open; left to the wind and rain

[redinside]

WHO: Raleigh Samson + a star-studded cast
WHAT: a prisoner is brought from Skyhold to Kirkwall
WHEN: first half of Harvestmere, some early evening
WHERE: The Gallows
NOTES: General warnings TBD, if any.
Inquisition authority figures: I am a slave to your whims; summon this character to meetings etc as you see fit.
Everyone: got an idea not hinted at in this post? Hit me up.

Right, then. Here he is. The one place he was sure he'd never see again, except maybe on its way to ruin, smouldering, the Reds marching through. But that's Kirkwall for you: the rest of the world could be in flames and through the smoke you'd still see the shape of the Gallows. That horrible, wonderful silhouette, getting bigger as the boat bears you across the bay. Your heart thumping you from the inside to remind you, as if you need any reminding, that this is where you belong.

This is where I'll die, Samson thinks, as his feet finally alight on the wood of the dock. It's where I was always meant to die.

While he's being hauled along under a serious guard of five armed templar soldiers, for once it's done without the hood of his prison togs buckled around his head, nor with a heavy hand pushing forward the back of his neck to alter his silhouette. Propelled by giddy dread, he keeps up with them easily despite the chains. He's not smiling or anything so foolish, nor does he particularly feel like smiling, but all the same, he probably doesn't look as penitent as he should...
Oh well.

The group travels up the docks to the stronghold entrance, through forbidding gates and guarded archways to the cobbled yard of Templar Hall, up those long stairs, and inside, no doubt on some official business. From there the prisoner—still under heavy guard—is escorted to the Mage Tower, through the common areas of the lower floor, up to the main residences above, and beyond them.

The group moves efficiently, but not at a hurried pace. Should they pass anyone who wishes to address the prisoner, the retinue will tolerate verbal exchanges—get too close, however, and gloves will reach for sword-belts in warning. These particular templars are not fooling around.

The ultimate destination is a floor occupied by no one else: there Samson will be allowed to dwell, in a room of his own, without black bars, without vermin, where he may easily walk to a window and look through it and see the sky. There, with both fists clutching at the bedding—of modest quality, but immeasurably more comfortable than where he was—he cries himself to sleep like a child.

Comments

[redinside]

In contrast to the Provost and his kingly ownership of this place, Samson appears suddenly very unsure of himself. His attention moves between Thranduil and his attendant, and again, before those strange blood-tinged eyes of his drop to look at Casimir's outstretched hands; he notices the strengthened beat of his own heart; but he does not shrink away.

Presently, he lifts his own hand—the affected one, with the twinging sliver of magic in one of its deeper creases—and offers it for examination. The skin of this hand is smoother than it's been in years, owing to the lack of a sword's grip or the sweat and chafing of a glove, and its fingers are cold, as though he still dwells in the dungeon rather than in a room with a brazier of his own. Will they mistake its trembling for nervousness? Would he rather they did?

[aestivation]

"Casting upon the anchors," To Thranduil; for all the new press of skin, Samson's hand might have severed itself into abstraction. "Induces a reaction."

A year or more now, the last prisoner to volunteer his time. Vedici, too, had been cooperative, even courteous. His hands hadn't been this cold.

"Whether the opposite might be true?"

If a templar might stabilize the thing, might stabilize their own? It's complicated by the red, would be better if it was one of the others, but this is what they have. His grip is loose, gentle as it turns palm over to knuckles, slips up to examine a wrist. Samson, again:

"When did you last speak with a healer?"

An injury, the cramp of chains, all might explain the chill. The trembling. (Knows too little of the Order to guess anything else). These things can grow; they need him to keep the hand.