Spoopy Scary

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

Four of One Thousand Steps: New Allies
_{by @Hank and @Spoopy Scary}

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25th of Sun's Height, After dusk
Dawnstar

Niernen had tried to go back to bed after the performance review but her exhaustion seemed to have made place for anxiety and stress. She hadn't seen her brother after he had stormed out of her room, too afraid to follow him, and the uncertainty of what he was up to kept gnawing at her like a hungry skeever. She gave up on sleep eventually and crept back down into the common room -- which was still full of people, including boisterous mercenaries spending their pay frivolously -- and sat down in a quiet corner with a strong drink. The stuff was disgusting but the Dunmer would make do. She put her broken leg up on a chair, inspected the wooden splint and, satisfied it was holding up, leaned back and closed her eyes. The splint had reminded her of Valen, as he'd been the one to apply it to her leg. Once again his horrifying death replayed itself in her mind's eye and the look of sheer terror as the Kamal dragged him to the depths seemed to burn in her thoughts.

It was then that Niernen was approached by a Bosmer. The Dunmer looked up (though not very far, considering Wylendriel's short stature) at her and frowned. She seemed massively out of place; a tiny, timid creature, swathed in a priest's robes and exuding an aura of innocence, though Niernen couldn't help but detect the tiniest hint of veiled disapproval. The Bosmer seemed aware she was out of her element, at least.

"Who are you?" Niernen asked bluntly, a slight slur to her pronunciation. The mug of liquor was nearly empty.

"My name is Wylendriel Greensky. I'm a priestess of Kynareth." She answered candidly. The mercenary's disposition is about what the priestess had expected, so as long as she behaved professionally, there shouldn't be any turbulence. She inspected the bandaging on the dunmer woman's leg with an appraising eye, but seemed relatively pleased. Whoever fixed her up seemed to know what they were doing. She looked back up to her and asked, "Are you Niernen Venim?"

Niernen's wariness evolved into full-blown paranoia as soon as Wylendriel's question left her mouth and the Dunmer sorceress' peculiar copper-colored eyes shot wide open. How did she know? Surely, a priestess of Kynareth wasn't part of the mercenary company, so who was she? An assassin sent by the Kamal? Niernen's already unhealthy head-space was further exacerbated by the alcohol and she resisted the urge to throw the Bosmer to the other side of the room with telekinesis. She settled for another question. "Why do you want to know?" Niernen asked in a low voice.

"Because a certain commander had asked me to heal her." Wylendriel commented pointedly. Considering Niernen's defensive tone, she took it as a sign that she found the right person. With a sigh, Wy fell down to her knees to closer inspect the bandaging, and as she began unwrapping the handiwork of the dunmer's previous nurse without even waiting for an answer (while ever-wary of her patient's current... combative disposition), she continued with a faint smile. "Fortunately for you, even if you're not Niernen, I am expected by my clergy to help the infirm."

"So Ashav put you up to this," Niernen mumbled. She initially flinched at the Bosmer's touch but decided that having her leg healed by a proper Restorationist was worth the risk. Besides, the rest of the inn would tear the wood elf apart if she tried anything. Niernen tried to relax and tossed the last of the mug's contents back with a grimace. "Very well. I am indeed Niernen. Pleased to meet you, sera," she said and managed to conjure a smile, if only briefly. "Are you... with the company?"

"Yes, my lady. The company and I go back as far as... say, five minutes ago." Wylendriel mused. As she unwound the last of the dried, bloodied bandages, she caught the splint as it fell and took a close look at the ugly bruising and scarring. It looked as though it was patched up slightly with some amateur restoration magic and treated decently with medicine. The scars left behind indicated that it used to be an awful break, and Wylendriel didn't think she wanted to guess what did it, because she thought she'd probably be right. Mind off of that, she layed her hands on the wound, preparing to react appropriately to her patient, and muttered a few inaudible words of prayer as a warm light soaked into Niernen's leg. The discoloration was visibly fading and the bones beneath could be felt fusing back together.

The sensation of her bones mending made Niernen's skin crawl and she shivered, but that was swiftly followed by a wave of relief after the pain faded away. She leaned forward and took a look at her leg. "Impressive," Niernen said and whistled appreciatively. "Thank you, Wylendriel, and welcome to the company. I apologize for my reaction. It's been a very, very long week." The Dunmer woman sank back in her chair and draped her arms slackly around the coarse wood.

"So I've heard." Wylendriel murmured uncomfortably as she drew her hands back.

"What drove you to sign up? And what is a Bosmer like you doing in Skyrim?" Blissfully unaware exactly how personal and prying her questions were, Niernen eyed Wylendriel with bemusement over the edge of her mug until she realized the latter was empty. Disappointed, she put it on a table next to her.

"Oh, you know..." Wy started, choosing her words carefully. She didn't want her goals to leak out prematurely. It was still far too early in her career to illicit enough trust in her that the company would let her embark on her own adventures. She thought back, and recalled her dear old friend who had died at the hands of the Thalmor. "The Dominion was a little upset that I didn't cozy up to them in the way they'd like, so I thought the best place to escape them is where the locals don't like us mer very much. As for the company, well... I figured I'd do right by my lady and the divines to travel the world they've made."

Had Wylendriel met Niernen just after the latter had left Blacklight for the second time to see more of the world, the Dunmer would have had no problem believing the Bosmer's naive explanation. Now, scarred and embittered by her experiences, Niernen raised her eyebrows and suppressed a scoff. "I'm not sure you've come to the right place," she said, and then shrugged. "That said, we can use someone like you. After every encounter with the Kamal half of us are broken in places we never even knew could break. And then there's the fatalities." Niernen rubbed her temples and sighed, prompting a thoughtful look from Wylendriel. "Not that you can provide much spiritual solace to a soldier when he's being dragged into the Sea of Ghosts by a thrice-damned Akaviri demon..." She continued, then trailed off and her eyes glazed over, once again lost in the gutwrenching memories of the naval battle.

While lost in her trance, Wy measured her up. Though she had no experience with the akaviri herself, the look on Niernen's face - that haunted look - it was enough to further cement the terrible stories she has heard thus far. She firmly pressed one of the dunmer's hands in her own in hopes of helping her snap out of her spacey condition while providing some form of comfort in the process. She didn't really know that much about the supposed "living gods" of Morrowind, but there was a universal language Wy knew she would understand. "I might not be a miracle worker," she admitted, "but I've never met anyone who was. All I can do is my best. That's all we can expect from anyone."

The priestess turned her head, facing no one in particular, and was now appearing lost in her own thoughts herself and continued. "If I were there, I may have not been able to help those men and women... but what I could do is use their loss to strengthen my resolve, and maybe I could find comfort in their passing. Whether it's Aetherius, Sovngarde... or returning to nature and the Earth Bones - they're at peace now. If your ancestors are watching, just do whatever you think they'd be proud of."

She stood up and pulled over an unused chair next to Niernen, even as packed the tavern was, since the person who used to be sitting in it was now standing atop the table and bellowing his lungs out. She gave the rest of the tavern a once-over: it was full of mostly drunken revelry; some were sobbing, but they were held by either loved ones or even complete strangers. Regardless, they weren't alone. There was a grand scheme in all of mortality that the temple had taught her to appreciate, and finally, she looked back at Niernen with a smile. "The world's not all bad... but even these drunken louts need a hero. The fact that you've stepped up to the challenge says more about your character than you might realize."

It took a while for Niernen to respond. She was a little taken aback when Wylendriel took her hand and sat down next to her, but she decided to let the situation play out as it happened. The words of the Bosmer priestess reminded her of similar sentiments previously expressed by Leif and Do'Karth -- that she was somehow noble or heroic for her actions so far. It still felt wrong to think of herself that way. Could her stand against the Kamal wash away the blood of all those dead Argonians that stained her hands?

"Oh, my ancestors would be furious with me, I'm sure," she said eventually, averting the topic of her own heroism. "Risking life and limb for these outlanders? My own brother is very upset with me and he's alive and here in Dawnstar right now. Archmaster Bolvyn Venim, Reclamations rest his soul, would be even less understanding. And the Nerevarine has declared me a traitor to my own people."

Wylendriel hummed to herself in a way that sounded of intrigue, but mostly is was just a self-reflection of her own awkward trip. Her ignorance of dunmeri culture was beginning to show. She finally sighed and opted to resign herself to humility. An itch inside of her felt inflamed in doing so.

"I won't pretend I understand your culture," Wy said, "and perhaps I don't know as much as I should, given my station... but there's a scale larger than the politics on Nirn. In the grand scheme, we're all flesh and blood. If you believe you're trying to do the right thing..."

Wy closed her eyes for a moment and withdrew her hands, as though lost in memories, but quickly recomposed herself and exhaled sharply.

"Running away from home was one of the hardest things I've ever done." She blurted out. "It's also one of the best things I've ever done. The Thalmor were awful to my people. It's natural to doubt yourself, Niernen, but don't second guess what you know is moral."

Niernen's esteem of the Bosmeri priestess rose when she mentioned her own escape from home again. Perhaps the two of them weren't so different after all. Leaving home to prove her worth had been the hardest thing Niernen had ever done too, and now they were both in a situation in which they firmly disagreed with the rulers of their ancestral homelands.

"You're right," she said, though conflict was etched on her face. "I don't want to doubt myself. It's... hard not to, though, when my brother so strongly feels the opposite. I have always respected his opinion. He's older and more experienced," she continued, initially with deference, "and I'm sure he thinks he's wiser -- b'vek, what am I saying? He's a fetcher. Or at least he's being one right now." Niernen laughed mirthlessly and buried her face in her hands. Wy just smiled, resting her chin in her hand.

"Sorry, sera," her voice came through her fingers, muffled. "These Nord drinks loosen my tongue too much. I don't mean to bore you."

"Don't be sorry," Wy chirped, "you're hardly boring. We're quite alike, I think. I come from a family of spinners. They're... highly respected in Valenwood for their insight and wisdom - priests of Y'ffre. My faith in Kynareth in addition to the Storyteller was, ah... unpopular."

The priestess pulled out the long, skinny feather she in her braid. It looked as though it had come from an argonian. As she gently stroked the vane of the plume she spoke softly as though in thought. "The thing about wisdom is that it comes from living, and no two lives are the same. So you can't let another direct your life, even if they're supposedly wiser. Learn from them, but... nothing more."

Wy stuck the feather back into her hair, and looked warmly back at Niernen. "That was actually my first lesson in wisdom. I think it was my family's way of letting me know I was accepted."

"Hm." Niernen leaned back in her chair and stretched her arms out, wincing at the pain that flared up in her ribcage and wrist. "You may be some use to me as a priestess after all," she added, smiled, and yawned. "I think it's time for me to try going to sleep again. See you around, Wylendriel." And with that, the Dunmer woman got to her feet and excused herself to her room, hoping her slumber would be deep and dreamless.

"Sleep well."

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

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

Note: the Argonian Pakseech (Elder) killed is Tzinasha.

@Gcold

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

Now you're glaringly trying to get me involved in this. I GUESSSSSSS...

Baybridge: Halcyon Days [Superpowers/Semi-Sandbox]

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Strongriver Plaza, Hedgemount_

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Aaron’s mind was so engulfed in panic that he hardly realized Andrea approach him. He felt her touch his cold, hardening skin and move him into her lap. In his mind, he wanted to say that there was a severe danger nearby, but he was so overwhelmed that he couldn’t even put together words to speak. He breathed in rapid gulps, inhaling three or four times in a stuttering manner and then quickly exhaling before he started again. His face was an utter mess, but his arms had grown so stiff that he couldn’t move to wipe the tears and snot away. In his pocket, Aaron felt his phone vibrate. Remembering Lily made his mind only overload worse, and his state of panic severed and his shaking worsened. Cracks formed on the joints of his hands as he clenched them into tight fists. Andrea, after going to the 218 Academy and working with DOVE, could identify his status as a metahuman. Knowing what the hell it is supposed to be was an entirely different story, and to be honest, it was beginning to freak her out a little.

What she did know was that he wasn't getting any better. It seemed that with each passing moment, his mind got more and more chaotic and wild, patterns were out the window and, God, paranoid. She had an idea - whether or not it would work was up to question, since she hasn't tried it in this kind of context before - but if she could just… connect their minds, almost like the forums she practiced in 218, but maybe this way she could implant her own thoughts and emotions into his mind so that he could at least take a breather. That also meant that she'll still be feeling part of what he was. She watched his condition only become gradually worse and figured - what the hell - there wasn't much time to debate the pros and cons. Her eyes darted around, looking toward the apparitions and with apparently a single look, relayed this idea of her’s… and crossed her fingers that it would work.

The next second felt like a punch in the chest, and one of her hands immediately clasped over her mouth as she felt bile just seconds away from spilling out. A little bit of vomit in her mouth, okay, that sucked - but she'll live. She was more concerned with the man in the panic attack and looked down at him expectantly, trying to shake away the inexplicable (albeit familiar) sensation of dread that overcame her and caused her skin to buzz from head to toe.

“Hey, it's okay. Everything’s okay. Say it back to me.” Andrea encouraged.

Aaron felt strange as Andrea entered his mind. It felt as if something foreign, something not of his own, had wrapped tentacles or fingers around his brain. Though it felt strange and invasive, he felt some of the panic engulfing his body dissipate, as if someone else had taken up part of the load. He tried to control his breathing and found it difficult, but manageable. He coughed hard. Then he tried moving his hands. They moved without hindrance, and color returned to his skin. Quickly he wiped the melted wax from his nose with his sleeve and forced himself to take a deep breath. His breath was still heaving in short bursts and he was clutching his chest, and to someone on the outside looking in it probably appeared as if he were having a heart attack. He let the breath out slowly. Then he rolled to his hands and knees. He looked around the alley, then up at Andrea.

“Everything’s...okay,” he said. “Everything’s okay. Down the street is… some kind of monster.”

At the mention of the monster, images flickered into Andrea’s mind as Aaron recalled the creature - the Golden Throne being trashed by something unnatural. Her thoughts immediately went to alerting RAVEN, but then… looking at Aaron, she realized that she should probably move him to safety first. “Can you stand?” She asked. “I'm going to get you someplace safe. Where do you live?”

“I… I live in Roseview,” Aaron replied. He attempted to move to his feet, but fell down and caught himself against the wall of the restaurant. His feet were still stiff due to the cold wax skin. He closed his eyes and tried to redirect blood into his feet. Slowly, they loosened up and he was able to stand. The panic attack had mostly passed by now, and Aaron could feel the buzz of adrenaline flowing through his system. He had stopped crying mostly, though his hands still shook. He took his phone out of his pocket and looked down. He had three missed calls from Lily.

“Come with me then, I'll drive you home.” Andrea promised. She took him by the hand and helped him to his feet, which posed some difficulty given their vastly differing size and weight classes, and her knees wobbled a bit due to the load of stress she had taken off of Aaron, but she was able to at least help stabilize his balance. The two slowly started moving toward the direction of her rather old Mazda Miata, which looked as though it had seen better days. Aaron used the opportunity to steal a glance at his phone before they made it there.

“Are you ok?” a text from Lily read. He touched the screen and tried to send the text, but his fingers were still cold and stiff. He finally managed to text back, “I’m okay. Just worry about getting yourself home.”

”Are you sure?” Lily responded.

“Yeah, I’m okay.”

Andrea fiddled with the lock on the passenger side door, and helped Aaron down. Right about now, he felt his wits returning to him. He found the small space inside to be a tight fit, but given the circumstances, he wasn't going to complain. The fact that this stranger found him and was willing to help him at all was a gift horse he wasn't about to look in the mouth. She went around the other side and sat in her own seat, and placed her thick binder on her lap. My name is Andrea, by the way. You?

She looked at him and said, “My name is Andrea, by the way. You?”

Aaron considered the question for a second, as he watched her pull out her own phone and begin dialing a number and turn a key in the car’s ignition a couple times in vain, since it was stalling every time. Then he looked confused. “How the..?”

“Right…” Andrea muttered softly before Aaron could finish his question. It seemed she was reprimanding herself. “Our minds are loosely connected right now… Aaron, right?” It was to help you calm down. “It was to help you calm down. I can't take credit for the best coping methods…”

Suddenly unfamiliar images flashed in his mind, never-before-seen scenes of wet and miserable alleyways and corners of city blocks beneath the canopy of a cloudy night sky, next to dimly lit street lights - peculiar baggies exchanged, a girl in a coat down to her thighs and a purse at her side - the scene stopped there. Aaron felt like he had fallen somber. The images were foreign in a way that scared him. He felt as if he was watching a horror film in a different language, the true nature of its terrors veiled to him between languages. He couldn’t bring himself to speak. The panic inside of him felt distant, as if it had been spread across several people. Andrea continued, “...but I get by. I thought I could use some of my thoughts and emotions to distract you from yours.”

She turned the ignition again, and this time the engine roared to life. He thought he heard her say Finally, but she was non-vocal. She was was waiting patiently for someone to pick up on the other end of the phone. Aaron looked down at his feet. The detachment made him feel like he was high. It was something he hadn’t felt since high school, the comfortable but terrifying feeling of one’s mind floating away should they move their head too far up or down. This was a mix of Andrea’s own thought sharing, he figured, mixed with the feeling of all-consuming calm he felt after a panic attack ended.

“So, you’re like me, then?” he said very slowly. “You’re a metahuman?”

“Yeah.” She answered back. “I mean, the whole term is kinda gaudy. Being born with some power… cool… I guess.” Images of ghostly apparitions flashed in front of Aaron’s eyes, almost as if they briefly flickered in and out of existence. If he weren’t so calm, he would have screamed. “...But that shouldn't make me inherently more valuable than any other-- hold on a moment.”

A RAVEN dispatcher was on the other side of the line. It would appear that this strange woman knew a few people. Andrea continued, “There's a situation at the Golden Throne at Strongriver Plaza, Hedgemount - there's some, I don't know, abomination? God, it's gone ballistic… yes, I'm certain. Understood. I'm down the street, I'm safe... thank you. Thank you, thank you! Bye.”

Andrea took in a deep sigh and set her phone down, taking in the mental images of the monster she got from Aaron. Looking back him, she finally asked, “So then, show me where to take you.”

Baybridge: Halcyon Days [Superpowers/Semi-Sandbox]

All of it is actually Maxx's fault.

Baybridge: Halcyon Days [Superpowers/Semi-Sandbox]

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_@Maxx

Strongriver Plaza, Hedgemount_

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Down the road from the Golden Throne sat a building with a simple sign out front, The White Elephant. Though despite it, the restaurant was practically invisible. It had little to no presence, was interconnected with other establishments in the same structure, and appeared to be more like a dingy old dive than anything else since, on the outside, it didn't look anywhere near as decorated as the nearby popular haunts. Entering through the door, though, revealed a hidden gem. A savory aroma of rich foods and spices, while perhaps an offensive odor to those not conditioned to such flavorful dishes, there was at least no denying the quaint atmosphere inside. A deep shade of red cloth draped the tables, napkins folded neatly to hold the silverware, water was delivered to the tables not by pitchers, but by tall glass bottles, giving the restaurant an inexpensive albeit classier experience. The dim lightning could be enjoyed by recluses and romantics alike.

Inside, Andrea was seated with the company of her Happiness notes, so she wasn't alone if you consider binders and folders of records covering the drug history of Baybridge to be suitable companionship. To be totally honest, not even Andrea thought so, and sometimes looking at her own stockpile of work made her feel sick to her stomach... but then she would recall her own history of trauma and measure it against what she knows of the current drug epidemic, and its significance becomes too much for her to ignore. There is one thing that helps her get through it though: it gave her purpose. Some people, some much older than her, are still out there looking for purpose and there is no telling what will happen after the Happiness problem gets fixed. She might as well latch onto that purpose while she still has it.

She continued to stare down her notes, tapping a pencil against her forehead as she tried to make sense of everything. There were things that she knew for certain: conventional drugs produced chemicals in the brain to make the consumer feel a certain way, but it was done at the expense of the body. It broke down tissue and sometimes deprived key nutrients. Medical records of certain citizens have shown strong correlations between Happiness usage and tumor growth, which meant that it promoted uncontrolled cell growth. Supposedly they were non-malignant, at least in the sense that it wasn't related to cancer, but instead reacted to some compounds. It wasn't an exact science and couldn't get the samples to grow in the same manner and speed as one could post-ingestion of the Happiness drug. Even with a sample, the scientists couldn't make heads or tails of the real issue of it. All they could really figure out was that the pills were made up of mostly concentrated dopamine and sugars, with the center being what was essentially extremely dense glucose, or a glucose bomb, saturated in an acidic, but unregistered mystery chemical. The center was isolated from the rest of the pill in an indigestible shell of raffinose. The concentrated hormones would probably burn holes straight into the brain and create some early onset dementia.

Most of the information after that much started to read like Greek to her – she took the wrong classes in school to be figuring out biochemistry. The minute someone needed to represent them in court or give legal advice, she'll be all over it. In the meantime, she'll just do what she can with online resources. Anyways, one problem was that there was a reason for the growth and it was difficult to pinpoint how these tumors were developing to the degree they were growing at. Cancer cells typically developed in a body exposed to stress and an acidic environment, could grow by absorbing glucose, it was just a matter of figuring out the mystery chemical... Andrea narrowed her brows, then went onto her phone to make an online search, “raffinose”. Reading an article, it said “Raffinose can be hydrolyzed to D-galactose and sucrose by the enzyme α-galactosidase (α-GAL), an enzyme not found in the human digestive tract.”

She wasn't going to pretend that she understood most of that, but what she did understand was that there was something that could break through the raffinose shell in the pill, presumably long after the soluble outer half was dissolved. Then the acidic mystery chemical could be exposed, alter the body's pH and whatever else it did, and the glucose bomb could... be digested. The gears were beginning to click into place in Andrea's head. It took several doses before serious effects took over, but it could explain why a single dose would promote tumor growth so quickly – but how would α-GAL get into the system?

The hair on her body began standing on end out of nowhere, and suddenly the world around her livened. The apparitions in her field of vision were antsy, moving about, and Andrea could faintly hear the crying of a young man and the flux of his emotions were such that even she was nearly overwhelmed. God, this... it reminded her of the time she... of four years ago. He was right outside the restaurant. Quickly, she payed her bill and left her tip and gathered all of her research into a messenger bag and hurried outside, where she saw the man laying helplessly on the ground. She felt his mind beginning to slip. He was hyperventilating and in blind panic, but wasn't suffering any bad injuries. She rushed to his side and lifted his head off the pavement and into her hand instead. “Hey, hey! Stay with me now, okay sir?” She cooed in her efforts to comfort the man, but she'd be lying if she said she wasn't feeling panicked herself. “Look at me – look at me, try to relax! Try to stop for a second, then take a deep, long breath. Okay? Can you do that for me?”

She'd issue a request to dig deeper for more information, but there was so much to sort out in this man's head that it was like trying to walk straight forward through a maze. There was no doing so unless she tore down barriers, and that would be as traumatic on her as it would be on him. All she could do is let the images and sounds come as they came – anxiety. Anxiety, anxiety, anxiety – death, dying, fear – hate, hating himself, guilty, girl – girl left behind, friend – monster. An image flashed in her head of grisly abomination. Abnormal growths, blood bubbling to the surface from beneath the skin's pores, a wretched face, and tumors everywhere on the surface of this creature's body. She raised her head and her eyes darted toward the direction of the Golden Throne where the faint sound of screaming crowds could be heard, and soon, also sirens. No, no, no, no, no... there was no way, she didn't want to be right, but God... something was telling her that something was very wrong. Something incredibly fucked up was going on. She looked back down to the hyperventilating man who was in her lap now. His skin felt chilly and waxy to the touch.

“Hey, it's alright,” she insisted, “you're safe now. I'm helping you.”

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

Three of One Thousand Steps: Souls and Service
_{by @Dervish and @Spoopy Scary}

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“A job, my lord.”

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

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

“For supplies.” Skald repeated.

“I assumed that was suggested.”

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

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

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

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

“Crystal.” Wy responded, meeting his tone.

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

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

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

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

“--which you'll get.”

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

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

“I only require enough for living expenses.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fantastic. Eiric and Wylendriel can get preachy to the company together.

Baybridge: Halcyon Days [Superpowers/Semi-Sandbox]

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Ambiance

RAVEN/DOVE Joint Headquarters, White Coast|

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The previous day was something of a nightmare for more than one reasons. First of all being that it was a DOVE rally meant to promote peace and unity and the cooperation between meta-human and non-meta communities instead of breeding resentment, and it was utterly sabotaged by two dunderheaded men who just happened to be registered metas. That would of course send a variety of messages, one being that the meta-human community is not interested in being equals to non-metas, and another being that meta-humans are naturally drunk with power and ego that they think they can do whatever they want – it was a giant political quagmire. The one that was dressed up like a pimp, for instance, definitely gave her that impression. The both of them were acting pretty stupid, but mister “Johnny Valos”, as the processing told everyon definitely had a chip on his shoulder. Andrea could tell when he was struggling as she held him in stasis. The man was coming up with some plan to overwhelm her or something, so he didn't have any respect for due authority (not that she was in any way considered authority, but he wouldn't have known that – thank God anyways, there'd be hell to pay if RAVEN discovered her getting involved in their jurisdiction). Although she'd applaud his effort, she wasn't a stranger to stress. She was actually worried about the three men straining themselves.

Nightmare reason number two, the whole brouhaha in general nearly looked like a God-forsaken terror attack and, as a result, the scene was swarmed with press like they were starving locusts. With the acts of barbarism by the Founding Family a couple years back still fresh in the mind of Baybridge's citizens, paranoia was at an all time high. All it takes to breed a new terrorist organization is distrust, prejudice, and good reason – and this city had all of that in surplus. Not that Andrea would ever have to guess; her scrying on the meeting yesterday had already revealed to her that fact. She would try to pay it no mind. The burden of such knowledge and the responsibility of withholding it was well above her pay grade. Her job was to follow others around, write reports, and crunch numbers.

As for nightmare reason number three?

Andrea's supervisor, Mrs. Bayard, dropped a couple of folders into her arms, and looked quite frazzled with her hair sticking out every other inch or so. Andrea didn't feel as though she was faring much better than her.

“One more report and you're free to go, Pasternack.” She told her. Andrea sighed as she took them and set them on the desk she was leaning against.

“Another...” Andrea groaned. She looked as though she were spacing out for a moment and she spoke. “For... the rally mishap... to... relevant interested party. Reason for arrest.... bail. All the processing in between.”

“The line between your supernatural powers of deduction and the fact we've been working on this since this morning is beginning to blur.” Bayard commented. “Anyways, thank you.”

“No, thank you for the opportunity.” Andrea inserted, sounding almost sarcastic as she sat down in her chair and started reading over the papers. It is true what Bayard said, though. They've been at this all day. Technically, Andrea should've left two and a half hours ago – the 9 to 5 grind – but the offices have been hustling all day, and Andrea had the advantages of, one, having been present to witness the scene as it occurred, and two, had a knack for completing and filing paperwork efficiently. Not that it was a skill she'd ever find herself bragging about. Still, it was something of an honor that she was trusted enough to perform the same kind of work in litigation support and receive the same rate of pay for the job as existing employees. It was just a shame that she's been at it all day now, and she felt herself getting a little flustered.

“Being the sole eyewitness account in these offices sure is a bitch, isn't it?” Bayard said offhandedly.

Before resuming her work, Andrea shot her a look of surprise and marveled in a forced tone, “Ms. Bayard! Language.”

“Don't get used to it.” She remarked. “When you're done, let me know and I'll give it a once-over before calling the case closed.”

“Consider it already done.” Andrea droned, reading the documents as she picked up a cup of black tea from the desk, and cringed upon a sip. It had gone cold. She set it down and picked up a pencil and idly began fiddling with it instead, twirling it between her fingers. Her eyes seemed to space out again as she answered her supervisor's questions before she could even ask them. “You feel... doubtful. Suspicious... this document features requests almost identical to the local Department of Corrections case, so I can recycle an earlier report to a different address for this one. Voila, filler is out of the way... yes, it's legal... no. Not lazy... shortcut, yes. I know, it's not like me, but all discrepancies will be accounted for. Give me ten minutes.”

“This time it's supernatural for sure.” Bayard remarked dryly. “Thank you.”

Andrea nodded as her supervisor walked away.

“God, at least half of these pencil-pushers can't do half the work of a single intern,” she heard her think, watching her stomp off back to her own desk with Andrea's apparitions trailing her. Her eyes fell down to her lap, and a slight smile crept onto her face and her cheeks flushed rosy red as the faintest sign of pride welled up in her chest. She never imagined that she'd be at this point a couple years ago, and who would've imagined that this crazy ride was the one she'd be on? Now, she learned that every time life threw her a curve ball, she'd think about why she's still here. Her mind fell back to Poland, back home, every time where she had a family who was probably worried sick about their daughter. Andrea took a deep breath and captured the image and imagine the scent of home cooking. Łazanki sided with mama's pierogis, precursored by barszcz with uszka...

What would mama ever say about her if she learned of what actually happened to her daughter? What kind of mess she got into? Forget the taste of home, they'd probably disown her and forget to ever speak of her again... Andrea took a deep breath. In through the nose... out through the mouth.

'Now's not the time for that. It doesn't matter. I'm getting better.'

She punched in the password to her computer, “Let's get today over and done with.”

True to her word, Andrea spent a few minutes on her final report, and before long she punched out her time card and was out of the front door and throwing her coat on. Her sights fell on her car in the parking lot and she sighed. Straight home? No, no, she had no time get groceries. No energy to get any tonight, either. She needed some place quiet to eat to stop the pounding in her head. There was some chit-chat going on about a Thai dive – quiet atmosphere, aromatic food, affordable food, hardly recognizable from the outside – somewhere in Strongriver Plaza, down the road from the Golden Throne, so it wasn't that far. It meant less risk of her car breaking down on the way there. Taking all these things into consideration... looks like she knew what she was doing for the evening.