Arcantas went down to the mess hall, if one could call it that. Finding some other mages there, he picked up a bowl and waited for the golems to arrive with the rations. Like clockwork, they filed in, carrying pots of porridge, baskets of stale bread, and pots of lukewarm water. Some scraps of meat were also brought in some of the time, but not today. The dracon didn't know what kind of meat was served here, and he didn't care to know. 

He passed Argus on the way to the food, and growled. "No meat today, again." He hadn't even asked Argus his name in several months, largely due to his distrust of the others. It wasn't that Arcantas hated non-dracons, but he didn't have much faith in the abilities of the prisoners. And he had every reason to believe that they would turn on him at some point. 

"Listen, do you want to do something about our... condition here?" He had learned not to mention the word "escape" around the guard golems, or words such as "flee", "flight", or "leave." He turned to anyone else who was in the mess hall. "Does anyone want to do anything about it?"