The dungeon reeks of urine-soaked hay, burnt candlefish, mildewy walls, and old waste buckets. You don’t want to linger here, but you take a quick look.
Behind these bars is the most comfortable of the cells, reserved for someone of high rank. It has what could be called a proper bed, a writing desk and chair, a generous portion of hay on the dank floor, and a waste bucket with some privacy. And a real wax candle. But it still reeks.
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