At The Gatehouse

[*Theorum Of Neutrality]

Amir, once a nearly omnipresent face at the Gatehouse, leans against a wall across from Raif's cell. He holds up a small devilweed joint, whispering a soft poem in Sylvan to light the tip. Herbaceous smoke rolls off the end, and the Bleaknik carefully puffs on the tip a bit, before looking at the cell door.

"Cannae say I'd prefer this place ovah tha' Prison, ta be honest. The hell were ya thinkin', Raif?" The Bleaker moves up to cell door, nodding to Kasef, and looks in. "Livin' as a madmen is as good as bein' dead. Tha's why we never preach." He cackles, the laugh seeming to fit in well with the asylum. He rests against the door, taking another drag from his joint, and letting the smoke drift up to the ceiling from his lips.

"So. How's the food?"

[*Fell Star]

It was a moot question. The Gatehouse cafeteria served a wide selection of boiled "nutrient sludge"; each dish was mashed together by Cappy Longhorn, the best Bleaker cook on the premises, relatively speaking. While the sludge was certainly healthy for a cutter, it was about as palatable as parchment.

[*Grisome]

A lapse of silence, only a couple minutes long, pursued Amir's remarks and inquiries. Finally, he was able to remember where he knew the elf from, and he wanted to feel relieved. Pleased, even, to see the 'long lost semi-friend'. All he could muster, however, was a mild feeling of contempt towards the man. He was, after all, just another obstacle, another thing ensuring he remained here.
"I'd say edible," He finally responded, skipping over the rest of the conversation, which seemed rhetorical to him. "But I'm a terrible liar."
Then, again, "When can I leave?" While it was nice to be out of the reach of brutal, grudge-holding Harmonium, he didn't like the sound of any kind of 'electroshock therapy'. Such a thing, he had heard, could have an effect on one's memories. And he couldn't risk losing what he was slowly regaining, what he was slowly piecing together.

[*TheFrozenWind]

Having left for a time. Khasef returns to Raif's room. and unceremoniously drops a ratty old blanket at the man's feet.

"Animus wanted you to have your... Blanket."

[*Theorum Of Neutrality]

"When ya bettah, obviously." He rests his head against the bars on the door - but moves out of the way as the blankey is delivered. "Ya gotta pretty severe illness, Raif." He takes another long drag from the joint, flicking off ash.

"Dunno how long it'd take. Me specialty ain't evah been in mental illness, specifically. 'Tis why I ain't evah gotta place on the crew here beyond somethin' temporary. Pretty good at singin' the violent ones ta sleep, comes in handy, aye?" The bleaknik stops his rambling, and looks to Raif. "So. Wha' happened? An' ya dun gotta worry - I know ya ain't lyin'. If ya were lyin', ya'd be outta here by now." The handsome elf smiles slightly - the faint gesture making the sleep circles under his eyes less severe, and the faint frown-lines on his forehead disappear, if only for a moment.

[*Grisome]

He leaned forward and took a corner of the rough fabric, drawing the blanket closer for examination. He'd never gotten a very good look at it before. "I am better," He objected, still studying the blanket. "You don't understand. I'm not 'ill'. I'm perfectly fine. It's gone." The denial stopped long enough for him to offer a half-hearted "Thank you" to Khasef, before he resumed: "Of course, people are convinced that the insane claim they aren't. I say I'm not crazy, ergo, I must be. If people have been convinced I've lost my mind, my claims against it just... underline their point. I suppose considering I apparently was doesn't really help my case..." He lifted a hand to his forehead, trying to fend off an oncoming headache. "But let's say, for the sake of argument, for the sake of perhaps progress, I am no longer insane." Gods, this conversation was already grating on his nerves. He hadn't been insane to begin with! "I've been deemed insane, and anything I say or do to try and prove I'm not can arguably fall under the category of 'things a crazy person would do or say'. Rational fears and concerns become 'paranoia'. Sane quirks -- perhaps my desire for order, organization -- are viewed as things only a madman would be concerned with...It's a situation I cannot possibly win!" He finally shouts, having grown frustrated and angry by this point. If he'd had something sharp, and if he hadn't been so tired and pained, it was likely he would have lunged as Khasef. Instead he just shook his head, and drew the blanket around himself.
"Tell me, how will we be 'gauging' my sanity? Who gets to decide when I'm cured enough, when I'm fixed enough, to leave this place? And what arbitrary markers will help with this decision?"

[*TheFrozenWind]

Khasef shrugs

Well, so long as you're here, the Harmonium saves face. It doesn't matter whether your sane or not, the term is subjective. What does matter, is that if you're released as you are, the Harmonium will press charges of improper medical treatment, and shove their red codpieces into Cabal business. As long as you're here, the reputation is safe.

[*Grisome]

"So, basically, as I just rambled on about... there's nothing I can really do to get myself out of here. You're going to keep me here, perform your unnecessary 'treatments', for political reasons?" He wasn't surprised. It certainly sounded like his kind of luck.

[*TheFrozenWind]

"If we release a Raif who's anything more than a thoughtless husk, then the Hardheads will see that many Bleakers are arrested unjustly. It's your suffering, or the suffering of others."

[*Grisome]

He rubbed his eyes with one hand, tired but unwilling to fall asleep. "And how long would that take?" His impatience wasn't helping much in the matter, but it was unavoidable. He was restless, and wanted out before he got anywhere near the 'thoughtless husk' stage.