"Respectfully, Sir..." Caddach rasped as the Orcish holy-man returned to the cell to offer his services to the rest of their misbegotten, bloodied roommates of circumstance, the lad's voice taking on a slight (and comical) whistling note due to his broken nose. Letting out a wet little snort and giving a slight nod towards the red-headed Orc chained up nearby with a look somewhere between a smirk and a grimace. "...I think I've had quite my fill of strangers touching my face for one day."
Instead, he cast his eyes down towards his right hand— his left already busy holding a wet cloth he'd frosted over with magicka to his bruised brow— and tilted his previously mixed expression rather firmly in the direction of 'grimace', before gingerly tapping it to his nose. Producing a brief flicker of white light from his fingertips, a loud cacophony of broken cartilage snapping, popping and knitting itself back into place and a deeply uncomfortable hiss from his throat that rattled off the walls of the cramped cell. Before his shoulders slackened, and he relaxed against the wall— mumbling something that sounded an awful lot like "Meridia's big glowing arse..." under his breath and cursing himself within his own head for not having spent more time trying to make up for his deficiencies with Restoration Magic.
Shooting one final glare towards the Orsimer woman who'd previously left his nose with the approximate thickness of a fucking dinner plate over a singular spilled pint, Caddach allowed himself to ponder at what point exactly his day had gone to shit. Was it when had to wake up well before dawn with the rest of the lads to make doubly sure at the last minute that the floors, walls and ceiling were extra shiny for Geldall's engagement banquet? Nah, definitely not; the groom himself had come by with his guards halfway through and ordered them all to 'Take a break and bloody well eat something, for Tiber's sake!' when he'd heard how early they'd all woken up. And with the kitchens in full swing for a Septim Wedding, Caddach ate pretty damned well.
Was it walking in on a pair of nobles from Alinor and Skyrim— both invited for Geldall's banquet— having a rather intimate moment in the broom closet featuring shackles, a ball-gag, a hot poker and a potato? Probably not— Caddach had been working in the Tower long enough to understand that there was always a small chance of walking in on somebody doing something weird whenever he opened a door. So he had just grabbed what he needed— a mop and bucket—, politely informed the pair of somewhere perhaps more suited to their privacy and carried on his merry way... though he still wondered what that potato was for.
...Was it perhaps what he'd found on Lord Eldamil's desk?
Yeah. That probably did it; Baurus seemed rather fucking spooked by it when he showed it to him— though he tried to hide it with an easy smile— and it wasn't every day that a Blade ordered him to take the rest of the day off. But our boy Caddach wasn't exactly one to question the authority of the Emperor's personal bodyguards, nor was he apt to refuse the opportunity to see the big fight in the arena (despite how disappointing that turned out to be) or an excuse to cap his day off with a few frosty pints at Daggerfall Dan's... something that usually didn't end with being tripped by an Altmer fuckwit with a grudge and then having his face pounded damn-near flat by the biggest fucking Orc he'd ever seen... which was saying a lot, because Caddach had actually been to Orsinium and knew a whole lot of Orcs.
Yet here he was. In a crowded cell in the Imperial Prison with everyone else who was still breathing and within arm's reach by the time the Legion came to re-establish order; his shirt and face soiled with dried blood (less dry now, as fresh crimson now leaked freely from his now-corrected and unobstructed nose). His features— though no longer swollen— still black and blue as all hell and the wallet in his pocket long gone— funnily enough the lad had actually felt the hand that had liberated it from his person in the chaos of the bar-fight and grabbed it by the wrist, but never got to see whom it belonged to before that same Orc punched him right in the face again and twice more for good measure.
All in all, not a good time.
'...Yeah, on second thought, fuck Eldamil and fuck his stupid book.'
Growling a little at that thought and allowing himself to enjoy the petty bit of spite that followed, the (mostly) Breton crossed his legs and scanned his eyes around the cell at the other occupants with a raised brow and a slightly punch-drunk smirk as he wiped at his bleeding nose with his forearm.
"So... anybody happen to have dice...? Maybe a set of cards?" He asked dryly, finding some small smidgen of humour in all this. Despite the circumstances. "We'll probably be down here until at least the morning, so we might as well pass the time with something other than silence."