[center][h1]ℜ𝔢𝔫𝔞𝔲𝔩𝔱 𝔅𝔢𝔞𝔲𝔪𝔬𝔫𝔱[/h1][/center]
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Silence. Renault bowed his head, scooting away from the bars back towards his corner of the cell. The wall was clammy and uncomfortable, but at this point, familiar. Not much else one could do here than rest, or think. A man in his position might pray, but Renault hadn't prayed in a very long time. As if on instinct, he drew a hand up towards his chest, pressing against the fabric of his dirtied undershirt. They had taken his pendant. By the gods, was nothing sacred?

For so long, he had carried the weight of that pendant with him, part of him now. Why couldn't he remember them taking it? Resting the back of his head against the wall, Renault bunched the fabric of his shirt between his fingers, as though willing the necklace to appear. Hitching a lone breath, he let his hands fall to the floor.

[i]"I am Gorosk."[/i] The words pierced the silence, seeping through the cracks in the stonework. It was the voice of his unseen companion, answering Renault's call intended for the newest arrival. For the few times Renault had spoken with the disembodied voice, its name was not one of the things revealed.

Gorosk...Renault hung on the name for longer than a moment, as though he were meditating on it. He wondered where he might've heard such a name, racking his brain for anything from his time spent in both Dorrathar and Andallia.

[hider=Rolling for Knowledge (Local) to try and determine if Gorosk's name is distinct from Andallian/Dorrathian naming conventions]
[url=https://www.roleplayerguild.com/rolls/17778]11[/url]
[/hider] 
When another voice spoke to his left, Renault turned head towards his fellow occupant: the man with the graying black hair. Introducing himself as Quentin, Renault nodded once in understanding.

"Renault," he answered hoarsely, his own name sounding, for the briefest of moments, unfamiliar. All his old titles: Ser Renault of House Beaumont, Ser Renault de Andallia, now faded to dust. His family name was only a memory; who was he now but Renault Oathbreaker?

There was solidarity in the fact that this Quentin did not reveal his surname, either. Perhaps he, too, had something to hide, something that led him to this same cell. If so, then the two of them had more in common than Renault initially believed. But solidarity or not, Renault would keep his full name to himself, for now.

As soon as Renault answered, Quentin took to straining against the iron-wrought bars of their cage, as if strength and will alone would bend them. "Save your strength," he began to say, the harshness of his voice vanishing with further use. "If you couldn't bend steel before, doubtful you could now." 

It was then the woman of mighty stature decided to speak, proving she understood Common, at the very least. Vah'lux. Like Gorosk, the name did not strike Renault as one being immediately familiar, but he knew that after taking one look at her. This woman had traveled some ways to be here.

Renault thought of something, some...word of encouragement he could offer; to her, to the other denizens of the prison. But no speech formed, no address of optimism, for there was none to be had. What had gone so wrong all those years ago - for a man of faith to find himself without conviction?