Fire On The Mountain (A Skyrim Quest)

Scavengers

The ground behind Sha'ki's house is rutted with little runs, grooves worn into the grass by the scurrying of tiny clawed feet, littered with skeever dung, and Do'azda wrinkles her nose. A skeever infestation makes its mark quickly, and it takes far longer to recover once it is done.

Skeevers are nocturnal by nature, but Do'azda keeps a hand on her dagger all the same. The scratches on her shin throb gently at the thought. Skeevers are no great threat, but a cat could come to harm if she underestimates them.

The tracks lead back to a stream, cutting a path through the sod and down towards the river. Do'azda's ears go flat as she lowers herself into the streambed, sliding down the bank, dirt crumbling into her fur, clinging to her claws.

The stream laps around her feet as she brushes herself off as best she can, but the bed is smooth pebbles, the stream shallow and quick.

Walking upstream, Do'azda soon spots a section where the bank has collapsed into the stream,the dirt soaked through with water, slowly washing away. Water builds up to form a pool behind the collapse, and Do'azda hurries to investigate. Large, heavy pawprints have thrown up the mud. Is this where J'arin met the Skeevers? Do'azda hums. She is not far from Little Elsweyr, not as Khajiit figure it, but for a dog to come this far? For what cause? She kneels to take a closer look, unmindful of the water soaking her fur.

There's something trapped in the mud, Do'azda sees. It is small, and so dark as to be almost invisible in the dark, but it catches the sun a little as she moves her head. Pulling it free and washing it in the stream, she frowns.

A button? Carved, dark wood, bereft of identifying markings, Do'azda turns it over in her hands, but cannot understand it. How does a button come to be here? Murmuring a prayer to Baan Dar for guidance, Do'azda continues towards the city.

The city's walls dominate the approach to the city, a grand edifice to wars in Skyrim's past. No city in Elsweyr has walls so great - no city in Elsweyr has walls at all, come to that; those that were not destroyed by imperial siege engines were pulled down by the Thalmor after the war - but as she looks closer, she sees the rounded, smooth top of the wall, the gaps where it has collapsed from wind and ice, and gone unrepaired, the walkway running above the wall, shielded only by thin fencing.

These walls, great as they are, stand neglected. By the quality of the roads, the strong stone bridges, the farms and lumber mills, the Jarl is no miser, and yet the city walls are so decrepit, even a khajiit with no knowledge of such things can see it.

Perhaps, Do'azda wonders skeptically, the Jarl is a man for whom war is less attractive than peace. Perhaps he cares for the people of his hold - the nords, at any rate.

It seems unlikely that not simply this jarl, but every jarl for generations - for walls do not decay to this state in a single lifetime - has cared naught for the defence of the city, but Skyrim has been a part of the empire for centuries. Who is to say they have had wars here in generations? How long would it take, for leaders to set aside fear of war, to abandon defences their forefathers built to defend them?

Not such a long time that they forget the primary use of a wall, she reflects - crumbling they may be, but Whiterun's walls keep the city free of those they wish not to see.

Do'azda is so distracted, she almost walks directly into the waterfall. She's still perhaps half a hundred paces from the walls, but the ground rises almost vertically, a head again taller than her full height.

As she prepares to scale this latest escarpment, Do'azda spots a pair of beady, malevolent eyes. Then another. Evidently the skeevers make their den here, where the shadow of the wall keeps them in shade almost all of the day.

She backs away cautiously, her hand never straying from her dagger.

Do'azda returns to "Little Elsweyr" a little shaken, but knowing things she could use.

Unease settles in her stomach upon her return. She has found the skeevers, but a shaman must keep one eye on her surroundings at all time, lest she become the hunter who forgets Khajiit is not the only creature to stalk in the jungles.

And how can she do that, when she has barely the faintest understanding of what occurs in Whiterun? Has the Jarl thrown in with Ulfric - could she use his token to her advantage? - or has he tired of the war entirely?

Do'azda needs to see the actual document. It is one thing for rumors and chatty gossip to provide a few details, and it is another thing to read the justifications, lies, and explanations firsthand. It is Do'azda's experience that no matter who is in charge of the world, Khajiit will suffer. The fights among the lords of the Aldmeri Union are always about power first and foremost, including power over cats. She doubts this is all that different, though Ulfric seems a bad sort, his rhetoric unfriendly to those of Skyrim but not of Nord stock… but the Empire has not been a friend to Khajiits either, whether in Elsweyr or in the Empire proper.

But there are a thousand different shades of cruelty, and the cunning Khajiit needs to be able to tell them apart, to distinguish them like they are a hidden and coded language, a language of suffering spoken in bleeding tongues--it is the duty of a Shaman to know the tongue and to know it's twists. It has been a century since Khajiit ruled themselves, and even then it was no paradise. There is no simple solution: freedom and independence would help, but they are not enough on their own.

But she is also a practical cat, and so she pushes all of this philosophizing aside to focus on what she needs to do. The first step is, go to the gate, get through, and then ask around. There's no other step, really.

She sees the gate a bit differently than she might have if she hadn't examined the walls. It really isn't much in the way of defenses. It may keep out bandits, but in a true battle, would do little and less. Will they work now more to prepare for war, or less? Do'azda doesn't care, truly. At the gate she is waved through, and for a moment she considers asking them. But the guards standing there look bored and tired, men who have no interest in anything but making it through the last hours of their shift and eating dinner.

So she slips on through, and stops in her tracks immediately to take it all in. There is a large stream right ahead, bridged by a rather stately looking bridge. On the other side, walking over cobbles that are of high quality, if worn down by the trod of feet, is something she hasn't expected. Instead of a grand square, it is more as if the city is luring one in. There's an inn up on the hill, its size half-obscured by the foliage about it, and a blacksmith's right next to a 'travel store'. She can smell the piss and steel, and as she walks across the bridge she can see the odd mixture of architecture here. There are mostly wooden buildings, but there are a few stone buildings with wooden facades, as if they are older, sturdier buildings retrofitted into a modern style that uses the lighter wood to build overhangs, awnings, and even wooden patterns carved into the buildings themselves. Or, she realizes when she looks closer, into the extra layer of wood on the building itself. She doubts they'd allow the structural integrity of the houses to suffer that much, even for the art of the beautiful.

There are a half-dozen side paths, and when she looks down them she sees that it heads towards other streets, and locations where the locals live. Anything that's on the main road is probably meant for those visiting. Which means she should keep on following the path.

But of course, there's something she's been ignoring. The people. There are nearly a hundred people within her line of sight as she stands at the side of the bridge. There is an Argonian woman, hunched and cleaning the front of a small shop, and there's a Dunmer, and of course a Redguard or two... but she's the only Khajiit around. It isn't that unusual, her trip north is a lonely one by and large. But the bustle and the movement, the hurrying about and the shouts and yells and accusations, and indeed the laughter, all freeze her up for a second.

Her tail lashes in uncertainty as she picks her way forward. It is a large enough city that she could spend a long time and still not see all of it. This is normal in a way, but as she steps forward and takes in all the sights and sounds, she also decides that she should keep to the main streets. There's less chance of being attacked that way. She passes a lot of shops, and bars, and inns, and temples here and there. The main temples are never far off the main road, and she names them in her head one by one as she walks along.

A few people shove up against Do'azda, but she ignores them and eventually reaches a set of stairs that seem to lead up towards the Jarl's palace. She's sure that there might be helpful guards nearer to the palace, people whose job it is to look lively. As long as she asks nicely enough, they will think little enough of it. She hopes.

When she reaches the top, she stops again, this time in pure awe. There is a vast dead tree before her, at the center of a park of sorts, a green square with dozens of benches and what seems to be key buildings, including what looks to be another temple. But she has eyes only for the tree. It is a dead thing, but it is large enough that she knows what it must be. The words choke in her throat, "Khenarthi."

She knows what this is. She's seen things like this, not trees but things imbued with this same energy even dead and seemingly frozen.

She wants to marvel at this holy tree, but instead she's dragged out of it by a loud argument.

"Just because the Jarl is neutral, Stormcloak, doesn't mean he fails to recognize High-Queen Elisif. Enjoy being back in the city," the tall, strapping man said, poking a finger at the other man and grimacing. "Because it won't last for long."

"You Battle-Borns have grown soft and weak if you think we Grey-Manes are going to let this chance to save Skyrim pass. Your vaunted new form of Imperials have broken the peace in sending in Legions," the other man says. He's also clearly a noble, but his skin is darker, more weathered by the sun and wind, and his hair has gone grey, and he steps forward. "The Empire has lost its soul, and I cannot support it. Talos would be ashamed to see what has become of the Empire."

"We can still win, if it wasn't for traitors like Ulfric sapping the strength we need to finally put an end to the Elves and their Empire," the first one, the Battle-Born, whatever that is, says. He leans forward, eyes wild. "I should challenge you to a duel for your--"

"Challenge me if you wish," the old man says. "Vignar Grey-Mane fought for the Empire for decades before it betrayed its own goals. I can fight you again."

"Lords," a voice said, as a guard approached. "I bid you that the Jarl has said that there is to be peace between both Clans, so long as he sees fit." The guard looks nervous, and it is clear that he has no real authority to stop them from arguing.

"Very well," Vignar says, with a nod of his head. "I have gotten too heated. If you wish to duel, we can, but now is not the time for it. We are part of the Council, and must advise him as best we can."

"You say that, but what does that mean?" the other man asks. "What does… hey, you, cat, why are you listening in?" He turns, annoyed, and says. "What is she doing here?"

"Do'azda came to visit the gardens," she says, her voice calm and level. "She was looking at the sacred tree when she heard the arguing. She did not wish to disturb the Lords."

"Sacred? I suppose it is at that," the man said, and with a sigh he storms off towards a building to the east of the gardens.

Vignar nods at the Khajiit. "Good day, I shall not disturb your holy reflections any further." He looks a little sour, his face twisted up, but he hurries off, leaving just the guard.

Do'azda finally gets a better look at him. He's young and perhaps handsome, with golden-blonde hair and a thin, wispy mustache. "I do hope they did not disturb you. Is that truly why you came? If so, I shall leave, but you were looking… thoughtful."

"Do'azda would like to see a copy of the Jarl's decree, if it is possible?" She steps a little closer.

"Oh, right. You shouldn't worry, cat. The Jarl has always been a friend of your kind, and he will never allow his neutrality to mean that he'd do what the Stormcloaks want to do," the man says, with a soft, soothing smile.

He would, Do'azda reflects a little sourly, make a very good father. He knows how to speak in the voice one uses to reassure young children.

"You are safe in Whiterun."

Do'azda cannot live in Whiterun, she is not allowed even if she could afford a house.

"Do'azda is a shaman for her people, and thus would like to see a decree, if it is available," she says. She tries to keep her voice in the right modulation: polite but insistent.

"Ah, very well, there should be one over here at the guard station. We hand them out as need be. It's been a lot of work, enforcing them… a Shaman, huh. You must be a very good priest."

Do'azda does not bother to correct him, just follows along in his wake.

******

Be it decreed that, ever since the death of High King Torygg, Whiterun and its Jarl have supported the just claims of Elisif against those of Ulfric, whose duel against the High King was in several ways improper. Being loyal Imperial citizens, Whiterun has opened up its coffers, arms, and hearts to the cause of the High Queen.

But recent Imperial actions against Ulfric have made it impossible for this to continue. The matter in Skyrim is an internal affair, and to bring in a foreign army is to break the oaths and bonds which bind our lands together. We shall not take the path of Falkreath, where word has come that they have defected to the banner of Ulfric, called Stormcloak. But nor can we support the Empire directly as long as their Legions fight this civil war.

Therefore, Whiterun declares itself neutral ground. There will be no fighting between Stormcloaks and Imperials within the Jarldom, and armed bands will not be allowed, though individual Imperials and Stormcloaks may visit the city if they wish and all exiled Thanes are to return at once to the city.

Whiterun shall trade only food and peaceful goods with both sides, and shall stand neutral and secure until the trouble has passed.

Be this decreed, in the name of the Nine Divines, by Jarl Bagruuf, Second of His name, on Morndas, 18th of Last Seed, 4E 202.

******

There's a little time before she has to leave the city, since the sun has not yet set. She can quickly visit somewhere:

[] The Temple of Khenarthi, who Imperials call Kynareth themselves, which is just off the garden and clearly associated with that magnificent tree.
[] The Companions Hall is also nearby, a curious building like an upturned ship, where apparently warriors and mercenaries go to spar… and to recruit, though Do'azda's skill with a dagger is not nearly good enough for her to qualify.
[] Go to see the front of the Jarl's palace and residence. Getting in for an audience… probably won't happen at this late hour, but she could ask about it in the future.

As for the Hunt… does she use magic right off the bat?

[] Yes, it would be good to hearten everyone and raise their spirits.
[] No, save it for if there's a problem.

Rahjin Out?

[] Yes, he can help scout.
[] No, he needs to sleep.

Does Sha'ki come?

[] Yes, they can keep her safe and perhaps it would help her peace of mind to see the Skeevers dealt with.
[] No, she can stay behind, it might be bloody and could be (slightly) dangerous.

*****

TL AN: The Jarl's very clever plan to declare neutrality after having supported the Empire cannot possibly backfire.

VM AN: Lots of things occurring in Whiterun, but its fine. Its fine. Large bands of angry violent young men are gathering in the same place with no outlet but it'll be fine, presumably.

The Hunt

Long ago, before Cyrodiil was anything but a trackless jungle, even before the chicken had lost her last scale, there was a Khajiit named S'raska Swift-hearted, so called for his ever-changing moods. S'raska was a bad cat, and disrespected the Gods and caused trouble, running from one disaster to the next without stop all across Elsweyr. Along the way he angered each of the Gods in turn, except one.

Khenarthi, the Gatherer of Souls and Waters, the Great Hawk of the Wind, loved him, for he traveled far and wide, seeing many waters and many skies in his quest to avoid the consequences of his actions. And so when the other Gods said they should punish him, she said, "It causes no lasting harm, and he is amusing. Are my littermates really so angered by one little cat?"

But one day, he came to a sacred stream belonging to Khenarthi. It was the rule that one could only use it to travel and water crops, and that bathing in it could only be done one night a year under the full moon. The Khajiit who lived in the area were pious, and Khenarthi had provided a well anyways, a spring of water pure and clean with which they could bathe without disturbing the stream, one of several sacred streams that exist into this day.

But S'raska laughed at the 'jokes' of the Khajiit who refused to take a refreshing bath in the stream, and not only jumped in himself but pushed several of them in, laughing and joking and saying, "S'raska the Swift-Bather thinks you need it." And indeed, he was only in the bath for a minute when the waters turned scalding, but only for him.

Khenarthi was infuriated, for she had kept the waters clear for a reason, and within this small stream great things were meant to be created: fish that could fly in the open air even better than fish could back then, and who could swim along the currents of the skies to send messages. But S'raska's presence had corrupted that, and forever more they would instead be catfish.

In a fury, Khenarthi appeared before him, screeching in the language of hawks.

"S'raska does not understand you," he declared. "S'raska speaks as cats do, and not as bird-brains do."

And so she spoke in his mind, with a voice that had all the power of the winds behind it. 'You who have wandered and defiled must wander and create. If you do not plant a hundred seeds in a hundred different towns, you shall die within a hundred days."

He gaped, and realized at once that he could not lie or run his way out of this, as Khenarthi gave him a magical bag that could not be discarded filled with the seeds of fruit trees.

In the bag were seeds for melons, marula, and indeed the dark, juicy plums that are today known as Raskas. Desperately he ran about, throwing seeds at random in each town he went into, but they did not sprout. He went to a Shaman for help, and the Shaman gave him a sacred tool… that is to say, she gave him a tool to help dig up the ground so as to better plant the seeds, and a pot which could hold water so that he could water them. And she told him many sacred pieces of lore, such as to not plant a tree too far or too close to a source of water, and that despite what S'raska thought, a tree could not easily grow in a cave.

In other words, she taught S'raska common sense, and he was transformed.

He now planted with greater confidence, though he still got in trouble and his adventures fill an entire volume. On the 100th day, he planted his final seed, and went up to a small hill, having brought fruit trees to flat Elsewyr. And he said, "I have done what you have asked. Can I have more seeds?"

For there was a sort of magic in planting and harvesting, and a magic too in getting to journey with a purpose. Everywhere he went, cats who knew he was soon to die--for Khenarthi was quite loud when angry--gave him drinks and encouragement as one would a dead cat walking. He was for once in his life welcome, for it is said that even his mother could not attend his birth.

She was surprised, and confused, but decided she might as well. She gave two-hundred seeds and said, "Plant them when you will."

But he said, "No. If S'raska has not planted two hundred seeds in three hundred days, then Khenarthi should kill this cat." She was baffled, and he explained. "It is best to have a reason, something to drive one on. Or this one will get lazy."

And so, he planted two-hundred seeds in three-hundred days, and three hundred seeds in four-hundred days, and he continued planting across Elsweyr until he was grey in the fur, and by that time regarded as so greatly wise that each and every one of his previous misadventures and crimes was now regarded as almost sacred. Khenarthi, though, had a problem. At the rate he was planting, by the time he died all of Elsweyr would be a jungle of fruit trees, and this would not suit many cats, for all that any sensible cat loved the fruits that had begun to sprout from the trees.

So she went to him, and she said, "S'raska, my most devoted, you should spread out, take these new seeds to where the Wood Elves lie, and these stranger seeds through the jungle, and further north and east and west and south, so that all the world may know better fruits, and so that Elsweyr might remain Elsweyr."

And he nodded, but said, "S'raska will be far from you. Might S'raska take clippings from the Great Tree on Khenarthi's Roost to plant?"

And that, Khajiit say, was the origin of not only all of the edible fruits of the world, but also, it is said by some, those trees dedicated to Khenarthi such as the Eldergleam, and was thus the grandmother of the Gildergreen.

******

Do'azda is quite sure that this is not the story told in this Temple, but it seems to her entirely reasonable. Khajiit travel when they cannot stay home, and travel far. Still, she looks around the Temple to see how they worship Khenarthi up north.

The steps of the Temple are stone, with deep grooves worn by the feet of hundreds, thousands of pilgrims. The stone is so smooth it all but shines in the early evening sun, leading to the doors, blue paint bleached by the sun and peeling slightly.

It's quiet inside the temple, which brings Do'azda up short. Temples of Khenarthi - such as she has temples, for the Great Hawk of the Wind has ever been more worshipped in groves and shrines than in temples - tended to be alive, with springs and woodland pools, birds singing, small animals taking shelter…

Here, the room is bare of natural life, all sawn planks and thin, well worn rugs. A man lies in a cot, groaning faintly, blood beginning to stain a bandage around his stomach, whilst a woman is fetal in another, a bucket beside her.

It seems to Do'azda odd that a Temple to Khenarthi would be a place of Healing, but with no shamans, perhaps priests had been compelled to take their place? The temple was not a poor sickhouse; clean, well lit and well ventilated, not too hot or too cold.

A nord priestess prays quietly in the centre of the room, where a shrine to Khenarthi is positioned below the patterned stained glass of a skylight central to the temple, stylised akin to an owl.

"What purpose do you have in the Temple of Kynareth, child?" The voice is gruff, and Do'azda jumps. The man who spoke, a nord man in pale robes spattered with the dull brown of dry blood, raises his hands, palms up to reassure her he has no weapon. "Easy, child. I mean no harm."

"A traveler should always visit a Temple of Khenarthi wherever possible," Do'azda says. "But Do'azda also wished to ask about the Tree of Khenarthi outside." She thought of the grandeur of that tree. "It seems dead, yet there is still power in it. It resonates with the might of the Gatherer of Waters, though not the Heavens themselves."

"Ah, you are a Khajiit mystic?" he asked.

"Shaman," Do'azda says.

"You may wish to talk to Danica, the Priestess. She is very wise in the ways of Kynareth, and she wishes to talk with pious travelers." He spoke slowly and carefully. "I am merely her apprentice, and a healer."

"Do'azda does not have much time, but she can talk to Danica." She is just peeking in, and in a few minutes at most she needs to head back down to the gate if she wants to leave in time for sunset. She doesn't want to get in trouble.

"Acolyte Jenssen, Isgrid seems to be waking up?" The Priestess says, her voice tinged with exhaustion as she rises to her feet. "I would see to her, but without Ahlam, I've worked my magicka to the bone…"

The man nods once. "I can give her a potion, and we'll see if she can keep it down?"

As he leaves, Danica turns to Do'azda. "A shaman? When did the Khajiit of Whiterun get a shaman?"

"Do'azda arrived only recently, and she came to see the Temple to Khenarthi and-" Do'azda pauses awkwardly. "The tree? She looks…"

Danica sighs. "The Gildergreen, yes. Each year, it dies in the winter and is revived in the Spring when the most pious heroes seek the Eldergleam to renew it. But with the war, there are no pious heroes not busy with bloodshed, and so the only sapling of the Eldergleam, the oldest living thing in Tamriel…"

"Excepting the Great Tree of Khenarthi's roost, of course?" Do'azda says before she can stop herself. Danica blinks, and her face shutters.

"I'm sure I wouldn't know what that is. The Eldergleam is recognised as the very oldest thing across the Empire, but perhaps in Elsweyr, they know better?" Danica replies, a touch of frost to her voice.

"Perhaps, or perhaps not. Do'azda apologises for any offence. It is growing late, she should perhaps get out of Whiterun, she has business outside the walls…"

"Will you be safe to leave the city? I can have Jenssen walk you out? I know awful things happen to your people after dark…" Danica says, concern on her face, their argument immediately forgotten. Do'azda can recognise this; Danica the woman may be angry Do'azda disrespected the Eldergleam, but Danica the priestess fears for Do'azda's safety. Do'azda must do the same, sometimes; separate herself as a person from herself as a shaman.

"Do'azda would… appreciate this, yes." She replies at last.


The hunters have gathered on Sha'ki's doorstep by the time Do'azda arrives, with the sun sinking below the horizon at her back.

Nahrazad the Alfiq sits primly on the step, her tail flicking a little. A red bandana is tied neatly around her neck but no weapons or armour. Sinir and Ra'zaym argue quietly - Sinir is encased in iron armour; bands of iron strapped to furs, a crossbow on his back and an iron sword on his belt, whilst Ra'zaym hasn't changed out of his dark leathers, but he's strapped a dagger on each hip and a bow to his back.

"Ra'zaym does not understand why-"

"Does Ra'zaym have no conscience? Does he care so little for other cats?"

"Ra'zaym is here is he not? Perhaps Sinir should be kinder to him, no?"

Bari is rubbing the bridge of her nose with her fingers, frustration visibly emanating off her. Leather straps crossing her chest, and a dull iron pauldron is strapped above her left shoulder, Bari looks almost the spit of the mental image one would hold of a Khajiit Hunter.

Sha'ki stands to one side, fidgeting slightly as she watches the hunters argue. Seeing Do'azda approach, her eyes light up.

"Shaman! Did you tell these hunters to come to my house? They said they were here to hunt the skeevers?"

Do'azda nods. "I thought it would be best to have some help?"

"Ah, the shaman returns. Did she find what she was looking for in Whiterun?" Bari interrupts. "Bari has brought her apprentices to deal with these skeevers, we were just waiting for the shaman before we went, in case there is anything she can do to make this easier?"

Everyone looks to Do'azda expectantly, and she looks down, abashed by the attention.

"Do'azda can give confidence in victory, if any need it, and she can send Rajhin ahead to watch the skeevers, but beyond that, she has only her dagger and claws."

Nahrazad steps daintily down onto the road, preparing to begin. "Nahrazad has no need for confidence from the shaman, she has enough of her own. Perhaps Sinir would care for some, in addition to the metal he straps to his body?"

Bari sighs as Sinir bristles. "Bari thanks you for the offer, shaman, but unless Sha'ki would like, she doubts any of her apprentices will admit to needing confidence. Do'azda ought to cast the spell, all the same."

Sha'ki's eyes go wide. "Sha'ki is invited to come along? She thought it was perhaps too dangerous?"

"Nahrazad is sure Sha'ki would rather see the skeevers slain, no? She will have such fine hunters to protect her, and the shaman too,"

"Do'azda agrees. Sha'ki will be safe enough. She would offer Ka'hasa the opportunity too, but the children should not be alone."

Sha'ki nods, a little eagerly. She heartens to see them all, and Do'azda can guess what she's thinking. She can't have thought that her worries would see such a team gather to solve them. They all move closer and she raises her hand, praying in her mind:

S'rendarr gladden our hearts for the hunt to come. Let us not falter in arm nor mind. Keep us from Sheggorath's grasp.

Do'azda gasps as the spell takes hold. In her mind's eye, tiny motes of light affix to the bodies of her companions, and their backs straighten, the tension leaves their shoulders and an easy confidence fills the air.


"Nahrazad is eager to begin the hunt," Nahrazad says grandly to Sha'ki as she climbs onto the Cathay-Raht's shoulder and curls up incongruously. "She is a skilled hunter, does Sha'ki know this? She must know this. Nahrazad brings pelts without a mark on them! No other can hunt like Nahrazad! Is Sha'ki not impressed by Nahrazad's many skills?"

Sha'ki grunts noncommittally, her attention wholly captured by the danger of the task she has agreed to, but Nahrazad pays no mind, bragging quite happily until they reach the streambed, and the skeevers.

By this point, Do'azda has almost recovered from the casting of the spell, but she doubts still that she will be of much magical aid.

Rajhin wheels lazily overhead, and Do'azda's eyes flash as she borrows his sight.

Two skeevers are tugging on something white that flexes a little as they yank it to and fro between them, as though it were cloth or leather. A handful of others are idle on the escarpment on the approach to their nest - three of them are asleep, curled up together almost in a ball, whilst another sluggishly scavenges, having only just awoken. As Do'azda watches, another slips out of a nest right by the city walls.

"Do'azda can see 7 skeevers, but they are still waking. One awake by the escarpment, three more asleep near it, and 3 awake further in." Do'azda says, her voice distant and far away.

"Undoubtedly more are asleep in the burrow," Ra'zaym notes sourly, "And will awaken soon enough, be sure of it."

"Nahrazad shall kill the skeever by the entrance, so her clumsier comrades can sneak up on the sleeping skeevers. Nahrazad is an expert on hunting smaller creatures like skeevers." Nahrazad says, her green eyes sparkling. "Perhaps Sinir and Ra'zaym should watch her, to see if they can learn?"

For all her braggadocio, Nahrazad is exceptionally good at stalking, disappearing into the darkness, visible to Do'azda only through Rajhin's eyes.

A flicker of motion as the alfiq leaps, a flash of tooth and claw, a curious crackle that fades to a low hum, and then the faint smell of ozone. Rajhin sees Nahrazad detach herself from the neck of the - now quite dead - skeever, and disappear back down the streambed.

One sleeping skeever raises its head a little, but whilst Do'azda has been distracted, Ra'zaym and Sinir have made their way closer. An arrow tears into one skeever as a crossbow bolt hits another. The last of the skeevers near the escarpment lets out a screech of alarm before anyone can stop it.

The two skeevers atop the hill drop the scrap they were fighting over as three more skeevers boil out of their nest and rush towards the noise.

Bari snarls in irritation, drawing a moonstone dagger in her right hand as she positions herself in front of Sha'ki, who yelps in fear.

A skeever leaps from the darkness, and Bari's hand darts out. Blood spatters across the streambed and the skeever scurries into the darkness.

Rajhin dives towards the wounded skeever, and Do'azda withdraws from his mind, mindful of the dangers of vertigo in a fight such as this.

Without Rajhin's view, Do'azda finds herself squinting into the darkness as she slinks forwards, clutching her axe in her hands.

In the dim half-light of dusk, she sees flashes of her comrades - Nahrazad stalks through the undergrowth, her claws crackling a brilliant white, Sinir a one-cat stampede of iron as he hacks around himself, surrounded by a mass of skeevers, so tightly packed that Do'azda cannot see where one ends and the next begins, Ra'zaym darts across her path, daggers red, his mouth twisted into an angry snarl - but she can't be sure how they fare.

Turning to see how Sha'ki is handling things, Do'azda almost trips over a skeever as it launches itself out of the burrow. Only the fact that the skeever itself did not seem to expect her presence allows her to avoid injury, and she hits it with her axe before she thinks about it, almost pinning the skeever to the ground with the force of the blow. Hot stinking blood covers the haft of her axe, and it almost slips from her grasp.

The sound of fighting has almost ceased, and Do'azda adjusts her grip, staring into the darkness. A moment passes, and then another.

"Shaman? Is the shaman well? Bari will be in such trouble if she has allowed the shaman to come to harm…" Bari's voice comes out of the darkness, a little pained.

"Do'azda is well, yes! She has found the skeevers' burrow?"

"Have a care, shaman. There'll be more inside." Bari warns, "Hold tight until I get there. Nahrazad can watch Sha'ki. Sinir, Ra'zaym, with me."

The hunters quickly settle in around the burrow, talking in hushed, hurried tones of whether to set a fire atop the burrow, or poison, or water… They seem confident they will be able to eradicate whatever is left, and Do'azda is no hunter; she is a shaman. Where she cannot help with the matter of hunting and burrows and the like, she can at least find what brought the skeevers so close to town; it is unusual for skeevers to be so near the walls of a city; had she not dealt with this, eventually a skeever would've gotten into the city itself and the whiterun guard would've wiped out the nest. Ka'hasa's children may have gotten sick, and Sha'ki's dog could've been eaten, but at least the Nords wouldn't have to see a skeever in their back alleys.

Do'azda leaves the hunters to their work, making her way back towards Sha'ki and Nahrazad. Skeever bodies are strewn wherever she looks, and she counts a dozen before she sees something white - the skeevers had fought over it, before the assault distracted them.

At first, Do'azda thinks it is leather, but as she draws closer, she sees it is a rind - the tough skin and outer fat of a pig's belly. How does such a thing get here? Frowning, she hurries back to the stream. A pig's trotter rots on one bank, chewed to a wretched ruin. The grass around the stream is discoloured in places, and smells foul, of yellow and black biles. The contents of organs, now eaten? Perhaps a pig drowned in the stream?

There's more the higher up the stream she goes - the snout stuck in the mud here, the tail trapped between these rocks, constantly wafting in the stream's flow, another trotter there… But the true mass is found right up by the wall, where a mat of bone and sinew has compacted itself against the grate in the wall that the stream flows out of. Did a pig fall into the stream within Whiterun? Get washed down into the bowels of the city, flung against the grate and slowly drowned, all whilst skeevers worried at its still living body? Do'azda shudders. She hopes it died swiftly, at least.

Still, cleared out though the skeevers may be, enough carcass remains to surely attract more in time.

But it's getting very dark now, and no skeevers will move in overnight. Perhaps she ought to call it a night? Return to Ka'hasa's for dinner and to give her the good news, and then return in the morning to clear the carcass away?

[ ] Better to finish off tonight. Do'azda will clear away the remains and have them burnt tonight, that their ash might be taken up by the Goddess Noctra, vagabond ward of Azurah.
[ ] It grows late, and it grows dark. Do'azda will do a more thorough job in the morning, she is sure, and she will commit the ash to Khenarthi, that the animal might recall the freedom they lost.

TL AN: Vet did the fight scene for this one, and did it very well. I was really busy, and wrote just the myth at the start and some of the dialogue.

VM AN: I liked the myth here. Exploring Khajiiti religion is quite a bit of fun, honestly? Though at some point I suppose I'm going to have to work out what "Riddle'thar" is, exactly.