<div class="floatleft">(https://pre00.deviantart.net/8bbb/th/pre/i/2017/017/2/2/gideon_jura_face_study_by_artofryanyee-davro7o.jpg)</div><span class="bbc_font" style="font-family: impact;"><span class="bbc_size" style="font-size: 18pt;">Darwishi</span></span>Shabti Fighter(Gloomblade)/Medium (Reanimated Medium) (https://www.myth-weavers.com/sheet.html#id=1669483)<br/>14 HP | AC 12 | Status: Fatigued,<br/>Location: Fourth Cell upwards, on the left<br/>Tagging: Open<br/><hr/>In Prison For Five Years (https://elliquiy.com/forums/dicebot.php?r=124015), Gm can ignore. (He’s conducting a seance to connect to a Warrior spirit, that’s all you need to know)<br/><br/>Darwishi sat quietly, legs crossed, hands on his knees, against one of the walls of his room. He was reflecting on his life of violence, and how, even before his fall from grace into a life of petty crime, looking at it objectively, he’d been nothing but a marauder and a thief. Of course most would disagree, he knew that killing an orc was still killing. The victim didn’t change the act, nor how vile it was. And yet, he found no regret. He reminisced about his old companions, who’d died along the way, and about the gang he’d joined when, disillusioned and bitter, he’d needed someone to turn to. He felt regret then, that he’d done something so stupid as to attack a guard, to try and avenge his friend. It was a foolish, pointless act.<br/><br/>This life in prison, it was his penance. It was the cleansing fire that would burn away his mortality, like the Achilles had done to her children. The violence numbed him, made his heart like stone, cold and hard. Soon he would escape, he knew. He wasn’t sure how, but there was a tension in the air, like a spring cooled too tightly. He imagined himself, slaughtering the guards, gutting the warden, and he smiled. Yes. Revenge would be sweet indeed. He felt a power surging into him, and he became a man possessed, ready for his life to become even more stained with blood.<br/><br/>“Hey asshole!” His cell mate slapped him, and Darwishi looked up, annoyed. “What?” He snapped tersely, moving to stand up before being shoved back down. “The fuck are you smiling about?” His cell mate laughed. “Oh, just thinking about the past, being sentimental.” “Weren’t you some knight? You must’ve thought you were gonna be a hero!” His cellmate laughed at him. “I did,” Darwishi stood and stretched, pangs of  hunger radiating from his stomach. He heard the warden shout, and scowled. It wasn’t becoming, judging others based on race. No, one should Jude them by the strength of their arm and the sharpness of their mind. Bored, his cellmate saw he wasn’t going to get a ride out of him, and went back to his mat. Darwishi continued to get what exercise he could in his cell. He had to be ready. He heard the horn, and the change in the monotony of prison life was electric. This may be the day, he thought, and found himself itching for a tussle.