“I broke into their headquarters,” Freyja says. “They had a very well-stocked kitchen.”
“Are you insane?” he barks, with a heat that surprises her. “You could have been killed!”
“I could have been killed rescuing you from those justiciars, but I didn’t hear you complaining then,” Freyja says, annoyed. She hopes he’s not going to be the sort of man who treats her like glass simply because he took her to bed. “How else would you suggest we start looking for your cousin?”
“You could have said something—”
“What, in front of Styrr?” She scoffs. “I can take care of myself.”
Eitri probes absently at his bandaged hand. “Obviously,” he says, after a moment. “Sorry. I just – I know what they’re like. The Thalmor.”
That’s fair enough, Freyja supposes. She chews on her apple.
“Did you find anything?” Eitri asks.
“Not much. The headquarters is nothing but the end of their supply line – and a way to keep some of the Legion’s spies busy, I assume. All they’ve got in there are shipping records.” His face falls. “Don’t give up yet – you can learn a lot about someone by where they get their bread and mead. You need to bag an elk, you stake out its food and water. People aren’t much different.” She unrolls her map, weights down one edge with a tankard. “All their supplies come through Solitude, but they’re only distributing them to a couple of places. One is the Embassy, and we're not getting in there - that place is locked up tighter than Cidhna Mine. The good news is it's unlikely they keep anyone but high-priority prisoners there. Not even the Thalmor can maintain that kind of security if they have to open it up for every poor bastard they accuse of worshipping Talos. Ever hear of Northwatch Keep?"
"No."
Freyja taps a finger on the north coast. "Neither have I, but I'd be ready to bet half my purse that it's where they keep the rest of their captives. It's remote, it's defensible - just the fact that we haven't heard of it says they try to keep it discreet. According to the records they send a cartful of food out there every week or two, along with a fair amount of nightshade and deathbell."
"Poison?"
"Mm. And given how remote the place is, I’d say it’s getting used for interrogation, not assassination."
Eitri flinches a little. Insensitive, Freyja thinks, chewing her lip, but it can't be helped now. "Even if I'm wrong, the Thalmor have the most efficient intelligence network in Tamriel - during the Great War they made the Blades look like children playing cloak and dagger. A network that big doesn't function without written records. Well-guarded ones, but still. If there's one thing we don't have, it's information. They'll have it."
“So the plan is to just – what, storm the keep? With two of us?”
“Even I’m not that crazy. A few justiciars I can handle, but a garrison of them would take me to pieces. Hopefully there’s another way in; a lot of these old castles have wells, hidden tunnels, that kind of thing. Either way, we won’t know until we scout the place out. We’ll just have to play it by ear.” Freyja rolls up the map, stuffs it back into her pack. “Get some rest. I’d say we’ve got eight, ten days journey, and that’s if we don’t run into trouble on the way. Men tell strange stories about the Sea of Ghosts.”
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timeasmymeasure
Songs For Nomads 2.8
Date: 2013-07-18 10:54 pm (UTC)“Are you insane?” he barks, with a heat that surprises her. “You could have been killed!”
“I could have been killed rescuing you from those justiciars, but I didn’t hear you complaining then,” Freyja says, annoyed. She hopes he’s not going to be the sort of man who treats her like glass simply because he took her to bed. “How else would you suggest we start looking for your cousin?”
“You could have said something—”
“What, in front of Styrr?” She scoffs. “I can take care of myself.”
Eitri probes absently at his bandaged hand. “Obviously,” he says, after a moment. “Sorry. I just – I know what they’re like. The Thalmor.”
That’s fair enough, Freyja supposes. She chews on her apple.
“Did you find anything?” Eitri asks.
“Not much. The headquarters is nothing but the end of their supply line – and a way to keep some of the Legion’s spies busy, I assume. All they’ve got in there are shipping records.” His face falls. “Don’t give up yet – you can learn a lot about someone by where they get their bread and mead. You need to bag an elk, you stake out its food and water. People aren’t much different.” She unrolls her map, weights down one edge with a tankard. “All their supplies come through Solitude, but they’re only distributing them to a couple of places. One is the Embassy, and we're not getting in there - that place is locked up tighter than Cidhna Mine. The good news is it's unlikely they keep anyone but high-priority prisoners there. Not even the Thalmor can maintain that kind of security if they have to open it up for every poor bastard they accuse of worshipping Talos. Ever hear of Northwatch Keep?"
"No."
Freyja taps a finger on the north coast. "Neither have I, but I'd be ready to bet half my purse that it's where they keep the rest of their captives. It's remote, it's defensible - just the fact that we haven't heard of it says they try to keep it discreet. According to the records they send a cartful of food out there every week or two, along with a fair amount of nightshade and deathbell."
"Poison?"
"Mm. And given how remote the place is, I’d say it’s getting used for interrogation, not assassination."
Eitri flinches a little. Insensitive, Freyja thinks, chewing her lip, but it can't be helped now. "Even if I'm wrong, the Thalmor have the most efficient intelligence network in Tamriel - during the Great War they made the Blades look like children playing cloak and dagger. A network that big doesn't function without written records. Well-guarded ones, but still. If there's one thing we don't have, it's information. They'll have it."
“So the plan is to just – what, storm the keep? With two of us?”
“Even I’m not that crazy. A few justiciars I can handle, but a garrison of them would take me to pieces. Hopefully there’s another way in; a lot of these old castles have wells, hidden tunnels, that kind of thing. Either way, we won’t know until we scout the place out. We’ll just have to play it by ear.” Freyja rolls up the map, stuffs it back into her pack. “Get some rest. I’d say we’ve got eight, ten days journey, and that’s if we don’t run into trouble on the way. Men tell strange stories about the Sea of Ghosts.”