[action | OPEN]
[ he's sitting at a table in the shelter, where the shiny magic-looking-but-apparently-not-magical creatures had herded all of the chained prisoners for dinner. The plate once containing his food was scraped clean--prison food it may be here, but it was better than he got most days back home, and he'd been ravenous. The day had been exhausting, he was completely un-used to doing so much work without magical assistance. Instead of lazing on his bed reading while Arthur's clothes washed themselves, he'd been elbow-deep in icy, soapy water for what seemed ages, and he wasn't sure his fingers would ever lose the look of dried fruit. ]
Tell me it gets easier? [ he grumbles; his plate cleared to one side, and his head flopped in its place, using his crossed arms as an impromptu pillow ]