There were gaping holes in her memory sometimes, when the beast took over. Her last memory might be Windhelm, for example. Rostara would wake up with golden-leafed trees above her, the ones native to the Rift. She'd be naked and bloody, blinded by morning sun. Her blood felt alive as it rushed through her veins like oil on glass, making the Nord feel sick, and this horrid taste in her mouth didn't help matters. A well-meaning young hunter even found Rostara there once. He probably thought she was an aspect of Dibella. It was, after all, every boy's fantasy; a damsel in distress lying alone in the wilderness, scared and stupid.
"Bandits attacked me." she lied, throat dry from howling. "Took my armor."
In truth, her armor was right where she'd left it at the Bee and Barb. Rostara always wore cheap clothes on such nights because they were easily replaceable. But this boy would have believed anything. She could've claimed to have been dropped from a flying ship piloted by a crew of Dwarves.
It hadn't always been that way. Rostara still remembered the war; she remembered loving her life as a soldier. But what does a Nord do when she runs out of things to fight for? Join the Companions, obviously. So she did. It came as quite the shock to learn that most of them were actually werewolves. They offered her the beast blood, and because she found herself purposeless and desperate to belong to something again, Rostara accepted this curse.
Colors nearly burn her eyes at first; the wolf can only see in black and white.
As Rostara purchased clothes from a Kahjiit merchant, he peered at her knowingly.
"Long night, yes?" he chuckled.
"Hold your tongue, cat, or a big scary dog might decide to chase you."
Where had that come from? What was wrong with her?
But the Kahjiit merely chuckled again while Rostara dressed and walked into Riften, conscious to remain on two legs instead of four.
The guilt was immense but useless. Guards killed; creatures turned inside out; unarmed townsfolk mauled...and none of it could be undone. She had fought for Skyrim's freedom, and now she prowled its shadowy wilderness. She ate her meat raw and never slept for more than a few hours at a time because her damn blood wouldn't allow any true rest. This had to be part of the curse; it wanted to take away all the things that made her human so she would fully embrace the beast's call.
But there must be a cure. Ha, those words were so similar: cure and curse...
Oh, Talos, what was happening?
Part of her, the human part, wanted to scream her crimes to the world. Rostara wanted to confess it all to a guard and be locked up somewhere far away from civilization. Then the beast couldn't hurt anyone else. Yes, that would fix it. She largely depended on her Shield-Brothers and Sisters to control it when she couldn't control herself. But that was like an addict depending on other addicts to hide the skooma.
Disappearing wasn't an option either since too many people depended on Rostara.
She was at war with the beast, and the only way she knew how to fight a war was with a sword.
"Gods, I have to be stronger than this." Rostara murmured, not so much a prayer as a promise.
