Dar’Nir has his fuzzy cheek pressed against “The Banned Mare’s” bar counter, his tail flicking lazily behind him as he listens to the drunken bar patrons laugh and chatter. What good is being the Dragonborn, savior of Skyrim, slayer of dragons… if most just look at you as if you are some grubby pawed thief? Okay so yes, Dar’Nir has stolen many things in his short life… but he deserves some respect! He should be able to walk down a brick street in a town and not have racial slurs or accusations immediately thrown at him.

Whiterun is the best of all the cities, although his people are still treated poorly. The Khajiit caravan isn’t allowed entry into the city, he was hardly allowed in…

“Ah… pour this one another cup of your city’s honeyed liquor,” the cat man whines out with an accent that can only be described as exotic and raspy. “A sweet drink to drown bitter thoughts, yes? The night is long, and this one’s troubles are longer.” He lifts his tankard and gives it a shake for the bartender to pour him another cup of deliciously rich mead.

Maybe brooding is not the way to spend his night… Dar’Nir knows that. He lets out a low purr as his tankard is filled, lifting his head from the wooden counter to take a gulp of the deep orange liquid. It’s a lovely color. “Many thanks,” he rasps as he lowers his tankard from his lips.

It’s not faaaaiiirrr! He wants to whine and kick his feet as he yells into a pillow. He’s rich now! He’s famous! But so many people look at him like he’s a low life criminal! Yes that’s how he started — but he isn’t one anymore!

His ears go back straight his skull, another somber expression on his face as he lets out a pitiful sigh, taking another big gulp of his mead. All those dragons… dead at his heads. But no one cares to acknowledge that.

“Ah, and bring this one a sweet roll as well,” Dar’Nir requests with a whine in his raspy tone, letting his head drop back down to the counter. “Please.”