Chapter 1
1 Rain's Hand, 4E 201
Caril spent a mere three days in the Embassy before departing for the Reach with Ondolemar, who offered the protection of his guard as they returned to Markarth. Though Caril wished to prolong his stay at the Embassy by any means necessary, he preferred safe passage through one of the most dangerous holds above even that. Ondolemar's guards wisely suggested Caril travel to the Rift, his first destination, by way of Falkreath. They warned him of bitter cold and lack of shelter on the plains of Whiterun that claimed a few traveling Justiciars every year and said that, though the trip could take up to a week more, it was worth it to avoid the tundra for the protection of the southern pine forests.
"Markarth is a day or two out of your way at this point," said Ondolemar when they came upon a fork in the road where one sign pointed to the small Reach mining town, Karthwasten, Rorikstead, Falkreath, and Whiterun, and the solitary pointer in the other direction read Markarth, "But it might be worth your time to sleep in a real bed again, rent a room at the inn."
"How close is Karthwasten?" asked Caril.
"You could be there by sunset," said one guard, "But there's no inn, don't waste your time."
"I know. Markarth it is, I suppose. How far is it, then?"
"If we travel straight through," Ondolemar paused and thought for a moment, "We could be there before
dawn but if we stop, it will be midday tomorrow, I believe."
They stopped for the night, needless to say. The roads were even more dangerous at night.
Caril was relieved for being able to dismount his horse for any small period of time even more than he was grateful for taking the safer route. Skyrim's horses were monsters; big, heavy, slow draft horses that would only be used for heavy work in elsewhere. He was used to riding tall, thin legged thoroughbreds with as sleek bodies as their mer masters. In that way, Skyrim's horses were analogous to the horses of the Isle, big and burly like their owners. However much he missed his own horses, he understood why they could not travel here. The roads were too uneven, too steep, and too treacherous for a fast but feeble hose like that.
Because they had eaten nearly all the food packed for the journey, the archer among the group of guards went off for an hour or so and came back with two rabbits and a pheasant of some kind. Caril had to look away as the guard moved to prepare their dinner. He wasn't adverse to killing things. His line of work required death, Soul Gems didn't fill themselves. The part that made his stomach churn was what had come from living a privileged life. He was not fond of seeing where his food came from. All he had to do was tell his housekeeper to buy and cook it for him. The most he preferred to see was after it was finished, garnished, and not resembling the beast it came from in the slightest.
The guards were laughing at him, even Ondolemar was snickering along with them. Caril looked at Ondolemar exasperatedly. Even though Ondolemar was joining in at Caril's expense, he knew that Ondolemar would never sully his hands with carving the meat, regardless of whether he had the stomach for it.
"Oh, stop it, Ondolemar."
"Never." Ondolemar shook his head and relaxed against the tree behind him, giving Caril a look indicating that he was never going to live this one night down.
2 Rain's Hand, 4E 201
Markarth was a sorry place. The first thing Caril saw once he was through the gates was a woman being murdered. The second thing he saw was the murderer being killed in the street by the town guards and dragged off to some dank pit to rot. The third thing he saw was the meat stand in the market where the murder took place. It was full of the animals themselves, gutted and strung up around the stand that was covered in blood itself.
"Bloodiest beef in the Reach," the shopkeeper had chimed.
Caril's stomach did a full somersault inside him. He fell to his knees in the middle of the traumatized marketplace and retched. He didn't understand why the murder he just witnessed didn't make him bat an eye but the meat… he didn't understand why. Then it wafted over him, quite literally. He was hit by another wave of the smell of the meat. Putrid he could handle, magical experiments more often than not led to something smelling horrible. The stand hovered somewhere between outright rotten and the poor smell the animal started out with. Something about it just sent him over the edge.
Someone grabbed Caril by the arm and hefted him to his feet. "Gods. A woman attacked right on the streets! Are you alright? Did you see what happened?"
"Get away from me," Caril shoved the man, his stomach twisting in disgust not because of the bloody stand but because the man so shamelessly approached him.
"I-I think you dropped this," stammered the man as he held out a slip of paper to Caril
Throwing his hands into the air, Caril backed away from the man, "It is not mine. Get away from me before
I have you arrested."
The Breton's eyes flicked away from Caril and settled pointedly on the Thalmor clad in Elven armor directly behind Caril. A trace of fear flitted across his painted face and he tucked the note back into his pocket and scurried off with his head bowed, whispering a few words of apology as he left.
"Great way to start, Caril," said Ondolemar. His sarcasm burned.
"Gods damn you, Ondolemar," snapped Caril. He threw his hood up over his head, wrapped his cloak around his body and stormed off down a random street. He didn't care where he was going, he just had to get away from the humiliation. Ondolemar was a good friend and was always loyal but he never could resist taking a cheap shot if one became available.
He needed to find the inn, rent a room, and gather the supplies he needed for the next leg of his journey.
There were no towns between Markarth and Falkreath and no towns meant few, if any, inns. As Caril became more and more lost in the bustle of the enormous city, his anger and humiliation dissipated. No one knew nor cared who he was anymore, he felt insignificant and that was fine, for now.
Street after street passed by and Caril's his amazement grew and grew. This was the first time he had ever seen a Dwemer Ruin, he had been missing so much. His studies had only covered the Dwemer in passing and his and his colleagues' meddling with the Dwemer mechanisms had been little more than a fleeting, mild curiosity. Seeing the magnificence of the Dwemer's craftsmanship truly left Caril in awe. The work it must have taken the Dwemer to carve this city out of the mountainside, even with the aid of magic, must have been monumental. As he drew closer to the mountainside and the palace of the Jarl, Understone Keep, he could feel the old magic resonating through the air. It hummed in a way that was similar to the excavation of the Crystal Tower he had worked at before the start of the Great War. Caril quite liked the feel of ancient and unknowable magical arts, it felt rather divine by nature, like he was in the presence of Magnus himself.
"No lollygagging, elf." A burly Nord guard brushed past Caril, giving him a less than gentle shove that made Caril stumble into the wall to his side.
"Watch it!" shouted Caril. He dusted off his cloak and watched the guard turn to face him. He narrowed his
golden eyes and channeled magicka to one of his hands. With a hiss and a crackle, the contained lightning cloaked his hands and fingers.
"What're you going to do? You want to rot in Cidhna mine?" His smugness washed off him in rivers. Caril wanted to roast the man alive with all manner of Destruction spells but he refrained. Getting arrested on his first real day on the job would set a terrible precedent for the rest of his tenure. Reluctantly, he discharged his spell, "You elves are all the same, cowardly spellslingers."
"You humans are all the same," Caril straightened up to his full height, towering over even the large Nord guard, "Corrupt savages."
"Get out of my city." The guard drew his sword and pointed it towards Caril's stomach. The magic charged in Caril's hands again, in preparation to defend himself, "Damned elves like you have no place here."
"Gladly, I plan on leaving this city and this wretch of a province as soon as I can."
Caril spun on his heel and swept through the streets. People hid their faces from him as he walked by, nervous about his courage in confronting the guard. After turning down another few streets and climbing a long flight of stairs, he was in another district of the city that hadn't seen him yet. He was glad for a city this size to exist in Skyrim, he could escape to yet another corner if he found himself unable to remain in the previous one. While traveling to the Embassy, he'd only seen a few tiny settlements, only one of which had a name, Karthwasten. The tiny, run down mining town could not have had more than five hundred residents and it had no inn, either. A city with enough room for, what he estimated, a hundred thousand residents or more was a sight for sore eyes.
After a few minutes more of wandering, Caril stumbled upon an old, somewhat dreary inn and, deciding that he would not search for another, pushed open the vault-like Dwemer doors, which were surprisingly light to his touch.
The inside was as insignificant as the outside. Stone tables were covered with worn, cotton cloth and the stone benches surrounding them were chipped and ragged in places. An aging woman was reading by the light of the flaming hearth and two young children were playing a game of cards in the corner. The woman looked up, blinking at the sudden flood of light.
"Can I help you?" she asked.
"This is an inn, correct?" Ondolemar turned and stared at the sign. He was sure he was reading 'Nchuand-Zel Inn.' He couldn't take another bout of humiliation that day.
"Yes," the woman closed her book slowly, her brow furrowed in thought. Caril eyed her warily. Suddenly, she stood up and brushed herself off, "Oh, I apologize. We don't get much business here. You seem like the type who would rent from the Silver-Blood Inn."
"Silver-Blood Inn?" Caril furrowed his brow.
"You're lost aren't you, dear?" she laughed.
"I am not l—"
"—I meant no harm," she smiled at him softly, "Markarth is not a visitor-friendly city. The Silver-Blood Inn is
down by the market, if you would prefer."
Caril sighed and rubbed temples with the tips of his fingers. The market, oh, the market, "No. I will stay here for the night."
"It's ten Septims if you want a room plus your meals, seven if you just want the room. A much better deal than the Silver-Bloods can offer."
Caril dug around in the satchel slung around his shoulder and removed seven Septims from his coin purse. He paused and thought for a brief moment. He could easily get the best meals in town by going to Understone and leeching off Ondolemar but he did not care for facing him quite yet. He grabbed three more and placed all ten in the palm of the old woman.
"You are a smart young man," she pocketed the coins and beckoned for her to follow him. He quietly followed behind her down a dark hallway, where she pulled a key from her apron and unlocked another Dwemer door. She handed Caril the key with a smile, "Supper is in three hours, if you wish to eat with us. I will light the fire for you."
She walked in the room, placed a few logs and some tinder in the fireplace. Then, with a gleam in her eye, held a pinch of the tinder between her fingers. The tinder sparked up and blazed to life as she threw it into the fireplace, igniting the rest.
Caril was pleasantly surprised, a Nord knew remedial magic.
"Don't look so surprised, dear," she stood up and brushed out the door, "You haven't seen anything. I have a few tricks up my sleeve."
"What would those be?" Caril followed her back to the main room and gazed down at her challengingly. He was curious now.
"I used to be an adventurer," she sat down on her chair and opened her book, "That was a long time ago. I loved magic, for a time."
"What School?"
"Destruction, of course!" She laughed as if it was a silly question to ask, "What else would a young, boisterous adventurer wish for? I can see you aren't a novice, either, dear."
"No, I'm not."
"School?" she asked, glancing up from the pages of her book playfully.
Caril smirked, he knew what answer she was expecting. That wasn't the answer he had to give, "Enchanting."
"Oh how boring," she teased.
Caril bit back anger at that. He hated people even jokingly prodding at his work. His school was more important than the other Schools in many, many ways that even most others knowledgeable in the Arcane did not know. He frowned at her, "People underestimate its power. Do you know a place where I may buy supplies for the next leg of my journey? I will be leaving tomorrow morning."
"Of course."
She gave him a few pointers, where he could buy preserved food, potions, and even hunting supplies if he needed—which he quietly declined. It didn't take him long to find each store, once he found the woman's bearing, the Tower of Dibella. He bought mostly food, some dried meats and fruits, a few loaves of bread, and a bit of goat cheese. It would be enough to last him to Falkreath, where he would restock. He didn't bother with potions, feeling his Restoration magic would suffice. If he caught a disease on the way, he had a few small vials of medicine packed already and he would likely be able to make something for himself, even though Alchemy was by far his worst area of study.
He wished to explore the rest of Markarth, delve deeper into the Dwemer Ruin that was the city's foundation, but that was for another day. He was tired enough to know he needed more rest than usual to continue on the next leg of his journey. Wandering a city until late at night would not do him any good.
With that decision made, Caril headed back for the inn before his curiosity could get the better of him.
The inn wasn't nearly as quiet as it had been when he was last there, much to Caril's chagrin. The two children who had been quietly playing cards were now running down the halls yelling and screaming as a large man chased behind them, roaring himself. Of course the innkeeper had not been their mother, she was too old. The children were the offspring of a Markarth guard.
He dodged one of the children rushing past him and left for his room. He settled on the hard bed and furs and removed his book, quill, and inkwell from his bag. He would relish in what peace he had from the insufferable children. He never wanted any of his own despite how cherished child-rearing was in the Dominion—so much so that it was on the verge of being mandated. Pages started to go by quickly as he read and reread each sentence, taking notes of his own over all the pages, and before he knew it, the old innkeeper came knocking on his door, calling him for supper.
The food was good, better than what the sloppily prepared meals he ate while on the road, but rather boring. Altmeri food was subtle, not to say it was ever bland but that it was simply more refined than Nordic meals. The innkeeper had prepared a fish—Slaughterfish, whatever that may be—and it tasted extremely fishy unlike the delicate seafood found on the coastal cities of the Isles. He didn't complain, he preferred to be filled with food than sleep on an empty stomach.
Later in the evening, he was incredibly pleased to say the Dwemer plumbing still worked after thousands of years. He drew himself a much appreciated bath. The hot water eased his tense muscles and he was overjoyed to be able to really clean the oil and grime out of his hair and off his face. He was beginning to enjoy Markarth a bit more. It was not entirely terrible with its running water and old magic.
2 Rain's Hand, 4E 201
Quickly after eating breakfast at the inn, Caril gave his curt goodbye to the innkeeper and headed to the stables. He strapped his things to the horse's saddle and was off within the hour.
The mountainous road from Markarth was very lonely. Caril did not see a single person along the road for hours, just endless rolling hills of Juniper. Every so often, he would hear the howls of wolves or see a goat bound off through the trees but little else. The Reach was much more arid than all the other parts of Skyrim he had seen so far. The grass was sparse and colored a pale green. Tough, thick-leaved plants grew over the rocky hillsides. The only lush green of the landscape was on the shores of the river, which was infested with hardy but invasive-looking reeds. The landscape made sense, he was near the border with Hammerfell.
Caril was glad for the solitude, it gave him time to think. He needed it. He had not had a moment alone in over a month. First it was the caravan traveling to Skyrim, then he was at the Embassy, and then it was the trip to Markarth. For a very solitary mer like Caril, it had been torture. Tempers boiled over, arguments had, and even a punch or two thrown. The steady pounding of the hooves on the cobbled road was soothing to him. It's monotony calmed him to the point he would fall asleep if it were not for the jerking of the horse's body with each step.
If Caril looked hard enough, he could spot more Dwemer ruins dotting the landscape. The once, golden roofs were dirty and dulled, the limestone walls were being worn away by the weather. Markarth had been excellently preserved when compared to these crumbling ruins. Caril supposed the Nords and Bretons had inhabited the city for at least a thousand years or more and prevented the elements from destroying it as much as the empty ones dotting the hillside. He also vaguely wondered how far down the ruins went. He
knew the fortress-like buildings he saw around the landscape were only the tips, just the entrance hall.
5 Rain's Hand, 4E 201
The trip to Falkreath was entirely uneventful. He had passed a few travelers making their way to Solitude to join the Legion, a caravan of Kajiit thieves, and a group of drunkards passed out on the side of the road near the run-down inn Old Hrodan. Caril was beginning to wonder why Skyrim was such a dangerous place. The most frightening thing he had seen was an oversized crab hiding in the banks of the river when he let his horse pause for water. Granted, it was at least a dozen times larger than the next largest crab Caril had ever seen but that didn't change the fact that it was still a crab. It still walked on silly legs with silly claws and beady eyes, it was still a horrible creature. Caril incinerated it without batting an eye once it got a too close.
The juniper scrubland of the Reach transitioned into dense pine forests. The mountain goats turned into deer and elk. Instead of the dry, cool mountains around Markarth, he was left in humid, rainy lowlands. He had yet to encounter snow on the caliber of the mountains of Haafingar. He must be too far south to get severe snowstorms, especially in the spring.
He arrived in the city of Falkreath mid-morning. The town was poor, very poor yet had at least as many people as Markarth, if not more. Something was off, though. All the residents kept their noses down and hid out of sight and there was a noticeable Imperial presence in the city. More than when he had first entered Skyrim and passed through Falkreath. Less than three weeks prior, the city was kept by unfit guards and the sparse Legionnaire. Now, it was crawling with Legionnaires of every shape and size, from the lightly-armored, quick-footed scouts to the brutes wearing full plate armor and wielding a warhammer.
Something was happening and Caril had no wish to find himself involved. He dismounted his horse, tied it up, gathered his valuable belongings, and left to buy more supplies. If the weather had been more permitting, he would have left his cloak with his horse. He was well-aware it was drawing attention in the crowds. It was very clearly traditional Aldmeri design and likely looked similar to the Thalmor uniform. Black material with intricate golden stitching was reminiscent of a wealth that existed only within the Dominion these days. Caril did not worry about the suspicious civilians, they could have their worries for all he cared, he disliked the looks the Legionnaires were giving him. They knew he was Thalmor even though they would never have any proof.
For several hours, Caril debated whether he would rent a room for the night and continue in the morning. The moment he saw General Tullius himself riding his horse through town, Caril decided to make himself scarce. Something important was happening and Caril feared getting caught up in Skyrim's civil war. He packed his restocked supplies and quickly rode out of town. He ran his heavy horse as fast as he dared, putting as much distance between him and the amassing Imperial army as he could. Something was wrong,
so very wrong. Deep in the pit of his stomach, Caril could sense it.
Like all animals, his horse tired after a few hours of holding a steady pace through the forests. He could not run the beast anymore if he wished to travel at all the next day. The sun was lowering on the horizon and Caril had long since seen the dregs of the Legion. Whatever it was, Caril had passed through safely.
Reluctantly, he watered his horse at a small stream. He had little choice but to make a camp for the night. It was necessary, he reminded himself as he unpacked his things and tried to settle down for the night. He knew not to light a fire if he did not want to unnecessarily attract the attention of the nearby Legion.
Maybe a solid night's sleep would ease his anxiety. After eating a meager meal of bread, cheese, and an apple, he tried to lull himself to sleep.
He was plenty warm, the rain and thunder long ago stopped, and he had not heard a human footstep in hours, yet he couldn't force himself asleep. His chest was twisted into a nervous knot, he tossed and turned on the ground, and watched the starless sky threaten him with rain. It was very late at night when Caril came to the decision that he was not going to fall asleep that night.
He charged his hand with magicka and cast a faint Candlelight into the air just above his head. The pale white light was just enough to read by. He had to work at remembering his fake identity. He had neglected that duty so far on his trip, preferring to study his magic books over it any day. Tiralyn was young, very young. He was not even 50 years old. Caril supposed it was for the best. He had maintained his youth head and shoulders above the rest of his peers. At this point in his life, he appeared to be half to a third of his actual age.
Tiralyn was… an Altmer refugee? A dissident against the Dominion? His history was rather vague. Maybe that could be for the best, he could twist it for each individual situation he found himself in. He could plead the refugee with the more sympathetic and the dissident for the skeptical. Either way, it would explain his accent. Smooth, fast-spoken Aldmeri Tamrielic was not a language that blended well with the guttural, less-advanced Nordic. His native language was ancient, perfected long ago in the First Era while modern Nordic changed as fast as the politics in Skyrim.
There was a quiet rustle off to one side of Caril. He glanced up and scanned his surroundings for a few minutes. He saw nothing of worry, it must have been a rabbit.
Ondolemar, of course, was the reliable contact in the Reach. He did not often travel between the Embassy and Markarth but his guards did.
A Kajiit by the name of J'datharr… a Kajiit? Caril shrugged to himself. It was on Elenwen's head if his information went missing by the hands of an unreliable contact. The Kajiit was for Eastmarch.
Ancano was very tentatively named the contact for Winterhold. A side note said he was to be monitored for competency long before he was to be approached. Caril was to use another hold for relaying information while he watched Ancano secretly and from a distance.
The contacts for the Rift and Falkreath were both Bosmer. Whiterun and the Pale both had Altmer agents. Caril was unfamiliar with all of their names. They would be problematic to track down.
Haafingar and Hjaalmarch were odd cases. Neither had a specified contacts. Haafingar held the Embassy, though, and Hjaalmarch was so small, had so few residents, and was so near Haafingar, Caril was told simply go to someone in Haafingar.
Something rustled again. Caril fingered the hilt of his sword, preparing to draw it in the blink of an eye. He was not entirely sure why, either. A sword would just take away a hand he could use for magic. Another minute of silence passed, Caril took a deep breath and reminded himself he was in the woods. Animals were also in the woods. There was no threat.
He returned to reading over and studying his false identity again. If he had been a good actor, he wouldn't worry about knowing all the details fluently. Since he was not only a bad actor but a terrible one, he had to be able to know this information like his life depended on it. His life did likely depend on it.
There it was again. Caril looked up. The rustling sounded closer and heavier now. Despite what many Altmer claimed, their race really didn't have senses much better than any human race. None of the mer races did. Only the beast races could claim that honor.
Caril gazed out into the darkness, hoping to see the shining eyes of some woodland creature. All he saw were formless shadows. Maybe his magical light was attracting the attention of animals. In the end, it didn't really matter, Caril was too spooked to extinguish it. He much preferred to see anything that was in his small lit area than to see nothing at all.
Again, the forest fell silent. Oddly silent. Caril was growing more and more paranoid by the second. Maybe someone had cast Muffle and the rustles were when the spell ran out and had to be cast again.
Had someone already contacted an assassin?
Caril stood on shaking legs and stared out into the dark beyond, "Who's there? Show yourself!"
It was a silly, foolish thing to ask. If an assassin was really out there, why would they reply to his call?
Caril jumped and lightning flared out in all directions. He saw something move. Some flitting shadow blurred across his periphery vision. His concentration for his magic was failing, the electricity was surging all over his body instead of being concentrated in the palms of his hands. He was panicking now. Someone was out to kill him.
His breath caught in his throat as he backed towards his horse. An arrow could come out of nowhere and strike him in the head, he could be stabbed in the back at any second. Caril took a deep breath and a risk, he turned his back on the forest, untied his horse, and leapt on its back. Kicking the beast roughly in the sides, he pushed it to a gallop and back onto the main road.
He couldn't turn back.
Caril let out a low whine when he looked back and swore he saw someone or something pursuing him from behind. His Candlelight was lost somewhere far down the road, unable to keep up with his current speed, and had probably gone out by now.
Alone. Caril was alone in the darkness. His horse was wheezing already, it was too tired to continue this pace. Still, Caril pushed it onwards. He held a healing spell to its skin but even that could only do so much.
Then, to Caril's terror, the smell of smoke washed over him. He was not sure whether the forest had lit on
fire or if it was a campsite. He also was unsure which one he feared more.
Caril was not a particularly religious man, he never had been, finding more comfort in magic than in the gods. In his panic, he found himself squeezing his eyes shut and whispering prayers, pleas, to any god who came to mind, from Mara to Magnus, Phynaster, and even Y'ffre, if he would listen.
Something shrieked and Caril found out, as he toppled face-first towards the ground, it was his horse. Only just managing to protect his head with his arms, he fell hard on the road. The impact itself nearly knocked him unconscious, his vision swam, his already disorderly thoughts became mangled, and he felt his physical strength fail him. He was shaking all over so violently he barely managed to scramble out of the way when his panicked and injured horse rose to its feet galloped away, its heavy hooves landing where his body once was.
"By Talos, Fjodar, that wasn't the courier." Someone grabbed Caril's limp shoulder and shook him, "Hey, elf… elf!"
Caril's head was spinning too much for him to force an answer to his lips. He was fading fast, he could not lose consciousness. He could not.
"Kill him, Ralof. Probably some Thalmor."
Do not lose consciousness. Stay awake.
"You have no proof, Fjodar. He isn't wearing their colors. Besides, where are his guards?"
Stay awake.
"Take him to Jarl Ulfric, then. He knows something, all elves do."
Something hard hit Caril on the crown of his head, finishing the battle for him.
6 Rain's Hand? 7 Rain's Hand? 4E 201
A sharp pain flashed across one side of Caril's face, "Wake up."
Caril blinked himself awake and he looked around. All he was fully aware of was the dull ache throughout his body, he was only slowly becoming aware of his surroundings.
"You better stay awake this time, elf."
Someone was standing above him, several people, actually. Mind slowly clearing, Caril's vision came into focus. Two men, two Nords were standing around him, he didn't recognize either of them. Not that he would.
One grabbed his neck and lifted him off his back. Caril immediately jerked to wrench the man's hands away from him but found his hands were bound tightly behind his back.
"Are you awake, elf?" he said.
Caril didn't respond, he twisted against his bindings and against the choking grip on his neck. It was all in vain, he was a thinly-built Altmer even among his peers. He had no physical strength with which to struggle and he would have to be extremely careful when attempting to cast a spell.
"I think he is," said the other man.
"Giving in isn't how you interrogate someone," said the man holding Caril by his neck. Caril writhed in the man's grasp again, he was not going to let himself be tortured and left to die by humans, "Answer me. Are you awake?"
Caril stared into the cold eyes of his captor and said through gritted teeth, "No."
That was a mistake. He was thrown onto the ground and backhanded across his face so hard his eyes watered in pain.
"Don't underestimate me," the man stood up, and beckoned the his companion to stand as well, "Galmar, go, speak to my men about finding that courier," the man wearing the idiotic pelt on his head nodded and left, "You are going to tell me everything you know."
"What do you expect out of me?" asked Caril.
"I expect you to tell me everything you know."
Caril looked away. How much did they know about him? Caril's mind raced, he feared the worst, "Why do you think I know anything?"
"Because I know your accent." The man settled to his knees on the ground and grabbed Caril's neck again, "You are from Summerset Isle."
Caril did not respond to that. He would not give him the pleasure of making any of this easy. Maybe they didn't know he was a Thalmor already, otherwise the interrogation would have probably gone downhill much faster.
Caril's breath hitched when he felt the cold bite of a knife against his throat, "You have no room to fight me, elf. Tell me everything I want to know and you won't be hurt. I might even consider letting you go."
Caril closed his eyes and took a deep, shaking breath. Maybe he could spin lies coherent enough to merit himself freedom. He doubted that possibility. The Nord holding him prisoner, at first glance, did not seem to be of the same breed as the widespread, isolationist, Talos-worshipping zealots Ondolemar spoke about with such distaste. He was more well-spoken than those barbarians, probably literate, someone Caril had to fear in the Nords.
The blade was lowered from his throat slowly, "This doesn't have to be so hard. I want all the information you have on the Thalmor."
What kind of a question was that? All the information he had on the Thalmor? How could such a broad question possibly have a suitable answer?
"Answer me, elf."
Another hard slap across the face and the threat of the knife was enough for Caril to speak again, "What do you want? I have no idea what you are looking for."
He chose not to further anger the Nord before he was severely injured. By some miracle, Caril had calmed his mind enough and focused on the goal of living through the situation above all else.
"First, I want to know the names of your leaders in Skyrim."
Caril furrowed his brow in further confusion, "Elenwen," he answered. Did this man not know the names of
the higher-ups or were the Thalmor just that quiet about things?
The knife flashed in the dim light of their surroundings and easily cut through the skin of his cheek. He screamed and jerked away, his blood ran down his face, into his mouth and down his neck.
"I know about Elenwen. Tell me other names, elf. Who would take her place? Who commands your soldiers?"
"I don't know," Caril lied.
He bit down hard on his lip to stifle the pain on the rest of his cheek and gathered what concentration he could manage into a simple healing spell. The golden light swirled around his body and knitted the wound together, leaving at a state where it would have been several days old and partially healed over. The aches in the rest of his body subsided some with the spell as well.
The man stood again, his hands trembled with rage. Maybe healing himself was a mistake.
"You have guts, elf." Somehow, the man's voice didn't match the rage his body emanated. It was completely flat.
Caril didn't dare sit up when the man left his line of sight. Dread bubbled up from the pit of Caril's stomach. Why did all this have to happen to him? He didn't care if he never made Arch-Wizard, he didn't care if that idiotic apprentice who lit his boots on fire made that position. He wanted to go home. Was that too much to be ask?
In mere moments, the man returned and held a tiny bottle full of a dark blue liquid in front of Caril's nose,
"Do you know what this is?"
Caril stared at the bottle anxiously. He knew what it was, of course he knew what it was. It was magicka
poison, a powerful one, too.
"Answer my questions, you stupid, milk-drinking Thalmor wretch!"
The man's temper snapped and the steel dagger just became a flash of light as it plunged deep into Caril's thigh. Caril screamed in agony and launched a reflexive kick with the other leg towards his attacker. By sheer luck, his foot hit squarely on the man's jaw. It didn't harm him, Caril wasn't strong enough to do that, but it stunned him made him stumble back.
The knife was still imbedded in Caril's leg and he wasn't flexible enough to remove it without making the wound worse than it already was.
? Rain's Hand, 4E 201
It had only been a few days, a week and a half at most. Caril spent his time curled in a corner of what he eventually discovered to be a tent, trying to drag enough magicka together to heal himself. He had long since been force-fed the extremely powerful magicka poison. His captors, a small Stormcloak regiment, wasted no time in snuffing out his only form of self defense as soon as he lit the cloak of Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak himself on fire.
His entire body burned as if it was on fire the way Ulfric had been the once. His injuries had only been rudimentarily treated, mainly to keep him from falling ill while they tried to extort information from him.
The shame Caril felt was nearly as overwhelming as the pain. They broke him in less than a day. He gave all the information they asked for when his miserable pain threshold was breached. He condemned his friends and allies to their deaths because he had no tolerance for a knife.
Yet they expected he knew more than he let on. They kept him and called him out for lying and hiding information he did not know in the first place. Caril truly did not know all that much about the Thalmor operation in Skyrim. He had not been in Skyrim long enough to know how everything was run. Elenwen had been a smart woman to tell him only the bare minimum of the Skyrim operation.
He shivered when a gust of cold air slipped into the tent. He was grateful he was in Southern Skyrim. He would have surely died to hypothermia or at the very least been frostbitten severely if he was much farther north. If he ever made it out alive, he needed to buy himself warmer clothes. His cloak and thin mage robes were not nearly enough.
His magicka flared up briefly to give him a spare moment of relief from his aching body and sputtered out just as quickly. That was the most he ever got. The poison was not only enough to drain all of his vast control over magicka but to keep it drained for days.
? Rain's Hand, 4E 201
Caril jerked out of a faint sleep to the sound of shouting and swords clashing. He had only just nodded off. He was honestly tired of hearing the drunken brawls of these Nords.
Though… the more Caril listened, it sounded less and less like two angry humans brawling and more and more like a real battle had broken out.
"Talos smite you!"
Yes, a real fight had most definitely broken out.
Caril furrowed his brow with concentration, swallowed down the screams of protest from his broken body, and forced himself to stand. He was weak from a lack of rest and food, his legs trembled under his own weight.
He peered through the thin opening between the flaps of the tent. His eyes widened when he saw what was really happening around him. All those Legionnaires in Falkreath? They were planning to raid a Stormcloak encampment.
It would be foolish to try to run away in the chaos with his hands bound, Caril needed to make a plan. First he needed a knife or an unwitting Stormcloak or Legionnaire.
A particularly close clang of metal caused Caril to jump backwards. To his surprise, a too-young Stormcloak toppled backwards through the entrance of the tent, a Legionnaire toppled in quickly after him. The sword improperly clutched in the Stormcloak's hands pierced the chest of the Legionnaire as he toppled in after the young boy.
Horror was painted on both their faces as the life drained from the Legionnaire.
Caril was frozen in place. This was his chance, he could see daggers strapped to the waists of both the Stormcloak and the dead Imperial.
The boy was sobbing, Caril noticed. He was terrified. Too young for war, barely an adult.
Gears began to turn in Caril's mind as he approached the young boy and kicked the dead body off his chest. Here was his unwitting Stormcloak.
"You," said the boy, wide-eyed, "Don't kill me, please. I promise I won't pray to Talos anymore! I won't!"
Caril narrowed his eyes, "Must you bring up religious debates in a time like this? Cut me loose, boy."
The young Nord scrambled to his feet, nodding dumbly, and sliced through the ropes binding Caril's hands behind his back. The skin was rubbed raw and exposing it to fresh air stung, though why Caril noticed that over the many lacerations and stab-wounds all over the rest of him was beyond him.
Caril lifted the sword out of the grasp of the Imperial soldier. He was even less happy with his clumsy steel sword than he had been with the elven one Ulfric Stormcloak now wore like a trophy.
He glanced back at the Nord and scoffed. The boy was terrified again, apparently just realizing that he had released their prisoner.
"Please," he whispered.
"Show me where you keep your alchemy supplies and potions and I'll consider sparing you," said Caril. He hoped the Nord was either too panicked or too dumb to catch his bluff. Caril knew he wasn't even strong enough to challenge a panicked, skinny Nord, especially in his current state.
The boy nodded numbly and beckoned him out, "It's—it's this way."
Together they ducked out into the chaos. Imperials and Stormcloaks ran about everywhere, the dense smoke burned Caril's nose as tent after tent was lit ablaze. He was too lanky to effectively slip through unnoticed, though no one took the time to attack him and the young Stormcloak boy. Stormcloaks were too busy trying to flee and Imperials were too busy trying to catch the traitors.
"It was here…"
Caril looked at a trampled tent and slowly shook his head, his grip tightening on the sword. He could see the gray canvas was stained with the hundreds of broken potion containers lying underneath.
"Consider leaving now, stupid human," said Caril. He was at his breaking point. His weakness and lack of mental clarity was pushing him to the edge. He neededthose potions not only to get out of the battle safely but to survive for more than a day in the wilderness of Skyrim.
Caril dropped the sword and threw overturned as much of the tent as he could handle.
"We have your leader! Ulfric Stormcloak has surrendered to the Imperial Legion! Surrender to us now, your rebellion is over!"
Caril glanced up. General Tullius was riding through the wreckage on an enormous horse. Every Stormcloak froze at the statement. He heard the boy quietly whisper a desperate "no."
Caril grit his teeth and dug through the broken bottles. He needed to get out as fast as possible. There! He found a potion he was searching for. A general cure for poisons. It was not strong enough to undo all the damage the magicka poison had done, he needed real medicine for that, but it was enough. It would have to do.
He drank it down as quickly as he could. The familiar, relaxing presence of magicka flowing properly through his body flooded all his senses. It was not a fifth of the power he once controlled with ease, yet he could manage a basic healing spell with it and sustain it for a few minutes.
His wounds knit together, his muscles regained strength, and his cloudy thoughts cleared. He felt he might just make it through.
"What in the world?"
Caril turned, his breath catching in his throat. A large, Nord Legionnaire stood in front of him.
"Legate!" the Nord turned around and waved his arms in the air, "Come over here! There's some High Elf."
Not again. Caril swallowed. He was too weak to fight off hundreds of Legionnaires. Even on one of his best days that would be too much. He could not do a thing. He loathed all of humanity at that moment, never had he been more sympathetic to the Thalmor's ideals.
