Jail's just another Alehouse

The world shifted fuzzily. He was supposed to notice people's eyes more, but instead, he saw their souls in their pockets and ribcages. He saw the faint outline of their hearts, the tension in their muscles, and the scars they tried to hide. Keys, pieces of parchment, small blades, and speckles of coins floated against their skin, their clothing just a ghostly outline that faded in and out with its opacity.

The Amnesiac rubbed his gruff eyes in the corner of his cell as a haul of new criminal arrests paraded outside the bars. He'd been tossed in here after he told a shopkeeper where he hid his keyring. Apparently, the shop been robbed last week, which cast suspicion. When the Templar asked him his name, he didn't know what to say. The Amnesiac was grisly, smelly, and knew more than he ought to, and the Templar percieved all of this.

For a while, the Amnesiac was alone in his cell, which gave him time to think: He should not tell people what he saw, and, he should think of a name. 

But now, another man was tossed in beside him. What did he do? The Amnesiac avoided looking at his new cellmate, aware of how strange he must appear when his eyes roved through skin and into bone. 

[color=orange]"How does one even get by in a place like this,"[/color] he asked the other, healf-hearted that there could even be an answer.