"That's the problem with goblins," he says dryly. "No sense of discipline." It's sarcasm, mostly, but lest Tavvin doubt he's listening, he leans forward and rests his elbows on his knees, bright gaze seeking out the drow's relentlessly.

It may be optimistic to think he's getting through to the prisoner, particularly at this early juncture, but having couched his requests in terms of a bargain rather than an interrogation was deliberate on Zevlor's part. They have something in common, after all: they both want to live.

"Minthara, a goblin Priestess, and Dror Ragzlin," he echoes. His efforts at gathering intel suggested multiple leaders, but not the exact number, and not their names. This is a step forward. He nods grimly at the offer; it's fair, and he wasn't inclined to let this drow walk back into the goblin camp, anyway. He knows too much.

"I'll have to go myself," he says. "There's no one else except my lieutenant. We're both cavalry, Hellriders, neither one is going to be any better at stealth than the other." At least he's got more kills under his belt than Tilses.

"All right." He stands. "We have an accord. Wait here, finish your meal while I get parchment. I'm not going to lock you in, but don't do anything foolish. Remember, I cannot protect you from the druids."

He makes his way to the door and exits quietly. A guard remains outside to watch the passage, but the cell door itself is unlocked. When Zevlor returns, it's not only with ink and parchment, but also an extra tunic and cloak draped over one shoulder. They're secondhand, at least, worn and thin, but an extra layer of warmth never hurt anyone.