“That would make a lousy song. I do that to Thalmor on a weekly basis, and no one’s written so much as a ditty,” Therion said with a laugh, maintaining his casual attitude for Ondolemar’s sake. “I know it’s been hard for you. I’ve no right to complain at all, the way things worked out for me after I escaped. It was I who asked you to join the Thalmor. Out of every member of the Laloria Malatar, you were by far the most talented at subterfuge. Now,” he said encouragingly. “You’re almost done. I’ll be the last one you ever have to interrogate. Which, all things considered, is poetic justice,” he said guiltily. “As a result, we’ll bring war to the Summerset Isle, conquer our people, and have every last Thalmor tried and executed. The Altmer will be free from the vile rot we allowed to seep into our homeland.”
“And if it’s all for nothing?” Ondolemar pointed out. “If nothing goes as you’ve intended?”
Therion fixed him with his powerful gaze.
“Then history will remember us as butchers. Our nobility, our achievements, our entire existence, will be cursed and spat upon by all the races of man and the young races of mer. And one day a reckoning will come,” he said darkly. “We brought this upon ourselves. And only we can restore the nobility of our race.”
Ondolemar pulled a potion from his robes.
“You’ve always had a flare for the dramatic,” he said dispassionately. “I can’t guarantee you’ll survive, if something goes wrong with this haphazard plan.”
“I’m well aware,” Therion said.
“And how will we make sure the Nord people find you?” Ondolemar asked.
Therion laughed.
“If someone doesn’t show up from either the Thieves’ Guild, the Dark Brotherhood, the mage’s college, the Blades, the Imperial forces, or any other number of organizations or groups, then I have done a decidedly poor job of infiltrating this country,” he said with a laugh. “Stall if you have to, but someone will come eventually.”
“Alright then,” Ondolemar agreed, though he remained still in his chair.
“The sooner begun, the sooner done, a Nord once told me,” Therion said, thinking fondly on his favorite resident of Skyrim.
“Are you in such a hurry?” Ondolemar asked, rubbing his eyes with his free hand.
“Just once more. One last time. You’ve done this many times, Ondolemar-”
“But never to you! Never to my little cousin!” he said savagely, his hand still covering his eyes. “I taught you to shape fire, when you were small. I convinced you to join the Laloria Malatar. You’d still be home, safe and comfortable, had you never become a spy.”
Re: Fire and Potions - 15/?
“And if it’s all for nothing?” Ondolemar pointed out. “If nothing goes as you’ve intended?”
Therion fixed him with his powerful gaze.
“Then history will remember us as butchers. Our nobility, our achievements, our entire existence, will be cursed and spat upon by all the races of man and the young races of mer. And one day a reckoning will come,” he said darkly. “We brought this upon ourselves. And only we can restore the nobility of our race.”
Ondolemar pulled a potion from his robes.
“You’ve always had a flare for the dramatic,” he said dispassionately. “I can’t guarantee you’ll survive, if something goes wrong with this haphazard plan.”
“I’m well aware,” Therion said.
“And how will we make sure the Nord people find you?” Ondolemar asked.
Therion laughed.
“If someone doesn’t show up from either the Thieves’ Guild, the Dark Brotherhood, the mage’s college, the Blades, the Imperial forces, or any other number of organizations or groups, then I have done a decidedly poor job of infiltrating this country,” he said with a laugh. “Stall if you have to, but someone will come eventually.”
“Alright then,” Ondolemar agreed, though he remained still in his chair.
“The sooner begun, the sooner done, a Nord once told me,” Therion said, thinking fondly on his favorite resident of Skyrim.
“Are you in such a hurry?” Ondolemar asked, rubbing his eyes with his free hand.
“Just once more. One last time. You’ve done this many times, Ondolemar-”
“But never to you! Never to my little cousin!” he said savagely, his hand still covering his eyes. “I taught you to shape fire, when you were small. I convinced you to join the Laloria Malatar. You’d still be home, safe and comfortable, had you never become a spy.”