The early morning greeted Tarafel pleasantly, translucent clouds illuminated by a sky full of brilliant orange and red sunlight. The wind was unseasonably warm, as the beginning of Hearthfire usually brought a chill to the air. Tarafel found it rather pleasant, though. Truth be told, she found her mood to be changing, if only slightly. Things seemed a bit brighter, a bit warmer. She looked upon the world and was actually tempted to smile. She didn't but for the first time in a long time, she saw reason to.

This change in mood seemed to directly correlate with how far she got from the Imperial City, Ralis, who'd never returned from meeting the associates the previous night, and all of her responsibilities. Weight seemed to be lifting off of her shoulders and dissipating into the air, easing her step, allowing her to go faster. Of course, she'd also taken off her armor, replacing it with some peasant garb, so that may have lightened her load. She never left her leather behind, no matter where she went, and would take some time to repair the material, which had started to crack and wear through in spots. Not surprising, it was old armor. It had seen a lot of travel, a lot of death, but this little jaunt would be a chance to repair and renew.

Tarafel's imagination wandered as she walked, always coming back to her work, another thing she could never leave behind, regardless of how much she might want to. Her thought turned over and over in her head, refusing to sit still. This restlessness of the mind was becoming a common state, the Bosmer's brain refusing to settle ever since they'd been given the job of cleaning up after that imbecilic Khajiit.

The Bosmer shook such thoughts away, feeling it better to save them for later. It was turning into a pleasant day along the Greed Road. She observed her surroundings, taking note of the flax, growing sparse as the weather grew colder, and the amanita, which still held out. Tarafel stopped and knelt in the grass next to the spot-capped fungus. She ran her fingers over the textured cap before picking a small one and lifting it to her nose. She breathed in the moist, musky scent of the mushroom, then took a small bite. She rolled the chunk over her tongue, savoring the bittersweet flavor. Nodding, she slid her pack off her back and began to harvest a few of the caps, slipping them into a special pocket she'd sewn in specifically for drying mushrooms. She dug out what was left of a nearby group of flax blooms and took the seeds, which she set aside in another pocket.

In the distance, Tarafel spied a few yellow and red blooms. She moved closer and saw it to be ginseng, a rather rare flora, especially in the center of Cyrodiil. The Bosmer knelt down again, plucking a leaf from the plant and rolling it between her fingers before bringing it to her nose, taking in the soft, refreshing scent of the herb. She placed the bruised leaf on her tongue, then pressed it to the roof of her mouth. She plucked a few handfuls of leaves and tucked them into her bag.

From the corner of her eye, she saw a small, pink bloom on a stone only a few yards away. She looked at it for a few moments, rising to a crouch and creeping closer, as if the flower might run if startled. She settled in next to the rock, raising a hand to the flower and running her slender fingers over the soft, light pink petals. She placed her fingers at the base of the bloom and plucked it, a perfectly open young blossom, its short life unmarred by weather and time. Tarafel placed her short nose amongst the petals, breathing deeply of the flower's subtle perfume. A hundred million memories flooded her head, so many brief glimpses of images. Valenwood, Leyawiin, Bravil, Skingrad, Morrowind, Skyrim. All the places she'd been, the people she'd killed, the partners she'd had. Through it all, despite the brutal effectiveness of nightshade, the debilitating effects of monkshood, or the horrid result of the proper use of daedra venin, the primrose remained her favorite plant. Not for any alchemical use, simply because it was pretty.

Tarafel looked around, as if someone might be spying on her during her intimate moment. When she assured herself that nothing and no one lurked nearby, she pushed her hair away from her forehead and slid the stem of the primrose into her hair, then let it the hair fall back around it. She took the polished silver dagger from her pocket and angled the side of the blade toward her face. In the pristine surface of the blade, she could see the bright flower, with its robust green and vibrant pink, stand out in stark contrast to her visage. In comparison, she was gray.

"It wasn't always so," the Bosmer muttered, shaking her head. With a twist of her wrist, she faced the mirrored metal of the blade toward her eyes. They'd darkened in the sockets, and small lines were beginning to form in the corners. It seemed like such a short time ago she'd been a young Bosmer, and technically, she was still young by the standards of mer. That state of carefree youth hadn't been ten or twenty years prior, but over one hundred years, longer than the lifetime of the longest lived men.

She took to her feet again, and walked onward down the road. The flower stayed in her hair.


As Tarafel walked miles down the road, the sun climbed higher and higher into the sky, the day growing warmer, the wind calming. She planned to stay the night at the Faregyll Inn, a place she'd stayed many times while traveling to the south. Tarafel knew the proprietor, Abhuki, quite well, and she didn't so much mind the company of the other Khajiit who frequented the inn, S'jirra, even though that one could go on and on about the strangest things.

Up ahead, she could see a pair of men standing in the road. They were dressed in peasant garb, and purposely standing in her path, looking directly towards her. One looked like an Imperial, far too tan to be a Breton, and the other was most certainly a Redguard. Years of travel and mixing with unsavory characters had given Tarafel a sixth sense about people, an ability to tell when they were looking to brew up trouble. These two had the exact air of those who wanted something from her. They looked common enough at first glance, but as the Bosmer moved in closer, she could see odd scars on either side of the Imperial's lips, like he'd had a smile carved into his face. They were old scars, and had clearly healed well, but still very visible. The Redguard didn't have any scars, at least not any which were visible, but Tarafel could see hint of dark tattoos peeking out from beneath the sleeve of his shirt. The only men she'd ever know to have tattoos were pirates, bandits, and mercenaries, never farmers.

"Greetings, Bosmer," the Imperial spoke up, his voice deep and robust, "We're in a bit of a spot, my friend and I. We're wondering if you might be able to help."

Tarafel stopped in her tracks and looked the over a moment longer before giving her reply.

"What sort of help do you need?" she asked, her voice soft, but still its usual monotone.

"You see, we're poor," the Imperial went on, "Without even one septim, in fact." He lowered his head and shook it slowly,

"We live on the charity of generous souls, such as yourself," the Redguard cut in, grinning a little too wide.

"Who told you I'm charitable?" Tarafel could hear the soft footsteps of two more creeping up from behind her in the grass. One was very light of foot, a Khajiit. The other had a heavier gate, and even one without trained ears could recognize the soft huffs of an Orcish nose.

"Why, we did," the Imperial answered, walking toward her side by side with the Redguard.

"You don't want to do this," Tarafel stated, drawing her bow and an arrow from her back, knocking the shaft in to place. She took the Orc first. Doing a quick about-face, she let an arrow fly and struck the beast right through the eye. The tip of the arrow cracked right through the back of his thick skull at such a close range. She dropped her bow as the Khajiit started to strike, and drew the silver dagger from her belt. The Bosmer took a lunging step forward, dropping to a kneel as she came just within reach of her attacker's claws. Her arms shot out straight, both hands grasping the handle, and drove the blade into the Khajiit's unarmored chest, right beneath the V of his ribcage.

Without a second thought, she drew the dagger out and whirled around to face the last two. She ran forward and pounced upon the Redguard, jumping high enough she could have easily cleared the top of his head. Instead, she caught her thighs around either side of his neck, twisting her body to the side as she brought him down, the sheer force snapping the man's neck.

The fall dazed her, giving the Imperial the chance he needed. As she attempted to rise, stars burst in her eyes, a heavy blow coming down on the back of her neck, dropping her flat on her chest.

"Bosmer bitch," he spat, bringing more blows down on her back. "We were going to let you go after we were done with you." Each word brought a fresh blow from his hardwood club, his attacks slowly moving from her neck down her back. Finally he halted, out of breath as he stood over her battered form. The Imperial cast his gaze down toward his former partner, the Redguard's neck twisted from the break. "Sad, but what a way to go," the man grinned, revealing a mouthful of yellowed teeth, "Face between such a fine pair of legs." He reached toward Tarafel's motionless form and gripped a now bloodied lock of her hair.

With a speed he'd never encountered, the Bosmer struck, whirling about with all the speed of a serpent even injured as she was. The Imperial recoiled, drawing his hand back as the tip of the dart plunged through the flesh of his palm, breaking through to the other side. He howled like an animal, pulling the dart out and casting it aside. His palm began to burn, as if quite literally engulfed in flame.

"What have you done to me?" he roared, spittle flying from his mouth as he looked down in horror at the beaten, but non-plussed Bosmer in the grass. Under the skin of his arm, red lines began to form, his veins inflaming with the poison Tarafel had coated the dart with. The Imperial, his body now slicked with sick sweat, marveled at the relief map spreading up his arm, veins bulging and bursting beneath his skin. All the muscles stiffened and locked, sending him spiraling into a realm of pain so intense, he was literally blinded. When it was all over, his teeth were cracked from the intensity with which his jaw had clenched, his eyes dripped with the blood of burst vessels.

Tarafel left him long before it all ended, retreating behind a group of shrubs where she could kneel in a world of pain all her own, having scooped up her broken primrose. She removed her shirt and pack, which now contained mostly ruined ingredients, and a partially destroyed mortar. She could feel how black and blue he'd made her back, and went to work with the largest portion of mortar she had left, mixing dried cairn bolete powder with the one remaining vial of lichor she had, then grinding in lotus seeds. She dipped two fingers into the mushy mixture, the beginning of an agonizing process. She rubbed the glops of healing mixture all over her back, covering as much of the warm, injured areas as best she could. She covered everything except the very center, which she couldn't quite reach.

After administering her tincture, she turned her attentions to the primose, lifting it gently in both hands. Most of the petals had fallen off, and a small spatter of blood covered the few remaining. Tarafel pressed her nose into the center of the destroyed flower, inhaling gently, but this time she could only smell the blood and the wet smell of destroyed flora. The Bosmer pushed her cupped hands into the branches of an adjacent bush, setting the bloom down there. She let herself fall forward, resting shirtless in the cool grass.

Moments passed, a warm tickle ran down her cheek. Gingerly, she moved her arm up and touched her face. A drop, but not blood. A tear.

A tear?

"Strange," she muttered, even speaking brought pain. "I'm not sad. Not in the least." Turning as slightly as she could, she grabbed the broken portion of mortar she'd prepared her healing potion in and began scooping the bitter mush into her mouth, cringing as she swallowed, but she ate every remaining drop before laying back down.

Hours passed before she could rise again.