[center][h3]Arvela Favryn[/h3][/center]

Leaning against the wall in the inner corner of the cell, Arvela was watching the crowd before her. A curious set of strangers they were, but she undoubtedly seemed strange to them in turn. She had her arms folded over her chest, her face a still mask of indifference, signaling a closed or reserved attitude - this usually helped with avoiding unwanted attention or interactions, she found. For all she knew, some of these n'wah were actual criminals and could possibly be dangerous. Some she recognized from the incident at the tavern, but not all. Best keep her wits about her.

Her gaze wandered to the walls and the ceiling, from which chains and manacles hung like macabre vines. The dungeons. She did not understand imprisonment as punishment. What use was it really? They took prisoners back home too, but not for offences. Political enemies, relatives of rivals, people of actual interest or leverage - these were worthy of imprisoning in Telvanni society. But rabble guilty of rowdy brawls in the street? Hardly. Better to just issue fines or corporeal punishment. Banish the bad ones and kill the worst outright. No point to this mockery of mercy. Mercy was after all the same as weakness, and a mockery of mercy even worse. Perhaps she'd understand, one day. She doubted it, though.

As alarming as the prospect of having to spend the entire night, or several, in the cell with these n'wah was, Arvela kept her calm. She knew what hunger felt like, and being exposed, and she knew it wasn't as bad as it seemed. Being hungry didn't kill you - not outright, at least. She could afford to wait. And while she waited, she would watch and listen. Who knew, maybe she'd learn something before the night was over?