, completely alone, and memories of home are bitter and painful to recall. No."

She frowned, her brows pinching together in thought as she stirred the pot of venison stew. Silence finally fell, and Kazahan gratefully went back to whetting his knife.

"Wait."

His hand clenched around the haft of his knife.

"You're alone? You have no one? Not a single friend? That's not right at all!"

He looked up to see a large bowl of steaming stew held in front of his face, and Ursula's irritatingly cheerful expression behind it framed by the dimming sky and the glow of the fire.

"I'll be your friend, Kazahan!"

He took the bowl and looked at her and her thoughtless grin.

"No."

"What?" she asked, looking as if someone had knocked her brains loose with a blow to the face for a short moment before her eyes began glittering and her brows fell over her eyes and her mouth puckered into an angrily disbelieving expression. "What do you mean, 'no'?"

"You do not know me. You are a foolish, naive little girl who will get herself killed sooner rather than later. Khajiit will not be killed also because of your foolishness."

Her eyes widened, her face flushed, and she screeched wordlessly. He handed her the empty bowl.

"More."




Three days later, in Falkreath, he found a note in his bag after he'd been paid for his bounties:

Thanks for the company! Here's to a long and prosperous friendship, you ugly mix of a cross-eyed sabercat and a mentally deficient troll with the intelligence of the troll and the grace of the sabercat. I'll be by Falkreath in a day or so; wait for me and we can travel together!

Ursula.

Three weeks later he met Ursula again outside of Solitude, and she tried to pluck out one of his whiskers when he told her he'd thrown the note away without a second look.

Far Horizons

Summary: One's dreams are like the horizon. Always in the distance.






One always had to skirt Saarthal. The area leading to it from Winterhold was more often than not being watched by bandits, or necromancers, or had trolls lurking about the snow-strewn pass.

Kazahan preferred the isolate wastes; the silent cold mountainsides. Even in Elsweyr he'd never felt so close to the moons.

The Gods would taunt him on nights with Masser and Secunda looming over the horizon. Her voice would drift along with the snow on the wind, asking him to return to her, begging him to come to bed with her. He ignored her voice because it was not her voice. It could never be her voice. He busied himself with tasks to keep from reacting, until the Gods tired of their sport and moved on.

Looking back, it was only a matter of time before their lies became more powerful and complex.

He had been leaving Winterhold at night, with the wind howling bitter cold and leaving icicles and snow in his mane, snow pulled from the permanently frosted ground gathering on his whiskers. He stayed away from the main path, though the unfortunate corpse of a mage seemed to be occupying the sabercats some distance away enough for it to safe as long as he did not do too much to gather their interest.

"What has become of you, Kazahan?" Her voice drifted past his ears, as if she were physically there. He closed his eyes and continued on.

By the drift of the moons overhead in the clear sky, it was some time before they tried again.

"Kazahan, Kazahan," her voice whispered. "Kazahan, my love."

He remained silent.

"Do not ignore me, Kazahan," the Gods lied. "This one does not know how this is, but do not let this be a nightmare."

He opened his eyes, and before him she stood, as if she were truly there.

He was struck dumb, unable to do anything but look.

"It is you," she said, relief coloring her tones. "Not by your eyes, but by the way you stand I can tell."

He remained still, regarding and regarded.

"Please, love, speak to me. It has been so long. I feared you dead."

"You are a lie, sent to torture by the Gods," he answered. "Khajiit knows this."

"If any, it is Rajhin," she laughed. "Or Baan Dar. A boon granted in a dream."

Kazahan shook his head, slowly.

"The gods grant no boons," he said. "Only honeyed words and cunning traps to revel in our misery. Only far horizons we can never reach."

She said nothing to this.

He turned away from her, and looked up at the moons, and continued to walk, his eyes on the horizon.

"Kazahan," she called, her voice breaking. "Kazahan, come back!"

Of all the things to convince him, it had been that. He knew then she had been real, a dream made manifest for both of them.

Yet, he ignored her, and continued walking, until the only sounds were the whistling of the wind and his steps on the bleak white mountainside; ever closer to the Moons.

The Khajiit

Synopsis: All legends have beginnings.


It is said that when he was born, it snowed in the desert.

An embellishment, maybe; the kind that are always put in legends, foretelling the future, when life rarely does so in truth.

A cloudy night, the story goes, the kind parents abhor for it hides the moons. Cold, as desert nights go, but especially bitter when the birthing pangs came upon her. The winds roared and bit through the tents and skins. She roared as well, for the child was known to be large, and she was not of the physique to bear such a one easily.

But she held on, desperately attempting to stem her child’s entrance to the world, for the moons had not shown their faces from behind the clouds. Such a birth was not what she desired for her child.

As the caravan sat within their own tents and wagons, astonished at the sudden freeze and whispering amongst themselves of the clouds above dark and foreboding, snow began to fall. The guards clutched their cloaks closer to themselves in a wordless fear.

‘Such an ill birth,’ they said amongst themselves, feeling pity for the woman. But their pity and fear did nothing to calm the winds, nor did it allay the snow, which blanketed the cold sand in short order.

‘Wait, my son, wait,’ she cried, but he would not be stayed.

Outside, surrounded by his fellows, the father awaited, head down, heedless of the snow and cold. It was his place, after all, despite the ill timing of the birth.

And then, the clouds, broke.

The moons glowed over the desert once more; the snow glittered in the sky like sand under the moons’ light.

All raised their eyes to the sky.

With one last great cry, the babe was born. The father entered the tent and retrieved the child, and bringing him out, raised him up to gaze upon the moons for the first time. It is said the babe did not cry, and the child’s first sight of the moons was to see them briefly, before once more they were covered by the dark and furious clouds.

The child was named Kazahan, and his life was one of tragedy and rage; of vengeance and blood; the plaything of the gods.

Of course, despite that the account is undoubtedly embellished, there is truth in this account of his birth. Perhaps not factual, though none now are that were there, but a truth of his own being.

You shall see this to be true.



The Girl

It is said that when Tana Little-Bear saw her parents killed, she swore then and there an oath, the kind that the Nords are known for making. An oath of vengeance and justice against her father and mother’s murderers, especially the Imperial Captain that ordered it and saw that she witnessed the sentence firsthand, but also the mean and furtive archer that loosed his arrows; not only with special hatred to the Aldmer mage that smiled to hear them cry out in pain and burned them alive, but also to the swordsman that held her still, and then pulled her away, knowing that their bodies would be left to rot.

Every one of them she swore would die by her hand. This oath she made to Talos Stormcrown and to Kyne, and to Shor the Dead.

To a Nord, such an oath is unbreakable. Even should she fail in the attempt Sovngarde would await her. To swear so and then turn away is the epitome of cowardice, and forever would she wander, never to find the great bridge to the Hall of her ancestors.

It burned within her as they took her away, and though it was as embers months later, it warmed her all the more when she escaped the walls and farms of Solitude, making her way back to Coldrock where remained but ruins of her home.

All that remained aside from bones in the earth was a small burned dagger; this would be the instrument of her revenge, she swore to herself. However else she would kill them, the dagger would be her final stroke.

She was but a child, but the world works in such ways. Many swear such oaths, though perhaps not so severe, and many turn aside from them. She did not, though she did not know how to set out on her path of blood.

Until the day she came upon a Khajiit that seemed but only just smaller than a Troll. Or perhaps it was that the Khajiit came upon her, a great and opaque beast so unlike the ones that walked with the caravans that traveled from city to city.

His name was Kazahan, and he was far from his home indeed.