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Private The Thinkers

Discussion in 'Active Stories' started by Minstrel, Feb 28, 2013.

  1. Minstrel

    Minstrel Queen of Evil

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    -The Thinkers-
    -Cast-
    Minstrel (Oh Majestic Thinking Leader!)
    Znowcicle (The Humble Thinker Thinking Leader!)
    Dunklunk
    The_Deadliest_Troll
    Melee
    Buried within the ancient walls of Windhelm - in the heart of the Jarl's palace - lies the dungeons. Rat riddled and full of soiled bedding, the dungeons are truly an unpleasant place to live. The prisoners live there in solace, knowing what they did to put themselves there. It is a place the city would rather forget, and a place from which no one ever escapes. These dungeons are home to low lives, not master thieves and skilled assassins, but petty thieves, Skooma addicts, and spur of the moment murderers. You name it...they've got it... They've all been there at some point or another. The city has a bad enough reputation as it is, so once you're in these dungeons, you're in them for life.
    You are one of these low lives, locked away for whatever unlawful act you have committed. You're not here for a holiday. You know you're not getting out...or so you think...
    (Let it be noted that this RP has a full cast and are not in need of recruits, but we wouldn't mind some reader feedback!)
     
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  2. Znowcicle

    Znowcicle Chimera~

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    The dungeons are always dark. Throughout the day, and the night, they remain dim and dismal. Sometimes, when it rains, water drips steadily, annoyingly, from the cracked mortar that makes up the drab surroundings. Skeevers sometimes venture inside to share warm with those unfortunate enough to be thrown into the Windhelm dungeons. Oh, unfortunate Skeever! They would likely be a meal for those hungry enough to eat the raw, rancid meat from the small beast.

    Time had no place there. There were no windows to show the sun, in fact, she couldn't remember the last time she had seen the sun...or the moon...or heard the rush of a river...a kind smile...None of that mattered in here. The only thing that had a place was suffering, contemplation, and tears. Tears that caressed your face as if to comfort you, but comfort was impossible. The guards held their noses when they came to offer small bits of bread. Sometimes they liked to hold contests to see who would get to eat that day, but that was rare.

    When had she bathed last? She felt so disgusting, the muck and grime building up on her pale skin, obscuring her face. Her fair blonde hair was in pieces and was matted together against her skull. She wanted to say that she was used to the feeling of the dirt, of breathing the stale air, but she wasn't. She doubted that she ever would be. As much time as she had spent in the dark, it was weird to think of ever being able to see across a room clearly again. She would never feel the cold snow against her face; she would never be able to hear a heartfelt laugh again.

    But none of that mattered. Time was still going on without her as she withered away in her cell. The soiled hay was the only thing she could even begin to think she could get any sleep on. Even if she did sleep, she never slept well. The sounds in the jail always woke her if her thoughts were quiet. She wasn't sad though. She knew why she was in this hell-hole and she accepted the fact. She just missed the sight of snow on a hill-side, the clucking of chickens, and the smells of fresh food. She also knew that it was pointless to miss what you would never again see or feel. Her life was over, but that was okay because she was still alive. She was still alive despite everything.

    So she continued to sit, still and silent, in the corner of her cell. Her feet were loosely lying on the stone floor in front of her legs that she had crossed, also loosely, at the ankles. Her back felt the wall behind her as she leaned languidly against it. Her arms hung lackadaisically on either side of her with her palms open as the back of her hands lay against the floor. She was as comfortable as she could be in her corner of her cell. The shadows mixing with the darkness she felt, concealing her melancholy eyes. The hay for her bed was in the opposite side of her cell because it made her itch. The floor was just as comfortable anyways. It was just colder, but the cold didn't matter either. Nothing did except existence and thought.
     
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  3. Minstrel

    Minstrel Queen of Evil

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    "Get off of me!" Atlanta screamed as she was dragged across the damp floors of the prison block, squirming in the arms of Windhelm's guards. "I'll do anything! Please, don't lock me away down here!" Her screams were ignored. There was no doubt that these guards saw reactions like this daily and their muscular arms easily kept the girl's movements at bay. It didn't matter what awkward position she twisted her body into, there was always a hand wrapped tightly around both of her wrists and a firm kick in the side to shut her up. Where would she go if she managed to break free of her captures though, to the front door? She'd have to make her way through half of the palace and the guard barracks first.

    It wasn't long before her short journey to the prison cells was over and she found herself thrown face-down to the cold stone floor. Rough, knotted blonde hair was spread across the ground and for a moment Atlanta simply lay there with tears in her eyes. How has it come to this... She asked herself, knowing full well what the answer was. The Guards stood and watched for a while, one of them even letting out a small sI'm a racist asshole who doesn't understand boundaries, respect, or basic human decency and I need help. They disgusted her, the way they could treat their own kind with such negligence. Wasn't it enough that they were racist towards anyone who wasn't of Nordic bloodlines?

    Eventually the guards left, leaving Atlanta and her sorrows to rot. For a while she cried, not bothering to lift head from the floor, but before long she realised it would get her nowhere. Gathering what little strength she had the young Nord lifted herself from the floor and shuffled over to the back wall of her cell. It was cold, perhaps colder than the floor itself, but it was the only thing she could retreat to. Bringing her knees to her chest and wrapping her arms tightly around them she eyed up the room with bloodshot blue eyes.

    It was a fairly large but empty room that Atlanta figured she would only get the chance to explore a small portion of. Directly opposite her - past rusted iron bars of her cell - sat stacks of empty crates and barrels, each one of them rotting due to the damp but still managing to house a great number of vile rodents. The girl shook at the thought of them walking about her at night while she slept... not that she ever would. Sleep had never been something that came naturally to her. That was when the screams were the loudest.

    With a stuff neck Atlanta turned to her left and saw more cells identical to hers. Some of them were home to yet more rodents while others were completely empty. Hopefully I won't be in here for long. Maybe a few days for stealing some bread. With this thought in mind the girl turned to her right expecting yet more empty cells, but to her amazement the cell next to her was not vacant. This cell belonged to that of a woman not so different to Atlanta herself. She had matted blonde hair and sat at the back of her cell much like Atlanta, wearing a solemn look on a face covered in dirt. Atlanta imagined that her face looked much the same, so intrigued by this woman she simply stared through the bars at her.
     
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  4. The_Deadliest_Troll

    The_Deadliest_Troll Melon Lord

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    Two men stood on each side of Bifur, dragging his bare feet across a cold, hard, stone floor. The work was labored, for Bifur was a very large, very heavy man. They said they were moving him to a different cell. Bifur would have asked himself (or them) why, but they didn't need a reason for all they did here in the prison. Bifur knew that all too well despite his lack of smarts. He couldn't remember even how long he had been down in these cold halls. It must have been years, but none of his fellows nor the guards seemed to know or remember his name.

    They called out names at him as he was dragged deeper into the prison. "Freak!" "Gods-forsaken Oaf!" "Bumbling Giant!" "Murderer!" Bifur didn't know what they meant, but he heard them often. And sometimes they made him cry late at night when he thought he must be the only one in the cold place not snoring the night away. His wails, he thought might have been heard by the Jarl himself on nights when the wind was very still.

    Anyway, Bifur had lost all sense of time since he had been in this dungeon. Even if he had known how to count days or weeks or years, he would have lost track by now. He remembered, he thought, that he had been in his twenty-fifth year when he was thrown into this plane of Oblivion, and he thought he felt much older now. Time and the dark and the smell and the names had taken their toll on Bifur. Despite this, he tried to keep himself. He still found himself smiling at little joys like the warm slop the guards would serve him every now and then. It reminded him of his meals when he worked at Candelhearth Hall.

    He used to share a cell with a man named Darius. He said he was a member of the Dark Brotherhood and that he would break Bifur and himself out of this place one day. Bifur was confused, as he thought not even he with his great strength would be able to break these iron bars or these stone walls. But Darius was adamant. Then one night, they took Darius away in the dark. His shouts echoed through the halls and he used words that Bifur remembered other children getting scolded for using when he was younger. Then, the shouts stopped. But the memory of this man and his stories of his own glories still made him smile from time to time.

    And then there was Ilya... No, Bifur, no! He told himself immediately. They trudged past cells as they got deeper and darker into the prison, and many of them at this point seemed empty. Bifur noticed that he was dragged past two cells with two women in them. Bifur missed his mother... and Ilya. He quicly raised his right hand to his face at the thought of this memory again. The two guards attempted to hold him down but were only lifted inches off the ground, letting out shouts of anger at the large man. "Oh," Bifur set them down gently and allowed them to continue dragging him, "Bifur sorry."

    It seemed that now the guards had reached the end of their journey carrying this giant of a man. They threw him in a cell and closed the gate quickly and tightly. Bifur looked at them curiously for a moment as they stood there and whispered things to eachother. "Thank you." Said Bifur in his booming voice. They snickered and winked at him as they walked away.

    "You're very welcome freak!" Shouted one as they turned the corner out of sight. Bifur suddenly felt overwhemed and layed his heavy head down on the palms of his gigantic hands. He wept then and didn't think he would ever stop.
     
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  5. dunklunk

    dunklunk You seem a decent fellow. I hate to die.

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    Purple. Everywhere one looked, there was nothing but purple. A shimmering sea of purple, or so it seemed. Upon closer inspection, it was a massive field of nothing but Deathbells. Serezha was quite intimate with the flower, as it was a main ingredient in one of his favorite hallucinatory concoctions. But why was he here in a field filled with them? And then he saw it. A towering Deathbell, at least 50-feet tall, just "stared" at him from a distance. The Breton slowly made his way to the giant flower, until he reached what he considered a safe enough distance from it. He looked at the Deathbell, who continued its stare.

    And then it spoke. "You come here often, do you not?" the flower asked.

    "Uh, yes," Serezha feebily answered. "But how do you know that? I've never seen you before."

    "That does not matter," replied the Deathbell. "I have seen you here and I will continue to see you here. You and I both know this. Take care, Volchenkov. Until the next time we meet."

    With that, the huge flower seemed to methodically drift away, until it became a part of the normal-sized Deathbells. How did it know my name, Serezha wondered. (end dream sequence)

    The wagon jolted to a stop. Volchenkov! VOLCHENKOV! It was one of Windhelm's finest guards shouting at him. Wake the hell up, you good-for-nothing cretin! We're at your home away from home. The Breton managed to shuffle out of the wagon, his hands bound. The pair of guards just laughed at him, until the same guard spoke again. If you're gonna get high, Volchenkov, you might wanna consider doing it with no stolen goods lying near you. Oh, and don't pass out either. Yeah, passing out can't be a good thing, the guard concluded. They both laughed at him again, though this time it was a heartier laugh. What an idiot.

    Serezha was now being escorted to his cell. He knew this place well, as he seemed to be a frequent resident. Where shall we put him? the first guard inquired. Well, the second guard began, he's an idiot so we may as well put him with the giant freak of a buffoon. The two of them should get along fabulously. The first guard laughed, then said, Yeah, good point.

    Finally reaching his cell, the guards unlocked his shackles and pushed him in. Now that his eyes were somewhat accustomed to the near darkness, Serezha couldn't help but notice he shared this cell with a behemoth of a man. He wasn't sure, but it sounded as if the giant man-child was crying.
     
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  6. Melee

    Melee I'm back, bitches

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    The wind whirling around Windhelm was colder than it usually was, and the snow that was normally swirling into little eddies around the market place was instead flying into the faces of civilians and guards alike who found themselves with things to do that required them to be outside. A young Redguard was making her way through the city, back to the room she was renting at Candlehearth Hall. To the innkeeper running the business, as well as the numerous merchants and other civilians who frequented the dull gray marketplace, Veloca was just another poor soul living from day to day in a freezing, rundown city.

    Guards in Riften, however, held a much different opinion of her.

    They had forced her to flee the city she had grown up in after the death of her father. What had actually been self defense was viewed as murder of a father by his deranged, psychotic daughter, and they had continued their pursuit well outside the limits of Riften. Veloca would not have traveled so far if it hadn't been for that fact, and now she found herself in a racist city that she detested.

    A hard jolt to her shoulder caused Veloca to break off from her thoughts about what lead her to Windhelm. Stumbling forward, she managed to glance behind her and see a sneering Nord looking back at her, surrounded by what she assumed were his cronies and holding a familiar looking leather pouch in his hand. A panicked hand flew to her hip and was met by empty space which had been previously occupied by the stolen pouch. A mocking comment came out of the Nord's mouth, but Veloca didn't hear that or the accompanying laughter. All she could feel was the anger that had been gradually rising inside of her since she had first stumbled in the city reach its boiling point.

    The familiar rush of adrenaline coursed through her veins, and Veloca launched herself at the man with a ragged scream of frustration and blind rage. Her violent reaction was fueled by more than the actions of some petty thief. Her entire life was behind her scream and her fists, and she was unleashing as much of her pent up emotions as she could on the man, unaware of what he had really brought upon himself.

    A short time later, Veloca came to her senses as she was being dragged off by two guards toward the infamous dungeons of Windhelm. There was blood on her hands and her clothes were ripped in multiple places. What the hell just happened? She turned her head (which felt unusually heavy at that moment) up toward the guards, who were discussing the wanted posters that her face was plastered on. Apparently they had made their way to Windhelm from Riften. Perfect, Veloca thought, that was exactly what I needed right now. To be recognized.

    The air in the dungeons was somehow damp and chilly at the same time, and she learned that the floor was also the same way once the guards tossed her unceremoniously into a cell. After taking a few minutes to motivate herself, Veloca was able to sit up and lean against the back wall of her cell, her face impassive and eyes blank. Out of the corner of her eyes she could make out shapes in other cells, as well as pick up the faint sound of what she believed was crying, although she couldn't be sure. Sighing heavily, Veloca closed her eyes, hoping to block everything that had happened to her that day.
     
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  7. dunklunk

    dunklunk You seem a decent fellow. I hate to die.

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    Still feeling some after-effects of his latest binge, Serezha just sat there in his shared, cold, and dank cell. He listened intently and then confirmed that the very large man was indeed sobbing. It had been a while since the junkie had heard crying like this. A very long time. He reflected on his own childhood and winced. That's what it reminded him of. The innocent sobs of a child.

    Even slightly high, it then dawned on him. This poor soul was probably in here for no other offense than being larger than normal, and more than likely gullible to a fault. Extremely innocent, too, I'd wager, he thought. Against better judgment, but then, "better judgment" was never one of Serezha's strong points, the Breton lightly cleared his throat to hopefully catch the man's attention, then whispered, Psst. Hey. You got a name, friend?

    He politely waited a few seconds before continuing, And I'm sorry, but I must know. What has you so sad that it would make you cry as you are? I mean, apart from being locked in a prison cell like we are, he almost laughed. He comfortably slumped against the bars of his "home," realizing that the next stage of his fix was soon to kick in. Serezha then wondered if he would see and be able to talk to again, the giant Deathbell.

    As his eyelids grew heavier with each passing moment, he simply smiled at the thought of the Deathbell. The giant of a man was still crying, and for some reason, that saddened Serezha. And then the blackness took over.
     
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  8. Minstrel

    Minstrel Queen of Evil

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    Even with her head pressed firmly into her knees and her arms wrapped around both, Atlanta could still hear sobs to her left. The you woman didn't want to look however, she didn't want to look at anything around her. She thought that if she simply closed her eyes and though of... Where? Home? I haven't got a home to go back to anymore. But even so, there was still a dwindling hope in her mind that none of this was real. Perhaps she was still sleeping on the cold, damp streets of Windhelm and this was nothing but a nightmare.

    Eventually Atlanta's hopes of waking up on the streets were brought to a very abrupt end as she heard the voice of another, also to her left. It hit her at that moment that this was no dream. This voice was real... so real that she could quite possibly reach out and touch it. If this was a dream she would have dreamt of her mother... and her father. Even the place in which she found herself now was too joyful compared to the scenes she re-enacted in her head every night. So, with a small sigh she lifted her head from her knees and observed the new arrivals.

    First she watched the man who had been crying. He was no mere man, he was virtually a giant. Perhaps two or three heads taller than her if they stood besides each other! That was all she could see unfortunately as the man's face was obscured by his hands. His tears formed a small puddle by his feet and Atlanta wandered what could reduce such a man to tears. Besides this man she could see another. This man didn't look quite right however. He seemed as if he was falling asleep despite only just being brought into the jails moments ago. A drug addict I suppose. Great, I'm stuck in prison - for Talos knows how long - with a drug addict and a crying giant!

    Atlanta had lost all hope when she suddenly remembered that there was a woman to her right. She twisted her neck sharply in the opposite direction, allowing her wet hair to fly carelessly across her face, and them eyed up the woman. She was a Redguard and didn't look much older than Atlanta herself. Perhaps she was the only sane one in this prison.

    "H-hello?" The young Nord said, tripping over her words as always. "How long have you been here?"

    There was a moment of silence while Atlanta waited for a reply, but it was interrupted almost immediately as yet more guards made their way into the prison block, dragging another poor soul. Another one? The prison was almost empty when I arrived. What's going on?
     
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  9. The_Deadliest_Troll

    The_Deadliest_Troll Melon Lord

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    Bifur barely noticed as the guards threw another man into this cell with him. He was deep in his own thoughts; or as deeply as a mind of his likes was able to venture. He only took notice when the smell hit his nostrils. The man reeked of something. It was like nothing he had ever smelled before; even after all his years working in the dark underbelly of the inn. And there were some odd smells to be smelled down there if ever there were odd smells.

    The oaf shook all these thoughts off when he heard his new cell-mate speak. Does Bifur have a name? Of course Bifur has a name. Bifur wondered what kind of people in this world were cursed to not be given names. He looked up and wiped the big, wet tears from his eyes with the back of his massive arm. After a while, the man continued talking, but the words were too fast and too many for Bifur. So, he took to answering the first of the questions.

    "Bifur," he sniffed, "they call Bifur 'the Oaf.'"

    He wasn't sure if the man heard him for he seemed to be dozing off into some kind of stupor. Looking at the man curiously, Bifur asked, "What your name, friend?" Bifur wondered if perhaps he was one of the unlucky people who weren't given a name.
     
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  10. dunklunk

    dunklunk You seem a decent fellow. I hate to die.

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    He was about to slip toward one of his most favorite alternate realms of reality, when Serezha was sure the large man had spoken. Just as a massive Nirnroot was coming into focus, he snapped himself awake, already lamenting the loss of possibly conversing with the Nirnroot. Avoiding the plant's annoying chime, however, was something that brought a smile to his face.

    Focusing as quickly as he could, Serezha replied to his cell mate, Bifur? Your name is Bifur? he confirmed, while also leaving out "the Oaf" part, for he had first-hand knowledge of how the down-trodden were treated. Well, it's good to meet you, Bifur, though I have to tell you this. The addict looked both ways, not that it mattered to Bifur, but it was for added emphasis with what he was about to say. I just wish we were having this conversation over a pint. Or eight, he improvised. Because you, my large friend, could probably down eight ales and not even feel a thing.

    Oh, and to answer your question, Bifur, my name is Serezha, he stated. But if that name is too hard for you to say, then call me just Zee. Even in the semi-darkness, he was sure to nod and smile at his newest and more than likely, only friend.
     
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  11. Znowcicle

    Znowcicle Chimera~

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    Azaelia listened as the prisoners were drug in one by one. The first fighting (she didn't bother to look up so she didn't see any details), the second an apologetic man that appeared very kind in his words...almost childlike. The third was quiet, the guards made comments about drugs and then it was obvious why he was so hushed as he was taken to his cell. The fourth, and final it seemed, was also quiet as their feet dragged against the stone floors. Azaelia listened while sitting still, she didn't need to look to know her surroundings, even with the people now in the room. She wasn't sure what to think about the new prisoners. She had been in here alone for a long time now. Occasionally she would have some other prisoner in the cells, but they did't last long. So silence was her friend, but perhaps these that broke that silence with their fresh sobs could replace the empty friendship that she had.

    The drug addict was talking to the other man. He sounded slurred, or blurred, like he couldn't keep his eyes open. Then the other man spoke again, still softly and kindly, almost slow in a manner. Bifur and some name I can't pronounce, he was half mumbling anyways...she thought to herself as she made her mental notes. Then the she caught the tail end of a question from a female voice. She gently raised her eyes to the origin of the noise and tried to form together the whole question. "What does it matter?" She said softly in reply after agreeing with herself that the statement would work well with most questions since she couldn't figure out what had been asked.
     
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  12. Minstrel

    Minstrel Queen of Evil

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    "I..." Atlanta wasn't quite sure how to reply to the question. Should she try to make conversation again, or would it only serve to anger the woman? She definitely didn't want to do that. After all, she hadn't the slightest idea who, or what she had been before... all of this. Eventually the Nord decided she would push for further conversation. "My name's Atlanta... uh... what's yours?"

    After speaking she sunk back into her position, almost as if she were trying to dissapear into the corner of her cell. She crossed her arms and tried to warm her body as much as was possible. It was freezing, and the damp floor and chilling breeze made her shiver uncontrolablly. It hadn't been so noticable earlier, with adrenaline still running through her veins. Now she felt small. Weak. All fight in her was gone.

    All of this for a piece of bread? Thoughts quickly turned back to her stay in the prison. What was the sentence for bread stealing, she thought, almost comically. For all she knew it could have been a day, or it could have been a month. Never before had Atlanta been stupid enough to get caught for such petty thievery. She guessed that time would not be a friend during her stay.
     
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  13. Znowcicle

    Znowcicle Chimera~

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    Azealia watched quietly as the young girl started a sentence and then thought better of it. You could see in her face that she was thinking quite a lot. Well, what you could see of her face. She purposefully kept her hair longer on one side than the other to hide her face. It was clear in the way it was cut through the blonde locks. The girl eventually asked her name and announced that hers was Atlanta. It was a very simple name for her Nordic roots. It was soft to pronounce, not riddled with hard consonants like most Nordic names. It kind of reminded her of her own name, with the soft vowels. Such pretty names for such hardened criminals, she thought to herself before she decided to answer Atlanta.

    "Azealia." She said bluntly. The word sounded odd in her mouth and in her ears. She had not spoken or heard her name in such a long time that it was practically as useless as her wasted arms were. Once there was a time when she was proud. There was a time when her name was important. That time ended long ago.

    She continued to look at her surroundings, the shadow still covering her blue and silvery eyes. She knew there was another prisoner, but this other had not yet made herself known. Maybe she was more like how Azealia was now, accepting her fate in silence. All these new people thrilled a small part of the humanity that she still had. It flared the curiosity she once had reminding her of all the questions she never got answers to. Is the sky even still blue?
     
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  14. Minstrel

    Minstrel Queen of Evil

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    It was out of character for Atlanta to even be asking a stranger's name, let alone try to make conversation with them, but under the circumstances she mustered all the courage she could to pursue some form of interaction. With the solid iron bars between them, she felt a sense of safety talking to this 'Azealia'. So, running shaky fingers through her matted blonde hair, she began to formulate something to say. Speaking with strangers did not come naturally to the young Nord. Nor did it come naturally to speak with friends... she assumed. However, after inhaling a lungful of stale air and letting the hair she had just fixed fall across her face, she moved to the bars of her cell and spoke.

    "Why... erm..." It took a moment for the wording of her question to fall into place. "Why are you here?"

    Almost as soon as the words had left her lips, Atlanta knew that she should have just kept quiet. How could she have been so stupid to ask a complete stranger why they were in prison? For all she knew the woman could have been a murderer. Was it dangerous to ask a murderer what their profession was? She assumed so.

    "Sorry, I didn't mean to..." She sighed, realizing that she was only worsening the situation. This was why she didn't speak to anyone. After retreating back to her earlier position against the opposite corner of her cell she attempted to recover the situation before Azealia murdered her on the spot. "That was a personal question... just... just ignore me."


     
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  15. Znowcicle

    Znowcicle Chimera~

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    This girl, she thought to herself as she listened to the stutter in her voice. She immediately back pedaled away from her question and that disappointed Azealia. She still hadn't moved from her position since the new arrivals had been brought in, and she didn't plan on moving any time soon. The shadow was her friend, hiding her grime and her wasted face. Now that she could no longer wear her helmet, she was rarely seen out of her dark corner of wall. She missed her helmet...and her armor. It had fit perfectly, and she had had a many of good fights with it on. No point in wishing for what's gone, she reminded herself as she recognized the feeling of sadness. The empty hole that had been her life was reopening after she had managed to close it. It felt cold and infinite harboring where her heart should have been. When she had first entered she could focus on nothing but how horribly cold the hole had made her feel. After enough time had passed the cold numbed and mixed with the cold of the air. She often liked to compare this whole body numbness to what death would feel like, but then she reminded herself that death might actually feel better than that. It made no matter. She was alive, much to her disappointment.

    She felt her eyes sting and she scowled. Even after all this time she felt the right to cry over what she had done? Maybe it means I truly want to repent, she reassured herself trying not to get too upset with herself at her weakness. It doesn't matter; I can't give those lives back... She had found herself looking at her dirty feet. The nails on her toes were long and jagged. There was dirt underneath the nails. She longed for a bath in a cool brook or the warm waters at the base of the Throat of the World on the South East side. She looked up at Atlanta who had retreated further into her cell huddling against herself.

    "Child," she began with her voice gravelly from lack of use, "if you ask a question, you must want the answer else you would not have asked. Why retreat when the words are already in the air?" She held her gaze steadily through her dirty hair and the shadow. She didn't know it, but the dim torch light caught her wet eyes and made them appear to glitter darkly as if there was too much swimming behind them to comprehend at once.
     
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  16. dunklunk

    dunklunk You seem a decent fellow. I hate to die.

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    While waiting for some kind of a reply from Bifur, Serezha clearly heard two women conversing. What the subject was, he did not know, nor did he care. All he knew was that voices meant people, and people meant. . . .

    At this thought, he bowed his head, as he was filled with the all too familiar feeling of self-loathing.

    As Bifur continued his somewhat silent sobbing, the Breton slowly made his way toward the voices, possibly hoping beyond hope, that at the very least, he could actually have a conversation. With a real person!

    Serezha shuffled off to where he needed to be, and leaned against the cold, iron bars of his "home." Listening, but not eavesdropping.

    What he heard made him sad, and he then retreated to the shadows, where he believed he truly belonged.
     
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