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The Elder Scrolls: Fruits of Contention - Chapter 2 (Completed)

Edits are made! YEEAH!

The Elder Scrolls: Fruits of Contention - Chapter 2 (Completed)

Thanks for the feedback! I have a busy day ahead of me so I may not be able to make the changes right away. You're right that recruiter to Mane is a large jump, and I should have been more thoughtful of that.

I thought the boat trip was just suggested to be uneventful, and I didn't want to bog it down with too much fat so I left it to the reader's inference. I guess I'll try to explain it better?

There are people named Bob and John out there in the world, man, throw me a bone 😭 Okay, okay, I'll work something out.

The Elder Scrolls: Fruits of Contention - Chapter 2 (Completed)

Woo! Finally done!

Dar'Jzo

With a coat

Dar'Jzo

Male Khajiit | 57 | The Shadow

Profile

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§ Birthplace

Senchal, Pelletine (Elsweyr)

§ Appearance

Dar'Jzo was never good at first impressions. People often see the cat before they see the man, and Dar'Jzo is very much a proud cathay. He is covered head to toe in golden blonde fur and marked by subtle shadow striping across his body, and like a cathay, has a head shape that resemble a mountain lion. The face of which is gaunt, but not because he is skinny or malnourished - another look shows that he is quite good condition, if a bit slender and not powerfully built like a true warrior would be (he stands at about 5'10", weighs around 160 lbs) - but because of his age. True, while he may be in great condition for the number of years he has lived, time has taken its toll on the khajiit's body. His skin doesn't cling to his body as tightly as it once did, his claws have gotten a little brittle, and he has to remain active more often than most just to keep his muscle tone. His face is marred by more than just a few wrinkles, and he seems to have formed permanent bags underneath his eyes through a combination of age, countless sleepless nights, and chemical burns from irritating fumes that he was gradually exposed to when he was much younger.

It almost betrays the threatening quality of his presence. Almost.

There's a certain sharpness to him. How his brows hang low over his needle-like green eyes, or how the gauntness of his cheeks trace the faint outline of the array of sharp teeth hiding within his maw. His black mane is dreaded and adorned with a number of colorful, tribal beads and is wrapped up in a bun on top of his head. The long black fur on his chin is braided and similarly decorated with beads. Some patches of his fur is much shorter than the rest, indicating the many different scars he has earned through his life. His ears are short, with one of them shaped like a wide arrow while the other appears to have it's tip missing. He carries himself with poise, but it's not founded out of arrogance so much as it is confidence, subtle a difference though it may be. His face is forever stoic, stern, and serious, rarely breaking a smile that would dismiss the grim air his disposition stifles the atmosphere with.

His choice of wardrobe would make sense if he was still living in Senchal, but not so much in Skyrim. For starters, he doesn't wear a shirt. He just doesn't like to and not for any particular reason, but if he had to come up with one, it feels too constricting while he's pulling back his bowstring. He does though wear a black leather bandolier that goes across his chest and over one of his shoulders, and it looks something like a huge leather belt. With it, he carries a few pouches, bags, and a small pack. It is also this bandolier that he attaches his quiver of arrows to, from which Dar'Jzo hangs his bow.

The only actual garments of clothes he wears are loose-fitting, baggy, and breathable black linen pants which he secures to his person with a blood-red sash, and the bottom of his pants are tucked into black leather riding boots. While his fur would be enough to keep him warm for a short while in one of Skyrim's winters, it alone wouldn't protect him for long. During his time on board the ship that takes him from Senchal to Solitude, he was given a black wool long coat by one of the navy men should he be stuck in Skyrim for a while.

§ Personality

Dar'Jzo doesn't talk much, and because he doesn't talk much, it's kind of hard to tell why he doesn't talk much. It makes him somewhat of a mysterious individual to the people around him, since he seems to simply refuse talking about his life all that much. Every now and again he'll give you a blunt answer like, "I don't want to," or "I'm just an old hunter", but nobody really buys it because he just comes across as if you pressured him into giving you a half-assed answer just to shut you up. On the other hand, you have no choice but to take what you can get, because that was all he was willing to give you. A job or mission may require him to talk, and he will - he'll do whatever it takes without complaining - but he prefers spending his time watching others from a corner or spending some time to himself and meditating until the next job falls into his lap. Honestly, it's kind of creepy the way his smoldering stare just appraises everyone and everything. It's like he doesn't seem to trust anybody.

He is just as serious a cat as he seems. If he's going to get something done, he's going to get it done right. No fooling around, just business. He values hard work and being dutiful, and although he may not acknowledge it when he sees it, that is one of ways to earn his respect - though unspoken it may be. Indeed, he is one extremely jaded cat who has seen too much shit in his time, and though he may come across as unapproachable, that doesn't make him a despicable or foul individual. There is a paternal side to him that makes him protective of others who may be young or vulnerable, and he has a conscious that could quite possibly put him in danger if it meant serving the greater good. He doesn't waste time with making his enemies suffer, preferring instead to get the grisly deed done and over with. That being said, he doesn't close his eyes his to the suffering around him, and there is a delightful potential for cruelty within Dar'Jzo. If he doesn't need his enemy dead, then he's the type would do what it takes until he gets what does need.

Sometimes that cruelty is redirected on others, though not ever without reason. His temper is secure and it takes all of Oblivion for him to lose it and abandoned his cool demeanor, but once he does, he doesn't hold anything back. If you want to know what he thinks, you're going to know what he thinks. He won't sugar-coat anything, beat around the bush, or anything like that - he'll let you know the unadulterated truth and all of the harsh realty which surrounds it. He's not the type to apologize for it either, even if the world turns against him for it. He's old and stubborn and stuck in his ways like that. He's no enemy of reason, but hope that he finds your reasoning more reasonable than his own.

Even when strangers think they know Dar'Jzo, that they've finally gotten a bead on who he is as a person, they don't usually realize how far off they are. By now it's easy to conclude that he is a very private person. All of that privacy and alone time which he treasures so much actually hides a family man full of heart. His personality seems to flip around when he's near his friends and loved ones. His true friends. He might still be as quiet, but nowhere near as reclusive and shut off. He's involved and relaxed around them, and he cares oh so deeply for his family that he would go to the ends of the world in order to keep them safe and protected. Once witnessing that side of him, his coldness seems to make more sense when you realize he's weight down by responsibility and duty. He's only here because he has to, and any distractions could jeopardize everything he's worked so hard for. It's this epiphany that might make someone realize that he is just as much a person as anyone else and is plagued with his own insecurities.

For a long time, Dar'Jzo didn't know who he was or who he was supposed to be. What role he was supposed to play. He spent many years trying to formulate his identity, and for a while he got it right. Now, he's still not so sure, but at least he knows what his role in life his: a grandfather and the protector of his family. That's who he sees himself as at his core. He doesn't go out of his way to be unkind to others, he lends a helping hand when he's able, and he has some practical wisdom at his disposal that he's willing to give as long others ask him for it; he isn't the type to go around giving unsolicited advice. Just... don't expect him to hold up a conversation very well.

§ Background

The History of Dar'Jzo

Dar'Jzo was not always Dar'Jzo. Whether or not it was a crises of identity, he has gone through many names in his life. Some he has earned, but most were chosen for himself. His first was Kil before he earned his honorific, then Ja'kil in a fit of rebellion when he had finally come of age. S'kil when he fathered a daughter, thinking a mere name change could somehow change the person he was. Then Dro'kil when his daughter bore a child of her own, and he sought to shed the fur of the khajiit he used to be and lay down his tools for the betterment of his daughter's family. Never in his life would he have expected to become Dar'Jzo. Never in his life would he have expected to be Ra'gajal's attack cat.

It is difficult to pinpoint where exactly it all went wrong. Perhaps it was from the beginning, in 4E 149. He was born on a seafaring vessel by people who were truly no better than pirates - at least he thinks he was. The southeastern-most city of Pelletine was the port-town of Senchal, and it was as ripe with trade as it was with crime. When the ships were coming in steady, guards would watch every rundown nook and cranny, so some thieves got smart and only became active when business was slow, trading less risk for a less lucrative hit. It all depended on how big of a gambler you were. One of the Baandari, a clan of traders and peddlers, thought that she'd be saving a kitten from the big bad pirates and sneaked her way on board to pick him up from off the deck. When the smuggler made it back to the trading post inside town, poor Daro'Rista wasn't met with the praise she hoped for - she was met with scorn. The Baandari didn't deal in people, let alone babies. What started as a good-intentioned, albeit misguided attempt at philanthropy turned into all the reason in the world for an exile, and Daro'Rista became Cast-Cat.

Though this left everyone wondering what to do with the little young khajiit. Put it back on the boat with the pirates? The baby wouldn't survive! What was their intention with the baby anyway? They decided that it might have been best to either find someone willing to take him or raise the child themselves. Then they looked to Daro'Rista. Now a Cast-Cat she may be, but her act was at least done out of concern, yes? They took pity on her, though dare not re-initiate her because her gambling took too many risks. Perhaps too risky even to be taking care of a child, but Daro'Rista stopped them there - she took the child in the first place, so she will take responsibility for him. She only asked that the child could be raised Baandari like she was, and perhaps the child will do better. The Baandari agreed.

So a young cat was named Kil, raised by a trader-thief and a clan of peddlers. His origins were quite unknown to him, though Daro'Rista was no stranger when it came to sharing how he was found, so it was fair to say that Kil wasn't sure how he fit into the community around him. His mother wasn't really his mother and his father was essentially an entire clan that his mother used to be a part of, but she was exiled and yet he's allowed to be Baandari, and he came from a pirate ship where there was no telling if he was born to its crew-mates or if he was stolen away from someplace else. It was doubtless that he felt at least a little lost or had a fractured sense of identity. He just had to stick through it though, and he ended up learning the art of trade, hustling, and hawking, and perhaps the seedier aspects of life through Daro'Rista and some of the Baandari who were actually good at it.

Though in all fairness to Daro'Rista, it was she who taught him how to hunt. Learning to shoot a bow, learning the fox-trot - it was cheaper than buying the meat and the Baandari were nothing if not bargain hunters. The idea of saving money was sometimes more tantalizing than the boars and sand-crabs they were hunting! Kil never cared for trade like most of the Baandari seemed to, but they did instill into him a sort of resentment for government - not that he was your traditional rebel or anarchist, but the Baandari were a free people and he didn't want any pesky officials getting into his business.

It wasn't until his mid-teens did he really start getting into particularly seedy trade. As far as he was concerned, there was no such thing as illegal trade. If a customer wanted a particular item, who was anyone to stop them? Moon sugar was no such item, but when it was distilled? Skooma was an ever-present problem across Elsweyr! So popular a drug was it, that it seemed that as much as half of Senchal was addicted to it. Very few of the Baandari in Senchal were willing to handle such hot wares and they warned Kil against it. For a while, he adhered to their wisdom, but when Daro'Rista was caught with sticky-paws and thrown into a cell, Kil went forward with the idea in hopes of raising enough money to spring his godmother free. He was never going to touch the stuff, of course. He knew that it was basically poisonous garbage and he never had any intention of indulging himself in it.

If there were a couple things the Baandari told him about the skooma trade, it was that it was extremely cutthroat, illegal, and each and every dealer was a rival who had it out for you, so it wasn't as easy as finding someone to teach you how to make it. Luckily for him, he was Baandari, and the clan takes care of its own. One of their own people by the name of Saleel - a black Cathay-raht (otherwise known in Cyrodiil as "Smokes-the-Crack"), who was in and of himself of a drug problem who decided that skooma costed too much and decided to learn how to make it himself. Saleel argued that none know how to make skooma better than he, because he's the only one who samples his own wares! That cat was rarely ever sober, and sometimes that made learning how to make skooma a pain-staking task all on its own... but that was how he got into the trade.

If there was anything he learned about the skooma trade, it was that there's no such thing as easing into it. You can't hawk your wares without getting into trouble, and nobody will come to you unless they know who you are. So what does one do? You hunt down as many sugar-tooths as you can find in the city. Catch them while they're shivering with the skooma-shakes, and you... "help them out" by easing their withdrawal with an itty bitty free sample. Then you let them know where they can find you. He chose an old storehouse on the docks. Cats don't like water (him included), but if you were wracked with addiction, wasn't it a small price to pay? Sometimes, though, addicts who are poor and can't afford the skooma will simply see a small, young khajiit and just try to take it from him.

It was as the clan said: skooma dealings were cutthroat and dangerous.

He returned home battered, bruised, and fur soggy with seawater after he was pushed off the side of the docks. He was frustrated and angry that he was seen as nothing more than a child when he was at his seventeenth year. Though his clan felt sorry for the kid, they still laughed and joked about today being the day he became a man, ironically calling him Ja'kil - it became less funny to them when Kil went along with it. He called himself Ja'kil from that point onward, hoping that would make people take him more seriously. The clan tried to explain, it didn't matter how young or how old you were. There are some out there who will simply seek to take advantage of you and a fancy new name wasn't going to change that. It put him down at first, but they continued: what he needed to do was learn how to defend himself, and the Baandari weren't without their warriors.

They taught him moves and self-defense techniques that should allow him to take care of your average drugged-up cat. Anyone with any actual training he should be wary of, but for the most part, the practice did him good. When the same customer from the other day found him again, Ja'kil wasn't the one who was thrown into the water this time.

The next couple of years for Ja'Kil was pretty much spent honing his trade. He wasn't a good merchant by any means, but he learned how to make his business work and he learned how to make better skooma more efficiently, making himself no longer reliant on Saleel's tutelage. On the downside, it was in that amount of time that Ja'kil wasn't able to meet his goal of bailing Daro'Rista out of prison before she got out on good behavior - making a profit off of addicts wasn't exactly as lucrative as he imagined, but now he had the experience so he may as well stick with it. It added to the struggle of coming to terms with his identity, since he didn't feel like this was his calling. Daro'Rista didn't approve of her godson becoming a skooma peddler, but she understood why he turned to it. While she was never a part of the trade, she did move goods from time to time. She offered her aid to him in that regard nonetheless, hoping that she could keep him safe until the time came when he grows tired of this business.

Though it became clear that he didn't spend all of his time messing around while she was in jail; he became kinda good at it. He learned most of the tricks - his first experience hardened him enough to be able to demand respect without scaring away his customers. He learned to use dead drops instead of carrying the goods nearby or on his person. He learned not just the guards' rounds, but their names, and learned credible deniability by allowing himself to be seen at certain times of the day while his customer picked up their prescription - one can't be skulking about at all hours of the day. Even during his meetings, he'd be waiting for his customers at the docks with a basket of fish at his side, a fishing pole in hand, and his feet hanging off the docks.

At nineteen years old, 4E 168, he met the khajiit who would one day bear his child: Lalana, a black-furred Suthay-raht from a family who owned a plantation. Grew things from moon sugarcane to bananas, herded goats, and even owned an elephant which plowed the land for them. The land was protected by pahmar to discourage thieves from poaching what they owned. They made everything from banana rum to traditional Elsweyr Fondue - it was safe to say that she came from a totally different caste than Ja'kil did, but she didn't want to live her life being reliant on her family's wealth. Still, they were smitten by one another. The rustic man of few words giving the bad boy vibe was just as alluring to Lalana as much as her elegance and rebellious side was to Ja'kil. Her family warned against the dangers of running off with street cats like that dastardly Baandari, Ja'kil, but as far as Lalaana was concerned, there was no evidence of him being dangerous. He never told her the truth of what he did for a living.

Of course they were young and stupid and without restraint - but they loved each other. It didn't take long before they were with child, which marked one of the happiest days for Daro'Rista. The young cat she had saved and raised had finally become a father of his own and perhaps that was the day she stopped trying to hold his hand through life. The Baandari rejoiced for his happiness and welcomed both his lover and, months later, their daughter with open arms. For the first time, he felt like he actually had a purpose: to house and protect his new family. So as Lalana suggested that they gave their daughter the name Datta, after the first Mane. Ja'kil let her make the decision - it wouldn't be fair for him to decide two names in the same day, because from that day forward, he wasn't Ja'kil, he was S'kil; for he was no longer the same brat who thought changing his name made him a different person. No, it was the deed - and since the deed of fatherhood made him a different person, the old name no longer reflected him.

Of course, the Baandari clan couldn't help but make fun of him for being so melodramatic, but they respected his wishes.

You would be forgiven for thinking that there would be a drastic change in his lifestyle following that day. How does one explain to their family that they are a skooma dealer? What if that danger finds its way to them? Well, it was all the more reason to not be caught, yes? He figured that if he was good at something, then it would be a waste of ability to not use it - such was one of the ways the Baandari taught him. Of course, he had to get better at it if he was to keep safe. Get smarter. He made his reputation as a fisherman and a hunter apparent to Senchal - it was better to be known for something innocuous than to not be known at all... those sorts were the suspicious types that the guards made a point of keeping their eyes on. Now mindful of all these different things, his job became so much harder. He needed allies and people he could trust to help him do the dirty work when he couldn't do it himself. There was Saleel, but he was more likely to smoke the skooma than not. Within the Baandari in Senchal, there was only one other these days who was willing to move skooma around: Dar'sho, the son of Ra'Mada, one of the Baandari's leaders.

He was a few years older than S'kil, but given how he's been with them since he was a kitten, they've known each other for nearly twenty years. Dar'sho was more than happy to lend a helping hand to him, especially since he was the only other person ballsy enough to handle the drug. For the next sixteen years, they've been business partners, taking on the ups and downs together and battling their rivals. From moving skooma, to selling it - Dar'sho was always the better businessman, but S'kil was better at being discrete and actually knew how to make the stuff - to sabotaging business rivals and even having to bully and collect debts when they needed to. Dar'sho covered for him when he had to spend time with his family and even went as far as to provide an uncle for his daughter. They were partners, plain and simple. Even if the going got rough and certain customers thought that they could take from them, they took care of the problem together. When they came home with a cut or a bruise, the blamed it on a wild boar while on a bad hunting trip, or some other form of wildlife with a particularly nasty temper.

Though there were some close calls that resulted in some of their stock or one of their labs being ransacked by the guard, they made a point of never being caught. Don't gamble and don't take risks. Their lives weren't worth only a couple bottles of skooma. This was the start of a regional meme of a particular skooma dealer in Pelletine called the Senchal Sugar Ghost. The name got around, but nobody knew who it was - it was just used whenever someone stumbled upon an old skooma den or a dead drop with nobody there. It became more of a joke then anything, since it could have been any one of the handful of skooma peddlers in Senchal. What started off as a strategy to hunt down an unknown, wanted criminal ended up backfiring. Literally everyone called each other the ghost. Wanted posters were made for the Senchal Sugar Ghost depicting just the rough outline of a khajiit (because duh, ghosts were invisible) - at its core though, it was mostly a mockery of the guard. Hunting down an "unknown criminal" is like hunting down someone who doesn't exist. It was the Gray Fox all over again.

In retrospect, it was probably a bad idea to be asking an entire population of khajiit to share some responsibility for the law.

All the while, his family has been growing as well. Lalana has earned herself a place in the Baandari with her connections to her side of the family and opening trade between them and the clan. She had a good head for mercantilism that the clan has ultimately come to respect, and their daughter Datta was grew up idolizing her and saw the Baandari as something of a huge extended family, many of which were more than happy to entertain her with their sleight of hand tricks and faux prophecies. Datta sought to follow in her mother footsteps, because in her words, "she's the prettiest and smartest person in the whole world!"

It's difficult to blame his daughter for picking a favorite. As much as he loved her, he essentially had two full-time jobs and one was required to hide the other, so he was almost as much of a ghost to his daughter as he was to Senchal. He was barely ever around to help raise her and he loathed himself for that. He got the sense that perhaps his daughter resented him too as she grew older. It was difficult to hunt, fish, be a big-time drug dealer, and then wash away all the smells and fumes from his fur after cooking the garbage up all in one day before it was her bedtime. It was difficult, but every time he entertained the thought of leaving the business, Dar'Sho would pull him back in. He couldn't just leave. "You can't waste talent."

4E 184 - sixteen years after Datta was born was the year his life was changed, and the skeletons in his closet that he tried so desperately to hide came storming out of the shadows. Sometimes you think you've tried so hard and made so sure to cover your tracks, anything to prevent the worst from happening, like how S'kil thought he made sure that nobody followed him home. Between he and Dar'sho, surely it was impossible for one of the rivaling skooma dealers to try and eliminate the competition by sending an assassin to kill him in his own home. Just seconds after arriving home one evening as S'kil leaned in to greet his lover with a nuzzle and waving hello at his daughter from across the room, taking in the smell of the wood smoke from the fire place and the smell of freshly cooked food... Lalana's eyes grew wide from a sight she saw from behind him. She threw S'kil aside, inadvertently taking a dagger in the chest with the assailant driving all of his weight behind it mid-leap. Even the assailant seemed shocked by the turn of events, shocked enough to remain frozen long enough for S'kil to process what was happening - his lover on the floor, bleeding out... he was overcome with rage.

With an agonized, ear-splitting scream he lunged at the cat who hurt his wife while drawing a knife from his belt. He grabbed their dagger-wielding paw with his free hand, and used his weight to pin the assailant's shoulders to the ground with his knees.

The assailant struggled as he yelled out loud, "Dark moons take you! You skooma vardariit-"

Nothing was stopping him from plunging his knife into their face. Then again and again, over and over...

Dar'sho was close enough to hear the commotion and sprinted his way to their front door, unable to even get a word out seeing before him the grisly horror of the scene which left him speechless. One khajiit undoubtedly dead, face unrecognizable amidst the gore, and Lalana being cradled in S'kil's arms who was rocking back and forth, trying to talk to her lifeless body through his tears. Their daughter was sobbing into her mother's belly. The family needed to mourn, and as much Dar'sho wanted to mourn too, he felt a responsibility to them to help take care of things while they were vulnerable. He immediately started looking through the pockets of the assailant's body.

"Dar'sho..." S'kil weakly said, "what are you..."

Dar'sho said nothing, but apparently found what he was looking for in the form of a crumpled up note. He quickly read it, his fur becoming increasingly bristled and tail increasingly anxious. He balled the the piece of parchment and threw it into the fireplace, the room glowing brighter for a moment as it lit up like kindling.

"It's Jo'Zhar." Dar'sho growled. "He knows it was us."

S'kil shook his head in shame and pressed his head against his wife's.

"We have to take care of this now, S'kil, before it gets any worse."

"Papa..." Datta whimpered. "What did he mean by skooma...?"

By that point, the sounds of footfalls from neighboring houses and from the clan's residence started storming closer, people calling to each other, asking questions like, "what was that?" S'kil shook his head and looked at his daughter, saying, "I'll explain later."

Datta stared solemnly, long and hard as her mother, as she mumbled, "It's always later..."

The words stung S'kil's heart and he frowned, then looked to Dar'sho with a crestfallen glance. "Go. I'll meet with you."

He nodded and fled the scene as S'kil's neighbors and clan fell upon his home, gasping in shock and mourning with him. Datta would stay with the clan that night, and the Clan-Mother would prep the body for safe passage to the Sands Behind the Stars. Tonight, S'kil would not find sleep, but instead Dar'Sho, who waited for him at the docks where they would begin their search for Jo'Zhar. Though his former hiding place still remained abandoned, they turned to the sugar-tooths on the street for information. It didn't take long, since many of these cats S'kil knew as his buyers, and he always kept himself composed - not tonight. He wasn't hiding a single ounce of his emotions. When he demanded to know the location of one of the former dealers in Senchal - the one who got hit hard by a rival - it didn't take long for them to understand what was happening and they knew better than to stand in the middle of it. They directed S'kil straight to Jo'Zhar, where he sat in a storehouse on the far western end of the outskirts of Senchal. S'kil didn't waste any time in trying to make an example of Jo'Zhar or making him suffer. He just made sure he saw him coming before he put him down like an animal. An arrow through the neck - fwp! His body dropped to the ground. They dragged the body out into the jungle to let the wildlife take care of what was left.

They returned in time for sunrise, exhausted from a night's lack of sleep and the emotional toll the day prior had on them. They did however return in time to prepare for the passing ceremony. Between Lalana's family and the Baandari clan, they afforded enough money to invest in carving out a place in a cave for her to rest instead of a simple burial cairn. Once placed in the cave, they buried Lalana's body in a collection of stones, the first ones to be layed were by her husband and child, then followed by her family. The members of the Baandari clan filled in the rest. It was a day of mourning for a great many people, for Datta especially, but she did not forget what her father had promised her. She confronted him again, wanting to know why her mother died the previous night. Why did the murderer choose them? Why did they call him a skooma sucker?

"Look into this one's eyes, child." S'kil said. "Do they wane like the moons? Or does your father's body shake and shiver like the sugar-tooths along the streets? Worry not, S'kil is well. Clawless coward was about to die. He sought to insult him."

Datta was quite for a moment, apparently not satisfied with the answer.

"Jer do?" S'kil asked.

"Skooma vardariit." She said. "Papa, what have you been up to? Who is Jo'Zhar? Why did mama have to die?"

S'kil sighed and said, "Jo'Zhar was a dealer in skooma. Dar'sho and S'kil put an end to his business."

"You are no dust-faced guard, papa." Datta replied bitingly. "What business is it of yours to get into matters like that? Why did your family not know of it?"

S'Kil was at a loss for words. No explanation for his daughter - the clever girl that she was, she had him cornered. Apparently she was sharper and more observant than he ever realized. Perhaps he would have known this if only he was with her more often.

"This one was hoping you'd come out with it." Datta continued. "She's seen you with baskets of nightshade, she sees your eyes irritated at the end of the day. Smells the sugar clinging to your fur. You and Datta are Baandari! They trade! This one visits the market and hears from fishermen how you are such a favorite customer of theirs. How much fish you buy. You say you fish them yourself!"

S'kil hung his head low wordlessly.

"This one feared you were trading in skooma, this one hoped she was wrong! Ziss, you're the reason mama is dead."

Those were the last words she spoke to him before she stopped talking to him for the next year. The year wasn't easy. Half the time, it seemed that he did nothing besides allowing himself to waste away. The other half, he looked into the mirror and hated what he saw. He wanted to change, change for the better; change for his daughter, even if she refused to talk to him... he wanted to changed for Lalana - bless her memory. He went out looking for his former labs and stockpiles and destroyed them. He destroyed every leftover trace of his skooma production, even letting Dar'sho know that it was over. His partner was slightly disappointed, but not upset. He thought that perhaps S'kil was right in doing so, for he had already lost so much because of it. The whole year, as short as it was, felt like it had gone oh so slowly for S'kil who had nothing to do as he let his home slowly become dilapidated.

It was a year later, 4E 185, when Datta finally visited him again, accompanied by a Cathay-raht.

"Uncle Dar'sho told this one what you have been up to." She spoke softly. "It can't erase what has happened... but I am proud of you."

S'kil bowed his head and flattened his ears, a remorseful frown taking over his face. He said, "S'kil only wishes that he had the clarity of mind to change himself sooner, so that he could be with his family."

"You might not have been there for Datta," she said, "but at least you can be there for the ma'khajiit."

S'kil looked down to see his daughter holding her tummy - apparently she had taken a page out of his own book when it came to early parenthood! His dejected disposition appeared instantly uplifted for the first time since Lalana's passing, though he remained speechless. He looked at Datta's partner with his ears perked.

"Do'garamba." She introduced as S'kil eagerly reached to shake his hand.

Datta continued, "Mama always told this one stories about you when you were younger. The Baandari, too. A fondness for changing your name, yes?" Datta teased, though the modulation in her voice suggested it was endearing.

"This one was never sure of who he was or was supposed to be." S'kil admitted. "Even now, S'kil wishes to be a different person."

"Please then, allow your daughter to do you the honors..." Datta softly said. "...Dro'kil."

That was it then - a name he has actually earned for the first time. Indeed, Dro'kil was rather young for a grandfather now, but his experiences have so far granted him a great deal of insight and wisdom. It's safe to say that a huge chunk of his life was actually normal after that point. He was there for his grandchild as she grew up, and he got to be there for his daughter as well. He got to know Do'garamba, who happened to be the warrior in his family and had the dream of being the Mane's personal guard - an honorable sort, even if it meant enforcing thjizzrini. It seemed that, for the next eighteen years, his life would resemble any normal citizen and he spent most of his free time hunting in the jungles. He put what he already knew of alchemy into crafting different kinds of elixers, mostly antidotes and antivenin - and learned the craft better in order to make other potions that enhanced his natural abilities that allowed him to hunt better. Nighteye, life detection, potions which helped him steady his aging body as he pulled back his bowstring. He made sure that there was never a night that neither his daughter's family nor none of the Baandari went to bed hungry.

For eighteen years, he finally found the role that suited him. He finally felt comfortable with his identity. Grandfather. Hunter. Baandari. He finally had a sense of who he was as a person.

4E 203 - eighteen years is a long time to watch the world pass you by. While Datta might not have noticed it with being preoccupied with her own son, Saddi, and her role and duties within the Baandari. That which had actually earned her the title of Dra'datta for her excellent wit and wisdom in trade agreements. Now, though, the land of Elsweyr was more tumultuous than ever. The khajiit were allied with the empire in order to leave the Dominion, and the price of such freedom was death. The Mane was issuing drafts, and Dro'kil has seen them escorting people from their homes, which he was fortunately spared from, but his grandson... well, he was not so lucky. "For the greater good," he would hear people say. It angered him. The boy was meant for better things - he was intelligent and cunning, had a fascination for prestidigitation and prophecies and sleight of hand. He wanted to learn how to be a mage! Dro'kil wasn't going to let any crown take that away from him. In confrontation with the local recruiter, he was directed to his regional commander who would be the one to decide. Upon talking to him, the commander simply laughed in his face and shoved him off with a warning, suggesting that Dro'kil would get hurt if he kept it up.

So then he met with Dar'sho. The old cat was still up to his usual tricks ever since their business dissolved, but they greeted each other like brothers all the same. He shared with him what was troubling him, and Dar'sho seemed to catch on to what he was implying.

"We are going to kill the Mane then, yes?"

Well, seemed to at least. Assassination attempts seemed to be the running joke around here since three years back, despite everyone's respect for the spiritual and cultural significance the Mane represented. Damnable Renrijra Krin Va'Aneqasa.

"No," Dro'kil said, "this one will be there for his grandson. Dro'kil will take his place. Soul for a soul."

"Your old tail?" Dar'sho retorted in disbelief.

"You and Dro'kil has cultivated their skills over the course of lifetimes!" He defended indignantly. "They will travel to Torval very soon. When they get there, this one needs your cleverness to find out who actually wants the Mane dead. Preferably anyone who is close to the crown."

"What is it you intend to do?" He asked.

Dro'kil looked at his partner in crime with a curious, innocuous expression and simply said, "Show why Dro'kil is more valuable to the Mane than unproven children."

The next day, the pair headed out toward Torvald. Not without explaining to the Baandari clan leaders first, of course. What basically entailed rescuing one of their own was enough to receive their approval and loan them the services of two senche (who were promised large piles of food upon their return), so that they could travel through the jungle of Pelletine in decent time. It costed them one or two sleepless nights in the jungle as they stayed awake and alert for any of the vicious predators that lurked behind every bush, but between a rogue, a hunter, and two vicious tigers, there were few things that the four of them couldn't handle.

When they did finally make it to Torval, they were amazed by the number of soldiers and guards stationed within the city. It was little wonder there was a draft if they were both fighting a war and worrying about assassinations within their own state. Dro'kil looked to Dar'sho, and the latter went to work collecting information, assuring his friend that they'd have everything they'd need the next day. Meanwhile, Dro'kil spent his time in an inn's private room with the company of an alchemy set consisting of a morter and pestle, alembic, retort, and calcinator, all working together in order to separate the properties of the alchemical ingredients being distilled. Nightshade, the other ingredient in making skooma was the easiest for him to get his hands on. Antlers, which were carved off one of his kills in the past and he kept as a trophy - he destroyed them and reduced them to powder, mixing it with the nightshade.

Finally, the jarrin root. Rare and hard to come by since it only grew on Stros M'Kai - but for a Baandari in Senchal? There were one or two from his own clan who had a sprig that they were holding on to for a while, and all it takes is a little extra money to compensate for what it takes to get a hold of one. The price didn't matter to Dro'kil. It would be worth every septim.

The end result was basically a pure and undiluted poison.

The next day came sooner than they expected, and both khajiit were quite tired from working throughout the night. They were not as young as they used to be and they could feel it, but they both have been through too much in their lives to let one sleepless night slow them down. They made their preparations: the poison was prepped. They put Dar'sho into some new, fresh clothes befitting of the palace's kitchen staff. Yesterday, he asked about any dissent among the leadership in Torval and he came back with quite a few names who were apparently displeased with the Mane and his ideas, most of whom were northern representatives from Anequina who had a distaste for the seat of power. He investigated their homes and half of the names he was given had written evidence for plots against the crown - correspondence between one another - which constituted as treason.

Ra'ssran. Ra'vada-dro. Dra'vansi. Dro'kil remembered these names. Less important it was for him, perhaps - more importantly it was for Dar'sho to know, but he wanted to know which lives had to pay for the betterment of his own family.

It took the rest of the day for him to get an audience with the Mane. Dar'sho went on ahead to assimilate with the servants inside while spent all day waiting in a long line of people asking for medicine or money or to do something about the law - but Dro'kil was patient. It wasn't until supper time was he able to meet with the court, at which point he was subjected to watch the Mane, all of his servants, trusted advisers, and other khajiiti leaders stuff their faces while he stood there on an empty stomach, but he was nonetheless grateful. It only made their plan easier for them.

"My Mane, this one seeks audience with you," Dro'kil began, "for the purpose of rescinding the draft order on my grandson, Saddi."

"By Alkosh, you look terrible." One cat commented, apparently ignoring his request.

"Dro'kil has spent many sleepless nights travelling from Senchal in order to beseech this of you." Dro'kil explained.

"Then I am afraid you should have spent that time sleeping, instead." The Mane said plainly. "If I agreed to rescind the draft on every person who asked, we would not have enough warriors to fight the Dominion to secure the freedom we khajiit deserve."

Dro'kil sighed. This was nothing he did not anticipate. Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw Dar'sho hanging in the doorway watching them. It looked like it was time to proceed with the plan.

"Then perhaps we can come to an agreement--"

"This is no bargain you can win, Baandari." The Mane interrupted, looking at him knowingly. He tapped the side of his head with finger. Dro'kil was somewhat unsettled by his knowledge, but he regained his composure. The Mane only thought he knew enough about him. The truth was that if he did, then there was no way Dro'kil would even be allowed in this room.

Dro'kil pressed on, his face stoic and serious, "It is a fair trade: a life for a life. A soul for a soul. I will take the place of my grandson."

The whole room seemed to erupt in laughter, and Dro'kil could have sworn he even felt the air around him shift, but he remained still and stern.

"Don't take this the wrong way," the Mane began, "but don't you think we could get more use out of a young khajiit, easily molded and better able, than what we could out of his grandfather?"

"What is a child with sticks and stones compared to a lifetime of experience?" Dro'kil asserted confidently. "This one can be far more useful to you in the coming years than Saddi. Leaders cannot be formed overnight, no?"

"And you have proof that you are as competent as you suggest?"

Dro'kil smiled. Dro'kil rarely ever smiled - and that was the cue for Dar'sho to get ready. He saw from his periphery that he had begun moving.

"That is a most excellent idea, my Mane!" He said. He looked around the room at all the leaders and officials of Torval. "How about we all toast? To the Mane, and to proving Dro'kil worthy of his trust! He shall make a show of it!"

This prompted laughter from the Mane, which seemed to permit laughter from the rest of the court. "You're a mad cat," the Mane said, "but I like you. Very well - a toast then!"

Everyone in the room seemed to be finishing what little remained in their cups, so that - as per the custom - they may give their toast with full cups. Dar'sho came out of the kitchen with a platter in hand with fresh goblets of wine. Very few payed him little mind as he was very particular in which goblet he handed to whom. After he went around and handed out all the fresh cups of wine, he served Dro'kil last - the two averted eye contact - and he returned to the kitchen, his tail twitching in anticipation.

"To the old cat making a fool of himself!" The Mane declared.

"To the fool!" The room repeated in unison.

Everyone in the room took a drink from their cups except for Dro'kil. That was the moment he felt something cold and sharp on his neck, but nothing was there.

Then followed the sounds of three bodies hitting the floor. Ra'ssran, Ra'vada-dro, and Dra'vansi, with foam at their mouths, were dead in mere seconds. The Mane and the dozen other khajiit looked shocked, the personal guard were brandishing their own weapons but were unsure of what to do - the Mane was fine. Most of the people in the room were fine... but the unmoving, calm expression on Dro'kil's face was telling.

"What is the meaning of this?!" The Mane demanded.

Suddenly a knife apparated before Dro'kil, along with the wielder's hand - the veil of an invisibility spell was immediately dropped, revealing a tattooed ohmes woman much shorter than Dro'kil, holding the knife to his throat. Suddenly the the strange cold feeling at his neck and the shifting air around him made sense. She must have been there the entire time! But Dro'kil kept his composure, dropping the goblet of wine onto the floor and slowly raising his hands in the air.

He made sure to speak slowly and calmly while he was at the mercy of the ohmes woman, "Search Dro'kil's pouch. Right hip."

They hesitantly followed his direction as Dro'kil continued, "Dro'kil is proving himself, his Mane. Those renrij were traitors who plotted against you under your nose. Beneath the roof of your own home."

The ohmes whipped out the pieces of parchment from his pouch and began reading through the documents, her wild eyes unchanging and her knife still pressed against Dro'kil. It recorded much of the correspondence between the three khajiit and their plots to betray the Mane with their own handwriting. The ohmes looked up at the Mane unflinchingly and said, "What he says is true."

There were a few moments of silence as the Mane seemed to come to grips with this information, a solemn and mournful air overtaking him before he regained his composure. "At ease. Dro'kil, my apologies to you for not being more hospitable. This is Ra'gajal, my spymaster. Ra'gajal, did you foresee this coming?"

The ohmes took her knife away from Dro'kil and sheathed it, then stood at attention before the Mane. "They were but a few of the suspects I had identified. I did not yet have the evidence to act on my suspicions."

"Tell me Dro'kil," the Mane said, leaning forward in his chair, "how does an outsider such as yourself beat my spymaster to finding the evidence?"

"A fresh new perspective, this one supposes." He humbly lied. The truth was that he dared not let Dar'sho get mixed up in this mess.

"Indeed..." Ra'gajal muttered to herself as she inspected him inquisitively.

"Well, as sad as I am to lose friends this day..." the Man began with a sigh, "I am glad to earn at least one more friend. You have saved my life this day and have proven yourself, so I will agree to your request to rescind the order on your grandson. Saddi, from the Baandari clan in Senchal, yes?"

The Mane motioned for his guards to take care of the three dead bodies within the room, then looked back at Dro'kil. "Your... talents will be useful, yes. Warriors and conscripts are easy to come by, but Agents of the Mane... less so. I shall appoint you to Ra'gajal. She will inform you of your duties and assign you your missions. I will permit you time to return to Senchal and say your goodbyes to your family. When you return, your training will begin."

That was that. Dar'sho had gone on ahead without him - it was best to not be acquainted with this whole operation. Dro'kil would return at least a day after him to give the bittersweet news. Dra'datta was upset that her father would be leaving again, but ever so grateful that her own son would be spared from the horrors of war. She could never thank him enough. After saying goodbye to the rest of the clan, and giving his deepest thanks to Dar'sho for his help, Dro'kil returned to Torval to begin this new chapter of his life; but before doing so, he decided to meet with the regional commander near Senchal so that he could rub it in his face. That no good, rotted, slow-pawed, short-tail...

The first order of business, as far as Ra'gajal was concerned, was to suggest to Dro'kil to change his name if he wanted to protect his family. She of course did no such thing, for she had no family to protect. Dro'kil faced this issue with reluctance at first, but eventually conceded. He had struggled with a fractured identity for so much of his life... what were another few years? From that point on, they agreed to call him Dar'Jzo. Now the training begins.

The next two years was spent as an Agent of the Mane, the spymaster's very own executioner. They honed the skills he already knew and taught him actual techniques to use over what he taught himself, but otherwise he required very little work and turned out to be in better shape than his age indicated. Missions either required him to simply sit and watch a person or location for a certain amount of time, infiltrating a group or building, or taking out their enemies. Something changed within Dar'Jzo during this time that made him shut himself off to the rest of the world. He was still the same person as before, but he was less open with himself now. It became clear that Dar'Jzo was not the most charming individual, so they learned to keep him on missions where he wasn't supposed to be seen. Those missions he particularly excelled at, and they took him as far as the Summerset Isles to aid the coup in Alinor.

When the Mane was assassinated in 4E 205, everything was not so clear-cut. He was killed by jarrin root, the main component in Dar'Jzo's own concoction. Ra'gajal was never very trusting of Dar'Jzo, always suspecting that there was something more to him the day he approached the Mane than what he let on, but he was on a mission that was nowhere near Torval. As far as she was concerned, Dar'Jzo was the only one she could trust. This was unfortunate for him, because he thought that since the Mane died, that would be his chance at freedom and that he could finally return to his family. But the spymaster was stringent, even more stern than Dar'Jzo was, and possessed unwavering devotion to the throne which seated the Mane. As long as she was alive, she would see that Torval remained protected for the good of Elsweyr. That also meant getting Dar'Jzo involved in the civil war that followed, taking out members on both sides if they posed a great enough threat.

But something has been bothering Ra'gajal lately, and not just the fact that the cause of the Mane's death leads her to suspect that it was imperial treachery, but the movements going around the world. Word reached Elsweyr that the dunmer of Morrowind aligned themselves with Akaviri monsters and moved on Skyrim. She had agents all over Tamriel and half as many within Elsweyr, but she didn't have anyone up north. Khajiits had the bad habit of being turned into cloaks or carpets by the nords after the Stormcloaks took over. All of Elsweyr was vulnerable at the moment, and she didn't want another party taking advantage of that and entering the fray. So she directed Dar'Jzo toward the far end of Tamriel with the logic that his ability to stay hidden in the shadows should protect them from the most unruly of them. There, he'd also be far, far away from his family.

He almost told her no.

Instead, he obeyed. He remembered why he was doing this. If he went back on the oath he swore to the last Mane, then his grandson would be free picking. He couldn't subject him to the kinds of horrors he has seen and the sins he's committed. He was to take a ship that would circle around the west and be destined to dock in Solitude. As much as Dar'Jzo thought boats were bad luck, that was ironically the safest way to get there. There was one perk to it though: the boat was docked in Senchal. Before he'd leave, he'd get to visit his family. Except one thing was missing... Saddi had left two months ago to pursue mage training at the College of Winterhold. Winterhold was supposedly destroyed last month.

Despite his disdain for ships and water, Dar'Jzo boarded the vessel with the greatest of haste and convinced the captain to proceed with utmost urgency. Tracing along the south and western coast of Tamriel, stopping from port to port only to replenish their supplies. They zipped between Valenwood and the Summerset Isles with great caution, stopped by Hammerfell for one more replenishment, and went around High Rock to finally make anchor at the port just outside of Solitude. From there, Dar'Jzo's mission begins. Not just to keep an eye on the Akivir situation, but also to find any trace of his grandson. When he finds him - and come Oblivion or high water, he will find him - there was nothing or no one in this world that could make him turn his back on his family ever again. Not even Ra'gajal.

Word had it that there were some mercenaries who recently rolled into town and had a personal encounter with the Akavir. That would be as good a place as any to start.

Capabilities

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§ Attributes

Major Agility, Minor Intelligence

§ Skills

Expert: Sneak – (“This one has history in not being seen. As a broker, as a hunter, and as one of death's couriers. Consider this opportunity a privilege.”)

Adept: Marksman – (“After years of practice, masters can take aim and spread doom's wings as fast as this one blinks. All Dar'Jzo has to do is take his time. There is no hurry. Death is patient.”)

Adept: Alchemy – (“Many years were spent distilling moon sugar. There rests a fine line between sweet brain candy and deadly poison. Other reagents are no different.”)

Adept: Lockpicking – (“If this one wants to go somewhere, then who's to say he can't? Hmph, dustfaced renrij knows not of the Three Promises: Gods fight. Mortals die. Dar'Jzo goes where he likes. Laws are useless in stopping these.”)

Apprentice: Hand to hand – (“Many customers think they can take khajiit's product from him. There was reason this one is still alive to see so many moons.”)

Novice: Mercantile – (“Dar'Jzo may be Baandari, but he did not have to be a good trader to deal skooma. Skooma sells itself. Addiction is good for brand loyalty.”)

Novice: One-handed (Blade) – (“Skill with blade matters less when they don't see the blade, yes?”)

Novice: Ta'agra – (“Dar'Jzo knows how to read and write his own language. What else matters?”)

§ Weaknesses

Age: Time is the greatest, oldest enemy of mortalkind. We simply cannot have enough of it, and a long life is a lot to afford. Dar'Jzo is not as agile, as strong, or as durable as he was in the past. True, he's still capable of outpacing quite a few of these youngsters out here, he can't keep it up as long as he used to. To compensate for it, he now mostly saves his energy for when he really needs it and lies in waiting.

Lone... Cat?: Lone wolf would've been weird for a khajiit. Anyways, there are only a few people in Dar'Jzo's life that he could actually work well with. In other words, his teamwork isn't all that great. He prefers to get in, get the job done himself, and get out. He can trust in his own experience and ability to carry him through, but he is not as quick to rely on others to get their parts done except for his brother and his master.

Inhospitable: Let's face it, he doesn't exactly have a winning personality. He can't make friends very easily.

Foreigner: Dar'Jzo has spent most of his entire life within Pellentine. What could he possibly know of the world outside of Elsweyr?

§ Spells

N/A

§ Tactics

Now you see me, now you don't. Dar'Jzo's strategy almost entirely depends on him not being seen by the enemy while he takes his time lining up his shots. If he really wants them dead, he'll even lace his arrows with poison and take extra care that his shot fly true. That isn't to say that he doesn't have a back up plan in case he gets caught off-guard. He has his own fair share of practice in hand-to-hand combat, and knows techniques that will allow him to use his enemy's own weight and inertia against them. He's not against using his own bow as a melee weapon as well, one which he utilizes with great finesse as he uses its curvature to trip his enemies, and then uses a dagger to put them down for good. If his dagger doesn't happen to be at the ready, well, then he has the quiver full of arrows at his disposal which should do the job just as well.

§ Relations & Affiliations

Lalana - Wife (61) - Deceased (39)
Dra'datta - Daughter (37) - Alive
Do'garamba - Son-in-law (40) - Alive
Saddi - Grandson (20) - ???
Daro'Rista - Godmother (81) - ??? (Presumably deceased)
Dar'sho - Stepbrother (61) - Alive
Baandari Clan (Active)

§ Opinions

N/A

§ Other

• Dar'Jzo can't catch fish worth a damn, but that won't stop him from trying.
• Remarkably decent at swimming considering how he hates both boats and water.
• No, seriously. Dar'Jzo hates water. He thinks it tastes awful, too. He splashes a bit of rum in his canteen to make it more palatable.

Inventory

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§ Cash

70 septims

§ Keys & Lockpicks

15 lockpicks, which he keeps stored in different locations. Different pouches, pockets, boots, et cetera. There's one in his bun that's basically serving as a hairpin and keeping it all together.

§ Tools & Crafting Materials

He has a knapsack that he carries around which carries an entire alchemy kit. Morter and pestle, calcinator, alembic, and retort. It requires some assembly, though.

§ Clothing & Armor

(Taken from appearance:) His choice of wardrobe would make sense if he was still living in Senchal, but not so much in Skyrim. For starters, he doesn't wear a shirt. He just doesn't like to and not for any particular reason, but if he had to come up with one, it feels too constricting while he's pulling back his bowstring. He does though wear a black leather bandolier that goes across his chest and over one of his shoulders, and it looks something like a huge leather belt. With it, he carries a few pouches, bags, and a small pack. It is also this bandolier that he attaches his quiver of arrows to, from which Dar'Jzo hangs his bow.

The only actual garments of clothes he wears are loose-fitting, baggy, and breathable black linen pants which he secures to his person with a blood-red sash, and the bottom of his pants are tucked into black leather riding boots. While his fur would be enough to keep him warm for a short while in one of Skyrim's winters, it alone wouldn't protect him for long. During his time on board the ship that takes him from Senchal to Solitude, he was given a black wool long coat by one of the navy men should he be stuck in Skyrim for a while.

§ Weapon & Ammo

• A well made bow made from Valenwood timber, intricately decorated with traditional khajiiti design.
• 30 steel arrows - Dar'Jzo filled his quiver to the brim before heading out to Skyrim.
• A curved skinning knife with a gutting hook.

§ Potion & Arcane Supplies

• 1 Elixer of Keenshot
• 1 Potion of Detect Life
• 1 Potion of Cure Poison
• 1 Potion of Healing
• 3 Vials of deadly poison

§ Jewelry & Valuables

A wedding band on one of his fingers and that's about it.

§ Books & Documents

N/A. Don't leave paper trails.

§ Food/Drinks/Ingredients

• 10 strips of dried meat
• 5 smoked sardines
• Half a bottle of banana rum
• 2 sweetrolls
• 5 teaspoons of moon sugar
• 3 sprigs of Nightshade

§ Load Bearing Equipment

• Bandolier with 4 pouches and a brick-sized pack, carrying potions, poison, and alchemical ingredients.
• A knapsack, carrying his alchemy kit.
• A bindle, carrying his food.

§ Other

The Elder Scrolls: Fruits of Contention - Chapter 2 (Completed)

@Spoopy Scary Even if them lowly peasants didn't get the word, you can be certain that ship captains and carriage drivers close to Skyrim know about it. Plus, we do have the Tamrielic Gazette, which you can be certain people have been reading and would be gossiping.

@Dervish

True. I just looked through the OP, but all I could find that talked about the collapse of Winterhold was in World State and it didn't tell me the date of when it happened.

The Elder Scrolls: Fruits of Contention - Chapter 2 (Completed)

@DervishI remember the College being destroyed, which was meant to be a bit of dramatic irony for the reader, but what I should have done was make sure that the timeline matched up properly. Maybe the lower class of Senchal wouldn't have heard about it?

I can fix up Not'Ashav no problem. In my defense though, if GC made an overt Reaper reference IC, I could probably get away with it. :P

The Elder Scrolls: Fruits of Contention - Chapter 2 (Completed)

So, uh, working on a second character. All I've worked on so far is history, but it's a doozy. So I'm just gonna submit that now for review while I work on the rest of the sheet.

Dar'Jzo

Male Khajiit (Cathay) | 57 | The Shadow

Image

History - Word Count: 8,123

Dar'Jzo was not always Dar'Jzo. Whether or not it was a crises of identity, he has gone through many names in his life. Some he has earned, but most were chosen for himself. His first was Kil before he earned his honorific, then Ja'kil in a fit of rebellion when he had finally come of age. S'kil when he fathered a daughter, thinking a mere name change could somehow change the person he was. Then Dro'kil when his daughter bore a child of her own, and he sought to shed the fur of the khajiit he used to be and lay down his tools for the betterment of his daughter's family. Never in his life would he have expected to become Dar'Jzo. Never in his life would he have expected to be Ra'gajal's attack cat.

It is difficult to pinpoint where exactly it all went wrong. Perhaps it was from the beginning, in 4E 149. He was born on a seafaring vessel by people who were truly no better than pirates - at least he thinks he was. The southeastern-most city of Pelletine was the port-town of Senchal, and it was as ripe with trade as it was with crime. When the ships were coming in steady, guards would watch every rundown nook and cranny, so some thieves got smart and only became active when business was slow, trading less risk for a less lucrative hit. It all depended on how big of a gambler you were. One of the Baandari, a clan of traders and peddlers, thought that she'd be saving a kitten from the big bad pirates and sneaked her way on board to pick him up from off the deck. When the smuggler made it back to the trading post inside town, poor Daro'Rista wasn't met with the praise she hoped for - she was met with scorn. The Baandari didn't deal in people, let alone babies. What started as a good-intentioned, albeit misguided attempt at philanthropy turned into all the reason in the world for an exile, and Daro'Rista became Cast-Cat.

Though this left everyone wondering what to do with the little young khajiit. Put it back on the boat with the pirates? The baby wouldn't survive! What was their intention with the baby anyway? They decided that it might have been best to either find someone willing to take him or raise the child themselves. Then they looked to Daro'Rista. Now a Cast-Cat she may be, but her act was at least done out of concern, yes? They took pity on her, though dare not re-initiate her because her gambling took too many risks. Perhaps too risky even to be taking care of a child, but Daro'Rista stopped them there - she took the child in the first place, so she will take responsibility for him. She only asked that the child could be raised Baandari like she was, and perhaps the child will do better. The Baandari agreed.

So a young cat was named Kil, raised by a trader-thief and a clan of peddlers. His origins were quite unknown to him, though Daro'Rista was no stranger when it came to sharing how he was found, so it was fair to say that Kil wasn't sure how he fit into the community around him. His mother wasn't really his mother and his father was essentially an entire clan that his mother used to be a part of, but she was exiled and yet he's allowed to be Baandari, and he came from a pirate ship where there was no telling if he was born to its crew-mates or if he was stolen away from someplace else. It was doubtless that he felt at least a little lost or had a fractured sense of identity. He just had to stick through it though, and he ended up learning the art of trade, hustling, and hawking, and perhaps the seedier aspects of life through Daro'Rista and some of the Baandari who were actually good at it.

Though in all fairness to Daro'Rista, it was she who taught him how to hunt. Learning to shoot a bow, learning the fox-trot - it was cheaper than buying the meat and the Baandari were nothing if not bargain hunters. The idea of saving money was sometimes more tantalizing than the boars and sand-crabs they were hunting! Kil never cared for trade like most of the Baandari seemed to, but they did instill into him a sort of resentment for government - not that he was your traditional rebel or anarchist, but the Baandari were a free people and he didn't want any pesky officials getting into his business.

It wasn't until his mid-teens did he really start getting into particularly seedy trade. As far as he was concerned, there was no such thing as illegal trade. If a customer wanted a particular item, who was anyone to stop them? Moon sugar was no such item, but when it was distilled? Skooma was an ever-present problem across Elsweyr! So popular a drug was it, that it seemed that as much as half of Senchal was addicted to it. Very few of the Baandari in Senchal were willing to handle such hot wares and they warned Kil against it. For a while, he adhered to their wisdom, but when Daro'Rista was caught with sticky-paws and thrown into a cell, Kil went forward with the idea in hopes of raising enough money to spring his godmother free. He was never going to touch the stuff, of course. He knew that it was basically poisonous garbage and he never had any intention of indulging himself in it.

If there were a couple things the Baandari told him about the skooma trade, it was that it was extremely cutthroat, illegal, and each and every dealer was a rival who had it out for you, so it wasn't as easy as finding someone to teach you how to make it. Luckily for him, he was Baandari, and the clan takes care of its own. One of their own people by the name of Not'Ashav - a black Cathay-raht (otherwise known in Cyrodiil as "Smokes-the-Crack"), who was in and of himself of a drug problem who decided that skooma costed too much and decided to learn how to make it himself. Not'Ashav argued that none know how to make skooma better than he, because he's the only one who samples his own wares! That cat was rarely ever sober, and sometimes that made learning how to make skooma a pain-staking task all on its own... but that was how he got into the trade.

If there was anything he learned about the skooma trade, it was that there's no such thing as easing into it. You can't hawk your wares without getting into trouble, and nobody will come to you unless they know who you are. So what does one do? You hunt down as many sugar-tooths as you can find in the city. Catch them while they're shivering with the skooma-shakes, and you... "help them out" by easing their withdrawal with an itty bitty free sample. Then you let them know where they can find you. He chose an old storehouse on the docks. Cats don't like water (him included), but if you were wracked with addiction, wasn't it a small price to pay? Sometimes, though, addicts who are poor and can't afford the skooma will simply see a small, young khajiit and just try to take it from him.

It was as the clan said: skooma dealings were cutthroat and dangerous.

He returned home battered, bruised, and fur soggy with seawater after he was pushed off the side of the docks. He was frustrated and angry that he was seen as nothing more than a child when he was at his seventeenth year. Though his clan felt sorry for the kid, they still laughed and joked about today being the day he became a man, ironically calling him Ja'kil - it became less funny to them when Kil went along with it. He called himself Ja'kil from that point onward, hoping that would make people take him more seriously. The clan tried to explain, it didn't matter how young or how old you were. There are some out there who will simply seek to take advantage of you and a fancy new name wasn't going to change that. It put him down at first, but they continued: what he needed to do was learn how to defend himself, and the Baandari weren't without their warriors.

They taught him moves and self-defense techniques that should allow him to take care of your average drugged-up cat. Anyone with any actual training he should be wary of, but for the most part, the practice did him good. When the same customer from the other day found him again, Ja'kil wasn't the one who was thrown into the water this time.

The next couple of years for Ja'Kil was pretty much spent honing his trade. He wasn't a good merchant by any means, but he learned how to make his business work and he learned how to make better skooma more efficiently, making himself no longer reliant on Not'Ashav's tutelage. On the downside, it was in that amount of time that Ja'kil wasn't able to meet his goal of bailing Daro'Rista out of prison before she got out on good behavior - making a profit off of addicts wasn't exactly as lucrative as he imagined, but now he had the experience so he may as well stick with it. It added to the struggle of coming to terms with his identity, since he didn't feel like this was his calling. Daro'Rista didn't approve of her godson becoming a skooma peddler, but she understood why he turned to it. While she was never a part of the trade, she did move goods from time to time. She offered her aid to him in that regard nonetheless, hoping that she could keep him safe until the time came when he grows tired of this business.

Though it became clear that he didn't spend all of his time messing around while she was in jail; he became kinda good at it. He learned most of the tricks - his first experience hardened him enough to be able to demand respect without scaring away his customers. He learned to use dead drops instead of carrying the goods nearby or on his person. He learned not just the guards' rounds, but their names, and learned credible deniability by allowing himself to be seen at certain times of the day while his customer picked up their prescription - one can't be skulking about at all hours of the day. Even during his meetings, he'd be waiting for his customers at the docks with a basket of fish at his side, a fishing pole in hand, and his feet hanging off the docks.

At nineteen years old, 4E 168, he met the khajiit who would one day bear his child: Lalana, a black-furred Suthay-raht from a family who owned a plantation. Grew things from moon sugarcane to bananas, herded goats, and even owned an elephant which plowed the land for them. The land was protected by pahmar to discourage thieves from poaching what they owned. They made everything from banana rum to traditional Elsweyr Fondue - it was safe to say that she came from a totally different caste than Ja'kil did, but she didn't want to live her life being reliant on her family's wealth. Still, they were smitten by one another. The rustic man of few words giving the bad boy vibe was just as alluring to Lalana as much as her elegance and rebellious side was to Ja'kil. Her family warned against the dangers of running off with street cats like that dastardly Baandari, Ja'kil, but as far as Lalaana was concerned, there was no evidence of him being dangerous. He never told her the truth of what he did for a living.

Of course they were young and stupid and without restraint - but they loved each other. It didn't take long before they were with child, which marked one of the happiest days for Daro'Rista. The young cat she had saved and raised had finally become a father of his own and perhaps that was the day she stopped trying to hold his hand through life. The Baandari rejoiced for his happiness and welcomed both his lover and, months later, their daughter with open arms. For the first time, he felt like he actually had a purpose: to house and protect his new family. So as Lalana suggested that they gave their daughter the name Datta, after the first Mane. Ja'kil let her make the decision - it wouldn't be fair for him to decide two names in the same day, because from that day forward, he wasn't Ja'kil, he was S'kil; for he was no longer the same brat who thought changing his name made him a different person. No, it was the deed - and since the deed of fatherhood made him a different person, the old name no longer reflected him.

Of course, the Baandari clan couldn't help but make fun of him for being so melodramatic, but they respected his wishes.

You would be forgiven for thinking that there would be a drastic change in his lifestyle following that day. How does one explain to their family that they are a skooma dealer? What if that danger finds its way to them? Well, it was all the more reason to not be caught, yes? He figured that if he was good at something, then it would be a waste of ability to not use it - such was one of the ways the Baandari taught him. Of course, he had to get better at it if he was to keep safe. Get smarter. He made his reputation as a fisherman and a hunter apparent to Senchal - it was better to be known for something innocuous than to not be known at all... those sorts were the suspicious types that the guards made a point of keeping their eyes on. Now mindful of all these different things, his job became so much harder. He needed allies and people he could trust to help him do the dirty work when he couldn't do it himself. There was Not'Ashav, but he was more likely to smoke the skooma than not. Within the Baandari in Senchal, there was only one other these days who was willing to move skooma around: Dar'sho, the son of Ra'Mada, one of the Baandari's leaders.

He was a few years older than S'kil, but given how he's been with them since he was a kitten, they've known each other for nearly twenty years. Dar'sho was more than happy to lend a helping hand to him, especially since he was the only other person ballsy enough to handle the drug. For the next sixteen years, they've been business partners, taking on the ups and downs together and battling their rivals. From moving skooma, to selling it - Dar'sho was always the better businessman, but S'kil was better at being discrete and actually knew how to make the stuff - to sabotaging business rivals and even having to bully and collect debts when they needed to. Dar'sho covered for him when he had to spend time with his family and even went as far as to provide an uncle for his daughter. They were partners, plain and simple. Even if the going got rough and certain customers thought that they could take from them, they took care of the problem together. When they came home with a cut or a bruise, the blamed it on a wild boar while on a bad hunting trip, or some other form of wildlife with a particularly nasty temper.

Though there were some close calls that resulted in some of their stock or one of their labs being ransacked by the guard, they made a point of never being caught. Don't gamble and don't take risks. Their lives weren't worth only a couple bottles of skooma. This was the start of a regional meme of a particular skooma dealer in Pelletine called the Senchal Sugar Ghost. The name got around, but nobody knew who it was - it was just used whenever someone stumbled upon an old skooma den or a dead drop with nobody there. It became more of a joke then anything, since it could have been any one of the handful of skooma peddlers in Senchal. What started off as a strategy to hunt down an unknown, wanted criminal ended up backfiring. Literally everyone called each other the ghost. Wanted posters were made for the Senchal Sugar Ghost depicting just the rough outline of a khajiit (because duh, ghosts were invisible) - at its core though, it was mostly a mockery of the guard. Hunting down an "unknown criminal" is like hunting down someone who doesn't exist. It was the Gray Fox all over again.

In retrospect, it was probably a bad idea to be asking an entire population of khajiit to share some responsibility for the law.

All the while, his family has been growing as well. Lalana has earned herself a place in the Baandari with her connections to her side of the family and opening trade between them and the clan. She had a good head for mercantilism that the clan has ultimately come to respect, and their daughter Datta was grew up idolizing her and saw the Baandari as something of a huge extended family, many of which were more than happy to entertain her with their sleight of hand tricks and faux prophecies. Datta sought to follow in her mother footsteps, because in her words, "she's the prettiest and smartest person in the whole world!"

It's difficult to blame his daughter for picking a favorite. As much as he loved her, he essentially had two full-time jobs and one was required to hide the other, so he was almost as much of a ghost to his daughter as he was to Senchal. He was barely ever around to help raise her and he loathed himself for that. He got the sense that perhaps his daughter resented him too as she grew older. It was difficult to hunt, fish, be a big-time drug dealer, and then wash away all the smells and fumes from his fur after cooking the garbage up all in one day before it was her bedtime. It was difficult, but every time he entertained the thought of leaving the business, Dar'Sho would pull him back in. He couldn't just leave. "You can't waste talent."

4E 184 - sixteen years after Datta was born was the year his life was changed, and the skeletons in his closet that he tried so desperately to hide came storming out of the shadows. Sometimes you think you've tried so hard and made so sure to cover your tracks, anything to prevent the worst from happening, like how S'kil thought he made sure that nobody followed him home. Between he and Dar'sho, surely it was impossible for one of the rivaling skooma dealers to try and eliminate the competition by sending an assassin to kill him in his own home. Just seconds after arriving home one evening as S'kil leaned in to greet his lover with a nuzzle and waving hello at his daughter from across the room, taking in the smell of the wood smoke from the fire place and the smell of freshly cooked food... Lalana's eyes grew wide from a sight she saw from behind him. She threw S'kil aside, inadvertently taking a dagger in the chest with the assailant driving all of his weight behind it mid-leap. Even the assailant seemed shocked by the turn of events, shocked enough to remain frozen long enough for S'kil to process what was happening - his lover on the floor, bleeding out... he was overcome with rage.

With an agonized, ear-splitting scream he lunged at the cat who hurt his wife while drawing a knife from his belt. He grabbed their dagger-wielding paw with his free hand, and used his weight to pin the assailant's shoulders to the ground with his knees.

The assailant struggled as he yelled out loud, "Dark moons take you! You skooma vardariit-"

Nothing was stopping him from plunging his knife into their face. Then again and again, over and over...

Dar'sho was close enough to hear the commotion and sprinted his way to their front door, unable to even get a word out seeing before him the grisly horror of the scene which left him speechless. One khajiit undoubtedly dead, face unrecognizable amidst the gore, and Lalana being cradled in S'kil's arms who was rocking back and forth, trying to talk to her lifeless body through his tears. Their daughter was sobbing into her mother's belly. The family needed to mourn, and as much Dar'sho wanted to mourn too, he felt a responsibility to them to help take care of things while they were vulnerable. He immediately started looking through the pockets of the assailant's body.

"Dar'sho..." S'kil weakly said, "what are you..."

Dar'sho said nothing, but apparently found what he was looking for in the form of a crumpled up note. He quickly read it, his fur becoming increasingly bristled and tail increasingly anxious. He balled the the piece of parchment and threw it into the fireplace, the room glowing brighter for a moment as it lit up like kindling.

"It's Jo'Zhar." Dar'sho growled. "He knows it was us."

S'kil shook his head in shame and pressed his head against his wife's.

"We have to take care of this now, S'kil, before it gets any worse."

"Papa..." Datta whimpered. "What did he mean by skooma...?"

By that point, the sounds of footfalls from neighboring houses and from the clan's residence started storming closer, people calling to each other, asking questions like, "what was that?" S'kil shook his head and looked at his daughter, saying, "I'll explain later."

Datta stared solemnly, long and hard as her mother, as she mumbled, "It's always later..."

The words stung S'kil's heart and he frowned, then looked to Dar'sho with a crestfallen glance. "Go. I'll meet with you."

He nodded and fled the scene as S'kil's neighbors and clan fell upon his home, gasping in shock and mourning with him. Datta would stay with the clan that night, and the Clan-Mother would prep the body for safe passage to the Sands Behind the Stars. Tonight, S'kil would not find sleep, but instead Dar'Sho, who waited for him at the docks where they would begin their search for Jo'Zhar. Though his former hiding place still remained abandoned, they turned to the sugar-tooths on the street for information. It didn't take long, since many of these cats S'kil knew as his buyers, and he always kept himself composed - not tonight. He wasn't hiding a single ounce of his emotions. When he demanded to know the location of one of the former dealers in Senchal - the one who got hit hard by a rival - it didn't take long for them to understand what was happening and they knew better than to stand in the middle of it. They directed S'kil straight to Jo'Zhar, where he sat in a storehouse on the far western end of the outskirts of Senchal. S'kil didn't waste any time in trying to make an example of Jo'Zhar or making him suffer. He just made sure he saw him coming before he put him down like an animal. An arrow through the neck - fwp! His body dropped to the ground. They dragged the body out into the jungle to let the wildlife take care of what was left.

They returned in time for sunrise, exhausted from a night's lack of sleep and the emotional toll the day prior had on them. They did however return in time to prepare for the passing ceremony. Between Lalana's family and the Baandari clan, they afforded enough money to invest in carving out a place in a cave for her to rest instead of a simple burial cairn. Once placed in the cave, they buried Lalana's body in a collection of stones, the first ones to be layed were by her husband and child, then followed by her family. The members of the Baandari clan filled in the rest. It was a day of mourning for a great many people, for Datta especially, but she did not forget what her father had promised her. She confronted him again, wanting to know why her mother died the previous night. Why did the murderer choose them? Why did they call him a skooma sucker?

"Look into this one's eyes, child." S'kil said. "Do they wane like the moons? Or does your father's body shake and shiver like the sugar-tooths along the streets? Worry not, S'kil is well. Clawless coward was about to die. He sought to insult him."

Datta was quite for a moment, apparently not satisfied with the answer.

"Jer do?" S'kil asked.

"Skooma vardariit." She said. "Papa, what have you been up to? Who is Jo'Zhar? Why did mama have to die?"

S'kil sighed and said, "Jo'Zhar was a dealer in skooma. Dar'sho and S'kil put an end to his business."

"You are no dust-faced guard, papa." Datta replied bitingly. "What business is it of yours to get into matters like that? Why did your family not know of it?"

S'Kil was at a loss for words. No explanation for his daughter - the clever girl that she was, she had him cornered. Apparently she was sharper and more observant than he ever realized. Perhaps he would have known this if only he was with her more often.

"This one was hoping you'd come out with it." Datta continued. "She's seen you with baskets of nightshade, she sees your eyes irritated at the end of the day. Smells the sugar clinging to your fur. You and Datta are Baandari! They trade! This one visits the market and hears from fishermen how you are such a favorite customer of theirs. How much fish you buy. You say you fish them yourself!"

S'kil hung his head low wordlessly.

"This one feared you were trading in skooma, this one hoped she was wrong! Ziss, you're the reason mama is dead."

Those were the last words she spoke to him before she stopped talking to him for the next year. The year wasn't easy. Half the time, it seemed that he did nothing besides allowing himself to waste away. The other half, he looked into the mirror and hated what he saw. He wanted to change, change for the better; change for his daughter, even if she refused to talk to him... he wanted to changed for Lalana - bless her memory. He went out looking for his former labs and stockpiles and destroyed them. He destroyed every leftover trace of his skooma production, even letting Dar'sho know that it was over. His partner was slightly disappointed, but not upset. He thought that perhaps S'kil was right in doing so, for he had already lost so much because of it. The whole year, as short as it was, felt like it had gone oh so slowly for S'kil who had nothing to do as he let his home slowly become dilapidated.

It was a year later, 4E 185, when Datta finally visited him again, accompanied by a Cathay-raht.

"Uncle Dar'sho told this one what you have been up to." She spoke softly. "It can't erase what has happened... but I am proud of you."

S'kil bowed his head and flattened his ears, a remorseful frown taking over his face. He said, "S'kil only wishes that he had the clarity of mind to change himself sooner, so that he could be with his family."

"You might not have been there for Datta," she said, "but at least you can be there for the ma'khajiit."

S'kil looked down to see his daughter holding her tummy - apparently she had taken a page out of his own book when it came to early parenthood! His dejected disposition appeared instantly uplifted for the first time since Lalana's passing, though he remained speechless. He looked at Datta's partner with his ears perked.

"Do'garamba." She introduced as S'kil eagerly reached to shake his hand.

Datta continued, "Mama always told this one stories about you when you were younger. The Baandari, too. A fondness for changing your name, yes?" Datta teased, though the modulation in her voice suggested it was endearing.

"This one was never sure of who he was or was supposed to be." S'kil admitted. "Even now, S'kil wishes to be a different person."

"Please then, allow your daughter to do you the honors..." Datta softly said. "...Dro'kil."

That was it then - a name he has actually earned for the first time. Indeed, Dro'kil was rather young for a grandfather now, but his experiences have so far granted him a great deal of insight and wisdom. It's safe to say that a huge chunk of his life was actually normal after that point. He was there for his grandchild as she grew up, and he got to be there for his daughter as well. He got to know Do'garamba, who happened to be the warrior in his family and had the dream of being the Mane's personal guard - an honorable sort, even if it meant enforcing thjizzrini. It seemed that, for the next eighteen years, his life would resemble any normal citizen and he spent most of his free time hunting in the jungles. He put what he already knew of alchemy into crafting different kinds of elixers, mostly antidotes and antivenin - and learned the craft better in order to make other potions that enhanced his natural abilities that allowed him to hunt better. Nighteye, life detection, potions which helped him steady his aging body as he pulled back his bowstring. He made sure that there was never a night that neither his daughter's family nor none of the Baandari went to bed hungry.

For eighteen years, he finally found the role that suited him. He finally felt comfortable with his identity. Grandfather. Hunter. Baandari. He finally had a sense of who he was as a person.

4E 203 - eighteen years is a long time to watch the world pass you by. While Datta might not have noticed it with being preoccupied with her own son, Saddi, and her role and duties within the Baandari. That which had actually earned her the title of Dra'datta for her excellent wit and wisdom in trade agreements. Now, though, the land of Elsweyr was more tumultuous than ever. The khajiit were allied with the empire in order to leave the Dominion, and the price of such freedom was death. The Mane was issuing drafts, and Dro'kil has seen them escorting people from their homes, which he was fortunately spared from, but his grandson... well, he was not so lucky. "For the greater good," he would hear people say. It angered him. The boy was meant for better things - he was intelligent and cunning, had a fascination for prestidigitation and prophecies and sleight of hand. He wanted to learn how to be a mage! Dro'kil wasn't going to let any crown take that away from him. In confrontation with the local recruiter, they explained it was out of their control and it was up to the fancy cats in Torval to decide.

So then he met with Dar'sho. The old cat was still up to his usual tricks ever since their business dissolved, but they greeted each other like brothers all the same. He shared with him what was troubling him, and Dar'sho seemed to catch on to what he was implying.

"We are going to kill the Mane then, yes?"

Well, seemed to at least. Assassination attempts seemed to be the running joke around here since three years back, despite everyone's respect for the spiritual and cultural significance the Mane represented. Damnable Renrijra Krin Va'Aneqasa.

"No," Dro'kil said, "this one will be there for his grandson. Dro'kil will take his place. Soul for a soul."

"Your old tail?" Dar'sho retorted in disbelief.

"You and this one has cultivated their skills over the course of lifetimes!" He defended indignantly. "They will travel to Torval very soon. When they get there, Dro'kil needs your cleverness to find out who actually wants the Mane dead. Preferably anyone who is close to the crown."

"What is it you intend to do?" He asked.

Dro'kil looked at his partner in crime with a curious, innocuous expression and simply said, "Show why Dro'kil is more valuable to the Mane than unproven children."

The next day, the pair headed out toward Torvald. Not without explaining to the Baandari clan leaders first, of course. What basically entailed rescuing one of their own was enough to receive their approval and loan them the services of two senche (who were promised large piles of food upon their return), so that they could travel through the jungle of Pelletine in decent time. It costed them one or two sleepless nights in the jungle as they stayed awake and alert for any of the vicious predators that lurked behind every bush, but between a rogue, a hunter, and two vicious tigers, there were few things that the four of them couldn't handle.

When they did finally make it to Torval, they were amazed by the number of soldiers and guards stationed within the city. It was little wonder there was a draft if they were both fighting a war and worrying about assassinations within their own state. Dro'kil looked to Dar'sho, and the latter went to work collecting information, assuring his friend that they'd have everything they'd need the next day. Meanwhile, Dro'kil spent his time in an inn's private room with the company of an alchemy set consisting of a morter and pestle, alembic, retort, and calcinator, all working together in order to separate the properties of the alchemical ingredients being distilled. Nightshade, the other ingredient in making skooma was the easiest for him to get his hands on. Antlers, which were carved off one of his kills in the past and he kept as a trophy - he destroyed them and reduced them to powder, mixing it with the nightshade.

Finally, the jarrin root. Rare and hard to come by since it only grew on Stros M'Kai - but for a Baandari in Senchal? There were one or two from his own clan who had a sprig that they were holding on to for a while, and all it takes is a little extra money to compensate for what it takes to get a hold of one. The price didn't matter to Dro'kil. It would be worth every septim.

The end result was basically a pure and undiluted poison.

The next day came sooner than they expected, and both khajiit were quite tired from working throughout the night. They were not as young as they used to be and they could feel it, but they both have been through too much in their lives to let one sleepless night slow them down. They made their preparations: the poison was prepped. They put Dar'sho into some new, fresh clothes befitting of the palace's kitchen staff. Yesterday, he asked about any dissent among the leadership in Torval and he came back with quite a few names who were apparently displeased with the Mane and his ideas, most of whom were northern representatives from Anequina who had a distaste for the seat of power. He investigated their homes and half of the names he was given had written evidence for plots against the crown - correspondence between one another - which constituted as treason.

Ra'ssran. Ra'vada-dro. Dra'vansi. Dro'kil remembered these names. Less important it was for him, perhaps - more importantly it was for Dar'sho to know, but he wanted to know which lives had to pay for the betterment of his own family.

It took the rest of the day for him to get an audience with the Mane. Dar'sho went on ahead to assimilate with the servants inside while spent all day waiting in a long line of people asking for medicine or money or to do something about the law - but Dro'kil was patient. It wasn't until supper time was he able to meet with the court, at which point he was subjected to watch the Mane, all of his servants, trusted advisers, and other khajiiti leaders stuff their faces while he stood there on an empty stomach, but he was nonetheless grateful. It only made their plan easier for them.

"My Mane, this one seeks audience with you," Dro'kil began, "for the purpose of rescinding the draft order on my grandson, Saddi."

"By Alkosh, you look terrible." One cat commented, apparently ignoring his request.

"Dro'kil has spent many sleepless nights travelling from Senchal in order to beseech this of you." Dro'kil explained.

"Then I am afraid you should have spent that time sleeping, instead." The Mane said plainly. "If I agreed to rescind the draft on every person who asked, we would not have enough warriors to fight the Dominion to secure the freedom we khajiit deserve."

Dro'kil sighed. This was nothing he did not anticipate. Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw Dar'sho hanging in the doorway watching them. It looked like it was time to proceed with the plan.

"Then perhaps we can come to an agreement--"

"This is no bargain you can win, Baandari." The Mane interrupted, looking at him knowingly. He tapped the side of his head with finger. Dro'kil was somewhat unsettled by his knowledge, but he regained his composure. The Mane only thought he knew enough about him. The truth was that if he did, then there was no way Dro'kil would even be allowed in this room.

Dro'kil pressed on, his face stoic and serious, "It is a fair trade: a life for a life. A soul for a soul. I will take the place of my grandson."

The whole room seemed to erupt in laughter, and Dro'kil could have sworn he even felt the air around him shift, but he remained still and stern.

"Don't take this the wrong way," the Mane began, "but don't you think we could get more use out of a young khajiit, easily molded and better able, than what we could out of his grandfather?"

"What is a child with sticks and stones compared to a lifetime of experience?" Dro'kil asserted confidently. "This one can be far more useful to you in the coming years than Saddi. Leaders cannot be formed overnight, no?"

"And you have proof that you are as competent as you suggest?"

Dro'kil smiled. Dro'kil rarely ever smiled - and that was the cue for Dar'sho to get ready. He saw from his periphery that he had begun moving.

"That is a most excellent idea, my Mane!" He said. He looked around the room at all the leaders and officials of Torval. "How about we all toast? To the Mane, and to proving Dro'kil worthy of his trust! He shall make a show of it!"

This prompted laughter from the Mane, which seemed to permit laughter from the rest of the court. "You're a mad cat," the Mane said, "but I like you. Very well - a toast then!"

Everyone in the room seemed to be finishing what little remained in their cups, so that - as per the custom - they may give their toast with full cups. Dar'sho came out of the kitchen with a platter in hand with fresh goblets of wine. Very few payed him little mind as he was very particular in which goblet he handed to whom. After he went around and handed out all the fresh cups of wine, he served Dro'kil last - the two averted eye contact - and he returned to the kitchen, his tail twitching in anticipation.

"To the old cat making a fool of himself!" The Mane declared.

"To the fool!" The room repeated in unison.

Everyone in the room took a drink from their cups except for Dro'kil. That was the moment he felt something cold and sharp on his neck, but nothing was there.

Then followed the sounds of three bodies hitting the floor. Ra'ssran, Ra'vada-dro, and Dra'vansi, with foam at their mouths, were dead in mere seconds. The Mane and the dozen other khajiit looked shocked, the personal guard were brandishing their own weapons but were unsure of what to do - the Mane was fine. Most of the people in the room were fine... but the unmoving, calm expression on Dro'kil's face was telling.

"What is the meaning of this?!" The Mane demanded.

Suddenly a knife apparated before Dro'kil, along with the wielder's hand - the veil of an invisibility spell was immediately dropped, revealing a tattooed ohmes woman much shorter than Dro'kil, holding the knife to his throat. Suddenly the the strange cold feeling at his neck and the shifting air around him made sense. She must have been there the entire time! But Dro'kil kept his composure, dropping the goblet of wine onto the floor and slowly raising his hands in the air.

He made sure to speak slowly and calmly while he was at the mercy of the ohmes woman, "Search Dro'kil's pouch. Right hip."

They hesitantly followed his direction as Dro'kil continued, "Dro'kil is proving himself, his Mane. Those renrij were traitors who plotted against you under your nose. Beneath the roof of your own home."

The ohmes whipped out the pieces of parchment from his pouch and began reading through the documents, her wild eyes unchanging and her knife still pressed against Dro'kil. It recorded much of the correspondence between the three khajiit and their plots to betray the Mane with their own handwriting. The ohmes looked up at the Mane unflinchingly and said, "What he says is true."

There were a few moments of silence as the Mane seemed to come to grips with this information, a solemn and mournful air overtaking him before he regained his composure. "At ease. Dro'kil, my apologies to you for not being more hospitable. This is Ra'gajal, my spymaster. Ra'gajal, did you foresee this coming?"

The ohmes took her knife away from Dro'kil and sheathed it, then stood at attention before the Mane. "They were but a few of the suspects I had identified. I did not yet have the evidence to act on my suspicions."

"Tell me Dro'kil," the Mane said, leaning forward in his chair, "how does an outsider such as yourself beat my spymaster to finding the evidence?"

"A fresh new perspective, this one supposes." He humbly lied. The truth was that he dared not let Dar'sho get mixed up in this mess.

"Indeed..." Ra'gajal muttered to herself as she inspected him inquisitively.

"Well, as sad as I am to lose friends this day..." the Man began with a sigh, "I am glad to earn at least one more friend. You have saved my life this day and have proven yourself, so I will agree to your request to rescind the order on your grandson. Saddi, from the Baandari clan in Senchal, yes?"

The Mane motioned for his guards to take care of the three dead bodies within the room, then looked back at Dro'kil. "Your... talents will be useful, yes. Warriors and conscripts are easy to come by, but Agents of the Mane... less so. I shall appoint you to Ra'gajal. She will inform you of your duties and assign you your missions. I will permit you time to return to Senchal and say your goodbyes to your family. When you return, your training will begin."

That was that. Dar'sho had gone on ahead without him - it was best to not be acquainted with this whole operation. Dro'kil would return at least a day after him to give the bittersweet news. Dra'datta was upset that her father would be leaving again, but ever so grateful that her own son would be spared from the horrors of war. She could never thank him enough. After saying goodbye to the rest of the clan, and giving his deepest thanks to Dar'sho for his help, Dro'kil returned to Torval to begin this new chapter of his life.

The first order of business, as far as Ra'gajal was concerned, was to suggest to Dro'kil to change his name if he wanted to protect his family. She of course did no such thing, for she had no family to protect. Dro'kil faced this issue with reluctance at first, but eventually conceded. He had struggled with a fractured identity for so much of his life... what were another few years? From that point on, they agreed to call him Dar'Jzo. Now the training begins.

The next two years was spent as an Agent of the Mane, the spymaster's very own executioner. They honed the skills he already knew and taught him actual techniques to use over what he taught himself, but otherwise he required very little work and turned out to be in better shape than his age indicated. Missions either required him to simply sit and watch a person or location for a certain amount of time, infiltrating a group or building, or taking out of their enemies. It became clear that Dar'Jzo was not the most charming individual, so they learned to keep him on missions where he wasn't supposed to be seen. Those missions he particularly excelled at, and they took him as far as the Summerset Isles to aid the coup in Alinor.

When the Mane was assassinated in 4E 205, everything was not so clear-cut. He was killed by jarrin root, the main component in Dar'Jzo's own concoction. Ra'gajal was never very trusting of Dar'Jzo, always suspecting that there was something more to him the day he approached the Mane than what he let on, but he was on a mission that was nowhere near Torval. As far as she was concerned, Dar'Jzo was the only one she could trust. This was unfortunate for him, because he thought that since the Mane died, that would be his chance at freedom and that he could finally return to his family. But the spymaster was stringent, even more stern than Dar'Jzo was, and possessed unwavering devotion to the throne which seated the Mane. As long as she was alive, she would see that Torval remained protected for the good of Elsweyr. That also meant getting Dar'Jzo involved in the civil war that followed, taking out members on both sides if they posed a great enough threat.

But something has been bothering Ra'gajal lately, and not just the fact that the cause of the Mane's death leads her to suspect that it was imperial treachery, but the movements going around the world. Word reached Elsweyr that the dunmer of Morrowind aligned themselves with Akaviri monsters and moved on Skyrim. She had agents all over Tamriel and half as many within Elsweyr, but she didn't have anyone up north. Khajiits had the bad habit of being turned into cloaks or carpets by the nords after the Stormcloaks took over. All of Elsweyr was vulnerable at the moment, and she didn't want another party taking advantage of that and entering the fray. So she directed Dar'Jzo toward the far end of Tamriel with the logic that his ability to stay hidden in the shadows should protect them from the most unruly of them. There, he'd also be far, far away from his family.

He almost told her no.

Instead, he obeyed. He remembered why he was doing this. If he went back on the oath he swore to the last Mane, then his grandson would be free picking. He couldn't subject him to the kinds of horrors he has seen and the sins he's committed. He was to take a ship that would circle around the west and be destined to dock in Solitude. As much as Dar'Jzo thought boats were bad luck, that was ironically the safest way to get there. There was one perk to it though: the boat was docked in Senchal. Before he'd leave, he'd get to visit his family. Except one thing was missing... Saddi had left the week before to pursue mage training at the College of Winterhold.

The Elder Scrolls: Fruits of Contention - Chapter 2 (Completed)

Wylendriel Greensky

ESO

Wylendriel Greensky

Female Bosmer | 60 | The Lady

Profile

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§ Birthplace

Grahtwood, Valenwood

§ Appearance

Her overall demeanor is as unsuspecting and as humble as she is dressed, in the layered robes bequeathed to her by the temple where she worships her goddess, Kynareth. One critical look at the Bosmer and her identity as a priestess becomes quite apparent. She seems as gentle and dainty a thing as one might suspect, looking doe-eyed around her as though she were at constant risk, and agile like so many of her kind with her lithe frame moving with a sort of disguised grace. She has become fairly fit though a nomadic lifestyle, though weighing in at just 110 lbs. Standing at 5'3", her height seems as any other wood-elven folk, but her stance is a tall one - or at least like she's attempting to make herself seem taller than she really is. The arc in her back supports shoulders weary from hardship. You wouldn't think so to look at her, but she's actually lived through sixty years of life! That's technically pretty short for a Bosmer and is considered to be barely scraping by as an adult.

A heart-shaped face bears a stiff upper lip, but perhaps only if to steady the quivering lip beneath it as she fights to maintain her appearance of discipline. It also bears an upturned button nose which she keeps raised high in the air, but not because of arrogance or nobility, but as though she was trying to hold herself above whatever disgrace that might be dogging her; haunted by old ghosts and seeking to prove herself to be above them. Her long and silky auburn hair is usually braided up haphazardly into a bun, which reveals a youthful - almost wild - face, given the thin jawline and pointed chin, the high cheekbones and wide forehead - but only attractive if a person could bring themselves to look past the the wide Bosmer pupils in her rich brown eyes and the array of sharp teeth that were filed down for tearing through meat.

Her robes are made from hide and thin leather in the middle of layers for durability and protection, with wool stitched over the outside as the outer layer, and treated with wax to protect against the rain. The inside of the robes is all grizzly bear fur warming her skin and absorbing whatever perspiration there may be. These robes adorned with a number of buttons made from polished bone and apparently just as many pouches hanging from a belt made from a thick leather, and with it, a curious trophy of an eagle skull. The robe's tailoring even applies to the hood, making this outfit a very heavy one to be lugging around - good for the regions of Skyrim, High Rock, and Wrothgar, but less so anywhere else south of Bruma. Beneath, she wears tight-fitted, black-colored, wool undergarments that cover her breasts and thighs, but otherwise leaves exposed her midriff and her arms and legs from the shoulders and knees down. Her feet are covered with fur boots and her hands are usually bare, but as a part time alchemist who follows the Green Pact, her hands are stained with all manners of ichors and ingredients, and frequently smell... obnoxiously robust, to be putting it gently. The sight of pointed nails that seem like claws tend to evoke even more anxious energy to bystanders. A leather satchel hangs at her side from a strap going across her chest and over one of her shoulders.

The robes can fortunately be separated from the inside layer of bear fur in case of warmer weather. The hide and wool outside layers function like a shell or windbreaker of the inside. Underneath her garments however, this young elf's sand colored skin is littered with scars. Some small, and others very, very large. If one didn't know better, they would think she had died terribly and was stitched right back up. Gnarly gouging scars in her abdomen, punctures in her legs, slashes over her arms, a smaller one down the side of both her lips, a bite mark on her chest, lashes across her back, and a long slash around her throat. Any attempt at questioning these are met with silence and are typically never answered. So gruesome is this sight, you may not immediately notice the tattoos on her body, markings of the winged herald. Feathered wings stretch out from the center of the back with the tips of its furthest feathers reaching down to her elbows. Smaller wings are placed on her chest by her collarbones, reaching to her shoulders. Feathers rest above both of her eyebrows.

Before she left Dawnstar, she mourned the loss of a friend, the Argonian pakseech, Tzinasha. As a part of honoring his memory, she wears a long quill on her hair: one of his feathers.

§ Personality

Lately, there has been a buildup of disturbing events that have left her emotionally distant and afraid to get close to people. She doesn't want to put anybody at risk out of this acquired fear of accidentally hurting those around her through whatever accident may arise from her compulsions. Yet, there also exists an element of distrust that makes it difficult for her to get close to people. This distrust is not so pervasive in her personality that it breeds conflicts with others, but impedes any progress in the development of a real, meaningful relationship. How this distrust affects her most is how, over the last couple of weeks, she has learned to put her own life in her own hands instead of relying on others. She has great potential for love, platonic or otherwise - she feels those emotions, but she fearfully rejects any oncoming advances and closes her heart to interested parties.

Continuing with this duality theme of withdrawn concern, she, as suggested before, prefers to take measures into her own hands. While some of it may come from a priestess' humility in not wanting to burden others with her own responsibilities, it too comes from that same distrust factor. Unaccountable variables could compromise the outcome, and therefore she would prefer to do it herself and take responsibility for any failure should failure occur. Insisting to her that it does not have to be that way, that she can rely on others sometimes, is a vain effort since her stubbornness blocks off any attempt to appeal to her vulnerability. She is paranoid, stubborn, caught up in her own sense of responsibility, and would just as quickly sit them down by force if they continue to pester her. This hedgehog's dilemma is not an ingrained flaw, but was acquired, and only recently.

This doesn't Wylendriel make callous though. She is still a healer, and the endeavor of which was born out of compassion. O that same note, however, she's not a pushover. Her commanding tone is useful for bedside manner and her timid nature is thrown out the window when her areas of responsibilities (healing, sermon, etc.) is concerned. This dutiful disposition is tempered with motherly care, putting every ounce of effort into making sure her patients have a healthy recovery. She is nonjudgmental of the other races, which even applies to the Nords – she understands that she entered Skyrim during a time of fear and struggle, so she didn't hold their distrust against them. She takes no absurd amount of pride in her elven heritage like the Thalmor do, and instead, she believes that there is something to learn from every culture. Still, she is understandably cautious while approaching nords she hasn't met yet (or any race of men for that matter, considering the Dominion's siege on the rest of Tamriel has left them suspicious of elves), Dominion races (the Dominion wanted her head on a pike), Dunmer (given the recent war and their association with the Kamal) - so perhaps it's safer to say that she's cautious of approaching basically anyone. At least that doesn't count as discrimination, right?

As a Valenwood Bosmer and a daughter of two Spinners, she follows the Green Pact, an ancient agreement between her people and their god, Y'ffre. In accordance with this, she was raised with a strictly meat-based diet and a reverence for plant life. Though the her adherence is watered down by a more cosmopolitan culture in association with the Altmer through the Dominion, so she doesn't follow the controversial traditions such as ritualistic cannibalism, and the utilization of fallen wood, dead plant-life, or non-Valenwood vegetation is still on the table. However, being raised on a particular diet has given her a predilection for avoiding non-animal sourced foods and drink due to a general sense of unease and nausea.

It is not difficult to tell that there is something more beneath the surface, and it cannot be pointed toward any one thing. It is an anger, it is an itch, it is a compulsion, an intrusive thought - a guilty conscience. It is as though a seed of evil was planted in her heart, and with all of her might she tries to reject it, bury it, and kill it; but try as she may, it still burns her inside like a craving and it only grows hungrier with time. The line between her desires and the compulsions of this seed are blurred, only distinguishable by how alien these sensations feel, because - Gods help her, she's a priestess for Kynareth's sake, a healer. All of these little suggestions in her head, ever-so-subtle, is like a feeling of craving that's almost like a lust for violence. It's a need to feel in control, a sort of bestial blood-lust that is so damn insatiable that she just barely feeds into it to just the barest degree so that it does not overwhelm her; barely turning on the bleed valve before the pressure inside her head becomes too much. She knows it's not her, she knows it does not belong there, and she knows exactly where it came from... but fixing it isn't so easy.

With all her years as a healer and priestess under her belt, she thought herself ready for death, but when she first found herself on its door, she was no more at peace than the dying souls she preached to. She beats herself up for it and belittles herself. With all of this inner turmoil, Wylendriel is growing more convinced there is no saving one such as herself. In the end though, she has come to find that there is greater justice to be found in healing as many as she can than in taking the easy way out. After some time and coming to terms with herself, she feels that it would be best to work at bettering herself one step at a time, and that the first step would be to remove the daedra's influence once and for all - which in itself is a monumental task, but prays that the mercy of the Nine Divines would be such that they would cleanse her spirit. The last few shreds of her faith clings to this desperate gambit; the deciding act that would finally determine her fate.

§ Background

Prologue

Wylendriel was born in Valenwood, to a respected mother and father that devoted their lives to Y'ffre in Elder Root, Grahtwood. They especially had taken to the Green Pact and were loyally faithful to the religion as Spinners, its enforcers. So much, in fact, their first born daughter, named Wylendriel, was conditioned to follow the Green Pact out the womb and would be raised with the intentions of making her a priestess as well - a Spinner. For the earliest years, the young and impressionable Bosmer lass adhered to family tradition, studying her people's history and following each and every rule obediently - there was nothing else, only Y'ffre - and was on the road to receiving the same kind of respect her parents had in her society. It went this way for a couple years, learning more and more about Valenwood, it's friends and enemies, healing; and all the while, the Aldmeri Dominion, formed a couple hundred years before she was even born, assumed a larger presence inside Valenwood. As she learned more about her allies, she learned more about their culture and about the Dominion's enemies, she discovered something about the Imperial Empire: their Nine Divines. They had a parallel to Y'ffre through Kynareth, except that she seemed to exemplify the beauty and force of nature. Wylendriel's family did not expect her to discover Kynareth in the world around her.

She didn't replace Y'ffre, no. Rather, the goddess only added to the enrichment of Wy's world. If Y'ffre was the father, the state of existing, of only being - Kynareth was the mother, its force, it's passion, beauty and danger, she breathed the soul into life and made it beautiful. Life was essential, yes, but it was simply existing - what would life be were it not the soul and beauty that made life worthwhile? Kynareth was nature. This self-found philosophy touched Wylendriel so profoundly that she chose to educate herself how she could in order to follow in the footsteps of her newfound Lady. Such material was hard to come by in Valenwood, so her knowledge was only rudimentary, and her family never quite looked at her the same after it - but as long as she didn't forsake the Green Pact, they figured there was nothing wrong with it. She looked happy! She was interested in helping others. They still intended on keeping her faith a secret from the Thalmor of the Dominion. Who knows what they might think of it?

All that the Altmer and the Aldmeri Dominion had brought to Valenwood were not so great, though. They brought also strife to a few, select Bosmer communities. Rumors of purges spread across Valenwood, of isolated executions by the hands of Altmer inquisitors in the north. Word had it that the victims were deserving of such a fate. They were "unworthy savages, not befitting to be part of this grand alliance of Mer." Not many questioned it, they had this idea that their "close bond" with the Altmer was far too valuable to forsake. Wylendriel's family would of course be spared, being far too valuable and important to Bosmer society. It was not unheard of that some Bosmer took the Green Pact to extremes, and it was no wonder that the Altmer thought they were a barbaric people. While Wylendriel followed a watered-down version of it, where she and others rejected cannibalism, the purists hunted their enemies and consumed their flesh. It was a revolting thought in her mind, though despite that, there was still the sense of racial kinship. Then you have the ones supporting Imperial occupation, which would no doubt prove them as traitors. It was depressing to hear of the Altmer killing them, but she followed two deities of nature, and death and rebirth was a part of the cycle of nature. All she felt she could do was pray for them in honor of perpetuating that cycle.

The years had gone on and Wylendriel was growing into a full-fledged woman, and she and some others of her community has remained fairly ignorant of the events occurring in the outside world. She practiced her skills of restoration magic to heal wounded hunters after their return from the forest, and using conventional medicine to follow after, or if the wounds were small. As her reputation grew, she found herself healing soldiers doing only-Gods-know-what, but it wasn't her place to ask or to judge. While she had taken a path of faith that had warranted some disappointment from her family, she gained value in the eyes of some few Altmer agents of the Dominion. They took notice of not just her intense devotion, but her skills as a healer. Offered ever so diplomatically to enlist with the Dominion as a field medic, Wylendriel felt obligated to decline for she was no warrior. They saw it as a reasonable defense, though she was curious about the influx of Aldmeri soldiers coming their way. Had they been at war all along? Though they found her naivety cute, all they said to her was that it was nothing to worry about. Just some few skirmishes with the human empire up north. They let her be without further harassment on that note, but continued to send Altmer infantry to her in Valenwood if they were near enough. She came to be idolized as a highly regarded citizen in her community, endeared for her compassion and healing ability.

She found it cute. Rarely was one found without the other.

Though ignorant of world events she may have been, the news of conflict that broke out in northern Valenwood spread like wildfire. Separatist dissenters lashed out against the Aldmeri Dominion, and with the help of the Empire, drove them south. Dominion presence became more prevalent in the south and were organizing to make counter-attacks against the separatists and the Imperial Empire that backed them. The outside world's trouble have broken in, and truth of the Dominion's deeds had gotten clearer. The rumors of executions of the Bosmeri people were more than just rumors, and they weren't just isolated incidents. The purges were more like a systematic slaughter. Indeed, they saw the Bosmer as little more than barbarians. Though elven, they were still more like second class citizens than trusted allies. When a close friend of Wylendriel was ruthlessly murdered, only because they found her on her haunches and leaning over a bloody rabbit - for simply eating - she saw these purges for what it really was: cultural cleansing. They were the judge, jury, and executioner of any that the Altmer thought weren't good or "civilized" enough to be their underlings.

It was at the turn of her adulthood when Wylendriel defamed the Aldmeri Dominion, and sure enough, it wasn't a popular opinion. She was branded as a traitor, and before she could turn to flee Valenwood, she was briefly stopped by her family. They parted ways with a hug and a kiss, proud of their daughter's courage, and with a gift in the form of an eagle's skull. It was the acknowledgement and acceptance of her faith in Kynareth. What could have been more symbolic of the nature goddess of the wind than that? She escaped shortly after to the far corners of Tamriel attempting to evade the Dominion with war waging around her as she went. Whether it was by foot or by caravan, she eventually found herself in the wilds of southern Skyrim by the end of the year. She was found by a Markarth patrol in the Reach, and they reigned her in for questioning – mostly to her potential ties to the Dominion. She managed to convince them that she was no friend of the Thalmor, but they were still suspicious of the elf passing through. Still fearful of the Dominion's discovery of her, Wylendriel fled once again as soon as she was fed and rested towards the east, where the Nords of Eastmarch were notorious for their particular disdain of elven kind. This didn't worry her though; whatever vulgarity or mud they wanted to sling her way would be nothing compared to the punishment the Thalmor would deliver unto her.

She payed the carriage a hearty sum to take her to the other side of Skyrim, and instead she landed in front of Whiterun. They learned that the road ahead was blockaded by bandits and the man refused to go further. So she remained in central Skyrim. From the beginning, things were hard, but it was though the goddess herself was watching over her - she found her place in a Temple of Kyne, much to her fortune, in front of the Gildergreen. Here, her restoration magic and medicinal skills were highly valued. Her safety was assured here, behind tall walls and Skyrim's staunch stance against the Aldmeri Dominion. Also being a servant of the goddess, she could find respite from the Dominion under the Jarl's protection. When she first arrived at the temple, she stood at the door in ragged furs and hide, nearly destroyed by the long trip across Tamriel. She nearly looked like a beggar! But her devotion was unquestionable. They took her in and made her sturdy, warm, and reliable robes that reflected her Green Pact, but was befitting of a priestess. They reminded her of home.

The path ahead presented far more difficulties than she had anticipated. Cultural roadblocks, miscommunication, and just a general misunderstanding of how nord society even functioned. It proved difficult to gain the trust of the local nords, but her devotion to the goddess Kynareth was almost tangible and she treated every visitor with the utmost respect and humility. She poured everything she had into every restoration spell and genuinely cared about her patients. Such diligence guaranteed her respect from even Skyrim's most stubborn nords. It was heartwarming to find a place where she belonged. During her stay at the Temple of Kyne, the priestesses that already lived there taught her everything there was to know about Kynareth. Wy's rudimentary understanding was greatly expanded upon and she was taught practices that seemed totally unnecessary back home. For instance, it was tradition to learn how to summon a familiar, a guardian of nature, to perhaps protect or lead the way. The familiar would, in one way or another, guide the caster along their path. In addition, human priesthood expanded their services beyond just healing. She was expected to learn how to repel and banish the undead and daedric forces that threatened Nirn. They helped to bolster her powers of Restoration magic, and gave her a basic understanding of Conjuration. After getting over the initial learning curve, conjuring familiars came easily, but banishment is where she really struggled with. Turns out she has a much harder time with making things go away than she does with making things stay.

It wasn't before long that she decided to go on a pilgrimage to visit the Eldergleam. On the 26th of Mid Year, she hired mercenaries. They were nords from Eastmarch, and their job was to escort her on her hike eastward and protect her from the likes of bandits, and honestly, it was also a precaution to increase her chance of survival should a dragon find her (assuming that there was still one in hiding that the last Dragonbon had not yet slain). She left with her temple's blessing and set out on the long road ahead.

But all went south once on the 30th once they circled around the mountain, High Hrothgar. In the middle of nowhere, miles from any sign of civilization, Wylendriel was struck by betrayal. The very men she payed to protect her turned around and jumped her, before dragging her off to some remote location at a ruined site where she was thrown onto a stone slab. She was mugged, beaten, stolen from, and... Gods, violated. They passed her around like a toy, taking turns, laughing! They told her, every time they beat her... stabbed her... lashed her, and bit her - they told her that she had this coming. This was she got for being an elf. When they were finally finished with her, when she finally thought they would leave her be and let her wallow in her suffering, one of them slid their knife across her throat. She was spat on and left for dead, Wylendriel was spending her final moments bleeding out, gurgling and drowning in her own blood and unable to breath, laying there and clutching her throat. She spent her last moments fearful and in tears and in silent prayer. First to her lady Kynareth, but she was silent. Thoughts of the circle of life intruded into her mind, the lessons of the temple - but she couldn't let go feeling so betrayed – it was too unfair. As she felt her life slipping away, she prayed to any of the Divines asking for mercy and a second chance. Her prayers went unheard, and with her consciousness on the verge of slipping, she made a final cry for mercy to anything that would listen.

A gutteral, malevolent voice filled her mind. "I can save your life," it offered, "if just for now, and if you would pledge your soul to me..."

Blinded by desperation, she accepted the offer. Her vision went black and she remembered nothing between then and when she finally awoke in the small village of Ivarstead three days later.

When she awoke on the 3rd of Sun's Height, she was seemingly in complete recovery, though covered in gruesome looking scars strewn across her body. As fortune would have it, a hunter found her unconscious far off in the middle of nowhere, but said he found her unharmed. If he didn't know better, it looked as though she lied down and took a nap... were her clothes not torn in several places, mostly over her chest and around her waist. They were folded next to her with a needle and some thread for her to fix her torn clothing – apparently whoever took her in didn't have any confidence in patching it. Physically, she felt fine save for a gross feeling pit in the center of her chest. It felt empty. She felt violated. As she recalled back to the last thing she could remember, the horrifying scenes of her abusers wracked her mind. The mere memory was torture and she felt sick to her stomach, and no longer felt at home inside her own skin - as her memory returned, so did the same malevolent voice. What happened? What had she just done?

Painful headaches wracked her head. Ear-splitting droning sounds, a cacophony of whispers, all trying to talk over one another, but nothing was getting through - all of it - it was too much! An onslaught of sensory overload hammered against the inside of her head as she felt tears well up her eyes over the stress of everything in the last couple of hours - what had to have been hours - the sounds, the screeching, the incoherent chaos - it fell silent. She took deep, heavy breathes as she looked around the room feeling traumatized.

"What... what in Oblivion was tha--" The piercing frequency came out louder than before and was accompanied by what had to have been a thousand red images in rapid succession, "--AAAAAHHH! Gah! Ha... ha! What... What is--"

A thousand more images, barely decipherable, and she was clutching her head and squeezing her eyes shut as the chaos unraveled itself in her head. A man burst through the door of the cabin she was in, a fretful looking man, alarmed by Wylendriel's screaming, found her in this position with tears silently rolling down her cheeks. Among these images, she was able to discern the bloodied maw of a laughing daedric face and the realization of what she has done finally hit her. The blasphemy of her actions stabbed sharper into her chest than any weapon her betrayers used.

"What happened?" Asked the panicked man. She couldn't see what he looked like, she was just wanting to make everything stop.

"This... this migraine..." She told him in weeping. "Make it stop..."

"You look like you've gone through Oblivion and back," he commented, "what's with all of your scars, what happened to you?"

Another thousand images played in her head, but they played slightly slower, almost like a recording of what happened to her. Her mind's eye stretched over Skyrim through red-colored spectacles, and found herself watching her own abuse from a bird's eye view. Over... and over again... she felt the rage and fury build up inside of her, this hatred. The images shot across Skyrim to the northeastern region of Eastmarch and into a cabin, where she got a close up view of her betrayers, their ugly mugs, laughing and drinking... Gods, this unnatural hatred that she did not understand, but at the same time... wasn't it natural? Wasn't it natural to hate the people who did this to hurt, the people who violated her as she watched over and over again... to crave their pitiful! Bloody! Murder--

No... no, no, no! No! This! Wasn't! Normal! Why is she thinking this? Why is she wanting and craving this?!

As she watched these images, as fast and as abrupt as they were, stalled for just a second on the slab she was layed on. Beneath the dust, she could barely trace out the faint imprints of daedric runes. One last image of herself being hurled into the mouth of a massive daedric beast before it stopped - an endless void of inky blackness, and a single whisper slowly echoed through her ears: "I own you."

Suddenly, everything stopped liked she was hoping it would. The stranger's voice was barely able to break through and Wylendriel was barely able to understand the flashes of images behind her eyes at face value, but something inside her gave this intuitive understanding of what was happening to her. The daedric face she was seeing had imprinted on her, and for some reason, recognizable. It's name was clear, and it wanted her to know what exactly that was. Molag Bal. Prince of Domination. Of Schemes.

"Ma'am? Can you hear me?" The stranger asked. "Where did you get your scars?"

The thought of her betrayers sprung back to mind. The sheer anger that she felt at just the image of their faces made her hands shake.

"Ask about my scars again, and I'll show you exactly how I got them." Wylendriels said without thinking. She paused and reeled for a moment. "That did not just happen..." she muttered to herself. The words had just fallen out of her mouth, there wasn't any hesitation, they just - they just...

"Shor's bones, fine!" The stranger retorted. "I won't pry any further, but I was just trying to help, damn it!"

Wylendriel speechlessly watched him march out of the cabin. She knew this wasn't good, but emphatically, for some reason, could not bring herself to care. What she was an image of the people who hurt her, and as far as she felt concerned, Molag Bal offered her a chance for revenge and she planned on taking him up on that offer. Stitching her robes back together the best she could (making it more of a patch job, she wasn't concerned with prettiness), and set out on the open road with nothing but the clothes on her back. Only resting when her knees felt like buckling marching across Eastmarch, finding raw food on the way - utilizing aspects of of Restoration magic she never dared to use before by sapping the vitality of animals and leaving their husks behind. It nearly took a whole week to reach the place that her visions scarred her mind with, but she eventually found the riverside shack in Eastmarch.

Staring it down, the same house from the images that flickered in her head, seemed to trigger flashes of individual images, almost like a magical flow, but something more sinister like a daedric energy. They made her aware of something that was apparently there from the moment she awoken in Ivarstead. Whatever it was she knew of Conjuration magic, it felt expanded upon. A sort of intuitive knowledge, but it didn't quite belong in her brain. She knew what it meant to take magicka and use it to summon a familiar. The sort of direction in which to swing it. The intuitive knowledge that Molag Bal had imparted unto her only concerned itself from where she could draw her power from. There was no plan of action. Calling upon this Conjuration magic, an ethereal daedric mace rippled into existence into her hand before she kicked open the door, surprising the three nords inside - and they looked at her in horror when recognition of her face set in.

Wylendriel roared at them in unbridled rage, fueling the hatred and blood lust that had seeped into her heart. "Did you think you could betray me?!"

Two of them scrambled for their weapons, but one of them was too surprised and confused as to how the Bosmer bitch was still alive, so much that he did not expect the wild aggression the Kynareth priestess exhibited as she lunged towards him and grabbed him by the throat with one hand with crushing force, her sharp nails sinking into his throat. A green aura surrounded her hand that sapped away the nord's energy. His arms fell weakly at his sides. The second and third nord came rushing towards her with axe and sword in hand. In her berserk, she ripped out the first nord's esophagus to be flung at one of their faces and swung the mace with all of her unrestrained might, knocking the second bearded attacker onto the ground with a crack of his sternum and another swift swing knocked away the third who was stunned by the bloody piece of flesh she threw at him - destroying his spine through the fur armor. Wylendriel contently watched them both squirm on the floor, savoring this moment while it lasted.

"I own you." She growled.

She turned to the bearded nord, squirming and scrambling to get away. She dropped onto her knees over his body with one palm firmly planted on his chest. It glowed a sickly green and steadily drained away the man's stamina, fueling repeated rage-filled swings of the spectral mace into the nord's head until virtually nothing was left but shards of bone and liquefied gore. She was unable to feel it at this moment, but muscles in her shoulder were tearing with each swing, unable to hold themselves together with all the force she was forcing herself to exert. The third, crippled nord was later met the same fate.

When the last deed was done, the energy and the bloodlust that she felt coursing through her body dissipated until her body felt pained and weary. The mace evaporated into the air, and she weakly fell to her knees. Her conscience was now clear, and she looked around at the scene that surrounded her. Three utterly obliterated men, now unidentifiable, their blood seeping into floorboards - the scenes kept replaying inside her traumatized head. The emotions. Rage and blood lust. Their faces - splitting, with each and every crack... crack! Crack! Crunch! She - she... these unspeakable acts of, just... violence - committed by her own hand - they betrayed her! They were supposed to deserve this! Yet - her memories fell back to home, both in Valenwood and to her place in the Temple of Kyne. Recalling everything they had known then, and her values - even the Green Pact said not to kill wastefully. It all came rushing back to her, and all of the justification she thought she had melted away. What she had done here was indisputably evil, and here she was... almost... enjoying it. She broke down into sobs, all the while hugging her arms in trying to bear the agony they were under. It took a long time to bring herself to move, but she eventually mustered herself the will to use Restoration magic on herself. She felt the muscles sort of stitch themselves back together, and she would be okay - at least physically - but the the phantom pains will remain for a little while longer.

The moment she could bring herself to her feet, she ran. She fled from the scene, from the cabin, as fast as she could - as far south as her legs could carry her. Until finally, she fell down exhausted in the middle of Eastmarch. After their deaths, Molag Bal's corruption seemed to have disappeared from her mind. The images hadn't returned, but she still feared the possibility of hearing his voice again like from the time he offered to "save" her life. She prayed and prayed as her tears soaked the ground, but the Divines were deathly silent. They'd forsaken her. She had to do something about this. She had to do something other than run - she had to make a pledge to herself to reject the daedric prince. She'd prove it through a pilgrimage around Tamriel. She had to pray to each of the Nine Divines at their shrines, then maybe she could cleanse herself of this evil... but a sinking feeling told her that she would have to do a lot more than just simply pray to earn their forgiveness. In spite of her doubts, she knew from her studies that there was a shrine to Akatosh here in Eastmarch, and it should have been nearby. But weak from the journey, she just found the nearest bush and fell fast asleep.

When she awoke the next day on the 11th, it took some looking around. When she found Akatosh's shrine, she spent an entire day devoted to prayer in front of the dragon god's shrine. Even after an entire day of prayer, she heard nothing. Found nothing, just silence. She had to be persistent. Word had it that Fort Amol held a shrine of Julianos, which wasn't far from here – it was still in Eastmarch. When she arrived at the fort on the 12th, it was bristling with activity, filled with nervous and suspicious nords. They questioned her immediately, brandishing weapons, and she quickly explained herself while withholding some of the truth: she was on pilgrimage. They allowed her to stay for just that one day only because she was on pilgrimage, but warned her not to head to Windhelm to pray at Arkay's shrine. That was when she learned the city was completely overrun and taken over by an Akaviri army. This was the reason for the crowded occupancy of Fort Amol.

“Please,” Wylendriel pleaded, “let me help you. Show me your wounded.”

“There aren't many to show you.” One of the soldiers replied. It wasn't as much a blessing as the soldier made it sound – the battle was catastrophic. Those who participated were lucky to escape with wounds. Most of them died. Those “lucky” few could only manage to escape at the cost of missing limbs. With what few there were to take care of, the medics had already attended to them. But they did manage to do one more thing for Wylendriel after her unanswered prayer to Julianos: they pointed her to a direction. To the west was a shrine of Dibella inside this old abandoned fort, but was likely overridden with bandits or occult practitioners. Necromancy and the like. Wylendriel was hesitant to pursue this shrine, fearful of not just the risk of going, but because there was also no telling what this damned curse might do to her. She asked for a different shrine.

“Well, to the northwest are a couple shrines to mighty Talos, just hugging the base of High Hrothgar. The closest one is actually where you follow the river north, then keep going north after it forks off.” They suggested. Then he narrowed his eyes at the Bosmer. “But last I checked, you knife-ears didn't like him very much. Damn near outlawed Talos worship a couple years back – I fought that war.”

“That was the Thalmor.” Wylendriel insisted. “I may not have prayed to Talos before, but I promise you that I will get to know him.”

After Wylendriel rested up and replenished her supplies, and set north for Talos' shrine, making sure to follow the river. Though a rather wet journey, she was greeted that day by the gorgeous sight of a weathered statue overlooking a pond. There she found another person in prayer. When she greeted him, he was alarmed and reeled back in terror. His face revealed pain with red eyes and a puffy faces. He was a man whose tears had run dry.

“What happened?” She asked.

“My wife,” the nord sobbed, “my home! Windhelm, ransacked. The akaviri... I... I've never seen anything like... like--”

The stranger took a deep breath to compose himself. Wylendriel's heart swelled with pain and fear. She had no idea what it meant when they spoke of the akaviri. An entire city was seized. By men or creatures she heard of only just yesterday by name. An alien force of unknown strength – chills ran up Wylendriel's spine as she looked over her shoulder expecting a monster, but found nothing there. When she looked at the man sitting on the ground, in the most humiliated and humble state possible, wracked with pain, she could help but feel tears well in her own eyes. He had something precious taken from him, and that was all it took for her to form an attachment with this stranger's kindred spirit.

“I'm just trying to make sense of it all.” The nord continued. “I want to know what Talos would do. What he'd have me do.”

Wylendriel sat beside the miserable widower, placed a soft hand over his own. “What's your name?” She asked.

“Torvald...” He answered.

“Wylendriel.” She whispered to him. “Let me pray with you, Torvald.” Torvald said nothing, but she felt his fingers wrap tightly around hers, occasionally quivering. The two sat in silence for what must've been hours, and she prayed and prayed – not just for forgiveness and not just in pledge to a god who, honestly, she did not even know, but also on Torvald's behalf. She prayed for his safety, his heart, and his fulfillment. She also prayed not for answers and direction, but for understanding, so that she could know who Talos was – she felt a guilty conscious for having ignorantly supported the Aldmeri Dominion and Thalmor. She wanted to seek peace with Talos on behalf of elven-kind. Her thoughts returned to home and those she left behind, wondering if they were safe or if any more of her friends or family would see themselves be victim to one of the Altmer's purges. A sudden chill breeze blew against her neck, prompting her eyes open. The sun had begun to set, casting a pink canopy across the sky. Her years of interpreting the signs of the divines instinctively led her to an epiphany, and read the situation as though the voice of an emperor was speaking to her:

“I am all that makes Skyrim; it's bite and it's boldness – but also it's beauty and it's glory. We are of blood spilled, but strength provided, we reward in bounty. Visit the North star at the break of dawn, then retrace your steps.”

Warmth filled her chest and she looked to Torvald beside her with a smile, his eyes still shut. There was a riddle to be solved. She was about to stand and help him to his feet, to help guide him along his way.

Her body suddenly seized. Her blood began boiling. Pain was stabbing her from behind her eyes. Her hand clenched around Torvald's -- he was shouting in pain!

'N-no... no! No, no!' Wylendriel thought desperately as squeezed her eyes as tightly she could. 'Gods, no, please! Save me!'

Dozens more of gruesome, haunting images burned her mind as they flickered through with hundreds of angry whispers in the background, but there was a difference this time. When before they sounded mindless and were whispering over one another, these were unified and had one clear message: punish.

Her emotions began flaring and became more intense with each passing second. She felt furious, but also powerful, tantalized, excited - but for what? She felt a growing hunger develop in the pit of her stomach as one suggestion after another inserted itself into her mind. For a moment, she managed hold down the urges and thoughts as her own emotions kept them at bay. They had arisen as soon as she realized what she was being made to do, and horror had begun to envelop her.

"Please... don't..." Wylendriel muttered to herself, struggling to keep herself from enjoying this moment as the corners of her mouth began twitching. “I don't want this.”

Torvald, too, in his fear and confusion, found tears welling in his eyes. “W-what are you doing? Wylendriel? Please... get off me!”

More images began rushing to her, the same blood-red sort of haze as they gave her rapid, broken up glimpses of Skyrim. Suddenly she saw herself. Walking, almost zombie-like, covered in blood. The gap across her throat was slowly closing itself. She fell limply onto the ground. Another image, almost as if it rewinded, and then more - she mindlessly picked something up while she was at the sight. A stone. The last few images that flickered into her head and revealed to her that it was a fragmented piece of the slab she was thrown upon, and on it was a daedric sigil. Then suddenly, there was darkness.

A slow laughter filled every crevice of her mind and felt to stretch on for years, until finally, after a long pause, she could hear Molag Bal's voice clear as day.

"Enjoy the meal."

Wylendriel felt her muscles jerk as every urge and every emotion she tried so hard to suppress came rushing back and overwhelmed her. This time, she was overcome by an animalistic frenzy, and she felt with her a presence infinitely more evil. She felt feelings inside her that she knew did not belong to her, but to something else that co-resided with her. Regardless of whatever it was she was feeling at the time, the priestess' cannibalized Torvald alive with a sense of euphoria. Her poor friend's screams and sobs cut the air. It, and the sound of wet gnashing of flesh and the tearing rips of muscle and skin were the most horrific band of instruments she'd ever heard, and for some reason, just made it more reason to love what was happening.

When Torvald's last scream finally cut short, her eyes stared into his as his eyes slowly fell back and the light vanished. The energy she felt coursing through her body vanished as well, just as quickly as it came. Everything that she knew to be normal came back, and what flesh that still resided in her mouth fell out as her jaw dropped in horror. Her gut wrenched and she threw her head to the side to let bile come pouring out. With each gag and each convulsion, her stomach removed the last drop of fluid in her stomach that it could until she was dry-hurling into the river. Gasping for breath, she took a long look at Torvald, lying lifeless on the ground with a gaping hole in his neck with streams of blood trickling down into the river. With tears streaming down her face, she went scrambling to rip open her robes and search every damned pocket to find the stone she saw in her visions. When she finally did, she pulled it out and threw it as hard as could with a scream and set herself off balance. She fell to her knees layed her head on the ground until sobs turned into whimpers.

'Kynareth, what have I done?'

She jumped down into the water to wash the blood off of her face. When she climbed back up the rocks, she stared at Torvald a couple minutes, her face just as red and puffy and tears ran dry as Torvald when she first found him. She dragged his eyelids shut with her fingers, and prayed for his spirit to cross safely into Sovngarde. Among her sorrows, being wracked with devastation at the loss of a new friend and a newfound crippling fear of the daedric prince and whatever curse he might have placed on her, what plagued her most was the sense of betrayal that Torvald must've felt in his last moments by her own hand. She knew what that betrayal was like. She felt she had to find solace in that he was lucky to remain dead. She had to find solace in blaming Molag Bal for this. She had to convince herself that this wasn't her fault, no matter how much it hurt. Wylendriel moved his body in front of Talos' statue and set a hand on his head – already cold – and her other hand grasping the eagle skull hanging from her belt. Closing her eyes, throat swollen in her mourning, she focused all of her restoration magic on him as she began reciting Arkay's rites of consecration. His spirit deserved to rest in peace and reunite with his lost love.

As she finished the final verses, she closed her eyes and sighed deeply. Leaning down to gently kiss Torvald's forehead, she quickly muttered under her breath, “rest easy in Sovngarde, my friend...”

Later that night she turned west back towards the river, with her mind replaying the thoughts that played in her head. North star. Break of dawn. Retrace your steps. The only problem with this is that sunlight sheds the sky of its stars. Unless there was something she can only see in daylight, or if it referred to something else. Was it Dawnstar? It's along the northern coast, about another two days of travel! Sighing in resignation, she started setting up camp. She was treading unfamiliar ground in the middle of the night, and hasn't had any rest yet. For the next couple of days it followed this pattern. Ducking under branches, climbing over boulders, and treading through water. She knew that this was the river she followed at the start of her journey, but she think she was on the other side of it on her way there. This was a different angle and not as familiar.

Her mind fell back to the Eldergleam. Such a simple journey had gone so awry. She could've gone, could've finished it. She didn't want to desecrate such a holy place with her presence. Maybe once she was purified, she'll go back and try again - but not now. The sixth night, of travel, Wylendriel was exhausted. She swore that perhaps she had missed a turn somewhere. Did she miss civilization? Was it just around a tree that she didn't bother to look past? She was about to give up hope until torchlight shone some distance away, just north of a bunch of other flickering lights. She instantly recognized it. This was Whiterun Hold! That was Whitewatch Tower! Another twenty minutes straight of running on her weary, pained legs was dulled slightly at the sight of a familiar landmark, and as she inched closer, even the guards at the tower seems to have taken an interest.

“Who goes there?” One called out, waving their torch in front of them. As Wylendriel got closer, unable to answer through her panting, the light lit up her face. “Shor's bones – priestess! Where have you been! You've been missing for weeks!”

“Commander Sinmir!” Wylendriel exclaimed between breaths.

“Is that Wylendriel?” Another asked.

“It's... it's a long story...” Wylendriel answered. “But my journey has turned into pilgrimage... would you mind if I rest here?”

“Uh, of course priestess,” Sinmir replied, “but wouldn't you much rather resting inside the city where it's comfortable?”

She just laugh slightly in response, but it sounded hollow and fake in the face of what she has had to suffer through lately. “I'm afraid I don't feel up to spending all night explaining myself to the whole city...”

“Are you okay?”

“I will heal.” Wylendriel answered softly. “In time...”

That night, before she slept, she prayed a silent, unanswered prayer to the daedric prince - to allow her to finish her pilgrimage. She suggested it would present the lord with an opportunity not often seen: an opportunity to battle and dominate a Divine. While Wylendriel has great faith that the divines could easily purge the daedra and recover her soul, Molag Bal has so far remained silent and seems to be permitting her pilgrimage, indicating that she might have appealed to his arrogance and lust for power...

The next morning, she met with the townsfolk of Whiterun, shocked by the poor condition Wylendriel returned in - and her scars! Wylendriel kept the truth a secret, only telling that the men she hired had betrayed her. She told them that it was the kindness of Ivarstead that nursed her back to health, and here she was! She lied and said that she was motivated by her trip to the Eldergleam to make a full pilgrimage to communicate with the rest of the Nine Divines. She couldn't possibly allow them to know the truth. There wouldn't be any saving her. The rest of that day was spent preening herself and stocking up on supplies and belongings. She left by the carriage outside Whiterun on the 22nd of Sun's Height and payed the man to bring her to Dawnstar. It would take her there in half the time and would allow her an opportunity to reflect on the road that has brought her here. Her flee from home. The Temple of Kyne. Her betrayal. Her, Gods, her sickening... rape, her savior and then the voices.... her breakdown. Her mind fell back on Torvald as well, but her mind, in the end, always returned to home. Back to Valenwood.

Chapter 1

It was in the afternoon of the 25th of Sun's Height, 4E 205 when Wylendriel first rolled into Dawnstar. She had stopped first with an argonian refugee camp just outside the the city's perimeter and offered her aid to them. Though the group was cautious of strangers, they relaxed when she identified herself as a healer. She learned that these refuges, too, were displaced by the Kamal, and their wounds were severe and dramatic. Despite her lack of familiarity with argonian physiology, after some preparation with the help of their Pakseech, Tzinasha, she was able to heal first their senior warrior, Vija-Nim. Now that the test run was over, she instructed the others to gather all of their injured in one location and she was able to perform an expert level Restoration spell in order to heal everyone at once - sealing her place in their community as a trusted friend.

After some time between herself and Tzinasha, sharing thoughts and trading wisdom from their respective cultures, they bid each other farewell for now and she legged it toward Dawnstar. Though she had come here on pilgrimage and to track down a shrine to one of the Nine Divines in the area, she became troubled by how much this journey was costing her. Indeed, she was being payed back by the kindness and acceptance of people such as the argonian refugees, but she would not be able to keep up with the consumption of her supplies without first having a bit of coin to help replenish them. This brought her to Jarl's Skald's longhouse so that she could look for work. Though their reception to her was cold, they eventually directed her to Commander Ashav.

Though he was as jaded a man as she ever saw, and maybe slightly doubtful of her ability to protect herself, he was nonetheless impressed when she fixed his nose with barely any effort and took a chance on her and permitted her acquaintanceship in his company as their chaplain. Her first job: find the company throughout town and help some of their injured. They, too, had just come from Windhelm, and the Kamal had left them battered. One such mercenary was the dunmer woman, Niernan. They were cautious with one another at first, but as they talked to each other during Wy's treatment of her, from their reasons to being her, to the war, and then to handling their self-doubts, they warmed up to each other a little bit just before Niernen's exhaustion was beginning to overtake her. They bid their farewells, and they both resigned themselves to bed for the night.

When the town awoke the next morning, the town was in a buzz, and it wasn't until halfway through Wy's breakfast did she learn why. In a recent string of murders, there had been another victim: her new friend, Tzinashsa. This news had thrown Wy into a fury, and she immediately brought herself to Commander Ashav's tent and demanded a place in the murder investigation. Though she met some resistance out of concern of her race being a threat to the town's stability, she remembered to humble down a bit while addressing him halfway through the conversation and was able to secure her place. Her first stop was at the scene of the crime within the Argonian Refugee camp, and she spoke with their leaders. Vija-Nim, Wuska, and Inan - they all had a close relationship with Tzinasha, and together, they were able to help narrow down the options of the culprit to a dunmer or a dunmer taking advantage of the chaos instilled by hateful nords. Their meeting was interrupted when the camp was met with a khajiit woman, asking to see the body, and claimed to be one of the mercenaries.

Wy met with the khajiit personally, soon learning that her name was Khazki. Their meeting was tumultuous; Wy was cautious and Khazki was abrasive, and they tentatively entered a temporary partnership after learning that they were both on the same team. They followed a lead which lead them to some tracks outside of the argonian camp. When they eventually lead them nowhere and turned up dry, they had no where else to go other than back into town, and their conversation turned to a short-lived discussion of religion.

As they treaded back into town, they came upon a commotion: the murderer was here and was attacking the Jarl. Khazki pushed Wy off, urging her to find Ashav. Though Wy was overcome with thoughts of revenge, Khazki's sensibilities helped to ground her. Wy followed her direction and ran off to find Ashav. Upon returning to the scene with their commander, the deed was already done: the assassin was apprehended, but Jarl Skald was already dead. Ashav wanted the assassin guarded by his own men, and asked Wy to organize the local priests so that Dawnstar's dead could be sanctified and a proper funeral could be had. Wy tended to Khazki's wounds after some persuasion, and moved to heal the rest of their company.

Unfortunately, she wouldn't have the time to perform the ceremony before chaos in Dawnstar broke out.

Capabilities

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§ Attributes

Major: Willpower
Minor: Speed

§ Skills

Expert: Restoration (Healing) – (Wylendriel's long time commitment to Kynareth did not go without merit – she is valued as a healer and has fixed up even gutted soldiers on the brink of death, while supplementing her magic with practical medical expertise. On the other side of the coin, she can use the same magical powers that allows her to revitalized others to inflict great harm upon them... not that she'd ever willingly do so.)

Adept: Medicine – (The healers back home and the priestesses in the Temple of Kyne in Skyrim both taught her many things about medicine, and how to heal by utilizing Her Graciousness' gifts instead of relying on magicka. Specially talented, perhaps, as her Green Pact forbids her from harvesting her own vegetation for her craft. Working around that gave her a specialized niche in medicine using strictly animal-based ingredients, but still knows a select few recipes utilizing plant-life.)

Adept: Summoning (Conjuration) – (At first, Wylendriel was just a novice, just like any of us are when we learn something new, but in this case, Wylendriel has very little gained or practical knowledge. Most of what she now knows is intuitively gained. One of Molag Bal's "gifts" so to speak. When the Prince made a deal with Wy to help her get her revenge, he granted her a boon and used her existing knowledge of Conjuration as a foundation for him to selectively impart his intuitive understanding of magic onto her. He determined what she did and did not know. There's a cruel irony to be found in that he chose not to champion Wylendriel with the true Mace of Molag Bal, yet armed her with a magical, spectral mace anyways. In the end, the priestess walked away from the Prince and made the power her own.)

Adept: Bosmeri – (She's a Bosmer who grew up in the center of Valenwood, enough said.)

Novice: Marksman (Bow) - (Archery shapes Bosmeri culture and everyone must learn to hunt, and even a priestess like Wylendriel is no exception. She may not have dedicated all of her time and energy to the bow, but she is still shaped by her people's traditions and is capable of learning the art very quickly should she choose to practice it further in the future.)

Novice: One-handed (Blunt) – (Wylendriel doesn't have much in the way of actual skill in using maces. It's more like Wylendriel loses her shit, gets super angry, and swings it really fucking hard.)

Novice: Athletics – (Bosmer are naturally stringy and swift, and it only helps matters that Wylendriel enjoys being active and is prone to embarking on pilgrimages.)

Novice: Acrobatics – (Bosmer are agile, and Wylendriel is no exception. She spent much of her time growing up traversing the wilds, and she can climb trees with ease.)

Novice: Tailoring – (She has a basic grasp on how to stitch her clothing back together, but it's gonna look like patchwork. It's either that or sporting holes. Your choice.)

§ Weaknesses

Non-combatant: Wylendriel's naturally pacifistic nature is actually somewhat compromised, but now she consciously tries to avoid getting involved in the middle of the fray. She'll do anything to get out of fighting in all-out battle to avoid the risk of going mad. Also, a lack of conditioning, training, and natural strength keeps her from helping with any of the heavy lifting without hurting herself. Though to some degree, she has to learn to give herself in to these impulses just enough and direct them towards people who would do others ill, just so the glass won't overfill.

Hedgehog's dilemma: She's distant and emotionally unavailable even to her friends and allies. It's practically paranoia; on one hand, even if you're close enough to her that there's zero chance of you betraying her, she fears there's the possibility of her hurting you.

Foreign ignorance: She's was isolated in Valenwood for a while without much news of the outside world seeping into her circle. When she left Valenwood, she barely knew a thing about the other cultures outside of home except for a few details that are typically common knowledge across the world. I.E. Nords don't like elves, Altmer don't like humans or beast races, and Dunmer don't like anybody at all. Not even each other.

Trauma: Wylendriel has suffered a lot over the years, but the treachery and indignities which she suffered at the hands of her supposed protectors had left a scar upon her psyche. She doesn't realize it quite yet, having failed to confront her trauma and preferring to bury it, she believes (or perhaps rationalizes) that her change in behavior is instead a symptom of a daedric curse which seeks to corrupt her.

Wanted: Avoid Dominion soldiers.

Other priorities: She's still on a pilgrimage, and that might put her at odds with some of the party's plans. She's dead-set on finishing what she started and cleansing the curse from her soul as soon as possible.

§ Spells

Expert Restoration: Grand Healing, Circle of Protection, Repel Undead, Devour Health, Close Wounds, Heal Other, Fortify Fatigue, Absorb Fatigue, Cure

Adept Conjuration: Conjure Mace, Conjure Dagger, Banish Daedra, Summon Familiar, Soul Trap, Reanimate Dead

§ Tactics

If she can help it, Wylendriel won't fight. Aside from being a healer at heart, the stress of combat and intense feelings such as anger, misery, or fear actually has her run the risk of succumbing to Molag Bal's suggestions and her own dark urges and intrusive thoughts. Say she succumbs, though: there isn't any real strategy. She seeks to surprise and ambush her foes with unbridled aggression and a summoned, bound mace. Then she can use her restoration skills to drain away her foes' health or stamina, rendering them weak and helpless as she beats them repeatedly into the ground until they're liquefied.

Her mind is not so clouded and her willpower is not so weak that she cannot tell between foe or ally, so she will (at least for the most part) be able to restrain herself from taking out that same aggression on her friends. Anyways, in this respect, her "berserker mode" has her serve as a glass cannon. She cripples and executes her enemies, but is totally armorless and lacks the natural durability to take very many blows herself and lacks the strength and skill to stand toe-to-toe with a practiced fighter. Only in dire situations where she cannot fight an enemy on her own will she call upon Molag Bal's conjuration magic to summon daedra or reanimate corpses. Note that never in her right mind would she ever consider using such vile magic.

§ Relations & Affiliations

Wylendriel is a priestess of the Temple of Kyne in Whiterun, and is a rather respected member of the clergy among the locals despite her elven blood. She has not been there for very long, but she has proven her devotion and ability to the nords and they've taken her as one of their own. Most have, at least. Her family back in Valenwood is all she really has otherwise, and she doesn't even know how they're doing at the moment. Her mother, Virwe, and her father, Galandrel, are both highly respected Spinners within their communities.

§ Opinions

Ashav: Wylendriel didn't think much of him at first, but he earned her ire when he was nowhere to be seen while men and women and mer were dying on the Tear's deck at Smuggler's Cove. Still, he didn't deserve to die the way he did. She wonders if he was more self aware than she thought and felt terribly guilty over what happened. Perish the thought that Wy may have been criticizing a man who was so close to the edge already.

Niernen: She was the first person Wy talked to within the company aside from Ashav himself, and she took a liking to the young dunmer. Between taking care of her, her prickhole of a brother, and saving her life at Smuggler's Cove, part of her feels a little protective of the battle-mage due to the people she failed to save. They haven't gotten to talk nearly as much as she'd like to, but she'd like to change that.

Khazki: A bitch, but at least you can trust the fur ball to cut the shit and do the job. She earned some of Wy's respect when she ran headfirst into danger to apprehend Dawnstar assassin. Unexpectedly wise, if a bit jaded. It's a shame she left them. She could use a bit of her sardonic humor right about now.

Narzul: She'd dare not wish ill on Niernen or her family, but it should be fair to say that of those left surviving, he wasn't more deserving of his fortune than the ones who passed.

Ashna: Wy didn't know her, but she'll never forget her screams. The guilt of depriving the warrior of a dignified death weighs heavily on her heart.

Adaeze: Wy risked a lot to try saving the other Bosmer, but it was all for naught in the end. She wishes they got to know each other better.

Maj: If not for the conjurer, Wy may have fallen to her own recklessness. She doesn't know her very well, but she seems like a kind enough soul.

Tsleeixth: Th argonian was the first of the mercenaries to seek her counsel. It sounded a lot like he suffered much of what Wy has, and for that, he has her deepest sympathies. Unfortunately, she was unable to help him with his problem. He was also the first one to get to see all the scars hiding under her robes. It was easier than talking about it, but she still isn't sure why she did that.

§ Other

Has a cast iron stomach and is able to digest damn near any edible piece of food available. Having a strict meat-based diet, some of it even raw, tends to build up your immune system like crazy. She has some resistance to disease and poison effects because of this.

Inventory

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§ Cash

110 septims

§ Keys & Lockpicks

1 key to the Temple of Kyne in Whiterun.

§ Tools & Crafting Materials

• A skinning knife
• A feathered quill and inkjar.
• Threading needles and a spool of sinew fiber.

§ Clothing & Armor

• A set of robes; water-resistant (waxed wool), leather supported, cold-weather (bear fur), hooded, separable (bear fur). An explosion of fire tattered it to hell and back.
• Fur boots
• Black wool top, sleeveless
• Black wool tights, down to knees
• A leather belt

§ Weapon & Ammo

Though not really a weapon, she has a skinning knife if she's feeling desperate.

§ Potion & Arcane Supplies

• 3 bottles of Potion of Magicka

§ Jewelry & Valuables

An amulet of Kynareth with a minor stamina enchantment, and an eagle skull hanging from her belt (a memento from home, also serves as a second divine focus).

§ Books & Documents

• Unsent letters addressed to Valenwood, sealed with wax.
• Several pieces of blank parchment and empty envelopes.
• A copy of each: Healers Fieldbook, Herbalist's Guide to Skyrim, Notes on Racial Phylogeny, Nine Commands of the Eight Divines, The Consecrations of Arkay, and the poems Hymn to Kyne and Kyne's Tears on single pieces of parchment.
• A book containing a compilation of poetry, alphabetically listed, from the Death Blow of Abernanit to The Warrior's charge, and all of the lesser known poems that came before, in-between, and after.

§ Food/Drinks/Ingredients

Preserved beef and venison, water, and medicinal herbs. Other provisions include a mortar and pestle, dressings, bandages, a splint, and a tourniquet.

§ Load Bearing Equipment

• A satchel, carrying most of her stuff.
• Five pouches hanging from her belt, carrying medicinal herbs.
• A waterskin, on sling slung over her shoulder.

§ Other

Wy has a love for poetry, and for no reason, she's self-conscious and slightly embarrassed about it.
Spotify Playlist

Vivid Recollections: Into the World Unknown (Season 1 COMPLETE)

Just to clarify

Andrea doesn't know a fuckin' thing about superpowers, so she's just gonna hear a bunch of bullshit pretty soon.

The Elder Scrolls: Fruits of Contention - Chapter 2 (Completed)

You've made the correct decision.
Why aren't we talking about how good I am?
*slowly pulls the gun away from Dervish*
I am greatly appreciative and humbled that you would have me back, and I am excited to continue this journey with everyone!

The Elder Scrolls: Fruits of Contention - Chapter 2 (Completed)

What's up homies? Sorry I'm late - work wants me dead. I won't let them have the satisfaction.

Wy am I like this

ESO

Wylendriel Greensky

Female Bosmer | 60 | The Lady

Profile

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§ Birthplace

Grahtwood, Valenwood

§ Appearance

Her overall demeanor is as unsuspecting and as humble as she is dressed, in the layered robes bequeathed to her by the temple where she worships her goddess, Kynareth. One critical look at the Bosmer and her identity as a priestess becomes quite apparent. She seems as gentle and dainty a thing as one might suspect, looking doe-eyed around her as though she were at constant risk, and ever as agile like so many of her kind with her lithe frame moving with a sort of disguised grace. She has become fairly fit though a nomadic lifestyle, though weighing in at just 110 lbs. Standing at 5'3", her height seems as any other wood-elven folk, but her stance is a tall one, or at least like she's attempting to make herself seem taller than she really has; how the arc in her back seems to exist to support shoulders weary from hardship. You wouldn't think so to look at her, but she's actually lived through sixty years of life! That's technically pretty short for a Bosmer and is considered to be barely scraping by as an adult.

A heart-shaped face bears a stiff upper lip, but perhaps only if to steady the quivering lip beneath it as she fights to maintain her appearance of discipline. It is this very same face that also bears an upturned button nose which she keeps raised high in the air, as if to hold herself above whatever indignities, for she does not carry with her an air of arrogance or nobility; more as if she was being dogged and haunted by old ghosts and she seeks to prove herself to be above them. Her long and silky auburn hair is usually braided up haphazardly into a bun, which reveals a youthful - almost wild - face, given the thin jawline and pointed chin, the high cheekbones and wide forehead - but only attractive if a person could bring themselves to look past the the wide Bosmer pupils in her rich brown eyes and the array of sharp teeth that were made for tearing through meat.

Her robes are made from hide and thin leather in the middle of layers for durability and protection, with wool stitched over the outside as the outer layer, and treated with wax to protect against the rain. The inside of the robes is all grizzly bear fur warming her skin and absorbing whatever perspiration there may be. These robes adorned with a number of buttons made from polished bone and apparently just as many pouches hanging from a belt made from a thick leather, and with it, a curious trophy of an eagle skull. The robe's tailoring even applies to the hood, making this outfit a very heavy one to be lugging around - good for the regions of Skyrim, High Rock, and Wrothgar, but less so anywhere else south of Bruma. Beneath, she wears tight-fitted, black-colored, wool undergarments that cover her breasts and thighs, but otherwise leaves exposed her midriff and her arms and legs from the shoulders and knees down. Her feet are covered with fur boots and her hands are usually bare, but as a part time alchemist who follows the Green Pact, her hands are stained with all manners of ichors and ingredients, and frequently smell... obnoxiously robust, to be putting it gently. The sight of pointed nails that seem like claws tend to evoke even more anxious energy to bystanders. A leather satchel hangs at her side from a strap going across her chest and over one of her shoulders.

The robes can fortunately be separated from the inside layer of bear fur in case of warmer weather. The hide and wool outside layers function like a shell or windbreaker of the inside. Underneath her garments however, this young elf's sand colored skin is littered with scars. Some small, and others very, very large. If one didn't know better, they would think she had died terribly and was stitched right back up. Gnarly gouging scars in her abdomen, punctures in her legs, slashes over her arms, a smaller one down the side of both her lips, a bite mark on her chest, lashes across her back, and a long slash around her throat. Any attempt at questioning these are met with silence and are typically never answered. So gruesome is this sight, you may not immediately notice the tattoos on her body, markings of the winged herald. Feathered wings stretch out from the center of the back with the tips of its furthest feathers reaching down to her elbows. Smaller wings are placed on her chest by her collarbones, reaching to her shoulders. Feathers rest above both of her eyebrows.

Before she left Dawnstar, she mourned the loss of a friend, the argonian Pakseech, Tzinasha. As a part of honoring his memory, she wears a long quill on her hair: one of his feathers.

§ Personality

Lately, there has been a buildup of disturbing events that have left her emotionally distant and afraid to get close to people. She doesn't want to put anybody at risk out of this acquired fear of accidentally hurting those around her through whatever accident may arise from her compulsions. Yet, there also exists an element of distrust that makes it difficult for her to get close to people. This distrust is not so pervasive in her personality that it breeds conflicts with others, but impedes any progress in the development of a real, meaningful relationship. How this distrust affects her most is how, over the last couple of weeks, she has learned to put her own life in her own hands instead of relying on others. She has great potential for love, platonic or otherwise - she feels those emotions, but she fearfully rejects any oncoming advances and closes her heart to interested parties.

Continuing with this duality theme of withdrawn concern, she, as suggested before, prefers to take measures into her own hands. While some of it may come from a priestess' humility in not wanting to burden others with her own responsibilities, it too comes from that same distrust factor. Unaccountable variables could compromise the outcome, and therefore she would prefer to do it herself and take responsibility for any failure should failure occur. Insisting to her that it does not have to be that way, that she can rely on others sometimes, is a vain effort since her stubbornness blocks off any attempt to appeal to her vulnerability. She is paranoid, stubborn, caught up in her own sense of responsibility, and would just as quickly sit them down by force if they continue to pester her. This hedgehog's dilemma is not an ingrained flaw, but was acquired, and only recently.

This doesn't Wylendriel make callous though. She is still a healer, she has compassionate - on that same note, she's not a pushover. Her commanding tone is useful for bedside manner and her timid nature is thrown out the window when her areas of responsibilities (healing, sermon, etc.) come around. This dutiful disposition is tempered with motherly care, putting every ounce of effort into making sure her patients have a healthy recovery. Additionally, she is nonjudgmental of the other races. This even applies to the Nords – she understands that she entered Skyrim during a time of fear and struggle. She takes no absurd amount of pride in her elven heritage like the Thalmor do. Instead, she believes that there is something to learn from every culture. Still, she is understandably cautious while approaching nords she hasn't met yet (or any race of men for that matter, considering the Dominion's siege on the rest of Tamriel has left them suspicious of elves), Dominion races (the Dominion wanted her head on a pike), Dunmer (given the recent war and their association with the Kamal) - so perhaps it's safer to say that she's cautious of approaching basically anyone. At least that doesn't count as discrimination, right?

Even through her endearing visage, it is not difficult to tell that there is something more beneath the surface, and it cannot be pointed toward any one thing. It is an anger, it is an itch, it is a compulsion, an intrusive thought - a guilty conscience. It is as though a seed of evil was planted in her heart, and with all of her might she tries to reject it - bury it - kill it - but try as she may, it burns her inside like a craving and it only grows hungrier with time. The line between her desires and the compulsions of this seed are blurred, only distinguishable by how alien these sensations feel, because - Gods help her, she's a priestess for Kyne's sake, a healer. All of these little suggestions in her head, ever-so-subtle, this feeling of craving - is almost like a lust for violence, to feel in control, a sort of bestial blood-lust that is so damn insatiable that she just barely feeds into it to just the barest degree so that it does not overwhelm her; barely turning on the bleed valve before the pressure inside her head becomes too much. She knows it's not her, she knows it does not belong there, and she knows exactly where it came from... but fixing it isn't so easy.

Her guilt stems from many things: one being the doubt of her faith to her Lady. This guilt best summarizes her real self. She feels guilty for making the decision of accepting a deal that costed her soul, for choosing daedra over divinity, this evil that has planted itself inside her, and about her growing doubt in the Nine Divines. She once tried to justify it; after all, had they not left her to die at the hands of her betrayers? For Arkay's sake, perhaps it would be right for her to die, but where was Stendarr's mercy? Or Kynareth's gift to her faithful? Then comes the feelings of guilt regarding that sense of entitlement and her expectations of the gods. The guilt of her bloody crimes. The guilt of her own betrayal of another. She is torn in many different ways and wishes for peace inside herself to ease that discord, and there's little question as to why she has so little inner strength to spare.

With all her years as a healer and priestess under her belt, she thought herself ready for death, but in the end she found herself no more at peace than the lost and wounded souls she preached to. She beats herself up for it and belittles herself, and Molag Bal's corruption further taints her. With all of this inner turmoil, Wylendriel is growing more convinced there is no saving one such as herself. In the end though, she has come to find that there is greater justice to be found in healing as many as she can than in taking the easy way out. After some time and coming to terms with herself, she feels that it would be best to work at bettering herself one step at a time, and that the first step would be to remove the daedra's influence once and for all - which in itself is a monumental task, but prays that the mercy of the Nine Divines would be such that they would cleanse her spirit. The last few shreds of her faith clings to this desperate gambit; the deciding act that would finally determine her fate.

§ Background

Prologue

Wylendriel was born in Valenwood, to a respected mother and father that devoted their lives to Y'ffre in Elder Root, Grahtwood. They especially had taken to the Green Pact and were loyally faithful to the religion as Spinners, its enforcers. So much, in fact, their first born daughter, named Wylendriel, was conditioned to follow the Green Pact out the womb and would be raised with the intentions of making her a priestess as well - a Spinner. For the earliest years, the young and impressionable Bosmer lass adhered to family tradition, studying her people's history and following each and every rule obediently - there was nothing else, only Y'ffre - and was on the road to receiving the same kind of respect her parents had in her society. It went this way for a couple years, learning more and more about Valenwood, it's friends and enemies, healing; and all the while, the Aldmeri Dominion, formed a couple hundred years before she was even born, assumed a larger presence inside Valenwood. As she learned more about her allies, she learned more about their culture and about the Dominion's enemies, she discovered something about the Imperial Empire: their Nine Divines. They had a parallel to Y'ffre through Kynareth, except that she seemed to exemplify the beauty and force of nature. Wylendriel's family did not expect her to discover Kynareth in the world around her.

She didn't replace Y'ffre, no. Rather, the goddess only added to the enrichment of Wy's world. If Y'ffre was the father, the state of existing, of only being - Kynareth was the mother, its force, it's passion, beauty and danger, she breathed the soul into life and made it beautiful. Life was essential, yes, but it was simply existing - what would life be were it not the soul and beauty that made life worthwhile? Kynareth was nature. This self-found philosophy touched Wylendriel so profoundly that she chose to educate herself how she could in order to follow in the footsteps of her newfound Lady. Such material was hard to come by in Valenwood, so her knowledge was only rudimentry, and her family never quite looked at her the same after it - but as long as she didn't forsake the Green Pact, they figured there was nothing wrong with it. She looked happy! She was interested in helping others. They still intended on keeping her faith a secret from the Thalmor of the Dominion. Who knows what they might think of it?

All that the Altmer and the Aldmeri Dominion had brought to Valenwood were not so great, though. They brought also strife to a few, select Bosmer communities. Rumors of purges spread across Valenwood, of isolated executions by the hands of Altmer inquisitors in the north. Word had it that the victims were deserving of such a fate. They were "unworthy savages, not befitting to be part of this grand alliance of Mer." Not many questioned it, they had this idea that their "close bond" with the Altmer was far too valuable to forsake. Wylendriel's family would of course be spared, being far too valuable and important to Bosmer society. It was not unheard of that some Bosmer took the Green Pact to extremes, and it was no wonder that the Altmer thought they were a barbaric people. While Wylendriel followed a watered-down version of it, where she and others rejected cannibalism, the purists hunted their enemies and consumed their flesh. It was a revolting thought in her mind, though despite that, there was still the sense of racial kinship. Then you have the ones supporting Imperial occupation, which would no doubt prove them as traitors. It was depressing to hear of the Altmer killing them, but she followed two deities of nature, and death and rebirth was a part of the cycle of nature. All she felt she could do was pray for them in honor of perpetuating that cycle.

The years had gone on and Wylendriel was growing into a full-fledged woman, and she and some others of her community has remained fairly ignorant of the events occurring in the outside world. She practiced her skills of restoration magic to heal wounded hunters after their return from the forest, and using conventional medicine to follow after, or if the wounds were small. As her reputation grew, she found herself healing soldiers doing only-Gods-know-what, but it wasn't her place to ask or to judge. While she had taken a path of faith that had warranted some disappointment from her family, she gained value in the eyes of some few Altmer agents of the Dominion. They took notice of not just her intense devotion, but her skills as a healer. Offered ever so diplomatically to enlist with the Dominion as a field medic, Wylendriel felt obligated to decline for she was no warrior. They saw it as a reasonable defense, though she was curious about the influx of Aldmeri soldiers coming their way. Had they been at war all along? Though they found her naivety cute, all they said to her was that it was nothing to worry about. Just some few skirmishes with the human empire up north. They let her be without further harassment on that note, but continued to send Altmer infantry to her in Valenwood if they were near enough. She came to be idolized as a highly regarded citizen in her community, endeared for her compassion and healing ability.

She found it cute. Rarely was one found without the other.

Though ignorant of world events she may have been, the news of conflict that broke out in northern Valenwood spread like wildfire. Separatist dissenters lashed out against the Aldmeri Dominion, and with the help of the Empire, drove them south. Dominion presence became more prevalent in the south and were organizing to make counter-attacks against the separatists and the Imperial Empire that backed them. The outside world's trouble have broken in, and truth of the Dominion's deeds had gotten clearer. The rumors of executions of the Bosmeri people were more than just rumors, and they weren't just isolated incidents. The purges were more like a systematic slaughter. Indeed, they saw the Bosmer as little more than barbarians. Though elven, they were still more like second class citizens than trusted allies. When a close friend of Wylendriel was ruthlessly murdered, only because they found her on her haunches and leaning over a bloody rabbit - for simply eating - she saw these purges for what it really was: cultural cleansing. They were the judge, jury, and executioner of any that the Altmer thought weren't good or "civilized" enough to be their underlings.

It was at the turn of her adulthood when Wylendriel defamed the Aldmeri Dominion, and sure enough, it wasn't a popular opinion. She was branded as a traitor, and before she could turn to flee Valenwood, she was briefly stopped by her family. They parted ways with a hug and a kiss, proud of their daughter's courage, and with a gift in the form of an eagle's skull. It was the acknowledgement and acceptance of her faith in Kynareth. What could have been more symbolic of the nature goddess of the wind than that? She escaped shortly after to the far corners of Tamriel attempting to evade the Dominion with war waging around her as she went. Whether it was by foot or by caravan, she eventually found herself in the wilds of southern Skyrim by the end of the year. She was found by a Markarth patrol in the Reach, and they reigned her in for questioning – mostly to her potential ties to the Dominion. She managed to convince them that she was no friend of the Thalmor, but they were still suspicious of the elf passing through. Still fearful of the Dominion's discovery of her, Wylendriel fled once again as soon as she was fed and rested towards the east, where the Nords of Eastmarch were notorious for their particular disdain of elven kind. This didn't worry her though; whatever vulgarity or mud they wanted to sling her way would be nothing compared to the punishment the Thalmor would deliver unto her.

She payed the carriage a hearty sum to take her to the other side of Skyrim, and instead she landed in front of Whiterun. They learned that the road ahead was blockaded by bandits and the man refused to go further. So she remained in central Skyrim. From the beginning, things were hard, but it was though the goddess herself was watching over her - she found her place in a Temple of Kyne, much to her fortune, in front of the Gildergreen. Here, her restoration magic and medicinal skills were highly valued. Her safety was assured here, behind tall walls and Skyrim's staunch stance against the Aldmeri Dominion. Also being a servant of the goddess, she could find respite from the Dominion under the Jarl's protection. When she first arrived at the temple, she stood at the door in ragged furs and hide, nearly destroyed by the long trip across Tamriel. She nearly looked like a beggar! But her devotion was unquestionable. They took her in and made her sturdy, warm, and reliable robes that reflected her Green Pact, but was befitting of a priestess. They reminded her of home.

The path ahead presented far more difficulties than she had anticipated. Cultural roadblocks, miscommunication, and just a general misunderstanding of how nord society even functioned. It proved difficult to gain the trust of the local nords, but her devotion to the goddess Kynareth was almost tangible and she treated every visitor with the utmost respect and humility. She poured everything she had into every restoration spell and genuinely cared about her patients. Such diligence guaranteed her respect from even Skyrim's most stubborn nords. It was heartwarming to find a place where she belonged. During her stay at the Temple of Kyne, the priestesses that already lived there taught her everything there was to know about Kynareth. Wy's rudimentary understanding was greatly expanded upon and she was taught practices that seemed totally unnecessary back home. For instance, it was tradition to learn how to summon a familiar, a guardian of nature, to perhaps protect or lead the way. The familiar would, in one way or another, guide the caster along their path. In addition, human priesthood expanded their services beyond just healing. She was expected to learn how to repel and banish the undead and daedric forces that threatened Nirn. They helped to bolster her powers of Restoration magic, and gave her a basic understanding of Conjuration. After getting over the initial learning curve, conjuring familiars came easily, but banishment is where she really struggled with. Turns out she has a much harder time with making things go away than she does with making things stay.

It wasn't before long that she decided to go on a pilgrimage to visit the Eldergleam. On the 26th of Mid Year, she hired mercenaries. They were nords from Eastmarch, and their job was to escort her on her hike eastward and protect her from the likes of bandits, and honestly, it was also a precaution to increase her chance of survival should a dragon find her (assuming that there was still one in hiding that the last Dragonbon had not yet slain). She left with her temple's blessing and set out on the long road ahead.

But all went south once on the 30th once they circled around the mountain, High Hrothgar. In the middle of nowhere, miles from any sign of civilization, Wylendriel was struck by betrayal. The very men she payed to protect her turned around and jumped her, before dragging her off to some remote location at a ruined site where she was thrown onto a stone slab. She was mugged, beaten, stolen from, and... Gods, violated. They passed her around like a toy, taking turns, laughing! They told her, every time they beat her... stabbed her... lashed her, and bit her - they told her that she had this coming. This was she got for being an elf. When they were finally finished with her, when she finally thought they would leave her be and let her wallow in her suffering, one of them slid their knife across her throat. She was spat on and left for dead, Wylendriel was spending her final moments bleeding out, gurgling and drowning in her own blood and unable to breath, laying there and clutching her throat. She spent her last moments fearful and in tears and in silent prayer. First to her lady Kynareth, but she was silent. Thoughts of the circle of life intruded into her mind, the lessons of the temple - but she couldn't let go feeling so betrayed – it was too unfair. As she felt her life slipping away, she prayed to any of the Divines asking for mercy and a second chance. Her prayers went unheard, and with her consciousness on the verge of slipping, she made a final cry for mercy to anything that would listen.

A gutteral, malevolent voice filled her mind. "I can save your life," it offered, "if just for now, and if you would pledge your soul to me..."

Blinded by desperation, she accepted the offer. Her vision went black and she remembered nothing between then and when she finally awoke in the small village of Ivarstead three days later.

When she awoke on the 3rd of Sun's Height, she was seemingly in complete recovery, though covered in gruesome looking scars strewn across her body. As fortune would have it, a hunter found her unconscious far off in the middle of nowhere, but said he found her unharmed. If he didn't know better, it looked as though she lied down and took a nap... were her clothes not torn in several places, mostly over her chest and around her waist. They were folded next to her with a needle and some thread for her to fix her torn clothing – apparently whoever took her in didn't have any confidence in patching it. Physically, she felt fine save for a gross feeling pit in the center of her chest. It felt empty. She felt violated. As she recalled back to the last thing she could remember, the horrifying scenes of her abusers wracked her mind. The mere memory was torture and she felt sick to her stomach, and no longer felt at home inside her own skin - as her memory returned, so did the same malevolent voice. What happened? What had she just done?

Painful headaches wracked her head. Ear-splitting droning sounds, a cacopheny of whispers, all trying to talk ove rone another - nothing was getting through - all of it - too much - an onslaught of sensory overload as she felt tears well up her eyes over the stress of everything over the last couple of hours - what had to have been hours - the sounds, the screeching, the incoherent chaos - it fell silent. She took deep, heavy breathes as she looked around the room feeling traumatized.

"What... what in Oblivion was tha--" The piercing frequency came out louder than before and was accompanied by what had to have been a thousand red images in rapid succession, "--AAAAAHHH! Gah! Ha... ha! What... What is--"

A thousand more images, barely decipherable, and she was clutching her head and squeezing her eyes shut as the chaos unraveled itself in her head. A man burst through the door of the cabin she was in, a fretful looking man, alarmed by Wylendriel's screaming, found her in this position with tears silently rolling down her cheeks. Among these images, she was able to discern the bloodied maw of a laughing daedric face and the realization of what she has done finally hit her. The blasphemy of her actions stabbed sharper into her chest than any weapon her betrayers used.

"What happened?" Asked the panicked man. She couldn't see what he looked like, she was just wanting to make everything stop.

"This... this migraine..." She told him in weeping. "Make it stop..."

"You look like you've gone through Oblivion and back," he commented, "what's with all of your scars, what happened to you?"

Another thousand images played in her head, but they played slightly slower, almost like a recording of what happened to her. Her mind's eye stretched over Skyrim through red-colored spectacles, and found herself watching her own abuse from a bird's eye view. Over... and over again... she felt the rage and fury build up inside of her, this hatred. The images shot across Skyrim to the northeastern region of Eastmarch and into a cabin, where she got a close up view of her betrayers, their ugly mugs, laughing and drinking... Gods, this unnatural hatred that she did not understand, but at the same time... wasn't it natural? Wasn't it natural to hate the people who did this to hurt, the people who violated her as she watched over and over again... to crave their pitiful! Bloody! Murder--

No... no, no, no! No! This! Wasn't! Normal! Why is she thinking this? Why is she wanting and craving this?!

As she watched these images, as fast and as abrupt as they were, stalled for just a second on the slab she was layed on. Beneath the dust, she could barely trace out the faint imprints of daedric runes. One last image of herself being hurled into the mouth of a massive daedric beast before it stopped - an endless void of inky blackness, and a single whisper slowly echoed through her ears: "I own you."

Suddenly, everything stopped liked she was hoping it would. The stranger's voice was barely able to break through and Wylendriel was barely able to understand the flashes of images behind her eyes at face value, but something inside her gave this intuitive understanding of what was happening to her. The daedric face she was seeing had imprinted on her, and for some reason, recognizable. It's name was clear, and it wanted her to know what exactly that was. Molag Bal. Prince of Domination. Of Schemes.

"Ma'am? Can you hear me?" The stranger asked. "Where did you get your scars?"

The thought of her betrayers sprung back to mind. The sheer anger that she felt at just the image of their faces made her hands shake.

"Ask about my scars again, and I'll show you exactly how I got them." Wylendriels said without thinking. She paused and reeled for a moment. "That did not just happen..." she muttered to herself. The words had just fallen out of her mouth, there wasn't any hesitation, they just - they just...

"Shor's bones, fine!" The stranger retorted. "I won't pry any further, but I was just trying to help, damn it!"

Wylendriel speechlessly watched him march out of the cabin. She knew this wasn't good, but emphatically, for some reason, could not bring herself to care. What she was an image of the people who hurt her, and as far as she felt concerned, Molag Bal offered her a chance for revenge and she planned on taking him up on that offer. Stitching her robes back together the best she could (making it more of a patch job, she wasn't concerned with prettiness), and set out on the open road with nothing but the clothes on her back. Only resting when her knees felt like buckling marching across Eastmarch, finding raw food on the way - utilizing aspects of of Restoration magic she never dared to use before by sapping the vitality of animals and leaving their husks behind. It nearly took a whole week to reach the place that her visions scarred her mind with, but she eventually found the riverside shack in Eastmarch.

Staring it down, the same house from the images that flickered in her head, seemed to trigger flashes of individual images, almost like a magical flow, but something more sinister like a daedric energy. They made her aware of something that was apparently there from the moment she awoken in Ivarstead. Whatever it was she knew of Conjuration magic, it felt expanded upon. A sort of intuitive knowledge, but it didn't quite belong in her brain. She knew what it meant to take magicka and use it to summon a familiar. The sort of direction in which to swing it. The intuitive knowledge that Molag Bal had imparted unto her only concerned itself from where she could draw her power from. There was no plan of action. Calling upon this Conjuration magic, an ethereal daedric mace rippled into existence into her hand before she kicked open the door, surprising the three nords inside - and they looked at her in horror when recognition of her face set in.

Wylendriel roared at them in unbridled rage, fueling the hatred and blood lust that had seeped into her heart. "Did you think you could betray me?!"

Two of them scrambled for their weapons, but one of them was too surprised and confused as to how the Bosmer bitch was still alive, so much that he did not expect the wild aggression the Kynareth priestess exhibited as she lunged towards him and grabbed him by the throat with one hand with crushing force, her sharp nails sinking into his throat. A green aura surrounded her hand that sapped away the nord's energy. His arms fell weakly at his sides. The second and third nord came rushing towards her with axe and sword in hand. In her berserk, she ripped out the first nord's esophagus to be flung at one of their faces and swung the mace with all of her unrestrained might, knocking the second bearded attacker onto the ground with a crack of his sternum and another swift swing knocked away the third who was stunned by the bloody piece of flesh she threw at him - destroying his spine through the fur armor. Wylendriel contently watched them both squirm on the floor, savoring this moment while it lasted.

"I own you." She growled.

She turned to the bearded nord, squirming and scrambling to get away. She dropped onto her knees over his body with one palm firmly planted on his chest. It glowed a sickly green and steadily drained away the man's stamina, fueling repeated rage-filled swings of the =spectral mace into the nord's head until virtually nothing was left but shards of bone and liquefied gore. She was unable to feel it at this moment, but muscles in her shoulder were tearing with each swing, unable to hold themselves together with all the force she was forcing herself to exert. The third, crippled nord was later met the same fate.

When the last deed was done, the energy and the bloodlust that she felt coursing through her body dissipated until her body felt pained and weary. The mace evaporated into the air, and she weakly fell to her knees. Her conscience was now clear, and she looked around at the scene that surrounded her. Three utterly obliterated men, now unidentifiable, their blood seeping into floorboards - the scenes kept replaying inside her traumatized head. The emotions. Rage and blood lust. Their faces - splitting, with each and every crack... crack! Crack! Crunch! She - she... these unspeakable acts of, just... violence - committed by her own hand - they betrayed her! They were supposed to deserve this! Yet - her memories fell back to home, both in Valenwood and to her place in the Temple of Kyne. Recalling everything they had known then, and her values - even the Green Pact said not to kill wastefully. It all came rushing back to her, and all of the justification she thought she had melted away. What she had done here was indisputably evil, and here she was... almost... enjoying it. She broke down into sobs, all the while hugging her arms in trying to bear the agony they were under. It took a long time to bring herself to move, but she eventually mustered herself the will to use Restoration magic on herself. She felt the muscles sort of stitch themselves back together, and she would be okay - at least physically - but the the phantom pains will remain for a little while longer.

The moment she could bring herself to her feet, she ran. She fled from the scene, from the cabin, as fast as she could - as far south as her legs could carry her. Until finally, she fell down exhausted in the middle of Eastmarch. After their deaths, Molag Bal's corruption seemed to have disappeared from her mind. The images hadn't returned, but she still feared the possibility of hearing his voice again like from the time he offered to "save" her life. She prayed and prayed as her tears soaked the ground, but the Divines were deathly silent. They'd forsaken her. She had to do something about this. She had to do something other than run - she had to make a pledge to herself to reject the daedric prince. She'd prove it through a pilgrimage around Tamriel. She had to pray to each of the Nine Divines at their shrines, then maybe she could cleanse herself of this evil... but a sinking feeling told her that she would have to do a lot more than just simply pray to earn their forgiveness. In spite of her doubts, she knew from her studies that there was a shrine to Akatosh here in Eastmarch, and it should have been nearby. But weak from the journey, she just found the nearest bush and fell fast asleep.

When she awoke the next day on the 11th, it took some looking around. When she found Akatosh's shrine, she spent an entire day devoted to prayer in front of the dragon god's shrine. Even after an entire day of prayer, she heard nothing. Found nothing, just silence. She had to be persistent. Word had it that Fort Amol held a shrine of Julianos, which wasn't far from here – it was still in Eastmarch. When she arrived at the fort on the 12th, it was bristling with activity, filled with nervous and suspicious nords. They questioned her immediately, brandishing weapons, and she quickly explained herself while withholding some of the truth: she was on pilgrimage. They allowed her to stay for just that one day only because she was on pilgrimage, but warned her not to head to Windhelm to pray at Arkay's shrine. That was when she learned the city was completely overrun and taken over by an Akaviri army. This was the reason for the crowded occupancy of Fort Amol.

“Please,” Wylendriel pleaded, “let me help you. Show me your wounded.”

“There aren't many to show you.” One of the soldiers replied. It wasn't as much a blessing as the soldier made it sound – the battle was catastrophic. Those who participated were lucky to escape with wounds. Most of them died. Those “lucky” few could only manage to escape at the cost of missing limbs. With what few there were to take care of, the medics had already attended to them. But they did manage to do one more thing for Wylendriel after her unanswered prayer to Julianos: they pointed her to a direction. To the west was a shrine of Dibella inside this old abandoned fort, but was likely overridden with bandits or occult practitioners. Necromancy, and the like. Wylendriel was hesitant to pursue this shrine, fearful of not just the risk of going, but because there was also no telling what Molag Bal's curse might do to her. She asked for a different shrine.

“Well, to the northwest are a couple shrines to mighty Talos, just hugging the base of High Hrothgar. The closest one is actually where you follow the river north, then keep going north after it forks off.” They suggested. Then he narrowed his eyes at the Bosmer. “But last I checked, you knife-ears didn't like him very much. Damn near outlawed Talos worship a couple years back – I fought that war.”

“That was the Thalmor.” Wylendriel insisted. “I may not have prayed to Talos before, but I promise you that I will get to know him.”

After Wylendriel rested up and replenished her supplies, and set north for Talos' shrine, making sure to follow the river. Though a rather wet journey, she was greeted that day by the gorgeous sight of a weathered statue overlooking a pond. There she found another person in prayer. When she greeted him, he was alarmed and reeled back in terror. His face revealed pain with red eyes and a puffy faces. He was a man whose tears had run dry.

“What happened?” She asked.

“My wife,” the nord sobbed, “my home! Windhelm, ransacked. The akaviri... I... I've never seen anything like... like--”

The stranger took a deep breath to compose himself. Wylendriel's heart swelled with pain and fear. She had no idea what it meant when they spoke of the akaviri. An entire city was seized. By men or creatures she heard of only just yesterday by name. An alien force of unknown strength – chills ran up Wylendriel's spine as she looked over her shoulder expecting a monster, but found nothing there. When she looked at the man sitting on the ground, in the most humiliated and humble state possible, wracked with pain, she could help but feel tears well in her own eyes. He had something precious taken from him, and that was all it took for her to form an attachment with this stranger's kindred spirit.

“I'm just trying to make sense of it all.” The nord continued. “I want to know what Talos would do. What he'd have me do.”

Wylendriel sat beside the miserable widower, placed a soft hand over his own. “What's your name?” She asked.

“Torvald...” He answered.

“Wylendriel.” She whispered to him. “Let me pray with you, Torvald.” Torvald said nothing, but she felt his fingers wrap tightly around hers, occasionally quivering. The two sat in silence for what must've been hours, and she prayed and prayed – not just for forgiveness and not just in pledge to a god who, honestly, she did not even know, but also on Torvald's behalf. She prayed for his safety, his heart, and his fulfillment. She also prayed not for answers and direction, but for understanding, so that she could know who Talos was – she felt a guilty conscious for having ignorantly supported the Aldmeri Dominion and Thalmor. She wanted to seek peace with Talos on behalf of elven-kind. Her thoughts returned to home and those she left behind, wondering if they were safe or if any more of her friends or family would see themselves be victim to one of the Altmer's purges. A sudden chill breeze blew against her neck, prompting her eyes open. The sun had begun to set, casting a pink canopy across the sky. Her years of interpreting the signs of the divines instinctively led her to an epiphany, and read the situation as though the voice of an emperor was speaking to her:

“I am all that makes Skyrim; it's bite and it's boldness – but also it's beauty and it's glory. We are of blood spilled, but strength provided, we reward in bounty. Visit the North star at the break of dawn, then retrace your steps.”

Warmth filled her chest and she looked to Torvald beside her with a smile, his eyes still shut. There was a riddle to be solved. She was about to stand and help him to his feet, to help guide him along his way.

Her body suddenly seized. Her blood began boiling. Pain was stabbing her from behind her eyes. Her hand clenched around Torvald's -- he was shouting in pain!

'N-no... no! No, no!' Wylendriel thought desperately as squeezed her eyes as tightly she could. 'Gods, no, please! Save me!'

Dozens more of gruesome, haunting images burned her mind as they flickered through with hundreds of angry whispers in the background, but there was a difference this time. When before they sounded mindless and were whispering over one another, these were unified and had one clear message: punish.

Her emotions began flaring and became more intense with each passing second. She felt furious, but also powerful, tantalized, excited - but for what? She felt a growing hunger develop in the pit of her stomach as one suggestion after another inserted itself into her mind. For a moment, she managed hold down the urges and thoughts as her own emotions kept them at bay. They had arisen as soon as she realized what she was being made to do, and horror had begun to envelop her.

"Please... don't..." Wylendriel muttered to herself, struggling to keep herself from enjoying this moment as the corners of her mouth began twitching. “I don't want this.”

Torvald, too, in his fear and confusion, found tears welling in his eyes. “W-what are you doing? Wylendriel? Please... get off me!”

More images began rushing to her, the same blood-red sort of haze as they gave her rapid, broken up glimpses of Skyrim. Suddenly she saw herself. Walking, almost zombie-like, covered in blood. The gap across her throat was slowly closing itself. She fell limply onto the ground. Another image, almost as if it rewinded, and then more - she mindlessly picked something up while she was at the sight. A stone. The last few images that flickered into her head and revealed to her that it was a fragmented piece of the slab she was thrown upon, and on it was a daedric sigil. Then suddenly, there was darkness.

A slow laughter filled every crevice of her mind and felt to stretch on for years, until finally, after a long pause, she could hear Molag Bal's voice clear as day.

"Enjoy the meal."

Wylendriel felt her muscles jerk as every urge and every emotion she tried so hard to suppress came rushing back and overwhelmed her. This time, she was overcome by an animalistic frenzy, and she felt with her a presence infinitely more evil. She felt feelings inside her that she knew did not belong to her, but to something else that co-resided with her. Regardless of whatever it was she was feeling at the time, the priestess' cannibalized Torvald alive with a sense of euphoria. Her poor friend's screams and sobs cut the air. It, and the sound of wet gnashing of flesh and the tearing rips of muscle and skin were the most horrific band of instruments she'd ever heard, and for some reason, just made it more reason to love what was happening.

When Torvald's last scream finally cut short, her eyes stared into his as his eyes slowly fell back and the light vanished. The energy she felt coursing through her body vanished as well, just as quickly as it came. Everything that she knew to be normal came back, and what flesh that still resided in her mouth fell out as her jaw dropped in horror. Her gut wrenched and she threw her head to the side to let bile come pouring out. With each gag and each convulsion, her stomach removed the last drop of fluid in her stomach that it could until she was dry-hurling into the river. Gasping for breath, she took a long look at Torvald, lying lifeless on the ground with a gaping hole in his neck with streams of blood trickling down into the river. With tears streaming down her face, she went scrambling to rip open her robes and search every damned pocket to find the stone she saw in her visions. When she finally did, she pulled it out and threw it as hard as could with a scream and set herself off balance. She fell to her knees layed her head on the ground until sobs turned into whimpers.

'Kynareth, what have I done?'

She jumped down into the water to wash the blood off of her face. When she climbed back up the rocks, she stared at Torvald a couple minutes, her face just as red and puffy and tears ran dry as Torvald when she first found him. She dragged his eyelids shut with her fingers, and prayed for his spirit to cross safely into Sovngarde. Among her sorrows, being wracked with devastation at the loss of a new friend and a newfound crippling fear of the daedric prince's curse, what plagued her most was the sense of betrayal that Torvald must've felt in his last moments by her own hand. She knew what that betrayal was like. She felt she had to find solace in that he was lucky to remain dead. She had to find solace in blaming Molag Bal for this. She had to convince herself that this wasn't her fault, no matter how much it hurt. Wylendriel moved his body in front of Talos' statue and set a hand on his head – already cold – and her other hand grasping the eagle skull hanging from her belt. Closing her eyes, throat swollen in her mourning, she focused all of her restoration magic on him as she began reciting Arkay's rites of consecration. His spirit deserved to rest in peace and reunite with his lost love.

As she finished the final verses, she closed her eyes and sighed deeply. Leaning down to gently kiss Torvald's forehead, she quickly muttered under her breath, “rest easy in Sovngarde, my friend...”

Later that night she turned west back towards the river, with her mind replaying the thoughts that played in her head. North star. Break of dawn. Retrace your steps. The only problem with this is that sunlight sheds the sky of its stars. Unless there was something she can only see in daylight, or if it referred to something else. Was it Dawnstar? It's along the northern coast, about another two days of travel! Sighing in resignation, she started setting up camp. She was treading unfamiliar ground in the middle of the night, and hasn't had any rest yet. For the next couple of days it followed this pattern. Ducking under branches, climbing over boulders, and treading through water. She knew that this was the river she followed at the start of her journey, but she think she was on the other side of it on her way there. This was a different angle and not as familiar.

Her mind fell back to the Eldergleam. Such a simple journey had gone so awry. She could've gone, could've finished it. She didn't want to desecrate such a holy place with her presence. Maybe once she was purified, she'll go back and try again - but not now. The sixth night, of travel, Wylendriel was exhausted. She swore that perhaps she had missed a turn somewhere. Did she miss civilization? Was it just around a tree that she didn't bother to look past? She was about to give up hope until torchlight shone some distance away, just north of a bunch of other flickering lights. She instantly recognized it. This was Whiterun Hold! That was Whitewatch Tower! Another twenty minutes straight of running on her weary, pained legs was dulled slightly at the sight of a familiar landmark, and as she inched closer, even the guards at the tower seems to have taken an interest.

“Who goes there?” One called out, waving their torch in front of them. As Wylendriel got closer, unable to answer through her panting, the light lit up her face. “Shor's bones – priestess! Where have you been! You've been missing for weeks!”

“Commander Sinmir!” Wylendriel exclaimed between breaths.

“Is that Wylendriel?” Another asked.

“It's... it's a long story...” Wylendriel answered. “But my journey has turned into pilgrimage... would you mind if I rest here?”

“Uh, of course priestess,” Sinmir replied, “but wouldn't you much rather resting inside the city where it's comfortable?”

She just laugh slightly in response, but it sounded hollow and fake in the face of what she has had to suffer through lately. “I'm afraid I don't feel up to spending all night explaining myself to the whole city...”

“Are you okay?”

“I will heal.” Wylendriel answered softly. “In time...”

That night, before she slept, she prayed a silent, unanswered prayer to the daedric prince - to allow her to finish her pilgrimage. She suggested it would present the lord with an opportunity not often seen: an opportunity to battle and dominate a Divine. While Wylendriel has great faith that the divines could easily purge the daedra and recover her soul, Molag Bal has so far remained silent and seems to be permitting her pilgrimage, indicating that she might have appealed to his arrogance and lust for power...

The next morning, she met with the townsfolk of Whiterun, shocked by the poor condition Wylendriel returned in - and her scars! Wylendriel kept the truth a secret, only telling that the men she hired had betrayed her. She told them that it was the kindness of Ivarstead that nursed her back to health, and here she was! She lied and said that she was motivated by her trip to the Eldergleam to make a full pilgrimage to communicate with the rest of the Nine Divines. She couldn't possibly allow them to know the truth. There wouldn't be any saving her. The rest of that day was spent preening herself and stocking up on supplies and belongings. She left by the carriage outside Whiterun on the 22nd of Sun's Height and payed the man to bring her to Dawnstar. It would take her there in half the time and would allow her an opportunity to reflect on the road that has brought her here. Her flee from home. The Temple of Kyne. Her betrayal. Her, Gods, her sickening... rape, her savior and then the voices.... her breakdown. Her mind fell back on Torvald as well, but her mind, in the end, always returned to home. Back to Valenwood.

Chapter 1

It was in the afternoon of the 25th of Sun's Height, 4E 205 when Wylendriel first rolled into Dawnstar. She had stopped first with an argonian refugee camp just outside the the city's perimeter and offered her aid to them. Though the group was cautious of strangers, they relaxed when she identified herself as a healer. She learned that these refuges, too, were displaced by the Kamal, and their wounds were severe and dramatic. Despite her lack of familiarity with argonian physiology, after some preparation with the help of their Pakseech, Tzinasha, she was able to heal first their senior warrior, Vija-Nim. Now that the test run was over, she instructed the others to gather all of their injured in one location and she was able to perform an expert level Restoration spell in order to heal everyone at once - sealing her place in their community as a trusted friend.

After some time between herself and Tzinasha, sharing thoughts and trading wisdom from their respective cultures, they bid each other farewell for now and she legged it toward Dawnstar. Though she had come here on pilgrimage and to track down a shrine to one of the Nine Divines in the area, she became troubled by how much this journey was costing her. Indeed, she was being payed back by the kindness and acceptance of people such as the argonian refugees, but she would not be able to keep up with the consumption of her supplies without first having a bit of coin to help replenish them. This brought her to Jarl's Skald's longhouse so that she could look for work. Though their reception to her was cold, they eventually directed her to Commander Ashav.

Though he was as jaded a man as she ever saw, and maybe slightly doubtful of her ability to protect herself, he was nonetheless impressed when she fixed his nose with barely any effort and took a chance on her and permitted her acquaintanceship in his company as their chaplain. Her first job: find the company throughout town and help some of their injured. They, too, had just come from Windhelm, and the Kamal had left them battered. One such mercenary was the dunmer woman, Niernan. They were cautious with one another at first, but as they talked to each other during Wy's treatment of her, from their reasons to being her, to the war, and then to handling their self-doubts, they warmed up to each other a little bit just before Niernen's exhaustion was beginning to overtake her. They bid their farewells, and they both resigned themselves to bed for the night.

When the town awoke the next morning, the town was in a buzz, and it wasn't until halfway through Wy's breakfast did she learn why. In a recent string of murders, there had been another victim: her new friend, Tzinashsa. This news had thrown Wy into a fury, and she immediately brought herself to Commander Ashav's tent and demanded a place in the murder investigation. Though she met some resistance out of concern of her race being a threat to the town's stability, she remembered to humble down a bit while addressing him halfway through the conversation and was able to secure her place. Her first stop was at the scene of the crime within the Argonian Refugee camp, and she spoke with their leaders. Vija-Nim, Wuska, and Inan - they all had a close relationship with Tzinasha, and together, they were able to help narrow down the options of the culprit to a dunmer or a dunmer taking advantage of the chaos instilled by hateful nords. Their meeting was interrupted when the camp was met with a khajiit woman, asking to see the body, and claimed to be one of the mercenaries.

Wy met with the khajiit personally, soon learning that her name was Khazki. Their meeting was tumultuous; Wy was cautious and Khazki was abrasive, and they tentatively entered a temporary partnership after learning that they were both on the same team. They followed a lead which lead them to some tracks outside of the argonian camp. When they eventually lead them nowhere and turned up dry, they had no where else to go other than back into town, and their conversation turned to a short-lived discussion of religion.

As they treaded back into town, they came upon a commotion: the murderer was here and was attacking the Jarl. Khazki pushed Wy off, urging her to find Ashav. Though Wy was overcome with thoughts of revenge, Khazki's sensibilities helped to ground her. Wy followed her direction and ran off to find Ashav. Upon returning to the scene with their commander, the deed was already done: the assassin was apprehended, but Jarl Skald was already dead. Ashav wanted the assassin guarded by his own men, and asked Wy to organize the local priests so that Dawnstar's dead could be sanctified and a proper funeral could be had. Wy tended to Khazki's wounds after some persuasion, and moved to heal the rest of their company.

Unfortunately, she wouldn't have the time to perform the ceremony before chaos in Dawnstar broke out.

Capabilities

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§ Attributes

Major: Willpower
Minor: Speed

§ Skills

Expert: Restoration – (Wylendriel's long time commitment to Kynareth did not go without merit – she is valued as a healer and has fixed up even gutted soldiers on the brink of death, while supplementing her magic with practical medical expertise. On the other side of the coin, she can use the same magical powers that allows her to revitalized others to inflict great harm upon them... not that she'd ever willingly do so.)

Adept: Medicine – (The healers back home and the priestesses in the Temple of Kyne in Skyrim both taught her many things about medicine, and how to heal by utilizing Her Graciousness' gifts instead of relying on magicka. Specially talented, perhaps, as her Green Pact forbids her from harvesting her own vegetation for her craft. Working around that gave her a specialized niche in medicine using strictly animal-based ingredients, but still knows a select few recipes utilizing plant-life.)

Adept: Conjuration – (At first, Wylendriel was just a novice. Just like any of us are when we learn something new. But in this case, Wylendriel has very little gained or practical knowledge. Most of what she now knows is intuitively gained. One of Molag Bal's "gifts". His boon used her existing knowledge of Conjuration as a foundation for him to selectively impart his intuitive understanding of magic onto her, and determining what she is and is not allowed to know. There's a cruel irony to be found in that he chooses not to champion Wylendriel with the true Mace of Molag Bal, yet arms her with a magic spectral daedric mace anyways.)

Adept: Bosmeri – (She's a Bosmer who grew up in the center of Valenwood, enough said.)

Novice: Speech - (Her nature and disposition keeps her from being a true silvertongue, but as a priestess, sure can give a mean sermon. This shows that she can at least publicly speak about something passionately enough that it could possibly convert prospective worshipers.)

Novice: One-handed (Blunt) – (Wylendriel doesn't have much in the way of actual skill in using maces. It's more like Molag Bal's curse making her really angry and putting her into a berserker state, and swinging it really fucking hard.)

Novice: Athletics – (Bosmer are naturally stringy and swift, and it only helps matters that Wylendriel enjoys being active and is prone to embarking on pilgrimages.)

Novice: Acrobatics – (Bosmer are agile, and Wylendriel is no exception. She spent much of her time growing up traversing the wilds, and she can climb trees with ease.)

Novice: Tailoring – (She has a basic grasp on how to stitch her clothing back together, but it's gonna look like patchwork. It's either that or sporting holes. Your choice.)

§ Weaknesses

Non-combatant: Wylendriel's naturally pacifistic nature is actually somewhat compromised, but now she consciously tries to avoid getting involved in the middle of the fray. She'll do anything to get out of fighting in all-out battle to avoid the risk of going mad. Also, a lack of conditioning, training, and natural strength keeps her from helping with any of the heavy lifting without hurting herself. Though to some degree, she has to learn to give herself in to these impulses just enough and direct them towards people who would do others ill, just so the glass won't overfill.

Hedgehog's dilemma: She's distant and emotionally unavailable even to her friends and allies. It's ractically paranoia; on one hand, even if you're close enough to her that there's zero chance of you betraying her, she fears there's the possibility of her hurting you.

Foreign ignornace: She's was isolated in Valenwood for a while without much news of the outside world seeping into her circle. When she left Valenwood, she barely knew a thing about the other cultures outside of home except for a few details that are typically common knowledge across the world. I.E. Nords don't like elves, Altmer don't like humans or beast races, and Dunmer don't like anybody at all. Not even each other.

Cursed: The curse is a slowly eroding corruption of her soul. She gets intrusive thoughts, feelings that shouldn't be there, and there are subtle inklings of violent urges implanted into her nature, and the compulsion to dominate. Another unfortunate side effect is, when she finally does give in to this curse, the sort of berserker mode she enters does not serve her well. She is going to hurt herself. The body puts limits on itself in order to keep things like that from happening and she has a tendency to break them. The curse is a significant cause of her depression.

Wanted: Avoid Dominion soldiers.

Other priorities: She's still on a pilgrimage, and that might put her at odds with some of the party's plans. She's dead-set on finishing what she started and cleansing the curse from her soul as soon as possible.

§ Spells

Expert Restoration: Grand Healing, Circle of Protection, Repel Undead, Devour Health, Close Wounds, Heal Other, Fortify Fatigue, Absorb Fatigue, Cure

Adept Conjuration: Conjure Mace, Conjure Dagger, Banish Daedra, Summon Familiar, Soul Trap, Reanimate Dead

§ Tactics

If she can help it, Wylendriel won't fight. Aside from being a healer at heart, the stress of combat and intense feelings such as anger, misery, or fear actually has her run the risk of succumbing to Molag Bal's suggestions and her own dark urges and intrusive thoughts. Say she succumbs, though: there isn't any real strategy. She seeks to surprise and ambush her foes with unbridled aggression and a summoned, bound mace. Then she can use her restoration skills to drain away her foes' health or stamina, rendering them weak and helpless as she beats them repeatedly into the ground until they're liquefied.

Her mind is not so clouded and her willpower is not so weak that she cannot tell between foe or ally, so she will (at least for the most part) be able to restrain herself from taking out that same aggression on her friends. Anyways, in this respect, her "berserker mode" has her serve as a glass cannon. She cripples and executes her enemies, but is totally armorless and lacks the natural durability to take very many blows herself and lacks the strength and skill to stand toe-to-toe with a practiced fighter. Only in dire situations where she cannot fight an enemy on her own will she call upon Molag Bal's conjuration magic to summon daedra or reanimate corpses. Note that never in her right mind would she ever consider using such vile magic.

§ Relations & Affiliations

Wylendriel is a priestess of the Temple of Kyne in Whiterun, and is a rather respected member of the clergy among the locals despite her elven blood. She has not been there for very long, but she has proven her devotion and ability to the nords and they've taken her as one of their own. Most have, at least. Her family back in Valenwood is all she really has otherwise, and she doesn't even know how they're doing at the moment. Her mother, Virwe, and her father, Galandrel, are both highly respected Spinners within their communities.

§ Opinions

Ashav: He's a jaded sort of man, and Wylendriel is still learning how to properly communicate with him. She respects his station, but she's still too new to the company to have formed much of an opinion. Though she has taken notice that he's not a very lucky man. She foresees this man being her most frequent patient. Perhaps she should put him on extended illness or light work duty or something.

Niernen: Not much to say after a single conversation after healing her. She's a sweet girl, if a bit paranoid. Wylendriel thinks she means well and she sees some common ground between them.

Khazki: A royal bitch, but at least you can trust the fur ball to cut the shit and do the job. She earned some of Wy's respect when she ran headfirst into danger to apprehend Dawnstar assassin. Unexpectedly wise, if a bit jaded.

§ Other

Has a cast iron stomach and is able to digest damn near any edible piece of food available. Having a strict meat-based diet, some of it even raw, tends to build up your immune system like crazy. She has some resistance to disease and poison effects because of this.

Inventory

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§ Cash

10 septims

§ Keys & Lockpicks

1 key to the Temple of Kyne in Whiterun.

§ Tools & Crafting Materials

• A skinning knife
• A feathered quill and inkjar.
• Threading needles and a spool of sinew fiber.

§ Clothing & Armor

• A set of robes; water-resistant (waxed wool), leather supported, cold-weather (bear fur), hooded, seperable (bear fur)
• Fur boots
• Black wool top, sleeveless
• Black wool tights, down to knees
• A leather belt

§ Weapon & Ammo

Though not really a weapon, she has a skinning knife if she's feeling desperate.

§ Potion & Arcane Supplies

• 3 bottles of Potion of Magicka

§ Jewelry & Valuables

An amulet of Kynareth with a minor stamina enchantment, and an eagle skull hanging from her belt (a memento from home, also serves as a second divine focus).

§ Books & Documents

• Unsent letters addressed to Valenwood, sealed with wax.
• Several pieces of blank parchment and empty envelopes.
• A copy of each: Healers Fieldbook, Herbalist's Guide to Skyrim, Notes on Racial Phylogeny, Nine Commands of the Eight Divines, The Consecrations of Arkay, and the poems Hymn to Kyne and Kyne's Tears on single pieces of parchment.
• A book containing a compilation of poetry, alphabetically listed, from the Death Blow of Abernanit to The Warrior's charge, and all of the lesser known poems that came before, in-between, and after.

§ Food/Drinks/Ingredients

Preserved beef and venison, water, and medicinal herbs. Other provisions include a mortar and pestle, dressings, bandages, a splint, and a tourniquet.

§ Load Bearing Equipment

• A satchel, carrying most of her stuff.
• Five pouches hanging from her belt, carrying medicinal herbs.
• A waterskin, on sling slung over her shoulder.

§ Other

Wy has a love for poetry, and for no reason, she's self-conscious and slightly embarrassed about it.
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