A Trial in the Sands: A Do'Karth Tale
Ten years ago
Riddle’Thar’s Rest, West of Orcest, Anequina
The blazing desert sun was unrelenting as it always was as rain seldom found its way to the deserts and savannahs of Anequina as if the clouds themselves found the heat too unbearable to stay for long. In the shifting sands, numerous ruins and ancient structures were buried over the years, signs of passed civilizations left derelict and forgotten throughout the ages, the large blocks of sandstone and granite extending through the sands like fingers of a buried giant consumed by an unforgiving void. It was, to an visitor from far off lands, as if life itself had deserted these lands, with no water and hardy withered vegetation to give credence of life. Like flesh and blood leaves behind a dry skeleton, the absence of water leaves the desert.
And yet, in these unimaginably harsh conditions, Khajiit had existed among the sands for thousands of years, some saying predating even the Elves. The people of Elsweyr are renowned for their wit and adaptability, their ability to pick up and move on from one thing to the next with the ease of the wind. It is these eternal wanderers and resourceful cats that can thrive in an unimaginably harsh environment that has mercilessly killed the unprepared since the beginning of time, and in the absence of great cities and castles an ancient culture based on community and the reliance on putting the needs of the many above the individual has long taken route. Tribes cannot survive unless everyone works together as a whole, and those who pull against the needs of the tribe are often cast away like a malignant tumour, damned to wander cold sands in lands of strangers if they wish to survive.
However, despite the Khajiiti predisposition to altruism and charity, there are always forces that work against the ideals of the people at large. For the Men and Mer and other Beasts, Khajiit are seen largely as smugglers and thieves, skooma addicts, and more darkly, assassins. It was the Renrijra’Krin that largely cemented this reputation as their reach extended far beyond the sands of Elsweyr, and if those who had Khajiit reside in their lands cared to ask the marginalized cat-folk for the truth, they would have known that many of the ‘Krin are what have caused the sordid reputation of the Khajiit in far off lands and the backlash against those who simply wish to live their lives in these foreign communities for the crimes of their kin ensures that the ‘Krin are never lacking for new recruits or fences for their cause. The Renrijra’Krin had a saying, ‘one should never stomp a hornets nest because one had been stung once, for one will find the stingers will never cease’. It is for this reason that the ‘Krin never lacked for influence and bodies to fill their cause, despite being contradictory to the Khajiiti way of life. It was a community, like any other, but one that dared ponder what would happen if an individual decided to take some of the fruits of their labour for themselves instead of giving it all back.
And so, in the ruins of Riddle’Thar’s Rest, named for the cosmic Khajiiti entity that taught its practitioners unparalleled unarmed combat skill, and these ruins made for an important layaway for the Sugar God’s messengers. First spoken of by the Mane Rid-Thar-ri’Datta, it would prove ironic why a very select group of the Renrijra’Krin were competing with one another in martial arts under the watchful eye of their Masters; the victor would be offered the most rare and infamous of tasks for their success. The initiates were not told the specifics, only that they would be asked to do something that no other Khajiit has done and their names would be written in the sands for eternity. It was, of course, an offer too enticing to resist.
Sixteen initiates, selected on the number of phases in the Lunar Lattice, had competed in a number of duals. The initiates were all of the bipedial breeds for practical reasons; the task they were competing for, by necessity, required use of hands and the ability to wear a uniform. It had been a few hours already, and as an incentive to test their resolve, they could have water any time they liked, provided they forfeit their place in the competition. Candidates were permitted up to three losses, since it was common knowledge that sometimes one simply had an unfavourable match up or made a slight mistake that cost them their round; if given another chance, they would often perform notably better, and if given a final chance, they would either succumb easily or not hold anything back. By not punishing failure, the Masters decided, they could really truly gather the full measure of one’s potential and see what they could do against different opponents. Was an Ohmes an incompetent warrior because they didn’t have claws nor the height and weight to defeat a Cathay-Raht, who were only seconded in size and mass to the Senche-Raht tigers? Of course not. A loss was a loss, and the real world didn’t offer second chances, but the beautiful part of training was it could prepare a Khajiit to face the real world with far more experience and skill than if they would have received otherwise.
Four initiates remained, and their fatigue was apparent. Even with fifteen minutes between rounds, several hours in the desert heat without water tested the physical and mental capacity of even the hardiest of warriors. Those disqualified sat in a shaded nook, water skins in hand. While some greedily drank back as much as they could hold, some stared with rapt attention at those who remained, both to determine who would be victorious and to perhaps learn from their betters.
Of the four, Daro’Sahana, a female Cathay, Ma’Tasrin, a female Ohmes-Raht, Dar’Jash, a male Cathay, and Dar’Turga, it was Dar’Turga who captured most of the attention. Whereas most were notable fighters and successful members of the Renrijra’Krin, it was Dar’Turga who had frequently proven himself to be a force to be reckoned with. His form was near-perfect, he was disciplined, and unlike most of the others, he did not have anyone that would be considered a friend. He had social acquaintances within the organization, sure, but almost all of his time was spent training and conditioning himself. It was known that he desired to make a name for himself, to become renowned and honoured, to become one of the heroes of legend. Great people accomplished great things, and he had felt that he would have the potential to become someone immortalized in tale if he worked for it. It was that drive that made him such a dangerous opponent; he remembered what his opponents were like from numerous years of training with them, their habits, preferences, strengths, and weaknesses. He himself, knowing that this tournament was upcoming, threw himself into frequent duels against as many opponents as he could find to agree with him, trying different stances and attempting to diminish his own preferences for strikes and movement. It had led to frequent losses, and in one case, and injury that some thought would keep him from competing, but here he was, and the fruits of his efforts paid off.
After a near-loss victory in his first round against a much larger opponent, the remaining bouts went by smoothly, alternating between immediately counter-attacking after letting the opponent make the first move and taking the fight to them aggressively as soon as the fight began, keeping them off balance enough that by the time they have an opening, they’re too sore to make any use of it. In short, for a young man of what was estimated to be around 17 or 18 years on Nirn, Dar’Turga’s fighting capacity was already far beyond what could have been expected for someone of his age. It was as if Riddle’Thar himself guided his hands and feet, and as Ma’Tasrin hit the sand arena, thrown to her back from a twisted arm-bar that almost certainly dislocated her arm, Dar’Turga stood victorious, panting, tongue white from dehydration. His body was covered in cuts, eye bruised over, two of his fingers broken, and a pronounced limp, he looked like a man who should have fallen down and succumbed an hour ago. He sat where the round had been concluded, placing his upturned wrists on his knees and began meditating, waiting for the next round to begin.
If Dar’Turga had one who could match his skill, it was Daro’Sahana and her ferocity. Far more muscular and scarred than most women, and many men for that matter, Daro’Sahana embodied the sentiment that if people wished to look at Khajiit like feral beasts, than she would act like one. Already sent on a few low-level murders and extortions, she had a reputation of leaving an impact anywhere she went. Conditioning her body to take pain by voluntarily being whipped, beat with staffs, or just antagonizing groups of people into fighting her at once, Daro’Sahana was covered in scars, leaving ghostly white lines and patches where tan fur should have been and her hands and knuckles were so calloused from punching soft stonework until she or it broke, more than one individual claimed that it would almost be preferable to being hit with a mace. She was a woman, one of 20 years, but one that even the most hardened of Orsimer would be hesitant to face. Even in this tournament, one of the initiates forfeit when paired against Daro’Sahana. He knew what she was capable of doing to people.
It wasn’t any surprise who the victor was when Daro’Sahana finished off Dar’Jash with a flurry of hammer blows into his ribs, his exposed skin cracking and bruising under the barrage, and then a cruel open palm strike into his face shattered his nose and caused the Mer-like Khajiit to fall backwards, knocked unconscious from the blow. Daro’Sahana roared in victory, sounding very much like a wildcat, before pointing at the still seated Dar’Turga. “You’ll receive worse, Dar’Turga. Your blood will quench the sand’s thirst.” She threatened, voice low and menacing. She went off to her own corner to stretch and inspect her own wounds. She wasn’t looking any better off than the Suthay-Raht, who seemed to be tranquil compared to the raging maelstrom that was Daro’Sahana.
Fifteen minutes passed, and both were lead to opposite ends of the twin crescents that were drawn in the sands. In the heat, the blood had had spilled had dried, and now only copper-scented dark spots remained of the crimson fluids that had been spilled. One of the Masters stood between them to the side, completing a triangle, and simply said, “Begin.”
As Dar’Turga predicted, Daro’Sahara took the fight to him, closing the distance in a charge; the one clear advantage over her was she was predictable. As she was nearly upon him, Dar’Turga, sidestepped into a supported crouch and swept his leg behind the Cathay, knocking her leg out from under her. She hit the ground hard, and he immediately gave space; the temptation to take advantage of a downed opponent was great, but Daro’Sahara was one that excelled at bringing aggressors down to her level. He knew if Daro’Sahara managed do get him to the ground, it would be over; she would be merciless and he would never get to his feet again. Instead, he let her get to her feet and square off again. The fight would truly begin in earnest.
She closed again, making jabs and wide slashes with her claws that Dar’Turga handily deflected or dodged with limber flexibility and easy footwork, not striking back himself. The rage was building up on Daro’Sahara’s expression. “Fight, coward!” She snarled, swiping high and clipping his ear, and then suddenly shifting into a roundhouse kick.
Dar’Turga managed to catch the leg in his arm, bracing against the impact with his torso and a supporting leg extended out opposite of the kick, and he twisted the leg, bringing his elbow down hard into the joint, dropping her as she howled in pain and rage. She hurried to her feet, her leg limping severely, and she stared daggers into the Suthay-Raht. She didn’t say anything, but murder was in her eyes. With claws extended, she advanced on Dar’Turga, who stood at a relaxed ready position. She swiped at him, and made purchase into his ribs. To her surprise, he grabbed her wrist with one hand, anchoring her in place and grabbing her other wrist, drove his skull into her snout repeatedly, bracing his leg behind hers to keep her from falling back. Hit after hit, her skin splitting, bone cracking, and teeth coming loose, her already uncomely appearance was becoming worse. Still, she dug in, attempting to tear flesh more, and suddenly, Dar’Turga released her and came up with an upper cut under her jaw, sending her off her feet and back hard into the sand. Long and bloody claw rakes marred his skin, bleeding profusely. Dazed but not quite out, Daro’Sahara tried to rise to her feet again but a hard kick to the throat kept her down and choking. She barely moved after that.
The Master clapped slowly, approaching Dar’Turga. “Well done, well done indeed.” He said, glancing at the crimson gashes and the mess of a woman on the ground. “She likely would have done far worse to you, but you know that, do you not?”
“This one does.” Dar’Turga confirmed, closing his remaining open eye, exhaling slowly to mediate through the pain. “She is skilled and ferocious, one prone to great acts of recklessness if it means certain defeat of her enemy. The swiftest way to victory was to do the same, use her own tactics against her, and take advantage of the momentary hesitation. She could not escape Dar’Turga’s blows, and this one achieved a victory that could only work once.” He said, clutching his side to try to staunch the bleeding. Healing Masters were in attendance, working tirelessly to mend the wounds of those who endured the tournament. Dar’Turga would receive his treatment soon enough. For now, a water skin would have to suffice. Taking it gratefully with a bow, the khajiit drank slowly, letting his try mouth saturate before letting his aching esophagus receive the same relief.
The Master smiled. “Daro’Sahara will not forgive you for this, you are aware. You will recover for the next week, and are dismissed from all obligations. Think of it as a perk of your victory. You will be vigilant, of course, from those who would like revenge.” He looked down at the prone woman. “Rest well, Dar’Turga. Your life as of this moment will be forever changed.”
The next week had passed and was perhaps the most boring of Dar’Turga’s life. Without training, his days were filled with nothingness. He largely sat in the garden of the Renrijra’Krin’s hideout, or enjoying his meal slower than usual, often being the last to leave the dining hall. He expected attacks or at the very least confrontations, but nothing came. Being unable to work his body, he instead turned to his mind, dedicating his hours to mediation and rest. When the week had passed, he had kneeled in front of his bed chamber door in the morning, waiting expectantly for the Master’s return.
When the Master did return, two similarly-aged Khajiit to Dar’Turga accompanied him, carrying backpacks and looking ready to travel. The Master offered a similar pack to Dar’Turga. “Get changed and come with me. Leave everything behind; it is no longer yours.”
Minutes later, the Master stood before the three young Renrijra’Krin warriors with two other Masters facing across from the other two Khajiit.
One of the Masters overseeing the meeting held up a simple iron dagger, old and pitted but still free of rust or tarnishing of any sort. Around its grip around through a loop on the cap was a red ribbon that flowed freely in the slight breeze. Himself a Suthay, the Master held the dagger up for all to see. “This dagger has no name.” He announced walking before the three apprentices, making eye contact with each as he passed. “But it is older than any of us. It has assassinated Emperors, Kings, Generals. It is a symbol of the Renrijra’Krin. This blade has been passed down from generation to generation as a symbol of our reach and power to change this world. This next time one of you sees this blade, it will mean that it is time for you to perform one of the greatest feats of our organization in history; you will have been selected to assassinate the Mane.” He said, taking in the wide eyed looks from the three apprentices; it was quite the revelation to suddenly drop on anyone, let alone three individuals whose responsibilities thus far had been nothing but training to become sleeper agents for unknown purposes. It was unheard of to target the Mane. The Master looked for signs of uncertainty, but was met with determination. Excellent.
“This dagger symbolizes that commitment to change and to ensure not only the Renrijra’Krin’s prosperity, but for all Khajiit! For too long we have suffered under the Thalmor’s thumb, and for that, it is time to cut it off to let us breathe again. This ancient, yet simple blade; it is your badge of office to do what needs to be done for all of our people. The three of you have been chosen based on your merits, your skills, your cunning, your strength. You all may be young, but old men do not walk as the Mane’s guards. What we ask of you, the victors in our respective tournaments that each of us designed and oversaw, is to give up everything you know and love to perform this one sacred task, and here under the watchful gaze of Magrus will your fate be decided.“ He announced, gesturing to the burning sun above, feeling the fire in the hearts of the Khajiit assembled as readily as the burning star above. The Master grinned at the determined stares that he received. It was quite the tale, to be sure, and one based only on half-truths. While it was true that daggers were often used to represent the assassination order for the organization, this was one he happened to buy in an Orcest market early on in the week. Absolutely nothing was special about it, but those who were being asked to do incredible things needed to have something incredible to believe in. For the Master, a little white lie was worth the end result.
Dar’Turga’s own Master spoke up next. “The three of you will no longer be members of this sanctuary, and everyone you have ever known will no longer be members of your lives. You will embrace your new identities as if Alkosh had given them to you himself; you will forget all but your training and your purpose.” He said gravely, looking each of them in the eyes. “When you step foot on the carriage, it all begins anew. Do you understand?” he asked, receiving a series of nods. “Good.” He nodded, smiling. Standing before Dar’Turga, he placed his hands on the younger Khajiit’s arms. “You are going to do great things, aren’t you, Do’Karth?” he asked.
Do’Karth. he thought, mulling over the name, trying to fit it to himself. He smiled in turn, replying, “Do’Karth will change the world”. he promised confidently, a determined stare meeting that of the Master.
“This one has no doubts that you will.”
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