Stir three times clockwise, no more, no less.
Chuckling softly to himself, he complied with the instructions, grey hand pushing the warm water in the tub around. Task completed, he absently flicked his fingers, drops of excess moisture flying onto the rug.
The water didn't do anything other than smell good and look inviting. No bubbles, no strange colours, no glowing lights. Just a nice warm bath, waiting for an Orcperial who'd never before looked so forward to one.
Arranging himself in the tub carefully, making sure not to get wedged in (bathtubs were rarely built for Orcish bodies, especially tall Orcish bodies), he exhaled deeply as the heat penetrated his aching muscles.
The carriage ride the rest of the way to Cromville Commons had managed to make him think wistfully of his experience at sea. All conversation had been abandoned—with the constant jerks, bumps, and jostles there was a very real danger of accidentally biting off a tongue while trying to speak.
So they'd both spent the entire time grim faced, jaws clenched shut, trying various positions of arms and legs to keep from flying off the cushioned seats. Cerisse had managed best with her hands pressed against the ceiling, enough leverage being granted by the space between her shoulders and the roof to keep herself down.
Agronak hadn't been so lucky—with the carriage roof dangerously close to his head to begin with, he'd bumped into it a few times before realizing he'd have to duck, or otherwise lean, to prevent being knocked out by the ceiling. So he'd spent his time contorted in odd positions, none of them comfortable, though he was certain some of them had been amusing to his traveling companion.
At least she'd had the decency not to say anything when they'd finally arrived on relatively smooth roads once more. Though she had seemed very sympathetic about his stiff movements when they'd managed to extricate themselves from the carriage, and had given him a small tin filled with salts to use in his bath.
Along with her ritualistic instructions. It was almost amusing, the oddities of witch magic, but he wasn't going to joke about it to her face. Especially since she wasn't a real witch, as she'd assured him, but a friend of the coven. The difference seemed more semantic than actual, but she'd said it with a touch of pride, and a hint of secrecy, so he'd decided not to press the issue.
Besides, from what he'd heard witches weren't all that bad. After all, Lilia had hired Gwendolyn to care for Makela, and whenever he'd met her she'd been unfailingly polite, not at all sinister. She didn't even have the standard flyaway grey witch hair, with the texture of crushed straw, but rather soft looking blond waves. Cerisse's hair wasn't witch like either—at least, from what he'd seen of it. She always wore it up in a smooth bun, never a dark brown hair out of place. Maybe witches grew into the hair later in life.
Smiling at the painting of a sunrise, the view much like the one he'd seen when they'd eaten their lunch, he reflected that this inn—the Flying Scorpion—was the nicest one he'd stayed in so far. The room was small by Imperial City standards, and the furniture didn't match, but it made up in comfort what it lacked in elegance.
Glowing coals in the small firebox warmed the air, driving out the damp chill that hung outside. An inviting armchair sat next to it, set beside a low end table with a shelf, brimming with an assortment of intriguing books. The bed is what held his imagination—sturdy, piled high with quilts and blankets, the small blue traveling cushion Cerisse had lent him set amongst the pillows. Everything felt comfortable, familiar, and homey.
An effervescent tingling suddenly ran over his skin, hot and cold alternating in a pleasant rhythm, and he let his head relax back with a deep sigh. Yes, the bed was certainly his next destination...
Provided he didn't fall asleep in the tub first.
"You burnt it."
The young apprentice fumbled with the change, gold coins dropping onto the table.
"Agrinak..." The calming voice was accompanied with a gentle sensation on his arm.
He turned to Cerisse, her hand falling off his shoulder. "He set it on fire," he explained, pointing at the nervous mage, "he burnt it."
"That's what they do," she stated calmly. The red faced Breton nodded emphatically, head bobbing up and down.
"I did not spend all morning writing that note to have a bloody mage set it on fire." His fingers were still sore from the time spent holding a quill. He'd managed to cover off everything, giving instructions about the manor, the planting, the farmers, the destruction of every piece of saltfish in the village...
"Now see..." the young man's words were garbled, high pitched with nervousness. Clearing his throat, and standing tall (though he still didn't reach Agronak's shoulder), he tried to look imperious. "Now see here. You wanted that sent to Anvil, and it's been sent to Anvil."
"No, it wasn't," he rumbled, "you burnt it!"
"Agrinak," Cerisse hissed, tugging him away from the now very pale mage. "That's how they do it. Trust me."
He stared down at her suspiciously. Magical methods of communication wasn't a topic covered off in the Arena. The only missives the mages sent there were fireballs and conjured daedra.
"Now let me pay him, then we'll finish our errands." The gentle words were accompanied by a slightly arched eyebrow, and a tucked in corner of her mouth. She was amused with him—he recognized the expression from the bumpy carriage ride yesterday.
Nodding in agreement, he waited near the door, leaning against the dark wooden walls. The Cromville Commons Mages Guild hall was a rambling structure, hallways and doors leading off in all directions. An unnatural cold crept along the stone floors, and he resisted his impulse to kick his legs in an attempt to shake the slimy sensation off.
It was almost a relief when they were able to head back out into the misty day, tiny spheres of water beading on his new cloak. Cerisse had insisted on buying him one that fit better—the grey one far too small for his needs—and they'd stopped into a tailor's on the way to the guild hall. Brushing aside all of his concerns and questions about finances, she'd helped persuade him to choose a dark emerald hued cloak over a scarlet one. It wasn't until they'd left the store behind did he realize she probably hadn't been very impartial—he'd never seen her wear any colour besides green.
"This shouldn't take too long." One hand on the doorknob, Cerisse gave him a hint of a smile before pushing it open. "And don't touch anything—it might touch back."
Experiential Products. The faded letters on the door proclaimed the name of the small shop, but it certainly didn't provide any clues as to what sort of products were available to be experienced. Following her into the cluttered room, shelves and cupboards battling for floor space, he was assaulted by the heat and the unpalatable scent of rotten eggs.
"Lady Hawkton!" The thin man behind the counter greeted his customer while scrubbing his face with a well stained rag. Black smudges streaked his skin, and his muddy blond hair was much shorter in the front than the back—most likely due to accident than design.
"Mr. Coppersly, what new potion are you working on now?" Cerisse asked while moving over towards the counter. "Still trying to turn tin into gold?"
"No, it's much more important than that," he answered with a violent shake of the head. Staring keenly at Agronak, he leaned forward and whispered to her. "It's a secret. Come into the back and I'll tell you."
With a bemused smile, she told Agronak to wait for her, then disappeared with the shopkeeper into the other room. He could hear their conversation easily through the walls as he browsed the shelves. Some of the ingredients were familiar, brought in from Cyrodiil.
Seeing a jar of milk thistle flowers selling for six gold coins a piece, he wondered if he shouldn't abandon wheat and plant a new crop instead. The damned weeds grew thick around Crowhaven, always trying to choke out the gardens, or snag an unsuspecting pair of pants. He'd lost two pair to the infernal plants, and somehow they'd even managed to ruin a drying tablecloth on a windy day, much to Mrs. Palenix's perpetual amazement. On her last visit, Lilia had taken to burning every plant she found into dust, after she'd needed to change no less than four times in one day.
Reading the jars, he came across a series of incredibly costly, and fancifully labeled, ingredients. Troll's blood, mummy wrappings, dragon scales—they must be the names of rare plants. Surely that wasn't actually a vial of snake venom for sale, or a tin filled with rat teeth...
"It will help as much as possible, considering the circumstances," Cerisse soothed, walking back out with the smudged alchemist.
"When will it be..."
"Tonight," she stated firmly, and the man visibly relaxed. "Now, I'll need a few things besides the regular order. Let's see..."
Trying to ignore her requests for only the freshest of troll's blood, and the finest of powdered unicorn horn, Agronak occupied himself with investigation of the mineral section. Crystals, metals, and stones—some rough, some faceted, some made into beads—took up an entire section of shelving.
"Quite right. I almost forgot." Her voice came from beside him, and he looked over to see her inspecting the selection, deep in thought. "I think a turquoise, an amethyst, and a piece of jade will do the trick."
"Go right ahead." He stepped out of the way, allowing her easier access.
"I can't choose for you," she corrected him. "Pick the ones you think best."
Leaving him behind as she began browsing the shelves, he wondered what she meant. What made one rock better than a different rock?
Searching through the bin of turquoise, he amused himself while making a selection. That one was too bumpy, that one was green around the edge, that one wasn't blue enough...
Finding one that reminded him vaguely of a sheep, albeit a rather rock shaped one, he chose it and moved on to the amethyst. This was a little easier—he took the one that looked the most purple. The jade gave him a bit of trouble. She wore it often as jewelry, and he didn't want to pick one of the lower quality pieces. Maybe she was going to have it made into a pendant. Or perhaps this was a gift for her family. But if so, why wasn't she doing the choosing?
"Agrinak, are you ready?" Her inquiry from the counter, where several parcels had been wrapped up, pulled him from his reverie. Deciding to just go with the one he had in his hand, he joined her at the counter and put his rocks down. The satisfied nod she gave while looking them over was a bit of a relief.
The purchases paid for and precariously balanced in his arms, she led him across the market square back towards their inn. The soft ground, wet from recent rains, tried to trap his feet in a sea of grass covered mud.
"A love potion, eh? Do those work?" he asked with a grin. The shopkeeper's tale of his passion for a Yokudan seamstress was sweet, but nothing he could see meriting magical aid. From what Agronak had overheard the man simply needed to start talking to the object of his affections. It hadn't sounded as though he'd had any conversations with her beyond the discussion of pant hems and shortened sleeves.
"They do, but I don't know how to make one, and I wouldn't if I did," Cerisse replied, heedless of the mud staining the hem of her gown.. She didn't appear to have the same difficulty as he did in crossing the treacherous terrain, and he wondered if it wasn't because she had such small feet. Perhaps the larger the feet the more mud could grab them...
"You said you'd brew him something for tonight."
"And I also said it would help. I didn't say with what. Here, take those to my room. I'll be right up—just need a couple more ingredients." The little brass key hovered in her hand as she contemplated putting it on the various parcels, none of which seemed stable enough, before settling on slipping it into the pocket of Agronak's cloak. She held the door open for him to enter the hallway of the inn before heading into the tavern. He went up the stairs to the private rooms, wiping his feet on the rough hall carpeting while maintaining a grip on the various packages.
It wasn't until he reached her door that he realized the key wasn't in his hands, and his hands were not available for anything other than holding the assortment of delicate items. With a frown, and intense concentration, he managed a weak telekinesis spell, his fingers tapping against the parcels as he cast it.
It took several tries, but he finally managed to extricate the key from his pocket and float it over to the keyhole. Bouncing it off the doorknob, the door jamb, and the door itself, he tried to angle it properly so it would fit into the lock...
"That's one way to do it," Cerisse interrupted, grabbing the upside down key he was currently sliding up the wall in an attempt to flip it over, "but this is a bit simpler." With a murmured spell and a tap of her hands on the lock the tumblers clicked into place. To his surprise he felt nothing at all from that magical demonstration.
"Regular alteration spell," she explained, noting his questioning look as he passed by to place the parcels on the bed. "There aren't many locks in a forest."
"Witches must have doors on their houses."
"You're assuming they have houses," she said while sorting out the supplies. "Tell me, you fought in the Arena. What would you say courage feels like?"
"Tricky question." Casting his mind back, he thought about his more difficult matches, of the undefeated opponents he faced, of the knowledge that every time he stepped onto the sand he'd be fighting a battle for his life. "It's a powerful feeling, understanding the odds against success, but choosing to risk them anyway..."
"No," she interjected while unwrapping a package. "Would you say it feels hot, or cold?" Each hand, holding a single vial, alternately waved with the question.
"Warm, I guess..."
"Good." Her collection of ingredients was placed on the small writing desk set against the window. Cerisse waved him over, and he surveyed her supplies. Some brown powder in a bowl, and a bottle of what looked like flin, had been brought up from the tavern. "Do you think it tingles? Or numbs?"
"Definitely tingles."
At his answer she uncapped a small jar, and put a pinch of what looked like red threads into a mortar. After adding a small quantity of the flin—nothing else burnt the nostrils in quite the same way—she passed it to Agronak with instructions to keep crushing until the clear liquid had a bright red tint. Meanwhile, she sprinkled a light dusting of the brown powder into a flask of water, stoppered it, and began to shake it.
"What sort of potion is this?"
"It isn't a potion. We're making liquid courage."
"You're going to get him drunk? I can't see that impressing her much. She'll never want to spend the Day of Waiting locked up with a drunk."
Cerisse scrutinized him, and he tried to appear nonchalant while working the pestle. "You heard it all, didn't you?"
"I've got good ears, and the walls had holes."
"Hmm. That's useful to know." She set the flask down, and she placed a funnel into a small amber bottle etched with runes. "I'll take that." He handed over the mortar, the liquid pooled in the bottom of the marble basin now a vibrant red. "Mr. Coppersly is too shy to talk to her, but there isn't a potion for confidence, thankfully. Can you imagine what trouble people would get into if they sold that?"
"Probably the same thing as people who've had too much flin," Agronak joked. He was rewarded with a chuckle.
"Probably. So we need to convince him he's drinking a potion of courage, and hopefully he'll find the courage to pay her a visit. We've got rain water as the base, and a little Khajiiti spice for heat," the contents of the flask were poured into the bottle, "flin for tingle, firepetal stamens for colour..."
Getting Agronak to hold the strainer, she carefully tipped the liquid out from the mortar. The mock potion in the bottle took on a dark red hue, tinted by the amber of the glass.
"A little persil for fresh breath," a few drops from the small vial of thick green oil were added to the mixture, "and some gold flakes for strength, power, and overall presentation. Put it all in the right packaging, and we've bottled liquid courage."
Agronak laughed, amazed at her audacity. She had that arch of her eyebrow and a smug smile on her face, clearly pleased with her plan.
"Mages certainly don't make potions like this, and I'm sure witches don't either."
"No," she answered, pouring out a small amount of flin into an empty water glass, "but we do."
A tink of their glasses and an unspoken toast later, he was enjoying the acrid tingle of flin as the oily liquid burned a path down his throat. Why did he always forget he couldn't stand the stuff?
At least judging by Cerisse's red cheeks and hacking cough, he wasn't the only one in the room asking that exact question...
The description of grub ooze did nothing to settle his stomach, and Agronak set down The Tales of Kieran to bounce around on the seat. It had been nice of Cerisse to lend him a book to while away the distance to the inn, but he hadn't known the rocking motion of the carriage, combined with the dark blur of the forest passing by the windowpanes, would make reading such a nauseating experience.
Watching as she mouthed the words of her book—still reading that Ta'agra romance novel—furrow in her brow as she worked to decipher the passages, he reflected on what he'd come to learn of her.
Not much, and yet a fair bit. She was certainly one of those people who adopted masks, being different things to different people. From what he'd seen of Breton nobility he didn't doubt it a necessary skill to have. And she was discreet, rarely volunteering any information about herself or their surroundings unless asked. Though she struck him as being more cautious than sneaky.
Especially since the glimpses he'd caught of what he suspected to be her true personality, the woman hiding behind the formality, was that of someone kind, gentle, with a bright sense of humour. If only he knew how to draw it out more often. Today she'd been serious and quiet again, spending her time with her books, letting the attempts at conversation lapse slowly back into silence.
"Finished already?" she asked, nodding towards the thin red book trying to rattle its way off the edge of the seat.
"Reading while traveling doesn't agree with me," he explained with a pat to his stomach.
"I've got something for that. Let's see, which pocket did I put it in..." She mumbled to herself while rummaging around in her large leather satchel, the only piece of luggage she kept in the carriage, rather than having it strapped to the outside.
Dusting the chunk of root off with a puff of breath, she inspected it with a twirl of her fingers. Occupied with watching the spinning chunk of shriveled brown tuber, he didn't notice her pull out a very small blade from the recesses of her clothes. It wasn't until she began peeling off the bark with careful slices of the knife did he ask where she'd kept it.
"Secret pocket in my cloak. You've got a couple in yours."
As she continued to peel the root bulb, he started inspecting his new apparel. By the time she'd finished with her task he'd managed to locate one of them, the opening almost undetectable along the seam of the lining.
"Chew on this, but don't swallow it," she instructed as she passed him the unappetizing looking mass of beige fibers, the outer husk removed.
"Why, will it poison me?"
"No, it isn't digestible. Wouldn't be very useful for a stomach remedy to cause a stomach ache."
It tasted far better than it looked, a slight sweetness being released with every bite. "Which town are we stopping in tonight?"
"It's not a town, just an inn on the road. It's halfway to Hawkton Court—we should be there in time for dinner tomorrow."
"Your family doesn't mind having me stay with them until...later?" Hopefully whatever Synderius was up to wouldn't take too long. It was almost time for First Planting celebrations, and he was growing concerned he'd miss the busiest time of the year for his village.
"They'll be fine with it. Visitors are always welcome," she answered, putting her hand up to touch the roof, centering it in the middle of the circles her light spell had been tracing on the black leather.
"Will be? Didn't you tell them I was coming?"
She wasn't looking at him, instead watching the glowing ball of light as it wound itself down her arm in a lazy spiral. Finally tearing her eyes from the unusually behaving magic she looked at Agronak. "Do you speak Orcish?"
"Somewhat." His mother had been fluent in Common, usually only resorting to Orcish when she'd been particularly angry with him. He understood it better than he could speak it, though his vocabulary tended towards the more colourful words and phrases.
"My family is a bit different. They're lovely people," she quickly added, "I don't want you to get the wrong idea about that. But it's probably better you're not expected. My father in particular is a bit...odd."
"Really?" Considering the fact the woman sitting across from him currently had a ball of light rolling over her shoulders, he wasn't surprised by the revelation.
"He's a linguist. Very passionate about languages, actually," she elaborated. "You don't happen to speak anything else besides Common, do you?"
"No."
"Ah, well, I'll try and talk to him before he starts practicing his Orcish on you."
"I wouldn't mind if he did. I'm rather rusty." There hadn't been much opportunity to speak it in the Arena, and he was fairly sure nobody in Crowhaven knew any Orcish.
"I can help you with that," Cerisse said with a smile, suddenly switching to unaccented Orcish. "He practices on me when there isn't anyone else to work with."
"What other..." The words were thick and clunky, causing him to realize he hadn't spoken anything more than some favoured Orcish curses in the past couple of years.
"Languages?" she offered, supplying the word he'd been searching for.
"What other languages do you know?" It was strange to suddenly be speaking in a different tongue—he thought in Common, and translating it in his mind woke up forgotten memories.
"Fluent Aldmeris, passable Dunmeris, basic Ta'agra, and a smattering of the rest. I get the most use from Orcish, especially when I have an ... with King Gortwog."
Repeating the unknown word back to her, she translated it into Common—audience.
As the carriage bounced along the road, they continued conversing in Orcish, Cerisse attempting to explain her family's connections to Orsinium. From what he understood, occasionally needing to ask for clarification of a word or phrase, some of her family's Menevian holdings had become a part of Orsinium at its creation. But rather than abandon the land to the Orcs, the Orsinium Hawktons had stayed, one of the few families to live under both Gortwog's dominion and Eadwyre's rule, with properties in both locations. Her father had been born an Orsinium Hawkton, though after his marriage to her mother he'd lived in Menevia, so Cerisse was considered a Menevian Hawkton.
"Does that matter?" he asked, confused by the distinction.
"To the nobility, yes. To the Hawktons, no."
The halting of the carriage in front of a large rectangular wooden building, bright torches burning beside the front doors, stopped the conversation. A detailed sign above the entrance, decorated to match the name, proclaimed it to be the Rat and Barbarian Inn. Bretons really had to have the most imaginatively named taverns in Tamriel.
Following her into the inn, first taking the opportunity to discreetly spit out the well chewed mass of root fibers into the bushes, he listened in as she arranged lodging for the evening. Watching the scratching of the innkeeper's quill over the guest book, carefully recording Cerisse's thorough introduction of him, he noticed the man had spelled his name wrong, probably due to her improper pronunciation.
"It's Agronak," he corrected.
"That's what I've written," the confused man replied, giving him a skeptical look.
"No, you've spelled it with a Y."
"Oh, sorry." A quick dot of the quill changed the name from 'Agrynak' to 'Agrinak.'
"No, it's got an O," he clarified.
"Terribly sorry, sir. That's an unusual spelling." Small circles of ink turned the name listed from 'Agrinak' to 'Agrinok.'
"No, you don't understand. It's A-G-R-O-N-A-K."
"Really? Are you quite sure?" The man paused, quill hovering about the parchment.
"Yes, I'm quite sure I know how to spell my own name." The answer was punctuated with his finger tapping the guest book. "Agronak."
"Of course, sir." A slight roll of the eyes indicated the innkeeper didn't believe him, but he crossed out the incorrect name and wrote it in properly.
Following Cerisse along the wide hallway, grumbling about the man's obstinacy, he was surprised when she asked him if he was certain that was how his first name was spelled. "Do you really think I don't know my own name?"
"No," she replied gently, working her key into the lock. "It's just Agrynak, with a Y, is a very common name around the Bay. I've never heard of a variation with an O. I'm afraid I've been saying it wrong this whole time."
"Oh." He suddenly understood why he'd never met a Breton yet who'd called him by the right name—they'd probably all thought he'd been the one with the strange accent. "Don't worry about it."
"Good," she pushed the door open and gave Agronak a small wink before she stepped inside, "because I wasn't going to."
