open; and so we burned

[redinside]

WHO: Samson and assorted guests
WHAT: The red general has been put where he belongs; the rest is up to you.
WHEN: Harvestmere 28-30... ish
WHERE: Skyhold Dungeon
NOTES: Warnings for very strong language and substance addiction. Fight and capture, still in progress, is here.

day one;

On a certain night, deep into the coldest hours before dawn, a wagon under heavy guard enters Skyhold and passes through the yard by torchlight. It stops at a certain door, and armed soldiers drag its cargo roughly through and down two flights of stone stairs. One of the men left behind spits after it. By midday next, the word has begun to spread, and quickly: there's another body in the cells. Whether through gossip or a proper announcement by the returning war party, it won't be long before a name surfaces, and even the humblest of the Inquisition's agents will know they've cut off the Elder One's despicable right hand. Samson, the general of the red templars, the blighted traitor. They got him.

Separated now from his armour, without the heavy Kirkwall steel and thick horns of red lyrium fused to it, without the nauseating glow to lend him a towering presence and the power to break a soldier in half, he is simply a long-legged man folded on a bedroll with his back turned to the bars. He's been quiet and still, lying just where they left him. Most of what he's done amounts to slow bleeding—and even that's since stopped.
Don't get too excited, now. He's only unconscious, not dead.

During these first hours, only those who've come down to the dungeon on official business will be admitted.


days two and three and beyond;

A few days' time will see him livelier, though not by much. He's since been stripped of his filthy clothes, allowed a cursory wash with a rag and bucket, and given something different to wear. It seems a kind of uniform, fitted with straps and buckles and other odd bits of metal tackle—to restrain him, he reckons, should an authority figure deem it necessary for whatever arbitrary reason. Maybe they'll drag him up for a proper trial, though he doubts it. The hood even buckles closed—for what? To conceal his identity? As if anyone can keep gossip contained in a barracks. So he won't know where they're taking him, more likely. Or so he won't see the swings coming to dodge them.

He sighs, often. Rubs his eyes, his face, massages his forehead. Doesn't eat much of what they bring, can't get comfortable enough to feel rested. He's taken to moving around the limited space of his cell to keep the strange ache in his joints at bay, and trying—failing—to sleep through the headaches. There's nothing for it. This is his life, or whatever little is left of it, as far as he knows: suffering in this stone box until he dies in a haze of pain and madness.

The dungeon doesn't have visiting hours, exactly. Anyone without a legitimate reason to be down here might get in a bit of trouble—one of the prisoners might even tattle out of spite. There's always a guard on duty, besides. But when has common sense ever stopped anyone doing anything in Thedas?

Comments

[redinside]

The silence is unusual, to be sure. Usually there's at least a cursory exchange between the guard and a visitor, but perhaps this one is here on business arranged prior. Samson has no way of knowing until he's told, apart from reading a person as best he can—and already this looks to be one of those elves with alien body language. He might just as well try to guess at the intentions of a tree.

"Afternoon," he answers, gruffly; there's nothing particularly good about it. "You here to interrogate, or to gawk? Just so I know what to expect."

"Who's he talking to now?"
"I don't know."
Someone sighs.

[rowancrowned]

"I have a few questions." More than a few, but he won't impose upon Samson's time. He has so little of it left Doubtlessly he's getting tired of being poked and prodded, and Thranduil isn't without some empathy for the man. But his fate will be decided by the leaders of the Inquisition, and Thranduil will have no voice in it. "Not the sort the advisers will ask. I would not have you give up your comrades-- I am only curious."

He settles down on the floor- none of the rotations come this way, and it would be simple to redirect someone who wandered too close. Thranduil folds himself neatly, sitting cross-legged on the cold stone floor. "You are free to refuse. You are also free to ask for something in return."

[redinside]

Samson's expression becomes slightly pinched as he watches the tall stranger seat himself right there on the stones. The way he tilts his head as he comes to the front of the cell, as if a slightly different perspective might reveal something more, it suggests a curiosity of his own—but he's now folding his arms over his chest, too, as he leans on the cold prison bars.

"Not sure that's a fair trade, friend. I doubt you've got anything I'd want."

Before Thranduil can respond, he announces, "You're bloody tall for an elf."

[rowancrowned]

Thranduil smiles at that, hands folded in his lap. A concern occurs to him tardily; he tweaks the glamour so that Samson's voice too is muffled. It's the slightest ripple in the air- like breathing.

"Perhaps you have only been unfortunate to meet undersized elves." He does wonder how much underfeeding makes the elves of Thedas so pitifully short, even by the most generous standards. "What do you want? Beyond your freedom."

[redinside]

That ripple touches him, too, drifts across his templar awareness like a spirit's sigh—and the effect is immediate. At once he's standing straight again, uncrossing his arms, while a cloud of suspicion darkens his humour. Mage. He takes a half-step back from the bars. The languor leaves his eyes; they're locked on the elf now, suddenly keen.

"What did you just do to me?"

[rowancrowned]

"Nothing permanent, and not to you. I suppose you would call it 'magic', being a Templar. I do not wish for us to be overheard, and so I arranged for it."

(Rather than explaining the laundry list of exactly how he managed it-- and there were so few words in Trade that would be adequate.)

He speaks casually, a modulated tone- because it is a reasonable request, and very nearly an offering of trust. That he does not wish to be overheard indicates that someone would like to overhear this conversation-- and what to do with that rests in Samson's hands.

[redinside]

"You arranged for it."

This is strange, regardless of whatever it indicates or how reasonable the request might be. It's bloody strange. The last time a tall creature who spoke strangely came to Samson with a question, with a proposal, he was handed a red vial and made general. And what else wants to make a deal, if not him? What else will find a man when he's low and offer a kindly arrangement?
He doesn't even think of the alternative—he's heard reports of the bodies coming in from other worlds, by some accident or quirk of the Veil, but it doesn't occur to him now. His lyrium-thirsty mind would rather unfurl paranoid thoughts.

"That's enough. I'm not falling for any tricks—not today."

[rowancrowned]

"No, not today." It's no great loss for him- more difficult for him to get what he needs to know, and likely involving a great deal more travel. He unfolds himself up off the floor, coming to his full and grand height, fussing with his clothes to straighten them out before he turns his attention back to Samson- not having forgotten him, but rather concerned with making himself presentable before addressing the courtesy of saying goodbye.

"A pleasure to finally have met you, if only briefly."

No great loss, but-- he's curious. So if not today, then a week from today, or two.