He swept his hand through the long, for now clean thick head of hair to get it out of his face. Once on board he’d have to put it into a ponytail, but for now enjoyed it in the mild early day’s breeze as it caressed the shoulder length locks. Checking his blackberry for the time he groaned, ‘only got 35 minutes till sailing’…wanting more than anything to stay ashore this trip, the captain had called for a quick turn around this time and he’d barely even gotten his land legs since they docked only the day before. Looking around the smallish diner he finds a table that is still covered with the left over dishes from the last group and saunters over, pulls out a chair and sits his still weary body into it as he stuffs his duffle beside him on his left. Leaned back to stretch with his legs splayed out he yawns sleepily, eyes closed. A flurry of air seems to buzz around him as he looks back up. The first view is something he could easily get worked up over, right beside. Normo Mimmot, Didagmata"He hasn't spoken a word, your Reverence. He could be a mute for all we know," the man with the bloodied iron scraper said to the Inquisitor. Bits of raw flesh were still hanging off the tool of torture, the man shackled to the wall limp, probably passed out.The Patriarch stood still, his attention drawn to a few pieces of clothing and some belongings that were gathered on a shabby old table with jutting splinters and worn-away cuts all over its rough surface. He picked at some of the clothing with the edge of his patriarchal Rod, the sigils and High Helican scripts etched on its golden knob top barely visible in the dim torchlight of the torture chamber.He sniffed the air around the ragged, bloodied clothing, and a grimace of distaste and scorn appeared on his otherwise solidly expressionless face. Some said he sometimes looked as if he was wearing a mask, rather than a real human face. And then there were the tales of him sitting idly in the dark without ever.
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