Rashan sat calmly next to the restrained High Elf, leaning slightly forward with a measured, patient expression. Alain and Devan stood silently to either side, their presence steady and imposing, serving both as assistants and subtle intimidation. Cassia observed from a distance, attentive to every detail of Rashan's controlled technique. The elf stared back defiantly, golden eyes sharp and contemptuous.
"Alright," Rashan began evenly, "let's start this easy. What is your name?"
The elf remained silent, posture rigid with pride. Rashan had anticipated this—he had faced similar stubbornness in his previous life. Without another word, he reached for a worn cloth, methodically folding it into a thick, even layer. Leaning forward, he gently but deliberately placed the cloth over the elf's face, carefully covering his eyes, nose, and mouth, effectively obscuring his vision and airway.
"Hold him steady," Rashan instructed quietly.
Alain and Devan stepped forward immediately, their movements synchronized and practiced. Alain placed firm pressure on the elf's shoulders, preventing any sudden thrashing or jerking movements, while Devan secured the elf's head gently but firmly from behind, ensuring minimal movement and maximum control. Their grip was unyielding but clinical, leaving no room for struggle.
Rashan lifted the pitcher of cool water, filled nearly to the brim, pausing briefly to let the quiet intensity of the moment settle. With careful precision, he began slowly pouring the water directly onto the cloth-covered face. At first, the elf held defiantly still, resisting the instinctual panic. However, moments later, his body betrayed him—his chest spasmed involuntarily as he desperately tried to breathe, choking against the saturated fabric.
The elf's body convulsed sharply, muscles tensing and straining against Alain and Devan's firm hold. Rashan watched closely, attentive to the elf's movements and breathing, maintaining complete control of the situation. He paused, calmly lifting the cloth to let the elf gasp and cough violently.
"Name," Rashan repeated softly, his voice devoid of anger or impatience.
The elf glared fiercely but remained stubbornly silent. Rashan acknowledged this defiance with a slight nod, almost approvingly, before replacing the cloth once again.
He resumed pouring, deliberately extending the duration this time, carefully monitoring the elf's reaction to ensure he stopped before any lasting harm could occur. Each round became more arduous, the elf's panic more pronounced, his resistance more desperate.
"What is your name?" Rashan asked quietly, after lifting the cloth once more, allowing just enough time for a brief, ragged recovery.
Still, the elf refused to answer, his breathing now shallow and ragged with fatigue and fear.
Rashan replaced the cloth once more, calm and methodical. "We have all day."
Rashan observed quietly as the elf continued to gasp and cough, stubbornly holding onto his silence. He allowed a brief pause, eyes carefully watching every subtle reaction from the prisoner. Alain and Devan stood ready at his sides, their presence steady and firm.
Rashan had already discovered the elf's name—Eldanaris—etched discreetly into his armor and scabbard, along with a personal letter confirming the information. He asked the elf's name not out of ignorance but as a deliberate tactic to gauge the elf's willingness to cooperate and verify his honesty.
Leaning forward slightly, Rashan spoke calmly and neutrally. "Let's try this again. What is your name?"
He kept the information he'd already gathered to himself, planning to use it to confirm whether the elf would choose honesty or deception. Rashan leaned back slightly, patient and controlled, awaiting the prisoner's response.
Eldanaris struggled to steady his ragged breathing, each shallow inhale sending sharp, stabbing pains through his damaged ribs. His vision blurred and swam momentarily, disorientation clinging stubbornly as the lingering effects of the potion slowly waned. A heavy, nauseating ache radiated from his side, intensifying with every slight movement or breath, keeping him acutely aware of his vulnerability.
The oppressive silence of the room amplified every strained breath, each rasping gasp underscoring his helplessness. He tried to shift his position, the restraints holding his limbs tightly, reinforcing a sense of growing desperation. Two silent figures stood beside the young Redguard who sat calmly observing him—expression neutral, patient, unreadable.
"What is your name?" the question came again, steady and measured, each syllable carefully articulated.
Pride surged within Eldanaris, compelling him to maintain his silence. Yet beneath that stubborn pride, anxiety stirred, whispering uncomfortable truths he refused to acknowledge. There was something unsettling about the Redguard's composed patience; a quiet, implicit threat hidden beneath his steady gaze. Eldanaris could feel the scrutiny, as though every silent second he withheld information was an answer in itself.
Without another word, the Redguard placed a thick, damp cloth over Eldanaris's face, blocking his vision completely. Eldanaris tensed, suddenly more aware of every aching muscle and nerve. Then water began pouring steadily onto the cloth.
Panic surged instantly, primal and overwhelming. Eldanaris instinctively held his breath, his heart hammering frantically within his chest. As the water saturated the cloth, it sealed tightly around his mouth and nose, cutting off the flow of air. His lungs soon began to burn fiercely, his body screaming for oxygen. Reflexively, he tried to inhale but found only wet cloth pressed suffocatingly against his face.
An involuntary convulsion rippled through his body, his limbs jerking futilely against the unyielding restraints. He felt as though he were drowning, his chest tightening painfully, desperate for air. Fear, raw and uncontrollable, seized him as he gasped helplessly, his muffled cries of panic lost beneath the oppressive fabric.
The cloth was lifted abruptly, leaving Eldanaris coughing violently, choking and gasping for breath. His vision blurred, eyes stinging with tears and disorientation. The calm, measured voice cut through the chaos of his terror.
"Your name?"
Eldanaris hesitated, pride and stubborn defiance still fighting feebly within him. Again, the cloth was replaced, and again the pouring water resumed, each round lasting longer than the previous. Each ordeal dragged him closer to breaking, each repetition amplifying the fear, the helplessness. Still, Eldanaris resisted, holding out far longer than most could have endured.
Time became distorted, the intervals of relief growing shorter, the agonizing periods beneath the cloth stretching ever longer. His composure gradually eroded until finally, exhausted, trembling, and utterly defeated, Eldanaris felt his resistance collapse entirely.
When the cloth was finally removed once more, Eldanaris forced the bitter concession from his lips, his voice barely above a whisper, raw and filled with shame.
"Eldanaris," he gasped, humiliation burning sharply in his throat.
Rashan observed Eldanaris quietly, allowing the silence to linger, unbroken except for the elf's strained breathing. His own expression remained composed and neutral, showing neither triumph nor impatience—simply measured calm.
"Good," he said finally, voice quiet and controlled. "Eldanaris."
He gave the elf a brief moment, knowing the depth of humiliation he now felt, fully aware that pride was Eldanaris's greatest weakness. Rashan let that understanding hang silently between them, an unspoken reminder of who was in control.
"Now," Rashan continued evenly, leaning slightly closer, his tone calm yet firm, "we'll continue. Honesty will make this far easier for you. Choose your answers carefully."
Rashan paused, allowing silence to return, carefully observing Eldanaris as the elf struggled to regain composure. When he spoke again, his voice was calm, measured, and deliberately neutral.
"Eldanaris," he began steadily, maintaining unwavering eye contact, "tell me precisely how many Altmer warriors, Altmer mages, Khajiit scouts, and Bosmer archers were assigned as reinforcements to this fort."
Internally, Rashan reflected briefly on the intelligence he'd meticulously pieced together from scattered notes and incomplete correspondence discovered in Eldanaris's quarters. At first glance, the documentation had seemed deliberately vague, likely intended to obscure exact troop numbers. Cross-referencing requisitions for additional rations, armor shipments bearing Dominion insignias, and encoded messages about "sharpshooters" and "forward observers," Rashan had initially concluded a company-sized force—roughly one hundred soldiers.
What ultimately solidified his conclusion was an independent confirmation: a critical report from one of Jalil's informants stationed in a nearby village. This informant had overheard Dominion quartermasters discussing preparations specifically scaled for a company-level deployment. The information precisely aligned with Rashan's deductions, removing any lingering uncertainty.
Rashan now waited patiently, expression neutral, to carefully weigh Eldanaris's response against this thoroughly corroborated intelligence.
Rashan watched Eldanaris carefully, his gaze steady and patient, betraying no hint of the critical intelligence he already possessed. The elf's jaw tightened stubbornly, eyes narrowing as he chose silence once more. Rashan gave a small nod, unfazed, and placed the cloth gently over Eldanaris's face again.
"Hold him," Rashan instructed quietly.
Alain and Devan resumed their firm but dispassionate grip, restraining Eldanaris firmly. Rashan poured the water again, slow and steady, deliberately drawing out each round slightly longer than the previous one. Eldanaris writhed desperately, body convulsing involuntarily beneath the damp cloth, panic intensifying each time his airways were sealed by the choking wetness.
This cycle repeated several more times—each interval of pouring water extending slightly, each brief respite offering just enough breath to ensure consciousness. Eldanaris's defiance gradually began to fracture under the relentless repetition, each ordeal weakening his stubborn resolve.
Finally, when Rashan lifted the cloth once more, Eldanaris coughed raggedly, chest heaving as he struggled desperately to regain his breath. Pride, now deeply eroded by prolonged panic and exhaustion, gave way at last.
"Sixty," Eldanaris gasped out, voice strained and hoarse. He forced the number through clenched teeth, convinced Rashan had only the scattered notes from his quarters and unaware of the critical additional intelligence the Redguard had already verified.
Rashan took a slow, deliberate breath, disappointment clear in the subtle tightening of his jaw as he met Eldanaris's eyes with steady, cold intensity.
"You know," he said quietly, voice calm yet edged with quiet reproach, "I promised this would go easier for you if you told me the truth. Lying…"
He shook his head slightly, a gesture filled with quiet resolve. Rising calmly, Rashan walked over to a leather tool bag, deliberately flipping it open to reveal several delicate, precisely shaped instruments. Eldanaris followed the movements, confusion and rising anxiety flickering briefly across his weary expression.
"I also promised," Rashan continued evenly, carefully selecting a slender tool—sharp, slightly curved at its tip, ideal for meticulously chipping teeth to expose sensitive nerves beneath, "that I'd teach you another new word if you lied."
Eldanaris's golden eyes widened sharply, comprehension and dread rapidly replacing defiance. He instinctively recoiled, though the restraints held him tightly in place. For the first time, genuine fear blossomed openly on his face as he stared, horrified, at the precise, cruel instrument Rashan now held.
Rashan returned calmly to sit across from Eldanaris, leaning slightly forward, his gaze unwavering. He spoke again, softly but with absolute, chilling certainty.
"I will ask you only once more. How many?"