Chapter Text
Prompt: Elsewhere
“May your road lead you to warm sands…”
That was the last thing a Khajiit fighter heard as blood poured from the slit wound on his throat.
The phrase was more commonly spoken by Khajiit caravans and traders, as their farewell to travelers. But who was gonna stop Ranaakir from saying it? Even if his own trade was assassination, he still wished the departure of his victims to be full of warmth.
But just saying it usually wasn't enough. Warm sands weren't that certain, right?
But fire was.
Ranaakir stood quietly by the lit pyre. An empty bottle of skooma in hand. Skooma always filled him with warmth when the night—or day—felt cold and… isolated.
Ah, Elsweyr... filled with sand, dry rocks, hot air, and of course the skooma. Ranaakir would bless whichever bastard created such a substance. The thrill of it when taken during a job truly sent him to the moon and back.
“Another job well done. Another target burned. This one bled a lot compared to the previous target. Gives the air this scent of smoky blood!”
But he wasn't alone in his contemplation. A cat appeared next to him—messy grey mane and pristine purple clothes. It purred at the warmth of the flames. Its fluffy tail swishing against the dry sand.
“Yeah yeah, I know. This was getting boring though.”
“Of course it is! Or maybe it isn’t. You can find more fun jobs outside of this sandy lonely mess of a desert.” The cat grinned, a hint of mischief glinted in its eyes.
Ranaakir rolled his eyes at the cat's antics. This was his life, and it was as lonely as it should be. He had always survived the harshness of the desert alone.
“Hey, watch it. I like this place.” Ranaakir threw the empty bottle somewhere in the pyre.
“Yeah? But no one here seems to like you.”
Ranaakir's tail lashed in irritation at that. His ears flattened. His chest ached, as he growled and grumbled at the cat's words.
Because it was right.
He remembered the caravan elders flattening their ears whenever he spoke during his childhood. His Imperial-like speech patterns, his reckless nature, and the way he lurked quietly in the shadows unnerved most caravans.
“This one speaks like a smooth-skin,” one of them muttered once.
“Words stolen from Cyrodiil. No proper Khajiit talks that way.”
“Where was this child found? Reckless, unpredictable, unnerving.”
Ranaakir had tried to mimic it—“This one thinks…”—but it felt wrong, unnatural.
So he stopped trying.
They instead showed wariness and judgement. The other kits stopped playing with him. The adults stopped caring for him much. He learned early that he was too damned weird to belong—at least in Elsweyr, with the other tribes or caravans.
So he chose to live by himself.
“Shut up.”
To which the cat cackled in delight.
Regardless, he loved this place. He would miss the expansive desert, the heat on his ginger-colored fur, the grit of sand on his feet and claws, and he couldn't imagine himself leaving Elsweyr. Ever. But imagination, unfortunately, had to remain just that—imaginary.
Someone hired him to do a high-risk job one day; to infiltrate a place away from Elsweyr, somewhere in Cyrodiil. Perhaps his reputation preceded him? Perhaps they needed to keep their hands clean, hence hiring an outsider. They gave no specifics until he chose to accept the contract, which left him feeling conflicted. But the cat encouraged him to just go.
“This is an adventure of a lifetime, kitten! Even better with skooma!” it said in a gleeful tone, bright yellow eyes brimming with relentless energy.
Ranaakir thought about it. It wasn’t like anyone would have missed him if he were gone anyway, his ears drooped at the thought, and his tail wrapped around his own leg. He had no anchor, no permanent home, no family, no friends, only professional contacts and some other addicts.
But maybe… maybe someone in Cyrodiil would.
Maybe someone would notice him. Not to hire. But to be something more.
So with that in mind, he finally agreed to the proposition. The mission was to assassinate the Archbishop in the Imperial City. They said the Archbishop was a threat to the Emperor or something. He never understood Imperial bullshit anyway, and he didn't ask questions.
“Cyrodiil... Imperial City. Do they have skooma there? They better do.”