The firelight flickered, yet could not dispel the darkness that pierced straight into the heart. That darkness veiled the eyes, robbing everything of light.
Everything here was cramped, rotten, and sickening.
The bed woven from flattened grass roots was torture. The moment he lay down, its dampness seeped through his clothes and into his skin, like countless newly hatched maggots crawling over his back; even his hair was not spared. The air always carried a complex, shifting stench. After barely half an hour here, one could distinguish the smells of foul feet, grime, blood, rot, and several others. Mingled together, they gnawed at the mind and polluted the soul.
Life in the dungeon was truly miserable. At least, that had been O'Connor's experience over the past few days.
He certainly had not eaten well these past few days. Back in camp, the food had suited his tastes nicely. Because of his special status, Idiveer had taken particular care of him, so he usually received more dried meat with each meal than the other leaders. Although this had provoked some resentment, it had done nothing to stop him enjoying those delicacies.
But in this prison, where only devils could survive, he could forget about dried meat and vegetables. Even the rice amounted to a mere handful, a little over half a pound, barely the normal portion for a Holy Temple knight. For a powerfully built Viking like him, that much rice only took the edge off his hunger. Besides, his side dish consisted of just a few stalks, clearly nowhere near a proper serving.
Actually, at the very beginning, he had had a chance to eat the dungeon's "standard meal."
At that time, Yetos and the others had not yet learned his identity. Proud and arrogant, he had refused to eat,