A Cold Land

[Kazahan]

"Let's go down into the town, shall we?"

"No. Khajiit will not be seen with you."

"Listen, cat. You do what we say. If we say go with us down there—"

"You are fools. This one has been here before, and I am not warmly welcomed. To be seen with you will do me no favors, and you will find that you yourselves have made Khajiit's job harder."

The dark furred Khajiit glared at the Thalmor standing before him; two wizard agents of the Thalmor Embassy and four soldiers. His chances at winning against them all weren't good; but his chances of escape weren't bad, even with his distinguishing clothing and armor. The elves were likewise wary; the desert dweller was armed to the teeth and claws; literally, as the Khajiit were known to use their claws to tear out the throats of their foes. A bow and a quiver of arrows on his back, and a longsword at his side, and a hide shield with a tell-tale sheen to it all indicated that the cat in front of them was no stranger to bloody work.

"This one has received a letter from the Jarl," the Khajiit said. "Khajiit will answer the summons, and perform whatever task it is he asks. If you have a task, do this. The further you are from Kazahan, the better for Kazahan and Thalmor, yes?"

One of the Thalmor sneered, but already the Khajiit — Kazahan — was disappearing into the shadows. The elves stood straight, and looked down at the town.

"We'll have to kill him," one said. The other nodded.

"I will, gladly, when the time comes."

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Kazahan waited until the elves had crested the hill past the abandoned tower where he was pretty sure a spriggan had settled in to move toward the town. He hoped the bandits on that road crushed a couple of the soldiers before they were killed. The morbid little town of Falkreath was just as quiet as the last time he'd been here, and he was just as eager to leave now as he had been then. The Nord owner of the general store nodded in his direction; Kazahan nodded back, and entered the longhouse, which was stifling and ill-vented.

Siddgeir, the Jarl of Falkreath, was a younger man, but there was an air of indolent foppery about him that Balgruuf and definitely Stormcloak lacked. He was speaking with his housecarl, it seemed, and so the Khajiit remained back, watching the man and taking his measure. He found him wanting.

[Alecto Mordane]

Smoke from the firepit before the jarl's throne pooled in the arched ceiling of the longhouse, clouding the small windowpanes overhead, where sunlight fell in broken hatches. No doubt the intent was to surround the throne in misty sunlight so as to lend the jarl an air of celestial authority. But Falkreath never got proper sunlight. What meager rays made it through the fog and the rainclouds overhead simply died in the stifling, smoky air and turned everything to indistinct shades of gray and brown. Almost everything, anyway.

Alecto Mordane hunched over the pale green glow of an arcane enchanter in the west wing balcony, a pulsing soul gem in one hand, and a pickaxe in the other. The town blacksmith had given him the pick and a hundred and twenty septims for an enchantment that would cause the earth to yield more ore, a favor for a cousin who worked in the Embershard Mines. There was no such enchantment, of course, but that hardly mattered to Alecto. A simple stamina enchantment would make the fool feel he was getting more work done, a mundane task not worth more than, say, a petty gem and the soul of a cat.

The Breton mage closed his eyes and finished his incantations, and an ethereal glow passed from the soul gem to the pickaxe, where it disappeared into the wood grain. Then he turned to hang the freshly enchanted pick on the wall when he spotted a towering Khajiit standing on the longhouse floor, his thick tail swatting idly at his ankles. Alecto set the pick aside and stepped up to the balcony railing for a better look at the stranger: well armed, roughly groomed, clad in armor that had no doubt seen better days. He might have been one of any number of mercenaries and thugs roaming the countryside, but it was rare enough for a Khajiit to be summoned to a jarl's house unless his paws were in irons, even in a dismal backwater like Falkreath.

Alecto's black robes hissed over the narrow wood-slat staircase as he descended to the stone floor to stand by the stranger. "Can I help you, Khajiit?"

[Kazahan]

Kazahan's eyes slowly turned to the Breton mage, studying him as he had studied the Jarl.

"This one has been summoned to speak with the Jarl," he growled. "And you are not him. I do not desire enchanted stones or amulets. Court wizards charge more than even shopkeepers."

He turned to look back at the Jarl, who was busy tuning out his increasingly frustrated housecarl. Kazahan's brutal confidence couldn't lessen the mage's own self-assuredness. Mages tended to be uppity, and arrogant. It was just hard to tell which ones were deservedly so.

[Alecto Mordane]

Alecto's lips split into a perfectly white smile. "Peace, friend Khajiit. I did not wish to presume. As I recall, the Jarl had sent for warrior to help resolve some... outstanding contracts in the Hold. You look just the type. Allow me."

The mage strode confidently toward Jarl Siddgeir and Helvard, his bare-armed Nordic housecarl, who was still arguing heatedly about the disposition of Jarl Balgruuf of Whiterun, and whispered a Calming spell into the air. Helvard's train of thought evaporated, and Siddgeir turned blinking toward his mage. "Yes, Alecto?" he drawled. "What is it that you want?"

"Please pardon the intrusion, my Jarl," Alecto replied. "But it seems your guest has arrived."

Siddgeir leaned in his throne to look past the shimmering firepit and squinted uncomprehendingly at Kazahan. "My guest?"

[Wulthgar Milk-Drinker]

Mead. The Honey-Muse. The flower maiden who giveth and taketh away so many ideas.

Wulthgar blinked heavy sleep from his eyes, his face a grimace as he smacked away the taste of something foul in his breath. The grimace turned to a look of somber concern when he appraised his surroundings. They were not the lumpy mattresses and pillows and the spartan accoutrements of his room in the Dead Man's Drink Inn. Though his spine did detect the familiar presence of uneven straw padding beneath him. Instead of a bed, he lay in a manger, an unwelcome sight to the three head of bovine creatures regarding him with disapproving shaggy countenances and beady eyes.

"Of course. How rude of me. I have interrupted your repast."

Getting the bearing of his surroundings once more, the dwarf discovered a familiar presence adjacent to his person in the form of a trusty metal tankard, still half-laden with Black Briar Mead. The elixir was now unfavorably warm, but it did little to diminish its qualities to lubricate the mind, and so Wulthgar quaffed it eagerly, finishing his ration as he tumbled out of the feeding trough and onto the ground. The cows simply mooed at him angrily.

"I do not appreciate your haughtiness. I have relinquished my station, and you are now free to return to your life's ambition of becoming steak."

Bruised more physically from his fall than of his pride, Wulthgar worked to wipe the mud from his backside before getting his wits together once more.

[Kazahan]

Kazahan proffered the note to the Jarl, who glanced at it, and then back up at him.

"Ah yes. I've heard that you are a good problem solver for some in the Empire, and I have need of someone with... discretion."

Kazahan continued stare at the Jarl, whose smugness didn't lessen. He didn't even shift in his seat. His estimation of the man rose slightly.

"What can this one do... quietly... for the Jarl, hmm?" he asked. The Jarl's smile was oily.

"I have made arrangements with a group of bandits out near Knifepoint Ridge. If you do not know where it is, speak to my steward. She will show you where to find it. They haven't been playing nicely with another group I've made some agreements with at nearby Bilegulch Mine. I want you to go and convince them to do so. If they won't listen..." the Jarl paused and looked the Khajiit in the eye. "Kill them to the last man. And any prisoners they might be holding; they might have heard of the connection between us, and that is something I cannot allow."

"What will Khajiit get in return for his discretion?" Kazahan asked. Siddgeir shrugged and smiled his oily smile.

"Gold," he said. "Lands, perhaps, if you're an ambitious sort. I could use someone like you — if you succeed — often. I could offer you a position as thane."

"Khajiit will take the gold." Siddgeir looked a bit affronted, but soon the expression dropped and he shooed Kazahan away with a negligent wave of his hand. Kazahan turned and stopped by the mage. "This one must speak with the steward."

[Alecto Mordane]

"The fastest way to Knifepoint Ridge?" Alecto said. "Head west until you reach the foot of the mountains, then follow them north until you see the light of a forge. The bandits have occupied an abandoned mining camp in the foothills. Now, if you'll indulge me for just a moment, I may be able to put more gold in your pockets, Khajiit."

[Kazahan]

"This one chose gold as the best option," Kazahan answered flatly. "I am not interested in land or power. Not here."

The mage was a persistent one, though. His interest was up, and a mage's interest was a dangerous thing. But perhaps...

"Tell me what you wish, and then we shall discuss proper payment," he offered, stalking further away from the Jarl's seat.

[Alecto Mordane]

There wasn't much room to escape notice in the dilapidated shack that passed in Falkreath for a baronal estate, but Alecto accompanied the Khajiit to the front of the hall and away from the heady woodsmoke that belched from the firepit.

"It's a trifle, really. You see, three weeks ago I ordered a shipment of books from my colleague in Markarth. Just last week I received word that the courier was ambushed on the road near Knifepoint Ridge - his body was recovered, but the books were missing. I suspect they've hidden them somewhere in the mine, if they haven't used the pages for kindling."

[Kazahan]

"How convenient the books are lost in the same place I must go to complete another task," Kazahan said flatly. "But if this one finds them, he will bring them back to you. Payment... Khajiit will determine payment after the bandits there have been dealt with. Should this prove more difficult, Khajiit will ask for more."

With that, Kazahan left the longhouse and took a long deep breath to clear his senses from the stifling smells and the smoke, only to be greeted by the scents of pig and chicken feces mingling with an almost overpowering pine scent. The overloading of his senses didn't last long, and he stalked past a sty to the west.

The moons were bright and the sky was clear and absolutely glittering with stars. Kazahan paid them no mind; they reminded him of home.

[Wulthgar Milk-Drinker]

The Dead Man's Drink was a place of business for many, and for Wulthgar it was no exception. That being said it was no place to work on unfinished songs. The natural creative process of bumbling over clunky meter and finding rhyming pairs like so many lost socks was occasionally grueling and unglamorous, and certainly resulted in few septims. So instead, Wulthgar returned to the inn only briefly to exchange his tankard for a flagon of ale, taking it and his lute off the premises and towards the one place he might expect a modicum of privacy in Falkreath - or at least privacy among the living.

Perched on a headstone on the outskirts of the cemetary, the diminuitive Nord quaffed a few hefty gulps of ale, and returned to his musical instrument, grinding out the genesis of a new song.

"When Falkreath's Jarl was old and frail, the call went wide and far
Who would carry on old Dengeir's fame
A sharper mind a keener wit to further raise the bar
Young Siddgeir would carry Falkreath's flame"

Wulthgar paused, grimacing at the early stanza, drawing a leaf of paper from his breast pocket and cribbing a few notes on it before trying the line again. Before he could refrain, he noticed a Khajit passing on the road leading from town, and immediately drew a hand across his lute strings, to hush their unfinished blathering.

"Well met, traveler Khajit. Do I detect a sense of purpose glittering in those gold eyes of yours? Off to a hunt mayhaps?"

[Kazahan]

"Mayhaps," the Khajiit responded, pausing his purposeful stride. He glanced at the diminutive bard. "Is there something this one can do for you?"

[Wulthgar Milk-Drinker]

The Nord's eyes narrowed appraisingly, a wry grin appearing as he did so.

"You seem a creature of grim purpose, by the state of your arsenal. I request nothing so sanguine, merely to slake my thirst of gossip. My eyes cannot help but note you travel from good Jarl Siddgeir's longhouse. At the risk of invoking ancient biases, it is a noteworthy occasion for a Jarl to keep a Khajit's company. I may have appraised young Siddgeir too modestly if he maintains such a cosmopolitan court. I would very much like to hear the story, if the grisly intrigues are not incriminating of course."

[Kazahan]

"In that case, this one will have to disappoint you."

Even in the darkening light, the glint of Kazahan's teeth in his amused smile was visible.

"For the tale is nothing if not incriminating. And then Khajiit will have to take care of you as he is going to take care of others. That is an effort I do not want to make."

[Wulthgar Milk-Drinker]

"Your meaning is well-got, friend." The bard raised both palms in a sign of submissive deference. "And your forthcoming reasons for not being forthcoming are likewise. Go in peace, good cat. If the Jarl means to throw his rock and hide his hand, then I shall find something more deserving of my attentions than where such a rock may land."

It was a curiosity nonetheless. Why did Siddgeir need to move a hand unseen? If the reason was a threat to the hold, he had his own guardsmen. If it were something larger than that, could he not call down the legion's aid?

[Kazahan]

"If you are curious, though, the Jarl seems in good spirits," Kazahan said as he stalked away, one clawed hand raised to take his leave. He was gone into Falkreath's dark forests a moment later.

He breathed a sigh of relief at being out of the town; it always struck him as being a morbid little place. He stopped suddenly and looked to his left. Standing there in the bush was a wolfhound, a huge dog with eerily intelligent eyes staring at him. Their eyes locked for a moment or two, before the dog turned and trotted off. Kazahan couldn't quite understand why, but he felt as if he'd been spared of something.

He continued on east, moving fast, but quietly enough that slumbering spriggans and sleeping bears did not notice his passing. He himself didn't want to deal with them; his task was dangerous enough as it was, without their interference.

Night was waning into morning by the time the Khajiit caught the glimpse of his destination in the distance; Kazahan was glad of it, though the further he got from the town itself, the less he minded Falkreath. It was time to do his work.

[Alecto Mordane]

The miner's camp at Knifepoint Ridge was perched on the steep, rocky foothills beneath the Dragontail mountains that separated Skyrim from Hammerfell. It consisted of three wooden shacks and a glowing forge pit surrounded by a winding bailey of logs pointed and lashed together, along with a smattering of deerhide tents and smoldering campfires. There was one path up the hillside that wasn't made of sheer, unforgiving crags of stone, a dusty trail that wound through a series of blind switchbacks. At the top of the trail was a crude watchtower of logs and planks manned by a Bosmer in padded hide and leathers with a strung hunting bow over his shoulders. He watched the path below with ringed and reddened eyes.

"How's the weather up there, Glarast?" a husky Nord woman shouted up from below.

"Damn you to Molag Bal, Kirhire," the wood-elf drawled back. "Where in the name of Obilvion is Lucard? He was supposed to relieve me hours ago."

"Lucard's sick," Kirhire replied, swinging a mace idly from her heavy, sun-bronzed arms. "Says it's bone break fever, from one of the old traps in the mine."

"Bone break fever," Glarast scoffed. "I call it a case of lazy-arse Breton. It'll be terminal if I get my hands on him. When am I getting relieved, then?"

"Soon as Ulmakh says so. Look, relax. We haven't seen so much as a skeever all week. Falx, Jarada, and I, we've got your back."

"So as I wither on my feet and go blind with fatigue, my life rests in the hands of a failed Imperial mage, a skooma-addled Redguard berserker, and a madwoman with a mace."

"You got it, pointy," Kirhire replied with a leer. "Stay there, I'll bring you a mead. You'll like it. It's made of honey, which comes from bugs."

"I hate mead. I hate you, too."

"That's not what you said two nights ago."

Glarast sighed and ground his face into his palm. "Yes it is. I said those words exactly. Any recollection you have to the contrary is likely the result of taking one too many blows to your overdeveloped Nordic skull."

He turned and peered over his shoulder to see her still grinning impudently up at him. "Fine," he said. "Bring me the mead."

"Coming right up, love."

The Bosmer leaned against the rail of his watchtower. "That woman," he said to himself, and, smiling, he fingered the Amulet of Mara underneath his hide shirt.

[Kazahan]

Kazahan trudged up to dirt path leading into the camp at Knifepoint, grunting in annoyance at a fly that buzzed around his ears. Despite the annoyance, he could hear clearly the voice of a Nord woman by her accent, and a clear toned voice that might have belonged to an elf of some kind.

As he turned the last switchback, he saw the wood elf, standing atop the wooden watchtower pull his bow from his back and shout something. Kazahan raised his hands.

"Khajiit comes from the Jarl!" he shouted. "This one is sent by the Jarl! Allow me to speak with your chief!"

[Alecto Mordane]

Glarast leveled the point of his arrow at the Khajiit's heart while Kirhire, already halfway up the steps with a bottle of mead, rushed up to join him and laid her hand on the heavy lever that sat on the edge of the platform.

"The Jarl?" the Nord woman whispered. "I thought Ulmakh said we were done with him."

"Or perhaps the Jarl thinks he's done with us," Glarast replied.

"If that were true, he'd have sent more than one Khajiit," Kirhire said scornfully. She tightened her grip on the lever. "Shall I flush him out?"

"No," Glarast said. "Ulmakh will want to speak with him, and find out Siddgeir's game." He cleared his throat and shouted in a voice the interloper could hear: "Khajiit! Come closer and keep your paws where we can see them. One false move, and I'll ventilate your skull."

Kirhire hefted her mace and galloped back down the watchtower stairs to meet Kazahan. As she did, she bellowed, "Falx! Jarada! We have company!"

A tall, thin Redguard with rings in his nose, eyebrows, and chin looked up from the forging pit where he had been hammering on a shank of glowing steel. At the sight of Kazahan, he laid aside his forging hammer and picked up a jagged orcish greatsword, which he rested on a sinewy shoulder. He was joined by a sallow-skinned Imperial in black necromancer's robes. The three bandits fanned out in front of the Khajiit, eying him as if considering the sartorial potential of his pelt.

"He wants to see the chief," Kirhire said. "Let's take him into the mine."

[Kazahan]

Kazahan's first action was inaction. He waited. He waited until the bandits, still warily eyeing him, turned to lead him to the mine; and then, with a smooth aplomb, slid his longsword from its sheath and shoved it into the mage's back. His attack wasn't without consequence. The archer was pulling away, an arrow nocked but the bow not drawn yet until there was more distance, the Nord woman had her mace in her hand, and the redguard was already building up momentum for a swing to separate his head from his shoulders.

He judged the order in which they now needed to die: the wood elf was paramount with his bow, but farther away, thus making the Redguard his first target. A quick shield bash stopped the building greatsword's powerful attack, and in the opening provided, brought his sword down on the Redguard's head, but missed, the blade biting deeply into the shoulder instead. Kazahan hissed under his breath in annoyance, but kept the man between him and the archer and between him and the Nord; his arm rang up to his shoulder as he blocked an arrow and a blow from the Nord woman's mace simultaneously. The Redguard snarled something about scratches, and tried to heft the greatsword with one arm.

His patience bore fruit a second later, as a quick pivot took him from an open shot to the elf to behind the Redguard again, who dropped with a look of surprise on his face and an arrow lodged between his shoulder blades. Kazahan grunted and ran, sprinting for the cover of the shack where the Redguard had been working on the forge, turning the corner none too soon as an arrow bit into the wood by his head.

He turned the corner and was gone from their sight.