[center][h1]ℜ𝔢𝔫𝔞𝔲𝔩𝔱 𝔅𝔢𝔞𝔲𝔪𝔬𝔫𝔱[/h1][/center]
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"Not-- not a vagrant." was Renault Beaumont's lone defense to his charges, croaked through a bloody lip as the militia dragged him through the heavy reinforced door of the prison. He was unable to focus; everything around him a blurred, distorted mess. Was the world spinning from the wine he drank? Or the swift, merciless beating he received from his captors? Two were more alike than he knew, and at the very least, one did not avail the other.
 
Thrown into his cell with a discard that bordered on contemptuous, Renault groaned as his battered body met the hard ground. With the sudden motion threatening to expel the contents of his stomach, Renault clenched his jaw tight, not daring to so much as part his lips until the nausea passed. After a minute or two of measured breathing bolstered by sheer willpower, Renault let out a held breath, finally able to get his bearings. Moving into a seated position, Renault pushed himself back until he was pressed against the damp stone wall of his new home.
 
Though still dizzy and beset by what felt like a blacksmith's hammer pounding against the anvil of his skull, Renault could not stave away the fatigue that washed over him. Within minutes of sitting down, his eyes slowly drifted shut, and his head fell forward; a single snore heralding what would be a deep, restless slumber.

Upon waking, the consequences of Renault's actions had become more apparent. His mouth was filled with the taste of blood and bile, and a stiffness had settled into his joints, eliciting a dull ache every time he moved. The pounding in his head had grown incessant, boring deeper into his brain. Though sore and sluggish, instinct at the unfamiliar set in, and Renault's hand shot for his hip, catching air.

Remembering where he was and what had happened, Renault cursed under his breath before being wracked with a coughing fit that sent waves of sharp pain through his chest. Ribs were bruised, broken maybe; a souvenir left from the militia. For a time, he thought himself alone in the prison, its sole resident. How long would he be left here? Weeks? Months? Maybe years? Would he go mad, reduced to a starved, raving animal before expiring? Would be a fitting fate, he supposed.

A sensible man might have wept, or shouted, pleading his innocence against the uncaring stone. But Renault did no such thing, his sense long given way to brooding. He laughed bitterly to himself, huddling in the corner and resting his head against the dank wall. But soon he realized he [i]wasn't[/i] alone, another was there with him, an invisible brother in chains.

The phantom voice tried speaking to him, and though Renault answered, he was not totally forthright. It was not for secrecy's sake, but for shame; cruel memories best not recalled. Renault would keep their bitterness to himself, leave the wounds to fester in his heart.

Time dragged on, and Renault could scarcely tell the hour, let alone the day. His only indicator of time was whether the prison was dark or...slightly darker. But when the militia came back and the orange glow of their torch-lights beamed through the barred windows, Renault perked up from a half-asleep daze; bits of straw stuck in his matted hair. 

Any questions Renault had to the militia's presence were answered by the sight of a third prisoner being dragged through the front door: a weatherworn man, dark-haired and sun-beaten. Tossed into Renault's cell with somehow [i]less[/i] care than they had with him, now there were two.

Not even a full day later, the militia returned a second time. This time their captive was a woman: tall and thickly made, she seemed a giant to the untrained eye. But a giant she was not, at least not fully. Though human in appearance, size notwithstanding, her skin was the color of slate, and presumably just as durable. Shackled, chained, and bolted, it was uncertain whether the woman was so heavily-restrained out of fear or necessity. Had she come willingly? Or were her hands stained crimson with the blood of the militiamen? 

Led into a cell of her own and her charges announced, Renault noted no mention of murder or assault. Though perhaps rightly-feared, this woman, as far as he knew, was no active violent threat.

With their 'food' distributed and the entrance sealed, silence fell once more on the prison. A silence that one never grew used to. It was the silence of trapped isolation, of captivity. No warm bed to sleep on or furs to crawl under, no rest from a day's labor. It was stagnation in a five-foot square.

Crawling towards the barred door of his cell, Renault pressed his face against the cool metal, looking across the hall and into the dark void of the vacant cell. Licking his lips to alleviate their dryness, Renault asked a single question, letting it echo off the walls of the prison: 

"What's your name?"