[His mouth opens, waits in a ready shape while his face commits subtle betrayals—nostrils, lips, the skin between his eyebrows—and his gaze drops off to find no fixed point. Soft, then, like a pop of breath,]
Everything.
[A voice rasps across his thoughts, scolding: You've had less. He's been closer to death than this, the knock of stone on his skull, the scratch of a noose, the punch and sting of one arrow after another. This is nothing. The self-described mages who put him in here: nothing. Dust. He will outlive them all.
And back he comes, first through the turn of his head toward the bars; his eyes follow.]
no subject
Everything.
[A voice rasps across his thoughts, scolding: You've had less. He's been closer to death than this, the knock of stone on his skull, the scratch of a noose, the punch and sting of one arrow after another. This is nothing. The self-described mages who put him in here: nothing. Dust. He will outlive them all.
And back he comes, first through the turn of his head toward the bars; his eyes follow.]