Even a Hare [Aamos & Lamaenor]
"Inquisitor Aldataur." The Justiciar bows slightly at the waist, hand at her heart, "We are glad you could come."
Lamaenor tilts his head in greeting, the setting sun glinting off his half-moon glasses, “Anything to serve the Dominion.” He answers smoothly, brushing a hand over his gold-embroidered robes. Raakion steps behind him carefully, his eyes a bit haunted, the slightly uneven movements of his head more reminiscent of frightened prey than anything else, “Have you met my son?” Lamaenor continues, his voice still cool and smooth, “Raakion, say hello.”
"Hello." Raakion parrots, immediately, his shoulders not relaxing until Lamaenor gives a soft smile.
The Justiciars eyes lingers just a bit too long on Raakion before she gives a sharp nod in greeting and turns back to Lamaenor.
"We are in great need of your services." She takes a measured step to the side, allowing Lamaenor to pass her and walk by her side, "We are quite lucky an Inquisitor of your caliber is here to help."
"I got as much from your letter, Justiciar." Lamaenor replies, his long black robes sweeping the carefully polished stone, "There is no need for flattery, tell me instead what the Dominion needs from me." The soft and polished stone becomes uneven and rough as they enter the area where the prisoners are kept. The air is stale and heavy with enchantments. Raakions nose twitches slightly at that, at the magic in the air. Lamaenor and the Justiciar are unmoved.
"We captured a squadron of Stormcloaks last week, sir." The Justiciar starts, her hands primly at her side, "On them, they carried a lot of sensitive information pertaining Thalmor movements."
"Ah. And you wish to know from where they got this information?" Lamaenor nods, "I still do not understand why you need my help. I am sure you have fine interrogators here, any of them should be able to break a Nord -"
"They were professionals, with a level of sophistication quite rare in Stormcloaks. Most of them were old Legionnaires, some of them Redguards." Lamaenor makes a soft sound at that.
"Ah. Some Nightshade under their tongue, I assume?"
"Yes. When we captured them, they took out as many of us as they could before poisoning themselves."
"Then comes my next question," Lamaenor says softly, "I am good, but even I can not interrogate a corpse."
"One of them, a Dunmer, survived."
"Why would a Dunmer support the Stormcloaks?" Raakion asks from behind them, quieting with a wince when Lamaenor sends him a glance.
"Not all Dunmer live in the grey quarter, Raakion, and not all Dunmer came here after the Eruption. Some are more Nord than the Nords themselves." Lamaenors voice is soft, but his eyes are sharp.
"Not the case with this one." The Justiciar sneers, "A weakling, in every sense of the word. We doubt he was even part of the company, it is more likely he was either a servant or a slave."
"He is mute, Inquisitor." She stops outside a cell, pauses to look up at Lamaenor, "And even if he were not, he seems unable to recall anything of import. But you know, as well as I, that servants hear far more than they think they do."
Lamaenor is looking into the cell, his smile small and amused. He nods, “I understand.”
The Justiciar opens the cell with a press of her hand, untying the locking enchantments without a word, “You have full rights, Inquisitor. Do what you must.”
When a small streak of light falls into the cell, onto the small, shivering form in the cell, Raakion pulls a soft, unnoticed breath.
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