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

[onlyhymns]

Indignant though Cade may be, he is a person who invariably responds to commanding tones. He looks a bit stunned at first, then glances over his shoulder toward the guard, who is... likely bored out of his mind and spacing out, not paying them much mind beyond making sure they're not actively attempting a breakout.
Cade casts a furtive glance back into the cell as he moves away from it, leaving the dungeon long enough to do as he's asked. When he returns, he silently sets everything out, just as Samson specified.

[redinside]

Well. He'd meant later, or when you have a minute, something to that effect—but now is good, if a touch surprising. Cade leaves in silence, and while he's gone, Samson paces around the cell a bit, slowly and aimlessly, moving just to move. At one point he lays his palms flat on the stone wall, and stretches against it with his head bowed between his arms, long and slow, while his breath creaks free bit by bit; when he's done, the rest rushes out in a sigh.
Eventually, the sound of footsteps draws him back to the bars.

"There's a good lad." Once Cade's finished fussing with it, Samson stoops by the pail, scoops out a measure of water, and carefully maneuvers it between the bars. "This would've been a good chance to get your wish," he says, and drains the scoop in one big swallow, looking Cade square in the eye while he does it.

Something tells him it didn't even occur to the boy to poison it.

[onlyhymns]

That something is correct, because it takes Cade several moments to even realize what Samson meant. When it finally dawns on him, he looks scandalized, but also a bit guilty.
"I'm-- not like that," he lamely replies, figuring that's as good a rationale as any. He's honorable, like a Templar is supposed to be. The 'but you probably are' goes unspoken, but is fairly clear in his wary glance down at Samson.

[redinside]

"Didn't think so."

He slips the spoon back into the pail and, instead of standing back up, has a seat right there on the floor by the bars. He's not in a hurry to get his legs unfolded; perhaps this makes him look older than he is. Not that he needs the help. He's lived hard the last few years, and it shows.

Once he's comfortable—more or less—again Samson reaches for the pail, this time to dip into it with his bare hand. "That's all," he says, and uses what little water is cupped in his palm to give the skin of his hands a reprieve from the dry air. His are large hands, with long fingers, the calluses of a swordsman and scars on both palms. "You can go now, with my thanks."

[onlyhymns]

Cade gives a nod that might be described as imperious, and he takes his leave.

It's only when he gets about halfway up the stairs that he realizes Samson has no authority over him, but he took an order anyway. He looks back down over his shoulder, scowls, and stands in anxious limbo for a while. It... would probably be worse to go back down.

He proceeds upward, embarrassed.