The Tales of An Old Khajiit

[Shakhar the Khajiit]

I felt inspired to do this after reading the thread "Character Diary: Dunmer Fugitive Soren" by Sevrin (I'll post a link to it down below). It's essentially the same concept, but instead of journal entries, It is told by the means of the hero recollecting his life and adventures as the Dragonborn and chronicling them into a novel for future generations to read and be inspired by. A few things to consider:

- This is essentially a record of what I've done in Skyrim (with some changes added to better fit the mold of my character), so spoiler warning. Also, while my in-game character is named Khan, I will address him as Shakhar for this forum. If anyone knows how to rename your character, I'd appreciate their help.
- Focus will be prioritized based on storytelling asthetics
- I will have other characters to focus on the questlines I do not follow with Khan/Shakhar, so don't worry. I'll post them later though, when I have more stories to tell for them.
- Please do not make any suggestions for what I should do with Khan/Shakhar next; I want to take this character down a road without outside influence.
- Please avoid spoilers in any responses you might have to this thread.
-As this is my first thread, any advice involving operation and use of the forum would be greatly appreciated.

Link to afore-mentioned forum: http://skyrimforum.com/sf/threads/character-diary-dunmer-fugitive-soren.10065/

 

[Shakhar the Khajiit]

To my dear mother, Ko' Ahzva,
To my beloved wife Ysolda,
my two children, Blaise and Lucia,
and to those all across Skyrim and Solstheim
whom I've considered friends and family.
Thank you for all you've done for me, and for
being a part of my life.​

PROLOUGE
For those of you whose eyes fall upon these pages, feel free to judge me as you will. Some might call me a great hero, others a great fool, but that doesn't matter to me. I feel that these memories and experiences are better off shared before I pass on, so that they may teach and inspire generations to come, as they have to me. Also, as a quick digression, I ask you to pardon the points where the text doesn't seem very clear. My sight has gotten worse over my old age, and my hands aren't quite as steady as they once were.

I suppose the best place to begin my story is at the beginning.

BEFORE SKYRIM
My earliest memories are not very pleasent. I was born in Solstheim as a slave to a gang of Reaver pirates, and from the moment I could walk I was made to work. Cleaning the decks and hull of the ship, loading and unloading supplies whenever they reached their outpost on the island, tightening and adjusting the rigging of the ship's sails, and scraping barnacles off of the bottom were common chores for me, and my mother was made to cook meals, wash garments and armor, and clean the outpost of any garbage or waste. I owned nothing but the ragged clothes on my back and the stale crusts and beer that was my rations. Sometimes, if the barbarians were drunk, angry, or just wanted something to do, they'd take it out on me or one of the other slaves, beating them or even killing them in more..."creative" ways.

The only good thing I had in my life back then was my mother, a sweet, kind-hearted Khajiit named Ko' Ahzva. Whenever I returned from my chores, tired and dirty with an aching back and calloused, blistering hands, she would take me into her arms and let me rest my head on her chest as she told me stories from Elsweyr, where she was born. However, there were also times when the chief called my mother into his cabin, and I had to spend the night alone.

This was my life every day for many years, and it was a harsh, frightening, cruel one to go through. But as my mother held onto hope, so too did I. Then there came the day that hope came to fruition. There was an ambitious slave named Volkner, a Nord who was recently captured. In a desperate attempt at freedom, he threw a lantern at one of the brigands enslaving us, and while he missed, the lantern broke near one of the tents and set it ablaze. It didn't take long for the fires to spread, and in the commotion, my mother and I slipped away into the ash-gray landscape. Knowing it wouldn't be long before the Reavers began hunting us down, my mother brought me with her to Raven Rock, a Dunmer settlement, and we managed to stow away on the next ship to the nearest region of Tamriel out of the Reavers' reach, Skyrim.

 

[Shakhar the Khajiit]

STRANGERS IN A FOREIGN LAND
When my mother and I sailed off of Solstheim, we had no idea what was in store for us when we got to Skyrim. We had heard very little about the province, despite it being so close to the island. The first thing we learned about the hard way was how cold it was. When we arrived in Windhelm a day after we left, it was the first thing we noticed, and even with fur, I shivered a little. Solstheim wasn't the warmest place to live thanks to the clouds of ash that seemed to constantly obscure the sun on one half, and the other half being covered in snow and ice year round, so cold was nothing new to me and my mother. What made this freezing climate different, however, was how relentless it seemed to be, slipping past our fur and penetrating our very bones.

Windhelm itself was massive, and as we looked up at it's dark gray stone walls, it gave a sense of power and intimidation. Inside the walls, there were many humans going about their business. While some residents didn't pay us any attention, those who did sneered at us, and I recall hearing one say "More parasites feeding off the Nords..." As I waited by the local market as my mother tried to purchase food with the very few septims we had, I listened in on the conversations of passers by and tried to pick up more on the current events of Skyrim, or at least Windhelm, curious. When my mother returned, she had no food in her hands, and a look of sorrow on her face, and we were ready to spend the night on the streets when we met a Dunmer named Revyn Sadri, who offered us shelter in his shop.

The place was located in a slum known as the Gray Quarter, and it was full of Dunmer residents, all appearing to be struggling. It was a run-down, small place with decaying shelves and a dusty interior. When I asked why Revyn had decided to help us despite fact we were outsiders and he was seemingly going through hard times himself, he said that was exactly the reason; he could sympathize with us because we were facing a very similar situation. He explained that the Dunmer here were all treated poorly for being outsiders, and since the beginning of an ongoing Civil War, they've only been treated worse. We were all strangers in a foreign land, at least to the Nords.

While it wasn't the most comfortable thing, sleeping on bedrolls in a drafty and cramped storage room at the back of the store, my mother and I were content with being spared a night freezing on the streets. The next day, my mother tried to pay Revyn for his kindness, but he didn't accept the payment. My mother was stubborn, however, and planned to pay him back in some way. When Revyn finally reluctantly admitted he could use a little help with the shop, my mother jumped at the opportunity. While she kept the shop clean and ran it while Revyn was out running errands, I sought out work at the New Gnisis Cornerclub next door to add a little more income to what my mother earned working for Revyn. While at first I was refused, I kept trying like my mother would have, and the owner, Ambarys, finally gave in. I served as a fellow assistant alongside Malthyr Elenil, serving drinks and cleaning tables and floors. I earned five septims a day for my work, and was even given a free meal of a half-loaf of bread and a cup of water mid-shift. Ambarys was a rather bitter fellow, but he was still kinder to me than the Reavers. Malthyr was a little better, and was happy to answer any questions I had about the Dunmer and Morrowind, which were quite numerous.

Things were finally beginning to look up for me and my mother. While we were still impoverished, we had begun our lives of freedom with some friends who supported us, and compared to our lives of slavery, the Gray Quarter truly felt like home.