[center][code]Two of One Thousand Steps: Birds of a Feather[/code][/center][hr]

The first argonian to be healed was something of a test. Now that Wylendriel knew she could do it, she could perform a mass session. Already had the refugees began organizing their wounded in a circle around the center of the tent. Those who weren't hurt, but sick, they treated with the medicinal recipe the priestess had provided, providing the ill with some relief from their symptoms. The Grand Healing restoration spell was exhausting to perform, but it was excellent for healing multiple bodies. Military camps, for instance, usually had a sick tent filled with many wounded. Wy remembered watch expert and masterful restorationists repairing their bodies in a matter of minutes. Now here she was, preparing herself to fulfill the same deed as she has only a couple times before. She was fortunate to not be exposed to too much strife - until last couple of years. Any decent healer bears the misfortune of experiencing harrowing times. After all, healthy folk have no need for experts.

"I raise the spine of gratitude. You are the sun on my scales," Tzinasha said graciously, "soon enough my egg-brothers and egg-sisters will be okay, and we have you to thank."

Wylendriel smiled and set her hand on the elder's shoulder, and as she did, she felt the cool scales on her skin. She replied, "I won't say this was nothing. Life is such an amazing and yet fickle thing to be toyed with, so I appreciate your trust. We just all have our roles on Nirn. I'm blessed to say this is simply mine."

"Pure rains make sweet rivers, softskin." Tzinasha responded. "One day, we will all rejoin the one, but I am glad they may swim this river a little while longer. As far as I am concerned, our nest is yours."

"You humble me, Tzinasha!" Wylendriel laughed. "But let's see all of your people healed before you become [i]too[/i] hospitable."

"I may know your name before you begin?"

She smiled at him and replied warmly, "Wylendriel Greensky. You and your people may call me Wy."

Part of her wanted to stall for time, since even though the spell got easier to cast every time, it was still stressful at the best of times. With so many bodies, her magicka was gonna be strained. Then again, that could've been the corruption talking, so that just made a different part of her want to push even harder to make this happen. "But what if you need your magicka later?" This voice would ask. Then she could always drink a potion, she'd answer herself. If there's a problem you can't fix, then there's no point in worrying about it. If there's a problem you [i]can[/i] fix, then there was no point in worrying about it! At least, that was the idea behind her advice for people living every day lives in Whiterun. It seemed less concrete in cases of mass healing and daedric influence. She sighed and stood in the center of the circle of wounded and dying argonians.

She crossed her arms together and closed her eyes, muttering a prayer for strength as her hands began to glow.

"Kynareth, my lady, please... come to me. Be my breath, and if not for me, then for these innocent souls lest their lives be cut short, so that they may breathe you in through me - and in this exchange of the breath of life, their bodies may heal. Let extend their lives for at least another day, so that they may exchange breaths with one another for a while longer."

The bodies situated around began glowing with the same light that emanated from her hands, surrounding all of the open wounds and abrasions and slowly closing the seams. Wylendriel felt her magicka reserves instantly begin sapping. She continued the spell with steady, albeit heavy breathing. The priestess ended her prayer with a last whisper: "Let not your bountiful treasures be profaned."

Using all of her strength, she pushed her magical power to her limit and the healing process on the dozen of argonians sped up and the light became more intense, beaming out the crevices of the tent, prompting a couple of curious peaks into the shelter. The septic infections practically boiled away, some few pained moans were managed by the patients as deep gouges closed themselves shut and the nerves endings were freshly sewn back together. Some severe cases were briefly awash with pain before a relaxing warmth glazed over their bodies. Some who have been in such pain for a long time would continue to feel phantom pains for some time. Most importantly, everyone who had been arranged in this circle would be okay. Wylendriel fell to her knees as she finished and the light faded away. Her patients, some crippled moments before and intoxicated by whatever drug that placated them, began stirring and looking around - then at themselves in wonder. Hope was at last restored to these refugees, and even those outside rush in to greet the loved ones they were prepared to lose.

Tzinasha cut through the triumphant crowd, and shooed away the grateful argonians who personally wanted to thank the wood elven priestess before he helped her to her feet. With her arm over the elder's shoulders, she smiled weakly at him with deep breaths. No such smile formed on the elder's head, but the spines were stiffly erect.

"For as long as we've been in Skyrim, we were not paid any heed. Even to passing travelers as we die outside their nests." He said wistfully. "You really are a blue reed in yellow peat."

"I... think I know what you mean." Wylendriel hesitated.

The elder explained, "It means you swim a different river."

As little as the refugee community here had little to provide, Wylendriel's humility was put to the test by some of the people who insisted on giving her gifts. A thought entered her head that told her to go ahead and take it because she deserved it - she pushed that thought down. Maybe it was better this way, they owed her something and they knew that; it was like willful slavery - she shut her eyes and pushed that thought down, too. She felt far too spent to deal with daedric suggestions... but those thoughts might not be from daedra at all. She distracted herself with the rambunctious people who sought her attention as Tzinasha helped her outside so that she may breathe in the fresh air.

"Please, your hospitality is payment enough. Your injured are healed, but you must still find food for yourselves." She insisted. Looking Tzinasha, she can sense the warm feelings from him despite his cold expression (or lack thereof). "Once you find a new home, you will send a courier for me, yes? I may find time to visit."

"Of course, Wy. I imagine you will be in our thoughts for some time."

Finding her balance once more, she managed to stand on her own and turned her gaze towards the town of Dawnstar. It was so busy for some reason, and perhaps for the same reason as these refugees. A war with a people called the Akaviri. Yet the argonians were situated in a camp outside of town, dying from injuries and sickness. There was little wonder why they were hesitant to allow a stranger's approach. On the other hand, Wylendriel needed to keep going. She just used a fair bit of her stockpile of medicine and was running low, but with only ten septims on her person, there was no way she'd get back to the amount she had before. Expenditures were not the kind of roadblocks she had expected to come across on her pilgrimage. Who would've ever thought that such a thing required funding? She would go out and get her own, if only... if only it weren't so [i]risky[/i]. Twice before she traveled on foot. Once, fleeing from Valenwood, and the trip was treacherous. The second, she technically died, and on top of that, daedric influence infected her. That was after she decided it was safer to travel in groups, too. The only alternative left then was to find work. Unfortunately, her only real skill-set was a healer, and as a priestess, her vows kept her from profiting off of that.

Tzinasha must've sensed her stress, for he set his hand on her shoulder and gestured toward a campfire. Both of them sat onto the ground beside the fire and stared into the flames.

"As a Saxhleel in Skyrim, sometimes not even the sun is enough to keep me warm." The elder said.

"Saxhleel?"

"Elves like to make things sound sweet, so they give our Black Marsh the name Argonia." Tzinasha explained. "Hence why Tamriel call us Argonians. We call ourselves Saxhleel."

"Saxhleel..." Wylendriel repeated. She then looked at them and asked, "I think I know what you meant. The Saxhleel are found of metaphors then?"

"It is our way. Symbols live in everything. Dunmer demand many things, xhu? But their culture respects ability and confidence. Say no assertively, and they respect your wish even if they may not acknowledge it."

She nodded in understanding and looked back into the fire and embraced the heat her robes absorbed. Tzinasha continued, "What I meant was that there's no shame in accepting help. Accept it when you can. The rivers we swim in have jagged rocks, there is no telling when we may find it again. Rest with a us a while longer before you depart. It is rare that we find an outsider willing to talk; rarer still they help us in the way you have."

"I'm grateful for your wisdom, my friend." Wylendriel cooed.

So there she stayed a while longer. Some who felt well enough to move had risen from their bedding to thank her personally and greet her properly. Some who may have been particularly impressed and smitten by the mer lady had tried their efforts in regaling her. While thoroughly entertained, stricken with laughter and bemusement, treated with a vulgar tasting drink made from boiling pulped beetle larvae and butterflies in water, garnished with the latter's wings, and assured her that if she thought [i]that[/i] was good, she should visit Black Marsh when the King Yellow slug was in season. Sided with a drink called theilul, there was apparently no finer cuisine on the eastern edge of Tamriel! When asked what this "theilul" was, the Saxhleel people simply snickered to themselves and guaranteed the rum's taste was well worth the buzz.

As she and refugees enjoyed each other's time, the Skyrim's skies had grown pink as the sun fell behind distant mountains, and the energy of the camp had begun to dwindle. After all, while their wounds were healed, she couldn't nourish their bodies or re-energize them after days of sickness and inactivity. When it was just her and a couple others including Tzinasha, comparing each other's culture (they had taken great interest in the similarities between the Bosmer's reverence of nature via their Green Pact and their own relationship with the Hist), they noticed torchlight climbing up the hill from Dawnstar. Wylendriel did not fail to notice that the refugees fell quiet in anxious anticipation. The sound of rubbing leather and the ringing of chainmail betrayed the identity of the newcomer before they had even arrived. A guardsman most likely, and considering the refugees' anxiety, there was certainly no love between the two groups - but one did not have to be a therapist to determine that truth. One only had to take notice of the fact that the Saxhleel slept sickly in tents outside of town, instead of the cozy lodging a tavern could provide.

The guardsman finally came into view, and from the torchlight, Wylendriel could just barely make out the eyes that hid behind the helmet. He took a careful and appraising look at the camp, from the argonians strewn about, who were certainly more numerous than they had likely taken into account since their last patrol. He finally seemed to focus on the Bosmer lady. While the argonians shifted stiffly in their seats, Wy took into consideration her conversation with Tzinasha earlier, thinking carefully about the type of culture the Nords had (of which she had actual experience living in). She assumed a dignified posture with her arms crossed, hoping that a show of confidence and a visible strength of character would serve her some good in her impression upon the guard. It sounded like he let out a sharp breath of amusement.

"So," he began, "what's the meaning of all this commotion? Climbs-From-River, your people look well. Must I check our provisions? Perhaps our alchemist's stores?"

Tzinasha almost seemed to hiss from the sound of his given Cyrodilic name, much to Wylendriel's surprise. He stared down the guardsman, apparently after calming himself down. "No need." He explained, then gestured to Wy. "Our friend here is to whom we owe our thanks. She swims a holy river; on pilgrimage, as she says."

"This little elf? She did all this?" He snorted in disbelief.

Tzinasha gave him and irritated remark, "There would be many more of us left if she had come sooner, but our struggle could've been avoided entirely had we not been forgotten."

"And this [i]little elf's[/i] name is Wylendriel." Wy inserted. Thoughts entered her head suggesting that she ought to show this man his place - and given the blatant disrespect, it was not starting to sound like such a bad idea. 

The guard approached her with careful inspection, still muttering a couple words as though he were still responding to Tzinasha, [i]"Oooh, trust me, we didn't forget..."[/i] As he measured her up, the amulet around her neck appeared to catch his eye and his interest was piqued, so he shifted his weight onto one leg. He asked, "A priestess of Kynareth, eh?"

"How astute." Wylendriel commented dryly. "Yes. I serve out of the Temple of Kyne in Whiterun."

"O-oh! Is that... right?" The guard stammered slightly. "I, uh, heard rumors from over there, but I... didn't think they actually took in an elf. My apologies, priestess."

"Your apology is appreciated." She said. Not really. The man's apology rung hollow. It was clear that he held little respect for an elf to be holding any position of influence, and to think that an elf such as her had penetrated so far into nord society must've been torture to him. 

"Anyways..." the guard continued, "priestess, if its not too bold of me to suggest, your help would also be appreciated inside town. No point in wasting time on filthy lizards with better jobs to be had, yes?"

"Mind your tongue, [i]sir[/i]." Wylendriel asserted brusquely. "These filthy lizards happened to be quite hospitable to me."

"Right. Well, please take it into consideration. Enjoy your evening."

As the camp watched the guard trek back down the hill, one of the argonians piped up: "Well, that was a crappier liaison than usual."

"What was that all about?" Wylendriel asked. "And what was it that he called you?"

Tzinasha sighed as he sat back down next to the fire. "Skyrim has become less welcoming of elves and [i]'beast'[/i] races since the Stormcloaks won the war. In doing so, deep-seated prejudices - even subtler ones - were given unspoken permission to swim freely. It does not help matters that one of our own, the egg-sac that they are, murdered a high elf girl. Unfortunately... we do not know which one had done the deed... it is especially disconcerting." He picked up his clay cup full of the same drink Wy had tasted earlier and took in deep gulps as to relax his nerves. "Climbs-From-River is my given Cyrodilic name," he said. 

"Your Cyrodilic name?" She parroted back.

"We have our Black Marsh names. Some can be translated into their Cyrodilic names. Some choose not to, such as myself. So they simply gave me one: Climbs-From-River."

"Why that name?" She pressed.

Tzinasha fell quiet for a couple moments and took another couple of sips from his drink. After a moment of silence, he finally spoke up. "Because I tried to climb out of the river. When I fled from dark elf slavers in Morrowind, I was forced to relocate in Windhelm. When I could no longer bear it... I tried to kill myself. They like to remind me of that."

Wylendriel's curiosity had gotten the better of her, and now she was left speechless, and not knowing what to say to the elder. Her jaw hung low enough to just let her mouth remain slightly open and his posture now slightly jarred. She silently sat beside him and stared at the campfire's dwindling flames. The remaining charcoal was aglow. 

"It's well upstream now. My past does not haunt me." Tzinasha assured. "It does not feel good to open the wound, no, but it would do us ill to linger. Focus on the scar too much, and we forget it to be a sign of healing."

Her hand, in response, self-consciously covered the ugly scar that stretched across her throat. Perhaps Tzinasha's wisdom also held true for spiritual scars. It shed some hope for her future.

"Don't mind the guard's tongue." He insisted. "That mammal-licker hisses loudly but seldom bites, but he is right about one thing: you must continue to swim. No one here will think you a traitor for entering Dawnstar. You still have your pilgrimage to finish."

"You've been an enormous help to me, Tzinasha." Wy admitted as she began to stand up.

"And you to us." He replied, joining her to his feet. He raised a hand to his head and painfully plucked out one of his colorful feathers, then sticking it into the braided bun of Wylendriel's brown hair. "We have egg-brothers inside Dawnstar. Tsleeixth and Daixanos. Show them your feather, and they will know you are one of us."

Wylendriel nodded graciously and was about to speak, but hesitated - and before the elder argonian knew it, she wrapped her arms around him in a hug. Though caught off guard, and he returned the young elf's embrace.

"May friendly branches shade your path, priestess."