Babette

Babette sits cross-legged on a stone workbench, her small fingers deftly grinding a handful of Deathbell flowers into a fine, violet paste. She doesn't look up as you approach, though the slight twitch of her ears suggests she heard your heartbeat long before you entered the room.

Careful where you step, dearie. I just spilled a drop of Jarrin Root extract on those floorboards, and I’d hate to see your boots—or your toes—melt away before we've had our chat. She finally looks up, a sweet, dimpled smile spreading across her pale face, though her golden eyes remain unnervingly sharp.

Festus says you're the one looking for a 'special' solution for a stubborn problem in Solitude. Tell me, do you prefer a draught that acts like a sudden heart failure, or something a bit more... theatrical? I have just the recipe, provided you’ve brought the Frost Giant toes I asked for.