"Seven hells, it is a busy night," a scrawny, ginger-bearded guard complained. He and one other guard, a portly man with a bald head, half-dragged a man down a dank wooden hallway that smelled vaguely of old piss. Two lit torches were on the walls, casting flickering shadows over the dark stone and wood. There were no windows in the hallway and thus no natural light, or vent for fresh air. Each gray-suited guard held an arm of the man, who sported a mane of tangled black hair that covered the upper portion of his face. The black haired drunk groaned and muttered something about going too fast. His complaint fell on deaf ears. "Yeah," the bald guard agreed, "all the scum are comin' through now, aren't they? I think we only have one more cell open," he scowled. "Move your feet!" He added with a snap, yanking on the drunks arm. "Easy!" The drunk snapped, stumbling and straightening for a moment to glare at the bald man. He had startling green eyes, and they were sharp and angry for a moment before his face when slack and his eyes crossed. He stumbled again and the room kept spinning with shadows. The smell was hardly a bother but he would have appreciated it if the stones would stop dancing around his feet. He closed his eyes and felt the world heave. Had one of the dancing stones leapt up and hit him in the temple, or was that throbbing natural? "Full of drunken idiots," the ginger-beard grumbled. "Look at us, big, scary watchmen. Guarding a house full of slobbering fools!" He let out a huff as they came to stop before a sightly moist iron gate. One side of the hallway was lined with stone instead of wood, and dotted with iron gates. Behind some gates there were the sounds of snores, shouts of injustice, and one cell, two away from the guards, held a man muttering about slimy unicorns that wanted his teeth. The scrawny guard released the drunks arm and the drunk lurched into the side of the plump guard. "Watch it!" the man belched, and the drunk grimaced and tried to peel himself off the man and gain some sort of proud footing. He slouched awkwardly, face screwed up with an attempt at focus. His head throbbed, but at least the fat man was something soft to fall into. "Damn, he's gone. I bet he chokes on his own vomit tonight," Ginger-Beard snorted, loudly clanking keys together as he unlocked the gate. The sound of metal on metal pierced the green-eyed drunks ears and the throbbing in his temple became a slamming. "I....will not," Coren said loudly, though his accent, deep voice, and slur made the words sound like 'owl pellet.' "Uh huh. Get in there, Farsian slob," the fat guard said, shoving Coren unceremoniously into the stone cell. Coren sucked in a breath through his teeth, his feet disconnected from his brain. He stumbled and collapsed onto the stone with a yelp. Distantly, he heard the shriek of metal as the cell door closed, but it was dimly registered through the throbbing of his head and elbow. "Ouch," he grumbled, rubbing his elbow and rolling to his back. He laid there a while, trying to collect his thoughts. He had not expected to stay in a jail cell for the night. He wondered if people in this town chopped thieves hands off for first attempt at theft or second. He hoped it was second. He flexed both of his hands and sat up, rubbing his temples. It was dark inside the cell. Only some of the flickering shades of orange made it through the bars of his door. "We will have to start double stacking the cells," was the last thing he heard from a guard's mouth, before he heard their footsteps echoing down the hall. "But my teeth!" the crazy inmate shouted down the hall. Coren sighed and cracked his neck as he examined his cell. He had hoped that cutting a purse from a fellow drunk would earn him a room and a few more drinks. Instead, he got a free room that smelled like piss, a crazy neighbor, and a wooden plank for a bed. He drew to his feet shakily and slowly cross the small cell to examine the wooden bed. There was no padding or pillow, but he was fine with that. He already was wondering what had happened on this wood. A pillow or pad would be ominous and deadly, for sure. His bright eyes looked down at his stained and ragged clothing. His brown wool pants were ragged around his feet because they were too long. His leather shoes were peeled at the soles. His gray tunic was ill-fitting in the shoulders, far too narrow for his broad shoulders. He sighed. He was such a mess, he didn't care what had happened on that wooden plank. It was better than the floor. He eased to sit down on the bed, and then laid down. His hands went back to his face, and he pressed his palms to his eyeballs until colors burst behind them. It was going to be a long night.