"Name?"

"Imare Larethian," she demurely answered.

"Undoubtedly an Altmer," the guard standing in front of her practically hissed and Imare meekly lowered her gaze. The fortified walls of Anvil loomed behind the two other guards. Grey stone full of dark shadows that danced menacingly in the light cast by the torches pitifully shuddering from the wind More members of the city guard peered down at her from the parapet. Hands rested on sword and spear handles, bows were held with arrows ready. Imare felt afraid. The city guards were tense. They looked angry. There was no kindness in their eyes. Only the promise of violence.

"We saw no one on the road. Where did you come from?"

"I came from Kvatch. I did not follow the road, I heard rumors of bandits, it seemed best to find my own way."

"Bah! Idle gossip, the roads are safe! We make sure of it!"

"Certainly," Imare agreed, nodding civilly.

"What brings you to Anvil? What is your purpose here?"

"P- Purpose?"

"WHY are you here?"

"Yes, of course, forgive me, commerce, my purpose here is trade," Imare said, her voice laced with soft tones. "I am an Apothecary, I am here to offer my services at the Chapel of Dibella. The Primate will be expecting me. I have a letter. Perhaps, if you could summon the Watch Captain, we could clear up this matter-"

"The Watch Captain is a busy woman! She has more important things to attend to than traveling merchants. Let me see that letter!"

"As you wish," Imare began. Holding out the letter she flinched as the guard ripped it from her hands, crumpling the edges of the carefully folded letter as he shook it open.

"Helvo!" A new voice shouted, echoing with command against the walls.

"Watch Captain," the guard interrogating Imare said with an obvious wariness. Imare could see his anger fading, giving way to cautious fear. She would have smiled had she thought it worth risking, but it was not polite, so she did not. She didn't want any more trouble. 

"What are you doing?" the Watch Captain said, her voice full of unmistakable fury and irritation in equal measure.

"Questioning this merchant, Watch Captain. There were some irregularities in her paperwork."

"Irregularities? Shor's Bones, man, that's Imare the Potion Maker. We've got bigger things to worry about than one wandering apothecary...especially one we know about."

"My mistake, Watch Captain."

"Yes, [b]your[/b] mistake, Helvo. Now get out of my sight, before I lose what little remains of my patience. On second thought, belay that order, stand at your post."

"By your command," the guard replied, pulling his shoulders back tensely.

"No doubt, you have heard of the recent murders, Imare? Dangerous times for all of us. I am afraid we are all a bit on edge."

"Forgive my ignorance, but I have not, I have been deep in the woods for some days," Imare answered.

"Grave matters," the Watch Captain continued, her face grim. "But those are not your concern. Allow me to provide an escort, where do you wish to go?"

Imare sensed an opportunity, she could see the Watch Captain studying her with a peculiar look, seizing her up. There was a chance to learn more, if she wanted to. People trusted her, acquaintances, and strangers even. However, she didn't want to know more. She had no stomach for violence. No taste for the macabre. And no interest in unfortunate deaths. She only wanted a warm fire to sit next to, a steaming bowl of soup, and a goblet of wine.

"The Chapel of Dibella, I must speak with the Primate. She is expecting me," Imare restated, smiling softly.

"As you wish. Helvo! See that our guest makes it to the Chapel of Dibella. And Helvo..."

"Yes, Watch Captain?"

"Mind your manners this time or I'll see to it that you regret the very day you were born."

[hr]

Kneeling in front of the altar, Imare struggled against the feelings that thundered through her chest. Murder. Murders. She knew. For a panicked moment, Imare felt that everyone knew. They could see it in her. In her eyes. She was unclean. Unworthy of prayer. The words came out jumbled. Fumbling and hollow.

Her suffering was mercifully interrupted, by a swish of elegant fabric, nimble hands, and a voice that swept her to her feet with unhesitating and unrestrained warmth,"Imare! My dear child. How lovely it is to see you again, it has been some time since you last visited. How have you been? I trust your journey was pleasant? The wilderness is so beautiful this time of year."

"I am well, thank you, Primate. My journey was peaceful, indeed."

"Oh, please, Imare, I have known you for too long for you to call me that, Vesta will do just fine."

"Of course, Vesta," Imare managed, the name heavy on her lips.

"Will you be staying for the evening services? We will serve food afterwards, of course."

"Your offer is most kind, most kind, but I must see to my room at the Dancing Donkey, besides there are others with needs far greater than mine. Do not waste your coin on me."

"Imare! It is not waste, you are a child of Dibella like any other!"

"All the same, I do not wish to burden you," Imare said. The Primate touched her shoulder gently, a tender expression of warmth displayed over her features. Imare felt a growing panic. An unreasonable response to the kindness she was faced with. She was on the verge of tears, for no reason at all.

Stammering a half-hearted excuse, the young Altmer forced a pleasant smile onto her face, nodding politely to the priestess as she made her escape, backing way from the kindness that suddenly hurt her, and wandering into the cold night as if chased by more than just the visions of her guilty conscience.

[hr]

Bearing the marks of the wilderness, Imare moved through the deserted streets of Anvil cautiously. The people were colder than she remembered. The faces stern and full of unspoken fear.

The day had been long. Night had come faster than she had expected. The rhythms of the forest were strange, there was no harmony to the noises that Imare heard, and no wordlessly measured pace to the movements that she saw. A cold wind, uncharacteristic for the season, had chased her from Kvatch, and through the woods to Anvil. The growing gust had arrived unaccompanied by any earlier warning signs. Her own disconcertment had grown with each passing moment. She felt frayed and tattered, burdened by each conversation. Sleep. She needed to sleep.

Pale moonlight lit up the alleyways, offering small visions of imagined horrors looming in the darkness. Imare imagined glowing eyes, sharp teeth and claws dripping with blood. She pulled her hooded cloak tighter around her, burying a shiver in the warmth of the thick fabric. Massar rose above her head, a blood red moon she thought. Secunda seemed to look down on her, crumbling in shades of white, brittle bone left to decay. Unwelcome omens that brought uninvited thoughts. Imare could feel her heart beating loudly in her chest. Guilt slowly seeping through her veins.

Had she been her mother, she would have made a warding sign. She would have cast bones, read for signs, tried to interpret the messages she suspected swirled beneath the surface of her awareness, and pondered the will of the Divines. But she was not. She had no particular gift for divination. No talent for prophecy, less or greater, no tongue for prayer, and no special connection to the Divines. She was alone. She was always alone.

With each step she took, the vial of poison felt like a lead weight in the hidden pocket of her satchel. Milk Thistle Seeds paralyze the muscles. Vampire Dust, acquired in ways she knew she didn't want to know, to fill the blood with ice. Bergamot Seeds to deaden the magicka and to silence any screams. It would only take a sip. Mere moments, two heartbeats, perhaps three, and it would all be over. But she had a made a promise. She had made a promise to herself. And she couldn't break it. It was no longer about forgiveness. It was no longer about regret. It was all that remained to her.

Curiosity. Punishment Self-Hatred. She did not know what possessed her to brew poisons. After all that had happened. A maker of potions, an apothecary had to know the shadowy handiwork of the poisoner she told herself. To develop antidotes and cures, to counterattack vile poisons and foul diseases, she had to know how to create substances that caused harm, the cruel mixtures laced with death. It was an easy explanation to offer and an easy story to tell. Cruel neccesity, she thought, and sometimes she almost believed it herself.

Her encounter with the city guard troubled her. They had viewed her with suspicion. They wanted someone to blame She hadn't known about the killings. The mere thought filled her with dread. Murder. Murders. The words brought the lump back to her throat and the sting of tears once more burned at the edges of her eyes. She quickened her pace unthinkingly, half stumbling on a loose cobblestone. The torches offered too little light. The moonlight no longer felt pleasant. And the silence that hung over the city felt suddenly wrong.

Imare pushed the door to the Dancing Donkey Inn open with an audible sigh of relief. She avoided the eyes that greeted her and offered no general greeting as she slipped in from the cold night. She was a seasonal visitor to Anvil. A familiar face to some, but hardly a citizen of the city, and certainly no guest expected to join in any merriment, stifled as it was by growing dread. Approaching the bar, Imare wordlessly placed a handful of septims on the counter, taking a seat a respectable distance from an Imperial who by her measure appeared long lost to tankard he slowly nursed.

"Potion Maker! Welcome back!" came the greeting from the publican as he approached, offering her a winning smile. Another kindness she noted colored by proper decorum, but one she accepted without further concern.

"Hello, Savio, you are cheerful as always," Imare said. She made no effort to hide her weariness as she leaned lightly across the bar. 

"A frown is bad for business, don't you know? What can I do for you, Imare?"

"A quiet room, as always. But first, please, some warm food and something to drink."

"Perhaps, a well-seasoned stew? I've got an excellent potato mutton stew, a traditional recipe all the way from Windhlem, cooking the back. And some mulled wine?" the barkeeper sagely offered, he knew her tastes.

"Yes, that would be wonderful," Imare managed, letting herself sink further into the chair she had claimed with a weary smile. "The cold wind was most unwelcome and I feel chilled down to my very bones."