semi-closed; i cannot see the path

[redinside]

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.

Comments

[redinside]

"Probably," he snorts. "Blighted Seekers. They live for rooting out business that isn't theirs and using it to judge people." So do templars, one might say, but Samson would have a rebuttal for that. And anyway, that a Seeker's vocation is used against templars is why he's held on to this popular prejudice.

"Don't let them say anything against you. They've no power over you if you refuse to let them have it. Not anymore."

[onlyhymns]

This is an alarming turn to the conversation, and Cade clearly doesn't know quite what to say in return. He stares at Samson for several moments-- does he dare tell him he's full of shit, or does he dare speak against the Seekers, or...? Neither? Both?

"That's... that's what they're supposed to do," he informs Samson, as though he doesn't know, and with all the confidence of a cat in a puddle. "I can't just... refuse. That's not... that's not how it works!" Haha, such crazy talk! Everyone knows you have to earn privacy.

[redinside]

Good old Harimann. Of course he's still got his head shoved all the way up the Chantry's collective arse. Why would that have changed? All their children come out with blinkers on.

Samson shows a thin strip of his teeth to the ceiling, shakes a few times like he's laughing, but doesn't make much sound to that effect—not until he breathes in again, deeply, and sighs it back out. "Not yet, no... the monster's been beheaded, crippled, but it's still hanging on, the damned thing." He coughs once to banish the thickness from his throat. It sort of works. "Soon, though. If we're all lucky."

[onlyhymns]

Cade's blinkers are enormous and sparkly and give him no reason whatsoever to want to look beyond them, although they've begun to crack lately and could use a bit of polish.

"...the monster?" he repeats, skeptically, narrowing his eyes but still managing to convey all his uncertainty. "...the Chantry? How would that be lucky?"
There's a quiet terror in his words. Without the Chantry, there's only chaos. The Chantry is everything. He can't think of anything less lucky.
"...I know you're... angry, but... Andraste's light still shines upon you." It's almost more to comfort himself than Samson, and his words are timid, but most strikingly, he believes them to the fullest degree.

[redinside]

What remains of his empty little smile fades out of existence. Andraste's light. We'll burn brighter than she ever dreamed, he recalls himself saying, to an inhuman roar of assent. They're out there, still burning. They have to be. The red storm rising is greater than one man, it will endure—it must.

"You'd have been welcome among us, Harimann." There's something softer in his voice. Pity, perhaps. "Still would be."

[onlyhymns]

At first Cade flinches, seeing Samson's expression change, but what he hears doesn't match what he was expecting. In fact, he's... almost flattered, but simultaneously horrified. It's a strange feeling, and he doesn't know how to process it.

But in moments like these, one thing prevails: the Chantry, Andraste, his devotion to them. And what Samson speaks of is heresy.
"I'd sooner die," he whispers, before he can stop himself. And then, shaken to the core and trying to stave off the confusing thoughts that are trying to besiege him, he stalks away. Time to pray. Like a lot.