Inigo and Vilja tread cautiously through the narrow, rain-drenched streets of Windhelm, their boots splashing in the puddles that reflected the dim light of the flickering street brazier before the Candlehearth Hall. The air was thick with the scent of wet cobblestones and the snow spat back against the droplets of warmed water, and the skies spoke with the distant echo of thunder. As they approached the White Phial shop, the somber reality of the war pressed upon them. Huddled under makeshift shelters, refugees from the attck on Shor's Stone and Kynesgrove by the Daedra clutched their meager possessions, their eyes hollow with fear. Their faces, illuminated by the occasional flash of lightning. Some of the Wretched Spire Residents were grumbling as they continued to await transportation to Winterhold.
Injured soldiers, bandaged and bruised, leaned against the walls, their once proud blue uniforms stained and tattered, soaked in rain and covered with bandages. The rain seemed to wash away the colors of their allegiance, leaving behind only the grey pallor of pain and exhaustion. They watched Inigo and Vilja pass by with a mix of envy and resignation, the weight of their own stories heavy in their gaze.
Inigo knew one thing: the Daedra were a force to be reckoned with. And healing supplies appeared to be running thin, by the look of things. It would take quite some time before the Legionnaires would arrive from the South, given the gaping hole in the Pale.
The sound of the rain was punctuated by the soft moans of the wounded. The very atmosphere was heavy with a haunting melody of despair, a chilling reminder of the fragility of peace and the Season Unending which continued to drag on and on and on.
As they reached the White Phial, the warm glow from the lantern over its door and the glow of the Blacksmith's Forge nearby offered a stark contrast to the bleakness around. The White Phial was cradled in Inigo's arms. Yet, even this beacon of light cannot fully penetrate the shroud of gloom that the war has cast over Windhelm. Inigo and Vilja paused for a moment, their hearts heavy with the scenes they have witnessed, knowing that for many, the journey through the storm is far from over.
Nurelion lay feebly stretched across his counter, coughing heavily. His assistant, Quintus Navale, rubbed gentle circles on his upper back to help him breathe. "Master, please, hang in there!"
As Nurelion's coughing subsided, he shook his head in resignation. "It's futile... My time is running out... Death is imminent, Quintus..."
But Quintus shook his head with equal intensity. "No, master! Just give them time!"
No sooner had he said it than Inigo and Vilja emerged. "We have the Phial," Inigo began.
Nurelion's eyes lit up, and his assistant grew excited for him. "See?"
"but it's damaged." Inigo held the cracked vessel towards him. his face falling as he presented the vessel of broken dreams.
"This... it matches every description of the Phial that I've found in lore. But if it can't hold liquid, there's no way of knowing." Nurelion sounded a mixture of astonishment and horror. From his throat emerged a low growl. "How did you manage to damage it, then? This is what I get for not retrieving it myself."
Vilja took offense in Inigo's stead. She leaned forward and put her foot down aggressively. "Hey! It was like this when we found it, you old grump!"
"Figures - I doubt you have sufficient knowledge to harm the Phial even if you wanted to." Nurelion spat venom at the pair and his general presence grew dour, his face melting like snow off of branches and hardening into ice. "Either way, this is the end of it. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm not quite in the mood to entertain guests. I trust you can show yourself out. Here's for your trouble." He took out five septims and slid them across the counter, leaving them both disheartened.
"So that's it, then. We're sunk," Vilja said, her voice falling to a whisper.
"Don't say that, Vilja... I...I..." Inigo's thoughts scattered, frantically searching for a solution but coming up empty. Could this really be the end?
"They'll exhaust their potion supplies, and no one will receive treatment. It's the end for all of us," Vilja murmured, her hands clasped tightly over her heart.
"Then we will just have to find another way!" Inigo suggested. But was there another way? The Phial was special; extremely powerful; ancient.
Quintus watched as his mentor ascended the wooden steps on the east side of the room. A look of displeasure spread across his visage. He turned to Inigo and Vilja, and placed a couple of coin purses on the counter. "I want to thank you for your help. I know my master can be a bit short at times."
Inigo accepted his share. "I'll say. I have been treated more politely by Nords. And as a Khajiit, I am telling you, that means something."
Vilja accepted her share. She pocketed it in her bag and sighed. "You're an alchemist too, right? Do you know how to double ingredients or some kind of magic to substitute for the White Phial?"
Quintus smiled in that instant and drew an old book from under the counter. It was old, battered and burgandy-coloured. "Master Nurelion is quick to give up, but I think we still have a chance regarding the Phial."
Inigo's eyes twinkled with hope. "You think you know how to repair the Phial?"
Quintus leafed through the tome until he arrived at a spread adorned with diagrams and illustrations, likely the work of Nurelion from years gone by. His finger traced the outline of the first image, which showed a jagged mountain, its summit highlighted by arcane inscriptions that made Inigo feel illiterate when he tried to sneak a peek at it. "I have some thoughts. There are three crucial elements. Some may be easier to find than others. On the top of the Throat of the World is a patch of Unmelting Snow. No heat can touch it."
"High Hrothgar!" Vilja exclaimed. "We've been there before! We can Fast Travel to Paarthurnax!"
Inigo nodded. "Yes, this is a great idea - though I hope we can keep our balance. It looks like the picture is pointing at the very top of the mountain. Like the prick of a sewing needle."
"This is excellent news!" Quintus grew excited. "Master Nurelion lost hope because he believed the Throat of the World impossible to reach, but if you've been there before..."
"Many times," Inigo reassured him. "we were the friends of the Dragonborn."
"Then Great Cura's providence continues to shine forth, even though she's gone." Quintus proclaimed. He ran his finger along the rest of the page. "Anyways - back on track: then we need the tusk of a mammoth, ground to a fine powder as only the giants know how. The final step is tricky. It requires the briar heart from a Forsworn of the Reach. If you can bring me these materials, the Phial can again be made whole."
"Well, I possess a Mammoth Tusk," Vilja said with a shrug. "I gathered it for my own purposes. However, you could attempt to grind it yourself, lazybones. After all, we're preoccupied with other matters." Carefully, she awkwardly maneuvered the cumbersome bone onto the counter between them, requiring both hands to do it. Her stern glare at him was as if commanding him to contribute his share.
Quintus winced, growing uneasy under Vilja's glare. "I... I'll see what I can do."
Vilja smiled. "Good."
Inigo tapped her on the shoulder. "Er, Vilja, if I may ask, why did you have a Mammoth Tusk?"
"Oh, some time ago Ysolda in Whiterun asked me if I could bring her one. I... borrowed it... from the Bannered Mare. I'm sure Hulda won't mind. After all, it's being used for a good cause!" Vilja beamed in her awkwardness.
"O-kaaay..." Inigo furrowed his brows. Obviously she stole it, but when? And how? And how long ago? He would ask, but perhaps it would be better for him not to know.
"But Inigo, how do you plan to get a Briar Heart? The Forsworn are dangerous madmen, and I don't know if they're willing to deal with a Khajiit and especially not a Nord girl like myself." Vilja explained. It was no secret that the Forsworn absolutely despised the Nords. They had quite the bloody history together, going back many millennia.
"Madanach," Inigo uttered the name with a trace of fear in his voice. "Cura befriended him in Markarth. Perhaps he would be open to speaking with a friend of hers? I last heard that he's at Druadach Redoubt."
Inigo harbored a deep skepticism towards the Forsworn. Yet, if they proved helpful, it would be beneficial for all concerned down the line.
"We have to be careful; for all we know the Forsworn could take advantage of the instability brought by the Daedra. How do you know, on top of that, that they are not with the Daedra themselves, actually?" the thought crept up on Vilja just then.
"The only way to find out is to ask. But first, let us go pay Paarthurnax's old home a visit." Inigo suggested. He spun on his heel before the door and turned to face Nurelion. "We will be back in a day or so. If not, well, we are probably dead. Who knows?" He reached into his satchel and chugged a Stamina Potion to give himself an energy boost. "HOO-YA!" He hopped up and down like a Boxer prepping for his next match.
Inigo and Vilja stood outside the shop for a moment and he sighed. "Well, we have nothing else to lose... except maybe our hides." Inigo sighed.
"Inigo, remember our chat about the Divines? I bet they're up there, having a good chuckle over our heroics for Tamriel, even if the rest of the world's too grumpy to notice," Vilja quipped, her words laced with a hint of sarcasm as she recalled Nurelion's less-than-charming expression of gratitude.
Inigo dismissed it with a shrug. "At least his assistant was a more honest man. Two hundred gold each! I am most exhilarated."
Vilja scoffed and placed her hands on her hips haughtily. "Well, if we don't beat that smelly Mehrunes Dagon, money will be worthless. So there!"
"True... let's keep the money valuable, then - we will kick his red behind back into the Deadlands where it belongs! Angry, four-armed jerk." Inigo wiped his nose at the thought of Mehrunes Dagon. Admittedly, when he'd seen the Daedric Prince up close on the fields of Eastmarch, it had bitten away three of his Nine Lives, so it was mostly bravado keeping him alive at this point.
He wondered what became of Carcette. Had she met with Cura yet? Did Jyggalag eat her soul? There was really no way of knowing, but he worried for her. Ironically, Carcette was a harsh critic of his towards their first meeting, but before they parted, she was his greatest supporter, even going as far as to argue with the Blades on whether or not he should be in charge of the initial schemes.
Take care of her too, Stendarr. In the depths of his thoughts, he found solace in silent prayer. Indeed, the Vigilants were the sole guardians in Tamriel against the Mythic Dawn's schemes. Carcette had sensed the undercurrents of danger for years, yet the full extent of their machinations was beyond her foresight. Truly, foreseeing such a future was beyond any mortal's ken. While everyone was distracted by the looming threats of Dragons, Vampires, and the prophesied Dragonborn, the rats seized their chance to scurry around undetected.
Inigo looked at Vilja, who had been speaking about how she feared she would be unable to buy a new dress if money had no value, and got her attention. "Let us go."
She stared at him blankly before she was whisked away by his Fast Travel spell. At times like this, he missed Cura and Lydia. He recalled how funny Lydia's reactions were to Fast Travel.
The White Phial, an ancient artifact, was believed to contain the essence of creation itself, with snow from the top of High Hrothgar being the crucial second ingredient needed to restore its power. It is fascinating that such an object has existed for millennia, yet no one reputable except Nurelion has documented it in journals or books. Evidently, not even Lucien Flavius was aware of it. Had he known, he would surely have mentioned such a valuable artifact. This made Inigo wonder if it could be the work of the Snow Elves, particularly because of its pearly white hue and gold trimmings, reminiscent of their craftsmanship as seen in the Forgotten Vale. Perhaps Curalmil had connections to that ancient race. His name, "Curalmil" sounded more Elven than Nord, for a Nord man. It seemed like a mystery that Knight-Paladin Gelebor might be able to shed light on. Indeed, Skyrim was a land brimming with mysteries.
Their Fast Travel led them past the treacherous mountain passes, where icy winds would have gnawed at their resolve. Inigo, his blue fur bristling against the cold, led the way with unwavering determination. Vilja, her ashen blonde hair peeking out from beneath her hood, followed close behind, her eyes fixed on the distant peak of the Throat of the World.
Vilja looked up at the highest point of the cliffs. "It should be up there somewheres. I can't believe I'm doing this for alchemy, of all things. My mother would be elated, but I was never cut out for that stuff."
Inigo listened as he began to ascend. "Well, maybe this experience will change your mind. You never know." He looked at the rocks he was gripping, recognizing the black stains in the stone from their fight against Alduin there, after Cura'd learned Dragonrend.
Vilja shook her head as she followed his ascent, gripping onto a frozen stone. "Nah, I don't think so."
Inigo turned around to look at the Word Wall which was some distance away. It as desolate; lonely. "It is just not the same without old Paarthurnax. I wonder where he went? I kind of want to thank him for saving my furry behind twice."
As they ascended, the air grew thinner, and each step became a battle against exhaustion. Yet Inigo pressed on, his claws digging into the frozen rock. Vilja stumbled, her breath ragged, but she refused to give in. They were not mere mortals; they were heroes, destined to shape the fate of Skyrim.
At last, they reached the summit - a desolate peak of snow and ice, where the wind howled like a vengeful spirit. The Ancient Snow lay buried beneath a thick layer of frost, its crystalline surface shimmering in the pale sunlight. Inigo knelt beside it, his breath forming frosty clouds. "It is under the permafrost!" he exclaimed as he began to scratch its surface with his claws.
"Vilja," he said, his voice barely audible over the wind, "we've come so far. This is our moment. Help a kitty out here!"
Vilja nodded, her eyes wide with wonder. She drew a vial from her pack, its glass as clear as the Phial itself. "Inigo," she whispered, "we'll fill this with the purest snow, and the White Phial will be whole again." She quickly placed it next to her as she knelt beside her Khajiit friend. She took out a pickaxe and began to strike the layer of ice repeatedly. "Come on, come on..."
"Slow down, Inigo, or you'll hurt your paws!" Vilja cautioned, as her pickaxe came perilously close to him during his frenzied movements.
Together, they chipped away at the ice, uncovering the age-old, unmelting snow. Inigo's paws quivered as he scooped up the chilly material, the snow dancing in his palms like a tiny storm. Vilja held her flask beneath his hands with precision, and he gently let the frozen particles cascade like grains of sand. The icy substance steadily filled her vial, and although her fingers grew numb, she kept a firm grip.
As the last flake settled, the vial glowed with an otherworldly light. Inigo and Vilja exchanged a glance, their hearts swelling with pride. They had conquered the elements, defied fate, and now held the key to restoring Nurelion's life's work.
Vilja's cheeks were flushed from the chill, and her breath misted in the air as she giggled triumphantly. "I can't believe we did it. I can now officially say I've stood atop the highest peak in Skyrim!"
The pair began to chuckle. "Well. That was much easier than I was expecting it to be. Though even my furry hide cannot stop the c-cold." Inigo remarked, as he was used to things not going quite so smoothly; especially over the course of the past month.
"Let's Fast Travel to the Reach next; get that nasty business over with." Vilja suggested.
Inigo grit his teeth. "Even if we come out of that alive, I am going to bed the first chance I get. And I do not want to be woken up for the next few days. Ugh... I am running off of Stamina potions! Stamina potions, Vilja!" He cried out emotionally as he held out another green flask and popped the cork. He drunk it quickly.
"You poor dear. I wish I had some Sujamma to give you." Vilja touched his shoulder sympathetically. 'But look at it this way: what happens if we ask the White Phial to give us infinite Mead?"
Inigo thought about the prospect for a moment. "Then I think we will become part of the Nord Pantheon."
The two decided to Fast Travel to Markarth. Thankfully, Druadach Redoubt was listed on Inigo's Map, so he was able to draw a clear line through the hills. Vilja summoned Bruse, and the pair sat on the horse. They followed the path Inigo drew on his parchment, traversing bridges and river deltas.
Inigo and Vilja pressed on through their grueling journey. Her horse's hooves clattered against the stony paths, echoing through the vast, untamed wilderness that is both hauntingly beautiful and perilously unforgiving. The Reach, a place where legends tread and the brave dare to follow, tested their resolve with every galloping step.
The sun dipped low, casting an amber glow over the rugged terrain, as if the very sky bled for the trials faced by these weary travelers. They traversed narrow ledges, where a single misstep could spell doom, and forded turbulent rivers that threatened to sweep them away with their icy embrace. The howl of distant wolves melded with the wind's mournful song, a reminder that in Skyrim, one is never truly alone in the wilds.
Inigo, the bold Khajiit with tired eyes reflecting the moons of Nirn, rode with a warrior's grace, his hand ever near the hilt of his sword, ready to defend against the dangers lurking within the Reach's shadows. Vilja, the steadfast Nord, her resolve as firm as the mountains surrounding them, guided her steed with a determination that spoke of her deep connection to the blood of this land and its surrounding isles.
As night descended, a tapestry of stars unfolded above them, the constellations of Tamriel's gods watching over their passage. granting them some measure of comfort beneath the oppressive winds.
When the sun rose again, their march continued until they grew closer to the point Inigo had marked on their map.
The craggy peaks whispered dark, ancient secrets, Inigo and Vilja, with hearts full of hope and legs weary from action, disembarked from Bruse and cautiously approached the formidable Druadach Redoubt. Their quest was one of peace and healing: to obtain a Briar Heart. nothing more. The air was thick with the scent of smoldering embers and the low, ominous hum of ancient chants. As they edged closer, the jagged silhouettes of the Forsworn became discernible, their faces obscured by their grotesque masks and their hands wielding weapons forged from the bones of their enemies. The duo knew the tales of these fierce, unyielding warriors, descendants of the native Reachmen, who had been pushed to the fringes of society and now clung to their old ways with a ferocious tenacity.
The rising sun was obscured by clouds and the sky whipped up loud winds: a cloak of obscurity that Inigo and Vilja used to their advantage, moving with the silence of a whispered secret. They hoped to find Madanach and speak with him directly, avoiding as much conflict as possible. They watched as the Forsworn performed their enigmatic rituals on the bluffs above, dancing around the fire with a primal grace that belied their savage reputation. It was said that the Forsworn consorted with Hagravens, those twisted crones of legend, and that their magic was steeped in blood and shadow.
Inigo had gotten a small taste of it when he dispatched Illia's mother and cleared out Darklight Tower. It was an experience he would much rather forget than relive in real time.
Suddenly, a guttural shout shattered the stillness, and the camp erupted into chaos. The Forsworn, as if possessed by the spirits of their forebears, launched themselves at the intruders with a ferocity that was both terrifying and awe-inspiring.
No sooner did they approach the large camp than Madanach himself noticed their approach. His Forsworn soldiers drew their bows and targeted the pair immediately. Several Ravagers approached, dual-wielding their blades with fury written on all their faces. They dressed like savages, their temperaments not much better.
"And here they are, just as the Witch in the Stars has foretold." Madanach stood on the cliff looming over them, maintaining his kingly dignity amidst the savagery. "You're awfully brave, walking into the Saber Cat's Den. What do you want with us?"
"Allow me." Inigo blocked Vilja from the harsh glares of the wild Bretons who despised her kind. He cleared his throat. "Madanach, King of the Reach, your valor is known far and wide. We come before you not as conquerors, but as allies, seeking a Briar Heart to mend what has been broken."
"What the hell are you talking about, idiot?" Madanach responded sternly. "Speak clearly, before I have you hung on a Mammoth's Tusk."
"We need the Forsworn's help." Inigo reassessed their reactions. "We have an object called the White Phial, but it is broken. A Briar Heart can be used in a glue, I guess, to fix the crack in it."
Madanach's eyes narrowed as he regarded Inigo and Vilja, the weight of their request hanging heavily in the air of Druadach Redoubt. "You ask for a Briar Heart," he began, his voice a low rumble, "a sacred object to my people. Why should I grant such a boon to those who are not of the Reach? I'd gladly rip your heart out, however."
Inigo stepped forward, his posture resolute yet respectful. "Because, King Madanach, your enemy is not just the Nords, but the Daedra that threaten all of Tamriel. We seek to repair the White Phial to strengthen our fight against this darkness. And we come not as strangers, but as friends of Cura the Dragonborn, who has stood by the Forsworn in the past."
Madanach seemed to pause for a minute, as he pondered his request. He raised his hand, and the Forsworn archers lowered their bows. "So, you know Cura."
Vilja nodded in agreement, her eyes earnest. "Of course we do! She was our best friend before those bastards killed her!" her voice was weighed down with the bitterness of it all.
Madanach's eyes opened wide. "So it's true, then. The Mythc Dawn in the east, the portal to the Deadlands. This is not good. Sons of bitches!" Apparently, word of the Dragonborn's death at the hands of the Mythic Dawn had reached even the Reachmen.
Braig, who stood nearby, recalled Cura speaking of Nord friends. When he saw Vilja, he nodded."Yes, I trust their words, your highness. The cat, the Nord; they match the friends she's mentioned. Cura has battled for the Reach's freedom, for our right to our land and traditions. This plea isn't made lightly."
Madanach's gaze softened, the lines of conflict and years of struggle easing as he contemplated their words. "Cura the Dragonborn... yes, I remember her fondly. We'd known each other for a short time, but well, if not for her, I would likely not be standing here right now. Her vice helped us escape the caverns below Markarth - got us to the surface." He chuckled lightheartedly as he remembered the look on Thonar Silver-Blood's face mere seconds before it went falling into the brook below. "Had a hell of a mace arm, too. She has shown honour to our cause, and if she counts you among her allies, then perhaps I can overlook my... apprehensions."
Vilja and Inigo looked at one another with mouths agape. This was a pleasant surprise.
Madanach, his gaze as piercing as the chill of The Pale, considered their words. "The Daedra threaten not just the Nords, but every soul within these lands; the Reachmen included. I may despise those who've wronged my people, but I will not forsake my duty as the King of the Reach." He signaled to one of his trusted, who cautiously approached, a Briar Heart held reverently in his hands.
"Don't you guys worship the Daedra?" Vilja asked, raising an eyebrow.
"We do," Braig informed her sternly. "but that doesn't mean we like them all. Mehrunes Dagon is no friend of ours either. We've always been more partial towards Hircine, Namira, Malacath, Peryite, Nocturnal, Molag Bal and Boethiah. We also follow Aedra like Kynareth, Mara, and Dibella. Even Dagon, we venerate his power and force of will, but that does not mean we wish to see our families turned to ash."
"Take this," Madanach declared, "and let it be known that the Forsworn, too, can show mercy and honor. I will give you a Briar Heart. But know this, it is not just a tool - it is the essence of a Forsworn warrior, a piece of our spirit and our connection to this land. Use it well, and may it fortify your resolve as it has ours."
With those words, an understanding passed between them, a recognition of shared struggles and the unity found in facing a common foe. The Briar Heart was not just an object, but a symbol of alliance, and in that moment, the seeds of a new respect were sown amidst the crags of the Reach.
Inigo bowed deeply, gratitude etched into his features. "Your help will not be forgotten, King Madanach. May the winds of Kynareth guide us to a future where our paths cross in kinship rather than conflict." And with that, the two adventurers, their hearts a little lighter, continued on their journey, the fate of Skyrim resting gently in their hands.
With their heads held up high, they Fast Travelled back to Windhelm, leaving the brutish camp behind. It was interesting to gain the Forsworn's perspective on these matters even if they were Daedra-worshippers themselves.
In the dim light of the White Phial Shop, Inigo and Vilja's silhouettes loomed like specters, their hands clasped tightly around the fabled Eternal Snow and the pulsing Briar Heart. The air was thick with anticipation.
Quintus Navale descended the stairs when he heard the sound of the door opening and closing. "You're back! I was beginning to fear the worst. Good news: I was able to ground the Mammoth's Tusk after all - I just needed to borrow the Blacksmith's Forge for a while. And by a while I mean the last twelve hours." his eyes shifted over to Vilja and he muttered, "Lazybones."
Vilja stepped forward. "What was that?"
Quintus shrunk quickly. "Er, nothing."
"We have the rest of the materials you need, friend. Now you can do your thing." Inigo informed him as he pulled out the Briar Heart Madanach had given him. Vilja snootily drew her flask with the Unmelting snow.
"I hope that's enough for it. There is no way I'm going back to the peak." Vilja snubbed.
Quintus nearly jumped for joy when he saw what they brought. "Thank the gods. I'll get to work on the Phial straight away."
He took each ingredient into his hands and placed them upon the alchemy table. As he began to add the ingredients, he narrated their significance: "The unmelting snow, a paradox of nature, defies the sun's warm embrace, a remnant of the world's ancient magics. It is said that the Greybeards, masters of the Voice, taught it to ignore the heat, a testament to their profound power. This snow forms the body of the Phial, a canvas for my restorative work."
When the snow was settled into the chamber, he reached for the Mammoth Tusk Powder. ground repeatedly and painstakingly over the Blacksmith's forge, much to his chagrin. "The mammoth tusk powder, as hard as iron yet as delicate as the snow it will join, provides the Phial with its strength." He poured the residue into the snow and churned it with a stirring prod over medium heat, watching it form into a thick paste.
Finally, he reached for the Briar Heart. The air was heavy; the shop seemed to sigh, the walls themselves resonating with the power of the powders churning together. Quintus cut open the Briar Heart and poured its fluids into the mixture, and cranked up the heat. The mixture turned a rough violet colour, casting purple light onto the room and its onlookers. Quintus' voice trembled as the mighty gale blew his hat off his head, and his clothes were flapping around him. The liquid cried out to him, a near shriek. "The final piece, the Briar Heart, is perhaps the most enigmatic..." Quintus felt himself trembling before its power. "It is the lifeblood of a Forsworn warrior, imbued with a magic that harkens back to the Dragon War. This heart, once beating in the chest of a fierce combatant, now serves a new purpose: to temper the Phial, locking its magic into physical form."
Amidst an explosive puff of violet smoke that seemed to form an anguished face within its fleeting shape, there lay a new substance: a salve of gold and white, thick and congealed, akin to fresh paint.
"Wow... that's incredible!" Inigo exclaimed as he bore witness to the transformation.
Vilja raised an eyebrow. "It just looks like plaster to me."
Quintus held the new mixture in his hands and carefully maneuvered around the two of them, bringing it over to the Phial on the counter. He gently laid the bowl containing the insulant substance down on the counter beside the Phial. The air grew colder, the shadows deeper, and for a moment, it felt as if the very fabric of reality was bending, twisting around the will of the Phial to be made whole once more.
Quintus noticed that it was very much the case: the White Phial's crack began to emanate in a bright blue light which flickered on and off as it was in proximity to his crafted substance. "Hot dog! So I did grind the powder correctly! Thank Julianos! Thank Zenithar!" He began to gently apply the salve to the gash. "The repaired White Phial promises the bearer the gift of endless potions, a reward befitting the arduous journey of its reconstruction. It stands as a symbol of the enduring search for knowledge and the mastery over the natural and the supernatural. In the end, the Phial's restoration is not just the mending of broken glass, but the rekindling of a dream, a dream that alchemy can transcend the boundaries of possibility."
When his hand moved from the cut, the mixture he crafted began to absorb into the Phial's porcelain body. "Th-that's it! Eureka! I've done it!" he looked to Inigo and Vilja. "No.. no. We've done it!" He held up the bottle, showing it to Inigo and Vilja, who marvelled at it.
"I have never seen anything like that before." Inigo was shocked. "Hey, maybe the Gray Quarter could use some of that mixture to fix its walls and houses."
Nurelion shook with excitement and dashed for the stairs. "I have to show Master Nurelion! This is a miracle and a half!" He cradled the Phial in his arms like a newborn babe, trailed by Inigo and Vilja.
Nurelion lay in his bed, weak and trembling. He could barely move. He was fighting to keep his eyes open, but was alerted by the clamouring footsteps of his apprentice.
Quintus flew into the room and rushed to his bedside. "Master, look. It's the Phial." He presented the repaired bottle to his master, placing it in Nurelion's hands which feebly reached for it.
Nurelion groaned weakly, but a look of joy and relief washed over his face. "What? How?"
Quintus waved a hand over the top of the bottle and whispered a strange word to it. The bottle began to conjure up a fluid before their very eyes, filling from a single drop and slowly creeping up. "It doesn't matter. Look, it's refilling with your tonic as we speak."
Nurelion smiled, a single tear tracing his cheek. He gazed upon the bottle as his eyelids grew heavy. His trembling hands quieted, coming to rest. "Marvelous..." he uttered faintly, his final word before giving up the ghost and letting his head loll lifelessly aside.
Quintus' eyes grew wide and he began to try and shake him awake. "Master! Master? Master Nurelion..." There was no response. He reached for his wrist to check the old Altmer's pulse. The room grew still and silent, and Inigo and Vilja exchanged glances, knowing full well what that meant.
Quintus exhaled through his nose and lowered his head sadly. "He is gone."
Even though Nurelion was a jerk, Inigo understood that there was emotional attachment regardless. "I am sorry, Quintus."
"As am I. You acted very nobly in helping my master realize his life's work. Thank you for that. As for myself, I've always been content to simply be an alchemist. I fear keeping the Phial would just remind me of Nurelion's obsession, and how it consumed him. Here, keep it." Quintus handed it to the pair of them. "You are as much a part of its legend now as Curalmil was. I hope it brings you the happiness that my master desired. Now, how would you like me to align the Phial's properties? I'm not as skilled as Curalmil, so I'm afraid it will only ever refill with one type of liquid."
Vilja scoffed. "Not as skilled as Curalmil? Hah! After what we just saw you do, I wouldn't believe that for a second. I mean, look; if that's true, you screwed us by filling it with your master's tonic!"
Inigo agreed with her. "Yes; do not sell yourself short, my friend. You are a wonderful alchemist. For now, though: the people need Health Potions. Special Health Potions. Highly powerful Health Potions." He called his attention to a former adversarial ally. "Delphine especially needs it. And quickly!"
Quintus remembered Inigo speaking to Esbern about her while they were in hiding underground. "Right - of course! We'll be right there."
In the grand halls of the Palace of Kings, a sense of urgency filled the air as Quintus, Inigo, and Vilja made their way through the echoing corridors. They carried with them the legendary White Phial, its contents shimmering with the promise of healing. Delphine, once a figure of strength and resolve, lay weakened, her life force ebbing away like the last rays of a sunset. The trio approached with a mixture of hope and trepidation, aware of the gravity of their task.
Esbern eyed them with suspicion. "You're finally back! Do I dare assume this is the 'White Phial?'" He bobbed his head towards the bottle in Quintus' hands.
Quintus nodded. "Yes; and I am about to fill it with a mystic Healing Potion: one that Curalmil himself would have appreciated."
"Curalmil was a big, fat jerk." Vilja scoffed brusquely.
Quintus was stunned silent for a second, but continued. "Anyways..." he waved his hand over the lip of the Phial and the tonic he'd conjured up began to flush into nonexistence. He spoke another foreign word over the bottle and it began to fill itself up with a red fluid before their very eyes to the intrigue of everyone all around.
Inigo, ever the source of light in the darkest of times, quipped with a twinkle in his eye, "I hope this potion doesn't have any side effects, like turning her into a Sweetroll or something. I will have no choice but to enjoy her presence then." His humor, a balm in tense moments, drew a brief, grateful smile from Quintus.
Delpine lay on her back still, growing weaker with each passing second, but refusing to fall. She was as stubborn on her deathbed as she was walking around and barking orders. Inigo was certain she was giving Arkay a headache too.
Quintus, with his ever-practical nature, carefully uncorked the phial, his hands steady as the dawn. The potion, a radiant elixir of life, seemed to glow with an inner light as he poured it gently into Delphine's mouth.
The effect was immediate and miraculous. Colour returned to Delphine's cheeks, and her breath, once shallow and labored, deepened and steadied. The cuts on her body began to finally seal themselves up. Her chest rose and fell with the renewed vigour of life. Eyes that had been clouded with the shadow of impending death now opened, clear and focused. She looked up at her saviours, her voice a whisper of awe, "I...I'm alive...?"
Esbern gasped. "Delphine!"
Quintus, his scholarly demeanor softened by the moment, observed, "It seems the legends of the White Phial were not exaggerated." Now that he'd seen the true power of the Phial, he was only saddened that Nurelion hadn't lasted long enough to witness it. Though, he would continue on in his memory; honour his legacy.
Inigo, never one to miss an opportunity for levity, added, "Well, if I knew it was this powerful, I would've asked it to make me the High King of Skyrim." Laughter, a rare and precious sound in these somber halls, echoed off the stone walls, a testament to the indomitable spirit of companionship and the enduring hope they carried.
Inigo tapped Vilja on the shoulder. "How do you feel about Alchemy now, Vilja?"
Vilja huffed, trying to hide the look of amazement on her face. "It's all right, I suppose. Still not my thing, but I can see why my mother and grandmother and great-grandmother found it appealing."
As Delphine rose, supported by the arms of her friends, it was clear that the White Phial had not only cured her ailment but had also woven a deeper magic, one of renewed bonds and affirmed convictions. She turned to Quintus. "You... you saved my life. What's your name?"
"Quintus Navale. But I didn't act alone: it was Inigo and Vilja who did most of the work." Quintus gave credit where it was due. He explained what they'd gone through, drawing out the matters in concise terms.
Delphine turned her gaze to Inigo and lowered her face slightly. "You... you went through all that trouble to save my life?"In that moment, she hesitated, contemplating her longstanding behavior towards him. Her Breton pride had often bordered on arrogance. However, in this instance, she was overwhelmed with gratitude. Gazing at her rescuers, Inigo and Vilja, she realized they were the last individuals she had anticipated would aid her, particularly Inigo. Nevertheless, the evidence was irrefutable.
Vilja, with a satisfied nod, whispered to the now-recovered Delphine, "You owe us an Ale, one for every heartbeat you've regained."
"Well... I suppose I owe you something, all right." Delphine swallowed her pride as she brushed her long blonde hair away from her eyes. "Lorkhan's eyes. I've been fighting to breathe for days now... what have I missed?"
Inigo cleared his throat. "Esbern, I will let you take it from here. I am returning to Riften, where I am going to sleep for the next three days." He gave them a salute, waving his arm outward from his forehead and heading for the doors.
Author's Note: Thankfully I have access to a computer again! ^o^ I'm thrilled