faderift | semi-closed; i cannot see the path

WHO: Samson, Cullen, Mia, Anders, Thranduil, and more perhaps
WHAT: Even more dungeon visits
WHEN: One backdated, the rest current
WHERE: Skyhold Dungeon
NOTES: Preemptive warning for strong language and substance addiction.

the commander's visit;

How long since they first hauled his sorry carcass down those steps and dumped him in a cell? Hours? Days? No sun or moon to tell by, not down here. In the lingering aftermath of his own foolishness, consciousness has been elusive. Through the murk of his memory he glimpses a brisk voice and gentle hands, faces reduced to indistinct shapes, there and gone again. He slept after that—for how long, who knows—and it's from that same sleep he's just been jerked by a well-aimed boot.

Samson is hoisted up from the bedroll before his wits even have time to congeal into awareness, strangers' hands gripping him rough under the arms. They jostle him till he'll sit on his own. Now awake enough to be aggrieved by it, he shrugs them off abruptly, and thereafter two armed and armoured men leave the cell to join others outside it. Shadows and torchlight beyond, bodies moving or leaning to look, the man at the cell door glaring down at him expectantly. The chains are heavy on his wrists as he drags them toward his lap.

Someone important's coming down. He can tell that much.

a captive audience;

First hours, then days, and now weeks later, Samson is still here. Same clothing, same sweat-stained bedroll, same small space to call his own. Apart from sluggish but persistent beard growth that waxes and wanes from week to week, not much else has changed since the first day—not at a glance—only now there's a pail sitting outside his cell, the long handle of a dipper keeping its wooden lid just slightly ajar; from this he can drink when he likes.

It's just as likely you'll find him sleeping as standing. Occasionally, he'll be seated on the bedroll without any shoes or stockings or gloves, biting or tearing at his nails when they grow long enough to need a trim. His hair might still be wet from the occasional wash achieved by bucket and rag. Sweating or shaking, listening or waiting, he's still here.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Eyebrows arching, her gaze falls to the basket, as though she'd completely forgotten she was carrying it all this time. "Are they feeding you well? I understand the Inquisition takes care of its prisoners, or does its best to," she replies, perhaps a little stiffly.

Because upon a closer look, it's clear that Samson's in bad shape. She can guess as to the reasons, and there's nothing they can do for him to cure that. It's not even a matter of whether he deserves it or not, at this point. No one deserves what that evil stuff inflicts on the people infected by it.

Not so different from the Taint, really.

Playing coy with her basket, is she? Samson raises his forearm to the bars and leans on it like a cowboy on a doorjamb—not that any of them know what a cowboy is. His bearing is entirely casual, is the point, like he's chosen to ignore the grim fact that this is the dungeon of a mountain fortress—save, perhaps, the faint quivering of his fingers by his head.

"They do their best," he agrees, hangs on the silence a moment, then smiles for a reason that is rather less apparent than the small dry split in his lip. His eyelids seem to become heavier, too, with a pleasant drowsiness. "Plenty of folks seem to want a hand in it, too. Might have to start taking appointments at this rate."

"I can leave you to your own devices if you'd prefer."

She's taking note of all of this, without question. There are a great many questions he can answer, some without saying a word. But he does hold a particular interest to her, for very, very personal reasons.

Still. She'll excuse herself before playing into any of his games.

And here he thought he was just being friendly. Maybe his fresh prison scent has inspired second thoughts—it is getting to be that time again.

"Now, I didn't say that. Let's trade a few more words first, let me get a better grasp of my preferences."

Samson's lean continues to evolve with the passing seconds, sagging closer to the bars in search of the least uncomfortable distribution of his weight he can find. Once he's got his head tucked against his own bicep, like he's ready to take a nap standing up, that seems to be the end of it.

"So who're you, then."

It looks deathly uncomfortable. But he's not here to be comfortable, is he? There's an odd conflict here, wanting the Maker's simple mercies for a man and yet knowing he'd earned every inch of his misery.

"Mia. I've been tending to the needs of the refugees here at the castle," she replies primly. The same refugees that had fled from the wrath of the rogue templars, in fact, among others.

"That's all anyone seems to do here... tend to the needs of the unfortunate. Granted, my experience's been limited," by the fact that he currently lives in a stone box, "but still there's been quite a few healers, caretakers, what-have-you." There's nothing disparaging in the way he talks, only casual observation. Just a few pleasantries offered by a sweating man. "It's a pleasure to count you among the ranks." A pleasure, he says, like his head isn't trying very hard to convince him it's about to cave in. "Mia."

He reckons he doesn't need to introduce himself.

"There are a great many unfortunate left in the wake of all that's happened. As many healers as we have, it never quite seems to be enough." Her tone's taken a chilly note. It's thanks to people like Samson that this force of good intentions has needed to assemble in the first place, though he hardly needs to be told that. He seems sharp, despite his poor physical condition.

"But that must be familiar to you. You were in Kirkwall, weren't you?"

True, Samson does have enough wit left to sense an unspoken lecture. Is he contrite in the face of such a thing? No, not at all, but neither does it bring him any pleasure to be reminded of it. He knows what he's done, all of what he's done, what he made possible, and feels no urge to revel in it.

To reminisce about Kirkwall, on the other hand, is an opportunity the general can't resist. "That I was. Was there a long time—long enough I came to think of it as my home, even after old Meredith tossed me into the gutter." His mouth hints at a smile. "Last I heard, the walls were still standing despite everything. That still so?"

"So it seems. The city has resolved to endure, as many left behind in the wake of this chaos must."

She's heard a great deal about the state of the city from Cullen, at least. He's selective in what he says, but what he will say paints a rather clear picture of Kirkwall after...well. Everything that had happened.

That's not why she's here. It's what he hasn't said that she's curious about.

"You were there when Meredith came to power?" Then, as a sort of offering - bribe, call it what it is -- she reaches into the basket to offer him one of the honeycakes inside.

Mia's observation draws from him a low hum of assent. That's what Kirkwall is best at, he thinks. Enduring. Perhaps that's why Samson is so good at that, himself; the city taught him how.

"I was." As he takes the little cake through the bars, he's careful not to touch her fingers with his own. "Watched her climb right to the top. When the Champion finally climbed up after her to knock her down... can't even tell you how satisfying that was." He's watching his own hand while it picks at the honeycake, collecting sticky crumbs between finger and thumb. "She was a hard woman, Meredith. Not a shred of pity in her."

If these questions are leading somewhere specific, which he suspects they are, he's content with meandering through a conversation to get there.

"But she had the support of many in the city." Meredith had not existed in a vacuum, the sole source of the tragedies that had befallen the city. Cullen had been sent to her for a reason, after all.

There isn't even a momentary flinch when he reaches for the cake, her hand and her eyes steady before she allows her hands to fall back to rest on the basket once more. Subtlety is not her strongest suit. Better to think of this as a chess game, and not give away her intent too readily.

Too easy for him to refuse, then.

"You were among those that opposed her, then?"

"You might say that." A pause, here, while Samson passes the soft wad of crumbs from his thumb to his mouth, between his lips, scraping briefly at the ridge of his teeth—and no vulgar sucking sounds, either. There's a lady present.

"I helped mages escape the city... younger ones, mostly. You know, still wet behind the ears. Always for a price," he adds, almost fondly. Those poor kids, their lives had barely begun and already they were scared to death of being dragged to the Gallows. Their freedom was worth much more to them than what little coin they could scrape together, and since he was risking his own neck helping them out, why shouldn't he be compensated? That's what he told himself, anyway, back then. "Every time I watched one of em go, I imagined old Meredith losing her mind over it."

semi-closed; i cannot see the path

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

hope you'll pardon the wait

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject