Heranod, in his cell
The ascetic sat in the center of his cell, legs crossed in meditation. A straggly beard, prematurely gray, hung down from his face, and his wrappings had been ruined by years of neglect. His untouched food, yellow yam mashed into a paste and old beer, sat in front of him. And though he hungered, he did not eat.
Just as he was imprisoned but didn’t escape.
He was Heranod, priest of the Nightcult and confined to contemplation for the rest of his days. Once, before, he had been master of the city of Mourne, dispensing law and punishment in the name of the Dark Lord Penumbra. He had been harsh, but he had thought himself just. He’d also thought himself second to the Nightlord, and expected to succeed to the post when the old man died.
Now he was the old man, and Jaladan was Nightlord. Jaladan had been Master of Rituals, an office overlooked in its importance until he’d taken advantage of its opportunity for patronage to build up a following among younger priests. And when the successor was chosen, it was he who was acclaimed. Heranod had been bitter at the decision to abandon protocol and opposed him. He’d thought he would win: he had both the secular and ecclesiastical city guards behind him.
When the time came for conflict, though, Heranod’s supporters scattered like insects under a bright light. They had been too comfortable in their positions, and Jaladan needed only to turn one to convince the others that the fight wasn’t worth it. Heranod had been stripped of his office and thrown into a dungeon, where he had been forgotten. His former supporters, he learned, had lost their own precious titles one by one: Jaladan didn’t need Heranod’s backers when he had his own.
A rat-like scavenger entered his view, cautiously moving towards the food. The ascetic had not moved for hours, and the small creature was confident that it could sneak away some of the prisoner's meal for itself.
The years had been… harsh. To both. Jaladan was Nightlord, but Umbra was no longer the sole power. His authority had been shaken by a defeat against the Panther Tribe to the east, who scattered the levied tribal warriors that Umbra raised with their trained animal totems. His lieutenants bickered and clashes whenever his gaze wasn’t fixed upon them, as they sensed his own death nearing and sought to position themselves to take advantage. Heranod, meanwhile, was where he was.
The scavenger sniffed the paste, gingerly, and watched the ascetic for a sign of awareness. But he did not move, did not even seem to be alive. Perhaps he was dead: the wild-haired monk had been there for all of the small animal's life, and all that of its parents.
He was no longer considered a power among the Mourners. Whatever influence or followers survived Jaladan’s purges had written him off just as Jaladan had. When his name came up, it was as an example of what happened to the loser of an inter-cult conflict, a reminder to all of Jaladan's lieutenants of the stakes.
His hand snapped out, faster than the scavenger could jump. It closed with a strength born out of hunger around its neck, and he raised it’s struggling body in the air and bashed it to the ground. Again and again, until the struggling stopped.
But things are not so simple. His mind and spirit had been honed by his decades of contemplation. From his cell he could hear the announcements of the city criers, and the gossip of the guards. He could scent the half-truths and propaganda, and predicted the course of coming events as an oracle could.
The scavenger joined the ascetic’s meager dinner, the meat filling in a gap in a diet that the yellow yam, meant for domesticated animals, left. Without it, his mind would slowly degrade.
And from this, he knew Penumbra still had a plan for him.