2. The Brandy
Anise's Cabin sat passed Lake Illinata, not far from the foot of the northern mountains. If he squinted he could see the forlorn archways of Bleak Falls Barrow high above, but to his knowledge, the tomb had been empty for centuries. That was the Dragonborn's work, he recalled. The story had been told to him by his grandfather when he was a boy of nine. Settled beside the hearth back on their farm, old Calrion Erisso, an Empire man until the day he died, swore up and down about the honorable and noble Dovahkiin, the Nordic hero who unlocked the ancient underbelly of Bleak Falls Barrow's tomb by use of a golden hand, and slew an evil overlord at the heart of the mountain.
"Fire and lava," Grandpa had said, "all raining down around them! Dovahkiin's mighty axe, and the Overlord's crystal sword, fashioned with frosted hearts from the chests of Atronarchs! Never had the mountain experienced such a duel - it threatened to upend the world on itself, I promise you that."
Promises, Daniello remembered. All of them unkept. And he wondered why I grew incredulous.
An old woman sat outside the cabin beside the running lake. Daniello shuffled his way over to her, louder steps than typical, else he might startle her with his habitual silence. Hooded, the old crone turned and smiled, heavy lines on her face creasing. "Hello, sweetheart. Are you having a pleasant day?"
"It could be better, my lady," Daniello admitted. "The bugs are nipping at me like a fresh-cut winter's veal. You wouldn't happen to have any recipes for ointments, would you?" Amongst other things, perhaps? Aging cream, as you might require? How about a potion to reverse your womanly climacteric?
The old woman, presumably Anise as Delphine said, cocked her head. A thoughtful look came across her face. "Oh, I reckon so. I might have just the thing. May I see your bites?"
Daniello drew his leather tunic's sleeves up and bore the crimson-speckled scabs on his arms.
"Tsk, tsk, tsk! They've made a buffet out of you, sweet boy." Anise tapped her chin and reclined in her chair, one leg folded over another. "Fetch me a bit of that Netch jelly from inside, and on the desk you ought to find a freshly mashed dragonfly paste."
Daniello glanced to the door of her cabin. His chest began to swell. Surely any alchemist worth their weight in salt kept a book of research notes? Ingredient lists, even?
He entered the dusty, dimly lit cabin. Each step creaked, and through the veil of scattered dust, he spotted a desk passed the rotten mattress - which appeared seldom slept in. The desk itself, scattered in ash and dabs of dried candle wax, leaned to an edge with stacks of books reaching to the cobwebbed ceiling. A step passed the mattress, and something shifted under his weight.
Under the bed, he noted. Was she hiding something? Daniello bore witness to more than his fair share of trapdoors, and the hollow rattle under his foot felt all too familiar.
He brushed a breath of dust away and snatched up a bowl of mashed insect parts, hoping in part it was all in fact dragonflies - and let his fingers brush over a grubby a flick of his thumb he turned to the center. Recipes for minor tinctures, ingredient lists, and inane scribble that wandered between the bindings. But does she have what I need…? He flipped through the pages, some stuck together with stains of brown, until he found a list of decoctions.
'Flowered Words, Honeyed Verbs! One pound of troll fat, one sliced Imp gall (mind the piss). Lasts eight hours, alcoholic, pungent - clears nostrils, but can cause bloody nose. Never use in the cold.'
With the grace of flickering candle,Daniello slipped the journal into his pocket. It would have to do.
Across the lake, between the valley of mountain and lake, the sun began to set along the horizon. Daniello sat himself at Anise's side.
"Perfect, dear. Did you find everything with ease?"
His lips peeled back into a smile. Much too ease. "Indeed, my lady."
The truth of it was, and as much as he loathed to admit it… It could be said that life never blessed Daniello with much. His mother had always been quick to remind him how much better he had it than others; weak Orc children were eaten by their mothers, and some children never owned a bed to sleep in, or a meal to fill their bellies. In spite of that, no matter how true her claims, it could not be denied that life had left him wanting, and with that bottomless urgency, known by all whom ever dared to want, Daniello had little flavor in settling for less. But more came with a price. At the foundation of every mighty economy, Daniello's father once said, one cannot argue that it began with a lie. In his heart, with the equal certainty of a zealous priest, he knew that if what he wanted lay at the end of hundred, or even a thousand lies, he would not hesitate to tell them all.
No, it did not shame him.
Haggling for troll fat under a mist of rain, however, did shame him. A pound of the blubber came at the cost of most of his coffers, and after roaming the road to Whiterun, he found a band of Khajiit with great burlap sacks willing to extort it.
"Rasiq sell you two imp piss-stones," the white-faced lynx said, standing under the cloak of a autumn-red tree. "Two imp piss-stones, and you give me your ring."
"It's a wooden ring," Daniello said while he pinched the bridge of his nose."What sort of bartering are you playing at?"
"The kind that praises Zenithar, my lucky friend," Rasiq said. "Two imp piss-stones for seventy septims, and your wooden ring." He paused, and with a grin he said, "and praise Zenithar, my Imperial friend."
"I rather feel I'm pissing on Zenithar," Daniello admitted, but he relented easily. Let the Khajiit have the ring. It wasn't mine, anyway, he thought. If someone comes looking for it… Well, the old cat will be in for a surprise.
By morning, after breakfast in the Sleeping Giant's dining hall (where a cocksure bard insisted that Bosmer eat their children), Daniello sat in his room, door locked, mashing sliced imp gall and troll fat, wondering if there were any wenches willing to entertain his modest purse. Likely not, but the notion only served to set him ahead. Once I'm wealthy, I'll have any woman I want. A concoction of troll fat and imp bladder, dissolved in dizzying cauldron of alcohol so strong, Daniello was certain it would burn a hole in his liver; all together, with the extract ladled into a vial with careful precision, would be enough to embellish his words.
The Merchant's Swill, they called it on the sea, for it could sell a man his shoes for the price of his steed. The Diplomat's Wine, he once heard it called, and though it often went unsaid, he knew without a shadow of doubt that even the greatest of debates were ended when one man persuaded another.
And who could deny a bit of help every now and again? Of course, Daniello was rather fond of the concoction, and when he served as a diplomat for his uncle, it often came of use - but never had he crafted it. His need for money, once afforded by his service to the Empire, only now came with the realization of how dire his situation had become.
Six hours later, corked in a tiny vial, an emerald liquid coursed like blood. If he had more money, he could have afforded more for a higher dosage, but… It would have to do. How strong would it be? How does an orator measure the strength of his words? The potion, in his experience, could persuade, but never command. If the subject in question were riddled with doubt, an elixir of speech could beckon them, more alluring than a lover guiding them to bed. How exhilarating it is, he thought in pleasant reminiscence, when they follow you to bed.
A knock at the door. "Daniello? Are you well?"
Without urgency, he began to slip his tools aways, and tighten the lid on the cauldron. "Indeed I am, Delphine. The ointment from Lady Anise undid me, I fear. A moment, while I dress." He answered the door, and offered his brightest smile. "You look radiant, my lady."
Delphine smiled, though in her eyes, he spotted a certain hesitation. "Would you do me a favor…? I don't mean to bother you, of course."
"You're no intrusion, my lady. May I ask what you need?"
Delphine held up a wicker basket. Inside sat a wheel of eider cheese, two bottles of Cyrodiilic Brandy, and a loaf of bread. Perhaps she had meant to hide it, but Daniello spotted an envelope tucked between the bottles and bread, and smile found his lips. "Would you take this to my friend on the hill? I figured he might grow tired of fish and elk after a while. Only if you don't mind the walk."
Daniello took the basket. It would be a good opportunity to witness if the pungency of his new elixir could match the strength. Mayhaps I can convince the old Bull to give me his notes as well. Or maybe… better yet, he had spare coin to part with? Or with honeyed words, he can be convinced to part with… just about anything. "Of course, my lady. I'll be only a minute."
Friends never came easy to Daniello. He had one friend in his boyhood, on the farm outside of Bruma. A stableboy who polished the ponies, his name Olfdar, would often ride with Daniello after sunset, when the adults were readying for supper. Olfdar had been a bull of a boy, with a broad chest and big, fat hands. A boy of few words, save for one morning, after his father returned from war after three years to found a newborn at his wife's teat. The day after, when Daniello and his brothers went hunting, he found Olfdar crying under an apple tree. They talked until the sun set, and he was certain it was the most Olfdar had spoken in a year. His mother had a black eye and fat lip for a week, and that sodden old veteran ran off to Skyrim.
It hadn't been a terribly good friendship. Olfdar's shyness, as Daniello began to learn, came with a reason. The boy, mighty as he was, would have been better fitted without a brain. Exercising thought oft put the boy's mind in a state of stress, like a languid hamster resting at the wheel; every conversation they shared had to be directed by Daniello.
Stupidity aside, the dullard was naught if but loyal.
Boys in Chorrol, better dressed with better pedigrees, could often find anything to criticize about Daniello, whether it be the holes in his moccasins or the patches in his vest. At first, without his uncle or Olfdar, their words were pricks of needles against soft skin. After befriending Olfdar, not a noble's brood in sight could make a taunt without six-and-a-half-feet of ferocious Nordic might (of which Daniello was certain had been partly to blame for the boy's mental impairment), that behavior earned its own parental ire at the time, but Daniello learned swiftly how powerful words could be. If I seek simpler company, I'll find cheaper labor. Yes, it was as simple as that.
The road to the hermit's cottage still traced out Daniello's morning steps. Light rain came in from the east, sending a thousand ripples across the moonlit lake. With his hood up and a torch raised to guide his way along the paved cobble road, he found the cottage overlooking the lake. The windows were golden lit, with a smoking chimney trailing along the horizon. Did the old Bull never leave his home? Daniello shivered at the thought. How miserable it must be, he wondered, to be confined to four walls… Asceticism, though necessary in dire times, held small love in Daniello's heart. No, no… If afforded a man in extravagance is a always closer to godliness. Even the worst of bleeding heart poets and devout monks could not argue the magnitude of influence that came with opulence. Now, if only he could find the mask, the mask of bewitching lies, undying proclamations and conviction... if he could find that, then he could do anything…
He knocked on the door.
Someone rummaged about in the cottage for a moment, and in the darkness of the evening, the door came open. The tall orc with gleaming yellow eyes peered down, masked in shadows.
"Here to grovel?"
"Not likely," Daniello said. "You refused me once, friend. I'll not think to ask you again. Besides, I found the ointment I needed." He paused for a moment, craning his neck to peer inside the cottage. The room, lit in a golden, smoky haze, seemed cluttered to the brim in trinkets and treasures. Metals seemed to glow in the light, from brass to bronze, and the unmistakable glint of gold. "Your friend down by the Giant wanted to gift you something."
The Orc's gaze flickered to the road leading onward to Riverwood. "Tell Delphine… The gesture is appreciated. My answer remains." The door began to close.
Daniello slipped his foot into the door. In a gesture that might have been described as a blink, he sipped from the vial in his palm. It stung his lips, his tongue, and as it slid down his throat, he thought for a moment it might burn a hole. "Whatever it is that has separated the two of you might be easily mended. Perhaps if you give it a chance…?" The door slowly came ajar. It worked!
"What do you know, boy?" The Orc's voice came with a tone of tamed iron. "Or do you speak before you think? Mind your nose, Imperial, and pick carefully where you prod it."
"I know she sends you gifts rather often. Also, I know - "
The door slammed with such force, Daniello thought for a moment the echo in the forest had been the roar of thunder. He stole a step back, eyes wide, and thankful his toes were left unmarred.
"Fine," he said, before his mind could catch him, "Be a miserable old bastard. Die in there, you dirt-eating savage. Never mind the efforts people make to reach out to you." Why do I care, anyway? How did two old people's love affair become his business? With an incredulous snort, he spat on the wooden door. He reached down, scooped up one of the bottles of Cyrodiilic Brandy, and gnawed the cork off.
It might have been the first swig of Brandy that undid him (or perhaps the second or third, mayhaps the twentieth), but Daniello was certain it was the cheese that knocked him off his feet. Each bite of cheese came with a swig of brandy, and soon he felt his digestive tract twist into a knot, bubbling like an overfilled cauldron. He had never held his liquor well, but he never let his paper-thin belly keep back his love for the dull feeling that came with alcohol.
He wandered the road for sometime, lost in the dark, until he followed his way back to the cottage, and tossed about on wet grass. The cheese lay against the garden dirt, swarmed in ants, while the rest of their troupe explored the basket for the bread. Daniello swatted away the little black insects, until he spotted the white envelope tucked away.
Sober, he wouldn't have bothered. But with a nasty hiccup and red cheeks, his biting curiosity had him tear the envelope away, and straining his eyes in the dark of night. No matter how hard he squinted, the frayed parchment's text appeared only faintly legible.
Why do I care…? There he went again, passing notes between two old lovers with old secrets and old wounds, and neither one daring to stomach through a conversation. The thought brought forth a hearty, chilling, self-deprecating laugh. I might as well be a child again.
It was in that moment, against all logical rationale, he decided to stand. Wobbly, his head heavy with poisonous malice and far too much brandy for a thin-framed, hundred-and-twenty pound exile with no purpose or place, he heard the faint whine of a familiar voice in his head, mocking and pleading all at the same time. You were supposed to go home, and where are you now? Why are you climbing through the dirt, sweet boy? Have you fallen?
He wandered along the garden of deathbell, rustling the violet cloves with the touch of his outstretched hands. You weren't exiled, he thought quickly - much too quickly, You were pardoned. Was he? Now, without thinking, but only hearing the whip of his Uncle's voice say, 'Stupid boy, stupid, stupid', he found himself lifting up a window. It was all that kept him from the drizzle of rain outside, and the cold, unforgiving voice that reprimanded him.
Daniello's practiced grace became a tumble of slumped limbs on a rickety floorboard. The hearth held dying embers, and save for that, the rest of the room was cast in a dim bronze. Walls were lined in trinkets and bobs, from quirky Dwarven thing-a-ma-jigs to stuffed, crooked creatures with giant maws and black eyes. Had he stepped into a museum? Mosaics of tattered silk splayed out on the wall, beside a table with a crimson blanket laid over.
Tossed about, joined by a lungful of dust, sat a series of weapons and ornaments. A golden talon, an odd key with a spherical handle, and a… dagger? But what sort of dagger?
With a glance to the dark door at the far end of the room, and his breath held tight, he took the dagger into his hands. Unlike any metal he had ever touched, for the dagger kept a warmth still, he realized quickly that it had no grip, but rather ended on a sharp, jagged slab of what appeared to be bone.
Daniello snorted. What good was a dagger made of bone? To mock the Orc named Rokon for his stupidity, Daniello flicked the tip of the dagger across his thumb -
"Damn it." He bit his tongue, and let out a strained grunt. A warm, budding sensation dulled on his thumb, and a moment later he could feel the sharp sting of a deep wound. The poor hermit must spend all his time whittling, Daniello assured himself. He popped his thumb into his mouth and suckled on the coppery flavor of blood. Above the mantle, where most men kept swords, Rokon had instead placed a iron sigil; the ring of a snake biting its own tail. How counterproductive, he thought.
In the dim lighting, he spotted a mirror across the room. There he stood, in tattered furs and muddy leathers, looking every bit less of the soldier he once was, and more of the vagabond he'd become. Fair skin with moonless hair, and olive eyes that were oft said to look like his uncle's. The streak of blood on his bottom lip, however, earned a twist in his belly, and he turned back to the table of treasures. If he had never written that letter… the letter that ended his budding career and closed doors on him forever… - if it hadn't been for that letter, would he still be a soldier?
The poison that robbed him of logic came again, and he spit a wad of blood at the ground. Fingers coiled around the golden talons, and he made for the window.
Suddenly, he had no desire to remain there.
In the dark of night, under the gentle fall of rain, he wanted nothing more than to fall into bed and see tomorrow's sun. To get away from this leaky little town, dash off to the nearest merchant and swindle five hundred gold - but most of all, find the mask. The mask, he thought in drunken despair, what if I never find it? What if he never offers it? Can I ask for it? Daniello had read too many books. He knew how fickle Daedric Princes were.
On a few feet away from the cottage, he stumbled, and became lost in the dark. He spotted a glint of steel in the forlorn moonlight. Three looming figures made their way toward him along the paved cobbleroad.
"You there," one of them said. As he neared, Daniello could see an ugly, bald man with a missing eye.
"Hello, gentlemen," he said quickly. "You wouldn't mind buying me a drink, would you? My mouth is dryer than an old wench's thighs." Daniello raised his head with the brightest smile he could manage, lost in his stupor. Maybe they'll be my friends? I reckon I could use a friend or two.
"No, boy. We're here to teach you a lesson."