Big and stupid was a fair assumption - at least Kuronue flashed a secret fanged grin at the dark, at the silence, and assessed it himself to be the case when a few moments of faux raving and screaming and clawing at the walls fooled the lot of them. 'He's gone mad,' one muttered, elbowing the other, who nodded in agreement. Who would question a prisoner making sounds, laughing sobbing or yelling at nothingness, if that prisoner'd cracked?

He rolled his head back against the wall behind him, wincing at the sore cramping in his wings, and flexed his wrist and fingers carefully again in the shackle. He'd already learned it couldn't be broken, the best he'd managed was dislocating the fingers and breaking the thumb of his left hand to escape from the second.

Right had was trickier. He had a hole through the wrist, made it hard to move. He sighed and squinted at the barred door in front if him, then cracked a weak grin. "... can't believe that worked," he whispered to the silence, eyes rolling shut in exhaustion. His ribs ached and several wounds protested when his weight shifted awkwardly, enough to prop an arm under his head. It'd go numb by evening but it took pressure off his chest. It was starting to gurgle a little when he breathed - probably not a good sign.

Eh, he'd lived through worse.