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

[aceso]

"People can change," she replies, but it's said in a thoughtful tone and not an argumentative one. To her, it seems like this path that is so painful might be doubted. She is no stranger to faith; it is a spirit of Faith that assists her with healing, but there can be no faith without doubt and even Templars can have that. Though he sounds very sure of himself and this purpose of theirs, which she isn't sure she fully understands.

"What is it you wished to accomplish? From what I have heard, Corypheus wants to tear open the Fade to sit as a new god. But I do not know the Templars' motivations in assisting him."

[redinside]

"Leave it be, woman!" He snarls, abruptly loud, and strikes the crossbar with the meat of his palm. It makes a blunt sound against the iron, the reverberation brief and hollow. "Maker's arse—should I bloody spell it out for you?" An aggressive lean brings his face between two bars, his bloody-edged eyes now hard, the twist of his lips giving her glimpses of crooked teeth. "It's not. Your. Business. You're just down here shoving your upturned nose in affairs you could never hope to understand."

With a push, he stands back a step, making just enough room for his arms to lift in a show of frustration. "If you lot're all so desperate to help, one of you can get my rations sorted. Then, maybe, we'll talk." Think he's talking about food? Think again.

[aceso]

Well, that's certainly a reaction. The change in volume has her body jumping a little in response, and her lips purse together as he speaks, lines settling around her mouth. It's obvious she purses her lips often.

"What, precisely, needs 'sorted?'" she asks. This is hardly her department, but she might as well see what he's talking about. "Are you not being given any, or not enough? Or will it not be enough unless it is red?"

[redinside]

"I don't know," he snaps. He's turning from the bars now, lifting a hand to smooth back his grease-lank hair; it rests at the back of his skull before falling away, leaving a few dark strands smeared across his neck like tributaries on a map, pasted flat by the sweat on his skin. His arms come in to fold across his chest. "I don't know," again, this time muttered. He takes to pacing as he talks. "Seems like it'd burn away to nothing, don't it—like using a cup of water to douse a blaze. Doubt they'd waste it on trying."

Again the wall forces him to turn after just a few steps, affording him an easy chance to glare at Christine without making a show of it. "Why're you really here, eh? Doesn't sound like you've been sent by... eh, whatever they're calling themselves upstairs." The advisors, he means. Whomever. It's not like they gave him a staff list on the way in.

[aceso]

She unknowingly mirrors him as her arms cross over her chest, notebook held between finger and thumb. Knowing the finer points of Templars' lyrium addiction is definitely not her area of expertise, but she can look at this from a healer's standpoint. There is a soft presence in her mind as the spirit of Faith who assists her reaches out from the Fade. Faith has learned much in her months with Christine, but the spirit prefers to make her presence known before speaking. Christine simply feels the soft buzz as the spirit looks in on the scene. And she knows without words being spoken that the spirit is curious about this man and his situation. The spirit will wonder why Christine isn't helping to make his pain go away.

"No one sent me here," she begins, "But if you are here, then they have not yet decided your fate, and therefore the lyrium would not be wasted. I could ask. But for now, are you in pain? I could soothe it, but that requires your permission to have magical healing used on you." She can't even guess what he'd think of that.

[redinside]

Conveniently, she doesn't have to guess: "Not necessary. Like I said, you're not the first healer's been down to have a look. You can't just heal the thirst away... no amount of magic'll satisfy it. Besides that, when visitors reach through the bars, guards tend to take issue with it." Again he turns, and murmurs, "But it's a kind offer."

This time he stops his pacing and stands by the wall, arms still folded, still frowning while he pushes these weighty thoughts around. He sucks his lip in between his teeth then lets it slide free, gradually. "What would you decide?"

[aceso]

She supposes the guards would get annoyed at arms going through bars, but whether it's because Samson would try to break arms or the visitors would try to hit him, Christine isn't sure.

"What would I decide to do with you?" she asks, before shrugging a shoulder. "Well, I should preface this by saying there is a reason I am a healer and not a liaison to the advisors, but... much has been destroyed by the Red Templars. For example, I have seen the state of Emprise du Lion. I would see you create something instead. Put to work building, reconstructing, something of that nature. Of course you would need to be watched, but that is no different than the guards here if your fate was to stay behind these bars until the end of your days."

[redinside]

That probably depends on the arms in question.

"I'm no tradesman," he says, more observation than protest, "but still, I doubt most'd think that were any punishment at all. Heh... with all that heavy equipment around, I imagine I'd meet with an untimely accident soon enough, and no witnesses to testify just how it happened. But it's a nice sentiment." He bumps the toe of his boot against the bedroll, and again, watching his own foot while it moves.

At length, he mutters, "I never liked that demon."

[aceso]

"Maybe we could simply pass you books through the bars and ask you to find obscure passages for us as part of our research," she adds, though there is a tone to her voice that indicates she doesn't think of this as an actual punishment. It would avoid any untimely accidents, unless getting his head bashed in with a book could be made to look like an accident. (Probably not.)

But now this information is far more intriguing than brainstorming hypothetical punishments for him. Her eyes follow his foot for a moment as she allows this knowledge to settle over her. "The only ones who like demons are blood mages," she states dryly, before a crease appears between her brows. "The one at Suledin's Keep? He was working with the Red Templars, yes? You made a deal with him."

[redinside]

Though he may have been ready to smirk when Christine cracked wise about blood mages, Samson now bristles at her phrasing, at the idea that he would make a deal with any demon—but at the same time, he can't dispute it. He may not have made the arrangement personally, nor indulged the creature himself, but it's done. Arguing semantics won't change anything.

"That's the one. Called himself a choice spirit, but we all knew better." Standing there with his arms crossed, scowling at the floor, he looks nothing if not sullen. "My army needed the lyrium, and he knew how best to cultivate it... like a gardener, he said. Twisted bastard."

[aceso]

"His garden looked more like a field of the dead," she states, her voice soft as she remembers the dead and dying littered around the area. People in cages or writhing on the ground. She shifts on her feet and lowers her arms to her sides.

"Well, at least we agree on that much." If little else. Or nothing else.