Upon the snow-laden paths south of the Red Road Pass, where giants set their encampment and tended to their mammoths; south of the town of Dawnstar, the quiet harbor garrison upon the northern coast of Skyrim, lay the Hall of the Vigilant. To any who may pass the building in idle travel, it would look little more than an abandoned inn. Inside, however, one would find not only a shrine to Stendarr, the god of mercy, but accommodations for the two dozen-odd members of The Vigil. There were bunk rooms and tables with food and drink, donated by various parties and bought by The Vigil themselves with the hoards of treasure they found in various crypts and dungeons throughout the land of Skyrim and abroad. The Vigil itself was a mixed bag of racial and cultural backgrounds; however, most of the members here in Skyrim were of Breton and Nord background. There were a couple Imperials and a Redguard. There were a few Dark Elves and Wood Elves. Then there was Hassiri. Hassiri had been an orphanage-son in the town of Dawnstar since he could remember. He had always been told that he had been abandoned by his caravan. If not abandoned, then he had been lost or separated. At any rate, the toddler had been found, nearly frozen, in the snow and ice near Dawnstar. It was a wonder, the matron of the orphanage had told him, that he had not fallen prey to the biting cold, to elementals or to the many wolves of Skyrim's hills and forests. The khajiit grew into an ostracized young man, and that lack of belonging or want drove him to a love of music and a thirst for a life of adventure and wanton as a bard. That, and no small amount of wanderlust present in the veins of every khajiit. There was a spurring in his soul to find the warm sands of his people, and a spurring to weave songs and tales of great men and women from all over Nirn. So he wandered. And he wandered until he came no further than due south of Dawnstar, his drum and pack upon his back and his lute and blade at his side. He would tell tales here, he told himself. For a time, at least, he would sing of The Vigil and the horrible creatures they vanquished. Vampires, werewolves, daedra and evil witches would fall by their swords and Hassiri would be there to chronicle every drop of vile blood upon the snow. - - - - - - - - - - The khajiit wandered through the snow near the Hall of the Vigilant, a wood cutting axe in tow and not much else. His blade was at his side and he wore his rather plain clothing consisting of a tunic of dark green under a vest of brown leather and breeches to match the vest. The breeches disappeared into his leather boots, and his wild mane blew about in the snowy breeze, catching the frozen crystals as they swirled about. "Always with the snow. I should move to the tundra, to some place warmer. Maybe to the Empire," he muttered. "No, no. I guess it's charming, the snow," he added, still speaking to himself as he made his way away from The Vigil's headquarters and out to a stack of logs and a stump. "I could do without the chopping, though. Always with the chopping and the cooking and the cleaning." "It's no good. ...restless, I suppose."