Dominion Cat - 1. The Wolf Without A Plan

He stood over his assailant, blood dripping from his maw. Throwing back his head, Sinjaro let out a triumphant howl, a howl that echoed through the cave. He had finally killed the wolf that made him who he was.

It had been nearly a year since he had found himself in Hircine’s Hunting Grounds, a year since he had given his soul to the Daedric Prince in exchange for the power that would allow him to kill the Nord who had attacked him.

“The pup becomes a wolf, the hunter hunted, as it should be…”

The voice of the Prince echoed in his mind, the words he had heard a year ago, after his first kill. And as he feasted on the fallen werewolf, Sinjaro rejoiced in his successful hunt.

“This is why we can’t have nice things…”

The werewolf shook his head, tearing a chunk of guts from his kill as he tried to get rid of the other voice in his head, the voice of his Khajiit self. The other Sinjaro had no place here.

It was too late. Once the voice broke through, transformation was never far behind.

Clenching his teeth, Sinjaro held back a yelp as his body convulsed, returning to the cat he truly was. Before, his transformations would leave him writhing in pain for minutes. Not anymore. He was stronger, better able to withstand the change. And resist it.

Now if only he could keep his mind when he shifted forms…

The tortoiseshell Khajiit stood up, brushing himself off. He needed to get to a town soon; his clothes were just rags at this point. Leave it to a Nord to try to find sanctuary in a filthy cave.

Collecting his bow and quiver from where he had stashed them, Sinjaro began walking, another thing he had gotten better at in the last year. From a simple Khajiit chef to a fearsome werewolf. Who could have seen that coming?

“Not this one,” he chuckled grimly, breathing in the scent of the sea nearby.

It was such a good smell, full of fish and salt. He was enjoying this island of Auridon. But he still couldn’t wait to get home to Khenarthi’s Roost.

Though could he really claim that as his home anymore? He had always venerated the Hungry Cat, for what cat hunted better than one who was hungry? But now he had accepted Lord Hircine’s gifts, and would never feel the warm hand of Khenarthi guiding him to the Sands-Beyond-the-Stars.

He supposed it didn’t matter now. He was alive, and such questions were better answered by wiser heads than his. He was Sinjaro, hunter of Hadvar the Werewolf, Sinjaro Five-claw, Sinjaro… who had just stepped on a sharp rock.

“Ziss!”

Grabbing his foot, Sinjaro stumbled and fell to the ground. He examined the wound, glaring as a pair of Altmer laughed, walking past.

“Dark Moons take you!” he called after the elves. “Jekosiit…”

Pulling off his boots, Sinjaro tossed them to the side. The soles were so thin they would do no good. He could hear the sounds of a city nearby. Hopefully he could get a new pair there.

The Khajiit followed a tall cliff, walking through warm sands and listening to the ocean waves break against the narrow shore. He wriggled his toes in the sand, enjoying the sensation. It would take ages to get the dirt out of his claws later but for now he didn’t care. A cool breeze ruffled his fur, his tail swishing amicably as he walked. The incident with the Altmer was behind him already, no harm done to anything but his pride.

A ship came into view slowly, bobbing gently at its mooring. The docks followed, Sinjaro letting out a quiet sigh of relief. He could use a good bath, maybe a nice bed for the night… Though he didn’t have much in the way of coin.

He shrugged. He was a Khajiit, no? He would just do as a Khajiit does.

A hooded figure approached the Khajiit, Sinjaro squinting suspiciously. Dark Moons these Altmer were good. He had only thought about stealing something and they were already coming for him.

“Ah, you look rather capable,” the figure said. “My benefactor has a job offer for you, Khajiit.”

“And what might your benefactor desire from a simple Khajiit?”

“The message is for your ears only. He waits for you in the bunks of the Interim Suitor,” the figure pointed to a ship at the docks.

Sinjaro chuckled.

“Perhaps he should offer this one a drink before asking to bed Sinjaro.”

“You can take the offer or not. I do not have time to waste with you.”

“Very well, this one will speak to your benefactor.”

Nodding in farewell, the two parted, Sinjaro directing his feet onto a wooden boardwalk. Maybe this job would pay well. He knew the figure had taken note of his scar when she saw him, so clearly she was looking for someone who could handle a dangerous job. But he was a werewolf. What could be dangerous to him, besides another werewolf? Besides, he didn’t exactly have a plan, now that Hadvar was finally dead.

Sinjaro’s nails clicked on the wood of the ship, a pair of masked men guiding him toward the lower deck of the ship. He was a little wary of the two, but he stepped down the stairs anyway. He knew something they didn’t know. If it came to a fight, he was prepared.

He stumbled slightly through the ship, his feet unaccustomed to the motion of the waves. Catching himself on a doorway, Sinjaro looked inside, finding a Redguard bound and gagged in a chair.

“Mmmph!”

“Wha-”

Sinjaro spun, his wolf springing to the front of his mind, but before he could shift, the masked men had knocked him out cold.

Images flashed through his mind, being chained, forced to follow other prisoners down a flight of stairs, watching as an Altmer stabbed a man, the soul being trapped in a gem. Sinjaro felt a great pain in his chest and then cold. Wet.

He sat up, opening his eyes to a dark and blue world. Sinjaro’s chest hurt, but when he looked down at his threadbare clothing, he saw nothing that told him the source of the pain.

Rising to his feet, the Khajiit began looking around his small cell, trying to figure out what had just happened. His bow was gone, naturally. What captors would leave a prisoner his weapons? Sinjaro considered himself lucky he was dressed.

“Wafiit… Jer vara ma’i…” he muttered, smacking his head.

“Whoa, you okay there?”

Looking up, Sinjaro saw a huge Nord woman, with an equally large battleaxe on her back, standing outside his cell.

“This one must have hit his head too hard…” he muttered, staring at the breasts that were level with his eyes. “To see Jone and Jode so close…”

“The name’s Lyris. Let’s see about getting you out of that cell,” the woman said, ignoring his comment as she pulled her axe out.

With one mighty swing, she struck the side of the gate locking Sinjaro within the cell. With a creaking groan, the gate fell open. Sinjaro knew enough to take the offered escape, leaping out of his cage.

He felt a tugging at his mind, like that of his wolf, but… different somehow. Ignoring the giant Nord as she searched a nearby corpse, Sinjaro focused on the alien presence.

“Take this help and learn to hunt with a new power.”

Lord Hircine’s voice rang through his mind, startling Sinjaro. He felt a power surge through his body, pulling at another mind until a dark figure appeared before him, a senche-panther familiar he had seen at one point in the Hunting Grounds.

“Zephron…” he named her.

The familiar stretched, a tiny mewl escaping her maw. She was another gift from the Hunter Cat, one Sinzarin was certain would make for a good hunting companion.

“If you would rather go without a weapon-” Lyris said, holding a huge sword.

“This one would rather be armed, even if Sinjaro can not use the weapon,” Sinjaro said, accepting the blade.

It was surprisingly lighter than he expected, and he was able to swing the blade without much effort, though he couldn’t seem to swing straight.

“Let’s go,” Lyris said, unimpressed.

Sinjaro followed the Nord, mentally asking Zephron to walk ahead of him.

“Where are we?” he asked.

“The Wailing Prison. You are a prisoner of Molag Bal.”

A prisoner of a Daedric Prince? That should be impossible. He was bound to Hircine… which would explain why Hircine was aiding him in escaping…

An apparition appeared before them, of a hooded man with milky eyes. Sinjaro took a step back, holding his sword in front of him. This man didn’t look dangerous, but then the blind ones usually knew magic.

“The Prophet!” Lyris gasped.

“Greetings Vestige. Like you, I am a prisoner in this place. You must rescue me, and I, in turn, must rescue you,” the man said, looking straight at Sinjaro.

Well, if the giant Nord knew him and he knew Sinjaro, he must be okay. Though the Khajiit had no idea how the man knew him.

Without warning, the man vanished again, freeing the path to a door. As Sinjaro took a step forward, Lyris stopped him.

“Hold a moment, come here. We need to talk.”

“This one thinks talking should come after escape, no?” Sinjaro said.

“That was the Prophet. It was dangerous for him to talk to you. He must think you can help me.”

“Help you with what?”

“Breaking him out of course. Believe me, I could use all the help I can get. And before you ask what that has to do with you,” Lyris said, holding up a hand, “that blind old man is the only one who can get you home. Tamriel is a long way from here.”

Glancing at the door, the Nord added, “That passage should take us to the Tower of Eyes. If we can destroy one of the Sentinels guarding it, perhaps we could break into the Prophet’s cell undetected.”

Sinjaro shook his head. There were so many things that could go wrong with her plan. Still, it wasn’t like he had any ideas. He would have to follow her lead.

Passing through the door, they saw a Daedra holding a man by the throat.

“Ziss…” Sinjaro groaned as the man was thrown across the room to be impaled on a spike.

What he wouldn’t give for a bow right now…

Lyris charged in, Sinjaro sending Zephron after her. To his surprise, the familiar began letting out a wave of electricity, the magic not seeming to affect Lyris.

The middle of a battle was not the best place for surprises. He would have to ponder later. For now, Sinjaro leaped toward the Daedra as he turned, his sword smacking into the creature’s legs. The Daedra stumbled, allowing Lyris to slam her axe into its head.

“Well played friend. Arkay’s beard, you are good in a fight,” Lyris panted.

“The God of Brutality knows of your escape. Hurry,” the Prophet said around them.

Heeding his advice, they hurried, passing through another door. Standing on a platform on the other side of the door, Sinjaro scanned the world around him. A river ran through the cold, dead, grey land, a small bridge leading over the waters to a rise in the land. That seemed like a good location for someone to watch the land from.

“The God of Schemes can see all of Coldharbour. We need to distract him,” Lyris said beside him.

Nodding, Sinjaro started forward, Lyris and Zephron following him as he moved through the land. Crossing the bridge, the Khajiit began walking up the hill, crouching down as he neared the top. A large orb spun slowly up ahead, blue light shining from it. It had to be one of the Sentinels Lyris had mentioned.

“Try to be inconspicuous,” Lyris hissed. “We just got free of this place. The last thing we want is to be captured again.”

“This one thinks you might want to be more quiet then,” Sinjaro muttered, before creeping forward, sword in hand.

Waiting for the light to pass around, Sinjaro darted forward, slashing the back of the orb with his blade. It exploded into darkness, Sinjaro stumbling back. The Khajiit spun and sprinted down the hill, spearing a Daedra through the gut with his sword as he ran into it. He struggled to retrieve the weapon, giving up as Lyris ran past him.

“Quickly, while he’s blinded! We must get to the Prophet’s Cell!”

Sinjaro followed the Nord, rushing toward a cell door. They had done it. That had been easy.

The cell door erupted in flames, a voice laughing at them.

“Fools! You will never escape my realm!”

“Herma-Mora’s wagging tongue!” Lyris snapped.

“This one thought it was too easy,” Sinjaro sighed.

“The Sentinel must have triggered the ward. We’ll have to find another way in.”

“Did you think there wouldn’t be a countermeasure?”

Lyris ignored him. Sinjaro was getting really tired of her not listening. But for now, he was stuck with her.

“Maybe Cadwell will help us…”

“And who is this Cadwell?”

“Cadwell is the oldest of the Soul Shriven. After years of torment, most Soul Shriven go insane. Cadwell was already insane before he got here. Mad as a box of frogs, but completely harmless. You’ll see.”

“A mad man… Wonderful…”

They moved south, Sinjaro searching for a new weapon as he walked. He came across a new recipe for jasmine tea, tucking it into a pocket, but there were no weapons to be found.

“One fine day in the middle of the night, two dead kings got up to fight…”

Sinjaro glanced at Lyris. That certainly sounded like the kind of thing a crazy man would sing. They entered a small camp full of Soul Shriven, finding one of them with a pot on his head, strumming a lute with a grin on his face.

“Hullo, what’s this then? Out for a stroll, hmm? Lovely day for it.”

“Cadwell?” Sinjaro asked.

“Sir Cadwell, yes indeed, a pleasure. And fair Lyris! Good to see you m’dear,” the madman exclaimed cheerfully.

“We’re trying to get into the Prophet’s Cell, but the door is warded,” Lyris explained.

“Oh dear, oh dear, that is rather inconvenient. Tell you what, I happen to know of a back entrance, a rather scenic route in fact. Full of traps, and corpses, and other little beasties filling in the bits between. “

“And how would we get through all of these things?”

“Rather cautiously I’d expect,” Cadwell said thoughtfully. “Watch your step, hold your nose, and do mind the traps. There’ll like as not be a fair amount of running and skull bashing as well.”

“Could you tell us where the entrance is?”

“Oh, just follow the river. You’ll find the door to the Undercroft at the water’s end. Once inside, stick to the light, and you’ll find a ladder that will take you to the Prophet straight away. Do give him my best!”

Waving them off with a smile, Cadwell turned his attention back to his lute, plucking out another nonsensical tune. As the two left him, Lyris sighed.

“Cadwell seems to think this place is delightful. Probably means it’s a death trap. We’d better be careful.”

“Actually, this one was thinking of stopping to take a nap in there,” Sinjaro said.

Lyris glared at him.

“Perhaps we better travel separately,” she said, running off.

“This one was only joking. Maybe.”

A nap did sound nice. Perhaps when their lives weren’t in danger though. Sending Zephron to scout ahead, Sinjaro followed the giant Nord, humming Cadwell’s tune to himself. It was rather catchy.

He found Lyris banging on a metal door with her axe. Shaking his head, Sinjaro stopped the giant, his fingers delicately plucking a lockpick out of her pockets.

Grunting, Lyris stepped aside to let him work. Sinjaro was grateful for the week of lessons he had taken from Riften’s Thieves’ Guild in exchange for nabbing a gem. It hadn’t even been that difficult of a heist. The Dunmer were entirely too confident in their magic. Magic that didn’t affect a thick coated werewolf nearly that much.

“The sooner you get that door open-”

“Perhaps you could be silent and let this one work, yes?”

He felt through the lock carefully, finding a binding pin easily. Lifting it, the Khajiit searched out the rest, the lock clicking open in seconds.

Standing, he pushed the door open wide.

“I knew the Khajiit could pick the lock,” Lyris grunted, walking past.

“Hmmddrrr…”

Sinjaro stopped himself. He didn’t need to attack the Nord. That would spell disaster for them both. But soon, very soon, she’d get what was coming…

Following the Nord into the Undercroft, Sinjaro’s eyes widened at the sight of a bow next to a fully stocked quiver. Those were his…

Darting forward, the Khajiit rolled under a skeleton that attacked from the side. Zephron attacked the skeleton, electricity filling the air around her as Sinjaro strung the bow. He turned around as the skull rolled past him, an arrow on the string of his bow.

Zephron trotted past him, Lyris following the familiar. He let them have their moment of glory. The next kill would be his…

They wandered through the Undercroft, Sinjaro mindful to keep near the light. One other skeleton came after them, but he was able to knock its head off with an arrow while Zephron scratched at its legs. Ducking between twin streams of blue flame, Sinjaro paused before a doorway.

“The Prophet’s cage should be just ahead! Quickly, we haven’t much time!”

Sinjaro shook his head as Lyris hurried inside. He followed close behind, finding the Nord standing before a large force field floating above the ground. A man hovered inside the field, the same man that had appeared before them earlier.

“He is real. This one must confess he is surprised,” Sinjaro said.

“Yes, he’s real, and he appears unharmed. Now the bad news. It will be up to you to keep him safe.”

“Sinjaro must not have heard you correctly. Is the Prophet not your friend?”

“There is a trick to getting the Prophet out of that cage. The only way for a prisoner to leave is for another living soul to take their place. I need to swap places with the Prophet.”

Sinjaro frowned at the Nord. This is why he hated magic. Too many rules.

“Surely there is another way.”

“Believe me, I wish there was. But I don’t see anyone else here with a beating heart,” Lyris said.

“This one has a heart-”

Sinjaro paused, setting his hand against his chest. The pain had certainly diminished, but it was still there. He couldn’t feel his heartbeat either.

“Sinjaro’s heart is not beating…” he said in alarm.

“Took you long enough to notice that. Once it’s done, get moving. The Prophet will know where to go, but he’ll need your eyes and your protection.”

Sinjaro nodded, still trying to accept that his heart had stopped somehow. Lyris stepped into a stone circle on the ground and a blue glow surrounded her, picking her up into the air. She screamed in pain as a Daedra appeared.

Zephron charged, Sinjaro providing ranged support. The Dadra fell quickly, only for a second one to appear behind Sinjaro.

“Mor kha’jay!”

The Daedra’s claws caught him in the gut, knocking him off balance. Zephron rushed past him, distracting the Daedra long enough for Sinjaro to put an arrow in its head.

Two pinions appeared, small glowing orbs within a broken cube. As Sinjaro held his hand near one, it snapped shut, dropping into the ground. He repeated the process with the other pinion, and Lyris cried out again as she was suddenly catapulted into the cage, the Prophet taking her place outside.

“Freedom! I remember this feeling…” the old man said, straightening with the aid of a staff. “Thank the Divines you are safe! There is that, at least. Lyris sacrificed everything that we might go free. Her sacrifice must not be in vain.”

“This one does wonder if there is a way we might take her with us?”

“I wish that were possible. But I promise, once we escape Coldharbour, we will find a way to rescue her together, Vestige.”

“You called Sinjaro Vestige before. Why?”

“That is the name I have given you. You are but a trace of your former self, a soulless one. A vessel that longs to be filled. It is as the Elder Scrolls foretold, though not how I imagined it.”

“All these jetwijijri wanting to fill Sinjaro but not wanting to have dinner first. Does this one look like an easy Khajiit…?”

“Quickly now, we must make haste to the Anchor. The Anchors are Daedric machines of the darkest magic. Their chains bind our world and pull it toward Coldharbour. I can use one of these anchors to take us back to Tamriel, but you must lead me to it, up the stairs!”

He was rather perceptive for a blind man. Sinjaro wondered if he had seen the stairs before he went blind. Who knew how long ago that was?

“You may take Sinjaro’s tail if you must. But no tugging,” the Khajiit said.

He led the blind man up the stairs and into another chamber, where they found a circle with four giant chains hanging from it.

“The Anchor Mooring!” the Prophet exclaimed.

Shaking his head, Sinjaro continued forward. Suddenly the ground shook, a giant hand sprouting from it.

“A mortal thinks it can defy me? Futile. Soon your world will be in my chains.”

Sinjaro shuddered as he realised Molag Bal was speaking to him. If he was to fight a Daedric Prince, he wasn’t about to do it in this body…

His body trembled as a giant construct crawled out of the ground. With a snarl, Sinjaro let his wolf take over, lunging at the giant. In seconds, it was over, the colossus lying broken on the ground.

Sinjarin broke off mid howl as a hand touched him, forcing a state of calm into his mind. The werewolf melted back into his Khajiit body once more.

“A moment Vestige,” the Prophet said. “The Anchor’s portal is high above us. I will prepare a spell to lift us to it, but first you must re-attune yourself to Nirn with a skyshard to regain your physical form.”

“What is a skyshard?”

“A piece of Aetherial magicka that carries the essence of Nirn. If you collect one and absorb its power, it should restore your corporeal form. I shall summon one for you.”

Collecting power? Sinjaro was intrigued. He had just made a rather powerful enemy. Perhaps these skyshards would allow him to survive the Daedric Prince’s wrath.

“There. Quickly, collect the skyshard.”

It shone with a blue light, rising into the sky like a beacon. Reaching out his hand, Sinjaro touched the skyshard. He was bathed in light, the power of the shard lifting into the air. It was filling him with a warm glow, energy coursing through his body. He felt alive.

Landing back on the ground as the glow faded, Sinjaro found the Prophet slamming his staff against the ground, perilously close to the edge of the anchor. Another glow appeared, and the Prophet reached blindly for the Khajiit. Clasping hands, the two rose into the air, Sinjaro crying out in surprise. He did not like this method of travel at all.