A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor

The guard came ambling past to check up on him again, and was visibly taken aback to see how Oliver had changed. In the black coat, he looked increasingly menacing, despite the blue peeking out underneath. On top of it all, he still wore the pin of Lord Blackwell, reminding them who he represented, and with his shining high boots, he hardly looked like he'd spent a night in prison at all.

The way the guard treated him was different. There was a hint more of respect in his voice. "Eh… Do you want a comb, Ser?" Oliver must have taken too long to respond, for the guardsman hurried to clarify. "For your hair," he said quickly.

"Ah, yes," Oliver agreed. "If you would, that would be helpful, thank you."
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The guard produced his own comb from inside his jacket, and handed it through the bars. Oliver took it from his fingers, and noted how the man held his breath, watching his every movement.

"Ah, shit, I forgot to wipe it…" the guardsman said, looking worried. It was the type of thing most noblemen would have worried about, after all, the height of cleanliness. They would have hesitated to borrow a comb at all. For Oliver, though, that was hardly a consideration. He quickly ran a comb through his hair, feeling the snags.

Combs always seemed to catch in the waves of his brown hair. It wasn't curly, not quite, but it was just on that border that made it somewhat unruly to tend to, and by now, it was growing a little longer than he would usually like it. A haircut would have been on his list, had he had an opportunity to do such a thing.

A few brushes of the comb, and he handed it back to the guard, giving his thanks. He felt cleaner than he had in days, and with the new clothes on top of that, he hardly felt like he'd been living in a cell at all. The Blackthorn's coat was of course what made the outfit, but everything else was a detail that added to the quality – a thing of immense excitement for one who had grown up as a peasant.

He recalled being a little jealous of Nila's boots, and now he had far finer boots of his own, multiple pairs, enough that he could discard them. He wondered how the girl was doing, and then smiled to himself – surely she was at least doing better than he.

"Are you ready, Ser?" The guardsman asked, producing the shackles from his belt. Most of the guards had treated Oliver with hostility throughout the week, given that he had killed some of their own, even if those that he had killed were traitors. None had called him Ser. Only prisoner. Now that he was being freed from his cell, and dressed as a noble, that attitude was forced to change.

Oliver nodded, and held out his hands. The guard opened the gate cautiously and fastened Oliver's hands behind his back.

Other prisoners hung against their bars, watching the procession. Oliver had done much the same when he'd seen men be led out. There were few sources of entertainment in the dungeons, starved of stimulation as they were, they would not have missed something so interesting.

"Hohhhh, looking good, Captain!" A man called out in a slurred voice. He seemed perfectly lost to the world. His eyes didn't really see what was in front of him as he called. His cell was positioned so that Oliver could see him, even with the gates closed on both of them. The man had insisted on calling him Captain throughout his stay, despite not having any reason to do so.

The guardsman looked at the prisoner in distaste. More guardsmen were descending the stairs with torches, to join their procession, and lead Oliver Patrick the prisoner to his trial. The other cellmates continued to watch, hungrily, eyeing his clothing. None of these were noblemen.

The kind of wealth that Oliver used to dress himself now was the kind of wealth that could feed their families for months. He certainly knew that feeling.

Five guardsmen joined the other, encircling him. With his hands fastened behind his back, Oliver amused himself, by merely pretending he was out for a walk. He'd seen other nobles do that, when walking – clasp their hands behind their back in a gentlemanly sort of way, and then stroll goose-legged across the Academy grounds.

He adopted such a poise now, and when viewed from the front, it would have been impossible to tell that he was a prisoner on escort. Instead, he looked very much the image of an important man on a walk with his guardsmen.

They lead him up out of the bowels of the dungeon. He paid more attention to the stairs on the way out than he had on the way down. It was even deeper than they expected. They were climbing stairs for a good five minutes before they breached the ground floor, and exited through a thick side door into the main entrance way of the Academy.

Horses whinnied from outside as they were stabled. Oliver didn't pass through here often, but he thought there were more carriages than he remembered. He gave a respectful nod to a particularly proud-looking horse, and chomped at its bit, waiting impatiently to be unharnessed. The guardsmen looked at him oddly as he did so.

They led him through the corridors of the Academy, more guardsmen joining them as they went, breaking up the crowds of students that had come to see his march. Oliver squinted at the light as it streamed through the windows. It was hard to keep track of the time of day underground – he could only rely on the regular meals that the guardsmen had given him.

By the light, he guessed it to have been morning, hence the amount of students that seemed free to gawk. He wondered what had happened to their lessons.