&nbsp; &nbsp;Ah, you&#8217;re finally awake. You were trying to cross the border, right? Walked right into that Imperial ambush, same as us, and that thief over there<br /> The Imperials have decided our fate. To die as animals, and women no less. They know of no greater humiliation. I just pray my ancestors recognise me when I arrive at Sovngarde with my tail between my legs.<br /> There&#8217;s no point struggling. They already cast the spell while you were sleeping. You&#8217;ll be a khajiit soon enough. That pain in your head? It is your new ears emerging. Yes, I see them now, poking up from your hair.<br /> And the tightness in your tunic&#8230; that maddening itch in two lines down your chest&#8230; those are your breasts swelling. All eight of them. The Empire likes to ensure we&#8217;re well endowed, not to mention pretty for when they impale our heads on spikes above the gates of Solitude. I imagine yours will draw quite the crowd.<br /> At least you soon won&#8217;t feel the bump of the cart beneath the ass they're giving you.<br /> Won&#8217;t be long now. The headsman awaits. They may offer you a choice. To grovel and live. Eating scraps from your master&#8217;s table. Being paraded before your kinsmen as a warning. Bred by Imperials and khajiit alike, your belly already swelling with your next litter of kittens while the last still suckles at your teats, until the end of your days.<br /> Remember that the ancestors are watching, always. Greet the axe like a friend and die with your head held high, as a true nord.