Forty-seven, forty-eight, forty-nine, fif- The march of footsteps were flagged by his perception, which meant it was time for his first meal no doubt. As the other cells were being opened for the other inmates, Patrick cut his routine short and moved to sit back on the his bed frame.
"Time for breakfast Barnell! Get to the mess hall and eat, then head on down to the mine to pick up an axe!" The hefty man beckoned as he slid the key into the slot, giving it a twist before opening the door to his cell with the key pocketed a moment after.
On a regular basis he would normally have something witty or comical to say to him, however even that pattern of behavior had come to vanish over the seasons. As he continued to pace his steady breaths Patrick leaned to pull over his uniform boots, with a slip of each foot into a shoe before he tied the strings snuggly. With the top half of his uniform slipped on and then buttoned from bottom to top, Patrick rose to a stand and proceeded to move like the rest of his block. Inmates walked in single file down the corridor, with guards stationed at points to watch each prisoner closely in their pass.
Patrick's eyes remained averted as he followed behind the inmate across from him, a bit of a burly giant he was a bald white head decorated with various tattoos. Tribal signs mostly save for the random symbol on his left side, situated plainly above the ear it looked to be something akin of a spider. The Rharnian moved at the same pace the inmates did, eager to get some grub before the shift came and consumed what surplus time he had here. As he neared the mess hall however, a hand shot out and grasped him at the forearm.
"Not so fast Barnell." The guard in passing stated as Pat's eyes rose to meet his, brown weary eyes bore into his as the gruff man who held him didn't smile or anything.
"Warden Stormlight needed to see you after you finish your meal."
There was no immediate reaction, not even the drop in his heart he'd normally feel. Patrick felt no real concern over the matter, but he also had an idea as to what it was about. Time here was going to be cut a lot shorter if he made it to the warden's office later, which meant he needed to sabotage the appointment before arrival. A reluctant nod was given to the guard as he released the arm, allowing Patrick to enter the mess hall where everyone else gathered for their first meal. He needed to find a way to make a scene, preferably one that'd extend his time here in prison. As he walked the line up to where all the other men gathered, Patrick looked over his shoulder to gauge possible candidates. There were about eight to twelve guards stationed in the mess hall, so he'd have to sit somewhere just outside their range of hearing.
Which wouldn't be too hard since there were enough prisoners here to generate a low bustle, with enough volume to cover his own words if he spoke lowly enough. The question was who should he pick? And how exactly would he go about causing a scene. At his arrival at the counter where the cooks were guarded by a patrolman, Patrick accepted the pewter tray which they proceeded to hand over to him. It looked to be a cheap and easy meal today, boiled oats with a couple slices of overcooked bread. Seriously the shit was so brown on the outside, it didn't even look appetizing to eat in all honesty. As Pat moved along he looked ahead to scope his choice spot, the seating situation important to consider since he needed to carry this out this plan without a hitch.
One thing that was never easy to ignore; was the amount of eyes on him, and not the eyes of the guard either. Almost every day there were some of the rabble who liked to stare, a few even muttering closely to one another when Pat saw them. One in particular who was never afraid to be noticed was Eardal the kingpin, another prisoner who had a finger in several cookie jars found in this place. It didn't surprise Patrick that even the prison had an organized syndicate lurking about, albeit he never pursued the chance to actually meet and make friends either. Especially when he considered that was how he got here to begin with, plus the underlying suspicious the man could very well be a Shadow Network informant. Having someone on the inside wouldn't be a bad move after all, they'd be able to control things even here in that case.
Whether their reach did extend to the prison or not, Patrick wasn't going to give them the satisfaction of leaving. The moment he returned to Rharne they'd likely find him again, make him suffer for all the shortcomings he brought on their behalf. It was all his fault of course and he accepted that, which was exactly why he'd come to face another round of punishment again soon. The tattooed inmate he followed earlier seemed to be ripe for the picking, the table he sat at only occupied by a few of his fellow associates relatively within the middle of the mess hall.
"Perfect." His thought was met with a sense of zeal he kept hidden, his gaze still averted low as he came to approach the table and sit. Naturally the others there all looked at him, aware that an outcast had come to join their group.
"Wrong table hermit." One of the inmates said with a low squeaky tone, the warning ignored as Pat rested the tray down in front of him.
"I said; wrong table hermit."
"No this table's just right actually," He remarked as he looked from the pipsqueak to his quarry,
"because I've got a bit of a favor to ask."
"Piss off." The tattooed giant across from him looked seriously threatening, almost enough to instill a sense of fear back into the Rharnian.
"How about an extra biscuit," he countered lowly as he shoveled the spoon into his oats,
"you're a big guy and somethin' tells me you could use the extra bite." The others looked to the tattooed inmate as he just stared, aggravation in his eyes as he slowed the chewing of his meal.
"Interested? Because this hot rock on my tray is beggin' to be dipped in oats." There came a sense of sarcasm in his tone now, the spoon brought up to fill Pat's mouth with a bite of the watery oats. Warm and soggy as they were they tasted far too bland, nowhere near enough flavor for the oven rocks they called biscuits to make up for.
"The fek do you want?" He finally asked while Patrick chewed his first bite obnoxiously, a bit of a mused smile finally brought to his lips after hearing the prisoner speak.
"Simple... Fight me once I get up to leave." The inmates at his table looked puzzled, as though a priest preached madness to his flock. Then... mirth. The whole group couldn't help but laugh, as though he'd told a horrible joke they all hated.
"Got somethin' to prove hermit? What makes you wanna fight so bad you'd give food for it?" The short and stocky prisoner tested, his squeaky rough tone almost as annoying as having to arrange what came next. Rather than entertain the notion of free food for a simple fight, the prisoner that named him 'hermit' took matters into his own hands.
"If you don't want the roll that badly then fek it." He stated as he proceeded to swipe the biscuit for himself, leaving Patrick with only his bowl of oats as the others chuckled on with delight.
"Now go find a new table to bother."
Patrick planted the spoon back into his bowl of half eaten oats, his appetite challenged anyways due to lack of any real flavor. With a beaten expression he looked hard at the bowl on his tray, his eyes cast back over to the roll that had been taken from him.
"Thanks." He muttered lowly, for it was not his quarry; but still someone worth picking a fight towards. Thus Patrick rose with tray in hand, the bowl of oats left on the table as he turned away.
"Lost my appetite it seems." He remarked as he pretended to walk away, that is until the empty tray was brought up above the squeaky prisoner's head. Without a second thought Pat brought the tray down to smash it onto the inmate's head, the loud clatter of collision mixed with a hefty groan as the inmate's head was brought down to smash into his own bowl of oats.
A loud
"WHAT THE FUCK" filled the mess hall as all the others in the room grew quiet fast. Just like he wanted a fight broke out between Patrick and the inmate, the shortstuff already quick to assail him with a jump as a couple of his friends joined in. Then of course the guards eagerly jumped in wrangle everyone, establishing that same delicate sense of order and peace as prisoners were pulled apart. Patrick suffered a blow to the nose as blood already trailed into the layers of facial hair above his lips, the others fared far better than he did but then again it was three against one; the big guy with the tats however did not join. If anything he looked equally pissed as he did surprised, which meant another who'd come back for seconds once Patrick was brought out from isolation.
Regardless the plan had went off without a hitch, as the guards wasted no time hoisting him onto his feet. With the chain of his shackles gripped by none other than Alfson, the Rharnain was almost dragged out of the mess hall for starting his third incident. The two guards which escorted him brought him into another corridor connected to the mess hall, and led him further into the prison where they liked to isolate and interrogate inmates. Patrick had already been here a couple times for similar reasons, though those fights were more actual fights rather than incidents.
"Patrick", "NPC"
