The only light comes from the slowly dying embers of a flickering torch set on the wall. The iron bars of your cell cast dancing shadows across the stone floor. The flagstone floor is stained with piss and shit. Your dark cell reeks. There are six cells in this wing of the jail.
Ben (Mallon Fairfield):
Fiery red silk is pressed against the bars of the cell, staining it with vertical streaks with oil and grit, but the delicate jacket is already ruined—scuffed and ripped at the shoulders, revealing slivers of a heavy woolen padding that must be making the wearer looked broader-shouldered than he really is. Good quality, and favoring delicacy of appearance over durability, the sort of daily garment you’d expect on a minor noble, or a merchant—more likely a merchant, given the baggy off-white khaki trousers and sturdy ankle-high leather boots that suggest a need to move among the harsher conditions of a market, a manufactory or a field. About the only thing throwing off that assessment is that the wearer is roughed up and in the capital’s jail.
You can see half of the profile of the man’s face when he looks back over his shoulder. Fair-skinned, long chestnut hair hanging down over his forehead and down to his shoulders behind. It might be better coiffed normally, but right now it’s a mess, tangled and looped around the long but blunted ear of a half-elf. His eyes are a deep agate, just a touch of fire to the brown.
Josh (Fat Boy): “Is sodomy really that much of a crime? Shouldn’t I just have to pay a fine or something?”