Leiorei Vierich

The leathers she dons are not ICly those earned from the Dark Brotherhood. The knives are not present, and it's very worn (and a little stained) with age. It's held together, in places, by shoddy stitches, though at least the color is nearly the same as that of the leather surrounding it.

She bears quite a few scars from the most recent years, a couple seeming to have been cauterized.

Lei hates what she's become. She blames herself for all that has happened to her, and the pain she's caused others. There was once a time when she truly believed in goodness, that she felt no deeper desire than to right what wrongs she could, in the world, particularly those that affected individuals deeply and quietly. She was a fierce soldier, a reliable, true friend, and a woman of strength of will. She hasn't forgotten any of this, though her mind has managed to turn those facts around on her.

She likes to read (though hasn't done so much in years). Adventures, romances, and purely informational texts are her favorites. While being at sea once gave her great joy, she now finds a need to distract herself aboard ships; the means of travel doesn't scare her, though it brings back memories she'd rather keep filed away. She enjoys gambling when she's in high spirits, and rowdy taverns, though she avoids the latter if she hasn't had her fix, recently enough.

She never used to care for fire (as, in her mind, it equaled death and destruction), but in the years since she's taken to it, she's come to appreciate it, especially in her times of need. It became protection, warmth, a means of caring for herself. She learned to cauterize wounds, and playing with it has become a means of therapy for her. It is simply a part of her, an extension of her being. In a way, the fire she creates is her very soul, the one thing that came to her in her darkest time, the one thing that has protected her since.

When she's high, Lei is relaxed, but distant. Her mind becomes hazy with settling numbness. She tries to keep the consumption of skooma to a minimum, to merely sate her need well enough to function, though it's a difficult fight, for her. When she gives in or finds herself needing it to repress a deep wave of depression or anxiety, she generally finds what she would deem a 'safe place', and allows the numbness to take her, becoming quite unresponsive.

When going through withdrawal -- especially after a day or two without skooma -- she's quick to anger, shoving emotions aside the best she can to unintentionally make way for cruelty, aggression, and violence. That anger helps her to cope, despite a small voice in her reminding her of the pain she causes others in such a mindset.

As her father, Zerithrien, and his before him, Leiorei always had a natural talent for fire. However, she never took to it due to her strong belief that it represented death and destruction, even despite her father's attempts at convincing her otherwise. She likewise had strong, unwavering faith in Arkay from young childhood, fascinated with the stories and enraptured by the good will of his followers. It was from her mother -- both she and her father agree -- that she inherited this trait, and it was for that reason that Zerithrien supported her decision to follow the faith rather than that of his own bloodline, allowing her to honor the memory of her mother the best way she could.

She wanted to become a templar, to fight for the people of her heritage. Once she was of age, she trained, and was eventually allowed onto the front lines with a sword and shield, offering immediate healing to the allies she fought beside, and deeper healing once combat subsided. She was proud of her work, glad that she could do something that felt so rewarding, but it still felt nice to visit home when she had leave.

It was in her twentieth year that her course changed. She'd returned to Anvil to see her father. While waiting for him to return home, she stopped at the tavern. She wore clothing she'd forgotten the feel of, and she felt freer than she ever had in her life. Her bit of celebration for her temporary return, however, was jostled by a particularly down-looking mer on his own. The look in his eyes, even from her angle, was one she recognized well: Hopelessness. Before the thought even truly crossed her mind, she was rising, and soon taking up seat with him.

With effort, she got him talking. During the hours she spent there, he gradually told her his story: An ex-lover, a poor parting, and an unborn child he'd never meet. He let it slip that he planned to jump from his ship once they were deep in the ocean, and he made her promise not to tell his crew.

Leiorei, being who she was, wasn't going to give up on him. Her heart was warm, and she convinced him to give her a chance, that if she was wrong, she wouldn't stop him; she wanted to show him that life wasn't something one should so easily give up, that it should be savored and lived as in a novel. Every good story had its rich dark parts, didn't it? His agreement was reluctance, but he held to it, nonetheless. She didn't tell her father, nor the military, before she set sail.

In the time she spent on the seas, she learned a great deal. It was a very different life, of course, but one that she quickly came to enjoy. The battles were few, and that warmth of hers was a guiding star for the crew's moral. She didn't understand, then, the difference her presence made, the secrets that were kept, but she fell for that mer, in that time, glad to stand and work at his side, to survive the hardships the sea had to offer.

During her twenty-first year, the joy ceased. They'd docked and headed into town, a small night out for just the two of them. His confidence was high; he'd gotten so far with her at his side, and he'd become careless. He left Lei for no more than a few minutes, the whiskey he'd been drinking needing a push from his system. Neither of them had been aware of their followers, and Leiorei certainly hadn't expected anything of the sort to happen. Up until that point, she was only aware of the contraband he transported for the merchants between territories, a fact she had no issue with, so long as they weren't 'dangerous'. The slavery he once dabbled in caught up to him.

They took her hostage, demanding his ledgers, ship, and all cargo in exchange for her life. She was a fighter, however, and she refused to believe he actually took part in something so heinous. He'd treated her so well, so gratefully, that it was hard for her to even wrap her mind around such a concept, involving him. Fists were thrown, but she was outnumbered and without a weapon. Held down, they kept her drugged until a small, loyal group of his crew arrived with the ransom. She was released, but the damage had been done.

She and the mer, alone, made their way back to his homeland. The journey was quiet, the tension high, and she found herself unable to agree to physical relief to aid the strain. He loved her, but she'd been broken. Her faith in Arkay was fading as her withdrawals became worse, and his guiding light was dying before her eyes.

Not a week after they took up in his home, his ex-lover had learned of his return, though not of the woman he brought with him. The visitation was brief and quickly turned bitter; the son she'd brought in hopes of rekindling a relationship was handed over, claiming she could no longer look the child in the eye without thinking of him. Even through the haze and anger of her withdrawals, through the constant (thought light) slosh of liquor in her system, she could tell the woman simply didn't want to care for the child on her own. She offered to help raise him, for the child's sake, her mer's, and her own. She hoped his son might offer her a ray of hope.

A month passed, and the withdrawals weren't much better, though she managed to hide them much easier from her mer. He trusted her with his son as he left to gather a crew and a new ship, promising to be home within a few weeks to retrieve her. Without his presence, she fell, and swiftly. Caring for his son became a daunting task, where'd it'd been simply a part of her routine while he was there. Had it not been for a life she was responsible, she wouldn't have bothered at all.

Not two days passed and she tucked his son in, only to leave and seek out someone willing to sell her skooma. It was the first time she'd ever done such, and through her desperation, a man saw an opportunity. In trade, he took from her the relief she'd denied her mer. Thrice more she made that trade in two weeks, and it was after that final time she returned to find him home and wondering where she'd been. She'd never been one to lie, but one tipped past her lips without thought, coloring her cheeks and frazzling her demeanor. He caught it, they argued, and she told the truth. The blame for her condition was thrown his way, and harsh words lead to a sharp slap. He took the skooma, and it was over with.

She'd followed the path of good, only to find herself in a spot she never could've imagined. He kicked her out, her weakness and weight-loss allowing her to take the one object that mattered most to her: Her sword. Into the wilds she stalked, hardly able to lift the blade over her shoulder with one hand, with the intention of taking out her frustration. Her faith in Arkay was lost, her determination to do 'good' disintegrated. Her heart coaxed her into causing pain to others, to make her own, withdrawal-fueled anguish seem less daunting in comparison.

She attacked a caravan west of Ebonheart, and the hired guard turned on her immediately.

She should've died there, cut down in her darkest moment, but with her reliance on Arkay severed, a new instinct kicked in. As the guard swung her sword, Lei's dropped, exchanged instead for a barrage of flame dense enough to drive the woman back into the caravan. As it burned, the guard and the surviving merchant ashed with it.

For a long while, she stood there. Her victory was brief, replaced quickly with guilt, and then with anger, bitter hatred for herself and what she'd become. Jaw clenched, she retrieved her sword and continued west, beginning a journey that would bring her to question who she was, who she'd been, and the future she'd laid out for herself.

Leiorei traded her sword for a staff on her way down to Rawl'kha. Three times, she convinced herself to stop seeking skooma, and each time was met with a near overdose within a week. She couldn't do it, she'd ultimately decided. Her life had been set, and there was no going back. She stowed away and bought travel with caravans when she could, traded and purchased skooma, occasionally took up odd jobs for food and a bit of gold, and thieved when she was desperate enough to. The deaths she'd caused west of Ebonheart were her last, the strongest promise she'd made to herself that she'd so far been able to keep. The promise of skooma in Rawl'kha pushed her forward, and the unfortunate celebration upon arrival lead to her brief stay.

She was caught high, and she ran. Were it not for her slim form, driven by adrenaline, using the town's busy day to escape wouldn't have been nearly as easy. Unable to return, she headed west. She stole from a peddler at the Baandari Trading Post, making off with skooma, and while it was enough to carry her for a good while through Malabal Tor, the Khajiit she'd stolen from was clever. Of the five she took, one bore something more than she expected.

It was north of Tanglehaven that Tareth Drethan found her, shrieking and burning anything that moved too suddenly. She was terrified of the hoarvers, her mind driven to a point of insanity by poison slipped in with the skooma, a means of punishing anyone who stole from the Khajiit's wares. He was patient and kind enough to take her in and treat her. With the offer of a warm place to stay, it's the Fighter's Guild she loosely called home.