There are few words spoken directly to him, before they drag him down to the dungeon and throw him in to a dank and dirty cell. The Darkling would have protested, would have tried every trick he's picked up at court and through the endless years watching the Ravkan politicians at work, except-- his Small Science was gone.

It wasn't dulled. It wasn't just out of reach, but gone. The first thing he had done, waking up and watching the unfamiliar faces, was to slap his hands together, calling the Shadows and watching with dismay as nothing happens.

They dump him on the floor of his cell, and the Darkling picks himself up, shoulders squared and head held high.

"This is a mistake."

The bunk is too short, the madras too hard and everything about this place brings back uncomfortable memories. Of a time too far in to the past to even think about, but they are always there. Right at the edge of his mind, circling like volcras for weakness. The Darkling gives them none, and continues to follow the rules.

For now.

He eats when told to, and he stops asking questions from the guards when they beat him down for the second time and he goes outside when they get dragged, in a progression of shuffling feet and ragged clothes, in to the sun.

Today, the Darkling gets up, sliding his legs down to touch the floor before he leans back against the cold stonewall. "This is getting tedious."

There is never enough. Not enough light, not enough sun and not enough food. There's nothing to do, but stew in this wretched cell, staring at the same patch of stonewall and the same unfamiliar faces.

When the food comes, he saves half of it. Every time. A lesson born from long ago, when food was not a certainty. Everything to survive, but when he sees someone look at their empty plate, he pulls out half a loaf of bread, holding it out without comment.

Take it, or leave it.

[Anything goes! Hit me up on ireth or PM me for plots if you want.]