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"Inquisitor Aldataur." The Justiciar bows slightly at the waist, hand at her heart, "We are glad you could come."

Lamaenor tilts his head in greeting, the setting sun glinting off his half-moon glasses, “Anything to serve the Dominion.” He answers smoothly, brushing a hand over his gold-embroidered robes. Raakion steps behind him carefully, his eyes a bit haunted, the slightly uneven movements of his head more reminiscent of frightened prey than anything else, “Have you met my son?” Lamaenor continues, his voice still cool and smooth, “Raakion, say hello.”

"Hello." Raakion parrots, immediately, his shoulders not relaxing until Lamaenor gives a soft smile.

The Justiciars eyes lingers just a bit too long on Raakion before she gives a sharp nod in greeting and turns back to Lamaenor.

"We are in great need of your services." She takes a measured step to the side, allowing Lamaenor to pass her and walk by her side, "We are quite lucky an Inquisitor of your caliber is here to help."

"I got as much from your letter, Justiciar." Lamaenor replies, his long black robes sweeping the carefully polished stone, "There is no need for flattery, tell me instead what the Dominion needs from me." The soft and polished stone becomes uneven and rough as they enter the area where the prisoners are kept. The air is stale and heavy with enchantments. Raakions nose twitches slightly at that, at the magic in the air. Lamaenor and the Justiciar are unmoved.

"We captured a squadron of Stormcloaks last week, sir." The Justiciar starts, her hands primly at her side, "On them, they carried a lot of sensitive information pertaining Thalmor movements."

"Ah. And you wish to know from where they got this information?" Lamaenor nods, "I still do not understand why you need my help. I am sure you have fine interrogators here, any of them should be able to break a Nord -"

"They were professionals, with a level of sophistication quite rare in Stormcloaks. Most of them were old Legionnaires, some of them Redguards." Lamaenor makes a soft sound at that.

"Ah. Some Nightshade under their tongue, I assume?"

"Yes. When we captured them, they took out as many of us as they could before poisoning themselves."

"Then comes my next question," Lamaenor says softly, "I am good, but even I can not interrogate a corpse."

"One of them, a Dunmer, survived."

"Why would a Dunmer support the Stormcloaks?" Raakion asks from behind them, quieting with a wince when Lamaenor sends him a glance.

"Not all Dunmer live in the grey quarter, Raakion, and not all Dunmer came here after the Eruption. Some are more Nord than the Nords themselves." Lamaenors voice is soft, but his eyes are sharp.

"Not the case with this one." The Justiciar sneers, "A weakling, in every sense of the word. We doubt he was even part of the company, it is more likely he was either a servant or a slave."

"Still -"

"He is mute, Inquisitor." She stops outside a cell, pauses to look up at Lamaenor, "And even if he were not, he seems unable to recall anything of import. But you know, as well as I, that servants hear far more than they think they do."

Lamaenor is looking into the cell, his smile small and amused. He nods, “I understand.”

The Justiciar opens the cell with a press of her hand, untying the locking enchantments without a word, “You have full rights, Inquisitor. Do what you must.”

There had to be a Thalmor attack. 

It has been days since the camp was seized and every soldier not killed in the process - along with the Dunmer - brought into custody to be interrogated. Aamos hadn't heard much but from what he could gather, there was a lot of sensitive information in the play. He knows enough of these things to know that it wouldn't make his situation any better - it would make everything much worse. 

Aamos himself had been interrogated again and again, by the present moment he has forgotten how many times exactly, the officers mostly getting annoyed at his handicap when he got too weak to lift the pen to write. They certainly didn't save the whip on him. 

The cell door opens and he inhales sharply when the bright light hits his face. He has no idea how much time has passed since he was last... visited. He's cold, oh so cold and weak from hunger but he manages to find the strength to lift his head to look up. There's an old mer, Aamos can't make out his facial features against the backlight but for some reason he feels frightened. Oh, but there's another person behind him... Aamos looks, and a lump forms in his dry throat. 

That certainly can't be Seron, can it?

He then seems to remember something and puts down the wreaths from his lap, then shuffles through his pockets for a bunch of previously written notes. He gives one to the Altmer, again with a smile. His cheeks aren't used to smiling so much so it's straining but he can't really help it. The note reads, 

He manages to shrug at the comment and wiggle a hand in between them, pointing at his throat and shaking his head. If he understands he understands, but Aamos doesn’t count on it. 

…oh.

The Dunmer cannot help but smile at the Khajiit's attempt of forming a coherent sentence. He briefly opens his mouth, points at his throat again and shakes his head just like a moment ago. 

…DA-verse Terv, the tervaelf :I Rogue/archer, a Dalish dumbass with tiny feet.

'I've never had a voice. I apologise for this awkward way of having a conversation. I do have a couple of poultices you can have, if you want to.’

How the mer is still alive at all is baffling in its own right, if he can’t fend off a skeever or two. Poor sod’s probably confined to settlements and the most well-travelled of roads. Ugh. What a life. 

He smiles lopsidedly at the mer and nods, it is indeed good to know that he won't get bitten. About that whole coming down thing, though... The Dunmer shifts closer to the tree trunk while looking at the ground between his dangling feet. 

He is a little too high to be comfortable with jumping down, and the more he stares at the ground the more nervous he gets. Swallowing the lump in his throat, Aamos carefully lowers his torso onto the branch, wrapping his arms around it and slowly nudging his butt towards the edge. He must be a terribly sad sight but he doesn't care and squeezes the branch with all his strength before pushing his lower body over the edge. He shuts his eyes tight, hopes his arms will hold and before he even notices his body is slung down, the tips of his toes touching the grass under him. 

They get to the Dead Man’s Drink (a dreadful name, Aamos thinks) and he pushes the door open. They find a table for themselves and Aamos writes again, showing the note to the other. 

My notebook? Oh. Bafflement in his gaze, Aamos looks at the attentive mer and gives him a nod and a smile. That would indeed make things easier for all of them. 

He steps towards the centre of the room and turns to regard Val while rubbing the rest of the wetness from his eyes with his sleeve. The man is putting the firewood away, looking even larger than before in the small space. It probably requires plenty of caution to not bump into door frames and such when you’re as tall as a Dremora, Aamos thinks and lets out an amused sigh, suddenly the image of Val accidentally hitting his head every time he walks into a house in his mind. 

Val, noticing that he’s being watched as he takes off his heavy furs and hangs them up, looks back at Aamos with raised eyebrows. It’s not a threat, nor even a thinly-veiled suggestion that Aamos ought to stop staring, rather a genuine, sincere question. If Val had wanted Aamos to stop staring, he would have said so.

"Here we are." Before the question has time to linger in the air, though, Elatos returns with some paper and something for Aamos to write with. "That’s better, isn’t it. Have we got a fire going yet, Val?"

"Yes, yes. And some stew shortly, as well." 

The mention of stew almost makes his stomach growl again and he nods at Elatos, returning the heartwarming smile. They indeed have. Aamos walks to the table and sits down, almost immediately starting to write. His brows slightly furrow in concentration, his thoughts being a little scrambled after tonight's adventure.  

'I can't tell you how happy I am to see you again, you and Val both! I owe you my thanks and more, especially Val. 

It has been so long. I'm so sorry for not writing to you, I fell ill a few months back and got well enough to walk around only four weeks ago. Bonebreak fever, better keep away from that. 

Other than that, I have my own cabin now. It's not much, just a small drafty room and a tiny garden to grow vegetables in. I guess it's on the opposite side of Falkreath from your home, since I haven't stumbled upon you before.

How have you been, well I hope? Any adventures?'  

Too startled (and a bit scared), Aamos can’t but stand there as the furry stranger latches onto him. It’s… not entirely unpleasant but the Dunmer has no idea what to do. He blushes slightly at the slurred words anyway. ((HAHA AHGDHS J’HASIIIIII))

J’hasi hummed, briefly rubbing the stranger’s cheek with his own before pulling back far enough to see the mer’s expression. He hiccuped before his head cocked a little to the side.

"Yyyyyer shorta quiet." he mumbled drunkenly before his ears pricked and his eyes widened a little. The Khajiit leaned forward, almost going crosseyed as he stopped with his nose just barely in front of the mer’s own, unfortunately giving them more than a good whiff of the spirits on his breath.

He manages to shrug at the comment and wiggle a hand in between them, pointing at his throat and shaking his head. If he understands he understands, but Aamos doesn't count on it.