So I finished my writing prompt. Worth noting that if Do'Karth wasn't born and raised in a criminal syndicate to assassinate the Mane, he would have still been called Dar'Turga; for this story, he's J'Turga, because he's a bachelor with absolutely nothing special attached to his name yet. 


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The bus shifted into gear after the customs officer, a Nord man with a five o’clock shadow and a respectable beer gut, completed his passport check by going row by row and checking the passengers one at a time, more of a tired routine than anything particularly engaging. Other than a few extra inquiries and one particularly terse bag check for a Dunmer woman who wasn’t aware that seeds weren’t permitted across the border, the passengers began their journey across the border and into the Northern province of Skyrim, cruising down a four-laned highway to Balgruuf Station at the heart of the province, where other transportation would take passengers to the other cities or into Whiterun proper, if that was their destination. 

For J’Turga, he simply was going with the day and seeing what opportunities awaited. Leaning against the large window pane with feet on the obnoxiously patterned seat next to him and his rucksack and bicycle tucked somewhere under the bus in storage, the Khajiit was adorned in a black cotton jacket and trousers to match, a green long toque that covered his ears and hung loosely on the back of his head, and a pair of fingerless gloves that kept his hands warm while letting him idly shuffle music on his player with a cracked screen and dead backlighting, the earbuds tucked away somewhere under the polyester blend of his hat. 25 years old and a native of the Kingdom of Anequina, he decided some time ago to spend a few years travelling before succumbing to the rituals of adult life where a suit and tie awaited him like a noose at his father’s travel agency, or at an office like his mother. Neither prospect delighted J’Turga greatly, and after a particularly vibrant moon sugar prompted vision, the Khajiit knew he still had a lot of life left to experience, and instead of arguing the semantics of responsibility with his parents, he gathered what little savings he’d earned from stocking a warehouse at some retail outlet and decided to see what the world had in store. 

It had been three years, and he’d already seen much of Tamriel, taking seasonal jobs to pay for his perpetual working vacation where he told himself that he would eventually return home when his quest had found a proper conclusion, or some sign from Masser and Secunda told him he’d filled his soul with enough purpose that he could resume his duties as a productive member of some community instead of being some subversive Dro-M’athra that chose not to belong.  Maybe he was meant to find some foreign hottie girlfriend with smooth skin and no fur, or maybe he was going to get signed on by some big-shot Anvil director who wanted some dashing Khajiit lead for his next big film. Who was to say what Hermorah had in store for him?

He looked out at the massive peaks around him and wondered what this place had been like to travel in before modern transportation. Even the mighty Throat of the World, the tallest mountain of them all, had a series of gondolas going to the summit where a weather station was set up near the ancient monastery of High Hrothgar, which in turn had turned into something of a teahouse and mead hall tourist attraction where people took breathtaking selfies from the top of the world. Maybe J’Turga would do it, when he could afford the 40 Septim lift ticket. Perhaps he would attempt to learn how to ski and work at a resort. The possibilities, much like the land, were vast.

Likewise, the fabled hot springs of Eastmarch had become quite the tourist attraction that saw thousands of people flocking to entirely too crammed pools, and the roadways were often backed up from people pulling over to snap pictures of the famed mammoths and giants of Skyrim, who despite coexisting with the men and mer of Skyrim for thousands of years, never seemed to move beyond their traditional ways, and the Skyrim government had to spend considerable resources in conservation to make sure that their range reserves were preserved. At least one or two idiot tourists were maimed per year getting too close for photographs, as if the towering humanoid beings were decorations for their amusement. The only thing that was amusing was the headlines of how witnesses described how much air the hapless victims managed to achieve. 

An excited gasp came from somewhere behind J’Turga, and the Khajiit turned to look out the window as excited murmurs came from across the bus, including a particularly busty orc woman who had all but crawled on top of him to look out the window. Gliding across the mountains off to the West was a massive shadow with an impossible wingspan. Despite himself and the particularly well-endowed company that was all but pressing herself against him, the Khajiit smiled as he watched the dragon soar across the peaks, like something out of a power metal album cover or some old fantasy tale. Of course, dragons were like the giants, intelligent species, but they elected to keep to themselves and not trouble civilizations armed with anti-aircraft weaponry and machine-guns and attacks had been so rare for the past two centuries that people had begun to think that the stories of dragon attacks were myths that vilified the poor animals, kind of like wolves. There were enough videos of them torching some poor farmer’s herd of sheep to buy into that for the common person, but there were enough bleeding hearts out there that anything that wasn’t immediately chewing on their face was a pure and innocent thing that needed to be held like a glass slipper.

Once the excitement died down when the dragon disappeared from view, peoples’ phones and cameras clicking like a symphony of crickets, they returned to their seats and J’Turga was allowed his space once more. Once the orc realized that she’d been rather overexcited about the occasion, her green face turned red, to which she was rewarded with a friendly, knowing wink from the Khajiit. He turned to a well-earred copy of the [I]Tamriel Gazette: Skyrim Edition[/I], one of the rare newspapers that had been in print since at least the 4th Era and was still putting out physical papers, and began to skim over the headlines and classified. The Ka Po’ Tun Emperor in Akaviir was threatening hellfire on Morrowind for trade provocations, some Altmer school teacher had been arrested for demonstrating necromancy in a class of 9th graders in Gilane, a sex cult was at large somewhere in Valenwood. The horoscope told him that The Lady smiled on him today, and he’d be reunited with an old friend, but that he was still incompatible with Atronachs and Serpents; those star signs never crossed. It was all pretty standard fare that washed over J’Turga as he put the paper down and looked at his stack of pamphlets for tourist attractions. There was the prerequisite skiing in Skyrim’s fabulous peaks of powdery snow, an adventurous free-diving tour in shipwrecks near Windhelm where attendees would be taught how to brew their own water breathing and cold-resistance potions, the Winterhold Festival of lights, a white-water rafting adventure, and  of course, the spectacular Northern Lights that appeared away from the city lights. Maybe the rafting would be fun, and perhaps they were looking for river guides. It was something he’d rather enjoyed in Cyrodiil, and how hard could it be? He slipped that one into his breast pocket and idly skipped two or three more tracks until a guilty-pleasure pop song by a pair of Bosmer twins came on, and he hoped no one else could hear it.

By the time the bus arrived outside of Whiterun’s downtown, it was growing far too late in the day. Deciding to grab a bite to eat, the Khajiit wandered down the street from the bus terminal and found himself checking his phone for local restaurants, including an Elsweyr Fondue franchise, Shattershield Sweetrolls, and most curiously, the Stronghold Steakhouse, which was a unique Skyrim establishment that was based on indigenous orcish dishes that sometimes involved horses. 

You only live once, right?

His mind set, J’Turga set off to the Stronghold, and he passed by a curious building on the strip; M’aiq’s Fortune Tellers. A robed Khajiit statue stood outside, proudly pulling on his Fu Manchu, and the sign said that M’aiq would read all of the stars and standing stones to find out if you were destined for love, fortune, or great success. It had to be worth 12 Septims, right?


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