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The Noises That Startle You In Your Sleep

A cold, silent blanket lay over the desolate landscape of Western Skyrim by means of snowfall. The darkness ate any living creature alive, confining them to its isolation, like it held them from making a noise. Even the many trees decorating the forest seemed not to abide by the winds, stoic and unmoving in their stature. Al'khajir's footsteps were bound to this same fate, each careful movement mute as the snow inhaled even the slightest sound. The tracks left behind were the only signs of life in the lethargic terrain.

The Khajiit held a coat much too big for him close as he trekked along, eyes heavy as they scanned back and forth, back and forth. His toes were numb, tail tucked beneath the long fur coat, fingers pressed to his chest. His eyes stung as the occasional breeze thrust frozen flakes into his face and up his nostrils; a deep, unforgiving frigidity spreading from his lungs and into his limbs. He was a stranger to this environment; a friend to the darkness, but unfamiliar with the cold that came with it. The only thing keeping him truly warm were thoughts of the warm Elsweyr sands, imagining the soft minerals beneath his toes as he walked along. He tried to imagine the cold, snowy breezes as hot air and sand blowing in his face. Occasionally, he could swear it almost worked, before the nip of frost would reel him back into reality.

Al'khajir prayed in thanks as the Moons above provided their dim light to help guide his path. He didn't want to ask for too much, but hoped Jone and Jode would return his request and guide him somewhere safe to rest until sunrise. He had been travelling for what felt like an eternity, returning from some temple that contained an artifact of high demand from his employer – a relic he felt heavy in his satchel below the coat. It was some sort of statuette depicting a woman, constructed of precious metals and embedded in gemstones. Al'khajir did not know the importance nor did he care to know. He was more concerned with the payment, a hefty sum; though, each step further into the vicious environment made the price feel less and less worth his endeavour. Still, he trekked along – it was not like he would find a magical warm oasis anywhere close to the desolate front of Skyrim wilderness.

Jone and Jode would heed Al'khajir's prayers as the Moons rose to ascertain it was the middle of the night. Ahead, he could see the faint outline of a camp: Two tents, a makeshift firepit, hopefully some bedrolls... and no occupants. As he drew closer, his wishes were fulfilled; a fortunate night for the Khajiit. He could see no signs of life, not a footprint in the snow. Crouching low, a hand emerged from beneath the coat, feeling the charred coals in the firepit. Just as frozen as the ground they lay upon. Satisfied it was abandoned, he checked inside the tent next. There wasn't much to behold aside from a blanket, an empty mug, and a forgotten pair of sabatons. He inspected the mug, the little mead at the bottom seeming to have frozen long ago. The blanket, tossed towards the back of the tent, smelled of sweat. A hunter's camp, presumably. Although it had an odor, the blanket was more importantly dry, and could be used as insulation.

Unceremoniously, the Khajiit collapsed to the ground, relieved he could finally rest. He spared no time wrapping the blanket around himself tightly, starting with his numb feet and working his way up. He pulled the blanket almost entirely over his face, only leaving a small opening by his mouth as not to suffocate himself in its folds. Lifting it up one more time to scan his makeshift resting place, he felt satisfied, laying back on the frozen ground to sleep.

**

Voices. At first, Al'khajir thought he was dreaming, but the tight grasp of the cold asserted him in reality; he never dreamed of being frozen. His eyes shot open as he sat up, heart pounding in his chest. His muscles seemed to thaw as they tensed, a careful hand breaking free of the blanket and reaching up to his hood, movement intentional as he lowered it. His ears twitched as he tried to locate the source of the voices. Finally, they found it. Adjusting his head to the right, he listened as the voices gradually grew nearer. Deep, gruff, rambunctious, loud. It was as though they had no regard for the quiet serenity of the environment. Along with the voices, he saw orange light: Faint, flickering with the wind. And drawing closer with the voices.

Al'khajir knew he only had a moment to act. He scrambled in the blanket, silently cursing himself for how tightly it was wrapped around his legs. Pulling a blade free from his side, he sliced the blanket between his legs, kicking his legs free. He threw it to the side, his arms retreating into his coat. The relic was still in his satchel, he had his blades... Quickly, he stood, reaching to pull the hood over his head as he made his way out of the tent.

As his eyes rose, the Khajiit realized the silence of the night had returned, uninterrupted by voices, only broken by the quiet crackling of flames kicking in the wind. At the entrance of the tent, his eyes met those of three Orcs, all staring down at him. All three double his size. The one in the middle could nearly be thrice – His arms were as thick as Al'khajir's torso. In his right hand he loosely held a large warhammer, studded with spikes on all sides. The Orc to the right was wider than he was tall, and wearing what Al'khajir thought to be far too little given the temperature: Fur pants and boots, but just a strap and vest adorning his torso. Perhaps his weight insulated him. Finally, the Orc on the left, who bore the torch. He had the same thick, bulky build as the tallest Orc, but was at least a head shorter. In his nose was a large, heavy ring, one Al'khajir could only imagine as being uncomfortable hanging from his face; it even appeared to have frost on it.

For a brief moment, all was tense, the light flickering between the four's eyes as they stared each other down. A slow, unnerving smile crept along the tallest Orc's smile as he put a hand on his hip. Finally, the same Orc broke the silence.

"Well, it's not a sabre-cat, but it'll do."

Not another moment passed before the movement began. The fat Orc reached a grubby hand out to apprehend Al'khajir, who was all too quick to dive between the tall Orc's legs, his feet kicking up snow as he lept up and tried to sprint away. His legs swiftly kicked out in front of him, however, and he snapped his head back to see the torch-bearer had driven his spear into the back of the oversized coat as it dragged behind him. Frantic, Al'khajir emerged from the jacket like a caterpillar from a cocoon, falling forward as his hands slid in the snow in front of him. He skittered as he wasted no time in sprinting away, the sounds of mocking laughter close behind as the Orcs gave chase, excited for a hunt.

Adrenaline pumped through Al'khajir's veins as he ran between the trees, dodging rocks and bushes as they seemed to materialize in the darkness before him. He heard the fluttering of a bird's wings above as he disturbed the environment. The torch light from behind outlined the Khajiit's shadow, which ran in front of him. Wincing as he heard the clanging of metal on metal, he turned his head for just a brief moment to see how close his pursuers were – meters. Turning his head back forward, he was met with an unfortunate circumstance: He was running with too much speed, and there was a sharp drop just before him.

Al'khajir grunted as his blunder caused him to fall heavily on his side, sliding and then rolling over icy rocks before landing in a soft bed of snow at the bottom, against the trunk of a tree. He unceremoniously twisted around, trying to dig his claws into the bark to help him up; however, the wood was too cold and hard for his claws to grip deeply enough. All too soon, the Orcs had slid down behind him, their boots more appropriate for the icy texture of the rock Al'khajir had fallen down. With his back against the trunk, he knew that running in the endless winter woodland was not in his favor: He would have to fight.

The first Orc to arrive was the one with the nose-ring, reeling his arm back and unleashing the spear as his feet hit the snow. Al'khajir dodged to the left side, landing in some brush as the spear thwacked against the hard bark. Close behind was the tall Orc, who raised his hammer high above his head. Al'khajir froze for a moment, carefully for the movement of muscle as the Orc started swinging it down. Rolling in the snow to his right, the hammer slammed down into the fauna where the Khajiit's head was just moments before; Al'khajir did not focus on this thought, instead eyeing the fat Orc arriving last who stumbled as he transferred his weight too far forward as he descended. Taking advantage of this, Al'khajir leapt to his feet and lunged forward, pulling his blades free from their sheaths in midair and making a precise slash at the Orc's ankle.

The Orc swore as the blade sliced through the furs protecting his leg and left a shallow cut on his ankle, dropping to one knee. Al'khajir turned to face his assailants with both blades raised defensively in front of him, his stance low, stepping back. Nose-ring dropped the torch in the dry brush, quickly igniting and lighting the scene. Al'khajir knew he had to play to his advantage in the dark, being a Khajiit he could see much better in the dark than the Orcs; otherwise, he did not have many advantages in this doomed battle.

By now the tall Orc had reeled back his hammer and let out a ground-shaking warcry, charging forward with the hammer held low for a powerful swing. Again, Al'khajir held his ground, timing each stomp in the snow until the hammer was being swung at full force towards his torso. Leaping up, he managed to jump over the swing, vaulting the Orc, who continued forward with the weight of the hammer. The Orc’s feet found a thick root hidden beneath the snow-covered ground, causing him to fall forward with another quaking thud. Al'khajir maintained his momentum, landing with feline grace and continuing towards the fat Orc who was still hoisting himself up. Taking advantage of his lack of armor, Al'khajir held the two blades close together as he sliced across the Orc's side, rolling over his back in one swift movement. The Orc cried out as his flesh was cut, immediately reaching down with one hand to hold the cut as the bitter frost nipped at the open wound. With his free hand he reached for Al'khajir's legs, instead finding his tail as he continued running at the third Orc. His fist tightened around the tail and yanked, causing Al'khajir's feet to slip out from underneath him, landing on his back and dropping his blades to his sides.

Nose-ring approached with his spear raised high, prepared to make the killing blow as Al'khajir scrambled to defend himself. Before the spear could be thrust down into his chest, Al'khajir flicked his arm as if he were protecting his face. The quick movement would send a knife flying from his sleeve and into the shoulder of the arm holding the spear. The Orc roared and stepped back, taking a moment to rip the blade out and throw it to the ground. Al'khajir took this moment to grab his two blades, spinning onto his side as he had successfully slowed the attack to a point where he felt he could successfully escape. His eyes barely made it to their right peripheral before the hammer made contact with his face.

**

Consciousness was hard to come by for a while. All Al’khajir could feel was cold. The murmur of voices. A splitting pain in his head every time he tried to open his eyes. He wasn’t entirely sure if he was dying, or already dead. If he was, he certainly wasn’t being greeted by Khenarthi. The only breath he could feel were the cold winds of Skyrim. Eventually, though, he felt at rest; trying to allow the pain to subside, he succumbed to somnolence.

What Al’khajir first noticed was the numbness in his toes fading. He stirred ever so slightly, trying to open his eyes. As his lids attempted to rise, a burning pain unmasked itself in the right side of his face. He could feel his eye was swollen, along with his cheek and nose. He ran his tongue across his teeth; everything tasted metallic, but all of his teeth were there. The fur on his face felt tacky, pulling at the flesh below with any movement of his mimetic muscles. It took him a moment to remember what had occurred prior to this… The Orcs.

Armed with just his left eye, he slowly began to examine his surroundings, vision blurred. Directly ahead of him he could see a campfire crackling, revealing the source of heat that satiated the numbness in his limbs. Sitting around the fire were the Orcs, conversing over what looked to be venison spit-roasted over the open flame. They paid no mind to the feeble Khajiit, too focused on whatever topic they were barking at each other about. Each shallow breath he took revealed itself with a faint cloud of vapor in front of his face.

Taking the moment to himself, he tried to evaluate his situation. Upon trying to reach up to touch the wound, he found his arms were bound at his sides, a rope tied around his waist. Trying to move his legs, he found he was also bound at the ankles. The cold, tickling sensation of snow made itself known wherever there was a gap in his attire; particularly, where his coat – not the original oversized one, but the one he wore beneath – met his pants. Al’khajir safely made the assumption he had been dragged here. As his vision began to focus, he spotted his blades shining in the dim light of the fire, sitting beside one of the two tents. As his assessment of the situation came to a conclusion, one of the Orcs – the tall one – seemed to take note of his consciousness.

“The kitty is awake!” He announced to the others, who both immediately turned to check on their new hostage. Al’khajir could barely manage a grunt as he tried to kick, the movement enough for the bonechilling cold to present itself to him, causing him to shiver uncontrollably. The stinging pain of the wound on his face would be amplified with every gust of winter air.

“The little knife trick was good, cat.” Nose-ring rose, the snow crunching beneath his feet as he approached and crouched before Al’khajir. He reached out with a finger, lifting Al’khajir’s chin. The pain doubled, no; tripled, as he was handled. The Orc smirked and looked back at his companions.

“Should we tell him what we were thinking, huh? For being a rude, uninvited guest.” Noting the pained look on the Khajiit’s face, he gave his injured cheek a pat, which was met with a sharp inhale through the teeth as Al’khajir winced.

“Skin ‘im for his fur! Malacath knows it’s cold out ‘ere.” The fat Orc piped up, grinning at the thought. The tall Orc shook his head.

“No, no. He needs to suffer more consequences than a quick death,” the tall Orc mused, rising to his feet. “I’d cut off his limbs but I doubt he can feel ‘em by now. Wouldn’t do ‘im any good.” He approached, standing beside nose-ring. “What do you think, cat? You gonna miss a few fingers?” Al’khajir tried to shrink back, wholly uninterested in bartering over what form of torture he was going to endure. Nose-ring grabbed the ropes that bound his waist and yanked him closer, their faces just inches apart.

“I have an idea, but it should wait ‘til morning,” he growled, maintaining a threatening eye contact with Al’khajir, almost perplexed as he examined his swollen face. His breath stank of meat and mead. “After all, he is a cat. Would make a nice warm pillow to rest my head on,” he chuckled. Al’khajir couldn’t help but grimace at the implication, which seemed to entertain the Orc. He hoisted the Khajiit up to his feet, grip still tight on the ropes. Al’khajir’s knees nearly buckled as the pain shooting through his skull nearly incapacitated him.

“Aww, that’s no fun, Ogo. I wanted some entertainment with dinner before bed,” the fat Orc complained, speaking with his mouth full of venison. Fitting manners for his figure, Al’khajir thought to himself. Another tug on his bindings caused him to stumble forward, being guided along by this ‘Ogo.’ “Can’t you jus’ make ‘im scream a little bit? I wanna hear ‘im talk.”

Ogo seemed to consider this, rubbing his chin as he gazed at the fire. From behind, a hand reached out, grabbing Al’khajir by the throat and lifting him high above the ground. He was slowly turned to face the tall Orc, his jugular nearly being crushed by his grip as oxygen became a commodity.

“Yeah, kitty. Call for help. Go on.” Al’khajir was lifted above the tall one’s head by his neck, the dirty, broken nails digging into his fur. Looking down at his face, it resembled that of a nightmare: The shadows highlighting his features from the dancing flames gave him the appearance of some demon. The Khajiit grit his teeth, twisting in the air. The grip got tighter.

“What, cat got your tongue? Scream! Scream!” At this point, Al’khajir was certainly seeing stars if he hadn’t been already. Just as his vision began to fade, he was dropped to the ground, landing with a heavy thump on his side. He laid there limply, barely capable of even the slightest movement. The Orcs erupted in laughter at the Khajiit’s peril.

“Alright, alright. Come now,” Ogo wasted not a moment to lift Al’khajir back to his feet, forcing him along to the tent. “I’m tired, ‘n cold. I need all the sleep I can get.”

Al’khajir was dragged inside the tent and thrown down to the floor, face-down. He wanted to inch-worm away, but was faced with the tent wall blocking his path. The Orc bent down to position the Khajiit perpendicular to himself, flipping him onto his back. With what looked like a gentle tug for him, he ripped open Al’khajir’s coat, exposing the soft fur of his belly. His abs tensed as his fur was exposed to the cold. The Orc laid down, resting the side of his head against Al’khajir’s stomach, pressing his cheek into the fur.

“Better than the hard ground, eh?” Ogo laughed tauntingly at the Khajiit’s misfortune, pulling a blanket over himself as he got settled. “You got a big day tomorrow, cat. I suggest you get some rest too.” With that, Ogo closed his eyes, snoring within moments and leaving Al’khajir to wallow in his predicament.

Al’khajir stared up at the roof of the tent, unable to do much of anything. He feared if any movement could cause more suffering at the hands of the Orc. He kept his breaths shallow, hoping that if anything the Orc slept deeply. Assessing his options, he found that his arms were bound too tightly for him to even attempt to reach up and cut the ropes with his claws. Unbinding his ankles was a lost cause. Think, Al’khajir, think. Not moving his head, he looked down at himself. If he squirmed too much he was afraid it would wake the Orc. However… The bindings were over his coat, which was thick and fur-lined on the inside. He was much slimmer beneath the coat, slim enough to slip free of the bindings. If he was careful, perhaps he could almost compress himself closely enough to get his arms through.

Trying to keep his movements as small as possible, he began squeezing his arms tightly to his sides, compressing the thick layer of fur that lined his coat down. His eyes kept darting down at Orc, making sure he was fast asleep because micro-adjusting his shoulders from side to side. Lifting his head through the intense pain to try to stretch the fabric. Slowly, but surely, he felt the bindings seem to loosen around him. What portion of the moons he could see through the entryway of the tent seemed to shift every time he made some sort of progress. By the time he had compressed himself down enough to start raising his arms, the moons had made significant progress in the night sky.

Al’khajir watched Ogo slumber as he slowly brought his shoulders up, the ropes slipping past his elbows, his wrists… As his knuckles began passing through the tight bindings, Ogo shifted. Al’khajir held his breath, jaw clenched as the Orc turned his head, a thick string of drool hanging from a damp spot on the Khajiit’s stomach and between the Orc’s tusks. He buried his face in the damp spot with another growl of a snore. Al’khajir prayed to Jone and Jode to continue watching over him for just a few more moments as he planned his impromptu escape. Finally, his claws managed their way past the rope, and his movement was less restricted. He had to hold back a sigh of relief as he placed his elbows down on the firm ground he laid upon, slowly pushing himself up. Examining the rope around his ankles, it was surely too thick to cut with just his claws; the movement would certainly awaken the sleeping Orc.

His eye darted to the right, seeing his blades beside the dying fire. Just out of reach. The only way out of this situation was to hopefully take advantage of the Orc’s grogginess and cut the ropes before he could react, as whatever action he took now would be enough to stir him. Determined, he made the plan in his head, taking a moment to gather his nerves before acting. His shoulders tensed as he swallowed, taking a final glance at the Orc before digging his claws into the ice-packed dirt below, sliding himself toward the blades.

Ogo’s head made a soft thud as his makeshift pillow moved out of place, causing him to grunt and lean forward in confusion. The scene before him was a Khajiit slicing the ropes and freeing his legs with one blade, the other pointed directly at the Orc’s chestplate. His face scrunched with rage as he cried out angrily, the chestplate deflecting the blade with ease as he lunged at Al’khajir, hands first.

Al’khajir had already planned for this, however. Rolling to the left, Ogo would instead dive into the fire, screeching as the flames burned his palms. Al’khajir leapt to his feet, taking the brief moment before the other Orcs emerged from their tent to figure if he had everything. The relic. His satchel! Where was his satchel? He swivelled on his heel as he tried to find the bag somewhere in the dark campsite. As the tall Orc began revealing himself alongside the fat one from the opposing tent, he spotted the satchel sitting just within. There was no way he had been through all this not to get paid for his troubles now.

Rushing towards the two groggy Orcs, Al’khajir took it upon himself to slice at the knee of the fat Orc as he dove into the tent, grabbing the strap of the satchel and yanking its weight onto his shoulder – and more importantly, feeling the weight of the statuette inside. Fortunately, the Orcs had yet to stow any treasures, probably because they assumed the Khajiit was well and handled… They assumed wrong. As he spun around, he saw the fat Orc holding his knee and writhing in pain on the ground; this time, the blades had struck deep enough to prevent him from rising again, at least for the time being. The tall Orc, on the other hand, loomed over with a dark expression.

“Bad kitty,” he snarled, throwing a fist in the direction of the already-wounded side of Al’khajir’s face. The strike was slow, however, and Al’khajir managed to back out of the way before pushing through the two. He ran directly into Ogo, who was regaining his bounds, and flipped over him, somersaulting into the snow as he lost his footing. With a quick correction he stumbled into a sprint, again trying to evade pursuit. He put more distance on the Orcs this time, who scrambled for their weapons before following. Without making the blunder of looking back again, he sprinted into the night.

Al’khajir vaulted over a fallen log, chest burning from the cold air entering his lungs as he panted. He ran into a clearing, a large field only decorated with a thick layer of snow almost up to his knees. As he struggled to maintain speed from the resistance of the snow, a whoosh could be heard overhead, and a spear lodged itself into the snow directly in Al’khajir’s path. He whipped his head around to see the two Orcs, unaccompanied by the fat one, both entering the clearing with eyes ready to kill without second thought this time.

“Come back, cat!” He heard Oso’s voice cut through the night. “I need to cut your tongue out and make you a nice little personal servant back at the homestead!” The invitation was not at all enticing for the Khajiit. The Orc’s longer legs gave them the advantage in the deep snow, as it resisted them less. It would be all too soon until the taller Orc was upon him, the Khajiit’s smaller stature overwhelmed. The hammer came down in the snow, sending up a flurry of ice and flakes as it collided with the snow beside him. Al’khajir made sure to keep his tail close as he desperately waded forward, eyes set on the woods and lesser depth just up ahead. If he could cross the clearing, he was sure he could manage his escape.

The hammer came down again, this time grazing the back of Al’khajir’s leg. He could feel the swipe of a hand at his head, not managing to quite grasp his hood tightly enough to pull him back. The Khajiit looked over his shoulder, the tall Orc still looming over him; the next grab wouldn’t miss. As the large hand splayed forward at his face, Al’khajir swung his blade, almost tripping over the weight of the snow against his knees as he did so. This time, the blade made a sickening connection with the tall Orc’s hand, a clean slice through flesh and bone as it severed the tips of the Orc’s middle and forefingers. A spray of blood followed the swing, tainting the white snow in a trail of red. He cried out, collapsing in the snow as his uninjured hand came up to grab the opposing wrist, inspecting his new lack of extremities.

Behind him, Ogo paid no mind to his injured comrade, legs cutting through the snow at breakneck speed as he made his way to capture his prey, spear at the ready. The snow holding Al’khajir back began to resist him less, the depth becoming more manageable as he neared the trees. The presence of the final Orc loomed behind him as he struggled to make it, staring desperately forward as he drew closer. As he finally broke out of the field and his feet were no longer enveloped in the snow, the spear again pierced the ground before him, blocking his path. Al’khajir spun around all too late as the Orc tackled him, the two slamming to the ground and wrestling for control.

“I’m going to rip you limb from limb with my bare hands,” snarled Ogo, as he wrestled Al’khajir and attempted to restrain his limbs before doing the honors. This time, the Khajiit was more prepared for combat. Using his stature to his advantage now, he squirmed from side to side as he evaded each grab. Finally sliding out from underneath the Orc, he crawled backwards. Facing the enraged Ogo, every labored breath each took left a vapor before their faces. Ogo grabbed Al’khajir by the ankle, trying to drag him back. The Khajiit used his free leg to kick Ogo in the face, multiple times, stomping on the bridge of his nose with a crack. The relentless Orc persevered, pulling Al’khajir closer and closer until his neck was within reach.

The Orc’s fist clamped down on the Khajiit’s throat, squeezing as he gradually began crushing his jugular. Al’khajir choked, eyes watering as Ogo slowly rose, glowering at the Khajiit. He slammed him into the trunk of a nearby tree, bringing his face close.

“You think I’m scared of one little Khajiit? I’ve skinned foxes bigger than you,” he growled, with another slam into the tree. Al’khajir dropped his blades, reaching up to claw at the hand around his throat. He made desperate attempts to gasp for breath, kicking his legs at Ogo, which seemed to just bounce off of him with no regard. This was it, he thought. He was going to be torn apart in the freezing Skyrim by some feral Orcs and have his head paraded around on a stake.

“I wish you would just scream,” Ogo continued. “You really take the fun out of the chase. Cry for your mama. Beg for my forgiveness.” The grip continued to tighten as Ogo brought his face closer, the stink of his hot breath hitting Al’khajir’s face. “It really is a shame. I wouldn’t mind a nice soft petting cat to tend to my homestead. But I think Roggak would want revenge for that little move you pulled back there.”

Ogo looked down at the bloodied blade at his feet, kicking it away. Once again, Al’khajir could feel his consciousness fading as his lungs ran out of air, unreplenished. As Ogo looked down, the Khajiit made one final attempt to save himself. As the Orc looked back up, Al’khajir swiped his claws forward, digging into Ogo’s eyes.

With a roar he instinctively reached back to strike the digging claws away, dropping Al’khajir in the process. The Khajiit landed at the base of the tree, grabbing at his own throat as he gasped for breath. Not hesitating in the moment, one hand found the blade that hadn’t been kicked away, before he scurried back to reclaim the bloodied one. He then stood, holding them in front of himself defensively as Ogo keeled over, holding his face. He slowly looked up, cuts from the claws bleeding down his cheeks as he glared through a squint at the cat.

Al’khajir breathed heavily, continuing to retreat with careful steps backward. “...Please,” he gasped, his one eye full of desperation for the Orc to give up on the chase; the expression on the Khajiit’s face begged the question if it was worth it.

Ogo panted, maintaining his glare for a moment longer before lowering his head, one hand holding his face and the other supporting his weight as he gripped his thigh. Droplets of blood landed in the snow before him.

Taking this moment as his time to finally escape, Al’khajir turned tail and ran, not daring to look back another time. He knew if he were to be caught again, there was no escape, and thus no reason to check if he was still being pursued.

Although his body was sore, legs on fire from running, head splitting with pain, he kept on fleeing. His pace did not slow until sunlight began to light up the snow, brightening the labyrinth of Skyrim wilderness. Even then, he kept jogging, not wasting a moment until he finally came upon a path. As his feet met the man-made road, he stumbled, nearly dropping to his knees. Ahead was a small bridge over a river. Taking a moment to catch his breath, Al’khajir dragged his feet as he approached the running water. At the riverbank, he finally collapsed, his entire body shaking. From the cold, injuries, fear or otherwise, he wasn’t sure. But he shook uncontrollably, supporting himself on all fours as he rested for a moment.

After a long rest, Al’khajir glanced behind him, double checking that the Orcs no longer were behind them; alas, they were long gone, left behind in the woodland. He returned forward, reaching into the stream and splashing his face, scrubbing his fur of his own dried blood. As the water dripped down his chin, he looked at his reflection as the sunlight hit his face. His eye and cheek were swollen, and three deep cuts, presumably from the spiked warhammer, now decorated his snout. He reached up, feeling the deep wound with a wince as any pressure on it was means for an immediate sting.

Staring at his new appearance for a moment, his attention was only drawn away by the sound of a carriage on the pathway made itself known. The Khajiit looked up from the river, seeing the wagon approaching in the near distance. He stood, raising an arm to flag it down.