Feline Nemesis
by Iron-Pumper, Mercenary/Self-Proclaimed Bard (deceased 4E 203, Bruma)How Dumhuvud became the Cat-Kickern a winter day of 4E 195, eleven soldiers of the Fourth Imperial Legion, a division now defunct but previously a feared fighting force, patrolled the gelid roads of Haafingar. These men and women, half of whom were foreigners from Cyrodiil, while the remaining portion were natives of Skyrim, all cursed their rubbish assignment. Their legion armor was boasted by thick trousers and blouses underneath, and ungainly fur cloaks above. On their feet were the heaviest boots the legate could procure, but even so, some opted to bring their own footwear. The captain did not discipline those with irregular equipment, for even himself wore many to ward off the chill.
Haafingar snowed less frequently than holds of equal latitudes. This week was out of the ordinary. White powders drifted for three days continuous, to an extent where land travel became unfeasible. When the snowstorms finally cleared on the fourth day, citizens had never been happier to see sunlight. Magnus shone bright and magic-rays of Aetherius melted solidified precipitations from the skins of Nirn. They cheered that night, the Winking Skeever held the merriest party rivaling that of New Life festival and Saturalia. People of all ages, all walks of life burned with high spirits inside warm houses. But on the outside, the Earthbones cooled beyond where water flowed.
The fifth was terrible. Melted snow turned to water yesterday, and water froze into ice yesternight. City guards were the first out. Hearing multiple slip and fall incidents in the wee hours of dawn, red chainmail-wearing men took to shoveling stubborn trails. Life went on that day, the cold was enough to maintain ice integrity but not so much as to prohibit travel, should the said traveler readied to brave the winds. So several traders embarked early that day, hoping to secure the next shipment in record time to compensate for three days locked down and one night of lavish consumption. Then the cats struck.
Khajiits were unwelcome in Skyrim, a fact taking no more than five minutes to be apparent. Most Khajiits simply accepted their lot, resigning to mistreatment but compensating with witty tricks and barters. One group of Khajiits were notorious in 195, a band of Alfiqs posing as house cats. See, these individuals would pose as lost kitties, and once the attention and empathy of the unfortunate were garnered, they would strike with powerful incantations and rob their victims blind. The fifth day was when two horse drawn wagons set upon a helpless cat, and the traders ridding along were torched by unknown causes.
The legion was dispatched at once, henceforth we return to Dumhuvud. He was but a fresh recruit, a legionary of the lowest ranking. He fell to the rear, following his captain through perilous slopes, slopes they took as shortcuts, in the name of "saving time". These slopes were slick with ice, they necessitated climbing spikes mounted on the legionaries' boots to safely scale. Alas, after hours of torturous treks, in which many were tired and bruised, the patrol found a lone feline perched atop of a boulder.
"This is the target, we are looking at the infamous highwayman!" The captain said. He unsheathed his gladius, a short sword forged in the searing heat of Imperial City and sharpened through religious maintenance. His troopers followed suit, and soon enough they encircled the cat. Ten legionaries formed the circle, Dumhuvud, a rookie at the time, stood behind his captain and observed. The Alfiq sat on its hind legs, motionless saved for shallow chest heaves, silent except for calm purrs. The Alfiq opened its eyes, purring halted for a split second before a loud meow emitted from its throat, and the legionaries exploded.
Scorching white energy radiated outwards in a ring. It was a perfect loop all around, annihilating all ten legion soldiers. Its power was not mundane, and not common arcane either. Ten armored figures dropped unceremoniously, their churned remains tangled with snow and slush. But Dumhuvud stood behind his experienced peers, safe and sound. The bulky winter outfits of his fellow legionaries were so obstructive, or perhaps it was the Alfiq's overconfidence, the lone Nord lad was not registered. He rocked back in the explosion. The standard-issue sword wrenched from his grip due to the sheer expunging force. Though Dumhuvud stood firm, despite being pushed by what felt like the shouts of the Greybeards, he found himself eye-to-eye with a house cat after the dusts cleared.
A low-ranking member of the Imperial army was issued nothing else than his primary weapon. So when Dumhuvud caught the cat off-guard, he could not capitalize with anything in his hands. The two of them, human and feline, shared a stupefied glance. The Alfiq could not move, a tiny creature such as it exhausted all of its stamina and magicka through one disproportionate endeavor. The Nord, on the contrary, was filled to the brim with rage and hate. Though he was no friend with his captain, nor was he the popular man in the barracks, witnessing so many of his comrades devastated by a single blast lit up a flaming well of vengeance inside. In addition, the young man feared for his own life, the thoughts of enduring a second spell, or worse, enduring the general's ire when he returned alone, defeated, was simply unbearable. Sure, there was naught in his hands that could do harm, there were the perfect tools strapped to his feet.
The ice cleats were jagged and razor-sharp. Troops patrolling during wintertime always took care refraining from stepping on each others' toes. It was knowing what his cleats could do drove Dumhuvud forward in a full sprint. He had nothing in his gloves, he bothered not to scavenge another's weapon. All that mattered was the element of surprise. Anterior of the cat's recovery, the legionary came barreling in. In spite of all the rough terrains hindering his path, he was upon the Alfiq in seconds.
Too late, the lousy escape attempt made by the Alfiq was in vain. Steel-reinforced toe rammed into its rib cage. Something cracked. Dumhuvud was too far in the moment to notice. He kicked again, this time, flipping the Alfiq on its side. Against a small creature such as this Khajiit, a pair of well-placed kicks could be enough to incapacitate. But a soldier like Dumhuvud was conditioned to take no prisoner on the battlefield. To him on that bitter day, it was every bit a battlefield as his predecessors in the Imperial City. So the sole came next, followed by the heel. For four repeats, Dumhuvud gritted his teeth as his boot's teeth crunched down on helpless fur. When he lifted foot for the fifth time, all that persisted were two dozen punctures on something he could barely call cadaver. His kicks ceased, and all Dumhuvud could do was sucking in cold air, which compared to drowning in freezing water.
Later that day, when the sun started to withdraw, a lone legionary would walk through the gates of Solitude. He had multiple packs slung across his back and carried in his arms. But just then, a avaricious member of the Khajiit caravan couldn't help but try to play the weary man. The bi-pedal salesman cat began with a ridiculous low-ball offer, as Dumhuvud shook his head and attempted to ignore the act, a fur-covered paw dipped on his shoulder.
That very Khajiit would come to regret his decision for the rest of his life. Contrary to his beat-up appearance, Dumhuvud was very much alert to the thievery attempt. He caught the paw in one hand, and with the other, whipped the pack across the Khajiit's face. Straps came undone from the pack due to the raw force applied. The Khajiit tripped onto his tail, and as he stared up at the legionary, a wrecked Alfiq corpse rolled down from above. The Khajiit scrambled away in haste, and his companions simply stood around the spectacle. Everyone was shocked speechless.
Imperial officials had a peculiar night. They inquired late passed midnight, scrutinizing every little bit Dumhuvud brought back. For the most part, Dumhuvud's testament remained simple: "I kicked a cat." At three past midnight did Dumhuvud finally realize what the veterans experienced when they spoke of traumatic nightmares. His own was a plethora of strangely terrifying phenomenons; the sole survivor of devastating ambushes, sabre cat jaws wrapped around his throat, and the worst of all were the exact eyes of the dead Alfiq. Drenched in shivery sweat, Dumhuvud leaped up from his cot. The room was eerily vacant, and he could swear he heard purring off in the distance. There was only one way Dumhuvud really coped; violence. With no superiors around, he would thrash his barrack section.
Weeks later, a vague report passed on to someone in the Imperial City. For Dumhuvud, he was promoted. The legates did not tell him why, only that he was now
Quaestor in another unit. No mention came of his incident, and to best of his knowledge, it never officially happened. Perhaps it was not to terrify sheepish citizens, after all, who would rest easy knowing their neighbor's cat could be a mass murderer? But in the Khajiit caravans, rumors of a cold-blooded murderer circulated. Among his fresh comrades, the very same rumors also went viral, failing the legates' attempt to cap information. They would tack on him the moniker "Cat-Kicker". At first, Dumhuvud resisted his nickname, but when the general himself started calling him "Quaestor Cat-Kicker", he knew the designation was stuck for good; Nords do not shed titles earned in combat.
Maybe he eventually prided himself for his name. Perhaps it evoked a sense of survival. But if anyone dared to mock him for it, he would handle it the good old fashion way; getting angry. Because Shor knows insults tend to end jokes outright, and a fight or a few frowns later, few stayed to ridicule.
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