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Rebel templars flow around the corridors, rooms, and courtyards of the fortress like a red sea, washing up in nooks, piling up in corners, flooding lower levels. Most of them, the ones with obvious deformities, are little more than reanimated corpses, very angry, agonised reanimated corpses, either free of any semblance of mind, or fully inducted into the cult. The General will harp on about what a caring leader he is to provide them with milk of the poppy for their terrible pain, but really he does it to attempt to ease the incredible violence that otherwise results amongst his own men, so much so that he risks losing multiple squadrons in a single night if a really bad fight breaks out.
Most (relatively) sane and healthy prisoners of this nest of monsters must tiptoe around or face some manner of envious retribution. Ser Mettin is avoided by many because of Samson, but occasionally he is caught up in drama, either because someone tries to murder him, or because they try something else only a little less harmful.
He can't always escape such attacks without hurt, and must retreat to whatever little hole in the wall he is currently using to claw a bit of peace for himself out of the red insanity, there to bind his wounds before his presence is demanded once again. Tonight, he came away from a ‘forced encounter’ with a broken arm, which was forced up behind his back. He has no tears left, and simply goes about the rote routine of helping himself without any thoughts in his head. Kneeling, he rests his broken arm on his thighs, and places long straps of wood to either side of his forearm, before tying them tightly with strips of fabric, round and round and round and-