<span style="font-size: 15px"><span style="font-family:Open Sans">The knife Malta found on the elf was nothing more than a simple survival tool, but that didn't mean he hadn't abandoned anything more incriminating before calling out for help. If he knew where he was, he wouldn't want to appear aggressive, and Malta tried not to be complacent with his vulnerability. What he did know was that he would have died if not found, of that he was certain, so relying on the chance that someone would happen across him was faulty and unreliable. He claimed to be traveling, studying. No scout would admit such things, and he said he'd been looking for ingredients.<br/>
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Malta tried his best not to laugh. “You have any idea where you are?” he wondered, though he didn't know the first thing about an alchemist. Alrians weren't so inclined. They considered it more a sort of hocus-pocus witchcraft. It wasn't something they understood. Luckily, Vahit was a little more open-minded and progressive than some. Superstition wouldn't get the elf dispatched, just their lack of food resources. It would be less personal.<br/>
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Even when Malta pressed, he insisted that he had traveled alone; explained everything that needed to be said. He knew he was in pain. Malta knew what it felt like when true cold set in, and this young man hadn't been protected from the elements at all. He could feel how unprepared he was with the clothing he wore, warm perhaps for his usual climate. Worth nothing against the penetrating winds. Malta tolerated his chilly, shivering form, and the young man didn't protest being in such close contact with a stranger; an enemy at that. Malta wasn't sure he was paying those details any mind because he'd actually pressed back against him. Malta let him take what comfort he could, mostly because he'd surrendered and made his capture easy. It would only be excessive to throw his power around. He didn't ask the young man's name. Malta didn't want to know. It would be a clean, impersonal death. He would make sure of that even if he had to do so himself, especially if they provided him with some information that could be useful.<br/>
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Malta let the horse pluck along in the snow that was starting to cover the ground at a rapid rate, dismounting when he stopped to grab the donkey. With a rope around his neck, he decided it was easier to follow the other equine than it was to be dragged. Malta had left the stranger on his horse given the current situation. He could have tried to run off with his mount, but Malta doubted he would. With the deepening snow, it wasn't as if he would be able to get anywhere fast, regardless, and visibility was limited.<br/>
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“I'll get you warm, get you something hot to drink, and you're going to tell my General everything that he wants to know, do you understand me? More than just what you've told me now. If you tell us what we want to know, we won't have to resort to methods of torture,” Malta explained, thinking he was both being fair, and clear. “I think that's more than most might offer to a Khry.”<i> Khry</i> being the derogatory term the Alrian army often used in regards to their southern enemies. Malta used it because it was short and simple. For him, it didn't spill forward with as much contempt as with others, but only barely.<br/>
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They were nearly on top of their camp before it could be seen, and Alrian soldiers were looking on in curiosity, some with anger, at what Malta had brought along with him. It was obvious what the adornments on the donkey where he'd come from, and likely the man being mostly hidden by Malta's big cloak. He brought his mount right up to Vahit's tent, leaving the donkey tied to his saddle before pulling his now captive down with him. He helped him if he was either unwilling, or incapable of getting to his feet. Vahit was sitting at his desk, legs propped up, going over letters. He glanced up over the parchment to look at what Malta had dragged back home. He said nothing, nor did his expression change.<br/>
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“He says he's an alchemist. I don't know what that means,” Malta said, shrugging. Vahit was more educated about the world than he was, and would know more precisely his specific purpose. “Says he was alone, looking for ingredients. Only found his tracks, and the tracks of a poor excuse for a mount.”<br/>
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Vahit's expression darkened minutely. He was a man with sharp features, and the slight change only made them appear harsher. He wasn't even as broad as Malta, but he had a commanding presence about him. He was older, wiser, perhaps early fifties. His hair was halfway grayed out, and he kept it short, and perhaps only a few days of growth on his chin at a time.<br/>
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“What ingredients?” Vahit wanted to know, especially this far out.</span></span>