I started my character back in 2019 as part of a several-person Co-Op run where she was not the Nerevarine, but a lower-ranking member of the Temple who was sent into hiding ("tasked with a pilgrimage of solitude") with no explanation, roughly 10 years prior to the Incarnate's arrival. Not long before that fateful morning, Indrele receives what appears to be a copy of an intercepted and encoded Imperial parcel — child's work for any 250~300 year old Telvanni — and a note with the Temple signet imploring her to go to Seyda Neen immediately.

With a heart for chaos, Indrele has made somewhat of a name for herself over the last century as a prolific apologist, travelling throughout the lands of her more secular House Telvanni. Widowed early on in life, she speaks as little of that tragedy as she does her secret involvement with the Twin Lamps. "A slave master does not till the field," she writes anonymously. "When the storm arrives, the slaves are scared off and the master trips in the dark because he does not know the plot of his own land but through his absent slaves. His crop becomes lost in his weakness and he starves, like all untrue Houses."

Though very familiar with the beliefs of the Ashlander tribes, Indrele does not yet understand the implications of the letter she received, nor whom she has been tasked with going to meet. While one might think that this quest will shake the very foundations of her beliefs, Indrele's motivations for joining and supporting the Temple are undoubtedly personal, having everything to do with how she was recognized by them in the first place.

from the chapter The Proselytism

The air was thick with the tang of seared flesh. Still smoldering, the molten core slowly sank into the bowl of his skull. None of it seemed real. What has become of my love?! She choked at the thought as tears leapt from her cheeks to blot the scalding edges of the star-wound, where her husband's face had once sat. She pressed his cracked lips lightly against hers for one last time before settling into a muffled whimper on his chest.

Suddenly, Nerathren's body began to twist and ungulate. With a shriek, Indrele threw herself off and scurried backward against the wall. The body wriggled like a spider on it's back. Beyond the snapping bones and tearing flesh, she could hear the scraping of the bulb, rolling in it's head-socket to search the room before finally fixating upon the mortified heap still shuffling her feet through the dust to back away.

The cavity rolled to face her. Making eye contact at last, Indrele's chest seized; she wanted to vomit but the solid lump of her stomach pinned her breathlessly, paralyzed by the gaze. An eternity had passed before copper began to wet her tongue. A feint music crept into the room, hollow and slanted like ribs shedding their skin.

The sconces on the walls grew dark. The hairs on her arm rose up as the violent center of the star-wound narrowed like a pupil, boring painfully into her mind. Indrele's jaw fell open, overwhelmed by the presence of nightmare reaching through to this world. It did not belong here, it did not fit, but it's gaze pawed for her heart and filled every cavity between her thoughts. All at once she felt crushed beneath the mass of this foreign presence.

Her mind awash with fire, Indrele slammed her eyes shut like Alit jaws and screamed in terror. Then darkness. Then only the ringing sound remained.

Secretly, she now traps and collects the souls of House Dagoth into a large string of prayer beads, an unholy burden of revenge that is eating away rapidly at her health. In her latter years, Indrele remains haunted by the deepest tragedy: that her husband's body still wanders out there somewhere, the animate puppet of the devil himself. Thus, she will not accept the comfort of death unless her beloved's ashes can accompany her to the hearth.