Cold

emeraldbay

Cold.

    White flakes of snow poured down under the light of the waning moons, piling up on the ground, as it so easily did in the frigid hills and mountains of central Wrothgar. A lone Khajiit was positioned just outside the walls of New Orsinium, illuminated by Masser and Secunda and the flickering light of a magical flame, carried almost effortlessly in a single paw. Fragile snowflakes gathered in his long, thick fur, contrasting natural hues of yellow-orange and black rosettes with flecks of pure white, clinging desperately.

    Around in circles, he paced slowly, wordlessly, leaving small pawprints in the snow, which served only to be covered minutes later by the excessive snowfall. His garb was minimal — a simple short-sleeved shirt, a thin pair of trousers, and wraps which covered only his heels, leaving toes and paw pads free to explore the cold beneath them. He relied mostly upon his thick coat to keep warm, and he didn’t have any trouble doing so.

    In all technicality, it was Morndas, just a bit after midnight. The caravan would be leaving soon. He’d be going home, and the pacing cat knew this all too well. He knew, but he didn’t seem happy; in fact, he couldn’t sleep at all. He hoped his mate hadn’t noticed his absence just yet. Maybe some time alone would do him well.

    A particularly frigid wind from the west caught the Khajiit’s attention, causing him to stop in his tracks, turning to face the gust head-on. It pushed its way through his fur, forcing spotted ears to flatten against his head, bright shades of emerald green squinting, fighting to remain open. It was like they expected to see something, anything, but the violent, swirling patterns of white and grey revealed nothing. By the time the wind had died down, the magical flame had done the same, though it was only because the advisor willed it. Small paws curled into fists, positioned down at the kitten’s sides, now.

    “...Again.”

    That gentle voice didn’t carry far, but the desire and longing behind it echoed for miles. As if on cue, the wind picked up, shoving back. It urged the Khajiit towards the city walls, but he fought. He fought without magic, weapons, fists, or claws. Slowly, he walked against the wind, wandering further out into the open. The city walls disappeared behind him, but he paid them no mind. His gaze, his stride, and his heart were out there, the latter two waiting to be found.

    “...More.”

    Spotted tail lashing behind him, he continued out. The wind only grew harsher, the snow heavier, until he begun to lose feeling in his extremities. Thick fur couldn’t protect him forever, but he pressed on.

    (“Stop, Kitten.”)

    “More.”

    The warm tears that fell from his eyes didn’t last long before freezing into his fur. It didn’t matter. He had to keep going. Folding slender arms over his chest, he bundled up as best he could, unwilling to bend to the howling wind, even as his fur gathered frost, failing to keep the chill away.

    “Please...”

    The kitten’s pace was slow. Ravaged by unforgiving cold, he was weak, and soon found himself on his knees, gasping for breath, wanting for warmth. The city was long gone — too far to walk back, and there wasn’t a single hearth or soul in sight.

    (“The weak do not survive.”)

    “M’arrin-Jo will survive.”

    That gentle, cold-rasped voice didn’t carry far, but the determination behind it echoed for miles. Rather than continue to push against him, the wind began to swirl around his form. It robbed the air of oxygen, and even the deepest of breaths did nothing to satisfy his need.

    (“...Then survive, Kitten.”)

    In a flash, the swirling air mixed with potent flame, turning snow and ice to water, then steam, forcing it to rise and leaving the ground bare, the atmosphere pulsing with radiant heat. The sudden burst had purged all traces of cold from M’arrin’s form, too, and though snow continued to fall and wind continued to blow even after the fire had burned away, it dared not touch the flamekissed feline or the ground beneath him.

    Once again, he could breathe, feel his fingers, his toes, the tips of his ears and tail. The flame wasn’t his doing — he knew that much — but his vision had blurred, and consciousness was fading quickly. The Khajiit didn’t have time to question, falling limp against the warm dirt with a slight thud, emerald eyes drifting slowly closed.







    When those eyes peeled themselves open, they glimpsed the familiar sight of his room at the local inn and the sleeping form of a large, tiger-striped Khajiit at his side. A strong, passionate warmth still lingered, surrounding him, body and soul.

    He soon slipped into darkness once more.