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]

"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.