Angir had passed in and out of consciousness several times throughout the journey through Providence, the small crowds that gathered to watch barely even registering to him in his current state. Before he knew what was happening he had been dragged from the wagon and taken a short distance down some rough stone stairs and into a foul smelling and dark series of rooms. After only a few moments it was clear to him that this was the infamous dungeon under the Capital building, allegedly near on impossible to escape from and filled with the most skill guards and torturers from the entire kingdom. He was unceremoniously thrown into a cell, the men who had dragged him chuckling as they did – seeing that the cell was partially flooded and filthy water covered the majority of the floor. 

He lay face down in the murky pool, his face tilted to the side so he was just able to breathe – unable to move any further as he felt truly exhausted. Already regretting the decision he took a gulp of the filthy water and almost immediately began to cough and splutter before a few moments later resisting the urge to vomit as his stomach cramped painfully. Deciding against repeating his desperate act Angir simply pulled himself up across the floor and away from the wetness, against the edge of the cell which was marginally dry, once there he closed his eyes and again within a few moments he drifted into an uneasy and dream-filled sleep. He once again dreamt of the great sandy room and the strange seal, once more the focus being on whatever the fifth symbol was and its obscured surface. Jumping awake again a single word resonated in his head, the word ‘Animus’. Upon awakening he instinctively shouted the word in his mind, determined to not simply forget it upon awakening as he always did, but a moment later his attention was drawn by the pair of hooded men who had approached his cage, the taller of the two pulling out a ring of keys and unlocking the door. He sat up quickly, his body screaming pain in protest to the swift movement. They both made their way into the cell quickly and without words, each of them seizing an arm and lifting him up and out of the cell. This time he didn’t cry out or resist, simply letting them drag him through the grungy hallways too weak to resist. As they did he noticed several other prisoners in the cells, some of them in a much worse condition than he was and for a brief moment he wondered if he should be thankful that he wasn’t in a much worse way. 

As if the gods were mocking him and showing him the irony of his thoughts the two men rounded the next corner and Angir was confronted by the sight of what he quickly realised was a torture chamber of sorts, a heavy stone slab with several heavy leather straps attached to it awaiting him, a smoking brazier holding hot coals just beside it. At that moment he began weakly to struggle, but he had recovered little of his strength since the entire ordeal began for it to have much of an effect. The men’s grips were far too tight and he tried to resist in vain as they strapped him face first to the slab, the stains and smells of blood greeting him as they did. The next ten or so minutes felt like almost an eternity to him as the pair proceeded to taunt him mercilessly about disfigurement and all manner of hideous topics, before they finally proceeded to brand him with what he knew was fondly called the ‘mark of death’ on his left shoulder. His screams echoed throughout the dungeon, the immense searing pain almost overpowering him and making him wish for death and the smell of his own burning flesh caused him to feel the need to vomit. The pain grew so intense that he once more slipped away from the world of consciousness, only feeling the pain and exhaustion through his confused and addled mind. 

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As Angir once more came to in the small cell he quickly wished that he hadn’t, the numerous aches and pains only being amplified in the squalid conditions and the new raw pain from his back making things almost unbearable, though it did now feel like the very first bruises and cuts were slowly starting to heal and the mental exhaustion caused by his magical exertion was passing. Suddenly he realised that he may be able to use what little magic he knew to help him survive and maybe even escape from this place. It was a faint hope, but he knew even though he had been marked for death he would have to try something. He wracked his mind for each and every fact that he had read and learnt, as well as focusing on exactly what he had felt in the castle when he had used magic to try and kill the Kings-guard. He had no reference to mark the passage of time and so had no idea about how long he was in the cell thinking and planning. He started small, using a simple spell to repeatedly drain only water from the floor of his cell and draw the moisture into himself little by little without any of the ‘impurities’ that were present in it. It was awkward and somewhat fiddlier than he would have imagined, the concentration he needed for even such a small spell demanding all of his attention and effort for long periods. 

As difficult as it was, Angir continued as with each small burst of clean moisture that he received he felt that little bit more refreshed and like he had accomplished something against all odds. What felt to him like hours and hours later he finished and a small grin cracked on his face despite everything that had happened. He now felt for the first time in days that he wasn’t dehydrated in the least, the small act of defiance giving him a glint of hope in his dire situation and a burning passion to survive. He sat in the dry patch of the cell, leaning against the rough stone walls and wracked his brain as to what should come next. Ideally he wanted to heal himself, but he knew nothing of weaving healing spells or anything of the like – and to experiment randomly on himself would be nothing short of dangerous. Instead he decided to devote his time to regaining his strength through more natural means, through resting his body and mind as best as he could in whatever time that he may have before he was next moved. He also repeated in his mind each and everything he remembered from his studies about magic and the offensive spells that he was sure he would need. 

He continued to satisfy his thirst in his new method when he needed, making sure that no guards or jailers noticed what he was doing whenever they walked past and tried to sleep as much as he could in the times in between. It wasn’t a very satisfying existence, but the fact he was keeping himself from dying of thirst without drinking the filthy water and plotting to escape if possible gave him hope – that and the thought that if he did get out he would kill each and every of these cruel bastards without a second thought, be it with his mind or whatever sharp implement he managed to get his hands on. With that in mind, he turned his thoughts towards a new little ‘project’ for himself and started to gaze around the cell and surrounding area looking for anything that could be used or fashioned into a weapon.