Fear not, little one, I have no fear of the beauty of the Khajiit race. There are many beauties of their kind and to deny such would be to shy away from the truth.
The most beautiful Khajiit I ever saw had short, velvet-soft fur of dark oaken tones. Yet around the features of the face, hands, and tail, the fur was an even deeper shade, almost black, like walnut bark after a heavy rainstorm. Prominent cheekbone and brows that made their facial expressions all the more striking. And eyes that glowed with the icy fires of distant stars.
Their body was long and thin, but sculpted. Wiry muscles that could be used to make the graceful hands move quickly than the eye can see. The same hands that could as easily flash the glint of a dagger and wield their delicate tools. To watch them move was to witness the epitamy of grace in motion.
Their demeanor was regal. Like ancient rulers of a far off land. Full of confidence and curiosity. Pride in their knowledge and history. Compassionate and warm even to strangers. Calm and calculating. When ill-humored, then they became as cold and distant as the peak at the throat of the world. No living thing could touch there, nor survive such chill.
To gaze upon them again would fill my heart as watering a flower revives it from a wilt.