Disclaimer: Skyrim and the Elder Scrolls series belongs to Bethesda and all other respective developers.
Things were silent in Arcadia's Cauldron.
Aside from the occasional bubbling and boiling of the Alchemy lab just downwind, Arcadia herself reveled in the stillness of the Loredas evening settling in. Not many people wandered into her store to begin with – but she made a fair amount of coin by selling simple remedies. Adventurers weren't common, but disease certainly was.
Even though trading hours were moments from ending, she remained attentive at the store's bench. It would soon be time to look over her ingredients again. Though her displayed stock was long-lasting, there were the occasional few bad eggs – both literally and figuratively speaking.
She rose to take on the task, and was interrupted by the creak of her door. A last-minute customer. Last second, if she wasn't mistaken.
Arcadia's eyebrows raised as she took in the visitor. Draped in a ragged cowl, and donning worn and poorly-managed iron armor, was an Argonian. She had seen a few a long time ago – a group of bandits had ambushed her cart and the Khajit caravan she'd been dealing with. She was fortunate that her contacts were skilled enough to strike them down.
This one lacked the sheen and clear scales of an Argonian youth. He looked a little old – middle-aged, perhaps 45-50 years. A few scars adorned his dark-scaled face, with the occasional markings of orange war paint. His eyes were dim, lacking the usual alertness she had witnessed in his race in the past.
It was only when he'd approached her when she'd noted something – his breathing came in wheezes – not as someone who'd been on the run from the guards, but as someone suffering an ailment. Arcadia peered over at the Black Marsh native, who, noting her presence, took a step back away from the counter.
He finally spoke, his voice slightly weak with illness.
"I don't know if this is contagious." He admitted. She was surprised to hear a lack of an accent – it sounded like he'd grown up in Cyrodiil, rather than the Black Marsh. Arcadia peered at his face, looking for any telltale physical symptoms of his sickness.
"You look a little pale… It could be Ataxia."
The Argonian blinked, raising his head in understanding.
"Don't suppose you have a cure?" His scaly hand reached for his coin purse. "I don't care if it tastes like Skeever droppings, at this point – this sickness has been hindering me for too long."
Arcadia hesitated. "When did you first start having symptoms?"
"Perhaps a week."
"… makes sense, since you're an Argonian." She muttered, turning to browse through her shelves for one of her many concoctions. "If you were any other race, you'd probably be dead, by now."
"I… see." The customer sounded a little taken aback. Arcadia initially believed that it was the mere fact alone that had startled him, but thinking on it a little, she realized her tone may have been a little hostile. She'd most definitely stressed the word 'Argonian.' It wasn't intentional… it sort of came naturally after the stigma she'd been raised on and her past encounter. She was Imperial by birth, but perhaps she'd been in Skyrim a little too long…
"Do Imperials come to you often for cures, then?" Her customer shot back. Arcadia turned to face him. His expression was hard to read, but there was little tension in the air, it seemed.
"It's how I stay in business." The woman managed a weak chuckle. Her customer relaxed, in response.
She placed the potion upon the counter, labelled "Cure Disease." Hesitantly, the Argonian stepped forward and placed a small handful of coins upon the counter in exchange.
"… Do I have to sterilize them?" He asked, his hand hovering over the gold, cautiously.
Arcadia's lips twitched in a suppressed smile. Figures that an Argonian wasn't familiar with the nature of diseases – their natural immunity made them less aware.
"Ataxia isn't contagious among people, as far as I know. Only Slaughterfish and Skeevers can give you the disease. And if I do catch anything, I'm set." She added, gesturing to her wares. The customer gave a nod, before reaching over, uncorking the potion, and downing the entire thing in one go.
He gave a small cough after swallowing the brew.
"Is there mudcrab in this, or am I mistaken…?" He stared at the empty bottle incredulously, pinching the neck with finger and thumb.
"Mudcrab chitin and vampire dust, to be precise." Arcadia gathered the coins into her own purse, trying hard not to laugh at the man's wide-eyed expression.
"Alchemy always confuses me." The Argonian sighed, placing the bottle into a satchel that hung from his back. "I still don't understand how a poisonous giant's toe can make you more enduring against attacks, given the right combination…"
The woman tilted her head. "You dabble, then?"
"Out of curiosity." The Argonian seemed a touch more lively, now. Colour was returning from beneath his scales, which were earning back a slight sheen. He was a little younger than she'd first thought – the Ataxia had given the illusion of age. "I'm usually interested in healing potions, however… whatever makes me last longer in battle."
Arcadia gave a chuckle. "Even with the armor, you didn't seem like the warrior type to me." She walked over to her store chest, unlocking it to store her newly-earned coin. "You seem like you're at the age to settle down."
"I am thirty-nine." Came a slightly miffed voice. There was a pause, as the woman looked up from her safe. The insulted expression upon the lizard's face melted into a thoughtful one.
"… I suppose that is an age for settling." He admitted. "Still, I don't believe I'll have time to do so for a while, yet."
The Argonian sounded almost sad when he said that. Not in a manner of deprivation, but of exhaustion, Arcadia observed. This man had a busy life, it seemed.
"No rest for the wicked?" It slipped out. Damned Skyrimian prejudice.
To her surprise, and relief, the lizard gave a loud laugh. Arcadia had a loose tongue when she was relaxing into a conversation. It occasionally got her into trouble, and she was thankful that this wasn't one of those times.
"Perhaps in my younger years." His voice lapsed into a thick Black Marsh accent for effect during the statement, but he continued speaking in his more natural Cyrodiilic tone. "I gave up my lockpicking days when I came of age. Nowadays, it's merely travel."
Arcadia decided to take his word for it. Some Argonians had been known to dabble in crimes of sort, and it was hard to say if this customer were a fugitive somewhere far off in Solitude, for all she knew. Then again, any wandering vagrant that travelled through this city had that likelihood.
Benefit of the doubt was beneficial for business. That was how it had to work, sometimes.
"No place to settle?"
The Argonian shrugged. "I… just got into Skyrim. A week ago, to be precise."
"From Cyrodiil?" Arcadia blinked. The border restriction had been in effect, then. "I'm surprised you weren't caught."
"I was, actually." He was starting to look uncomfortable, as if this wasn't a topic he felt was worth being shared. The alchemist, however, pressed him hard.
"How are you standing here, then? A bribe? Did you overcome them? Did you have help?" There went her loose tongue, again. Farengar would have told her off, had she'd been in his presence. The questions weren't fast and rushed, but her tone was prying – for good reason, though. Arcadia hadn't been that keen on the border laws ever since they were instilled. They forbade her from returning home, so this news excited her rather than alienated her.
Death penalty be damned.
"You wouldn't believe me if I told you." The Argonian said, quietly, but firmly. His eyes flared, and she bit her lip. The topic was off limits. The woman stood up straight, having realized she'd been leaning forward in her excitement.
"… I'm sorry." Arcadia glanced out the window. Blackness had encompassed the outside, and the guards of Whiterun were now lighting the lamps.
"Closing time, is it?" Her customer asked, his tone businesslike. "Or… later than that. I'm sorry for taking up your time."
"Not a problem." The woman turned to face him. She'd enjoyed the conversation – she hardly wandered out of her store to speak to others, due to her high-maintenance profession. She only really kept in close contact with Farengar Secret-Fire, despite the castle duties that bound him (to her chagrin). But… back to business. "If you need any potions, you know where to find me."
The Argonian gave a nod, and a curt. "Thank you for your help. Good night."
He left as suddenly as he'd come. Arcadia gave a sigh. She knew that she'd potentially lost a customer, after that little interrogation. And an adventurer, at that. That occasional running mouth came with lack of prolonged socialization, the woman supposed. Short and idle chat was a daily thing, but maintaining it sometimes ended messily, in her case…
So she was surprised when the same Argonian entered the next morning, and wandered sullenly over to the alchemy lab, without so much as a greeting or eye-contact.
Arcadia merely observed the series of small explosions that resulted over the lab for a good while, before finally starting to suggest working combinations.
The alchemist could have sworn that her shop had rattled under the force of that mere Shout. She'd never heard one before in person, but she understood the nature of the Voice just fine. She couldn't make out the word. She supposed it was some ancient Nordic or dragon-ish language that she hadn't quite cared to learn about.
The few customers that followed the event made it a constant topic of conversation. "Did you hear that?" "Did you feel that?" Yes, she certainly had. More importantly, a few of her more fragile ingredients had, and now she had to restock on her wide variety of eggs.
So she was already fairly irritated when one of her more frequent customers, the Argonian, stumbled in. Arcadia was in no mood for conversation, but she couldn't help but notice the scalding burns on the Argonian's hands and arms. He wore a tunic, pants and a lightweight hood – and there were bruised markings on his shoulders, suggesting he'd only just been relieved of heavy armour.
"… Was there really a dragon?" She found herself asking.
The Argonian gave a weary sigh.
"Not so unbelievable, anymore, it looks like." He wandered up to the counter. "I don't suppose you have anything that would help resist dragon breath, would you?"
Arcadia pursed her lips. "Would flame resistance help?"
"Very much." The man unloaded a few coins onto the counter. "I don't have enough on me for a healing potion, today, so could you just give me a Blisterwort, please?"
The woman nodded in approval. Over the past few weeks, she'd been teaching the Argonian bits and pieces in alchemy – if not for helping him hone is skills, then to merely prevent him from wasting precious alchemical ingredients.
"I'll throw it in for free." She said, placing a bottle labelled "Resist Fire" onto the counter, grabbing the requested fungus out of a nearby box. "You're a frequent customer. Besides, fire resistance isn't easy to make."
The warrior reached out to pick up the potion, before pausing and taking a good look at the store shelves.
"…What happened here?" He asked in a half-grin, amused as he pocketed the potion. "Did someone have an explosion?"
Arcadia's sour mood returned. "More like someone Shouted, and shook up the town." She shot back, collecting the coins off the counter. She would have to cart all the way to the next town over – the Khajiit caravans wouldn't be in the local area for another month. She wasn't excited at the prospect of travel, seeing as the roads were full of dangers – including bandits, wildlife, bad weather…
… and now, dragons, apparently.
"…Indirectly, that may be my fault." The Argonian muttered, quietly. The alchemist glanced up at him, confused.
"You can Shout?"
"That Shout wasn't mine." He waved his hand at her, in defence. "Someone's just called me. All the way from High Hrothgar, apparently."
Arcadia raised her eyebrows. The Greybeards lived in absolute seclusion from the outside world, in their monastery. From what she'd heard, their mastery of the Voice, and their skill at Shouting was unmatched. She knew little about how it all worked (aside from the force being enough to kill a High King), but she partially understood the severity of the situation.
"Why would they summon you of all people, though?" She asked. Predictably, the Argonian grew silent, and Arcadia gave a short sigh. It was an unhappy balance between a cagey individual and the occasional intruding question. Whoops.
"… Do you know the term 'Dovahkiin'?" He suddenly asked, startling her.
"Can't say I have." She admitted. The man nodded, as if to move on to the next topic – but something in his demeanor changed, and in a moment, he was back on track.
"It's a dragon word." He explained. "It means Dragonborn… Whether that means anything to you, I'm not sure – but I don't feel like talking about it in detail, right now. According to the Jarl, I happen to be one."
He didn't answer any other questions after that, no matter how hard Arcadia pushed him. Yet in retrospect, the alchemist began to realize the heaviness of his role. The ability to naturally Shout, to absorb the souls of dragons and learn their knowledge directly, rather than years of honing his skills… the ability itself was that of mere legends, and even she – an alchemist who only knew parts of history through reputation – could understand that.
The Argonian – finally introducing himself as 'Trace,' – knew the weight of the role upon him, and she could see it was unwelcome. He remained a frequent customer in the weeks to come, becoming more skilled at alchemy under her tutelage, and was offered greater discounts on her potions, mainly on the days he stumbled in with fresh burns. Arcadia's life went on as usual – with Farengar, alchemy, trading and teaching. She saw Trace frequently enough to deem him an acquaintance and student – but hoped that tired sadness wouldn't overcome him, as it had appeared to the first week after the dragon attack.
She could only be a small crutch to him in his endeavors.
After all, the man led a very busy life.
So, playing Skyrim, I've decided to play around with a few characters during the game's story. These are basically a collection of one-shots that rotate around whatever part of the game I happen to be at. Arcadia's Cauldron is a frequent place for me to buy shit, so… Arcadia's featured here.
The nature of the one-shots is that the story is more or less told from the perspective of other NPCs. The Dragonborn of this universe, Trace, is just observed.
These stories probably won't be in chronological order, and will probably be of a fairly boring nature, like this one. Dungeons and battles will be referred to, and some will be shorter and perhaps sillier than others (and thus easier to read! Yaaay!). I enjoy looking at the world of Skyrim using the NPCs, actually – but the game's still fairly new to me, so if I've goofed up on politics/characterisation, let me know.
Alright. Thanks for reading.