"Heart of a Daedra, Eye of the Sabre, Tail of a Skeever..."
Drelas names each of the ingredients under his breath as he adds them to the mixture, the rhythmic grinding of pestle against mortar like a sweet melody to the ears of a long-practiced alchemist. He pours the powdered components into an empty glass flask with immense care, then brings the flask to his nose, drinking in the scent of decay as if it were a delightful perfume. He adds three drops of spring water, gently swirling the flask to allow the ingredients to combine into liquid form. He cradles the potion as if it were a newborn child, then carefully sets it upon his shelf among several other similar tonics.
His ear twitches at the soft sound of a pick being inserted into a lock, hardly audible, but caught by his keen hearing. He remains still, listening to the quiet breaths of the thief, and the scraping of metal against metal. He traverses the room quickly, without making a sound, and presses himself against the wall to the left of the door. He waits there in absolute silence, until the telltale snick of a lock breaking is heard, and the door is slowly pushed open.
The thief slips in quietly, her body crouched and a dagger drawn in her right hand. Before she registers the second presence, he leaps from his hiding place, throwing her roughly to the floor, using his legs to pin her arms by her side. Her pries the dagger from her hand and discards it, the blade clattering noisily to the floor. She stares up at him, her blue eyes wide with shock and fear. His mouth parts in a wicked smile, revealing sharp eye teeth. He leans down, his lips brushing lightly against her ear as he whispers, "The scent of your blood is tantalisingly sweet, my dear. I must have a taste."