Actor Introductions Part Two of Two: The Music Makers, The Movers and Shakers

"Did you hear? We got a shiny new Captain arriving today. A young 'un."

Hadvar looked across the table and at the Corporal but said nothing. It was all the talk in the Company. Their previous Captain, an aged Cyrodiilic named Luther Oranius, was well-respected among the Forlorn Hope. He was a hard act to follow.

"Bet he'd never seen a day of battle in his life," the Corporal continued, "Way I hear it, he's a city boy from Whiterun Hold sent here to suck up to the General."

Sitting on Hadvar's right, a large bearded man growled and ran a hand through his shaved head. He then slammed his fist down on the table. "Quit stalling, Dancer, and make your call. I know when you start yapping like this, you got nothing on hand."

The Corporal smiled, unfazed. "And I know, War-Bear, predictable as you are, that when you start getting impatient, you have something more than a triad and a pair."

The large man, aptly called War-Bear, flinched and covered his cards. He looked accusingly at the fourth person at the table, a thin and unassuming man on Hadvar's left. The man was a Cyrodiilic, his age undecipherable.

"Don't look at me, my friend. I did not bewitch these cards," said the man named Branding.

"You did it last time."

"Last time, we were playing for that rusty sword you found in that sewer-temple the General had us clean out right after Whiterun's siege. That sword was cursed, old friend. I had to take it off your hands."

"Well you didn't have to take all my gold along with it," said War-Bear gruffly, "And what happened to that damn thing anyway? I don't think I've seen you swing a sword in all the time I've known you."

"It's buried in my trunk. I thought it would make a good walking stick for when the General starts force marching us to some gods-forsaken corner of the world."

Dancer frowned and leaned forward, "You needing a cane now? Rockjoint could do that to you. How old are you, magician?"

The other smiled but did not answer. There was a growing pool going on in the Cohort. At last count, there was almost a thousand gold pieces waiting to be awarded to whoever could correctly guess Branding's age.

Dancer sighed. "Well expect to get a lot of use out of that sword-cane what with the way the General's been running us ragged. I swear he has it in for us." He glanced casually at Hadvar. The others waited for their Sergeant to respond.

It was all that wasn't being talked about in the Company. Though everyone was thinking it, nobody dared to speak out loud. Until now, anyway. And with Hadvar as the acting officer-in-charge, at least until their new Captain arrived, they expected him to answer their suspicions. They'd never have said anything if Luther was still around.

"Except he's dead," Hadvar suddenly spoke up, "Luther's dead, Dancer. Did Tullius have him killed? I don't know. Has the General been running us ragged? More so than any of the other Companies. The General may have enjoyed making the old Captain suffer, but you know he's not foolish enough to have killed him outright."

"But Luther—"

"The Captain was in a bad side of town when they found him; also, his boots and money pouch were gone. You know he was weak to women's charms. He was probably lured into that damnable alley and stabbed in the back by some hooker."

This time it was War-Bear who spoke up in dispute. "The Captain wasn't that stupid to be going out drinking and womanizing alone and you know it, Sergeant. Someone must have been with him that night. Someone he trusted. And that someone's the one that gutted him behind the back. The Captain only lets down his guard when he's with people he trusts, you know that. We all do."

They fell silent and Hadvar became acutely aware that the other tables around them had followed suit. Everyone in the barracks was listening in with bated breath. Gods, what was I supposed to tell them, thought Hadvar to himself. Everyone knew that Luther and Tullius began their military careers together. What started off as a close friendship between the two eventually became a bitter rivalry that would go on to span decades.

Eventually, Tullius was given leadership of the Empire's Expeditionary Forces and Luther was placed under his command. And the Captain was too much of an Imperial to disobey orders. So he did his duty and bore the brunt of Tullius' malice. And the men under Luther's command suffered alongside him.

They were far to the west, at Hammerfell, after the Great War against the Aldmeri. Ordered to defend to the death alongside their Redguard comrades-at-arms, the Company kept on fighting even after the war ended, what with the Redguards' refusal to honor the treaty. The order of withdrawal came late with many suspecting that Tullius had plenty to do with the delay.

When they finally pulled back to Imperial-controlled lands, only about half of their Centuria remained. Tales of heroic deeds followed in their wake. From then on, Emperor Titus' 2nd Skirmisher Company came to be known as the Forlorn Hope.

Fast forward a couple decades later, newer faces would replace most of the company's members but many others remained, Luther amongst them. And with his sudden murder, the irony of the Company's adopted name lay heavy on everyone's mind.

The silence within the barracks was eventually broken by another Cyrodiilic from a neighboring table. "There may be another culprit for the murder," began the man, and eyes shifted towards him.

Branding grunted and looked at the man disdainfully. "Reading too deep into this again, Corporal Martin? You're always too quick to come to Tullius' aid."

The man named Martin reddened. "The General has saved our arses more than once. If it weren't for him, Skyrim would have long been lost. Hate him as much as you like, you'd still choose him over the young queen to lead the army against the rebels."

"The Jarl is not Queen yet," remarked Branding, "And were I to have been allowed to choose, I'd have chosen Luther's leadership over anyone else's."

"Except he's dead," he added after glancing at Hadvar, "Nonetheless, you forget I've also been with Tullius and Luther since they graduated out of the academy, and I can tell you the General certainly has the motive and drive to bury his old friend six feet under the frozen ground."

Corporal Martin simply shook his head and did not reply. Dancer, meanwhile, was frowning at Branding. "Seriously, magician. How old are you?"

Branding smiled mysteriously. "Old enough to have known your mother when she was still smooth between the legs."

Dancer stiffened and War-Bear roared with laughter. The chatter and bustle in the barracks resumed as the soldiers went back to their ale and card games. War-Bear was once more demanding that Dancer reveal his hand.

Hadvar, however, was silent and thoughtful. Eventually, he tossed his cards to the center of the table. "I'm out," he said to the inquiring onlookers before standing up and moving to the next table. He motioned at Martin to follow before heading outside to the cool crisp night.

Corporal Martin dutifully followed his superior and they walked on in silence. They were in one wing of the Blue Palace, the Jarl of Solitude's abode, where they had appropriated one section of the royal guards' barracks. The two veterans both climbed a stairs leading up to the walls.

From above, they were rewarded with a view of much of the Sea of Ghosts to the north and the rest of the Hold of Haafingar to the south. The grand city was perched atop a mountain cliff and was nigh impregnable. That was a fact that Hadvar was well aware of. He was also well aware that any invading force out there with half a brain would instead try to take the city through more covert means.

And that was why the Company was garrisoned in the Blue Palace and not at Castle Dour, the Imperial bastion situated on the other side of the city. Solitude was under siege, and not by catapults and armies.

Hadvar finally sighed and his breath was a misty white against the bitter winds blowing in from the Padomaic Ocean.

"Three more months before the snow starts melting, I'd say," Martin muttered as he wrapped his fur cape around him, "Can't wait when the General finally lets us go back to Dour; we just have to hold out for two more weeks. Two weeks and they'll finally hang that bastard or whatever the natives are supposed to do in that damned festival of theirs... I mean the Palace is great and all, with its clean sheets and pretty maids, but its walls… they're just…"

His voice trailed off but Hadvar nodded in agreement. Patrolling the hallways at night, and even during the day, Hadvar could feel an unnatural coldness seeping out of the Palace walls. And it wasn't just the cold. The whole Palace always seemed to give Hadvar that troubling feeling as if eyes were staring at his back. But every time he'd turn around, there was nobody there, just shadows and the cold, cold air.

As some of the servants would claim, the unnatural vibe was the spirits of Solitude's past rulers making their presence known. All cursed, and all unwilling to let go of their grasp on power. It is an inherent nature of servants to be superstitious, but after a week of patrolling the Palace, Hadvar was inclined to believe that there was more truth than superstition in their gossips.

"We should have killed him," Martin spoke up again, "The General should have let us kill him right then and there. I mean no one would have known; we could have just said Ulfric resisted capture and fought on to his death. It was just the Company who was there. After all, Luther was the one who set up the ambush without Tullius being aware of it until it was already happening. Why did Luther stand down at the last minute?"

"Are you criticizing the General now?"

Martin looked away. "I didn't say Tullius makes right decisions all the time," he mumbled, "It's just… Luther—"

"The Captain was just being himself. You were there; Ulfric was on his knees and Luther was just about to lop his head off when Legate Rikke came riding down the road, shouting at him to stop. If he killed Ulfric, he'd have had to kill Tullius' damn crony too. And you know he's not that kind of man. And had he killed Ulfric and let Rikke live, the Legate would have bee-lined back to the General and Luther would have been clapped in irons for insubordination, never mind that he just single-handedly ended the war."

The Corporal was about to reply but bit back his tongue. It was the sensible truth. And yet here they were with Luther dead and Ulfric still alive, to be guarded by the same people who captured him no less. Where was the sense in that?

To make matters worse, Luther wasn't the only one who was murdered in the city. Imperials—particularly officers and hard-line Empire supporters—were being picked off long before the Cohort had arrived. Rikke had since ordered the soldiers to always travel in two's, particularly at night.

And War-Bear was right; the Captain may not have been able to control his vice, but he'd still have had enough sense to have someone accompany him on his tour of the city's whorehouses. Except no one knew who had gone with him. Many claim it was Tullius himself. They say it was supposed to have been a night of reconciliation between the two, as proposed by the General himself. They say the General was jealous; it was Luther who captured Ulfric after all.

Luther was stabbed in the back by a serrated blade. He was a master of weapons. No one, not even with the aide of magic, could have taken him by surprise like that. No, the only reason that blade drove home through his guts was because he wasn't expecting it.

But the driving point for those who think Tullius did the deed was the fact that Luther's killing was done differently as compared to all the past murders. As for his stolen valuables, many contend that it was just a cover-up to have his murder look like a common robbery. But the Forlorn knew that their Captain was not one to have fallen easily to bandits.

Hadvar shook his head and regarded the Corporal. "When you said that there may be another culprit, who did you mean?"

Martin looked around suspiciously, as if the Palace itself was listening in on their conversation. After he was satisfied, he replied, "The Wolf Queen, of course."

Hadvar looked at him dubiously. "You're actually buying into all that ghost talk?"

Martin shrugged. "Why not? Okay, look. Level with me: Over our tenure, we've seen all sorts of sights, from the impossible to the insane, yes?"

Hadvar nodded. The Forlorn were weathered, to say the least.

"So, can we also agree that the former queen of this city—long dead for some five hundred years, and who quite arguably holds the greatest grudge against the Empire that toppled her from her seat of power—was and is the greatest necromancer that has ever roamed Tamriel?"

"You saying she somehow resurrected her dead self?"

Martin shrugged again. "I'm no magician. But I know well enough that when magic's involved, anything is possible."

"Fine," Hadvar sighed, "Let's assume it is her spirit skulking around dark alleys and killing anyone with the slightest bit of sympathy for the Empire. But why now? Why show up now? And if she really is the great magician everyone seems to think she is, why doesn't she just straight up raise an army of undead and march it all the way to the White-Gold? Why bother murdering pawns here in the streets of Solitude when she could just go after the Emperor herself?"

"Who knows. Maybe she's bound to the city. They never actually found her body. According to the books, the Empire army just collapsed the whole city around her and built the new one—the one you're standing on now—over it. Who knows what's under the city. As for why she's only showed up now… who knows."

Hadvar looked at him balefully. "Your theory is full of holes, Corporal. So what does this all have to do with the Captain's murder? You've heard the arguments: Luther's killing was different; it was a straightforward kill. One thrust and that was it; there was no note, no message of warning to the Imperials. All the other murders that happened before we got here had a common thread: there was always some little token or other left behind mocking the Empire in some way or other."

"Maybe the Wolf Queen wasn't in the mood for mocking. She might have thought killing the Captain would be the closest she'll ever get to having her revenge on the Imperial bloodline so she left nothing to chance."

"What do you mean? What does the Emperor's bloodline have to do with Luther?"

Martin looked at Hadvar solemnly. "Tell me, how much do you know of the Oranius name?"

Hadvar shrugged. "Not much. Luther kept mum about whatever family he had back in Cyrodiil."

"That's because there was no family. His name was made up, his nobility bought."

The Sergeant raised a brow and Martin nodded gravely, "Remember the archives that we were ordered to retrieve during the Thalmor's siege of the Imperial City? Well there was a report there on Tullius during his stay in the war academy… Anyway, one page led to another and I fell upon an investigative missive regarding Tullius' best friend and sword-partner, a boy named Cephoran Mede… only nobody called him by that name; to everyone else, he was Luther Oranius."

"Luther's real name was Cephoran? Cephoran Mede? Wait a minute… Mede…? As in—"

Martin nodded. "That's right. Mede… as in he's the Emperor's bastard half-brother. According to the report, no one except the Emperor and a few of his cronies knew about it, not even the Blades."

"This is…" Havar shook his head and leaned on a parapet, "Are you sure? And who was the mother?"

"Some chambermaid in High Rock. And I'm pretty sure it's all true. We were ordered to burn all the archive records immediately after sneaking them out of that damn siege remember? A direct order from the Emperor himself, they said."

"So you're saying the Captain should have been the one sitting on the throne?"

"No. Emperor Titus was born first and had the right of it. But the point is that Luther had royal blood and I'm guessing our Wolf Queen sniffed it out. That… is my theory."

At the far horizon, where blackness pervaded, a thin line of orange-red light began creeping up from the east. A new day was arriving, but Hadvar was stuck looking at the past. The fiery dawn reminded him of the Aldmeri battle line slowly advancing towards them during the battle to retake the Imperial City.

Luther was a behemoth back then, his shouted commands like the roars of a great beast, urging the Forlorn on and on. Hadvar was but an under-aged private at the time. The Company owed much to Luther and, at least in Hadvar's opinion, finding his killer was the least they could do. But what in Oblivion could they do against a mad lich queen?

And if Martin was wrong, and Dancer and the others were right, what could they do against Tullius?

Hadvar shook his head. He almost wished it were merely robbers that got the better of the Captain. Warm commoner blood they could spill.

For now, they should concentrate on what they could swallow.

The Sergeant looked at Martin who was waiting patiently for his superior to gather his thoughts. "The other killings, the ones that happened before we entered Solitude, what do you know about them?"

The Corporal scratched his nose and thought for a moment. "Seven officers in all: two Captains, a Legate, and the rest were file leaders. Most of them were Battle-Born. The non-military ones included a merchant with the East Empire Company and several Thanes who were in the Empire's pocket."

"Our killer never tried getting at Tullius or Elisif?"

"The Jarl? No. She's well liked, even by her ghostly predecessors it seems. As for Tullius… there have been plenty of attempts against him, but he's got six cohorts acting as determined babysitters; he knows how to lead and the soldiers aren't about to let him croak before Ulfric's dead and all the fighting's over and done with."

"Everyone seems to think that killing Ulfric would suddenly solve all of Tamriel's problems."

"Maybe not all, but definitely half of them." Martin stretched and craned his neck. He's said his fill. Now it was up to Hadvar to do what's best for the Forlon. Whatever the hell that was.

He looked searchingly at the Sergeant for a moment, before speaking up. "So… what's your take on all this, Sergeant?"

Hadvar only grunted before taking one last look at the now rising sun. He began walking back towards the barracks with the Corporal in tow. Ulfric was being moved from Dour to the Palace in anticipation for the festival when he will finally be executed.

It won't be long before the Company officers will be summoned for briefing upon the Stormcloak's arrival. And then Hadvar will see whether this new Captain of theirs was worth protecting… or better off to be left at the hostile city's mercy.

Sergeant Hadvar of the Forlon Hope sighed. He missed the olden days when he could just leave all the thinking to Luther. So easy it was to just follow the old man's orders and not take responsibility for any mistakes that stemmed from them.

"Except he's dead," he said loudly. "Luther's dead," he declared with some small measure of defiance at the Blue Palace's cold and uncaring walls.

"Yes, Sergeant," Martin replied uncertainly behind him.

"And a man's death… is more the survivors' affair than his own."

"Yes… Sergeant."


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They say the legend of Potema began with a vow of love. They say that the 'great evil that came to be known as the Wolf Queen' was made manifest long before she was even born to that time's heir presumptive, Pelagius and his newlywed wife, Quintilla.

According to Imperial historians, the two were brought together by a demonic wolf that, at the time, was terrorizing the fair maiden's lands. And it was Pelagius' martial prowess, and Quintilla's mystic powers, that brought the great beast down.

Instead of laying the deranged wolf's soul to rest however, Quintilla chained it into a gem as black as night. It was this gem that was placed on a magnificent silver-wrought ring, and it was this ring that Pelagius proposed with.

They had four children in all. Three of them would go on to be Emperors: Antiochus, Cephorus, and Magnus, in that order. The fourth, Potema, never got to sit on the throne, though she contested her brothers for it all through their lives. Though it was widely believed that Quintilla's ring was handed out to Potema, the latter only truly became known as the Wolf Queen due to her part in the War of the Red Diamond—the succession war between Potema's son and Antiochus' daughter. It was at the end of the war that Cephorus and Magnus would end the long-standing feud, levelling the whole of the city of Solitude with their sister still in it.

"We are not only our sister's keeper; but in countless ways large and small, we are also our sister's maker," Marcus had intoned before letting loose his siege engines. But was it really that easy to kill the spirit of a great demon wolf?

The killer's eyes flashed red, a dark foreboding hue that mimicked the color of thick coagulated blood. Though she did not have the guise of a lycanthrope, her limbs were healthy and supple, and her senses were sharpened to an almost feral state. She could jump the ten foot barrier no problem.

She placed one foot against the wall of the estate before nimbly darting upwards in a cat-like motion. Once on top, she let the magic swirl all around her, making her invisible to all but the most trained wizard's eye. She made sure however that her eyes were still visible and still very red.

There was a clearing from the outer wall to the manor itself. What may have been a garden during spring was now nothing more than a flat empty space coated knee-deep with snow. She thought to walk along the wall to find a less exposed route but quickly reconsidered when she heard the two lone guards chatting across the clearing.

It was late in the night; it was just after that time when they would have roused from their sleep to replace the two prior guards in their rotation. They were cold and still sleepy and their spears were already carelessly propped against the manor's walls. Surprisingly, they were arguing about her, with one claiming that she appears as a great wolf right before ripping all her victims to shreds. The other then claimed that she shows up looking exactly like a queen, crown and all, and that she kills her victims with a fiery bolt that erupts from her elegant fingers.

She frowned, debating whether she should be amused or not by what they were saying, especially with what she was about to do to them. Bending down to her knees, she reached behind her to pull out her twin dagger 'fangs', one on each hand.

They were not fangs, and not even daggers in truth. They were sharp without a doubt, and made by the purest Skyforge steel. Each blade was shaped like a crescent, crafted in such a way that were they placed side by side, and curved handle to curved handle, they would form a perfect, bladed circle. They were uncommon weapons to be sure, likely the only ones of their kind in the whole of Tamriel.

The old Empire's Blades agents might recognize them; but they're all dead now, leaving just her, and perhaps a few historians, to know where the weapons' design came from and how to use them. The exotic weapons were called Chakrani blades, so named by their creators, the Monkey People of the continent of Akavir far to the east. They were close to impossible for a man to wield; but to a small few, the impossible is made possible by simply throwing away rationality…

But she was not mad. No, it was only for the outside world to think that she was. And even then, it was merely a part that she was playing, a necessary illusion so that she could get from one point to another without being too impeded. She shook her head, always bemused about the strange thoughts that invade her mind every time she was about to kill someone.

She concentrated once more on the two guards. She gauged the distance of everything around the two: from her position on the wall to the spears leaning close to them. Satisfied, she then somersaulted up into the air before landing on the snow, exactly on the spot she had intended to land on.

The latter two froze in place, transfixed as they were on the footfalls suddenly forming up on the snow and heading towards them. Their surprise quickly turned into fear as they saw the two red eyes that glowed and trailed a wisp of misty red.

The Chakrani blades went flying through the air, with one arcing to the left and the other to the right. And when the guards turned around to grab at their spears, the twirling blades sliced through that small part of their neck which was neither protected by their chestplate nor their helmet. Before their headless bodies could topple to the ground, the Chakrani blades had completed their flight and were returned to their owner.

The intruder stared at her blades for a moment, always amazed at how spotless they remained every time even after being used in battle. She then looked back at the guards and shuddered. Blood was flowing freely and the white lovely snow was no longer white. How many people had she killed in these past months? It was only two years ago that—

She shook her head. That was a life long dead. Now, she was the Wolf Queen. Although technically the Wolf Queen was also dead. Who was she now really? And what was she becoming? Would all this, all the terrible things she'd been doing, bring back the quiet life she had two years ago?

She tore her gaze away from the dead bodies and surveyed the inner courtyard. There were two main buildings. The first one was an expansive manor which was usually the first thing guests saw when they arrived. The second building was at the far back, a demure-looking house that appeared to serve only as housing for the manor's servants.

But she knew better.

She glanced one more time at the main building. It was the manor which served as the Thalmor Embassy. She wondered at how many Justicars and conniving traitors she could take out if she went in now. But that was not why she was here. Granted that it took much planning just to finally get this small window of opportunity, a rare moment when the Embassy's defenses would be down. She knew—thanks to all the countless letters and correspondences she had pilfered over the past week— that most of the Thalmor wizards had been sent away on various missions, leaving the Embassy without its formidable magical wards.

That was the plan at first: Wait for them to lower their guard, then take out as much of them as she could. But things change. And now she was here for another reason. She whirled around and headed for the small building.

It was a two-storied house, though she knew it also had a basement that was large enough to be considered a dungeon. And considering the cages and torture racks down there, it certainly was used like one.

Wooden panels had been drawn down over the windows but she could see light flittering through the seams. She looked up to the roof and studied the smoke coming out of the chimney. Thick and heavy. The fireplace had dwindled down to embers and no one had bothered to stoke it.

She moved to the front door and stood as close as possible. Her demonic eyes faded for a moment, to be replaced by bright but normal-looking green ones. Her vision also disappeared for a brief instant before slowly focusing back. And from behind the door, she saw the life energies of those within.

Every time their life sparks pulsated, a wave of energy would crash into her, sensitive to the living as she had momentarily altered herself to be. Several people slept on the second floor and a lone guard roamed the first. Down at the basement, there were more people, though some had much weaker pulsations than the others.

She patiently waited for the guard to move on to the second floor before placing a hand over the keyhole. The door rattled slightly for a moment as the tumbles fell into place seemingly on their own. When the last one finally made an audible click, she gently pushed the door open and slid inside.

The interior looked normal enough with a hearth on one wall and several doorways branching into a kitchen, an office, and several storage rooms. Across the hearth was a staircase that led both to the second floor and to the basement.

She headed for the stairs immediately, taking care not to bump into any of the furniture that dotted the room. When she reached the staircase, she looked up to the next floor and listened attentively. A faint snoring emanated from above. She listened for a while longer until she could finally hear the faint shuffling of the guard's boots. The guard had reached the end of his patrol and was now heading back.

Plenty of time, but she might have to deal with the guard on her way back. She slipped quietly down the stairs and past the basement doors. Almost immediately upon entering, she was struck by the acrid smell of death, decay, and defecation.

She was on a porch with a view that opened up to the rest of the basement. To one side was a staircase that led down to ground level. The basement was a spacious, rectangular room with rows of cages lining up its two lengthier walls. Some were empty; the others were occupied by unmoving masses that may once have been people.

She ignored the sight and smell as she checked each cell one by one. At the far end, she found who she was looking for. Her quarry seemed to still live, if barely. In between her and the cell however, was a squadron of elven guards and two Justicars.

Her heart jumped when she recognized one of them. It was Elenwen, the Thalmor Ambassador to Skyrim and de facto commander of all Thalmor operatives in the north. She'd be quite a prize indeed. But the intruder knew the ambassador would be leaving this place unharmed and unaware.

As far as the outside world was concerned, both the Thalmor and the spirit of the Wolf Queen wanted the same thing: the eventual destruction of the Empire. It wouldn't do to be tipping off the Imperials just yet. Suspicions were already abound in Dour and in the Palace. She needed to lay low for now, at least until the festival.

She jumped down from the porch and climbed atop one cage. She then leaped stealthily on top of another until she was close enough to hear the Justicars' conversation. The elves had stopped in front of one cell, the very same one that she had been planning to break into.

The cell had one inhabitant: A Nord slumped on one corner and carrying a bevy of whip marks all around his face and body. The Nord looked half-dead but he nonetheless sneered at Elenwen as she peered through the cage bars to examine him.

"Here to enjoy the sights of your Zoo, Ambassador?" the Nord rasped.

Elenwen ignored him as she looked back at the other Justicar. "This is the man?"

"Yes, First Emissary. His name is Roggvir, former guard captain of the Palace. We managed to snatch him away before the Jarl could order his execution."

"And Elisif did not suspect?"

"No, madame. His 'suicide' was well staged. We also left a note in his handwriting professing his regret for his part in High King Torygg's death. The city guards believed it and the matter has long been laid to rest."

"Very good. And what have you learned from him?"

The other Justicar shook his head. "Close to nothing. Just that there definitely is a hidden entrance into the Blue Palace, one that can get us past the Palace's magical wards. It exists but we still don't know where it lies. The Nord has proven to be… resilient."

"Resilient but not impervious," Elenwen abruptly turned around and started heading for the stairs. All but one of the guards followed her. "You are not trying hard enough, Rulindil. Break every bone in his body if you must. I will know where that entrance is. Do you hear me, Third Emissary?"

"Of course, madame. He will talk… or he will die."

The Ambassador did not reply as she exited with her entourage in tow. Justicar Rulindil waited several seconds before spinning around and gesturing angrily at the remaining guard.

"Take him out of his cell," he snapped.

"To the racks once more, sir?"

"No. Just bring him here. To this chair." Rulindil moved to a corner where a simple chair stood. After a few grunts, the guard eventually managed to carry the Nord to the spot. It took him a while longer to steady Roggvir so that the latter wouldn't suddenly fall from the chair. Once done, Rulindil waved the guard back and stood in front of the prisoner.

"You have a tough hide, but no one lasts forever under my watch."

The prisoner sat up painfully. "Toughness is not about being a bully; It's about having backbone, elf."

"Wise words. Perhaps I have been going through all this the wrong way. Maybe it is your mind I need to break and not your body."

Roggvir grinned, revealing a few broken teeth and a bloody mouth. "Well what's stopping you?"

Rulindil frowned in return before taking a step back and folding his arms.

"Your family—"

"It's been well over a year," Roggvir interrupted, "For you to be threatening my family only now means you've no idea where they are and I doubt you'll ever do. Knowing my wife, I've as much a chance of finding them as you do, even if I do manage to get out of here. My wife's not stupid; she'd have taken the kids and left Solitude the moment she heard about my arrest for allowing Ulfric to leave the Palace."

"Clever... what you say is true. I suppose it would be bittersweet for you to hear that your family was last seen crossing the border into Hammerfell where we have no jurisdiction."

Roggvir closed his eyes and leaned back against the chair. "Bittersweet indeed."

"I could let you free, you know, to rejoin them. And I wholly agree with you in the matter of your involvement with the High King's murder. I was one of the few present in court when the Jarl of Windhelm issued his challenge. I am well versed on the proceedings of Nordic tradition; Ulfric had every right to walk free and unchallenged out of the Palace. I think your being arrested was a questionable decision made by a bereaved wife."

Roggvir chuckled. "If you hadn't spent the past two years beating the hell out of me, I'd have almost believed your false pity. Keep on trying your mind tricks, elf. They will get you nowhere. Neither you, Elisif, nor even my wife can make me regret letting Ulfric go. I knew what I was doing when I ordered the guards to stand down. I knew that it would plunge Skyrim into war. And I knew that you Thalmor dogs would be swooping in, covertly nurturing the conflict and laying out the groundwork for an eventual invasion of the province."

"All this you knew and you still—"

"Every person of virtue, whether Man or Mer, makes his country's honor his very own; he values it, deeming it as sacred and beyond suspicion. He is willing to risk his life in its defense, for he receives just as much protection from it as he gives."

"Those are words of the Salache …"

"Indeed, elf. Your own people's words. It is your ancestors that have taught me what it truly means to protect one's country."

The Justicar shook his head. "Now I'm beginning to think that perhaps there is some hope for your race after all."

"I'm beginning to think the same about yours." Roggvir smiled. "But profound as this brief softening of our relationship may have been, I still cannot tell you what I do not know… or rather, I cannot tell you where to find something that does not exist."

"Oh, come now. I have read all the security reports you've submitted to Torygg's steward; I know the hidden passage exists. Why do you insist in giving up so much of your well-being to protect those who condemned you for your actions in the first place?"

"Like you said, my arrest was simply a snap order made by a bereaved wife; Jarl Elisif really did love her husband after all. And why are you so obsessed about this secret entrance anyway? You're free to go in and out of the Palace whenever you want. In fact, you could just as easily spread poison all over the kitchen's larder and thus kill half the Palace's denizens with none the wiser."

Rulindil chuckled. "The Jarl's magicians would immediately detect the slightest of poisons the moment it comes within their range. What they cannot detect however, is cold steel and a murderous intent. Besides, why would we kill our most dear allies? The Thalmor would prefer that Elisif and Tullius stay in power instead of the Stormcloaks or any Talos worshipper."

"But they won't be your allies forever."

"Indeed," the Justicar smiled, "We are like squirrels gathering food for the coming winter. We plan ahead, Nord. This is one of many things that set our people apart. The time will come when we will be banished here, and when we return with an army in tow, we will take this city by the barest of effort."

"That is most disconcerting," Roggvir nodded ponderously, "Well… good luck with that."

"I've already made you a most generous offer. Tell me where the entrance to this passage lies and I will set you free. I will arrange a carriage to take you to Hammerfell along with all the information I've gathered about the whereabouts of your family."

"My family…" Roggvir closed his eyes again, "I doubt they'll be as welcoming as you think if I go to them."

"Then start anew. I can give you gold, Nord. Enough gold to set you up for life. You can retire at some quiet coast, free of the troubles of this so-called civilized life. There is much I can grant, my friend. Perhaps it is time that you start thinking more about yourself instead of others."

The former Guard Captain of the Blue Palace did not reply. His eyes remained closed, his scarred hands resting on his lap. The silence stretched on. The guard at the back shifted around on his feet impatiently.

When the Justicar was about to break the silence, Roggvir suddenly burst out laughing. Pain shot through the latter's sides yet he continued giggling and slapping one hand on his lap.

"I don't recall having said anything amusing," Rulindil said coldly.

"Later tonight…" Roggvir calmed down and wiped a tear from his eye, "Later tonight, when you go back to your quarters, you can reflect on the things you've said and done today—something that I know you do every night, predictable as you are. And you can think back to everything you've said to me ever since the moment when I first stepped into this gods-forsaken dungeon. You will reflect, and you will realize, that you lost this mind game long before you were even aware that we were playing it."

"If you're trying to—"

"You fool. Do you really think that I'd believe you'd set me free? For a year now, you've been blabbering your mouth off about everything that's been happening in the outside world. Think back, elf. All the questions we've asked of each other… how forthcoming you've been with your answers… and now here we are, with you still asking the same single question and not having an answer for it, and with me now knowing of almost every Thalmor operation that's been going on in the province thanks to your endless chattering. You were forthcoming with what you knew because you never had any intention of setting me free in the first place."

Roggvir glanced nastily at the guard whilst continuing to address Rulindil. "And now you've placed yourself in a dangerous position. I wonder how the Ambassador will feel when she learns that not only have you not gained any ground in your task but you've also made me quite possibly the most dangerous threat to the Thalmor in Skyrim."

Rulindil stepped back, as if hit by a bolt of lightning. He looked wildly at the guard who squirmed in response. They both knew the guard would have to report to Elenwen everything that had been said here. The prisoner was right; the Justicar lost this game, and he'll likely lose much more than that when the First Emissary hears Roggvir's words, and the truth of them, via the guard.

The Justicar had indeed been confident. Numerous times he had easily replied to Roggvir's seemingly innocuous questions. Perhaps it was because of his high elven background, but he never could resist an opportunity to brag about the superiority and cleverness of his race to someone who could do naught but be in awe.

With rage building up inside of him, he sputtered and turned red. When Roggvir only grinned in response, the Justicar lost it and lunged forward, grabbing the Nord by the neck. He squeezed hard before screaming, "Tell me where the entrance is! Tell me or die!"

The Nord began laughing and sputtering at the same time with his hands firm and unmoving on his lap. "That's— That's right, elf…!" he choked, "Kill me…! Give me the end that I've long hoped for! Sovngarde… beckons…!"

At that point, the Justicar began shouting at him in the elven tongue, fully unaware that he was doing so. The Nord's vision blurred before beginning to fade away. In front of him, the guard was trying to pry loose the Justicar's vice-like grip. The guard was shouting at his superior to cease and desist, pointing out that Elenwen would not wish for the prisoner to be killed before learning where the secret passage was located. After hearing the Ambassador's name however, Rulindil tightened his grip even harder; his fear of what the Ambassador would do to him had seemingly won over his rationality.

Roggvir felt a sense of righteousness, glad to have finally shattered the Justicar's mask of arrogance. The last thing he remembered seeing before his world turned black was a pair of dark red eyes staring at him from a shadowy corner of the ceiling.