Spoopy Scary

Baybridge: Halcyon Days [Superpowers/Semi-Sandbox]

<Snipped quote by Spoopy Scary>

... Not your strong suit.

@Mr Allen J

You're right.



THIS is my strong suit.

Baybridge: Halcyon Days [Superpowers/Semi-Sandbox]

I'd say make the character more interesting than Allen's, but I think we all won that trophy.

Baybridge: Halcyon Days [Superpowers/Semi-Sandbox]

Nah, he never slipped. He's always this bad. You just don't realize it until you have someone great like me to contrast.

The Elder Scrolls: Fruits of Contention - Chapter 1 (Completed)

Two of One Thousand Steps: Birds of a Feather

---

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

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

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

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

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

"I may know your name before you begin?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Saxhleel?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Your Cyrodilic name?" She parroted back.

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

"Why that name?" She pressed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"May friendly branches shade your path, priestess."

Baybridge: Halcyon Days [Superpowers/Semi-Sandbox]

Not your strongest suit. 😘

Baybridge: Halcyon Days [Superpowers/Semi-Sandbox]

@FernStone Max was murdered by (an albeit mind controlled) Cindy.

@Altered Tundra I think only Johnny and Jake were binded. lol

@Mr Allen J

So was JD. He was involved. Read the post, birdshit.

Baybridge: Halcyon Days [Superpowers/Semi-Sandbox]

It's tradition to start every Allen RP with a party that inevitably gets ruined by two dumb asses who just have to start a fight.

Baybridge: Halcyon Days [Superpowers/Semi-Sandbox]

---

_{@Mr Allen J & @Altered Tundra}

Regal Square, Prince Ed-Field_

---

---

The ice cream, as pleasant as it was, along with the setting sun and the pink glaze it cast across the sky - it was all but a precursor for disappointment. There are a few things that can cause a friendly chat to end on a sour note. Perhaps it sails into the boiling waters of politics or religion. An emergency occurs. Or, specifically pertaining more to this case, work calls. So by a sour note, it doesn't necessarily mean the two left on bad terms. When Francis put a finger to his hear and received a message to investigate a public disturbance, he had to leave Andrea in the meantime with the promise of returning. Andrea, typically, is very understanding of such things, but here there also exists the issue of the nature of Francis' work. Along with the number of threats which remains to be seen, there were just as many reasons for Andrea to be concerned. She must've sent out unconscious commands, for through her mind's eye, she saw apparitions moving restlessly toward the same direction Francis had gone. Curious as she was, she wanted a route where she could swiftly make it in time to see what was happening. As a result of that wanting, a chain had begun to form - apparitions were lined up, leading her toward the destination. As she followed this chain, information was being fed to her: public disturbance - two men, mid-to-late twenties - one, plain-looking - other, ostentatious - motivation... hat. This couldn't have been more ordinary, and figured Francis could probably handle it.

But she was curious; and it was harder to get away with knowing what happened when she wasn't there. It raised questions. So she went ahead on her own, and besides, DOVE might be wondering later on as to why their rally was disrupted like this and being a first-hand witness would indubitably prove her to be useful withing the organization. Not that, uh, she planned on using their broken noses to the benefit of her career - no. It bewildered her just as much that two dumb boys would get so worked up over something so silly that they'd disrupt a peace rally via violence. The irony was incredible. As she trudged onward, she could hear the thoughts of the two men as they scrapped. The opposite of what one would expect, the ordinary guy was apparently planning some pretty wild moves while the ostentatious one just had one thing in mind: go. Well, two things in mind, if the word "faggot" playing on repeat every couple of seconds counted. Incredible. He might've just deserved a missing hat. Interestingly enough, as the apparitions scanned the crowd, she read some curious thoughts: a third one entered the mix at some point. Third one had the actual hat. Oooh... so that tiny girl incited the fight. 80's pimp dude threw the first punch. The poor victim was no longer a victim the moment he perpetuated this silliness. He was apparently too distracted with trying to look cool in beating the pimp in a fight. As far as Andrea was concerned, the girl was a trouble maker, and both of the guys were assholes. No one to side with here.

When she finally arrived, she came just in time to see in person the ostentatious man kick the other one onto the ground. Andrea might've prepared herself to stop him, but Francis had just arrived on scene to put an end to this nonsense. He didn't feel very pleased with the sorry sight of the boys - but the feeling from the pimp guy, oh, that was a britches-soiling moment. But the gears started turning in the man's head, looking into the crowd - he was looking for someone - feeling of recognition. Idea. Message. All in the span of Francis' warning, too, so he clearly wasn't concerned with listening to him. Andrea prepared herself for dealing with some chaotic attempt at escape. That was all that was going through the ostentatious man's head at the moment, and her poor new RAVEN friend was none the wiser in what they were planning. Meanwhile, apparitions were all through the crowd. A couple of messages were being sent her way, some from the crowd itself, but one in particular seemed to treat the situation with annoyance, but had a sense of recognition similar to the hotshot's: "... You're an idiot, Johnny."

Within a couple of seconds, a great big puff of smoke erupted in the crowd. It created panic, and Andrea nearly had as well - was it a terrorist? One of those ZODIAC guys? Had this been a distraction - until it became clear to her that this was the intention of someone in the crowd, not one with evil intent, but it was the same person familiar with that "Johnny" guy. It felt like whispers were filling her ears amidst the panic of the crowd. The intent was to get the hotshot out of trouble! Though her eyes were useless in awful-smelling smoke, mental commands reached out to her apparitions to seek out those who she knew were apart of this scheme and keep them from getting away, not thinking of the potential repercussions (the risk of getting involved first and foremost, plus the fact she worked for DOVE when this was clearly a RAVEN issue, and was still but an intern). One, simple command with the mental imagery of those three men and one girl: detain.

It feels like it takes zero effort at a glance. Though she stood simply, there were three specific bodies in the surrounding area that were locked in place, their muscles, even as they tensed, were unable to move as though they were tied with rope. If she focused on herself, she could feel the faint mental strain it had on her. There in her grips (or the grips of the apparitions, which is an argument of semantics given how they execute her wishes all the same) was a well-dressed man, this Johnny guy, and the one on the ground. Curious... only three? The short girl who started this mess must've been quick. She was out of this scene as quickly as she came into it. She must've high-tailed it out of here the moment Francis stepped in. Andrea was probably too focused on the boys to make a note of her. Regardless, her voice softly projected into the minds of the three men as they stood (or layed on the ground) immobilized. Through her eyes, multiple ghosts seemed to huddle around each of them.

"This will be easier on the both of us if you don't struggle. You could strain something."

Well, that wasn't so bad. Perhaps a little bit more composed next time, and she could probably have a future in this sort of stuff... on second thought, never mind. She'd best leave this sort of stuff to the action hero types in the future.

As the dreadful smoke began to clear, she could start clearly seeing Francis now. Her eyes were glowing more intensely at this point and she was standing rigidly with a hand over her face, staring down the scene as the crowd was backing up away from the source of the smoke and leaving the five of them center-field. Jake and Johnny could be seen frozen in mid-stride.

The Elder Scrolls: Fruits of Contention - Chapter 1 (Completed)

Working on a nice, fresh CS. Also gonna work on desperately catching up onnnnnn a lot.

@Robeatics

My face thirty minutes after eating dairy.

The Elder Scrolls: Fruits of Contention - Chapter 1 (Completed)

One of One Thousand Steps

---

A lone horse-led wagon dragged along one of many lonely cobbled roads that zigzagged across Skyrim's fields, crags, and bitter tundras. Roads with grass and brushes growing in the middle of them, sometimes forking off into the same road and a dirt path pounded flat by dozens of feet - you didn't want to follow those paths - and it was years upon years of travel that created wheel-dug indents in these roads with no one around to bother repairing them. As such, riding these roads had become something of an art. Turn wrong or spook your horse, and you run the risk of misaligning one of your wheels or ripping them off entirely. It took a considerably lucky sort for an amateur equestrian to hit these holes in the road repeatedly with little-to-no-consequences.

Creeeaaak... thunk!

The entire wagon slammed the ground as it rode the edge of the dip in the road and fell back into it, causing whatever that rode in the back to abruptly shift.

"Sorry!" Cried out the driver in a rural, Nordic accent. He turned his head around, showing off a wide toothy grin with a piece of wheat sticking out from between his smile. He wore a wide-brimmed hat made from straw and dried fronds and blades of grass. "These ol' roads have themselves quite the temper, yeah?"

The occupant groaned as she wearily rubbed the side of her head, apparently rising from a poorly had slumber with less-than-comfortable bedding (i.e. hard wood). The poor coordination of her driver didn't do her many favors by having her head dropped against said wood. She had spent a few days on this journey, sharing few words with her driver as she spent the majority of her time either resting or in silent prayer. As Wylendriel clutched her now aching head, she did her best to remain positive with a sense of humor.

"You don't say..." She replied. "It practically jumped at you." She felt it was a good start. It was far better than the thoughts that kept insisting on treading where they did not belong. Thoughts such as, 'You think the road's temper is bad, you should see mine.' Thoughts of blood and pain. They were not her own. The driver, in response, just laughed and continue leading his horse with his reigns, and a repetitive "hip-hip" he seemed to blurt every minute or so. The horse was whining with irritation, but obediently treaded onward. Wylendriel sighed and let all of her tension escape with her breath. The temple encouraged such practice of breathing, for with each breath, you breathe in the wind, allowing Kynareth to heal you from the inside. The pain in her head began to subside and her tired body seemed to ease.

With the thought of her lady in her mind, she breathed in and relaxed her muscles and raised her face to the sky. She muttered a prayer under her breath: "Come to me, Kynareth, for without you, I might not know the mysteries of the world, and so blind and in terror, I might consume and profane the abundance of your beautiful treasures."

There was but only silence again. Still, she remained faithful and continued on with the second half of her prayer.

"Song of night-tide canopy - stars woven between your leaves. Crow's watching eye; snake's empty belly - moving, dancing in every moment... forgetting what comes and what is gone."

'Now there's a pretty song!" The nosy driver chimed in.

"It's a prayer," Wylendriel corrected with a smile, "its recited by Bosmeri followers of Y'ffre. It reminds us of where we come from, and where we will one day go."

"You aren't one of 'em are ye?" The driver asked. "Them cannibals?"

Wylendriel shifted in her seat uncomfortably, but stifled a nervous laugh. "Ah, no." She told him. "I am also a priestess of Kynareth. No rules exist saying I cannot worship across pantheons, yes?"

The driver just laughed and tipped his hat to keep the sunlight out of his eyes as they crossed over a hill. He said, "No, I s'pose there are none."

As they rode over the wooded hilltop, sunlight finally broke through and touched Wylendriel's face, and she took the opportunity to relish in its warm rays. Even forsaken as she was, Kynareth still generously shared nature's gifts to all who breathed beneath the skies. In the distance was just as much a promising sign: the line where the ocean meets the sky, and in the distance, the small port town of Dawnstar. A ship was at rest at its docks, and the people who lived there out and about. This is where she was led, and then... she had to retrace her steps - whatever that meant. The gods often led their faithful on epic quests, but going from here and back to Eastmarch (or even as far back as Valenwood!) sounded like there were incredible odds stacked against her. Still, she imagined it took a lot to impress a Divine... and it was just as likely she may be interpreting the message wrong. No mortal, man nor mer, should be ridden with so much hubris that they would claim to fathom a god's intentions. That being said, this was just as much a test of her mind as it was a test of her faith.

The wagon rolled closer to the city and she could begin feeling the salty breeze. Even in dead of summer, it felt cold as it swept across the northern ocean. As a traveler from Valenwood, used to the cozy tropics and humidity, she just pulled her robes around herself tighter. Northern Skyrim was uncomfortable in summer, and she could only imagine how inhospitable it must be by year's end. The wagon suddenly stopped at the outskirts of Dawnstar and the driver swung around in his seat. "Alrighty, little lady! Dawnstar!"

Wylendriel hesitated. "Um...?" She leaned her head out to still see the gates ahead of them. The driver redirected her attention to the refugee camp full of argonians just outside.

"Thieving wretches, they are, got to see plenty of 'em myself down in the Rift."

"Charming." Wylendriel commented in reference to him, but he seemed to have taken it in reference to the argonians.

"I'll say! Watch your pockets on your way in! And your back too, you never know what they might be up to..."

Without further word to the driver, Wylendriel collected her belongings and climbed out the back of the wagon and marched on without making contact with the racist moron-- Gods, just make it stop. Not her thoughts, not her thoughts... Not. Her. Thoughts. Still, why did it have to feel so... right? Insanity notwithstanding, she trudged on, but towards the camp of argonians refugees. The nagging suggestions in the back of her mind insisted her to ignore them and continue on her pilgrimage, to focus on Dawnstar - but she concluded to ignore those thoughts. Yes, her journey was important, but it wasn't worth it if she lost herself in the process. Her identity as a healer helped her to distinguish herself from her curse. Still, she had to wonder sometimes which thought was really her. Was it the corruption that told her to continue the pilgrimage, or was it telling her to help these folks in order to drive her off-course? She elected to focus on helping these wounded in lieu of this disturbing pondering.

The argonians, wrapped in bandages and smelled of anti-septic, look cautiously to the robed Bosmer woman. One of them, an older looking lizard with feathers growing from the sides of his face, raised a hand that prompted her to halt.

"Come further if you wish to help," he said cautiously, "otherwise we do not want any trouble."

"I'm a healer." Wylendriel explained. Many argonians whispered to each other, and although it was very rare Wy ever got to meet an argonian, their faces seemed to gleam with excitement and anticipation. "What happened to all of you? This doesn't have to do with... with the akaviri... does it?"

The camp fell quiet at the mention of the name, and the elder slowly stood up. He measured her carefully and spoke, "I'll assume you must be very new to Skyrim, since you don't look to me as to swim in the river of fools. Forced to age, yes? You've a weathered look."

Wylendriel simply answered, "I am on pilgrimage. News travels where there are people."

"I am not one to cast the Hist's blessing back into the river. My name is Tzinasha, stranger. The worst of our ailing sleep in their tents. Please help them if you can."

Led through the camp, she caught a number of stares. Many of them had their arms in slings, but at least they were standing. Some of them were even missing parts of their tails. She was invited into their largest tent and she was instantly treated with the smell of blood, medicine, and septic wounds. One of their worst cases seemed to be one that was coughing blood and missing an eye. Their tail was stumped and the dressings across his belly were still bleeding through. She grimaced. A missing eye and tail was something she couldn't do. Resetting a broken bone? Easy. But she couldn't create new limbs and organs.

"Many of them have high fevers," Tzinasha said, "this one is Vijan-Nim, one of our warriors. He personally evacuated dozens of hatchlings in the Kamal's seige... but I fear we may lose him as early as tomorrow."

Wylendriel sighed as she sat down on her knees and pulled out ingredients from her pouches and the mortar and pestle from her satchel. She took a piece of mudcrab chitin, a pinch of bonemeal, and strands of a hawk feather and gave the ingredients to the elder with specific instructions: "Mix them well with water and give them to anyone running a fever. It should bring down their temperature and kill any infections."

Tzinasha nodded and immediately went to work - they had their own medicine, but what they had was limited and they were still dying. There was very little they had to lose in hoping that her treatment would be any better. Meanwhile, Wylendriel pulled out a book, "Notes on Racial Phylogeny." She didn't have the opportunity to work with argonians very often, so the book's input will undoubtedly be of some help. What she did know, however, was that there was a general technique used across species. The trick was to capitalize on that method. Unfortunately, the book was pretty useless. It just suggested the possibility of argonians being similar to dreughs - pro-tip, there aren't many dreughs in either Skyrim or in Valenwood. The only dreugh she has seen was one next to the lake in Cyrodill, and she was far too preoccupied with running to look behind her to get a good medical inspection of its hungry, frothing mouth. This meant she just had to work under the assumption that, "Hey, we're all mortals. What could go wrong?"

She casted the most powerful healing spell that she knew and focused it on Vija-Nim's belly and closed her eyes as she whispered a prayer to herself. The tent illuminated with a bright light, causing looks of awe and muttering to spread - when the light faded, the argonians shifted in his bedroll and his good eye fluttered open. "Wha... what happened to me? Sun on my scales; my pain... my pain is nearly gone!"

The previously hushed voices, the head poking curiously in the tent, erupted this time with victorious uproar. This caused Wylendriel to shrink slightly, humbled by the gratitude they all exhibited - but also she felt fulfilled in some way. These people were hurting for so long with no real healer to take care for them that they must've given hope. Now she was here. It was in Dominions camps, almost like these, where she learned how to hone her craft. Was this what the Divines meant when she was told to retrace her steps? Regardless, she had to get her mind out of the clouds. She has work to do.