Morrigan looks up as the door creaks open. She remains crouched by the far wall, practically curled into a ball.
Lanisen enters, accompanied by a handful of guards and a knight, all armed. For his part, he has his arms full with a tall stack of warm-looking (though rather worn) blankets. His face is fairly pale, and he glances around the room before his eyes settle on Morrigan. “Hey, Shenzi,” he says quietly.
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Lanisen is, as usual, still and silent, curled up on his cot, staring unfocused at the wall opposite. His face looks sunken and shadowed, washed out in the poor light.
Dar enters the cell, silent, as usual. There is something firm, resolved almost, about the set of his jaw.
Lanisen gets quickly to his feet as Dar enters and backs away from the door, sizing the man up without looking at him directly. He hesitates, made apprehensive by whatever he sees in Dar’s face, and bows.
Dar gives a brief nod in return. He pulls up a chair so that he is facing Lanisen. He gets right to the point. “You have been given the choice of two future paths here, Lanisen. You have had adequate time to think through the decision you are presented with. I would have your answer.”
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Lanisen is curled up on his cot, wrapped in his blanket. Solitary confinement does not agree with him: the dark shadows under his eyes look fairly ghoulish, especially in contrast to the sickly pale hue of his face. He looks as though he has lost weight in the last two weeks.
Tyren is, surprise surprise, stern and stoic as he has a word with a guard and strides into the cell – though it seems a shade more defined this time around, if that’s possible.
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Lanisen is curled up on the one cot in the cell, wrapped in a rather ragged but warm-looking blanket. His head rests on his elbow, and he seems to be doing his best to stay asleep.
Colin enters the cell. The guard closes the door behind him with a bang loud enough to wake the dead, let alone Lanisen. He stands there and waits.
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Lanisen is sitting on his cot with his knees drawn up, the single blanket provided for him wrapped tightly around his shoulders. He seems to be dozing, in the sort of time-passing stupor that is neither true sleep nor true wakefulness. It’s very cold in the cell. He looks pale and sick, with the sort of hollowness in his face that comes with constant fear and uncertainty and waiting. He also looks very young.
Lune enters the cell with little fanfare. He appraises the youth before him. “Good evening,” he greets softly, neutrally.
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Lanisen is sleeping sitting up on his cot, leaning against the wall in a somewhat-uncomfortable looking position. He doesn’t look particularly fast asleep, as his face has that tense, squinched sort of look that comes from trying to get to sleep through sheer force of will.
Tyren enters as usual after a word with a guard, and the noise of the cell door opening probably doesn’t help with the trying-to-sleep-ness.
Lanisen, sure enough, opens his eyes and regards the source of the noise balefully.
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Lanisen is curled on his cot, asleep and snoring softly.
Tyren makes a slight face as he has a word with a guard and enters – clearly the noise grates on him.
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Tyren nods a little again. “Indeed, from what I remember. If my memory’s working right, that is, which I admit it doesn’t always.”
Loc chuckles. “Guess we share same size foot too.”
Tyren says, “Or did at one point, at least. Don’t know if that’s the case now.”
Loc hehs and nods. “Yeah.” He holds up a foot and examines it curiously.
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Lanisen appears to be asleep, though he is sitting against the wall as opposed to laying on his cot.
Tyren once again makes his way into the cell after a word with the guard, and directs him to, again, deliver the rations for the day. Nothing much out of the ordinary there. Save the fact he is a slight bit more obviously weary.
Lanisen opens his eyes and stands as the door opens. He bows – sort of. The motion is rather abrupt and convulsive and ends with the mother of all sneezes, likely triggered by the sudden change of light in the cell. He swipes at his nose with his sleeve and straightens, looking a bit confused, and then bows again, this time on purpose.
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Lanisen is seated cross-legged on his cot, again (still?) huddled beneath his blanket, staring in rather absent concentration down at a makeshift game of Foxes and Wolves, which he seems to be playing against himself.
Tyren makes his way into the cell, somewhat earlier this time around, and directs the guard as usual to, what else, give the prisoners their ration.
Lanisen, as usual, stands, bows, and accepts the ration from the guard. He sets Loc’s share down on his cot and takes a half-hearted bite of his portion. “Thanks,” he mumbles around the mouthful.
Tyren says, “Simply doing my duty.”
Lanisen glances wryly at the knight. “Drew the short straw, huh?”
Tyren lifts a brow slightly. “As a matter of fact, no.”
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