Nisil stepped outside his small shack to soak in the view of Lake Geir. A fresh breeze rustled the leaves above as gentle shafts of light danced through the intertwined branches.
Construction of Nisil's alchemist shack had gone quickly, with Temba's crew happy to spend a few hours of their day off erecting it for him.
The folk of Ivarstead had taken kindly to Nisil, as they had gotten to know the dark elf during his many visits to the town.
During these visits, Nisil had decided to show Jofthor one of his mother's old methods of composting and Temba how to render better fat for the gears of her sawmill.
The dark elf knew these highly visible good deeds had certainly not hurt his case either. Furthermore, he came to realize one night after walking home, that these acts gave him a warm feeling. It was a pleasant satisfaction: not borne of trickery or deceit. He insisted to himself that helping these fine folk was not simply a task of self-preservation, and Nisil found it as refreshing as the Rift air that invigorated him so.
Ivarstead was situated along one of the more isolated roads in Skyrim, and it was little stretch for the townsfolk to realize the importance of having a friendly alchemist residing nearby: 'even if he is a dark elf,' many of the less-tolerant Nords might say.
Over the past few weeks, Nisil had come to realize he truly cared for these simple Nords, and he did get the impression the feeling was mutual.
The alchemist contemplated this as he gathered his tools and resumed work on the wicker fence.
He deftly wove the reeds and branches, hoping his little palisade would fare well against the rabbits and deer attempting to forage on his freshly planted garden.
He smirked as he realized how proud his mother would be of his delicate garden and his sister of how he 'tastefully acquired' cuttings from the Riften cemetery and a nearby manor a few days prior. During the same visit, Nisil could not help but feel a tinge of pride as he strolled into Elgrim's Elixirs, book and experimental potion in hand.
Nisil had read the entirety of De Rerum Dirennis within the course of a night. He was so consumed by the reading that when he ran out of candlelight early into the morning, he had made numerous trips for firewood to keep his campfire lit.
Nisil smirked as he recounted Elgrim's bellowing laughter at the tale and remembered their conversation fondly. They discussed that book for the better part of an hour: so long and fervently that Nisil had not noticed Ingun walk in and start her daily tasks.
As Elgrim had examined the contents of his potion, Nisil felt as if he were drawn to speak to Ingun, to say something, anything. 'Was she truly a Black-Briar?' he had thought, crestfallen. He had not yet forgotten Maul's warning, and was not in high enough spirits to tempt another beating just yet.
He had dismissed his concern and approached her in good spirits.
"Good morning, Ingun…"
Nisil paused, expecting her to look up from organizing the shelves.
His confidence quickly dwindled.
"My name is Nisil; I believe we met last week."
Her cold gaze rotated and shifted potions to their appropriate locations.
He cleared his throat as his mind screamed for him to cut his losses and walk away with some dignity.
"I just wanted to say thank you for…"
"For all my advice on what you already know?" She snapped, punctuating her words with a sinister, sweet tone.
Immediately on his heels, Nisil stammered and attempted to regain control.
"Well, sera?" She inquired and allowed her icy blue gaze to freeze him to his core.
Nisil's face went hot and he immediately countered, "I'm sorry, I thought…"
"Oh," she cocked her head.
"My apologies," she hissed.
Elgrim's voice called for Nisil from the front of the shop. "Your Maester is looking for his new apprentice."
Nisil had no idea what to say as she finished her short tirade.
"Looks like he already found him," she finished with her back to him.
Nisil could not help but hear her resigned, defeated tone of finality.
As he departed with his head hung low, he caught sight of a few empty, labelled shelves.
Elgrim's earlier comment of wasted ingredients flashed to his memory, and his walk to the front of the shop was occupied with pieces of the mental puzzle falling into place.
"There you are, my boy," Elgrim said, "marvelous technique with this potion, but I'm sure you are quite aware it is entirely ineffective."
"Yes, sir," Nisil said, his mind elsewhere for the first time since stepping into the shop.
"Do you know where chokeweed grows?"
Nisil shook his head, 'Did she think I was testing her?'
"In the lakes, my boy, yet the most common way we bring disease resistance into our potions now is?"
Nisil gasped and snapped his fingers as the last puzzle piece fell into place.
'She thought I was testing her to replace her as his apprentice!'
"Mudcrab Chitin, exactly!" Elgrim clapped and clasped Nisil's shoulder. "You are a quick study! You see, the Mudcrabs eat the chokeweed and concentrate it in their…"
Nisil let Elgrim's words fall on deaf ears as he watched Ingun pass by quickly. She forcibly avoided his gaze whilst restocking cleaned glassware using a dangerous amount of force.
"…Wound care is…"
Nisil's attention snapped back once more.
"Excuse me, sir," he paused and quickly thought up a better interruption than 'your apprentice is a fox and I'm trying to win her over, so please repeat everything you just said.'
"Maester Elgrim, what is a better medium for wound care, an ointment or a potion?"
This gave the old man pause for several moments of contemplation.
During this time, Ingun shot a quick steely glance his way. Nevertheless, Nisil persisted and beckoned hastily for her to come over and join the lesson. She scowled and turned quickly: her auburn hair lofting over her shoulder.
"My lad!" Elgrim shouted at length, "your next assignment!"
He hobbled over to a dresser and flung open the doors. Scattered papers and rolls of parchment spilt forth, and Elgrim eventually located a small stack of aged notes with Hafjorg's help. Thrusting the pile to Nisil, the elf had to mask his disgust.
'Why are all these pages stuck together?'
"Do find out for me, lad, what makes a better medium! Mudcrab Chitin and Skeever Hide distilled, or with…" The old man peeled the pages apart, ripping some in the process. A yellow tar pulled into strands between the pages.
"Honey?"
Escanor's ears perked in the lakeside wind. Perched high above the surrounding wood, she held dominion of the camp, the hill, and all of the southern wood south of Ivarstead.
The queen gracefully chewed some hay her servant had brought her and peered down with her aged eyes at whatever unwelcome commotion had disturbed her quiet kingdom.
Nisil, only a dark speck in the distance, flailed as he plowed through the bushes of the forest below the cliffs.
His screams were naught but a high pitched whine to Escanor from her cliffside throne.
She watched lazily as he shed his clothes in haste, casting all dignity and anything that might slow him to the wind.
Escanor paused, several tufts of hay hanging from her mouth. She then resumed her chewing.
Nisil sprinted forth onto a stony spur and flung himself into the muddy depths of Lake Geir: swatting midflight at the scores of angry bees that pursued him.
The next day, Nisil held up the two bottles beside each other in the midday sun. One swirled in a shimmering glow and scattered the light that hit its liquid contents. The other flowed tranquilly and seemed to soak the light into an amber glow.
He had found it easy enough to grind, purify, and distill the limited ingredients Elgrim had provided for this project: Charred Skeever Hide and Mudcrab Chitin. The real difficulty was discovering how to cut the powders into the honey without boiling it all into uselessness.
Nisil was quite proud it only took him a few hours to discover a solution by rendering both into a thick paste additive before simmering the potion itself to liquefy it.
His thoughts of praise from Maester Elgrim were cut short by his thoughts of Ingun. He had not made things up to her yet and the last thing he wanted was to hurt her feelings any further.
Nisil shook the dark cloud from his mind and continued on his trek.
He wound through the wood and found his pace quickened the closer he drew to his destination.
He wove amongst the small crowd who eyed him with uncertainty.
Nisil's aching welts seemed to ease as he found solace in the task before him.
Maester Elgrim's homework would have to wait.
Nisil knelt and introduced himself softly to a boy among men with a rank bandage on his foot. Masking his pity with a smile, he bid the soldier relax and refrain from rising to greet him in turn.
With the eyes of the camp upon him, Nisil unwrapped the bandage gingerly and laid his eyes upon the infected wound. All thoughts of Elgrim's future kind words and Nisil's own upcoming greatness were pushed from his mind.
As his father had once told him, the greatest satisfaction in life comes not from your accomplishments, but from your contribution.
The alchemist prepared a new dressing with his golden homework and knew one thing: this boy would appreciate it more than he or his Maester ever could.