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@gcold, so I get that nothing was necessarily confirmed yet, but between knowing where everyone is at the moment and the events information on the first page, I figured I might as well get started. Then I couldn't stop. So, yeah, I got a little carried away. Sorry.
There might also be little spots in the sheet that might need little touch ups or editing, so forgive me when you see them. Don't gotta decide anything just yet, but I do wanna know what you guys think.
Female Bosmer | 60 | The Lady
Place of Origin
Appearance
Personality
Background
Skills
Weaknesses
Spells
Tactics
Relations and Affiliations
Other Capabilities
Cash
Keys and Lockpicks
Clothing and Armor
Weapon and Ammunition
Potion and Arcane Supplies
Jewelry and Novelty Items
Books and Documents
Food, Drinks, Provisions
Load Bearing Equipment
Other
There might also be little spots in the sheet that might need little touch ups or editing, so forgive me when you see them. Don't gotta decide anything just yet, but I do wanna know what you guys think.
Wylendriel Greensky
Female Bosmer | 60 | The Lady
Profile
Place of Origin
Grahtwood, Valenwood
Appearance
Her overall demeanor is unsuspecting; as humble as she is dressed, in the layered robes bequeathed to her by the temple where she worships her goddess, Kynereth. 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 agile like so many of her kind – with her lithe frame moving with disguised grace, fairly fit though a nomadic lifestyle, though weighing in at just 110 lbs. Standing at 5'5", 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 60 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 to steady her quivering bottom one as she tries her damnedest to stay strong, and an upturned button nose, as if to hold herself above whatever degrading or shameful – inexplicable thing, in lack of better wording, for she does not carry with her an air of arrogance or nobility; more as though there are intrusive thoughts that she seeks to prove herself to be above. Her long, silky auburn hair is usually braided up into a bun haphazardly. It reveals a pretty face in the innocent sense, what with 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 those Bosmer eyes and the array of sharp teeth.
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 torso and thighs, but otherwise leaves exposed her arms and her legs from the 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 can only lend more anxious energy to the smell of her hands. 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 slash around her throat. Any attempt at questioning these are met with silence and never answered. So gruesome is this sight, you may not immediately noticed 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 the back of her arms. Smaller wings are placed on her chest, reaching to her shoulders. Feathers it over both of her eyebrows.
A heart-shaped face bears a stiff upper lip, but perhaps only to steady her quivering bottom one as she tries her damnedest to stay strong, and an upturned button nose, as if to hold herself above whatever degrading or shameful – inexplicable thing, in lack of better wording, for she does not carry with her an air of arrogance or nobility; more as though there are intrusive thoughts that she seeks to prove herself to be above. Her long, silky auburn hair is usually braided up into a bun haphazardly. It reveals a pretty face in the innocent sense, what with 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 those Bosmer eyes and the array of sharp teeth.
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 torso and thighs, but otherwise leaves exposed her arms and her legs from the 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 can only lend more anxious energy to the smell of her hands. 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 slash around her throat. Any attempt at questioning these are met with silence and never answered. So gruesome is this sight, you may not immediately noticed 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 the back of her arms. Smaller wings are placed on her chest, reaching to her shoulders. Feathers it over both of her eyebrows.
Personality
Recent events have left her emotionally distant, afraid to get close to people as she does not want to put anybody at risk. Yet, there also exists an element of distrust, but not so pervasive that it can conflict with her relationships with people, just that she has learned over the years to put her own life in her own hands instead of in the hands of others. She has great potential for love, platonic or otherwise, but fearfully rejects any oncoming advances. Continuing with this theme of duality 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 distrust factor. Unaccountable variables could compromise the outcome, and therefore she would prefer to do it herself and take responsibility for any failure should they occur. Insisting to her that it does not have to be that way, that she can rely on others sometimes, is a vain effort. She is fearful of betrayal, 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 acquired, and only recently.
Wylendriel is not callous however. 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. She takes no absurd amount of pride of her elven heritage like the Thalmor do. This even applies to the Nords – she understands that she entered Skyrim during a time of fear and struggle. Instead, she believes that there is something to learn from every culture. However, she is understandably cautious while approaching Nords (or any mortal race, considering the Dominion's siege on the rest of Tamriel has left them suspicious of elves, and the Dominion itself wants her head on a pike). She also has a love for poetry.
Even through her endearing visage, it is not difficult to tell that there is something more beneath the surface, despite the genuine care she shows her patients. That is a guilty conscience, and it stems from many things – one being the doubt of her faith to her Lady. This guilt best summarizes her her real self. She feels guilty for making the decision of accepting Molag Bal's deal, and thereby choosing a daedra over Kynereth, and she feels guiltily about her growing doubt in the Nine Divines. 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 Kynereth'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 eating her friend. 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 the outcome of it.
Wylendriel is not callous however. 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. She takes no absurd amount of pride of her elven heritage like the Thalmor do. This even applies to the Nords – she understands that she entered Skyrim during a time of fear and struggle. Instead, she believes that there is something to learn from every culture. However, she is understandably cautious while approaching Nords (or any mortal race, considering the Dominion's siege on the rest of Tamriel has left them suspicious of elves, and the Dominion itself wants her head on a pike). She also has a love for poetry.
Even through her endearing visage, it is not difficult to tell that there is something more beneath the surface, despite the genuine care she shows her patients. That is a guilty conscience, and it stems from many things – one being the doubt of her faith to her Lady. This guilt best summarizes her her real self. She feels guilty for making the decision of accepting Molag Bal's deal, and thereby choosing a daedra over Kynereth, and she feels guiltily about her growing doubt in the Nine Divines. 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 Kynereth'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 eating her friend. 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 the outcome of it.
Background
Wylendriel was born in Valenwood, to a respected family that devoted their lives to Y'ffre in Elder Root, Grahtwood. They had taken the Green Pact and were loyally faithful to the religion like many other Bosmer. So much, in fact, their first born and daughter Wylendriel was made to follow the Green Pact out the womb, and she would be raised to be a priestess as well, and continue that family tradition, and be as respected as the rest of her family. It went this way for a couple years, but when the Aldmeri Dominion reformed again and kept a presence in Valenwood, they brought with them the Divines. Wylendriel's family did not expect her to discover Kynereth in the world around her.
She did not replace Y'ffre, no. Rather, the goddess only added to the enrichment of the Bosmer lady's world. If Y'ffre was the father, the state of existing, of only being - Kynereth was its force, passion, beauty and danger, she breathed the soul into life and made it beautiful. Life is essential, yes, but it was simply being - what would life be were it not the soul and beauty that made life worthwhile? This self-found philosophy touched Wylendriel so profoundly that she would later choose to be a priestess for her newfound Lady.
All that the Altmer's Dominion had brought with them were not so great, though. They brought also strife to some Bosmer communities. Rumors of purification spread across Valenwood, of isolated executions by the hands of Altmer inquisitors, mostly in the north. Word had it that the victims were deserving of such a fate, 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 for execution. It was also not unheard of some Bosmer to take to the Green Pact in its entirety. 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, thought despite it there was still the sense of racial kinship. It was depressing to hear of the Altmer killing them, but she followed two deities of nature: death and survival was 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 too small. Soldiers doing only-Gods-know-what, but it wasn't her place to ask or to judge. She had taken a path that had warranted some disappointment from her family, who worshiped solely the Bosmeri pantheon, but gained value in the eyes of some few Dominion agents who took notice of not just her intense faith in Kynereth, 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 pretty humorous. 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 massacres. They saw the Bosmer as little more than barbarians! When a close friend of Wylendriel was ruthlessly slaughtered, she saw these purges for what they really were: prejudiced racial genocide. They were the judge, jury, and executioner of any that the Altmer thought weren't good or "civilized" enough to be their underlings.
At the turn of her adulthood, Wylendriel defamed the Altmer's Dominion and before she could turn to flee Valenwood, she was briefly stopped by her family. The 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 Kynereth – what was 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. 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 once 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 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 Kynereth, 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.
It proved difficult to gain the trust of the local nords, but her devotion to the goddess Kynereth 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 Skyrim's most stubborn nords. It was heartwarming to find a place where she belonged. It wasn't before long that she decided to go on a pilgrimage to visit the Eldergleam. She hired mercenaries, Nords from Eastmarch, to escort her on her hike eastward and protect her from the likes of bandits or 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).
But all went south once they circled around the mountain, High Hrothgar. In the middle of nowhere, miles from any sign of civilization, Wylendriel was struck by betrayal. She was mugged, beaten, stolen from, and raped, all in the name of elven hatred. When they were finally finished with her, one of them slid their knife across her throat. Spat on and left for dead, Wylendriel was spending her final moments bleeding out and in silent prayer. First to her lady Kynereth, but she was silent. Thoughts of the circle of life intruded into her mind, 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. 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.
She awoke several days later in the small village of Ivarstead. Seemingly in complete recovery, covered in gruesome looking scars strewn across her body - as it happens, a hunter found her unconscious a couple miles out, 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 no longer felt at home in her own skin - as her memory returned, so did the same malevolent voice.
"It is good that you've finally awakened," it said, "I sense your confusion. I am Molag Bal, the Prince of Domination... and you are the servant of my will.”
Tears silently rolled down her cheeks as 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.
“Why do you mourn? You're a lucky worm! This is your opportunity for revenge.”
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.
“Know this: the lord of domination does not take kindly to being slighted. My servants, my possessions – they are MINE! They are not to be meddled with! You are now one of my possessions, you are my pawn – my hand of domination! To be on its receiving end is sacrilege... and must be punished."
Wylendriel accepted the daedra' promise for revenge, and with the daedric prince's omnipresence and guidance, was able to track her attackers with ease. A cabin in Eastmarch, virtually spitting distance away from Windhelm. There was no plan of action. Fueled by the daedra' power, she kicked open the door and caught all three of them by surprise - followed by horror as they recognized her face.
Wylendriel yelled in an otherworldly voice, accompanied by Molag Bal.
"You thought you could dominate me?" Wylendriel and Molag Bal roared, the prince's mind intertwined with her own. "You think you can hide from me?!"
Two scrambled for their weapons and one rushed her unarmed - she grabbed him by the throat with one hand with crushing force, and a green aura surrounded her crushing hand, sapping away the nord's energy. His arms fell weakly at his sides. An ethereal daedric mace rippled into existence into her other hand as she pinned the man against the door frame and swiftly caved the nord's skull in.
It was at this point that Wylendriel's sanity snapped back, and came to realize the full horror of what was occurring- but she had no control. The second and third nord came rushing. As though held like a puppet, she threw one swing of the mace and knocked the second bearded attacker onto the ground, and another swift swing knocked away the third - destroying his spine through the fur armor. Wylendriel watched but was unable to wrestle back control of her own body, only able to watch it move on its own. 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 the spectral mace into the nord's head until virtually nothing was left but shards of bone and liquefied gore. The third, crippled nord was later met the same fate.
When the deeds were done, the daedric energy that she felt coursing through her body dissipated until her body felt pained and weary, not able to support the kind of strength granted by the daedric prince's powers. Looking down at the three utterly obliterated men, now identifiable, and 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 - even if it was done to bastard men who betrayed her. She ran. She fled from the scene, from the cabin, as fast as she could - as far south as her legs could carry her, away from Windhelm. Until finally, she fell down exhausted in the middle of Eastmarch. After their deaths, Molag Bal's presence seemed to have disappeared from her mind. His voice never seemed to return. She prayed and prayed as her sobs soaked the ground, but the Divines were deathly silent. They'dforsaken her. She had to do something about this. Something other than run - she made a pledge to herself to reject the daedric prince. She'd prove it through a pilgrimage around Tamriel. By praying to each of the Nine Divines at their shrines, maybe she could cleanse herself of this evil.
The nearest shrine to her was a shrine to Akatosh here in Eastmarch. It took some looking around, but when she found it, she spent an entire day devoted to prayer in front of the dragon god's shrine. Even after an entire day of prayer, she head 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, 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; the city was completely overrun and taken over by an Akaviri army, thus 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 into the 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, closest one you follow the river to until you're in the valley, then go east and pass Cradlecrush Rock.” 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, and they were mostly Altmer.” 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, she took a couple days to travel to the shrine north-east of High Hrothgar, making sure to follow the river. Though a rather wet journey, she was greeted by the gorgeous sight of a weathered statue overlooking a pond. There she found another person in prayer. When she greeted him, he reeled back. 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 draw kinship with this stranger.
“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 in a pledge to a god she did not know, but also on Torvald's behalf. For his safety, his heart, and his fulfillment. She also prayed not for answers and direction, but for understanding, to just know Talos and who he was – she felt a guilty conscious for having ignorantly supported the Aldmeri Dominion and Thalmor, and wanted to seek peace on behalf of elven-kind. Her thoughts returned to home and those she left behind, wondering if they were safe or if the Thalmor had slaughtered more of her beloved friends and family. 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 signs and 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 Torvald 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!'
A daedric voice bellowed in her ears, "Foolish mortal, do you think you can be rid of me so easily?!"
Control of her body was wrested from her like a marionette on strings, her grasp was torn from Torvald's hand, and she was suddenly suspended in a crucifixion pose with a look of agony on her face as her screams pierced the air. Torvald could only sit and stare in bewilderment. Molag Bal continued, "The worm thinks she can betray me... Fool! Your soul was forfeit! Now what would be a fitting punishment...?"
"...I know just the thing!" He declared. Wylendriel's body was jerked to the side and pounced on top Torvald, who grunted when his ribs made a sickening cracking sound as she landed on his chest. The daedra laughed a spine-chilling cackle. "You Bosmer have the lovely little tradition of cannibalizing your kills, don't you? You, though..."
"Please... don't..." Wylendriel begged as she wept tears over Torvald.“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!”
"Did you think you could hide your fears from me?” Molag Bal snarled. “I own you. All of your secrets are mine. Just relax... and enjoy the meal.”
Wylendriel felt her muscles jerk as daedric energy filled her body with unnatural strength, and the daedric prince forced the priestess' body to cannibalize the Torvald alive as tears streamed down her face. 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 even endured. When Torvald's last scream finally cut short, her eyes stared into his as the slowly fell back and the light vanished. The energy she felt coursing through her body vanished as well, just as quickly as it came. What flesh still resided in her mouth fell out as her jaw dropped in horror. Bile soon followed, wrenching her guts to remove the last drop of fluid in her stomach that she 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 in her eyes she jumped down into the water to wash the blood off of her face.
Climbing back up the rocks, she stared at Torvald a couple minutes more before 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 accept 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 thought about setting up camp until torchlight shone some distance away, just north of a bunch of other flickering lights. This was Whiterun Hold! That was Whitewatch Tower! Another twenty minute of straight 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 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 carriage outside Whiterun 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. On Torvald as well, but her mind, in the end, always returned to home. Back to Valenwood.
She did not replace Y'ffre, no. Rather, the goddess only added to the enrichment of the Bosmer lady's world. If Y'ffre was the father, the state of existing, of only being - Kynereth was its force, passion, beauty and danger, she breathed the soul into life and made it beautiful. Life is essential, yes, but it was simply being - what would life be were it not the soul and beauty that made life worthwhile? This self-found philosophy touched Wylendriel so profoundly that she would later choose to be a priestess for her newfound Lady.
All that the Altmer's Dominion had brought with them were not so great, though. They brought also strife to some Bosmer communities. Rumors of purification spread across Valenwood, of isolated executions by the hands of Altmer inquisitors, mostly in the north. Word had it that the victims were deserving of such a fate, 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 for execution. It was also not unheard of some Bosmer to take to the Green Pact in its entirety. 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, thought despite it there was still the sense of racial kinship. It was depressing to hear of the Altmer killing them, but she followed two deities of nature: death and survival was 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 too small. Soldiers doing only-Gods-know-what, but it wasn't her place to ask or to judge. She had taken a path that had warranted some disappointment from her family, who worshiped solely the Bosmeri pantheon, but gained value in the eyes of some few Dominion agents who took notice of not just her intense faith in Kynereth, 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 pretty humorous. 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 massacres. They saw the Bosmer as little more than barbarians! When a close friend of Wylendriel was ruthlessly slaughtered, she saw these purges for what they really were: prejudiced racial genocide. They were the judge, jury, and executioner of any that the Altmer thought weren't good or "civilized" enough to be their underlings.
At the turn of her adulthood, Wylendriel defamed the Altmer's Dominion and before she could turn to flee Valenwood, she was briefly stopped by her family. The 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 Kynereth – what was 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. 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 once 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 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 Kynereth, 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.
It proved difficult to gain the trust of the local nords, but her devotion to the goddess Kynereth 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 Skyrim's most stubborn nords. It was heartwarming to find a place where she belonged. It wasn't before long that she decided to go on a pilgrimage to visit the Eldergleam. She hired mercenaries, Nords from Eastmarch, to escort her on her hike eastward and protect her from the likes of bandits or 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).
But all went south once they circled around the mountain, High Hrothgar. In the middle of nowhere, miles from any sign of civilization, Wylendriel was struck by betrayal. She was mugged, beaten, stolen from, and raped, all in the name of elven hatred. When they were finally finished with her, one of them slid their knife across her throat. Spat on and left for dead, Wylendriel was spending her final moments bleeding out and in silent prayer. First to her lady Kynereth, but she was silent. Thoughts of the circle of life intruded into her mind, 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. 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.
She awoke several days later in the small village of Ivarstead. Seemingly in complete recovery, covered in gruesome looking scars strewn across her body - as it happens, a hunter found her unconscious a couple miles out, 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 no longer felt at home in her own skin - as her memory returned, so did the same malevolent voice.
"It is good that you've finally awakened," it said, "I sense your confusion. I am Molag Bal, the Prince of Domination... and you are the servant of my will.”
Tears silently rolled down her cheeks as 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.
“Why do you mourn? You're a lucky worm! This is your opportunity for revenge.”
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.
“Know this: the lord of domination does not take kindly to being slighted. My servants, my possessions – they are MINE! They are not to be meddled with! You are now one of my possessions, you are my pawn – my hand of domination! To be on its receiving end is sacrilege... and must be punished."
Wylendriel accepted the daedra' promise for revenge, and with the daedric prince's omnipresence and guidance, was able to track her attackers with ease. A cabin in Eastmarch, virtually spitting distance away from Windhelm. There was no plan of action. Fueled by the daedra' power, she kicked open the door and caught all three of them by surprise - followed by horror as they recognized her face.
Wylendriel yelled in an otherworldly voice, accompanied by Molag Bal.
"You thought you could dominate me?" Wylendriel and Molag Bal roared, the prince's mind intertwined with her own. "You think you can hide from me?!"
Two scrambled for their weapons and one rushed her unarmed - she grabbed him by the throat with one hand with crushing force, and a green aura surrounded her crushing hand, sapping away the nord's energy. His arms fell weakly at his sides. An ethereal daedric mace rippled into existence into her other hand as she pinned the man against the door frame and swiftly caved the nord's skull in.
It was at this point that Wylendriel's sanity snapped back, and came to realize the full horror of what was occurring- but she had no control. The second and third nord came rushing. As though held like a puppet, she threw one swing of the mace and knocked the second bearded attacker onto the ground, and another swift swing knocked away the third - destroying his spine through the fur armor. Wylendriel watched but was unable to wrestle back control of her own body, only able to watch it move on its own. 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 the spectral mace into the nord's head until virtually nothing was left but shards of bone and liquefied gore. The third, crippled nord was later met the same fate.
When the deeds were done, the daedric energy that she felt coursing through her body dissipated until her body felt pained and weary, not able to support the kind of strength granted by the daedric prince's powers. Looking down at the three utterly obliterated men, now identifiable, and 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 - even if it was done to bastard men who betrayed her. She ran. She fled from the scene, from the cabin, as fast as she could - as far south as her legs could carry her, away from Windhelm. Until finally, she fell down exhausted in the middle of Eastmarch. After their deaths, Molag Bal's presence seemed to have disappeared from her mind. His voice never seemed to return. She prayed and prayed as her sobs soaked the ground, but the Divines were deathly silent. They'dforsaken her. She had to do something about this. Something other than run - she made a pledge to herself to reject the daedric prince. She'd prove it through a pilgrimage around Tamriel. By praying to each of the Nine Divines at their shrines, maybe she could cleanse herself of this evil.
The nearest shrine to her was a shrine to Akatosh here in Eastmarch. It took some looking around, but when she found it, she spent an entire day devoted to prayer in front of the dragon god's shrine. Even after an entire day of prayer, she head 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, 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; the city was completely overrun and taken over by an Akaviri army, thus 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 into the 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, closest one you follow the river to until you're in the valley, then go east and pass Cradlecrush Rock.” 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, and they were mostly Altmer.” 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, she took a couple days to travel to the shrine north-east of High Hrothgar, making sure to follow the river. Though a rather wet journey, she was greeted by the gorgeous sight of a weathered statue overlooking a pond. There she found another person in prayer. When she greeted him, he reeled back. 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 draw kinship with this stranger.
“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 in a pledge to a god she did not know, but also on Torvald's behalf. For his safety, his heart, and his fulfillment. She also prayed not for answers and direction, but for understanding, to just know Talos and who he was – she felt a guilty conscious for having ignorantly supported the Aldmeri Dominion and Thalmor, and wanted to seek peace on behalf of elven-kind. Her thoughts returned to home and those she left behind, wondering if they were safe or if the Thalmor had slaughtered more of her beloved friends and family. 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 signs and 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 Torvald 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!'
A daedric voice bellowed in her ears, "Foolish mortal, do you think you can be rid of me so easily?!"
Control of her body was wrested from her like a marionette on strings, her grasp was torn from Torvald's hand, and she was suddenly suspended in a crucifixion pose with a look of agony on her face as her screams pierced the air. Torvald could only sit and stare in bewilderment. Molag Bal continued, "The worm thinks she can betray me... Fool! Your soul was forfeit! Now what would be a fitting punishment...?"
"...I know just the thing!" He declared. Wylendriel's body was jerked to the side and pounced on top Torvald, who grunted when his ribs made a sickening cracking sound as she landed on his chest. The daedra laughed a spine-chilling cackle. "You Bosmer have the lovely little tradition of cannibalizing your kills, don't you? You, though..."
"Please... don't..." Wylendriel begged as she wept tears over Torvald.“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!”
"Did you think you could hide your fears from me?” Molag Bal snarled. “I own you. All of your secrets are mine. Just relax... and enjoy the meal.”
Wylendriel felt her muscles jerk as daedric energy filled her body with unnatural strength, and the daedric prince forced the priestess' body to cannibalize the Torvald alive as tears streamed down her face. 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 even endured. When Torvald's last scream finally cut short, her eyes stared into his as the slowly fell back and the light vanished. The energy she felt coursing through her body vanished as well, just as quickly as it came. What flesh still resided in her mouth fell out as her jaw dropped in horror. Bile soon followed, wrenching her guts to remove the last drop of fluid in her stomach that she 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 in her eyes she jumped down into the water to wash the blood off of her face.
Climbing back up the rocks, she stared at Torvald a couple minutes more before 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 accept 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 thought about setting up camp until torchlight shone some distance away, just north of a bunch of other flickering lights. This was Whiterun Hold! That was Whitewatch Tower! Another twenty minute of straight 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 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 carriage outside Whiterun 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. On Torvald as well, but her mind, in the end, always returned to home. Back to Valenwood.
Capabilities
Skills
Expert: Restoration – (Wylendriel's long time commitment to Kynereth 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 – (One of Molag Bal's "gifts". These spells she doesn't practically know, and she actually would struggle learning them. Rather, you could say that this is a result of the daedric prince's power, imparting some of his intuitive knowledge unto her, and chooses what she is allowed to cast assuming she has the magicka reserves for it. 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.)
Apprentice: 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 filling her with unnatural strength at select moments, like that of an angry orc, 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.)
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 – (One of Molag Bal's "gifts". These spells she doesn't practically know, and she actually would struggle learning them. Rather, you could say that this is a result of the daedric prince's power, imparting some of his intuitive knowledge unto her, and chooses what she is allowed to cast assuming she has the magicka reserves for it. 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.)
Apprentice: 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 filling her with unnatural strength at select moments, like that of an angry orc, 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-combat: Wylendriel is pacifistic in nature, but also consciously tries to avoid getting involved in the fray as much as possible. She'll do anything to get out of that situation. Also, a lack of conditioning and natural strength keeps her from helping with any of the heavy lifting.
Hedgehog's dilemma: She's distant and emotionally unavailable even to her friends and allies. It's different parts 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: I mean, there's always the chance of her trying to kill her friends in their sleep, and that's gotta suck pretty hard.
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.
Hedgehog's dilemma: She's distant and emotionally unavailable even to her friends and allies. It's different parts 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: I mean, there's always the chance of her trying to kill her friends in their sleep, and that's gotta suck pretty hard.
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
Adept: Conjuration !
^ Isn't normally used. She actually knows this spell, but only applies it while under Molag Bal's curse.
* Re-flavored as a blessing of Kynereth. Re-purposed so that it can be cast on others.
! Wylendriel cannot naturally cast any spell under this school, only while under Molag Bal's curse.
- Expert: Grand Healing
- Expert: Circle of Protection
- Expert: Repel Undead
- Expert: Devour Health^
- Adept: Close Wounds
- Adept: Heal Other
- Adept: Greater Ward
- Adept: Cure Disease
- Apprentice: Healing Hands
- Apprentice: Fast Healing
- Apprentice: Cure Poison
- Apprentice: Cure Paralysis
- Apprentice: Greater Fortify Fatigue*
- Novice: Healing
- Novice: Absorb Fatigue^
Adept: Conjuration !
- Adept: Conjure Mace
- Adept: Conjure Dremora Caitiff
- Apprentice: Reanimate Corpse
- Apprentice: Soul Trap
- Apprentice: Summon Scamp
^ Isn't normally used. She actually knows this spell, but only applies it while under Molag Bal's curse.
* Re-flavored as a blessing of Kynereth. Re-purposed so that it can be cast on others.
! Wylendriel cannot naturally cast any spell under this school, only while under Molag Bal's curse.
Tactics
If she can help it, Wylendriel won't. 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 curse, serving as further encouragement to avoid the fray. Say she succumbs, though: she calls upon daedric strength to overpower her foes and also summons a 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 liquified. As an unwilling agent of the Prince of Domination, his will serves him to have her do just that. Her mind is not so clouded and her willpower not so weak that she cannot tell between foe or ally – not unless Molag Bal takes direct control and punishes her for one reason or another. Anyways, in this respect, her "hulk mode" has her serve as a glass cannon. Crippling and executing enemies, but totally armorless and lacks the natural durability to take very many blows herself. Only in dire situations where she cannot fight an enemy or horde of enemies on her own will she call upon conjuration magic to summon dremoras or reanimate corpses. Note that this is not done on her own accord, and never in her right mind would she consider using such vile magic.
Relations and 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.
N/A
Other Capabilities
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
Cash
Her last 10 Septims
Keys and Lockpicks
Only the key to the Temple of Kyne in Whiterun.
Clothing and 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 and Ammunition
It's not really a weapon, but she has a skinning knife if she's feeling desperate.
Potion and Arcane Supplies
- 3 bottles of Potion of Magicka
- 1 Scroll of Banish Daedra
Jewelry and Novelty Items
An amulet of Kynereth 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 and 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, Provisions
Preserved beef and venison, water, medicinal herbs, 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
- A feathered quill and inkjar.
- Threading needles and a spool of sinew fiber.
