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]

How cautiously she moves. Samson watches her passively, mostly tracking her hand while purposefully avoiding her eyes—not for his own sake. It's not until she begins to withdraw that he leaves his place on the sweat-stained bedding, comes to the iron bars, and bends easily to take the herbs up from the floor. He stays crouched there afterward. Turns a green stem between his finger and thumb, two little leaves spinning.

"We kept a lot of this handy out on the road," he recalls, quietly, the rough edges of his voice made softer. "Always collecting it. Useful stuff." His templars were given as much of the root as they wanted; though it was never enough to ease their pain completely, it was the least he could do for them.

[ancarrow]

Eirlys nods in agreement, feeling a little relieved and grateful that he's not staring her down, and is doing everything in his limited power to put her at ease, even if she still addresses the floor rather than Samson as she replies. "Very useful - there's not a potion I don't add a little to, with all the effects it has. I've always thought it fortunate that it grows in such abundance."

[redinside]

"You can thank Tevinter for that."

And he has his time in the Gallows to thank for that snippet of historic knowledge (though it may not be entirely accurate). But that's enough ruminating, now. Samson drops the stem where he found it, and stands, leaving the offerings where they lie at his feet. He's a tall man, broad across the shoulders and trim at the waist. The sick bruising around his eyes gives them a hollow look—and now they look at her directly, without any particular malice.

"Is that all?"

[ancarrow]

Her lips thin into a tight line. "I'm not sure I shall ever thank Tevinter for anything."

She glances back at the door, if only to remind her that there's a way out of this awful place - for her, at least - then sets her basket down on the floor. "I also have food, if you'd care for some."

[redinside]

"I might." Of course he would—it's not like there's a lot of snacking to be had in a dungeon.

Still, Samson is only watching her get herself situated and making no further move, himself, to relax into her company. He must ask himself why he bothers to entertain any suspicion about these visitors and their motives, other than some vestigial self-preservation instinct that refuses to recognize itself as obsolete. Maybe she's got a grenade in that basket. Maybe she'll feed him some deathroot pie. What does it even matter? He's already dead.

His voice is both grim and weary when he asks, "D'you know who I am?"

[ancarrow]

Eirlys nods, hands clasped together, finding the courage to look him in the eye now, surprised to see not the monster she expects but simply a man, one who looks beaten and exhausted.

"You worked for him. You're his second in command. I just-- I need to understand why."

[redinside]

Samson huffs. It's almost a laugh, brief and bitter, though he isn't smiling.

"You and everybody else," he says, and moves close enough to grasp the iron crossbar with both hands. Despite his confrontational air, he takes care not step on the roots at his feet. "So that's what this is. You came to buy a confession, did you? What makes you so special that I should spill my guts for you, girl?"

[ancarrow]

"Confession implies forgiveness. That is not mine to give." Her voice has a steely edge to it, and she's proud of herself for not shrinking back as he draws near to the bars. "Perhaps it's because I'm not special -- and because you may not be either. Because anyone at all may be able to fall for what he says and help destroy the very world they live in. I would work to ensure none in our ranks follow in your footsteps, and for that I need to understand why they'd go over in the first place."

[redinside]

"Go find them and ask them yourself, then. If they want to make it your business, they will. I've got nothing more to say about it." It's almost a pity; this wasn't a bad little visit until this young woman managed to stick a needle in his miserable sense of self-worth. He had begun to believe there was something special in him, something proud and powerful, something a god would—and did—seek out, and it's gone and crumbled in his hands just like everything else he's touched.

Now there's a scowling edge to his tired look, a sense of fraying patience. "If you've got food for me, leave it there." On the floor by the bars, indicated by a quick tilt of his head. "Otherwise, we're done."