To Kill a Nightingale

A Job like Any Other

A Job like Any Other

The dungeon was dusty.

Dungeons were pretty much always dusty, and he didn't much care for dust. He didn't much care for dungeons, either. Unfortunate facts, seeing as these days he seemed to spend most his time in them. In dusty dungeons.

Just like this one.

With no one there to hear him, Bashnag let out a long sigh, though it most likely sounded more like a growl. The door closed behind him, he set out to descend the stairs in near pitch darkness. If there was such a thing as must then that was exactly what the place smelled like. Like must.

Why do I feel like that's how everything smells these days?

With another sigh-growl, he stopped at the bottom of the stairway to dig out some flint and tinder. He lit the single torch bolted to the wall beside him, then stalked across the room to light another. On his way he glanced at the prisoner shackled to the wall. The feline appeared to be sleeping.

Once there was some light in the dungeon, he stopped to stand by the insensate prisoner. He cleared his throat. The rumbling sound echoed in the barely furnished chamber.

The Khajiit's head popped up. He eyed the dungeon with bleary eyes, as though trying to once more figure out where he was. Then he seemed to remember, the way he slumped. Finally he fixed his gaze of wary hostility on Bashnag in front of him.

Bashnag stepped closer. "I take no pleasure in this," he declared. He then punched the prisoner in the ribs. The prisoner cried out, and sagged with the wind driven out of him. It hadn't been a particularly hard blow, as Bashnag had no intention of killing him. Not yet, anyway.

After some moments, the Khajiit's head rose again.

"Say a number between one and ten," said Bashnag.

The prisoner scowled. "Wh-what?"

Bashnag struck him in the face.

"Say a number," he repeated patiently, "between one and ten." He leaned in, close to the prisoner's ear, and murmured, "I'll give you a hint: aim low."

"Uh." Blood dripping out of the cut on his cheekbone, the prisoner hesitated. As Bashnag moved, about to deal another punch, he hastened to say, "T-two?

Bashnag withdrew the additional blow. He studied the cat. "Huh," he grunted contemplatively. "Woulda said one, myself."

The prisoner's confusion changed to shock as Bashnag reached out to seize one of his paws fettered to the wall beside him. He singled out the index finger.

Khajiit fingers were just the same as every other creature's, underneath all the fur and even with the talons. Just another finger. The same skin, the same cartilage and bone. He bent it back in one swift motion, felt the snap as the bone broke. The Khajiit screamed. An animal cry. In that, also, he was just the same as any other.

"That's one," Bashnag said. He proceeded to take hold of the prisoner's middle finger and repeated the procedure with similar results. "And two. Alright."

The prisoner's screaming soon guttered out and was replaced by a ragged moan verging on a sob. He sagged in his bonds, breathing heavily, as Bashnag walked off.

Bashnag pulled a chair under himself, and sat down to regard the prisoner from a couple strides' distance. As he sat, the chair groaned under his bulk.

He studied the Khajiit: this strange humanoid, bipedal beast-thing in all his magnificent feline grace. This was a body built for a wholly different sort of existence than what reality seemed to be willing to permit the creatures. How would the world be, he reflected, if the likes of the two of them, the limber and dexterous Khajiit and the big sturdy Orsimer, could live free in whatever way they chose; could take and utilize what was supreme and most vital in themselves, to use in service to each other and work together for the betterment of all, instead of spending what limited days and years of life that they had with their hands locked around each other's throats, vying for space and resources, killing each other for reasons they more often than not couldn't have properly explicated, or frankly even understood—fighting this endless, pointless war that seemed to sum up existence. In other words, if the world wasn't ruled by the likes that he'd spent his entire life working for.