For a man who had been one murdered, twice divorced, and now three times imprisoned... The rogue seemed no more upset over this situation than he did anything else. No pain passed what was left of his face when he had slipped, falling from rafters onto some guards. No sound was heard from within his chest as they beat the air from his remaining lung. And certainly no concern was given when they stripped him of his thick, reliable leather armor and carried his weapons and trinkets away, leaving only a worn gray shirt and shockingly well kept silk boxers. After seeing his face, the squeamish had chosen to return him his dark scarf, but they kept the hood, leaving ratty purple hair to fall about his once broad shoulders. Time had a way of doing that to you, making almost anything unimpressive. That's not to say the liberal use of holy magic to sear the strength and vigor from his ragged body did not hurt or yield results. On the contrary, he now found himself quiet deprived of energy, or much will to really move.<br/><br/>This was all before bringing him to the dungeon no less! The Scarlet Fools had wisened up it seemed. First came shackles for his withered wrists and ankles, then the leather straps for knees and elbows. And of course one for for his waist, really? Were they THAT paranoid an old, decrepit thing like HIM would escape? Yep. Which affirmed, they WERE learning... With a heavy sigh, the rogue resigned himself, for the moment, to his fate. What was the worst they could do? Kill him again?<div class="messageTextEndMarker"> </div>