Prologue

As far as J'Hirra was concerned, Khenarthi's Roost had been her first and last real home. Skyrim was cold and harsh, and the people that lived here were as bitter and cold as the land they inhabited. Khenarthi's Roost had warm beaches, deep blue waters, and she could remember seeing friendly and familiar faces everywhere she went. She still remembered the baker that made the most delicious Moon Sugar pie, the charismatic merchants that always wanted to sell her their finest jewelry—and one time, her mother bought an amulet for her from one of those carts, one she still wore to this day—, and the cubs she would play tag with through the rain forests. She could still faintly recall the scent of the rain in the tropical jungles, the moisture thick in her fur.

Then the hurricane came. It wasn't the first hurricane—it certainly wouldn't be the last—but as her mother had said, it had been the worst. The beaches were flooded, the rain forest was torn asunder, the baker and thousands of others drowned, and J'Hirra and her mother had fled to a cave along with several others, and returned to find their house gone as if it had never existed to begin with. Half the island was flooded, the crops were drowned. Staying was a death warrant. So when the ship to Skyrim came, J'Hirra and her mother boarded it. "It will be a new beginning for us, dear one." Her mother had said as they sat nestled together in the damp bowels of the ship, shivering in the cold.

She had been right, but it hadn't been the new beginning they asked for. During the trip, J'Hirra became delirious with fever and there were no resources on board to treat her. The ship arrived in the port of one of the oldest cities in Skyrim; Windhelm, and when J'Hirra stepped off the boat the cold was so sharp it took her breath away. Never in her entire life had she felt such cold. The Khajiits lined up and approached the gate. A guard— dressed in thick, heavy fur and his face obscured by a visor—marched forward and bellowed, "On the Jarl's orders, no refugees may enter this city!" There were cries of outrage.

"But why?" One Khajiit shouted, shivering in the cold. "We know what your kind does; skooma traders, the lot of you! This city will not be befouled by your filth. There is shelter and food on the docks, if you work hard, you will be taken care of."

"No, please, Khajiit's daughter is sick! Without proper treatment, she may die!" J'Hirra's mother cried, holding J'Hirra in her arms. "If you can afford it, there are plenty of healers!" The guard shouted, and he motioned for the other guards to shepherd the refugees down to the docks. "This one has nothing! She cannot pay!" J'Hirra's mother wailed and she was ignored by all except the very last man that ever should have heard. "I can help your daughter." J'Hirra's head spun as her mother whirled around. A well-dressed, portly middle-aged man stood in front of them. He had a thick beard and he smelled of mead. He wore a smile that J'Hirra—even in her fever-induced haze—found unsettling. There was no happiness in his smile.

"Sir, this one cannot pay you for your services." Her mother said, hurrying to him. "But if you speak the truth, please…please help her cub. Please."

"It's not money I want." She felt her mother's arms tighten around her, felt her breathing stop. He was standing too close to them, and his eyes never stayed on her mother's face for long. "I can afford a whole apothecary for your daughter; she will have food, shelter, and you, fine creature, won't have to pay a single coin."

Her mother was silent and J'Hirra could feel her heart beating fast and smell her mother's fear. "The docks are drafty, and the labor is hard and pays little to nothing. You and your daughter are much better off with me." J'Hirra's mother remained silent, the smell of anxiety thick around her. "Mama…" J'Hirra rasped, raised a claw weakly to reach for her mother's face.

Then her mother's arms were holding her tightly. "…A-alright. Just help this one's daughter." The man's massive hand closed around her mother's arm and J'Hirra heard her mother gasp. "Follow me." And he dragged them to the gates. "Sir," the gate guard rushed over. "Sir, did you not hear me? I said—,"

"You'll mind your own business." The man's voice was like a bear's and it frightened J'Hirra. "These refugees are my concern; don't worry, they won't step foot outside my walls, will you?" He shook her mother roughly, bouncing J'Hirra. Her mother gasped in pain. "N-no, we won't!"

"Good. Now let us in." J'Hirra remembered little after this. The city of Windhelm was a blur of noise and snow. They'd been dragged through the streets and J'Hirra grew so dizzy, she could barely keep her eyes open. She'd heard the screech of an iron gate, then the slam of a door, and felt faint warmth begin to wash over her. "Dunmer!" The man boomed. "Take the brat downstairs and send for a healer."

"Yes." Through the haze, she'd seen the face of a grey-skinned man with red eyes and pointed ears as he took her into his arms. As they'd descended the stairs to the basement there'd been a slam and a cry of shock and fear. "Now, pay up, my dear." J'Hirra could still remember the pin-prick of fear through her fever, the realization that something bad was going to happen, and then nothing. She'd wanted to cry out for her mother, but she'd passed out.

When she awoke, the word was a different place. As soon as she was able to walk around again, she was put to work. She cleaned the man's house with the Dunmer who regarded her with hostility. She didn't see her mother and whatever questions she asked were ignored. For a month, she lived in the Nord's house. He wasn't home a lot and whenever he was, he was drunk and prone to violent outbursts, most of which were directed at his Dunmer servant. Sometimes he beat her if she didn't clean the floor well enough or if the clothes weren't folded properly. She would hide under her covers at night and listen to her mother crying upstairs and feel helpless and alone, and then she'd cry herself to sleep.

One time, she walked in on them. The Nord had left the door open. Her mother was naked and crying and blood rolled down her thighs. She uttered a gasp and the Nord's head whipped towards the door. Before she could run, his hand was around her scruff and he threw her down the stairs. "The blazes are you doing, bitch?" he roared and J'Hirra thought for sure he'd kill her. Instead, he thrust his axe at her.
"Get me firewood, girl. Hurry back or mommy will be dead! Go!" And he threw her out the door.

J'Hirra ran through the streets, gasping and terrified. She chopped wood with her heart in her throat, shaking claws dropping firewood. She heaved the axe, bigger than the length of her body, over her head and chopped the last piece. When she got back, she begged to see her mother and was instead thrown into her room. She cried for hours, beat at the door, and finally curled up in a ball when she couldn't cry or scream anymore. Her mother was dead and soon, she would be dead too.

That night she was shaken awake and she found her mother standing over her. But she no longer looked like her mother; her nails were overgrown, her fur was matted with blood and dirt, and her voice was devoid of love when she ordered her daughter out of bed. There was blood everywhere, all over her hands and torn clothes.
"Come, get up, we have to move. The pig is dead and it's only a matter of time before the Dunmer gets up. On your feet!" J'Hirra was wrenched from bed by the wrist; her mother's nails dug into her skin and drew blood.

Her mother dragged her from the house and into the cold streets. They stopped just outside the gates and her mother gasped and clutched at her stomach.
"Mama?" J'Hirra whimpered, looking at the blood pooling into her mother's hand. "Not now!" Her mother wrapped her cloak around her to conceal the wound and ran, dragging her daughter behind her. They ran through the streets until they reached the main gates and hurried through them.

They ran across the bridge, J'Hirra slipped on the ice and scraped her knee, but her mother only wrenched her to her feet and kept running. They reached the main road just past the stables and took a right across a bridge. Once across, they left the path and ventured into the woods, the blizzard covered up their footsteps. They walked for miles, not saying a word. Her mother's run died into a slow, painful walk, and the snow fell harder all around them. A trail of blood marked their passing and her mother grew slower with each step they took. The world around them grew dark and her mother stumbled and fell. J'Hirra shrieked with fright and flung herself down beside her. "Mama, Mama, no! Get up! Get up!" She shook her mother, tears streaming down her face.

Her mother was breathing shallowly. "Mama, don't die! Don't die!" J'Hirra looked around, desperate for a sign that help was nearby. Through the snowstorm, she thought she could see torchlight in the distance. "Help!" She screamed, not caring if they were friend or foe. Either way, she was heard. And to her relief, four Khajiit made their way towards her, two male and two female. They were loaded up with packs of goods and two of the four were heavily armed.

One of the four, a male Khajiit with long white fur, strode forward and said, his voice kindly and his eyes full of concern, "What brings such a small cub to this cold, hard land?" He caught sight of her mother lying in the snow, and knelt at once. "Help her, please." J'Hirra begged and the Khajiit turned to his traveling companions and said, "Get her to shelter, now." One of the two heavily armored cat-men heaved her mother into his arms and the white Khajiit said, "Come, quickly now." He scooped J'Hirra into his arms and the Khajiit ran. Within a few minutes, they'd found shelter in a cave just off the road. J'Hirra watched, wide-eyed and breathless, as her mother's wound was examined.

"It's no good, Ri'saad," said one of the two female Khajiit, ears flattening. "She needs a healer. The closest city is Windhelm, and they won't let Khajiit in."

"But…" J'Hirra whimpered, looking from one adult to the other with desperation. Ri'saad, the white Khajiit, hung his head, his eyes heavy and his ears laid flat against his head. "I am sorry, little cub." J'Hirra's mother stirred, a grimace of pain on her face. Her eyes opened and J'Hirra knelt beside her and said, "Mama, mama, please don't die. Don't leave J'Hirra alone!" Her mother's eyes were dark and empty.

"Take her with you." She said, her voice barely a whisper. "J'Hirra doesn't want to go with them! She wants to be with you, Mama!" J'Hirra sobbed, wrapping her arms around her mother's neck. "Go with them, J'Hirra." A bubble of blood grew at the corner of her mother's mouth and burst, dotting J'Hirra's cheek. "Don't trust the Nords. They have no love for us. Only hate. By the twin moons, don't trust them, J'Hirra."

Those were her mother's last words, and they stuck with J'Hirra even now, thirty years later. Until she was eighteen, she traveled the roads of Skyrim with the trading caravan and Ri'saad taught her the ways of bow and blade. Then she grew bored and left them; she was tired of fighting off bandits and wolves. At one point she joined a pack of bandits after they cornered her on the road, and joining was easier than being killed. She had a few terrible years with them and turned on them when she could taint what little honor she had no longer.

She wanted to go home, to find a way back to Khenarthi's Roost and see if the island had made any recoveries.
As she neared the end of Skyrim's borders, she became entangled in an event that would change her life forever.

She was caught in an ambush laid by Imperial troops meant for the leader of the Stormcloak Rebellion, Ulfric Stormcloak. They didn't care if she was a rebel or not, as far as they were concerned, just by being near him she was a traitor to the Emperor. She fought to break free and was knocked out and thrown into the cart. When she awoke, she found herself far from the border and heading towards Helgen and the headman's axe. There were others in the cart with her, a Stormcloak named Ralof, some horse-thief that kept whining about how innocent he was, and Ulfric himself, bound and gagged.

The horses came to stop in the courtyard, J'Hirra saw the head's man walking alongside a priestess, his axe gleaming in the sunlight. Ralof said, grinning, "Come, let's not keep the Gods waiting for us." J'Hirra stumbled out of the cart with him. The horse-thief tried to run and was shot down by archers. One Stormcloak marched right up to the chopping block and ordered them to get it over with. Beside her, Ralof watched with a bitter smile. For a moment, J'Hirra swore she almost felt admiration for these Nords and how fearlessly they embraced death.

"By the twin moons, don't trust them, J'Hirra."

Her jaw clenched, her fur bristled. Who'd have thought that she'd die here with a bunch of Nords? And what a pathetic life she'd led, too…She'd wanted to make her mother proud, to stand victorious at the end of a glorious fight, to hear her name sung in meadhalls and to see glasses raised in her name, and here she was, about to die on the chopping block.

The head's man swung his axe, the Nord's head rolled across the ground, spewing blood. "Next prisoner, the cat!" The Imperial called. J'Hirra knelt and her head collided with the blood-stained block. Above her, the executioner raised his axe. Then the world was torn apart by a roar that shook the earth. A shadow fell across the small town as great, black wings blocked out the sun. It landed on the tower above her, the force of it's landing shook the earth and knocked the executioner to the floor. It was a dragon, and it stared right at her; its red eyes burned into her soul. It opened its great maw and the sky opened up, raining fiery death from above and yet, she was the only one that was left unscratched while others burned and died all around her.

Then it took flight and Ralof's voice was bellowing at her, ordering her on her feet. The image of those red eyes wouldn't leave her mind and for a moment, all she could do was watch the beast take to the skies, spitting fire down upon the archers trying to ground it. She breathed in the smell of charred flesh and smoke.

She was alive.

And as they say, the rest is history.