Nisil focused on his task, staving off a shiver that threatened to disrupt his meticulous work.
"This damned cold…" he muttered under his breath, which frosted above the small flame in the center of his alchemy table.
Delicately, the dark elf clasped the tongs between his elegant fingers, perfectly suited for this precise task. The concoction he now crafted was one of his favorites, for it required focus and an intimate understanding of its ingredients.
He believed this determination and intelligence would lead him to greatness. By pouring the distilled mixture at this critical moment, he reaffirmed it to himself.
Gingerly, he lifted the round bottom flask from its metal cradle: still red from the flame beneath it. The simmering mixture swirled and roiled with an intoxicating shimmer. He readied the spout above the prepared bottle, mentally thanking himself for thinking ahead.
He checked the bottle one last time, and smiled seeing the powdered moth wings already waiting. Brimming with anticipation, he slowly turned the tongs to complete his masterful project.
He loved this potion because it reminded him of what could be on the horizon.
"Nisil!" a voice roared from the back of the shop.
He inadvertently jumped at the unexpected intrusion with a gasp. Distilled essence of torch bug and hanging moss spilt along the side of the bottle, burning his hand.
"Damn it!" he shouted in pain, dropping the round flask with a shatter and withdrawing his hand rapidly.
On the verge of tears, he leapt back into a shelf, shaking his hand and blotting it on his dark robes. Ingredients cascaded to the floor as Rolff stormed from the back of the shop, enraged.
"What's yer excuse now, Grayskin?" he sneered, eyeing the bits of broken glass.
Nisil knew there was little he could say to quell his anger, so he focused on what he could control, bending over in pain and holding his hand. He tried feebly not to let his eyes shed tears before his demeaning boss.
"I come back here, and first thing, the first damned thing I see is my whole stockroom in shambles! I know I don't have any other apprentice to fuck this all up, so that leaves you my lad, you. Who in the hells told you to…"
Nisil simply ignored him at this point. If Dunmer skin could turn red, his would be molten from the potent mix of frustration, anger, and embarrassment flowing through his veins.
"…Dried Spadetails next to spider eggs? Are you out of yer da…?"
Nisil straightened, plucking a rag from the counter and wrapping his hand loosely. He knew it would heal well enough, he could thank his dark elf heritage for that, he thought, as he picked up a broom and began his usual cleanup process. Finally it brought a ray of positive into his life, he scoffed, as he remarked on all the other fits of Rolff's anger he had coped with over the years.
"Nightshade and Nirn…"
He threw out an obligatory "My apologies Maester Vial-Weaver, it won't happen again," as he had dozen of times before. Nisil, however, knew this would not be the last time, as mishaps like this appeared to follow shortly after any number of Rolff's numerous nights of drinking at Candlehearth Hall. Even worse were his tirades following a sampling of his own homemade brew.
"Snowberries, why would they be next to Sorrowsweet? Do you even thin…"
Nisil smirked; cleaning with his back to Rolff's stammering form. He had thought it peculiar, asinine even, when his Maester unceremoniously roused him upon his return to the shop well after midnight. Stomping on the floorboards above Nisil's cramped, dank basement quarters, Rolff had roared down for him to alphabetize their holdings, laughing as he staggered to his bedroom.
He felt excitement in the pit of his stomach for the lull in the tantrum, when he would simply and politely say…
"But Maester Vial-Weaver, you told me to last night…"
His smirk broadened to a toothy elven grin as he imagined Rolff's face during the long pause that followed.
The same toothy elven grin immediately left his face as a book collided with the back of his head, pitching him forward slightly.
Nisil turned; snarling at Rolff's panting form.
"Don't you ever, ever accuse me of suggesting such a foolish idea, you miserable little wretch," Rolff said.
Nisil was angry beyond measure, and down his hot face dropped steaming tears.
"We take your filthy kind into our city, and even still I took you into my shop. And this, this is how you repay me?" He gestured to his stockroom.
Lost for words, Nisil stood there for the verbal onslaught, lost in the injustice. His knuckles turned white on the broom handle as he fumed.
Rolff was an old man, and his years of alcohol abuse had done him no favors. Like all crusty Nords, Nisil had come to realize, they were so rooted in their ways that they saw none as their equal.
Rolff finished in measured tones, "You will never, ever disrespect me like that again," before walking to the door.
Nisil's hands twisted upon the handle. In the four years he had been subjected to Rolff's cruel and judgmental teachings, never once had things gotten physical.
As he continued to the door, Nisil shifted, hefting the broom handle. For a moment, he was so consumed by the fire within him he considered it.
Easing his hands down to his side, Nisil hung his head. Rolff reached the door and turned, looking at Nisil expectantly.
"Well?"
Nisil nodded, steeling himself. Through gritted teeth, he responded.
"Yes, sir."
Rolff smiled as he departed his shop, so foolishly named 'Rolff's Remedies,' leaving Nisil alone to clean up the mess in his wake.
Nisil sighed, and dropped the broom as he looked about the shop.
Greatness, he thought to himself with a pitiful, exasperated laugh.
Someday.
Kneeling down to pick up the broom, his eyes lit upon the broken round bottom flask, resting on the floor. Pausing a moment, he recognized a single large, concave portion remained intact. A tiny amount of its contents still pooled within. Nisil crawled closer, over broken glass and scattered ingredients, before he gingerly scooped up the shard in both hands.
As he watched its tantalizing swirl, he grew intoxicated by it once more.
Nisil picked up the glass bottle, calming his trembling hands. Undaunted by the sharp edges, be delicately poured the mixture into the vial and quickly secured the stopper.
Greatness, he thought once more, as he gazed longingly into the smoking potion in his hand.
Tonight.