RobinTheFox
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A short break - and then back to work
🕑 Added 2025-05-13 17:22:30 +0000 UTCFor my new piece, I decided to simplify the art itself, focusing on a single pivotal moment in the life of Shah’ksir. ))))
Instead of a complex composition, I chose a close-up of her paws to highlight their texture and the story they carry. Though the visual piece is more minimalistic, I am steadily moving toward new events in Shah’ksir’s life, gradually unfolding her story and the new turns of her fate. I’m curious myself about what will happen next, and I eagerly anticipate how her journey will unfold.
***
The evening at the Bee and Barb tavern in Riften was unusually quiet. After a raucous night filled with drunken songs and arguments, the patrons had dispersed, leaving behind only empty mugs and crumbs scattered across the tables. Shah’ksir, a Khajiit woman with fur the color of sun-bleached sand, finally found a moment to sit on a bench near the fireplace. Her single eye glinted wearily in the firelight, and her long tail lazily curled around her waist. She could feel the ache in her Feet after long hours of work—the years of cleaning in the tavern had taken their toll. But Shah’ksir didn’t complain.
She bent down and removed the old leather boots she wore to protect her soles from the rough floor, placing them carefully beside her. Then she stretched her feet toward the warmth of the fire, letting the heat soothe her tired feet. Her feet, typical of a Khajiit, were both graceful and powerful. The soles, slightly rough from constant labor, were a beige hue with a faint layer of dirt that lingered after a long day of cleaning in the tavern. The skin wasn’t entirely smooth, bearing subtle calluses along the edges and faint cracks that spoke of years of toil. Each toe, long and flexible, ended in a sharp, slightly curved claw that gleamed . The pads on her toes and heels were a shade darker, with a soft tint, and seemed tender despite the years of hard work. As Shah’ksir gently wiggled her toes, the claws softly clicked against each other, and the muscles in her soles flexed, highlighting their strength and grace. She ran a claw from her other feet along her sole, feeling the warmth of the fire ease her tired muscles, and a faint smile crossed her face.
Shah’ksir didn’t notice that a figure remained at one of the tables in the corner of the tavern. A young Breton, an artist named Lorian, who occasionally visited the Bee and Barb for inspiration, couldn’t take his eyes off her. He was captivated. Lorian, with his slender fingers smudged with charcoal and a dreamy gaze, always sought beauty in unexpected places. And now he found it in Shah’ksir—or rather, in her feet. Their shape, their texture, the contrast between the softness of her soles and the sharpness of her claws mesmerized him. He pulled out his sketchbook and began to draw, his pencil swiftly gliding across the paper, trying to capture every curve, every detail.
But the silence was broken by a sharp voice. “Hey, Khajiit, are you lounging around while there’s still work to be done?” It was Talen-Jei, one of the tavern’s owners, who had come down from his room to check on things. His tone was harsh but not malicious—he was simply used to giving orders. Shah’ksir flinched, her claws instinctively tensing, leaving faint scratches on the wooden bench. She quickly pulled her feet back, a wave of shame replacing the warmth in her chest. “Shah’ksir… only for a moment,” she mumbled, her voice trembling with exhaustion and unease.
Lorian, noticing her reaction, couldn’t stay silent. “Let her rest, sir,” he said, standing up from his table. His voice was gentle but firm. “She’s been working tirelessly all evening. Her feet… they deserve a break. Look at how… remarkable they are.” He held up his sketch, which depicted Shah’ksir’s feet in intricate detail—from the delicate curve of her toes to the texture of the calluses that spoke of her endurance.
Talen-Jei frowned but softened upon seeing the drawing. “Hmph… well, if you say so,” he grumbled, waving a hand dismissively. “But only for a few minutes, Shah’ksir. Don’t get too comfortable.” He left, leaving her alone with Lorian.
Shah’ksir looked at the Breton in surprise. “You… draw Shah’ksir? Her feet?” she asked, her voice quiet but tinged with gratitude. Lorian smiled. “Yes. They’re beautiful. There’s strength, grace… and history in them. I couldn’t help but draw them.” He handed her the sketch, and for the first time in a long while, Shah’ksir felt valued not just for her labor, but for who she was.
Lorian hesitated, then asked, “May I… sit beside you?” His voice was soft, almost timid. Shah’ksir flinched slightly, her tail twitching in surprise, but she nodded. “If… you wish,” she replied, her raspy voice betraying her fatigue, but a warm note had crept into it. Lorian pulled a chair closer and sat beside her, so close that Shah’ksir could feel the warmth of his presence. He gazed at her with unhidden admiration.
Shah’ksir was far from young—she was well into her forties, her fur streaked with gray, and her scars and missing eye spoke of a harsh life. Her feet, though beautiful in their strength, bore signs of wear: calluses on her heels, faint cracks in the skin, evidence of countless hours on her feet. But to Lorian, she was stunning. In her weariness, he saw history; in her age, wisdom; and in her feet, a beauty he couldn’t put into words.
“You… are remarkable, Shah’ksir,” he said softly, his gaze drifting back to her feet. She slowly curled her toes, and characteristic wrinkles appeared on her beige soles, accentuating their softness and texture. These wrinkles, like faint lines on ancient parchment, added even more character to her feet—they told of years of movement, of strain and rest, of a life filled with labor. The pads on her toes wrinkled slightly, and the skin on the arch of her foot tightened, revealing its elegant curve. Lorian held his breath, his eyes following every movement, as if trying to memorize every detail of this living canvas.
“Your feet… they’re so… real. They tell more about you than you do yourself,” he added, his voice trembling with sincerity. Shah’ksir felt her cheeks warm beneath her fur. She wasn’t used to such attention. “Shah’ksir… is old. Tired. What do you see in her?” she asked, her voice quiet, almost disbelieving. Lorian shook his head, his hand instinctively reaching for her feet but stopping halfway, as if afraid to break the moment. “I see strength. Beauty. You… I like you, Shah’ksir. Just as you are,” he confessed, his eyes shining with emotion.
Her single eye widened in surprise. She looked at him, searching for any hint of deceit in his words, but found only sincerity. Lorian, young and full of life, gazed at her as if she were a treasure, not a weary cleaner. She lowered her gaze to her feet, wiggling her toes again, making her claws softly click against each other. Her soles, slightly rough and with a faint layer of dirt, suddenly didn’t seem so ordinary to her. Perhaps Thorvald had been right—there was indeed her history, her strength in them.
“You… are strange, Breton,” she finally said, but there was no judgment in her voice. A faint smile appeared on her face, the first in a long time. Lorian smiled back, and his hand finally touched her feet—gently, almost reverently. He ran his finger along the edge of her sole, feeling its warmth, its slight roughness, and the faint layer of dirt that only emphasized her authenticity, and Shah’ksir didn’t pull away. Her claws tensed slightly, but she allowed him, feeling for the first time in years that she wasn’t just tolerated, but desired.
For Lorian, that touch became something more than just a moment. He felt his heart race—a desire awakened in him, not just to sketch her, but to be closer, to know her more deeply. His tastes had always been “strange,” as other artists whispered: he was drawn to beauty in weariness, in the details others deemed imperfect. The slight roughness of her soles, the faint layer of dirt, the wrinkles in her skin—all of it only deepened his attraction. He wanted more—to see her again, to talk to her, to touch her feet once more. He promised himself he would make it happen, that he would find a way to become part of her life, no matter how difficult it might be.
But the moment was fleeting. Shah’ksir knew her brief respite was over. “Shah’ksir must work,” she said quietly, her voice soft but firm. She lowered her feet to the floor, slipped on her old leather boots, and stood, her movements mechanical yet still carrying the grace of a Khajiit. She grabbed a broom and began sweeping the floor, her steps light but steady, her claws softly clicking inside her boots, barely brushing the wooden planks.
Lorian remained seated, his sketchbook still on the table, but he couldn’t take his eyes off Shah’ksir. As she turned to sweep a corner of the tavern, he suddenly saw her from a new angle. Her feet, now hidden by her boots, moved across the floor, but he could still vividly picture them: the beige soles, slightly rough with a faint layer of dirt, with long toes and sharp claws he had seen just moments ago. Her figure, slightly hunched from fatigue, and her long tail swaying in rhythm with her movements, created an image of quiet strength and worn beauty. Lorian quickly grabbed his pencil and began to draw, eager to capture this moment—a moment that became for him a symbol of her resilience and grace.
The Bee and Barb tavern slowly returned to its usual rhythm, but for Lorian, this evening would remain etched in his memory forever—a meeting with Shah’ksir, whose feet told him a story he would never forget.
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Brendon Castle
Where's her stockings
