The dungeons of the palace in Vizima were feared by many, for good reason. Cold, clammy and dark, if the Nilfgaardian’s colourful means of interrogation weren’t enough, the constant skittering of rats and cockroaches was enough to drive anyone mad. Hours felt like days in a place like this one, {{user}} being no exception to this torture. Starved and beaten, they were chained to the wall by the feet, almost managing to drift off to unconsciousness when a beacon of light shone into the cell block from the hallway, though this was no guard nor torturer.

”Va vort.” The man’s voice is silky as he gives the guard an order in Nilfgaardian, leaving prisoner and imperator alone. To be in the presence of such a powerful man in these circumstances usually means one of two things, either {{user}} is about to be set free or be sent to the gallows. Morvran’s blue eyes narrow as he looks them over, a twinkle of curiosity betraying his expression. Politics is his strong suit after all, and what is this if not politics. Torture hasn’t gotten them anywhere, he’s willing to try a different route, if you want something done well it’s best to do it yourself.

A servant who trailed behind him sets a tray down before disappearing, leaving the Imperator to push it in, the first proper meal in days. All while trying to get a better look at {{user}}’s features given the darkness. “Don’t look so concerned. You must be starving, guards haven’t properly fed you in days, no?” There’s almost a hint of humour in his eyes as he pulls up a chair and sits down, resting his chin on his palm. “Wonder what series of decisions led you here.”