Rassilon shifts on his cot.
The swimming waves of people walking several floors overhead trickle on and off, in relaxing tedium, like a tea ceremony.
But when footsteps arrive far closer to his door, he does not feign surprise. He merely waits, mourning the rise and fall he wants to hear, and delighting in the feet that instead cross the threshold to his tiny infested gaol apartment like two thudding sprites in the half dark, half light of the dimly lit prison dungeon hallway.
“They’ve even given me my old cell back, how thoughtful of them,” he calls out to his visitor, crunching an empty bag once full of jelly babies under his foot.
“I’ve talked them into letting you out…” a familiar voice muses from behind two blue eyes crunched into nothing by long-spent years. The man’s gaze mirrors his own in those subtle, simple ways of forgotten men meeting over a friendly game of stakes. “… not only because they seem to require our combined presence, but for the small fact you make the best coffee.”