The Breton female ran the back of the wooden spoon through the slop inside of the small wooden bowl - which appeared to have some of the remains of yesterdays slop crusted around the rim. She may be a snob, but she had gone too long without eating to continue to be spiteful over it. 

She sat closest to the bars of the prison - the reason being that the guards had decided it would be amusing to give her the pleasure of spending her stay in the dungeons in the call they fondly referred to as the "shitbox". The reason for this name being that there was a connection to the sewers by the window, and it would occasionally run through into the call. Thus, it was quite literally a shitbox. This was of course the best place to stuff a hoity-toity Breton witch. But really, it was a combination of everything. The smell of shit, the smell of other prisoners, the 'food', the dirt, and the fact she was forced to wear hemp rags.

She took a mouthful of the porridge, and had to force it past her own pursed lips. It tasted of nothing, and had the most disgusting texture of anything she'd ever eaten. It was no roast pheasant supper. She gagged on the slop but somehow managed to get it down. That was enough, she couldn't eat the whole bowl. Turning her head to the right, she got to watch an older Nord man shovel the very same putrid porridge down his gullet. "Disgusting..." she said to him, with a snooty look that she fired over in his direction. He blew her a kiss in response, oats slipping out of his lips as he did so. She heaved. 

She wasn't sure how she had found herself in the Dragonsreach Dungeon. It was surely a misunderstanding. All she'd done was slip her hand into a man's pocket - but it had been a trade of services! She had healed him of his wounds, and - yes, he may have been passed out and drunk - but a deal was a deal. Anyway, the Whiterun guards had plucked her out of her seat, stripped her of her robes and belongings, and shoved what was probably a potato sack over her head and tossed her into the shitbox before she'd had enough time to explain. 

It had now been 3 full days of guards and disgusting prisoners alike blowing her kisses, whistling at her, and gawping at her bare legs. The rags were not doing a good job at covering her up. She supposed it was on purpose. Her hair was dry and knotted, in a pile upon her head tied in place with a leather strip. She'd be damned if she was going to get her locks dipped in excrement. 

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On day five she was taken from her cell and into the guards area. She wasn't sure why until she saw that one of the guards had been the victim of a run in with a frostbite spider and it's venom was working it's way through fast. "Oh my..." she said softly, in a husky tone. "That looks rather nasty.. You better get yourself to a doctor..." a smile played on her lips. She had a position of power here. 

"'E can't. Cos we's not supposed to 'av them spiders down here..." said a large and... well, stupid looking Nordic guardsman.

"Well gentleman, my hands are tied... I'm a prisoner, I shouldn't be doing my Magics down here - you took away my things..." she made eye contact with the man with the wound, she could see the pain in his eyes, he was biting down on his lip to stop from crying. 

"Look, wha dya want, scrub?!" asked the big one. The Breton thought on it for a moment. 

"Well, for a start you can take me out of the shitbox. I want a proper meal, and I want proper clothing."

"You can av one of dem fings."

"I will have all three, or no dice."

The guards then began to look to each other, whereas the poor injured soul was pleading with his eyes for them to relent.

"Fine, we'll move you down to the uvva block, we'll share our meal tonight, and we'll give you pants."

She smirked, knowing that she had gotten her way and so began to get to work on the Guard. Making sure to take longer, and poke the wound just a little bit too much...

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The next morning, Raelynn Hawkford found herself in a new block. Away from the scum of the other side, perhaps now with some more distinguished criminals. She was in pants, and a lighter shirt, and she had a belly full of roast chicken and Nord Ale. It could be worse, but really it could not be any worse at all - she was still a prisoner after all. 

As she surveyed her surroundings, the cell opposite hers took her attention. There was a man in there, lying on the floor facing the wall. She couldn't see his face but she surmised from his backside that he was an Imperial. His arms indicated that he was some kind of swordsman or mercenary. She smirked. This could be her way out of here. This man wasn't a petty pickpocket or town drunk. He wasn't a lowly peasant just thrown in a cell for nothing. This man had done something major to get himself tossed in here. 

"Hmmm... now now, what's an Imperial like you doing down here in the gutter, huh?" she asked, standing up, hanging her arms through the bars, standing seductively against them, ready to catch his eye when he turned over to answer.