[center][h3]No Words Left[/h3][/center][hr]
[i]10th of Last Seed - Early Afternoon
Kyne's Tear - Jehanna Docks[/i]

Only a few days of recovery were spared unto her, and already was she put back to work. Wylendriel had suffered all forms of exhaustion; she challenged the limits of her stamina until she was staggering and could barely maintain her balance, she was nearly immolated to death and was stitched back together, and her reserve of magicka was exhausted by the very spell that had saved her life, with the rest being squeezed out to do whatever she could to keep herself on her feet. What did she have to show for it? A mostly live crew, perhaps, but plagued by nightmares of the woman she could not save from the fire, whose screams haunted her every waking moment. The woman who was crushed beneath the falling debris of the Golden Sload. Adaeze, the lost Bosmer soul she had met in Solitude, who would return to the Green with too little of her body remaining to sanctify. Then, when she awoke, she heard the dreadful news of Ashav’s suicide.

Four people were dead on her watch. Four people she couldn’t save. The shock being too much, and the thought too overbearing, she clammed up. When the news was shared, all she could manage was a soft, “Oh…”

How did everything go so wrong? What were the Divines trying to tell her by sending her on this journey? Was this a lesson for her to learn or were they never really following her? Had she only been making excuses for herself, to delude herself into believing that there was still hope for her? Was being constantly surrounded by death her punishment? Perhaps it was. Perhaps she deserves this. Or was her only chance at redemption foiled by her own repetitive failures? She felt damned either way. She still felt Molag Bal's presence with her even after all this time. All she could do at this point was to go through the motions.

She lost the robes that meant so much to her and had to resort to wearing a simple sailor’s outfit, an off-white linen shirt and some brown pants – it’s bagginess required of her to use a length of string or twine to secure it properly. She deprived herself of proper footwear. She later offered her services to the Temple of Arkay. Though officially a Priestess of Kynareth, she knew the appropriate funeral rites and consecration rituals, so she aided in their service. She prayed with them as the priest led the sermon, and she prayed over their coffins a few hours longer even after the service was officially over. One would’ve looked at her and thought she was wishing them safe passage; in truth, all she could do was apologize to them over and over in silence.

After an exhaustive morning, she staggered back to Kyne’s Tear. The sight of its damage brought back a certain anxiety that filled her mind and body, but the comfort of a cabin she had grown accustomed to has more allure to it than a strange place she has never slept before. Perhaps that was selfish of her to think that she deserved any form of comfort, but before she could re-enter the cabin, she was stopped by Sagax. He was the Imperial boy, the brother of Piper, who she fought with against the werewolf. He offered her an enchanted ring that was supposed to help her identify the wounded members of the company.

Perhaps it was a well-meaning gesture when he offered it to her, so she accepted it with a forced smile and put it on her finger while in front of him, but deep down it hurt. The gift left painful stings in her chest after a morning of being emotionally numb. She took it as a message of not being good enough. When they bid their farewells to each other, she finally entered her cabin. The inside was a mess after everything had been shaken from its proper place during the attack and had to be pushed aside to make room for the injured crew-members. Flashbacks of seeing the likes of an unconscious Niernen and Do’Karth lined up in her cabin replaced the empty blankets in front of her eyes for a split second before she was pulled back into the present. She shouldn’t be here right now. She should be tending to the wounded in town.

Still, she only looked over to see a mirror hanging crookedly from the wall. For a few moments she investigated its reflection as she gingerly touched the brittle and charred ends of her hair, and to her surprise, a bitter and hopeless expression. She barely recognized herself anymore. She recognized herself less and less as her journey went on, and… less and less the longer she stared into the mirror. A weird, blurry mist seemed to come from her, almost pink in hue, until a hot sensation from her finger drew her attention away from the mirror.

Looking down at her hand, she saw the ring.

There are times when you are stuck with such a haunting realization that it nearly knocks one off their feet, and when such a realization dawned on her, it was like the straw that broke the camel’s back – it felt [i]insulting.[/i] Without thinking, her arms lashed out to grab the mirror. With the shrillest of shrieks, like a rage-induced battle cry that grated her throat sore, she threw it down as hard as she could against the floor.

[i]"FUCK!"[/i]

She felt a stinging pain and a pop in her shoulder as the glass of the mirror shattered into hundreds of tiny pieces. She ignored it.

She screamed again, sweeping everything that remained off the top of the dresser and sent it flying across the room until it clattered against the wall. She grabbed the dresser and toppled it over, screaming and shouting even more as she rampaged through the cabin. Whatever was on the walls, she tore down. Whatever was still standing, she ripped apart, knocked over, or sent flying. Anything that was on floor and in her way, she kicked and destroyed, stomping on floorboards and cutting her feet on the broken glass. She turned to the walls of the cabin and punched it – [i]crack![/i] The wood itself was unscathed.

But she didn’t stop, she continued to punch the cabin wall with the same hand. [i]Crack! Crack! CRACK![/i] When the pain eventually became too much, she resorted to kicking. When her foot became too bruised, she smashed her forehead into the wall over and over again, yelling and grunting in pain and frustration. Over the period of a minute, her self-harm slowed down until her head against the wall were but soft, gentle thuds, and her grunts and yelling devolved into whimpering, and eventually, crying, as tears finally began to roll down her cheeks and join with the blood that came streaking from her forehead.

It became too much for her, and her head slowly slid down the cabin wall as she dropped to her knees. The priestess fell on her side, holding her knees close to her chest and cradling her broken hand. She was no longer able to hold back her grief as the quiet tears of her crying became full-throated sobbing. Her moans of despair echoed through [i]The Tear[/i] -- but everyone else would have taken refuge at the inn by now. She would be able to despair in peace, completely and utterly alone.