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In the press of bodies crowding the ramp up to the gate I became separated from the gang of desert rogues, a coincidental happening I made no protest against since I was still indebted twenty septims to Bakker, which the urgency of my task made irrelevant. For the greater good I rushed forward on my own at great speed, and atop Spinner's sagging back I brushed knees and shoulders with all manner of folk: squat Bosmer elves touring far from their tree top cities to the west, Redguards, a medley of other men and mer, and local Khajiit in such numbers and kinds as I had never seen before. The cumulative smell of unwashed skin and fur did a great disservice to this flower of the desert.

A pack of Khajiit resembling saber-toothed tigers surrounded me at one point, bearing great packs strapped by cord to their backs. It was unnerving to be amongst such massive yet mute creatures of commerce, as intelligent as you or I. I hurried Spinner along, curses chasing me as she did one of her namesake motions in the crowd and sent a High Elf crashing headfirst into the tiger-like catman.

I yelled apologies over the mixed roars and curses as I spurred onward to the Crawling Gate, above which, hewn into the ancient mesa was an engraving of a towering Khajiit (presumably a Mane) standing on a field of horizontal men and mer (presumably dead), which fortunately neither inspired nor offended my present company. I made it past the gatehouse without incident, paying my last denarii for the privilege of entering Dune before passing through a tunnel that echoed back the clatter of hooves like splashing water. I emerged into the sun-soaked valley of the city proper.

My alienation as I was carried down the main thoroughfare between crude adobo hovels stair-stacked atop one another five or so levels struck me as oddly nostalgic — that one as traveled as myself could feel so misplaced was a testament to how much the cat folk stand apart from the rest of the the world. Winding alleys grew like cracks on an old clay pot between the flat rooftops and offered brief glimpses of the various ivory temples and towers in the districts beyond. Stairs were a rare sight; it seemed to be assumed any pedestrian was capable of frequent three-foot leaps into the air. Everywhere had their smell to it, not unpleasant mind you, but distinctly that of feline waste and dander.

Khajiit milled about everywhere. Their menfolk wore baggy pants of either silk or some crude hemp depending on class, along with patterned shirts with square collars (although many laborers walked about shirtless without a hint of self-consciousness), while the women tended towards split skirts that trailed to each side and light jackets of a cut I'd never seen before which nearly touched their thighs yet had sleeves only extended halfway past their elbows with ostentatious geometric border trim. I'd read previously there are twenty physical forms a Khajiit can take depending on the lunar phase marking their conception, but having walked those streets I promise you there are many more. Quadrupedal, bipedal, double jointed, straight legged, small as a house cat to bigger than a house, I saw it all and every combination besides. I marveled at them until I noticed a gray whiskered elder lounging in a door frame, eying me as his pipe trailed smoke.

I let the crowd press me forward, and drifted like a leaf on that current for the better part of an hour until the earthen structures parted into an ocean of tents, pavilions, and merchant stalls: the famed bazaar of Dune. Having no interest there, I departed for the nearest white spired temple in hopes of finding some quiet. My plan was to locate the Mane’s palace in order to monitor their movements while remaining incognito, but how I would sustain myself remained undetermined.

Off the main path, the streets were absolutely filthy with garbage that had no stink on account of the dry heat and a modest desert breeze which carried occasional whiff of sizzling kabob fat or a freshly exhaled plume of moonsugar. Following one such breeze brought me to a corner stall where a jaguar-man managed steel tongs stuffed with meat and purple onions that let off white froth against the searing fire pit.

He only spoke the native tongue, a growling, gnashing, and howling mess of a language called Ta’agra, which I supposed even the most bestial forms of their race could manage, but he understood the meaning of my last denarii well enough — a verdigris covered old coin. My stomach growled back on my behalf as the jaguar-man hoisted a skewer and served me.

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By gesture I asked where the Mane’s palace lay, and he pointed towards a distant structure with a particularly impressive quartet of bulbed ivory towers which were joined together at their tops by a curious wire mesh shaped like a gigantic hollow egg. I thanked him profusely and had I any remaining coin would have tipped him an extra for his time — but alas. I led Spinner by her bridle, kicking refuse aside with feet, which I remind you now were covered only by thread bear socks that exposed the larger half of my left foot's toes to sunlight.

The occasional catman gave me a second glance, no doubt they had fewer outsiders in that quarter, but I wandered unmolested. Some like to accuse the Khajiit of being prone to criminality, but I can say that I at no time felt any threat as I traveled through a pauper's quarter. I paused only once as I passed a line of locals waiting at a well. A pair of guards operated it and doled out a ration of briny water to petitioners who each carried an identical clay jar bearing a cross hatched mark. One petitioner with a bald patch of the fur between his eyes caught my attention — I wondered if he was ill by the way others kept their distance from him, and watched with morbid curiosity until I saw one of the guards staring back at me.

With mounting dread I pulled Spinner onward to the four spires in the distance, it was not lost on me that the Mane of Dune might feel similarly about me as his eastern clone. The more hopeful part of me prayed that if I was discovered then I might learn the reports of my connection with the Manes were merely false rumors, and if captured I might only be considered a passing lunatic. A lesser part of me wondered if the wiser move would be sleeping on the street that night before finding some way to scrounge up enough savings to make the long journey back to man's civilization. But as I turned onto a temple pavilion it became clear exactly where I was.

A dozen crimson robed Khajiit wearing queer headdresses, furred halos propped above their pointed ears on wire frames, had closed into a circle around a fellow chained to an ivory pillar and wearing naught but his fur. Each robed man was armed with a rattan rod which he whipped through the air, mercilessly beating the naked victim who, for his part, ran about in fruitless circles until his chain caught and sent him down in a wailing heap. The fur between his eyes was freshly shaven off.

A mixed crowd of priests and laypeople watched intently, but a steady traffic of laborers and tradesmen passed along the shaded periphery without a second glance as thwacks and cries punctuated the air. With a tight chest I lowered my head and joined behind a few laborers, keeping my face towards the pocked adobo walls. Time seemed to slow as I crept by as best I could.

A voice cut through the air: “Berry?"

I turned to see none other than the Chevalier Ro'kash pursuing me from the crowd of onlookers. My throat tight as a hangman's noose, I staggered backwards and braced myself against the wall for the thrashing of a lifetime.

I was unable to speak as he stopped just short of me, a pair of the crimson robed fellows breaking off from the rest of the pack to follow at his heels. He loomed even larger than I remembered, and the curls of his mane were darker, oiled even, as they fell over a dark robe that clung to his muscular frame and was interwoven with thick crimson cord enchanted with such force that it shimmered like a heatwave.

"By His Holiness, it looks half dead," Ro'kash growled with a smile. "Well more than usual. Was it robbed?"

My eyes darted between him and his companions, still bracing for a blow to land when I realized they were waiting for me to speak. Ro’kash crossed his arms, his cruel grin fading into discomfort as I struggled to find words.

One of his flunkies stepped forward, lowering his rattan beating stick so as not to brandish it at me. "Is the Fate Binder well?"

I looked him up and down twice before realizing he had been addressing me deferentially. "I'm fine," I stammered, "thank you. I've uh… well I fell and hit my head by accident. I'm a bit disoriented and all that."

Ro’kash sniffed and I swear to you he could taste my fear. His muzzle flesh wrinkled at the soft way his flunky had spoken to me and he waved them both off before telling them to resume 'exercising the heretic'. They saluted, calling him ‘vizier’ before departing.

Ro'kash squinted at me as the crack of wood on flesh rang out behind him. "We wonder what new game the Fate Binder is playing. Walking the streets like a beggar, and that pitiful new face fur. Ro’kash watches you."

"I'd expect no less," I lied before nodding to the pavilion, "what was his crime by the way?"

"Same as the rest, a lack of faith in our most holy and predestined Mane."

"I see. Well it's really been wonderful seeing you again Ro'kash but I should be going."

"Yes, yes, always onto its next scheme,” he sighed. “The inner council has been so peaceful in its absence."

I gave Spinner a tug, "Duly noted. And good luck with your beatings."

"Likewise."