Holding back the urge to either sigh or start spouting profanities, Torin merely nodded, his expression carefully neutral.
"I understand." His voice was flat, giving nothing away. "For now, please give us the room so that we can discuss our next course of action."
Gautier nodded back in understanding, his eyes lingering on Torin for a moment longer than necessary—as if he was trying to read something in the Nord's face, some hint of what he was planning. Finding nothing, he inclined his head.
"As you wish."
With that, he turned toward the door and made his exit, closing it softly behind him. The click of the latch echoed in the quiet workshop, and for a long moment, no one spoke.
Bragi watched him leave, his jaw working furiously, and then he scowled, the expression twisting his weathered features into something almost feral.
"Good. Now that worm-like bastard is gone, we can discuss how to best torture that coward Armand, and get him to talk." He cracked his knuckles, a gesture that was more theatrical than practical. "I say we start with his fingers. One by one. See how long that high-and-mighty act lasts when he can't hold a quill."
Torin just gave him a tired look, the kind of look a man gives a friend who's had too much to drink and is suggesting something profoundly stupid.
"We'll do no such thing." He let out a long, slow sigh, the sound carrying the weight of his exhaustion. "What we should discuss is the sea giant problem, and how we can solve it as quickly as possible so we can return to our homes."
Bragi stared at him in disbelief, his mouth opening and closing like a fish gasping for air. His face was rapidly reddening, the color climbing from his neck to his cheeks to the tips of his ears.
"We gave them a bloody crown!" His voice rose, cracking with outrage. "And a throne to boot! And they won't even let you chase after the shady fellow making threats on your life?!" He threw his hands up, pacing the room in short, angry strides. "And you—you still want to keep doing them favors!"
Torin grimaced, his patience fraying at the edges.
"It's not like we have a choice." He crossed his arms, his voice hardening. "We came here specifically to help the Bretons with their sea giant problem—not to play kingmakers. If we go back without accomplishing our initial goal, other possible allies won't take us—or the High King—seriously."
His expression darkened, the shadows of the workshop pooling in the hollows of his face.
"Worst yet, the Bretons might use our failure as an excuse to turn their backs on us in the future. They'd say we promised aid and delivered nothing—that Skyrim's word is worth less than the air it's spoken into."
He paused, letting the words sink in. "And then where would we be? No allies in High Rock. No trade agreements. No ports for our ships. The Thalmor would have a clear path to our shores, and we'd have no one to stand with us."
Bragi's anger didn't disappear—it simmered, banked like coals in a dying fire—but he stopped pacing. His shoulders slumped, just slightly, and he let out a breath that seemed to carry all the frustration of a man who knew he was beaten.
"Fine," he muttered, the word dragged out of him like a confession. "But I don't have to like it."
He shook his head, the faint smile fading from his lips.
"No one's asking you to." He turned to Qasim, his expression shifting to something more focused, more businesslike. "Before I blacked out on that boat, I remember spotting a very big ship. A giant ship, if I'd ever saw one."
Qasim nodded his head, his hand resting on the hilt of his broken sword. The gesture was casual, almost unconscious, but there was a weight to it—the weight of a man who had seen something he couldn't quite explain.
"And its passengers were just as big." He paused, his eyes distant. "I boarded their vessel before they could reach our ship, and I found myself surrounded by them."
Torin let out a low hum, his mind already working through the implications.
"What did they look like?"
Qasim hummed, the sound thoughtful, as he searched for the right words.
"They looked like regular men and women—but much larger." He held up a hand, measuring the difference. "A head smaller than the giants we're familiar with, but still massive compared to you or me."
He paused, his brow furrowing.
"Their skins were grey, like cloudy skies, covered in silver markings. Strange patterns—spirals and lines that seemed to shift when I looked at them directly." He shook his head. "I couldn't tell if they were tattoos or something else entirely."
Torin's eyebrow raised, a spark of recognition flickering in his eyes.
"Everything matches the records—except the size." He let out a short, humorless chuckle. "According to our ancestors, they were so big that their ships needed to be the size of islands just to carry a single raiding party." He shook his head. "Either the stories were exaggerated, or these are a different breed. Probably the former."
He turned his attention back to Qasim, his gaze sharp.
"Go on, then. What happened once you were on board?"
Qasim smiled bitterly, the expression carrying a weight of its own.
"I'm not certain." He shrugged, his shoulders rising and falling beneath his robes. "They exchanged words in a language foreign to my ears—harsh, guttural, nothing like anything I've ever heard in Tamriel." He paused, his hand tightening on the hilt of his sword. "Whether it was amusement or confusion at the way I barged into their ship, I don't know. But they didn't gang up on me instantly, as I had anticipated."
He let out a long, slow breath.
"Instead, they immediately began to argue amongst themselves with too much excitement for my taste... they even shoved and screamed in each other's faces..." His eyes met Torin's. "It was... unsettling. Like watching children argue over which of them gets to pull the wings of an insect first..."
Torin absorbed this in silence, his eyes narrowing.
They argued, he thought. Not about whether to kill him, but about who gets to do it...
"What did you do?" he asked.
Qasim shrugged again, the motion casual, almost dismissive, as if the question barely warranted consideration.
"I waited. Didn't see a point in provoking them." He paused, his gaze steady. "I only had to buy enough time for the queen's ship to leave safely."
Torin stared at him blankly, his brain struggling to process the sheer audacity of the statement.
"That was your plan?" His voice was flat, incredulous. "You went into the giants' ship with the intention of buying enough time for the Bretons to escape?"
Qasim simply nodded, as if this were the most natural thing in the world.
Torin felt his head beginning to throb, a familiar pressure building behind his eyes. He pressed his fingers to his temples, trying to stave off the headache he knew was coming.
"And what then, genius?" He dropped his hand, fixing Qasim with a look of strained patience. "How would you have made it back to land when the ship that brought you was gone? Did you think to sprout wings? Maybe grow fins and swim a hundred miles through storm-tossed seas?"
Qasim replied in a matter-of-fact tone, utterly unbothered by Torin's sarcasm.
"How else? I'd either swim my way back, or take over the giants' ship, depending on how strong they were." He cleared his throat, a faint hint of embarrassment flickering across his features. "Luckily, I didn't need to do either."
Torin just stared at him in silence, caught somewhere between defeat and disbelief. The Redguard's logic was so profoundly flawed, so recklessly optimistic, that he couldn't even muster the energy to argue. It was like trying to reason with a man who believed he could walk on clouds if he simply believed hard enough.
Wisely, he chose not to continue questioning the Redguard's logic.
"What happened next?"
Qasim's face shifted, the faint amusement fading as something more serious took its place.
"One of them—a woman who stood a head taller than the rest—stepped forward and shouted something I didn't understand." He raised a finger, his expression intent. "She pointed at one of them, and everyone went silent."
He paused, letting the weight of the moment settle.
"The one she picked out seemed thrilled. Absolutely thrilled. He approached me with his weapon in hand, a grin splitting his face like a child who'd just been given a new toy."
Qasim's hand drifted to the hilt of his broken sword. "My first thought was that he wanted to duel me. And I was soon proven right. He swung without warning."
Torin blinked, the information settling into his mind like a stone dropping into still water.
"So you dueled the giant?"
Qasim nodded, his expression calm, almost matter-of-fact.
Torin hummed, his gaze sharpening.
"And how strong was the giant?"
Qasim paused to think for a moment, his brow furrowing as he searched for the right words. When he spoke, his voice carried a weight of reluctant respect.
"He was no match for me." He paused. "And yet he was alarmingly strong. Especially for someone whose position seemed so low amongst the giants."
He shook his head, a flicker of something—memory, perhaps, or unease—passing across his face.
"I told you there was a lot of shoving and screaming before that woman stepped out. He was mostly on the receiving end of it." He paused, his jaw tightening. "It seems he wasn't well-liked among his own kind. Or perhaps he was being punished for something. I couldn't tell."
Torin didn't like what he'd just heard. Not one bit. And it showed on his expression—a frown dawning on his face, deepening the lines around his mouth and eyes.
"You'll have to be a little more specific than 'alarmingly strong,'" he said, his voice flat.
Qasim sighed, the sound heavy with the weight of what he was about to admit.
"It would take at least ten well-trained soldiers with spears and shields to take him down." He met Torin's gaze. "And that's assuming they fought while surounding him."
Torin's frown deepened, the muscles in his jaw working.
Well, shit.
"And how many of them were there?" he asked, his voice carrying a note of grim calculation.
Qasim shook his head, a gesture of uncertainty.
"It was too dark to tell. The ones that were close enough for me to count were ten, but there should be at least double that number on a ship that big." He paused. "Perhaps more. I couldn't be certain."
Torin didn't speak immediately. He seemed to deliberate something for a couple of moments, his mind turning over the implications, weighing the odds, considering strategies. His gaze drifted to the broken shield on the table, then to the spear leaning against the wall, then back to Qasim.
"So you beat the giant." He paused. "What then?"
Qasim's expression shifted—a subtle change, a flicker of something that might have been discomfort or might have been embarrassment.
"That same woman approached me and spoke again." He cleared his throat, the sound awkward. "This time, in a rough Tamrielic common tongue."
He paused, his eyes dropping to the floor for a moment before meeting Torin's again. "She asked me why a great warrior like myself was fighting for the cowardly and cunning toe-rats."
Bragi couldn't help but interject, his brow furrowing in confusion.
"Toe-rats?"
Torin smirked, the expression sharp and humorless.
"Probably their word for describing non-giants." He gestured vaguely with his hand. "Toe-rats, because we're small like rats scurrying around their toes." He gave a dismissive wave. "It's no different from us calling Altmer piss-elves."
Realization seemed to dawn on Bragi, and he nodded slowly, his expression shifting from confusion to grim understanding.
"I see."
He turned to Qasim, gesturing for him to continue.
Qasim shook his head, gathering his thoughts before speaking again.
"In any case, I explained to her that I came on the behest of a king from another land—in search of allies." He paused, his voice steady. "And that the Bretons asked us to deal with the sea giant raids on their shores."
He let out a long, slow sigh, the sound carrying a weight of unease.
"She laughed in my face." His jaw tightened. "She said I would be a fun enemy to have, a welcome one, unlike the lily-livered masters of these lands." He paused, letting the words hang in the air. "She then explained that they weren't raiding these shores because they wanted to. They had to."
...
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