Thalmor Dossier: The Falmer Berate
(Highest level clearance only, an abridged version is available for lower levels in main record room, DO NOT view without express permission of First Emissary Elenwen).
Status: Exile/Fugitive (Kill on sight outside populated areas – see Operational Notes), Highest Priority, Emissary Level Approval. Treat with extreme caution.
Description:Half Elf, Male, 240s, abnormally large and pale. Extremely long, white hair, typically worn in top knot. Severe scarring to the facial features and body, far beyond acceptable levels. Red-orange eyes. Only identifiable as part Mer if ears visible.
Background:(See pp 3-4 for a full list of known aliases and “titles”.) Born in Dusk (15th First Seed, 3E391 – see appendix C: numerology) to mixed parentage (see appendix D: genealogy). Former Captain of the Guard to House Larethian. Former Knight of the Crystal Tower. Priest of former Order of Auri-El (dissolved 4E185 by Retired Grand Justiciar Vingalmo, Lord of House Caemal). Known close associate of Rynandor the Bold and Lathenil of Sunhold.
Multiple instances of detention from as early as 4E10, even while professing loyalty to Alinor. Exiled 4E98 (public led to believe he had died in vampire raid on Dusk) to protect Alinor’s interests. Survived. Captured during the First War Against the Empire, assigned to the interrogator Elenwen, now First Emissary. Believed to have formed an alliance with the Nord “Jarl” (a member of what passes for nobility in Skyrim), Ulfric Stormcloak, unfortunately this was not discovered until Stormcloak’s “escape” had been facilitated and it was discovered that this fugitive had escaped with him. Extremely dangerous. Do not attempt Illusion magics, the fugitive is strongly resistant/immune.
Operational Notes:Last confirmed sighting was at the Vampire Symposium in Alinor in 4E185. See pp 235-247). Current location unknown, believed to be in Cheydinhal, or elsewhere in Cyrodiil. Believed to be in contact with certain persons within Alinor, including a low-ranking Thalmor Agent, currently under observation. Previously listed as ‘capture only’, however after the loss of many agents on previous, failed attempts to do this, his status has been amended as above.
If discovered in populated areas not under Thalmor control, diplomacy requires a capture is attempted. May be possible to exert coercion by threatening civilians, particularly women and children, although this should obviously only be attempted overseas if witnesses unlikely to be believed by local authorities or can be eliminated, or if done out of earshot of others.
Fugitive should be considered extremely dangerous and is likely to be armed and clad in heavy, slow armour more typical of the lower races. No offensive magicks to speak of, but as would be expected of a Priest of Auri-El, has strong Restoration ability and a number of other spells (see appendix E: known spells). Possesses animal-like brute strength and not-inconsiderable ability with a blade, the “Dusken Dog” should not be underestimated and possesses a certain sly cunning.
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Nerussa looked around Elenwen’s quarters. Well, she’d had to look for the Dossier, and it wasn’t in the Emissary’s office. The drawer in her bedside cabinet had been full of assorted bric-a-brac – a jar of lotion, a few pieces of costume jewellery, a pair of thin,cotton gloves, a thin leather strip wound into a ball, a handkerchief, a key… Finally she’d located the Dossier underneath the mattress of the four-post bed on which she was currently sitting, the Dossier open to the cover sheet. It was largely the same as the file she’d seen all those months ago, but with certain additions, all in Elenwen’s writing. Not additions, she supposed, things which had been redacted from the ordinary-level file. Gods, the woman was obsessed. Lengthy numerological, astrological and genealogical charts, all heavily annotated in the same tiny, precise hand. Minute observations about his casting abilities – it seemed Elenwen had witnessed these at first hand – covered several pages each.
She sighed, and stood up, tucking the Dossier into her pack and praying to someone-or-other that the stitching would hold. She hefted it onto her back and froze. Shit. Someone was outside.
She prepared herself – Dampening Rune, Invisibility – and edged slowly closer to the door, which she had left ajar. Not in the office, the voices, but directly outside the door. Damn. Rulindil, definitely, and… a Nord, by the sound of it? That was strange. There were one or two Nords working in the Embassy, privy skivvies, usually, but only in the main building, never this one. Their voices were frustratingly hard to make out clearly, but it sounded as though they were discussing the prisoners mentioned in Rulindil’s dragon note, or rather one of them. She thought she caught the name Etienne, and from what she was able to make out, it seemed as though the Nord had enabled the capture of this one, and was apparently damn fool enough to push Rulindil to pay before the Mer considered the task complete.
Eventually, the voices stopped, and she was just able to discern two sets of footsteps – Rulindil in fine, leather boots and the Nord in what sounded like the cheap cloth boots worn by the lower classes, probably stuffed with paper to pad out the soles – leading away in opposite directions. Fortunately, they hadn’t felt the need to pull Elenwen’s office door shut, and she was just able to slip out without losing focus on her Invisibility spell. She didn’t need to follow Rulindil’s footsteps to know where he was heading. The interrogation chamber. She glanced down reflexively at her chest – she couldn’t actually see that the silver necklace of Shockbane Rumarin had given her was still there, but she could feel its weight, along with that of the sapphire bracelet on her wrist.
She would have gladly waited a while longer before confronting Rulindil, but she’d already been absent from the party for far too long, Elenwen would be unlikely to investigate herself, but she would be sure to send someone to look for her before much longer, probably the soldiers who had escorted her outside. She moved as quickly as she could along the corridor, and down the stairs.
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“Bah! I grow weary of your stubborn resistance, dog, but very well, if you won’t co-operate, we’ll try the Breton again. Soldier, to the other prisoner.”
Rulindil was seated at a plain, wooden desk, with his back to the small balcony Nerussa found herself on. He waved a hand dismissively as he spoke, his attention on what looked like another dossier in front of him. Nerussa had never actually been in the interrogation chamber before, not this one, at least, but everyone knew where the damn place was. The majority of prisoners went to Northwatch, of course, but if there was some information to be gathered, or the prisoner was of higher social standing, they were brought here, to be dealt with by Rulindil, or the First Emissary herself.
The balcony offered a partial view of the chamber, as each prisoner was kept in a separate “cell”, although they were shackled rather than locked in. From where she stood, invisible, back to the wall, she could see over Rulindil’s shoulder, through a set of iron bars, into the first cell. An armoured soldier was walking away from the prisoner, an enormous Nord, from what she could see, long, dirty white hair and a full, unkempt beard covering most of his face. The soldier moved to a second cell, and was largely obscured by the gloom and the second row of bars. A weak voice spoke up from that cell.
“Stop. Please. I don’t know anything else. Don’t you think I’d have told you already?”
“Silence,” the soldier warned. “You know the rules. Do not speak unless spoken to. Master Rulindil will ask the questions.”
“Now that we’ve reviewed the rules, let’s begin again,” Rulindil continued, his voice snide. Nerussa really wished she’d had a chance to test her new Shout. She was fairly sure what it would do, she had been focusing hard on it, and reading and re-reading her notes, for the last few days. She supposed the people of Solitude might feel differently, but the dragon attack had been awfully good timing, really. Not like anyone had been hurt…
Rulindil was still interrogating the prisoner, and Nerussa was glad not to be able to see him. Hearing his cries was bad enough. She was surprised she hadn’t heard either prisoner from upstairs. As she listened to the interrogation, she gradually moved across the balcony, and down the stairs.
“Start at the beginning, as usual. If you persist in this stubbornness, I’ll have…”
“No, wait!” the prisoner stammered. “I was just… catching my breath… why wouldn’t I tell you again? I don’t even know anything… There’s an old man. He lives in Riften. He could be this Esbern you’re looking for, but I don’t know. He’s old and seemed kinda crazy. That’s all I know.”
The Nord in the first cell lifted his head a little. “Old and crazy. Hear that, Rulindil? Run to your bony-arsed mistress upstairs like a good little lapdog, and send for him. Then you shall have two of us. As old and mad as a matron off her hookah!” He laughed gruffly, and she could see Rulindil stiffen.
For all his uncouth language, his voice was more cultured than she would have expected, but then if he was in here he was hardly a peasant. Oghma’s tits, even the nobility in Skyrim didn’t sound like that… From Cyrodiil, perhaps? Cultured or not, the voice was also hoarse, by the sounds of him he’d been in here much longer than the Breton. She shook her head, pushed her focus back to maintaining the invisibility spell, and inched her way across the room to a position directly behind Rulindil’s desk.
Only to freeze.
A second soldier – damn, she hadn’t even noticed that one – stepped out from her position opposite the Nord’s cell, hand moving to her weapon. The other soldier, by the sound of it, was also moving away from the Breton, but Rulindil snapped at them to return to their posts.
“Ignore that one, no matter what he tries.” Rulindil’s tone was cruel, malicious, even for him, and she found herself holding her breath. “Breton, I’m finding you frustrating. You clearly know more than you are prepared to admit, and for some reason you refuse to bow to your clear superiors and simply tell us what you know. I have, therefore, authorised Manual Uncoiling. Perhaps you’d like your fellow prisoner to explain what that is?”
Suddenly, the Nord became extremely agitated. Gods, he was huge, chained rather than shackled – was he too big for them? – he was standing now, as best he could, twisting around, trying to… was he wrapping the damn chains around his neck? Rulindil was beginning to stand up, his attention on the Nord.
“IIZ!”
Rulindil and the soldier guarding the Nord’s cell were suddenly encased in pale blue ice, and fell to the ground. The other soldier and the Nord both stopped what they were doing, the soldier running to see what in Dagon’s Realm had happened. Nerussa flung a Lightning Jolt with one hand, and its cousin spell, Lightning Bolt, with the other, the soldier surrounded by a thousand dancing sparks, beginning to convulse, and she sent out two more Bolts, bringing the soldier to his knees, one eye on Rulindil, hoping he would stay down a little longer…
The Nord now seemed to be trying to break out of his chains, from the sounds coming from his cell. What had he said? A matron off her hookah? Funny phrase for a Nord to come out with. Damn it, concentrate, she told herself. Damn again, the soldier was on his feet again, drawing his blade, readying a spell with the other hand, probably only a weak spell, most of the foot soldiers only knew Sparks… She hoped she was right, she wanted to save the damn potions for Rulindil. She cast her better Mage Armour spell, just in case, and fired off another Bolt. Her damn hair was starting to come undone, falling over her face, and she brushed it back in annoyance. One more Bolt and – yes – the soldier was down.
She paused for breath. “Nord, I advise you to stay where you are, I’ll free you when I’m done. Unless you’re in fighting shape, in which case, hurry up.”
She couldn’t fathom why, but apparently something she said was funny, and the figure on the other side of the bars gave a surprisingly robust chuckle. Even more confusingly, it sounded familiar. No time to puzzle it out, she thought. Rulindil and the surviving soldier were beginning to thaw.
She grabbed the two soldiers’ weapons and slid them across the floor to where the prisoner would be able to grab them if he did succeed in freeing himself, then ran back up to the balcony.
Rulindil was on his feet, but apparently hadn’t yet got his bearings. Nerussa grabbed a Resist Magic potion, and one to replenish her own Magicka, and gulped them down. An animalistic growl and the loud snap of a chain came from the Nord’s cell. The surviving soldier looked… terrified.
“Rulindil, you’re not going to let the prisoners go, are you?”
“What in Oblivion do you think you’re doing? Guard, this She-Elf has attacked your superior and killed one of your own rank. End. Her.”
“I didn’t think so.” She drew a deep breath, charged her Bolts, and…another chain broke as she opened her mouth.
“FUS RO DAH!”
The two Thalmor flew back. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the Nord, hair everywhere, dressed in dirty, blood-stained rags, fly out of the cell. She absent-mindedly switched to Healing Hands – his wrists were likely in a bad way after that – and bathed him in golden light for a few seconds. Gods, he was like a wall. He raised an arm in thanks, and reached for one of the blades on the floor. Take both, you fool, she thought. It was so small in his hand, but he wielded it with surprising grace, for someone who, from the look of him, had been in chains for quite some time.
“Well, Nord, is it now? Ha! Been called worse!” He chortled, and looked up at her, the hair falling back from his pale, scarred face, a smirk she had last seen sixteen years ago playing across his lips, and she knew why the other blade had been left on the floor. “I could have sworn you were the only Nordling here.”
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And Nerussa is certainly getting the hang of her shouts, though the embassy might be shaking a little in its foundations. Time for subtlety has ended. Run, run, run, run!
And Nerussa is certainly getting the hang of her shouts, though the embassy might be shaking a little in its foundations. Time for subtlety has ended. Run, run, run, run!