She never did like Whiterun. The Jarl was self-centered, the local children were too bold for their own good, and the constant gossip about the clan war within the city made her want to pull her hair out. But there was a reason she frequented the ‘pride of Skyrim’; and for Signe, that was the Temple of Kyne.
The eye of the storm, the oasis in a desert, the first blooming flower after a forest fire. The Temple of Kyne was one of the most peaceful, safe places the Dragonborn had ever found herself in – once you get used to all the coughing and pained groans of the civilians who sought aid there. Whenever Signe needed to reconnect with herself, with the land, the Divines… she’d always come here. She’d sit beneath the Gildergreen and meditate, something the dragon-hearted, adventure-seeking warrior could never find the patience for in any other circumstance.
Under the protection of Kyne, Signe felt safe from her mind. Her soul. Where anytime she’d be left in silence she could hear her, Volzaannir, demanding to be let free. Feel her try and claw her way out, like a thousand burning knives raking down the inside of her ribcage.
But the power of Kyne silenced it all. Or at least, that’s what Signe believed. Regardless, it was an escape; a place of peace and comfort in her constantly wretched life.
Sometimes, she might even find some rest.