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

[rathercommon]

"Not enough to hurt you, I hope," she says. Her hands twist together on the table, fingers anxiously knotting. How utterly - completely - Assuming, of course, that it is true. It's possible that he's overstating the cruelty of it. Demons, back home, would sometimes whimper about the harsh treatment they faced to try to get a rise out of her - but then again, as she'd heard from Bartimaeus, those weren't actually lies, were they.

She bites her lip. She half wants to look up at the guard to try to read his face - but that'd be a sign of doubt, and she doesn't want Samson to think she doubts him. That'd be so dreadfully cruel. So, instead, she keeps her eyes on Samson's face.

"Is it actually even needed for your - abilities? Or is making you subservient all they're after?"

[redinside]

Not enough to hurt you, she says, and Samson shakes his head, judiciously keeping his mouth closed. That damage has already been done, you see. One day, he too will become a hulking aberration of nature, bristling with red crystals, just like all those boys still out on the march. There'll be nothing left of him but violent agony. One day.

Ah, but see how the conversation keeps steadily on its downward spiral—might as well lean into it, then.

"It does make us stronger, gives us a real boost, but is it necessary? That's the real question. You could ask, but the Chantry, they're experts at stepping on—"

Having made up his mind about the situation, the infuriated Ser Brice has just come up behind Samson, and now grips the meat of his shoulder with one big gauntleted hand, though stops short of jerking him completely out of his seat. "That's enough," he snarls. "You may be allowed to wander this fortress, but I won't allow you to pollute this young lady's mind with your foul heresy! Your time's up. Get up!"

"All right, all right..." Samson mutters, and takes his time rising despite the manhandling, collecting his craft hoop and such on the way up. "Take it easy, would you?" An apologetic look to Kitty, then—though not without a bit of a smile. "See?" He winks, even, on his way from the table. "Well, Kitty Jones, it's been a pleasure."

A bit of parting advice from the guard, along with a stern glare: "This one spreads only poison, girl. You'll keep away if you know what's good for you."

"And I'll be waiting for my hat."

"Shut your mouth, traitor!"