The road to Meir Thorvale was icy mud, pulling at her leather boots as the sky lay low, full bellied and threatening to snow once more. Gaela used her stick to trudge along, her hood pulled low over her river colored eyes. The town was not far, she could see the smudges of smoke against the grey sky from over the treeline. There she would stop and find shelter, perhaps trade some of her services for fresh food and some drink. Her mouth watered at the idea of warm soft bread and a mug of warm tea. 

The guards looked her over with dull eyed interest, one of them muttering, “Don’t go shootin’ off spells in town.” 

“I’m a healer,” she assured them and showed them the distinctive vials of health potion secured to her waist in a thick leather belt. “Restoration.”

One of them grunted and waved her through, his eyes on her round rump under the robes as she passed. Gaela wandered into the small cobblestone lined square, the large hall farther up on a low rise of land that overlooked the village. 

It was after a few cups of tea that the worn out woman appeared, hovering silently as Gaela attempted to read by the stub of a candle on the table. 

“Pardon, Miss?” she finally spoke up, startling the mage out of her concentration. 

“Wha?” Gaela looked up, her thick brows raised in surprise. “Oh, hello there.” 

With a drawn sigh, the woman folded her hands nervously, her thin fingers twisting around each other. “The guards said you were a healer, he described you I mean.”

“Yes, that I am,” Gaela rolled up the scroll and stuffed it into her robe, “And are you the one that needs healing?”

She looked at the woman critically, even in the dim light of the tavern she could see a faded black eye and faint bruises on her throat. Combined with her skittish demeanour, the woman certainly seemed a victim of some sort of attack. Leaning forward, her hood falling back to reveal more of her round freckled face, she gave the woman a compassionate look, “We can speak elsewhere if you wish?”

“It ain’t for me,” the woman said but nodded, glancing nervously at a knot of men sitting at a table, slumped over mugs of cheap ale. 

Gaela followed her out the door, around to the back where a boy of about seven sat with  his arm clutched to his chest. His face was pale and drawn with pain and he looked underfed. 

Crouching down, Gaela peered at the boy, a warm smile crossing her pleasant face, “Seems you got yourself hurt, I can help you. May I see it?”

The woman watched, a warning look flashed as the boy opened his mouth to speak, “My Fa-”

He stopped and just held his arm, the elbow crooked and clearly out of place. Gaela stroked light fingers against his skin, a warmth emanating from them. The glow absorbed into his small body and she gently began to manipulate his arm back into place. If she had been a Restoration mage of less skill, this would have been painful for the boy but instead it merely itched and tickled uncomfortably as the joint lined back up. 

Once she was done, she let the magic continue the knitting and healing as she set his arm back down. Her brown hair fluttered in the breeze that smelled like fresh rain, the loose tendrils that escaped her bun curling in the humidity. Her bright eyes saw more than a boy who hurt himself, she recognized the twisting motion that would have caused it, not to mention the finger shaped bruises on his wrist. The same size as the ones on his mother’s neck. 

“He will be fine,” Gaela said, pausing for a long moment, seemingly lost in thought. The woman frowned and started to rummage in her modest coin purse, assuming the healer was waiting for a payment. 

“It’s not much but-”

“His father did this? Same man who beat you?” Gaela finally spoke, ignoring the proffered coin. 

The woman flushed, shame filling her eyes along with tears. She took a sharp breath, nodding as she looked away. The healer was a stranger, she had no connection to the town nor did she know her husband, Big Herve Brogan or his reputation for not holding his mead well.

“Just take the payment, ain’t nothing you can do about it, Miss,” she pushed the coin at Gaela. 

Her wide blue-grey eyes only stared past the coin at the woman, “Why do you stay?”

The coin in her fingers shook and finally fell to the mud. Mrs Brogan covered her mouth with her thin hand, “Because he’ll kill us if we try to leave again, he’s told me and by the Eight I believe him. I...I tried once, when this one was hardly more than three winters, I had my girl still nursing and I was heavy with child. I could not bring another into that house...”

The woman swallowed hard and knelt in the mud to pull her son close, the boy’s face still as a carved mask as his mother broke down. “He beat and kicked me. I lost the baby and he nearly strangled me until I could not draw a breath. He said he would kill us all...unless we came back.” 

Gaela’s placid expression flickered with anger and loathing, her fingers grew hot with the desire to burn the man in his boots, all the booze in his blood he would blaze up very nicely. But his death would bring more trouble than it was worth. Instead, she replied calmly, “And he’ll be the death of you, he’ll turn your boy into a man like himself. I’ve seen it before. Your girl will marry a man like her father and it will continue. You have to be strong, you just need some help.”

Fishing the coin out of the mud, she flipped it and looked down at the face of Tiberius Septim staring back up at her and shrugged, “So I’ll help.” 

“You can’t...unless you have sword hidden in your robes.” 

“Pah, no need for all that,” Gaela said, reaching for her pack, “Meet me here tomorrow night, I’ll have your solution.” 

Mrs Brogan looked at her doubtfully but then nodded, “Fine, I’ve got little else to lose. Come along, son.” 

She watched them leave, still crouched in the mud and her mind working over the details of her plan. Certainly it would simple to just kill him but in town, with guards and a Lord presiding over it would not do to bring that trouble on the head of the poor woman. Not to mention her own. 

In her rented room, Gaela had several plants heaped on the table, candles burning even as morning broke while she ground up canis roots in her mortar,the pestle making a rhythmic clacking sound. With her steel knife, sharpened to a keen edge, she delicately sliced a dried imp stool. The ceramic crucible burned hot with mage fire and the vial of purified water was soon at a roiling boil and she added the ingredients.

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With a wave of her hand, she lowered the flame to simmer the liquid not wanting to leech the material too quickly. Gaela picked up her small statue of of the veiled Divine of mercy, carved in a crude manner but with love. She smiled a little, remembering her mother giving it to her after her father died and she was so lost. Would Mara approve of what she was doing now? Blindly giving a potion to someone with no idea what she was doing, a potion that could very well kill a person if not administered in the right dosage. So much could go wrong, it could be not enough to paralyze the man and he would be enraged or it could make him slip into a sleep he would never wake from. 

She slept, curtains drawn against the sun as the potion steeped for hours. Gaela stirred under her blanket, dreaming of dense woods and howls in the darkness. When she woke, beads of cold sweat dampening her hair against her neck, she saw it was nearly dusk. She rose and washed her face in the basin of water, rinsing away the heavy dread the nightmares always brought. The matters at hand were more important than that which could not be changed. 

Gaela sniffed the flask, the stench of the fungus was strong and it might present an issue. Only a strong dark ale, something sour and heavy would mask that taste. It bothered Gaela that she did not know the man’s size or his constitution, things that would matter when dosing him with the paralysis potion. Too little and he would be conscious and though slow, he could still move and too much, he would die. As much as the drunk bastard might have deserved it, Gaela was not a murderer.  

With her hood drawn, she waited in the shadows for Mrs. Brogan. It seemed like hours passed, Gaela growing tired of staying still and wondered if the woman got cold feet or she just could not get away. Just as she was about to give up and wander back to the tavern she heard a whisper, hardly more than a sigh on the evening breeze. 

“Here...”

Gaela turned and saw the slender woman, her shoulders hunched with tension and she went to her, whispering, “How big is he?”

The woman glanced around nervously, murmuring, “He’s a smith and a Nord. He’s a large man.” 

Without seeing him that could mean anything and Gaela bit her lip, “Show me.” 

“I can’t, he’ll see me and it will be all for naught, please just give me the potion if you will. If you will not then I must go. My children are waiting.” 

Gaela could imagine them at home, nervous because their mother acted oddly, perhaps telling them to gather their things. Their father off drinking, spending what little coin he brought in making horseshoes and plow blades on ale. 

“Bring him a dark ale, the strongest tasting brew you can find because this has a potent taste. Give him half the bottle, watch him he will become stiff though he might stay conscious. As long as he can’t move, you can get away,” Gaela passed her the small vial, the neck tied with a bit of blue dyed yarn. “Be mindful of the dosage, we don’t want him to die.” 

Mrs. Brogan nodded and clutched at the vial as if it might disappear, “I will. Thank you.” 

“Just go, try south to Daggerfall or Wayrest, lose yourselves in the city. May the Divines guide your path,” Gaela whispered, watching as the woman darted away into the darkness. 

It was a few days later when the guards broke down her door, yanking her out of her bed as they gathered the evidence of her crime. Gloved hands swept the glass vials and tools of her trade into a large sack, mixing herbs and roots together carelessly. Gaela stumbled as they shoved her clothing at her. 

“Get dressed, witch,” the Captain said, staring boldly at her as she put on her robes. 

“What is this about?” Gaela demanded, feeling her hands start to tingle, ready to throw sparks at the iron clad guardsmen. 

“You’re under arrest by the authority of the Count of Meir Thorvale for the murder of Herve Brogan,” he said as he nodded to the man behind her. The Captain picked up one of the tiny vials and dropped it, crushing the glass and viscous fluid under his heavy boot. “By poisoning.”

A crackling of energy started to erupt from her fingers but it was cut off as an iron gauntlet came down and hit her hard in the back of the head. She saw stars then blackness rose to meet her, her body hitting the floor with a thud.

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Her wrists ached, she could feel the were rubbed raw by the heavy iron shackles as her arms were bound tight behind her back. The filthy cloth between her lips was soaked with her saliva, as mage the guards did not trust to keep her ungagged. Gaela looked up when the prison doors opened, they were all chained together, the prisoners that had been crammed into tiny cells. Her heart thumped wildly, perhaps the Count would finally hear her out, that the poisoning had been an accident. That she had only tried to help people that were under his protection that were being abused. 

When the cold wind bit through the thin rags, she shivered, hunching her shoulders as her brown hair swirled in long tendrils around her face. The guard gave her a shove when Gaela was too slow kneeling and she nearly pitched forward but the strain of the chains that bound her to the other prisoners kept her from getting a faceful of dirt. 

They were a motley lot, men and women, an Altmer and the largest orc she had ever seen. Her focus was on the vulturine man who stalked down their line, boasting of his bright idea to sell them as slaves. Her mind flew to her mother and siblings in Daggerfall, they were not poor but there was no way she would ask them to buy her freedom. It was the screams that startled her out of her thoughts and she blinked her round blue grey eyes as bandits appeared out of nowhere. Stuck in the mud, she tried to crouch, to make herself as small as she could as the clash of steel and flash of flame erupted around them. Guards fell and people who had come out to watch the entertainment of executions scrambled now to avoid their own deaths. 

It was over quickly, Gaela looked up at the man on the horse, trying to focus on his words. A bargain he offered but her attention was pulled away by screams and cries for help. She looked at the ground, not wanting to see the butchery that was happening around them as there was nothing she could do about it, still bound as she was. Words stood out to her: Marco, Camlorn, Callen Raimes. How they fit together was a blur but the gist was that the man wanted them to rescue his brother and earn their freedom or simply die as hunted fugitives. They would be blamed for the raid and branded brigands. More deaths on her head. Gaela sighed through her nose, her shoulders slumping until the man came by to release her. 

The mage’s arms flopped forward, the blood rushing back into her fingers like fiery needles. She groped around for the gag, yanking it from her mouth. The tattooed man spoke first, his accent told her he was a Breton though of western stock. She looked around, people lay scattered like chaff after the scythe and Gaela rubbed her wrists, “There are wounded here. I have to try and help.” 

Her heart felt heavy, these same people who threw rotten cabbage and jeered at them, called her a witch and a poisoner, the same that had come to her to heal their aches. How fickle they were but she could not turn her back. Looking over at the big ginger Breton who spoke, she said, “I will meet you all down the road. I won’t live like a skeever, darting from one hiding place to another. I must clear my name.” 

With the rest that would join her, she made her way to the jailhouse to collect her things. To her dismay, her once tidy and organized reagents and ingredients were jumbled in her knapsack, mixed with the other odds and ends she had collected on her travels. Gaela sighed with a deep relief when she saw the crucible was unbroken and she began to pack her things up, hunting down her staff. She saw two leaning together and grabbed the one that belonged to her. It was a sanded down branch with a knot at the end of it, hard as iron when she needed to use it to club someone. The alchemist threw her knapsack on, and belted on her pouches to secure her robe in place.  

Gaela stepped outside, walking towards a cottage that was in flames and she saw a man hunched over a woman, a child clutched between them. She rushed as fast as she could without slipping, her packs and her ample bosom bouncing as she ran. The mage knelt but before she could even cast a healing spell, she could see the family was dead. Run through with spears and swords, she turned her head away from the gruesome scene, taking a deep breath of cold air.