[center][code]Three of One Thousand Steps: Souls and Service[/code]
[sub]by [@Dervish] and [@Spoopy Scary][/sub][/center][hr]

The trek down the hill and into the village of Dawnstar was, for the most part, uneventful. Of course, there were the critical eyes of the guardsmen as their glances shifted toward her, almost as if they were expecting her to be arriving. The latest liaison to the Saxhleel refugee camp had likely alerted the rest of the guard of a newcomer; of a priestess and healer from Whiterun's Temple of Kyne, but apparently also that she was an elf, for they did not greet her with any particular kind of graciousness or hospitality. Still, needless to say, they performed their due diligence according to their responsibilities, so she had to give them credit for their work ethic. She wordlessly walked past them with her chin held high, and likewise, they left her alone as well. They respected each other's status, but that was as far as the pleasantries went. She looked down at her hands and was surprised to find that her knuckles were white. She took a deep breathe and eased the clenching of her fists, bringing a sense of calm to her body.

As she passed through the gates, the reason for Dawnstar's bustling activity became more evident. The ship that was docked at the town's piers was ravaged and had dock worker's crawling over every inch of it, and within spitting distance, a military encampment. Part of her wondered if the cause for this kind of damage was because of the Akaviri the Saxhleel told her about. The vicious sort that attacked Windhelm, the Kamal, as burly as giants and as deplorable as Daedra, for they sailed in on soul-powered vessels. She seemed to hear constant stories of the Akavir, but she has never actually seen one – one the after effects of their savagery, so those stories could only cement her image of them as terrifying and abominable monsters. Whats more, such a war brought on strife, which invited another problem: she was low on supplies. She needed herbs and medicinal bases in order to make medicine, and those were bound to be in short supply in even dedicated apothecariums. In addition, the costs... the costs!

Oblivion damn Tamriel's cursed machine! In the traditional regions of Valenwood, commerce went as far as the barter system. It was because of the Green Pact – there was no killing beyond reason, they took what they needed, and did so only to such lengths that nature could replenish what they've taken. Taking care of each other was the only way to live side by side with nature, but the type of commerce that the Empire and the Dominion were so fond of... she understood the concept of it and she understood the value of it, and it wasn't without reason – by Zenithar, bless him – but Gods, if she didn't she [i]resent[/i] it. Burdening oneself with heaping amounts of septims, worthless chunks of gold with a man's face stamped onto it, in exchange for an actually useful product, it just all seemed so futile to her. All this, is of course, to say that she was [i]pathetically[/i] low on such septims, and was [i]not[/i] anticipating the costs that came with going on a pilgrimage. Her lofty ideals of such a venture did not take into consideration the price of sustenance, only the adventure and potential for enlightenment.

This was a sort of enlightenment she wasn't expecting. Perhaps enlightenment was less the reward at the very end, and instead the experiences one required along the journey... huh. Good material. She might have to save that for someone.

Spiritual fulfillment notwithstanding, there was still the matter of finances that had to be taken into account. Her skills went as far as healing and preaching. Her oaths required her to perform her healing duties out of generosity and selflessness, so she couldn't market them. She couldn't just squat here in town for a while – she had to stay on the move for her pilgrimage, so she probably had to do odd jobs for whomever for a flat sum, or... whatever duties this hold required of her. Wylendriel sighed. This didn't leave very many choices, but it did mean she knew where to go. She looked toward the jarl's longhouse and trotted forward. Whatever the jarl or their steward had in mind for her, if they wanted her at all, wasn't likely anything glamorous or enjoyable, but she was on a mission and had no other alternatives at the moment.

Her first few steps into the building and she found herself in a quaint little atmosphere. It felt more like an empty tavern than a jarl's longhouse like Dragonsreach. Still, it had its own sort of bustling activity, and she welcomed the dry warm air – though the smoky, oak smell of the fire place put her a little on edge. A number of Stormcloak soldiers were audibly discussing the attack on Windhelm in a room quartered to the side of the main hall where the infamous Jarl Skald himself sat, speaking with his stewards and a Stormcloak commander. Some of the guards in the room looked at her as she entered the building, but the important looking folks seemed too preoccupied to worry themselves with a new arrival in the building. When Wylendriel tried to continue forth, a guard raised his arm and blocked her path, and she whipped her head around to look at one who stopped her with an almost insulted gaze. Ahead, the commander seemed to have concluded his business and walk away, and as if on cue, the guard put his arm down and let her continue. One of the stewards ahead looked as though he was whispering something into the jarl's ear.

Before Wylendriel could even get within proper speaking distance, the old jarl bellowed at her from across the room with a weak and weary voice, as expected from a man his age.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” He asked, but the pleasantry of his words was betrayed by the harshness of his tone. He was apparently not pleased with her being here. “I've got enough trouble on my hands without an elf making it worse. Are you Dominion or Empire?”

“Neither, my lord. I am with the Temple of Kyne.” Wylendriel told him.

“So I heard you've said.” Skald said. He scratched the scruffy beard on the side of his face and pointed a finger to the amulet around Wy's neck in the shape of her lady's icon. “Why should I believe that? Could you not have killed a son of Skyrim for that necklace?”

Wylendriel felt her temper flaring up and she felt a slight urge to get up close and personal to the jarl – but the sounds of leather stretching snapped her back to reality. The guards were anticipating on Skald goading her into doing something rash. Waiting for anything to give them an excuse to slay an elf, priestess or not apparently. She took a breath to calm her nerves, and looked to the grumpy old jarl and smiled coyly at him

“With all due respect, Jarl Skald,” she jeered tactfully, “I doubt that [i]tiny[/i] Bosmer lass such as myself could pose any sort of a threat to [i]any [/i]mighty nord.”

While she felt slightly sick to her stomach, the jarl seemed to have gotten quite a kick out of her self-degradation. “Quite true, quite true.”

“I am a healer – and quite a good one, might I add,” Wy inserted, “and times of war invites strange decisions, but I've given them no reason to regret admitting me. I am as skilled and devoted as the next of Kynareth's faithful.”

“And apparently as arrogant as the next elf.” Skald muttered. He threw his hand out in resignation. “Fine! Fine, what do you want from me?”

“A job, my lord.”

“A job!” Skald quipped. “What happened to being a priestess in Whiterun?”

“I am on pilgrimage, my lord. Supplies cost septims, so septims are what I need.” She explained.

“For supplies.” Skald repeated.

“I assumed that was suggested.”

“This is beneath me; commander Frokmar, come back for a moment. Give this [i]tiny elf lass[/i] a job, will you?”

The jarl delegated the duty to someone else, and apparently trying to offend Wy in the process by echoing what she had said about her self, but she remained composed. Skald apparently went back to whatever it was he was doing before, and the commander who was just previously in the room had returned. The man was cloaked in a bear's hide, had his hair pulled back, and wore these terrifying spike gauntlets. He barked at her with an authoritative tone in his voice, “this way, elf.”

Wylendriel obediently followed after him into the room he had just emerged from, and upon entering, noticed that a number of soldiers were leaning over a table with a map of Tamriel and beyond lying on it. A number of statuettes stood in key locations, red markings and so on, and some of the men and women in the room seemed particularly distressed. Looking at the map, she saw Windhelm highlighted entirely in red, as well as some island resting far north of Skyrim and the entirety of Morrowind. Confusion swept over her – what part does the dunmer play in all of this? 

A mighty paw suddenly slammed down onto the table. Startled, Wy turned around to see commander Frorkmar glaring at her. She closed her hand under the tablespoons , and the green glow of her hand that had began to appear faded away just as quickly. “Listen here,” he said, “I know who you are, and I don't give a damn. I ain't got the time to be fussing over small odd jobs like exterminating skeevers, because in case you haven't heard, Skyrim is at [i]war.[/i] There are two things you should know: the Kamal are the tall bastards that'a taken over Windhelm, and you ain't a Stormcloak soldier – you're an [i]elf[/i] – so the only people I'm gonna trust you with are [i]mercenaries.[/i] Ashav's company. Am I clear?”

“Crystal.” Wy responded, meeting his tone.

“Good, let's make this quick: what can you offer?”

“My oaths prevent me from healing out of self-interest--” she tried to explain, but was quickly cut off.

“I'll put you in the book as a [i]chaplain,[/i] then.” Frorkmar said with a suggestive wink. “A lot of atrocity comes out of war, yes? Healing ability is a good bonus, but also need folks keeping the soldiers' nerves steeled... uhuh... now let's discuss pay rate.”

“I should mention that I'm on pilgrimage.” She inserted. “All that I ask is for protection--”

“--which you'll get.”

“Right... and assistance. I can't reasonably expect command to suddenly delay whatever plans they have in store, but if possibly, can be given direction and escort to any shrines of the Nine Divines when they're reported to be nearby.”

“Strange request, and I would say no, but I'm not your commander. You'll be working for Ashav, the mercenary. Whether or not he wants to help you is up to him. Is that all for your pay? I should remind you that working for free is the same as slavery.”

“I only require enough for living expenses.”

“...[i]To be decided.[/i] By Ashav. Ashav is in the big tent outside the big ship you saw at the piers, Kyne's Tear. Ashav chartered the boat, but its captain is Karena Wave-Rider. Remember that. Known background information already supplied by the guard, and...” with a final flourish of his pen, he signed his signature and turned the paper over to Wylendriel, “go then with this letter and leave me be.”

The Kyne's Tear? How appropriate! She left the cranky officer in his room and made an irritated glance toward jarl Skald before she left – thank the Gods they didn't make eye contact – and was greeted by the bitter air again. She tightened her robes and trekked ahead towards the Kyne's tear, unsure if she was shivering from the northern ocean breeze or from the anticipation. Regardless, she approached the encampment in no time, and when she finally entered the largest field tent, she found an important-looking redguard man behind a desk and tending to his wounds. It looked like an easy fix to her, but he was treating his injuries rather gingerly. His eyes looked up and he breathed a deep sighed and stood up. He didn't seem necessarily pleased with what must have been another interruption.

“State your business.” He droned, as though he had been saying it a hundred times today.

“Wylendriel Greensky; priestess of Kynareth. For you,” She greeted and handed him the letter that Frorkmar had written for him. On the parchment was an assessment of her capabilities, suggested job within the company, history – it had only gone as far back as her joining the Temple of Kyne some time ago, as well as whatever special requirements or services that had to be expected, but it wasn't as in-depth as it sounds. Frorkmar Banner-Torn was pretty brisk and rushed the process along quickly, and that was evident even in his handwriting. The man must not have taken Wylendriel's enlistment very seriously. She decided to take what she could get, and if that meant being a chaplain to a few - [i]ugh[/i] - mercenaries, then so be it. Despite the paltry amount of leverage Frorkmar has provided, she made sure to stand where she was as calmly as able. She took a moment to silently meditate where she stood, simply being aware of her own breath – breathing in and out – she maintained a serene appearance, and if she was lucky, perhaps that was all it took to convince him that she had enough nerve in her to work the job.

Ashav looked over the papers with tired eyes, setting them down on the table neatly. "And what use is a priestess to me, exactly?" he asked, intertwining his fingers together on the wooden surface. "The battlefield is no place for the devout. There hasn't been a god I've seen that's stopped arrows or bleeding out. Do you know how to fight? What sorts of skills do you have?" the Redguard asked, not unkindly.

As an answer, Wylendriel looked at him with a "may I?" sort of glance and reached out slowly, almost cautiously, towards his battered face with a hand that gradually became bathed in a bright light. Ashav did not reject her advance and instead seemed to concede to her touch, one that burned slightly when her finger met with his open wounds - like a light tap with the back of her index - but it was not long until that pain was numbed as a powerful restoration spell stitched together the cuts on his face, dispelled bruises, and the flesh rapidly regenerated where it was once gone. When she pulled away, his skin was smooth and bore scars far fainter than what would have been if left to heal naturally. She folded her hands back together in front of her, resuming her humble posture.

"Commander Frorkmar also suggested that any men and women under your employ who might be struggling to cope would appreciate having a chaplain to comfort them." She added.

Ashav's fingers traced where the open wounds used to be, and lifting a polished dagger he had sitting on the desk, he looked at his reflection, pleasantly surprised at the recovery. "You've made a fair point." He stated, setting the dagger down in its place. Wylendriel smiled and bowed her head graciously. Ashav continued, "A good healer is always something a combat outfit could use. The chaplain services are an additional bonus. I will not lie to you, what we have faced in this campaign has shaken morale across all ranks. If you feel you can offer services to those who require an affirmation of their faiths and beliefs, then I shall not hold you back from your work. I trust you provide non-denominational services for those who are not of your faith?" the commander asked, intertwining his fingers once more.

"My faith is in life, sir. Kynareth bears her bounty for skeptics and the devout alike." Wy assured. "Rain falls - we drink."

Ashav gave a curt nod and pulled a parchment from a stack of ledgers, not looking up as he began to write, his penmanship surprisingly exquisite with the quill and ink. "I see." he replied, noncommittally. 

 "I actually have a question of my own, commander. Let me explain... I'm not without faculty. I'm a survivor, but I'm not under any illusions of being a warrior. So, with all due respect, how confident are you in your outfit? How can I be sure that they'll preserve me as hard as I may work to preserve them?"

The commander did not look up. "If you are inquiring whether or not being a mercenary is a safe occupation where physical and mental preservation is guaranteed, you are inquiring for the long line of work. That is why we pay a competitive wage for our fighters, there is risk involved and we are at war, which makes conflict unavoidable. I do not doubt that the vanguard will make efforts to keep their support personnel as protected as can be reasonably expected, but there is a chance you will become injured or even killed in this line of work. A stray arrow or bolt, a cavalry charge that breaches the line, an expertly executed ambush, these are all risks we can mitigate but not eliminate. You are not the only person to know restoration magic in this company, and most of those that do are also accomplished warriors. From a financial standpoint, they are more valuable assets than someone who can only provide restorative healing but depends on the protection of others. Is that fair to say? Perhaps, but it doesn't matter. If you want work, it is on my terms." Ashav said definitively, sliding the parchment over to the Bosmer.

"This is a written contract that outlines the same stipulations as every other new recruits go through, including being put on probationary roster until your talents have proven to be of use, at which point your pay will increase from 80% of the standard rate to the full compensation. Sign it, and you will be enrolled in my service. If this does not sound to your liking, then the contract will be torn up here and now and we part ways without hard feelings."

Wylendriel took the contract in her hands and looked it up and done with an appraising eye. Ashav's words didn't inspire much confidence in his troops, but she was at a crossroads. It was this or scrounging for scraps without allies, and she didn't want to have to shed blood along the way. She set the paper down and looked back at Ashav. "To clarify, I've never depended on anyone," she said. Sort of a lie. She did rely on mercenaries once before, and they stabbed her in more places than just her back. But since then, trust wasn't freely given. Skyrim has been just as fair to mer like her. "Just curious in [i]your faith[/i] in your troops."

Wylendriel took Ashav's quill and wrote her name on the line in a comparatively sloppier font. She set the quill back down and turned the paper over to her new commander. "Don't take it the wrong way - I'm [i]your[/i] chaplain now, too. I only wish to see them go as far for each other as I will."

Taking the section of the form for records, making a clean incision to separate the document in half, Ashav offered the bottom signed part to Wylendriel. "You'll excuse me if I do not entertain gossip and speculation about my mercenaries to just anyone. All you need to know is that this outfit is a professional one that allows for individuals to take initiative as they see fit so long as they follow commands. It has been a long campaign and we've lost a number of good men and women to this war, but those who remain I wouldn't trade for half an army. I trust that is to your satisfaction?"

"That's all I need." Wylendriel said. Then something told her she was forgetting something - her pilgrimage. So far, Ashav hasn't given her the impression of being accommodating, so she doubted he would ever consent to such a favor. She wondered if it was a racial issue, since the redguards has had Valenwood under siege for some time now. She'd be lying if she told herself she didn't feel even a little resentful. It was natural... right? Regardless, she had her own mission and she couldn't forsake it. She buried her worries reassured Ashav with a smile and said, "Thank you for your time. I apologize if I came across as harsh. If you would, may you direct me to our troops? If any are injured, I can begin my services immediately."

"You can meet most of your comrades in the Windpeak Inn. Some may require help. Rhasha'Dar is in critical condition. There's Niernen, a dunmer woman with a bad leg. Others might just need some first aid... Elmera, Leif, Tsleeixth."

The last name had especially caught Wylendriel's notice. "Tsleeixth, you say? You also wouldn't happen to have a Daxainos, would you?"

"Yes, he is one of our marksmen." Ashav replied.

"Interesting." Wylendriel muttered to herself. She bowed her head to the commander and bid her farewell to him before ducking out of the tent and began heading toward the Windpeak Inn. If these were the same Saxhleel that Tzinasha spoke of - no, they certainly were, it was no coincidence both names were present in town - then it meant that it wouldn't be quite as hard to find a place among these mercenaries as she thought. She wore Tzinasha's feather in her hair. A respected elder accepted her into his nest. Surely, that had to mean something to them. Still though, she had other responsibilities to fulfill as well. The khajiit, Rhasha'Dar, was presumably in poor condition. The dunmer, with a bad leg, wasn't going to be of any use to the company. Tsleeixth and Daxainos would have to wait in favor of more urgent matters.

As she finally arrived and pushed open the doors to the inn, the usual smells came to assault the preistess' senses. The smells of aged alcohol, savory foods, and what was probably piss and bile that soaked into the floorboards. This wasn't her sort of scene, and she was quite obviously an outsider while she navigated through the hustle and bustle and scanning the crowds. Now, she didn't want to stereotype her new comrades, but if she were looking for mercenaries, where would be the first place she'd look? Her eyes darted to all four corners of the room until they finally fell on a young-looking dunmer woman sitting in a chair with one of her legs poised in a way that betrayed her poor condition, and looking particularly distraught and anxious for one reason or another. That was probably the Niernan who Ashav had mentioned. It was best that Wylendriel began with her while she was in her sights before she looks for Rhasha'Dar. It was doubtful that someone so supposedly injured would be present in such mayhem. 

"Mercenaries..." Wy sighed. It looked like this was her life now. First she sold her soul, now it was her service. She wondered if she was jeopardizing her pilgrimage in this decision. Wondering if every step she made was a step in the wrong direction, and wondering if the decision was even of her own making.