By the time they arrived, it wasn't fun anymore. The first three jails they tried were the major hubs--within the heavily populated, dangerous areas of the city. Visiting these made it feel like a bit of an adventure. After that, going to the small neighborhood "clinks," it had started to feel like a fucking chore.
And the woman wouldn't let him drink. Marching all over the entirety of the capital with nothing but sore feet and a tired saluting arm. Of course everywhere they went, the warden and his chief guard wanted to give him a tour. By the time they'd reached the last prison, someone had already been round to warn them of his arrival.
They thought he was doing an evaluation.
Badges were polished, patches mended, prisoners bathed and shaved. The man that greeted them at the Dresdale Arms (the eight-cell holding house in the small, out-of-the-way hamlet bordering the city of Faustben) was overweight, balding, and a bit stiff on the salute. Vedette did most of the talking. His voice was tired by now anyway.
But as soon as he saw the scoundrel sitting there, in some jail meant for vagrants and drunkards, he found a small laugh.
"Couldn't have the decency to get thrown in a real jail, Skandra?"