OOC | This top-level is for jail cell threads. Feel free to make your own top-levels beneath it for whatever talking/crying/etc. you desire. People are being kept two to a cell, but they'll be moved around to different cells, so combos can vary. Plus there are only bars separating anyone from everyone else.
The only clues as to where they are the nonvisual: the persistent dusty wind, the absence of the ambient bustling of a town or any voices aside from those of their captors, the brief duration of the journey. They're not going far. Just a slightly different place in the middle of nowhere than they planned to be. They're hauled out of the wagon in a place with more voices, a heavy gate raised and lowered with a creaking chain. The scent of something roasting in the courtyard to spare anyone an indoor fire in these temperatures. Being hauled through the echoing stone hallways and down a flight of stairs takes less time than it could have, in a bigger place. This is only an outpost.
The sacks come off as they're pushed into one of the three cells arranged in a half-circle at one end of a long room. Then too comes off any armor or outer layers. Any sending crystal that wasn't destroyed in the desert to prevent its capture along with them. Any bags, anything in pockets. Certainly any weapons.
What quickly becomes apparent is that this job was only planned so far in advance and had more to do with good luck than brilliance. They happened on Gregorios waiting to make contact with someone in the desert; they didn't know who he was waiting to meet. That it's a pack of Riftwatchers and anchor-bearing rifters has caused a stir. They're not used to having prisoners. They only leave one guard at a time, and sometimes the guard nods off or steps out of the room to talk to a friend. They don't know what they're supposed to be doing with their unexpected prize yet, and getting word too and from one of the less sad, small, isolated Tevinter camps will take time.
In the meantime, there's Viator. He's of average height and scrawny build, a pair of glasses perched on his nose, hairline receding and eyes sharp. After several hours of waiting he begins having them brought one at a time into an adjacent room that was obviously not set up as an interrogation facility until after their arrival. This is Viator's first time questioning people under threat of pain and dismemberment. That's clear. Now and then he literally pauses to consult a book on the subject. He's not a natural—his temperament is unsteady, his methodology inconsistent. But he's very eager to get something out of them before the big brass arrives. Then they'll see.
captured!
The only clues as to where they are the nonvisual: the persistent dusty wind, the absence of the ambient bustling of a town or any voices aside from those of their captors, the brief duration of the journey. They're not going far. Just a slightly different place in the middle of nowhere than they planned to be. They're hauled out of the wagon in a place with more voices, a heavy gate raised and lowered with a creaking chain. The scent of something roasting in the courtyard to spare anyone an indoor fire in these temperatures. Being hauled through the echoing stone hallways and down a flight of stairs takes less time than it could have, in a bigger place. This is only an outpost.
The sacks come off as they're pushed into one of the three cells arranged in a half-circle at one end of a long room. Then too comes off any armor or outer layers. Any sending crystal that wasn't destroyed in the desert to prevent its capture along with them. Any bags, anything in pockets. Certainly any weapons.
What quickly becomes apparent is that this job was only planned so far in advance and had more to do with good luck than brilliance. They happened on Gregorios waiting to make contact with someone in the desert; they didn't know who he was waiting to meet. That it's a pack of Riftwatchers and anchor-bearing rifters has caused a stir. They're not used to having prisoners. They only leave one guard at a time, and sometimes the guard nods off or steps out of the room to talk to a friend. They don't know what they're supposed to be doing with their unexpected prize yet, and getting word too and from one of the less sad, small, isolated Tevinter camps will take time.
In the meantime, there's Viator. He's of average height and scrawny build, a pair of glasses perched on his nose, hairline receding and eyes sharp. After several hours of waiting he begins having them brought one at a time into an adjacent room that was obviously not set up as an interrogation facility until after their arrival. This is Viator's first time questioning people under threat of pain and dismemberment. That's clear. Now and then he literally pauses to consult a book on the subject. He's not a natural—his temperament is unsteady, his methodology inconsistent. But he's very eager to get something out of them before the big brass arrives. Then they'll see.