The old fort appeared, at first glance, to be deserted.

It was in a tumble down state after having been abandoned and then forgotten for so many years. The grounds were quiet; no obvious signs of activity. There were no soldiers on the walls. There were no fresh tracks running up to the gate. Even the rickety dock and the dinghy left behind to rot on the shore had not seen use in years.

A thin coating of powdery snow had fallen over all of it overnight, softening lines, and hushing the woods surrounding it.

At first glance, one might not notice the two dark robed guards standing, unmoving, in the shadows just inside the gate. They might think that the horse friezes set out in front to block the main entrance had been left behind, instead of placed there in more recent months. They might miss the thin curl of smoke that wound its way upwards through the flurries from one almost ruined chimney stack.

Tullius's scouts hadn't missed any of it.

The report had come back, and now, a week and half later Teldryn, Ceirin, Ondolemar, Legate Rikke, Hadvar, and a handful of Imperial soldiers, crouched in the leeway of low hill and went over the last minute details for their assault on Northwatch Keep .

"Past the main entrance, there is only one door into the Keep itself." Hadvar continued, "A frontal assault will be difficult, and what they are prepared for."

"Any idea what's inside?" Rikke asked.

"We couldn't get in. Too risky. But I recommend an indirect approach." Hadvar traced a section on the roughly sketched blueprint of the fort. "There's damage to the wall, back near this corner. One or two might slip in and take the guards by surprise."

"That will only last until we go into the keep itself." Teldryn pointed out the major flaw.

"Yes. But if we hit the main gate, we raise the alarm. We might never get in if they know we're here. They could also kill any prisoners."

"I need two of you to take out those guards." Rikke looked over her soldiers.

"So who's going in?"

In the end, Ceirin insisted, along with one other scout. Teldryn had to wait behind. His stealth ability was improving, but he was nowhere near being able to help in a situation like this.

The two figures moved down towards the shore and began their approach. The spellsword lost sight of them in the deepening shadows of evening. Training a spyglass on the gate, watching the deeper darkness where the guards stood, Teldryn held his breath. He thought he caught a flicker of movement in one corner, then nothing.

Long tense moments past.

"Is that them?" Ondolemar kept his voice low.

Two figures exited the main gate and worked together to move aside the blockade of spiked logs. Then a figure waved the all clear.

They moved in to secure the small courtyard. It was quick. Quiet. Efficient. Rikke had picked her people well. Teldryn glanced over at the body of one of the Thalmor guards. Throat slit. Ceirin's face was set in grim lines, his mouth pulled down at the corners and eyes tight, as he wiped his dagger off.

Ondolemar checked both guards and shook his head; he did not know either of them. Whatever he thought about staging a raid on his own people, he remained as silent and as grim as Ceirin.

They opted for a soft entry, Ceirin dropping to kneel and pick the lock on the heavy oak door. From here on out, he was in the lead, decades of thieving putting him ahead of even the Imperial scouts in terms of experience. They moved into the keep and down the halls.

Rounding a corner, they had to contend with the first soldiers. Caught by surprise, the two reacted too late and died; one with a scout's arrows in his throat, the other by Ondolemar's spells.

They kept pushing forward.

The next door opened onto a long shadowy hall that ended in a room lit warmly by torches. Screams and other sounds of pain echoed up the corridor, undercut by a calm voice speaking in quiet tones. The torturer, his ample collection of brutal tools, and the prisoner he'd been working on, were the rooms only occupants.

Not so easily slain, this Thalmor fought back, crying out in alarm and firing off several spells before Teldryn's blade slipped through his robes, his ribs, and dropped him to the floor with no fight or life left in him.

The prisoner, a tall Nord with an overgrown beard and light ash blond hair tangled in an unkempt mess around his face, looked them over blearily from where he slumped in his restraints.

One of the scouts found the keys and worked his manacles loose, then helped set the man on his feet.

"I never thought I'd see another friendly face again. Much less that I would be grateful for the sight of Imperial uniforms." The Nord's voice was rough from screaming. "There are others, further in. Hurry."

"Is there an altmer among them, a young male?"

The prisoner squinted at him and nodded. "Aye. They brought that one in a while ago."

Ceirin was off and running then, Teldryn right behind him. He had never seen the rogue in such a fury before. He cut down anyone in their path, Shouting down whole groups, until something about his very appearance began to change. ..to look … dragon like.

Alarmed, the spellsword did all he could to keep up, and to keep some distance between Ceirin and the soldiers following. Just in case. He wasn't the only one concerned. Both Hadvar's pale features and Ondolemar's gold green eyes, narrowed like an angry cats, followed the rogue's progress through the building.

The sound of booted feet running towards them from another hall had Rikke's men lining up to defend.

Rooms and hallways where cleared one by one and secured as the Thalmor soldiers were slain. For all that the fighting was intense in such close quarters, it was weirdly quiet; all sounds cut off by the stone walls.

They came to the last hall, rows of dark cells down either side. The sour stench of unwashed bodies and filthy conditions choked them. Two cells were empty save for the stains of old blood and waste that would never wash out. In others, thin figures hunched or curled in rags, chained by arms or legs or both, on a thin moldy scattering of straw.

"This is no jail." Rikke spoke through clenched teeth. "What in Oblivion is this?"

Ondolemar's stoic calm slipped, his thin lips twitching into a grimace of disgust as he observed the state of the prisoners. He shook his head. There was no answer he could give that would suffice.

Ceirin's hands shook as he worked with keys they had taken off the jailors body. They opened door after door, helping prisoners who could walk outside. The ones who couldn't were carried. The Justiciar pressed himself flat to the wall, to avoid any contact, one sleeve up over his nose.

They found him in the last cell. A bony figure tucked as far into the corner as he could get. One ankle shackled him to the floor. Teldryn wondered why they had risked leaving a mages hands unchained, until he saw them.

Elsirion's hands had been broken. Repeatedly.

The kid flinched back when Ceirin reached for him to get the ankle cuff off. The young mage began to kick and struggle, frantic to get away, despite having no place to go and being too weak to fight.

"Elsirion? Siri? Stop it. Look at me?" Ceirin backed off, tears in his eyes, and held up his hands until his brother calmed down enough to look at him. "I'm here to get you out.

"….Ceirin?...Run…"

"Come on, let me get this off of you."

The instant he was free, he launched himself at Ceirin, clinging and shaking, eyes huge and dark in his too thin face.

Ceirin gathered him up and together, they headed back out through the halls lined with Thalmor bodies.

For possibly the first time in his life, Teldryn saw the appeal of necromancy. It would have been all too satisfying to raise them up and kill them all over again. Hands clenched tight into fists, he stalked out after the brothers. No amount of fresh air was ever going to let him forget the stench of this place.