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Chapter 8 - Chapter 7

Chapter VII or Among the Cat People. Survival Lessons. A Farewell.

So, I was lucky enough to be adopted by Rasha's family. A special, warm, and welcoming Khajiit family!

And then... happiness and joy: sunny days filled with laughter, endless races through the grassy fields with my new brothers and sisters; strange-tasting food at first, but soon a world of unimaginable delicacies!

I slept among them, cradled in their soft, fluffy arms.

I played, laughed, and sometimes even fought with my new siblings.

On quiet, golden evenings, I would sit close, listening to our father Ra'ha's wonderful stories and mischievous jokes. Many nights, he would lounge among us, gently stroking their fur—or my hair—and planting tender kisses on our foreheads.

I remember our mother, Shaira, always watching from a shadowed corner, her sharp, yellow eyes softened by affection. Oh, she ruled us all with a firm hand—except for Rasha, her most beloved son, who could bend her will with nothing but a smile!

Those were the happiest days of my life, spent among that joyful and kind family that had embraced me as one of their own.

Now, as I write this, my mother and father, my brothers and sister—they are gone...

All of them. Vanished, as if they had never existed.

And yet, I still hope that as long as I live, my beloved parents and siblings are not truly lost.

I know their souls linger within me, struggling to be heard—in my tears, in my laughter, in my memories... even in the quietest whispers of my heart.

Back then, though, happiness—and especially acceptance—did not come easily to me.

I was deeply intimidated by the near-constant presence of that strange being, as I thought of her at first: my dear mother Shaira. Until then, I had never been so close to a Khajiit. Her yellow eyes, her soft fur, the swift, silent grace of her every movement—all of it unsettled me deeply.

As if that weren't enough, some of the many children from the family that had so gently, so unexpectedly taken me in would often sneak into my room. Our mother Shaira forbade it, of course—but you know how hard it is to keep a Khajiit from going wherever they please...

They were warm, curious, and full of kindness.

But I was like a cornered animal, shaped by a year of hardship.

And they... they were so different—and above all, far too gentle.

Their kindness frightened me.

Fortunately, I couldn't react as my instincts urged me to—I was too badly injured, my body broken by the dreadful beating I had endured.

So, I surrendered.

I let them care for me, wrap me in their warmth and tenderness.

At first, I did so reluctantly. But over time, their signs of love became like a much-needed drug.

I remember something funny—and telling. One day, our father Ra'ha brought a young Khajiit doctor to tend to me. Even now, I smile, remembering how our mother Shaira's eyes narrowed the moment they stepped inside—a silent warning, sharp as a blade. And Ra'ha? Ra'ha understood instantly; without a word, he turned and left, taking the doctor with him.

When he returned, he brought another physician — this time, a human, an Imperial citizen.

Throughout the time I lay helpless, tormented by the excruciating pain that tore through my body and soul, I was exceptionally well cared for.

I remember waking in the dead of night, crying out in agony—and Shaira was always there, soothing me with potions the doctor had provided. The little ones would bring me toys and sweets, while our father spared no expense on doctors and medicine. Their devotion was unwavering. Priceless.

Even now, after so many years, I still cannot understand what I ever did to deserve it!

However, my beloved Mistress Nocturnal might know something about this. But whenever I ask Her, She only feigns ignorance... and giggles shamelessly.

As I slowly recovered, I began to observe those who often visited my room.

First came my mother, Shaira—a middle-aged Khajiit, rather tall for her kind, slender rather than stout, and always carrying herself with an upright, commanding posture. Her hands, though firm, were skilled and comforting. Her eyes, sharp and watchful, held no malice—only the quiet authority of one who had spent a lifetime shaping the world around her.

Then there was Rasha.

He would often slip into my room, silent as a shadow. He never spoke to me—only sat and watched, his gaze steady and unreadable.

Sometimes, when Shaira wasn't looking, he would gently stroke my hair, letting it slide through his fingers.

Strangely enough, I was never afraid of Rasha—not even back then, when the swarm of kittens buzzing around me felt overwhelming.

That alone spoke volumes about him—and what was destined to happen between us.

Because anyone else would have feared him.

Rasha was young, cruel, strong, and rarely smiled.

Even his own family—except for Shaira—seemed to avoid him whenever they could.

There was something about him... something coiled tight beneath his skin, like a beast waiting to be unleashed.

But it was his eyes that struck me most: cold, unreadable.

Eyes like his, I would only see again many years later, far from this place—somewhere north of the Jerall Mountains...

Our father, Ra'ha, rarely visited while I was ill. Yet whenever he entered my room, I always recognized him by the lightness of his step and the warmth shining in his gaze.

As for my numerous brothers and sisters, I couldn't yet tell them apart. Some would leave sweets on my bedside table; others simply watched me from afar, their yellow eyes wide with curiosity.

Then, one day—a day when a terrible blizzard howled outside, rattling the windows of my room—I managed to get out of bed and take a few hesitant steps. From somewhere deep within the house came laughter, shouts, and exclamations of joy. But to me, any unfamiliar sound spelled danger—a lesson I learnt in the Imperial City's bowels.

Despite the dizziness clouding my thoughts, I slipped out of the room, softly closing the door behind me.

The noises seemed to come from below, so I began descending the wooden staircase.

The steps were steep and narrow.

Each movement was a struggle, but I couldn't stop.

I had to find out what was happening.

Who was making those sounds?

Why?

And if necessary... I would run. Hide. Try to escape!

With every step, the noises grew clearer, layering over the relentless howl of the blizzard outside.

Together, they formed a strange, unsettling symphony—one that set my nerves on edge, sharpening my instincts like a blade.

I pressed forward, devoured by terror—only to find myself, suddenly and completely, at the heart of one of the most exuberant family gatherings imaginable. As I would later learn, that day marked a major religious celebration for the Khajiit people: the Day of the Cat Mother, as they call Nocturnal—at least here, in Cyrodiil. Coincidentally, it was also our father Ra'ha's birthday.

I froze, hoping to slip by unnoticed, but that was impossible. A human, no matter how skilled or gifted, cannot sneak past a Khajiit—let alone an entire gathering of them, even when they are fully engrossed in one of their favorite pastimes.

The truth was, they had sensed me the moment I left my room.

Yet none of them reacted in any special way.

To them, I was already family, and the doctor had informed them I would soon be able to move around again.

As my dear mother Shaira would later explain, they saw my recovery manifesting on such an auspicious day as a good omen—nothing more.

But for me, it was an utterly shocking experience. Amid their joyous celebration, one of the smaller kittens turned toward me, his bright eyes gleaming with excitement.

"Look! The human cub is awake!" he shouted, then darted toward me with open arms.

Every head in the room snapped in my direction.

Under the weight of their curious gazes, I felt exposed. Defenseless.

Panic surged through me like ice water.

I was terrified.

My instincts screamed at me to run—to vanish into some dark corner and hide there until the danger had passed!

I turned sharply and tried to flee—but my legs gave way.

The room spun. Pain seared through my body.

And I collapsed onto the thickly carpeted floor.

My vision blurred, and just before unconsciousness took me, I dimly recognized the feeling of strong arms lifting me. 

Rasha. His presence, steady and unyielding.

Somewhere in the distance, I heard our mother's voice, sharp with anger—but the words melted into the haze of my mind.

Then—darkness.

When I awoke, I was back in my bed.

Rasha had carried me here—I knew that. He was there, looking at me with yellow, cruel eyes.

Rasha had been gentle... careful. Why?

Nebulous thoughts swirled through my fevered mind. And then, suddenly, I understood.

'Oh... it was Rasha. He cares for me. He always protects me!'

Then came the pain—sharp and relentless—followed by the fever, wrapping me in its smothering heat.

Moments later, Shaira entered, her expression unreadable as she began tending to one of my reopened wounds. A little while after that, Ra'ha appeared. His touch was featherlight as he stroked my hair, his warm, kind eyes watching over me.

But then, Shaira turned to them. She spoke—her tone calm, yet firm—and asked them both to leave. Ra'ha... and Rasha.

I tried to protest.

I wept.

In a broken whisper, I begged her to let Rasha stay.

Shaira merely patted my head, closed the door behind them, and then... she spoke again.

She said many things.

Her voice was steady. Unwavering.

But in my fever-ridden mind, only one message remained:

'You must not be afraid. No one—absolutely no one—in this house wishes you harm. And under no circumstances are you to leave this bed until the doctor sees you again.'

Then she brought me two large mugs of milk sweetened with honey.

The second one had a dash of sleeping powder mixed in.

Soon after, the world faded away once more.

Many days passed before I regained my strength.

Before my body—and more importantly, my soul—began to heal.

Shaira cared for me with unwavering devotion.

Her hands were skilled. Her will, unbreakable.

Ra'ha would visit occasionally, his voice warm, weaving jokes and short stories into the quiet air of my room. His kind smile was a balm for my weary heart.

Rasha came often. But, as always, he never spoke. He would simply sit there, his intense and cruel gaze fixed on me. And yet, somehow, his presence alone healed me more than Shaira's patient hands or Ra'ha's comforting words. More than their kindness. More than their warmth.

I felt as if I were drawing strength from Rasha's cold stare. Through all those long days, when everyone else surrounded me with tenderness, he never smiled.

Yet he was the only one I wasn't afraid of.

I vividly recall a bright winter morning when my body was nearly whole again.

It was Rasha's birthday, and the entire house buzzed with quiet excitement. I was still confined to my bed, but Shaira and Rasha came to sit with me, allowing me to share in the joy of the day.

Our mother brought a tray laden with treats, and under the golden light of the morning sun, my room filled with the rich, warm aroma of spices. The gentle sunlight, filtering through the window, wrapped me in its embrace, almost as tender as Shaira's healing hands. Drowsy, heavy-eyed, I drifted between wakefulness and sleep, lulled by the warmth, the scents, and the comfort of Rasha's presence.

And then, the peace of my room was broken by a soft, hurried sound—the pitter-patter of tiny feet darting across the floor. I turned my head just in time to see a very young Khajiit struggling to place a small, clumsily wrapped package on my nightstand. Slightly embarrassed, she gave me an awkward smile, and in that instant, I almost forgot my fear, captivated by the small gift and the adorable cub who had brought it. I smiled back and reached out toward her, but before I could utter a word, she vanished out the door like a tiny, graceful shadow, her cute grey tailwaving with a hint of worry.

In that fleeting moment, something stirred within me—a fragile, hesitant longing to stay. To belong among these strange, warm-hearted beings.

Shaira and Rasha were both watching me. She, visibly concerned; he, as cold and impassive as ever. But when they saw me smile—just a shy, uncertain smile—they suddenly burst into laughter.

"You should scold Elira, Mother," Rasha said, still laughing.

Oh, how rare it was to see him like that... I think it was the very first time I had the privilege of seeing Rasha truly happy. So young, so strong—and, for a moment, so kind...

"Her name is Elira? Could I play with her? Or at least talk to her?" I asked, my voice trembling with hope and fear.

They both sighed, the tension lifting from their shoulders. Shaira reached out and gently stroked my hair, her touch featherlight, her voice warm:

"Soon, little one. Soon you will talk and play with all the children in the house."

And then she smiled—oh, what a smile it was! Gentle, reassuring, as if she could see a wonderful future unfolding.

"Even the father might be willing to play with you," she added, a twinkle in her eye.

And she hadn't been exaggerating in the slightest. Our father, Ra'ha, was perhaps the most playful and jovial soul in the entire household. Alongside the little cubs, he played a tremendous role in healing my wounded spirit, mending my deeply wounded soul with laughter, kindness, and love.

But it wasn't easy.

The year I had spent alone in the sewers of the Imperial City and the habits I'd formed as a small predator surviving in an urban jungle teeming with all sorts of voracious hunters had left their mark. I had become wary, cautious, and always distrustful. And, truth be told... I'd also developed a rather troublesome habit: I liked to acquire things. Anything I fancied, really!

So once I could move around freely, I began sneaking into the kitchen to steal sweets.

But as I've already told you, dear friends, no human can sneak around unnoticed in a Khajiit household! They all knew about my nightly raids through the pantry stuffed with treats—every single one of them. Yet not a soul ever said a word. No scolding. No punishment.

Looking back, I can't help but laugh at how convinced I was that nighttime gave me the perfect chance to slip past Khajiit's senses!

One day, our mother Shaira gently pulled me aside and told me many things I hadn't known. She spoke at length about the Khajiit people, painting vivid pictures of their ability to move nearly unseen through crowded alleys, their unmatched agility, and—most impressive to me—their remarkable capacity to see better at night than in broad daylight.

Bursting with pride, I began boasting about my own sneaking skills, certain I could match theirs. Shaira smiled, stroked my hair, and offered a single piece of advice:

"Never try to outmatch a Khajiit in their own craft."

But old habits die hard.My former nocturnal life in a tough environment—the streets and the bowels of the great beast that is the Imperial City—had shaped me; hunger and fear had carved odd patterns into my soul. And so, even in this warm, generous home, I continued to take what I wanted—not out of need, and not because my siblings wouldn't share, but because the impulse had become part of me, as natural and involuntary as breathing.

Nocturnal, when She's displeased with me, calls me a sick woman in this regard... But I always laugh when I hear that, for She's far sicker in this respect than I could ever be! And Lady Luck knows that, but She loves to tease me!

With rare exceptions, my brothers and sisters—Nocturnal bless their warm and patient souls—never reacted angrily. Maybe because Shaira had forbidden them to lay a hand on me... or perhaps because of something else: Rasha.

Once, after one of my sisters caught me stealing her ring and gave me a well-deserved beating, Rasha stepped in. He said nothing at first—only stood there, watching, his eyes growing darker by the minute. In the end, cold and calm, he stated that from then on, he would kill anyone who touched me again.

Oh, I didn't feel safe. Not at all! I felt ashamed! Bitterly, deeply ashamed and from that day on, I tried—truly tried—to stop taking what wasn't mine. To be content with what my dear parents gave me.

I didn't succeed completely. But over time, this problem became less annoying for all of us because I rarely kept what I stole. It was enough to enjoy it for a day or two... then I would give it back or leave it somewhere to be found. So, eventually, my siblings grew accustomed to this nasty habit of mine and, with the typical and quiet tolerance felines often show toward less intelligent species, they allowed me to indulge my instincts without further comment.

As for my pantry raids... well, Shaira warned me often that eating too many sweets would make me sick.

Naturally, I didn't listen.

And one morning I woke up with such terrible stomach aches that I avoided sweets for weeks afterward!

Thus, in the end, despite the many difficulties caused by my temperament, my lingering habits, and my innate nature as a Nightingale, I fully integrated into the wonderful family that Nocturnal Herself had gifted me. By late winter, my body was healed, and for the first time since my arrival, I could join my brothers and sisters in the fresh snow that blanketed the Imperial City in its shimmering, icy mantle.

There is something uniquely delightful about playing with Khajiit cubs. Their energy seems endless, their joy contagious, and their movements... almost too graceful for this world! Watching them react to snow, however, was utterly amusing. While they adored it, as any carefree, well-fed child would, they also approached it with feline caution, flinching now and then when the cold crept under their fur. Because of that, our games often turned into playful battles—friendly skirmishes filled with laughter, tumbles, and sudden pounces. Far from mere amusement, they helped rebuild my muscles, which had weakened during my long illness.

So that when spring finally arrived, spilling warmth and color across the capital, it found me stronger than ever.

I was once again ready to face the streets of the metropolis. I longed for it—not just for the thrill of haunting and spying, or for the velvet hush of night cloaking my steps—but for something deeper, darker. Alongside my hunger for nocturnal prowling, thoughts of vengeance had begun to take shape in my mind.

To be fair, I must say that I no longer needed to steal or hide to survive. The family that had taken me in was generous, well-off, and kind. I could ask for anything I truly needed—and, more often than not, I would receive it. Yet despite all this comfort, I remained loyal to the habits I had formed in the dark.

So I began slipping out once more—wandering the streets of the capital beneath the twilight haze or starlit skies—my steps light, my senses sharp. I would always return just before dawn, collapsing into my bed as the household was beginning to stir.

My brothers and sisters were utterly baffled by my behavior; Shaira, on the other hand, grew more watchful. I'm quite certain she followed me more than once through the night-shrouded alleys of the Imperial City. And while she never confronted me outright, I think she found my little escapades intriguing and, at least to some extent, amusing, because one beautiful evening near the end of spring, she took me aside for a long conversation.

Our mother said many things—some gentle, some firm—but all spoken with great care. Then she decided that, given my habits and instincts, I was old enough to begin learning certain things that would serve me well in the years to come. She also made it quite clear that my nightly adventures needed to stop, at least for a while.

Oh, there was no arguing with Shaira! My beloved mother was used to giving orders—and even more so to seeing them obeyed! So, despite my laziness and stubbornness, I found myself adopting the schedule she imposed on me, starting the very next morning.

My first lessons came directly from Shaira herself. First, my dear cat mother taught me how to move unseen—how to melt into the shadows or dark corners as if I had never been there at all.

Ah, that part was a little rough for me, because she treated me just like one of her own kittens. Every time I got distracted or wasn't diligent enough, she would nip me or give me a sharp little scratch—a swift, unmistakable reminder to pay attention. I feared but didn't resent that—on the contrary, I began to admire her. There was something both fierce and graceful in the way she moved, in the way she taught—like a creature shaped by instinct but refined by discipline.

She also trained me in hand-to-hand combat, particularly in the art of using claws. Yet here she was gentler, always wearing padded gloves when sparring with me. And when she decided I was ready, she presented me with a beautiful pair of steel claws. After giving me a few playful taps with them, she looked me straight in the eye and said, with a stern voice:

"Never wear these when playing with your brothers and sisters."

It did not sound like a threat. Oh no! It was a rule, a new one for me, and in our house, Shaira's rules were sacred.

My beloved brother, Rasha, took it upon himself to teach me knife fighting. 'A knife is a dangerous weapon in the hands of someone who knows how to use it,' he explained, his voice calm as ever. 'Against street thugs, it's more than enough. Most humans and elves fear the knife—sometimes, just showing it is enough to make them run.' Then, after a long pause, he added, 'But don't rely on it against any Khajiit. They are much quicker than you.' And finally, 'It's useless against armored foes.' After that, he taught me the finer points of dagger fighting—subtle wrist movements, misdirection, precision—and eventually took me to an archery range, where he paid for my first lessons with a crossbow.

Ah, how heavy that ugly thing felt in my arms!

But I was determined to learn, and Rasha, ever silent and watchful, stayed by my side through it all.

Our father, Ra'ha, joined the training in his own way. He taught me a few tricks about lockpicking and shared some rather amusing tips on snatching coin-pouches from drunkards and daydreamers alike. But while my mother's and brother's skills were honed to near-perfection, dear old Ra'ha was... well, just a bit clumsy in these particular arts. More than once, he stood blinking in disbelief as I picked simple locks faster than he could explain the theory. So, in the end, it was agreed that I should continue refining those skills on my own — a decision I welcomed with quiet, secret delight.

It didn't take long before my apron's little front pocket began to jingle with the first few coppers I had earned using nothing but my own hands and wits. Bursting with pride, I rushed to the sweet stall at the corner of our street and spent every last coin on an enormous assortment of candies.

And, of course, I shared them with all my brothers and sisters.

Because by then... I truly felt like one of them!

Ah, I was now able to wander agilely and fearlessly through the streets of the capital, even in broad daylight! From those days onward, I formed a habit I've never quite abandoned: I always carried a knife, hidden in a sheath strapped to my left leg; oh, I think I forgot to mention, dear friends—my most skillful hand has always been the left one. Later, however, in a faraway land where the tropical sun scorched the soil and skin alike, I learned to fight with equal ease using both hands... but that's a story for another time. Back then, I searched tirelessly for those who had wronged me, but my efforts were in vain—I had already become well known in the city's underworld, making me easy to avoid. Every criminal in the great town knew I was under Rasha's protection, and he was truly respected and deeply feared by all who lived outside the law. His name alone was enough to make even the most hardened thugs think twice!

Meanwhile, the laws themselves had grown lax; the relentless monk patrols had been replaced by old soldiers from an auxiliary cohort—men far more interested in the free beer and sausages they received from innkeepers than in any actual law enforcement. Petty crimes began to flourish. So did taverns, gambling dens, and brothels. But oddly enough... the city thrived. Everyone seemed content. The rich grew richer, the poor grew poorer—but at least everyone had bread on the table and beer in their mugs. And what beer it was! Thick, golden, and so nourishing that even the beggars seemed satisfied.

As for me, I could not carry out my plans for revenge, and perhaps it was for the best. The truth is, deep in my heart, I didn't truly desire it. It had been little more than a childish ambition—an echo of fear and pain that still lingered inside me. And the wise words of that venerable priest of Mara often came back to me, soft as a blessing, so, as he said, I forgot and forgave.

I benefited greatly from abandoning my vengeful thoughts. I was so thoroughly enveloped by the love and understanding of my new family that my soul was completely at peace. Ah, my brothers and sisters, my dear mother Shaira, and my beloved father Ra'ha... they understood me in ways no one else ever had. Where most families might have struggled to tolerate my peculiar joys and habits—let's not pretend they weren't odd and nasty—this wonderful group of feline souls welcomed them without judgment.

Perhaps that wasn't such a surprise. Apart from the little ones, Rasha, and I, nearly every member of our family was involved, in one way or another, with the Thieves' Guild. Some quietly, others quite boldly. And our mother Shaira... well, she was more than just involved; she held a position of real influence, both within the Guild and among the city's less official circles of power.

The Thieves' Guild of the Imperial City during those years...There is little I can say about that organization, which eventually vanished, swallowed by the flames of the Great War. Not much more than what I could piece together from a few dusty chronicles, or letters so old and mold-eaten they nearly crumbled in my hands. And yet, from the long columns of figures in financial ledgers, from securities, mortgage documents, and the endless receipts found in the incomplete archives I uncovered years later in Riften, one thing is certain:

The Guild had changed in the worst possible way. It had become more of a financial institution than a true thieves' brotherhood—one concerned less with heists and shadows, and more with investments, bribes, and real estate.

Whatever else it might have been, I was never brought into it. My mother, Shaira, never introduced me to this world, and Nocturnal's hand was likely at play here, just as She guided so many other unseen threads in the tapestry of my early life.

As I've mentioned before, my father was a truly kind soul, and all the kittens adored him, while they generally feared their mother, Shaira. Ra'ha had once been a thief himself, though not a particularly gifted one. But it was through that life that he met Shaira—and together, they built something far greater than coin or reputation: a warm, joyful family where his kindness and her cleverness coexisted in perfect harmony.

By the time I came into their home, Ra'ha had long since left the shadowy life behind and had become an actor, a beloved performer at one of the largest theaters in the Imperial City.

And what a comedian he was!

He could weave new stories out of thin air, craft jokes that had even the grumpiest merchants chuckling, and slip so effortlessly between tongues: the Common speech of the Empire and the rich, musical cadence of Ta'agra, the sacred language of the Khajiit.

That language is no easy thing. Subtle, complex, utterly alien to a human ear. And yet, under Ra'ha's gentle guidance, I learned it far more quickly than I would have thought possible, despite my usual struggles with foreign tongues.

Of course, the whole family helped. They corrected my mispronunciations, laughed at my mistakes—always kindly—and celebrated my little victories. But it was Ra'ha—his patience, his creativity, his relentless good humor—that truly lit the path. No matter how distracted I was, he found a way to bring me back, often with a joke, a story, or a mock-serious frown followed by a silly dance. Naturally, I couldn't help but compare him to the others...

To Shaira, with her stern glares and sharp claws, who would scratch or nip when I failed to focus...

To Rasha, who muttered with tight lips and colder eyes, "You're so stupid," when I made a foolish mistake!

Yet, regardless of their styles, I absorbed precious knowledge from all three. They were persistent and generous in their efforts to teach me, never giving up until they had passed on their full range of skills. And so, from a wild, ignorant, and dirty creature, I bloomed into a spirited, sharp-tongued teenager—clever, bold, and just cheeky enough to be charming.

My brother Rasha played an extraordinary role in this metamorphosis.He was the undisputed leader of a gang that "protected" the merchants and artisans from our district. In this capacity, he spent most of his time roaming the streets of the Merchant District in the company of his comrades. And since Rasha was like a god walking among mortals to me, I couldn't help but follow him all the time, just like a stray pup chasing after its master through the cobbled alleys of the capital.

At first, I kept my distance, too scared by the loud voices and the fierce, hardened appearances of his companions. But time wore down my fear, and slowly, day after day, I crept closer, until I was walking beside them, nimble and quite unnoticed—at least in the beginning—on the old streets of our neighborhood. None of them mocked me; quite the contrary, before long, they all seemed relieved whenever I showed up and were truly happy to see me. One of Rasha's trusted men, Rolf, told me one warm summer afternoon, as we were sipping cold lemonade on a terrace, that their leader was much more lenient with them when I was around. And he wasn't lying—I could see it with my own eyes; Rasha's behavior almost always changed when I was around, and ruthless as he could be, softened in my presence. He cared deeply for me, and during their skirmishes with rival crews—blades flashing, curses flying—I would sometimes catch his eyes searching for me with worry thinly veiled behind a mask of coldness.

I, however, saw all their street battles with other gangs as nothing more than a game. I would laugh and dance amid these fierce men as they cursed and fought with fury! I was so agile and quick that I could easily weave between them, avoiding any accidental or intentional blows. And at the end, Rasha would always scoop me up in his arms and carry me home to our parents. 

Ah... to be cradled in his embrace was to feel the whole world spin around me— I was strong, safe, invincible, and his cold, intense eyes, feared by so many, were to me like wells of odd fire—mysterious, brilliant, and full of life! We were truly very happy together, and though Rasha tried hard to maintain his aloof and tough demeanor, he even began to behave a little more kindly toward the rest of the family.

Shaira was especially grateful for this. Though she never approved of her son's activities, she found some measure of peace knowing we were together on the now dangerous streets of the Merchant District. We even began to grow closer, she and I—genuinely. Often, we would spend long, quiet hours together, sitting in the warm twilight by the kitchen window, speaking softly of the one person we both adored: Rasha.

As for my other brothers and sisters, I could write an entire book just about them alone! Each was like a jewel, sparkling with its own brilliance. But I shall spare you the full list, dear reader, though not without guilt. Allow me, at least, a few glimpses:

There was Nahshi, light as air, training with the Imperial Circus, her body defying gravity in ways that made even trained acrobats stare in awe.

There was Elira, with her mesmerizing charm and natural elegance—so graceful it almost hurt to look at her.

And Ra'irr, my peculiar, gifted brother, who could speak entire sentences without ever moving his lips... or so it seemed.

They were all so gifted. So deeply themselves. I could go on and on, and still I wouldn't do them justice!

So let them rest, my precious siblings, in whatever peace Nocturnal grants to those She calls her own.

May She wrap their souls in eternal velvet shadow and sing them lullabies in the language only the stars understand!

I lived with them for four years—four years of laughter, of warmth, of countless little joys.

And I loved them all with a depth that still stirs my heart, even now, so long after they are gone.

In return, they welcomed me fully and unconditionally, with a kind of fierce tenderness that only those who have suffered and endured can truly offer. That sprawling, curious, often chaotic family became my haven—my refuge and my school, all at once!

They taught me much—practical skills and their language, of course, but more than anything, they taught me how to live among people.

It was strange, in a way, how closely I resembled them, despite our differences. They were Khajiit, and I... well, I was something else. But in spirit, we were cut from the same cloth—restless souls shaped by shadow, drawn to danger but yearning for warmth. And above us all, as always, the gaze of the Goddess. Nocturnal, She of the twilight veil, looked upon our strange home with fondness—perhaps even love. And smiled down upon us, for a while...

Unfortunately, Lady Luck is a deceitful and demanding entity. Nocturnal tends to get bored very quickly, and on top of that, the other one—the Spider, Her beloved friend—was also watching me. Her gaze and whispers cast a dark spell over our happy family... Toward the end of my time with them, I was constantly aware that something bad was bound to happen. All seemed the same as before, but Rasha became unusually relentless and violent, more than ever. Everything around me seemed to change subtly, and I, too, felt restless. I imagined I was simply worried about Rasha, who often argued with our family's members, especially with our mother, Shaira. But it was more than that; now I know I felt a painful separation looming— one that would shatter the peace I had found here, amid this welcoming family that now regarded me as a daughter and sister.

I gave Rasha the amulet I had worn every day for several years. I'm not sure why I did it, but looking back on the next events, I think the Goddess wanted to accompany my brother on the first steps of the path destined for both of us. Of course, Rasha initially refused to accept what seemed like a cheap trinket and a symbol of a cult he neither understood nor wanted to. However, his attitude changed when I pressed the amulet into his hand. As always in moments like this, the amulet seemed to come alive; it was warm and appeared to vibrate slightly, and Mara—well, Mara of the amulet—smiled unsettlingly at both of us! Not with the gentle benevolence her worshipers praise, but with that strange, knowing, and mocking smile that always makes me shiver. Our mother, Shaira, watching silently from the threshold, reacted cheerfully to our little scene and uttered the first prophetic words of many she would speak in the future:

"Now I feel completely at peace, Rasha! I am certain that Elsie's wise spirit will watch over you, even in the darkest and most perilous places you may walk!"

I smiled, shy and uncertain, and Rasha laughed heartily. When Shaira told us about a fascinating tradition regarding amulets like this one, one from far beyond the Jerall Mountains, we were both surprised— I, a bit embarrassed, but suddenly thrilled by the idea, and Rasha, skeptical but visibly intrigued. Then, our mother embraced us both and looked at us with love.

In the days that followed, Rasha and I wandered the streets of the Imperial City together, inseparable. My brother was unusually kind and attentive to me, and I was both amazed and overjoyed, savoring his presence and the clear light of the spring days. Ah, I was so young, and I couldn't have guessed that, in truth, my brother was saying goodbye to the city where he had spent his childhood and grown up! We passed under the lush, green canopy of the ancient trees in the Arboretum, our laughter echoing in the filtered light. We stood side by side at the edge of the docks, watching the ships come and go, and we strolled through the crooked, slippery alleys of the Waterfront District, where danger danced in every corner—but with Rasha beside me, I never felt fear. On holy days, or whenever the gates were open to commoners, we would wander into the grand halls of the Imperial Palace. There, surrounded by the glittering marble, the echo of footsteps in sacred silence, I felt a strange serenity—as if even the gods allowed themselves to pause and admire the world. I would squeeze Rasha's hand, and he would smile, just faintly, as though he knew some secret I was still too innocent to grasp. At dusk, we'd find ourselves seated on the terraces newly opened in the Talos Plaza District, where perfumed breezes carried the sounds of music and laughter. We talked about everything and nothing—our words drifting with the twilight, blending into the city's golden haze. And when he told stories—those rich, winding tales he spun from thin air—I would sit spellbound. He spoke like one who had lived many lives, full of wisdom and wit, and every word he offered felt like a gift crafted just for me.

But as with all things beautiful and fleeting, these joys did not last long. One day, without saying goodbye to anyone, Rasha left our parents' home forever. That morning, when I realized what had happened, something broke inside me, and I knew that my happy life here would soon come to an end. And, not long after that morning, the dream came.

But not just any dream.

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