In the kingdom of Talingarde, many crimes may send you to Branderscar Prison, but the sentence has but one meaning. You are wicked and irredeemable. Each of you received the same greeting when you arrived. You were held down by rough hands and branded upon the arm with a runic F. The mark signifies ‘forsaken’ and the painful scar is indelible proof that each of you has betrayed the great and eternal love of Mitra and his chosen mortal vassals.
Condemned, you face at best a life of shackles and servitude in the nearby salt mines. Others might await the “gentle” ministrations of the inquisitors so that co-conspirators may be revealed and confessions extracted. Perhaps, some of you will be spared this ordeal. Perhaps instead you have come to Branderscar to face the final judgment. In three days, the executioner arrives and the axe falls or the pyre will be lit. Through fire or steel, your crimes will be answered.
You have all been chained together in the same communal cell dressed in nothing but filthy, tattered rags. Manhandled and mistreated, any finery you once possessed is either ruined or long lost. No special treatment has been given any prisoner – male or female, commoner or noble – all of the forsaken are bound and imprisoned together. Your feet are secured by iron cuffs tethered by one long chain. Your arms are secured to the wall above by manacles. A guard is posted right outside the cell day and night. Little thought is given to long term accommodations. At Branderscar, justice comes swift and sure.
Escape seems hopeless. You have all been well searched and every attempt to conceal anything on your person has failed. And if you could somehow slip your bonds and fly out of this prison, where would you go? Who from your former life would want anything to do with the forsaken? Despised, alone and shackled – all that you can do now is await your doom.
For each of you, your old life is over. For each of you, hope is a fading memory. For each of you, justice will be fairly meted. And who can blame fair Talingarde after what each of you has done?
Eighty years ago your brother, Markadian, now called “the Victor” claimed the throne of Talingarde. He threw down Jaraad, Highseat of House Barca and Steward of Talingarde, and claimed the mantle of kingship. You watched as Markadian’s hold slowly cemented over the people of Talingarde. You learned from whispers of the formation of the Brotherhood of Marthanya and you can still recall the nightmare flight from Matharyn all the while being hounded by them. The Brotherhood.. sycophants and lackeys all, yet still zealous and uncompromising. They were fools. The first fawning members of Markadian’s cult of personality, but they were dangerous fools.
For forty four years you watched from the shadows as your birthright was stolen from you, watched as the Victor erected statue after statue with his visage. From the shadows you watched as the Brotherhood of Marthanya hunted down each and every threat to your brother’s rule. And then in the winter of 4678 AR you watched as your brother, now weakened from age, passed onto Pharasma’s graveyard.
Acting with decisiveness you began your ascent towards your rightful place as king. In the dying light of the Adarium you whispered in Markadian II’s ear convincing the young and gullible king of the truth of your words. It was by your hand that Prince Hallen slowly began his slide into madness. And when Hallen slew Markadian II and then later threw himself off of the highest spire of the Adarium it was you that watched from the shadows and felt the dark joy in your heart.
Quietly you waited for the writ of lineage, written in Markadian II’s own hand and seal to be found. Finally, after all of your years of patience you would be raised to your rightful place. Everything had been perfect and nothing could have stood in your way, nothing except for your great-nephew Marcus. The cult of Asmodeus has long despised the Darius line for the neglect and contempt of their religion. Convincing them that Marcus would take up his grandfather’s work had been an easy task. And so it was by your hand that Marcus was attacked by devils and cultist’s, inadvertently beginning the Great Asmodean Purge.
In the spring of 4696 AR Markadian IV the Zealous died. Once again a new king took the throne and once again you planned and plotted. For years you searched out allies and conspirators. Men who like you had become disenfranchised with the House of Darius. And so, after eighty years of whispering poisoned lies in the ears of others, the same was done to you. Betrayed by Valerio Madouci, the last remaining scion of the Brotherhood of Marthanya, he told the Knights of Alerion about your treason. For your crimes you were tried and sentenced to death. And as you were dragged away, Valerio whispered in your ear. ”I know who you are..”
And so you came to find yourself in Branderscar Prison. Your riches and finery torn from you, dressed in prison rags and held down as the branding iron seared your flesh. As you were thrown into a cell, chained hand and foot to six the other prisoners, a dark thought over took you. Branderscar was once known by a different name. Castle Brand, seat of the Hellknight Order of the Brand. Feeling your arm scream in pain from the burn and lying with your back to the wall, it seems somehow fitting that in three days you will die in the same castle that you caused your brother to purge so many years ago.
You can still recall the first time you saw your adopted father’s sword and remember the sound of the blade as it hissed its way out of the sheath. From the first moment you knew the blade was special. Perhaps it was the way that the light danced along the edge of its blackened blade, or the way that it moved in your father’s hands, seeming of its own regard. Regardless, you felt something stir inside of yourself each time you would spar with Marvius.
Something powerful, something foreign, something.. dark.
As the years went by and you grew from a boy into a man, your instincts about the blade began to sharpen, like a well-honed blade. And it was then that the whispers began. At first it was like a buzzing in the back of your mind, more urges then words. You felt an almost irresistible compulsion to practice with the blade. And so in the dead of night while Marvius was asleep you took up his father’s katana and began your nightly training.
Alone, cold and dark you felt the blade come alive in your hands for the first time. What Marvius’s training had begun the blade seemed to reinforce. In your mind’s eye you could see different forms. Parry’s, ripostes, blocks and strikes, each the correct counter to another attack. It was from the blade that you learned The Falling Leaf and how to counter it with Watered Silk. As the days became weeks and the weeks became months you practiced each and every night in secret with your “fathers” blade.
Then two months ago the unexpected happened, your adopted father, Marvius died. Described as a natural death, the cause was never fully explained. Marvius was not a young man, but he was still far from old. He was healthy, fit and well respected. Yet despite an investigation, despite a review by Mitran healers, nothing suspicious was found and Marvius was buried within the Old Barcan Cemetery in Ghastenhall with full military honors, along with his heirloom blade.
As time ground on your grief turned to anger, and your anger turned to obsession. As you would lie in bed each night, you would think back to the countless nights spent wielding your father’s katana. You could feel the blade in your hands, hear the whispers in the back of your mind. Eventually the urges became unbearable. You returned to the tomb, opened it and claimed your father’s exotic blade.
Emerging from the mausoleum you were greeted by a grim sight. Surrounding the crypt were red robed veteran soldiers of Mitra, led by the fanatic inquisitor Matthais Harkon. Illumined by flickering torchlight you were given a choice; surrender or die. Realizing that you had no options, you lowered your father’s katana, and as the black blade was ripped out of your fingers you heard a dark voice whisper. Patience.. Forced to your knees, inquisitor Harkon remorselessly smiled before declaring you forsaken.
And so you came to find yourself in Branderscar Prison for the crime of grave robbery. Your father’s sword was taken from you as evidence, your clothes and all personal belongings burned, and now the only thing you possess is the ragged prison uniform you were issued. Upon your arrival you were held down as a branding iron seared your forearm with a crimson F for “Forsaken”, and as you cried out, the fat sergeant of the guard who presided over the branding laughed. Reeling from the pain you were thrown into a cell and chained hand and foot to the other prisoners who were also awaiting execution.
Lies are an important part of business when it comes to slavery in a nation such as Talingarde. In a nation such as Cheliax or Sargava, slavery is a way of life. In Talingarde it’s a hanging offense. Still what could you do when as a young man your father told you the truth of your family’s income? Families are expensive, and a noble family especially so, and when your father passed away, who would could provide for your mother, two brothers and your sister? Who would provide for your brother’s education or your sisters dowries? No one would provide for them, no one but you.
You bitterly watched as the profits from slave trading kept your family afloat. You watched as righteous Tobias earned his spurs as a Knight of Alerion, not knowing that his horse had been paid for from a shipment of Iraen barbarians. You watched as young Oberon, so pious, so proud became inducted as an acolyte of Mitra wearing his sapphire and silver holy symbol paid for from a shipment of northern Yutak. And you watched as your dear sister prepared to enter into high society wearing the dresses and jewels paid for from your terrible crimes.
You have separated children from their mothers, and women from their husbands. You have watched slaved beat other slaves to death for a scrap of food. All the while, telling yourself that it was for your family. Yes my friend, lies are an important part of business when it comes to slavery.
Two months ago you stood in front of a local magistrate within the Lords Quarter of Ghastenhall, pleading for a shipping exception. As you petitioned the magistrate, your brother Tobias, now a full Knight of Alerion marched into court with a score of other Knights Alerion, bearing a writ of seizure signed by Lord Hadrian, Duke of Ghastenhall. The evidence before you was damming. Financial records, witness statements and cross referenced accounts. There was nothing that could be done. By the time the sun had set on Ghastenhall you had been stripped of your titles and lands, and for his unwavering perseverance and dedication to Mitra they had been awarded to your brother.
And so you came to find yourself in Branderscar Prison for the crime of slavery. Your clothes and all personal belongings were burned in front of you. Your family’s signet ring was taken, and now the only thing you possess is the ragged prison uniform you were issued. Upon your arrival you were held down as a branding iron seared your forearm with a crimson F for “Forsaken”, and as you cried out, the fat sergeant of the guard who presided over the branding laughed. Reeling from the pain you were thrown into a cell and chained hand and foot to the other prisoners who were also awaiting execution. As you lay there, with your blistered and burned arm, you racked your brain, looking for answers.
Freak.. abomination.. monster.. that is what they would whisper about you behind closed doors. From your earliest moments in life all you knew was fear and horror. You can never forget the ways that you mother Yondeene would look at you as a child. The sounds of her retching after she would have the clean the skin folds of your back and the ways that your sisters would cruelly tease you as a child.
You remember as a boy having rocks thrown at you by the other children. They would pretend to be Inquisitors, witch hunters or Knights of Alerion, holy and righteous. You never got to pretend, you were always the monster. They feared you, reviled you and hated you. Everyone hated you. Everyone but Nessuri.
If not for Nessuri, you don’t know what would have happened. It was her love that kept you alive. She was able to see past the ugly, deformed creature that you were, into the boy inside of you begging for affection. The walks alone in the woods with her were some of the happiest memories you ever had. She was your friend, your only friend. And so when she told you the stories of the cleaver ugly boy who saved the beautiful horned beast, of course you listened. You listened and you believed.
Belief can be a powerful thing. The priests of Mitra knew that well. When you were shipped to the Vale of Valterna by your parents it was your belief that sustained you. When you were under the healers knives, it was belief that kept you alive. For six years you were kept in the Vale. They called it healing, you called it torture. Each night, as you lay in the hospital bed, feeling the pain from each new surgery you prayed. And in the haze of pain and suffering you begged the Horned Lord for respite. And in the darkness your prayers were answered.
After your release and reunion with Nessuri, it was a happy time. You had found strength in the Horned Lord. The Vale had been a crucible to you, and you had emerged stronger because of it. Under Nessuri’s tutelage you came to understand the will of the Dark Prince. And despite the fact that your family had banished you to that hellish place you still loved them from afar. Then Sylphia betrayed you.
You watched as your friend and teacher Nessuri was burned at the stake for blasphemy. Held by chains you listened to her scream as the flames engulfed her. Shaking, you listened to Juliana speak for you at your trial, her words moving, but eventually falling on deaf ears. After it was all over you listened as the sanctimonious priest of Mitra passed judgment on you.
And so you came to find yourself in Branderscar Prison for the crime of blasphemy. Your clothes and all personal belongings were burned in front of you. Your holy tattoo was scoured from your body with “holy fire”, and now the only things you possess are the ragged prison uniform you were given and your faith in the Dark Prince. Upon your arrival you were held down as a branding iron seared your forearm with a crimson F for “Forsaken”, and as you cried out, the fat sergeant of the guard who presided over the branding, beat you with a club until you were unconscious. After several hours you awoke in a cell and reeling from the pain you found yourself chained hand and foot to six other prisoners who were also awaiting execution.
For twenty years you have had to hide your heritage. As a child you watched as your father hid his ability and religion from the cowering peasantry when he should have been embracing the power inside of himself instead. In your lifetime you have seen scholars have their books burned for heresy and then be burned at the stake for possessing them. You have seen wizards stoned to death for the ability to cast forbidden cantrips and watched as the church of Mitra slowly closed their iron fist around the influence of the learned. You have seen all of this and more and it has made you hate your homeland for their blind fear of the unknown.
As a girl you watched Naeri Corin embrace the faith of Mitra. At first you were able to listen to his blind platitudes, but over time his ignorance was more then you could handle and your frustration grew into anger and then into hatred. To make matters worse, you watched as his faith opened up doors as a wizard that was closed to non-believers. Frustrated and angry you turned to your father, and it was by his hand that he guided you to your faith in the Dark Lord.
It was by his tutelage that you came to learn of the old religions. Like you he had grown frustrated as knowledge had become censored and he watched his friends were dragged away during the purges. Through him you came to know Asmodeus, Lord of Darkness, First of the Fallen and Keeper of All Knowledge. It was in the cold truth of knowledge that you found peace. The Dark Prince may be evil, but he did not pretend to be otherwise. Asmodeus did not ask for forgiveness or understanding, he asked for a price, and that was something far more honest than what the so called “Lord of Light” asked for.
Making your decision, you began your personal quest for knowledge and power, willing to pay the price for such things. You saved for years and prepared yourself meticulously. You spent every coin you had in an attempt to summon an Erinyes and strike a dark bargain for power. You watched as the slowly gathering energy of the ritual built into a climax, and then, like the sap that struck you, it came crashing down in the blink of an eye.
Captured and forced to your knees, you watched as the gathered energy fled from the room. Towering over you, the witch hunter clamped you in chains and dragged you before the church where your sentence was swiftly passed.
And so it was that you came to find yourself in Branderscar Prison for the crime of consorting with dark powers. Your clothes and all personal belongings were burned in front of you. Your precious books cast into the flames, and now the only things you possess is the ragged prison uniform on your back. Upon your arrival you were held down as a branding iron seared your forearm with a crimson F for “Forsaken”, and as you cried out, the fat sergeant of the guard who presided over the branding laughed. After it was over you were dragged into a cell where you found yourself chained hand and foot to six other prisoners who were also awaiting execution.
They say that every grand performance warrants an encore, and that the best performances play upon the expectations of the audience. A grand pause between sets can create a far more dramatic effect then moving into the next section of an overture. You certainly hope so because you’re not ready for this to be your finale.
Like any good performance, yours began slowly, building up its pace over time. You recall the early years of your life and your father, Lord Catesby grieving for your mother. You remember his anger at her death at the hand of an inept Mitran priest who was unable to help her in her time of need. You remember the anger, frustration and hostility towards the church that he was never able to let go of.
Later you went onto study at the University of Ghaster. Despite not finishing your studies while there, you learned something far more important than history or engineering. You learned how much of a truism the phrase “blue beats black” really was. It was there, at the University of Ghaster that you first realized how distorted the interpretations of Mitras divine will really was. You saw the prideful ignorance of the clergy and its effect on your homeland and you knew something needed to change.
Five years after you began your studies at the university, your father became ill. After you returned home you learned the truth about your fathers past. Your father had always been mistrustful of the Mitran clergy following your mother’s death, and so despite worsening conditions he refused all treatments. As he slowly wasted away you sat by his side and listened as he told you of a time before Talingarde had bent knee to the religious hypocrisy of Mitra.
To compound the tragedy you watched as two years later your titles, heritage and land was taken from you by Lord Omer Wriothesley. You remember watching in shock as you were stripped of all of your holdings and they were passed to Lord Wriothesley. And then, with everything taken from you, you watched as your father died, cold and far from the home that was taken from him. It was then that you knew that Talingarde needed to change.
For months you plotted with your two oldest friends to right the imbalances within Talingarde. You had witnessed firsthand the power of the religious monarchy and the difference between those with power, and those without. And so after months of planning, you struck the first spark that would ignite the nation.
You remember planning the sealed chest within Lord Wriothesley’s carriage while he was on his way to the council meeting. You remember the feverish pause as you waited for the alchemical bomb to slowly tick away. And you remember watching the carriage as the bomb exploded, watching it become engulfed in fire, and watching the shambling figure of Lord Wriothesley stumble from the carriage, alive but maimed.
Your plan had been nearly perfect, and over the next few days you excitedly planned between yourself and Paullin further acts of terror to bring the city of Ghastenhall to its knees, not knowing of the viper within your midst. Two weeks later as you were returning from watching an evening performance at Barrington-in-the-Round Theater you were surrounded by group of red robed veteran soldiers of Mitra, led by Sir Balin, a Knight of Alerion. As you stood in the darkened street facing down ten loaded crossbow, Sir Balin brandished forth a writ of apprehension. Seeing no other option but death, you surrendered and before the week was out you had been tried and sentenced for your crimes.
And so it was that you came to find yourself in Branderscar Prison for the crimes of sedition and treason. Your fashionable green and red doublet and all personal belongings were burned, and now the only thing you possess is the ragged prison uniform on your back. Upon your arrival you were held down as a branding iron seared your forearm with a crimson F for “Forsaken”, and as you cried out, the fat sergeant of the guard who presided over the branding spit in your face. Reeling from the pain you were thrown into a cell and chained hand and foot to six other prisoners who were also awaiting execution.
You can remember a time before the darkness, before death. You remember the day that you graduated with honors from the University of Fairchester, your father watching you as you took your diploma. You can recall the day you met Penelope, how beautiful she was, how kind and caring. You remember the birth of Tomas and then Rosaline, each of them a blessing. You remember the way your wife smiled and the way that Tomas would hug you. In the darkness of your dreams you can remember it all, and then you wake and you forget it once more.
Like the foggy nights of Ghastenhall harbor, you live your life in a haze. Your wife is not gone, and Tomas and Rosaline are growing stronger by the day. You recall your family coming down with a sickness, but they recovered, stronger and healthier than before. Each night when you return home from work they are their waiting for you.
You forget why you quit your job as a doctor. You must have had a good reason, but you can’t recall it anymore. What you do remember is taking a job as a grave digger at the Old Barcan Cemetery. It was hard work, but you got to be outside. You could set your own hours and there was something peaceful about the quiet manicured lawns. You even made a few friends who you would help out for the occasional gift for your wife and children. Life was good, until the whispers began.
It all started after you read those books your friend loaned you. In fact you can distinctly recall him offering them to you, insisting you take them. Once you read them, you understood why he wanted you to have them. Inside they spoke of great and powerful rituals. Detailed upon the fine vellum parchment, it was described ways of returning spirits back from the veil of death. Intrigued you read on, and as you did so the whispers began.
Promises, seductive and dark were made. The voice spoke of your wife Penelopy and your son Tomas and daughter Rosaline, healthy, strong and pure. ”All of this and more I can grant you.” The voice whispered. And so, caught in your madness and love for your family you did what the voice said. In the dead of night, you followed the directions of the dark voice, leading you onward towards the shrine of Mitra located on the cemetery grounds. On the witching hour you daubed the runes of power and made the sacrifices of blood. You called upon your dark patron and completed the ritual.
The next day as you had sat down with your wife and children for dinner, the door to your small house was kicked in by several Knights of Alerion. There in front of your family you were arrested for desecration. You watched as your wife and children stood there mutely in shock. As you were dragged away you watched as your family was also carted off before the house that you had built for them was burned to the ground.
And so you came to find yourself in Branderscar Prison for the crime of desecration. Your only remaining link to your family, your daughters doll was taken from you as evidence, your clothes and all personal belongings were burned, and now the only thing you possess is the ragged prison uniform on your back. Upon your arrival you were held down as a branding iron seared your forearm with a crimson F for “Forsaken”, and as you cried out, the fat sergeant of the guard who presided over the branding laughed. Reeling from the pain you were thrown into a cell and chained hand and foot to six other prisoners who were also awaiting execution.
Ariana's mouth was dry. It was such an odd thing to feel angry about, but in her bleakness, it was an immediate problem she could focus on. She had spent days spitting at every passing guard, showing her loathing for the supposed love of Mitra by ensuring every fool knew that even in rags and chains, she was better than them. It was always an odd talent she'd possessed, the ability to spit quite a solid distance. It originally seemed so uncouth to her, but as she grew proud she saw it as a way to show her superiority. To spit on someone was to say that you were above them, better than them. She'd exhausted her saliva though, and death row prisoners were not exactly given all the water they wanted.
Her tongue dragged against the roof of her mouth, both coarse and dry, the motion not stimulating anything or giving her something to work with. It felt like a cat's tongue, and in any other context the discomfort would have made her stop. Discomfort was the least of her problems.
Resigning with a sigh, she ceased her attempt at one last defiant act. She could hardly be said to deserve pride anyway, after her miserable failure. The revolution had never truly begun, nor had she even gained an inkling of ability from it. Just as they had all those years ago, the worshippers of a fool god had defeated a loyal worshipper of Asmodeus, and they would not see the justice they deserved, not see their false morals go up in flames like her books had. Like knowledge had. Like she was soon to be. The mark on her arm only foreshadowed her burning.
In the dimness of the cell, a guard passed by and she did not rouse her saliva--of which there was still none--to show that they had not killed her spirit. They finally had, and she closed her eyes, wishing for sleep until the pyre.
The end of the line..well the end of the manacles and chains is where the mishumpen dwarf man sits his arms folded behind his head. Kherg smiles and whistles as the guards approach, a tunelessly but cheerful sound. His body may be covered in welts and bruises, the twin hot pains of that burning brand serve to stop him resting for long. Never mind. There is love and happiness in the heart that knows he will be saved.
"Kherg want drink please! Kherg is dying of thirst," he sprays the words and little spittle around in a croaky voice. And the smile never leaves his face.
A word or two about that smile, crooked and buckled so that it can normally leak saliva in gobbets while Kherg talks, or drips when he is quiet. Usually though his little piggy eyes are hidden under jutting eyebrows, making it harder to tell if the smile is real or just twisted flesh.
When the guard has gone, Kherg mouths to himself quietly, "burn in Hell! Haw haw haw."
He was sore. He was tired.
But more than anything else, he was anxious, for the butterflies danced about his stomach like a dozen fairies in the night sky.
Kaynen shrugged off the aches and the pain. They were bad, but in his mind they were simply the price of admission. Having spent four days camped in the rain outside the Barrington-in-the-Round, he was no stranger to being stuck in a single position for great length.
And this little show we have here, what a wondrous seat I have today here in the front row amidst the other players.
Kaynen shifted to get a good look at his dirty arm and admired his new "F".
The Forsaken -- such an excellent name for our new club, really. And such dramatic initiation rites with the crackling of fire and the sizzling of flesh. Why each of us has our own Lepistadt Scar with which to impress the ladies at the Golden Palace.
Kaynen felt himself unable to suppress the smile he had been wearing since capture - a prized possession that no Mitran inquisitor could ever rob him of.
He waited patiently for the other Players to each take stage and make their respective introductions, ensuring he preserved his entrance until a dramatically appropriate moment.
It's quite unfortunately all their hands are bound - it will mean no applause...
They were all locked in a box, a tomb, a coffin buried beneath the old stones of this towering relic. Death was the only promised release but Oswald was used to death. They were old friends; a pair of drinking companions that told stories to one another by the hearth fire. He had almost lost his beautiful little ones to death and his sweet Penelope. They had come back though; they had stood at death’s door but they loved him so much that they had returned.
”They have taken them! My darling, dear Rosaline! My brave, smart Tomas! My sweet, beautiful Penelope! They have taken them all away and laugh at their own cruelty! A curse upon them all! May Mitra choke upon his own arrogance and drown his followers in his regurgitated bile!”, Oswald thought to himself though the words instead made their way from between his lips in a raspy voice that holds more than a mere hint of madness to it.
Oswald worked his wrists against the shackles that bit into his flesh, fresh tears ripping into the skin around the swollen joints while trickles of blood oozed down to join the sanguine crust around the edges of the metal. His gaze bore through the cell door as he struggled against his bonds to walk toward the threshold. The shackles bit deeper as the chains jangled their metallic chorus to Oswald’s voice as he yelled at the guard on the other side, ”You have taken them! Release them, vile turnkey! My poor loves have done nothing to besmirch your hypocritical god’s name! Let them go!”
Barnabas looked ruefully at the irons clasping his wrists and ankles and couldn’t help but appreciate the irony. How many people was he responsible for putting into a similar situation? With really nothing better to do, he did some quick mental calculations and was almost shocked by the total. Well it had been a very well run operation. They of course, had only been chained in bondage, shipped off for a new life. Against their will maybe, but considering how those barbarians and savages lived, he was really doing them a favor. It seemed a little harsh to lose one’s head over it and really, Branderscar? They sent cannibals and murders to Branderscar. There was no justice in the world.
Out of professional curiosity, he cast a critical eye to his the manacles. Rusted and pitted as they were, there was still strong iron underneath. No hope there. The locks were a different matter all together. Clean and well oiled, there was little chance of a pin giving way under pressure, but the prison had gone with a single tumbler lock versus the more expensive four-tumbler model. A six year old could open the damned thing with a hatpin.
”Cheap bastards.”
With little else to do than focus on the pain of his brand, Barnabas squinted in the dim light at the rough and filthy companions that shared his cell:
Four men, a woman and dwarf. Sounds like the start of a bad joke.
“A little quieter if you please, the acoustics are quite good in here. I assure you that they keep no children in Branderscar. Though I would have said as much about women a short while ago.
Sitting down on the dirty cell floor, arms resting on his knees and black hair falling down in front of his face, Ethaniel keeps his head slightly bowed, lost as he is in thought. How did he end up in here, chained to these people, thieves and murderers and worse as far as he knew? The question, he has to admit, is rhetorical; he knows well the reason he came to find himself in Branderscar Prison, the day of his death fast approaching.
'The sword,' he answers it easily in his mind. 'Mine by right,' he adds bitterly almost as an afterthought. Had it not caught his eye the first time he saw his adopted father training with it and felt a certain... pull? Had he not been training with it for months on end, unbeknownst to Marvius, fully expecting it to become his when the time came for such a thing? And then, suddenly, the news came that the only father he had ever known had died. Natural causes they said, nothing arousing suspicion they said. And there was anger, of course there was anger, as well as grief. But, if he was to be truly honest with himself, there was also something else, a feeling of relief and anticipation, no matter how small, that he would finally have his... His... what? His prize? But it was not to be.
Then there is laughter coming from one of his cellmates, a misshapen brute of a man, and soon after another one starts yelling, even going so far as to try and reach the door. And just like that Ethaniel's thoughts are interrupted, as much from the sounds as from the pull coming from his chains, the latter owing to the apparently maniacal man trying to move too far.
Thieves and murderers and worse... He looks around at the rest of the people in the cell, five more men and a single woman. 'Am I any better than them?' The private question brings a thin little smile to his lips, though the look in his eyes is evidence enough that there is no actual mirth behind it.
Mikhail had not given the guards the satisfaction of hearing him cry out when they brought the brand onto his arm. Even now, as it throbs with the pain of charred skin, he merely grits his teeth to bear the pain. He is, after all, a man above. His pride and his dignity would not allow such a thing. Even his nephew, the scholar Markadian II with far more intelligence than sense, did not cry out when his brother slew him decades ago in his first bid for the throne which will one day be his. Even now, shackled in this horrible prison, Mikhail charts the way to his throne, mapping out potential avenues back to power. While his plots usually take years to mature - a very reasonable amount of time for a man with his lifespan - and allow him to keep his hands clean, he has only days here and very limited options. He will, he notes disdainfully, almost certainly have to get his hands dirty to achieve his goals this time.
He measures his potential allies to meet the first objective. Escape alone would be nigh-impossible, and have little hope for reclaiming the identity that he spent decades cultivating into the perfect vessel to claim his throne. Thus, he trains his cold eyes on the others in the cell with him, six in all. While he sees the dirty, gibbering madman and the addled dwarf first by merit of their bizarre appearances and behavior, he sets them aside for the time being. They will be simple enough to manuever into the correct position, he notes to himself. The fiery spitter with the dragonborn features, the sole woman amongst them, may be useful to him, though his usual method for obtaining the aid of women would be difficult to pull off thanks to the shackles and the presence of the others. He sees the quiet one with his hair over his face, who Mikhail finds difficult to measure up. The two others intrigue him the most.
One of them, a human, examines the bonds above him with a cunning eye and remarks on their quality, causing Mikhail to take note of him. This is a man of agency, Mikhail notes, and that is something that he needs right now. The man sits with the posture of a nobleman, though Mikhail doesn't recognize him. Such an ally would be useful. Reclaiming his place would be easier if he could claim that he was victim of envy and lies, and another nobleman would prove useful in corroborating the lie if any common enemy stood to benefit from their arrests. The other, whose ears betray him as a half-elf, continues to smile despite the seriousness of their situation. While Mikhail has the deeply borne faith in his own powers of persuasion that he believes he will escape, he is far from happy to be here. The smiling man must either be mad or be genuinely pleased to be here. Mikhail knows that learning which of these possibilities is the truth will be the key to using him. These two will be his immediate focus to learn more about.
Though the position of his arms above his head prevent him from offering a hand, he nods to them - a show of respect, even a perfunctory display of social niceties in a place long-devoid of them. He continues weaving lies to learn more, but knows that such a strategy will not be likely to work. First, the position puts him at a disadvantage. Second, these allies would be unlikely to aid him if he feigned innocence, being guilty of vile sins themselves. Third, if the plan were successful, he would eventually have to present the truth to them to keep their assistance. He decides to hold his lies for the future, to when they are truly needed and truly useful. The truth, however, is another matter with the guard possibly listening nearby. "We find ourselves in a precarious position, gentlemen," he says to the two he noted as the most useful earlier. "I am sentenced to death for sedition against the king." He drops his voice low enough that only the two can hear. "I have no intention of letting them execute me. I hope that you feel the same."
Recognizing that the six other "players" were stirring and orienting themselves to their new accommodations, Kaynen wondered how many knew their parts, or if they required him to occasionally feed them their lines.
Barnabas Wright. Interesting, I wonder what he's guilty of? If I recall, he has a younger sister who bears nothing of a resemblance...
Despite the lack of proper light in their cell, Kaynen had no trouble observing the finer details of his new companions, blessed as he was with a hint of elvish night vision. Shifting his weight carefully, so as to not disturb the leg irons that bound them all, he focused his attention on the pale, dark-haired man.
He lowered his voice to match that of his neighbors, and spoke with the ease of a tavern regular ordering his third drink of the night.
"Indeed? Make that two orders of sedition, and I'm afraid I'm quite guilty as well."
He restrained himself from speaking further, knowing the scene would be all the more dramatic as each player gave their lines and they moved ever toward the end of this important act.
To the southern end of the hall an iron reinforced prison door cracks open. One guard steps out into the wide hallway separating the cells and with an arrogant walk, slowly makes his way towards the cell containing the prisoners. Behind him, two other guards watch from the guard room ready to rush to his aid should anything suspicious happen. As the guard nears the cell you are all chained in, he takes out his truncheon and lets it hit each of the iron bars as he goes past, making an echoing clang, slowly getting louder and louder as he approaches.
Reaching the cell he points at Oswald with the club. Keep that up and I'll give you something to yell about! The guard replies before turning and making his way back to the lighted room at the southern end of the cell block.
The manacles themselves are all very similar. After studying them carefully for several terse moments your able to determine that the locks on the door, your feet and hands are all simple locks (DC 20 disable device) however you would take a -2 penalty to attempt to pick them while your hands remain manacled. To make matters worse it would all but impossible for you to do so without a set of thieves tools. Without the tools you would take an additional -10 penalty on your attempt to pick the locks, bringing the total to DC 32.
Realizing that the likely hood of picking the locks was lower then a Asmodean being given amnesty by the king, you instead try moving your wrists around inside of the manacles to see how tight they are. After several frustrating and uncomfortable moments you realize that it's going to take either smaller wrists or some sort of grease to slip the cuffs off. (DC 30 escape artist)
Though Barnabas clearly shows tell tell signs of the aristocracy, you can't identify who he is off the top of your head.
As the guard closes the door, you can hear the muffled voices of three men.
What was that? A voice asks.
Nothing, just the new scum, spitting and yelling as usual.. now what were you saying? Replies the guard who just threatened Oswald.
Oh yea, Blackerly is a damned thief! That game was rigged last night! Announces another.
A third voice retorts If it’s rigged, why do you keep going back to the gatehouse then?
The beer’s passable.
From the southern room you hear three men laugh. Drinkin’ on duty! Damn, this place has gone to hell. Captain Callidan would have never tolerated that crap. That’s for sure!
The first voice pipes up again. Captain Callidan … he left, what? Two years ago?
Almost three and since then the place has been straight down the s$+~ter. That old wizard never leaves his tower. He stays up there reading his books and petting his owl! Replies the second voice.
Petting his owl? Is that what they call it these days?
The three guards enjoy a bit of a laugh before the conversation dies down and your unable to make out anything else.
Mikhail listens to the guards chatter as they walk off. He takes note of their undisciplined ways. Whenever he orchestrates the escape, it will be at a point of weakness. He places the guardhouse and its inebriated guards atop that list for now. He also notes the description of the prison warden - scrolls, robes, and an owl all suggest a wizard of some type, even if the guard didn't call him that - someone to watch out for, though his apparent disinterest might be exploitable as well.
The very contrasting behavior of her cellmates didn't disturb her as much as she expected. Even the man who screamed like a madman didn't wear on her patience, which was certainly a first for her. Perhaps she simply had come to care that little about what happened in her last days, and just as she fretted on death row about the dryness of her mouth of all things, her patience had simply grown limitless with the acceptance of her fate. Or, maybe the knowledge that people faced death differently tempered her, made her more willing to accept his ravings. Come the morning he'd probably tire and quiet down like the rest of them.
At least, she assumed the rest were quiet. Once the madman finally quieted down, her keen ears picked up some low words off to the side. She closed her eyes and shifted all of her focus into that direction, trying to listen to what they had to say. It's not like she had anything better to do with a dry mouth, and she could perhaps lose a few moments in someone else's conversation.
As the guards move away from the cell again, Kaynen continues to keep his voice low, but raises it enough so that everyone sharing the long leg chain can hear his query.
"You've all surely seen The Count of Nisroch, no?"
Kaynen scans the motley crew and lets his eyes rest on the dwarf briefly.
Well not *everyone*, but no matter.
"Well then, let's have out with it. 'Tis the time we all confess our crimes to one another."
Wearing a face that indicates he's ready to listen, he turns to Ariana and provides what gentlemanly gesture he can with his wrists in shackles.
"Of course, lady's first..."
"Sedition is it? Now isn't that fancy. I'm just an honest business man who allegedly dealt in goods frowned upon in certain circles. Now I too am sentenced to death. Though it seems that everybody gets death sentences around here. This kingdom has a real problem with the whole punishment should fit the crime thing, but I digress. I hope that as part of your grand machinations you planned for this possibility. A lock pick implanted beneath your skin perhaps? With a pick, I can have us all out of here in a flash. Without one? Well I'm told prayer is sometimes helpful in times like these."
Barnabas leans back against the wall despondently and closes his eyes.
"How about the rest of you? Anyone have a lock pick squirreled away somewhere. I seem to have left mine in my other pants.
'A mage,' Ethaniel thinks to himself as he overhears several guards talking to each other and laughing. Still, the information will do him little good considering his predicament. Putting it aside for the moment, he instead diverts his attention once again to his cellmates, especially the ones that have started feeling a little more talkative, and finds himself somewhat taken aback. This is not how he would expect hardened criminals to talk, after all. 'Calm and well-spoken, at the very least for men who are as good as dead,' he concludes.
"Is this your way of saying you were a smuggler?" The question hangs for but a moment before he continues, not really waiting or even expecting an answer. "I took something from a grave," he states simply, "something that belongs to me." Present tense, not past. He is still alive, after all. He shrugs, or at least tries to, leaving it at that.
Then, after a moment's pause, he adds, "No, no lockpicks. I had not planned to meet someone who could use them while spending my last days in a cell." He smiles despite his situation. This time it is a little more honest than the one before.
Kherg unfolds his arms and pushes his begging hands out to the guard as he starts to turn away, "Water. water. please." But hearing the threats, the malformed man hunches down a little lower and sees drops of precious saliva hit the dusty floor.
He shakes his head at the play. No, never met the Count of Nisroch. Not want to meet nasty nobles with nasty tongues. He perks up a bit at the question about crimes and listens to the talk of smugglers. When they gve it a break from all the long words, he joins in, "My nana was bad. Nanaa Nessuri? She devil witch. She burnt. I is not bad. They deciding when to send me home to family, I just in wrong place. It mistake."
His eyes may be small but now they look decidedly cunning, not full of honesty and truth. He adds another "winning" smile for luck.
"Sedition? Oh, lucky you. I wish I could have gotten that far; witchcraft is mine. I tried to call up an Erinyes for power, intent on rousing the mages into rebellion. Apparently rebellion means 'spitting at passing guards' rather than anything of merit." She sneered, keeping her eyes closed. Her failures weighed heavy on her still, and no matter how much she gave in to despair it remained a stinging regret. "Were I mad enough to think hiding a lockpick under my skin pertinent, do you not think I would have mentioned it by now?" she hissed under her breath.
Stubbornly, she strained at the cuffs, wishing she could muster up the freedom of motion with her hand to cast a spell.
After a pointless and futile struggle versus the shackles, Oswald collapsed once more against the wall behind him. Fingernails, sharp and dirt-caked, dug into his palms as his gaze followed the guard that told him to be quiet, Oswald’s eyes did not leave him even when the man moved out of sight. He heard their petty chattering amongst one another before the laughter began again. Always the laughter! Why do they find so much pleasure in our torment?! Oswald’s hands moved to clutch around his ears as he bowed into himself for a brief moment before snapping straight up with a jolt. Another voice in his head speaks of no children in Branderscar which causes Oswald to shake his fist at the ceiling in anger, ”They took them all! Then they burned down our home! If they are not trapped in some cell in this forsaken place, then where are they? My little ones don’t deserve to suffer for crimes they had no part! Mine was the hand that cast down Mitra’s holy place; mine was the hand that soiled his image! Not their tiny hands…”
His wrath expended, Oswald rotated his head slowly over to the others as they talked about themselves. Oswald blinked several times as if he hadn’t even realized that others shared this room with him. He tried to extend one dirt and blood-encrusted hand to the next in line connected to him though the chain restricted much movement as his eyes seem to un-cloud for a few seconds, ”Where are my manners, I’m terribly sorry. I’m Dr. Oswald Turrill. Well, former doctor I guess would be more accurate as I haven’t practiced in years but I digress. Do any of gentlemen or lady, excuse me Miss, know when they’ll be hearing appeals? I’m sure another more sympathetic judge would allow some leniency for our crimes. It’s not like we killed anyone, right?” The clear and confused voice that came from Oswald’s lips is at odds with the raspy, madness that spewed forth from it just minutes before.
Kaynen nodded along with each prisoner's story, completely engrossed in any detail each provided, straining to detect the authenticity in their individual performances.
No, no undercover inquisitors here seeking an ignorant confession. No doubt they are lazy, thinking we are all already dead men, and don't realize that in questioning us they could gain additional insight into the how the second act unfolds.
Kaynen considered how he might be making selections for a street game of Rugagug - who would he pick first? Usually the team captains would pick either someone stronger than an ox to carry the ball towards the goal, or they'd pick someone from Wrightsbridge who stunk so horribly that the others would refuse to approach him.
Yes, the dwarf would be my first choice.
Kaynen reached out absentmindedly for Kergh, completely forgetting he was bound to the stone wall behind him.
Hidden behind his now-tangled mess of hair, Kaynen's eyes prickled as Ariana spoke of summoning outsiders and stirring rebellion.
"An excellent endeavor, miss. Allow me to embellish my attempts at heroism, as well. My co-conspirators and I were merely plotting the complete destruction of every statue, temple, structure, or edifice dedicated to Mitra throughout Talingarde."
Kaynen paused, a wistful look in his eyes as he considered the nobility of The Movement.
"We had yet to name our movement, as it were, as we were lacking in sufficient... membership. It is something of an challenge to find like-minded individuals with all the inquisitors lurking about - another inconvenience that must assuredly be rectified."
Kaynen stopped himself, realizing he was beginning the delivery of a substantial monologue when his goal was to allow each of the players as much time as possible to show their individual star qualities.
However, as his heart always stirred at times like these, he couldn't resist continuing and his words began to pick up speed with their delivery.
"I'd like to consider this pleasant stay at Branderscar something of a recruitment drive for those with like minds to participate in the toppling of all institutions withing Talingarde. Upon escape, we will certainly not stop until even the monarch's reign been part of this regime's curtain call..."
Once again, Kaynen looked to the others - feeling as if he had handed out something far more valuable than a hidden lockpick.
"I have freedom. Someone will help me." Kherg smiles to himself and the floor before he starts coughing dry and red-faced.
Said too much. Start coughing. Pretend I never said that. Mustn't annoy him. I believe in doing it right, doing orders and everything will work out just fine. "They will all know me for my purpose and power". Not sure what that is but sounds right. Purpose and power.
At the woman's sarcastic quip, Barnabas opens his eyes and gives her a winning smile.
"Well my dear, since the crown is barely aware of the tenth of what happens under its nose and as we were all bright enough to get caught, I thought it couldn't hurt to ask. Things have a way of slipping the mind in times of stress."
Seriously, some people have no sense of humour. She's an Arcanist though, best not to provoke her.
Oswald's calmer introduction, provokes a dubious look from Barnabas. If he's a Doctor, then so's the dwarf.
"I feel that that the time for appeals might be long past my good...Doctor. I'm told that only the condemned are sent to this prison and feet first is the only way anyone leaves."
He can't help but stare in stunned silence at Kaynen's proclamation.
He can't be serious. Is he being serious?
"Are you serious? Recruiting revolutionaries from Branderscar? This isn't a University of Ghaster tavern. Gods man, do you know the kinds of people that end up here? The last man I had sent here ate children. Apparently he liked his meat fresh, so he kept the little ones alive and only ate them piece by piece. One of the guards that found his larder ended up hanging himself because the nightmares were so bad...."
Barnabas takes a deep breath and runs a hand over his face, taking a moment to compose himself. He sighs.
"Tell you what friend. If your compatriots burst through the door to lead us out in a daring rescue, you can count on me in your war against Mitra. And while we're dreaming, I'll take a big foaming tankard of ale."
Ariana looked to the raving madman, or rather one of them. The better-kept one, who on a dime turned from madness to eloquence. She probably would have preferred he remain a lunatic throughout, as at least it would have been predictable. These new twists unsettled her, bringing a chaos into her life that she wished gone so that she could die in peace. "And now my fate takes a turn for the tragicomic." She usually didn't speak like that, but the half-elf had unfortunately rubbed off on her. That did not improve her mood very much, as her attempts to keep a level head quickly gave way to a growing dread that her bizarre assortment of cellmates would rob her of her surrendered certainty.
"Would you like to share how you believe we'll be given freedom? Because if you truly possess such means, I will gladly join you, and possess certain abilities that will grant me magic and decent weaponry even in my current state. Should these be the hallucinatory ramblings of someone giving in to both psychosis and starvation, however, pray that I do not find a way to get my hands loose, for I will see to it you are burned well before you're brought to the pyre."
Kaynen attempted once again unsuccessfully to find a comfortable position for conversation.
He first gives the dwarf a long quizzical look. Despite speaking just seven short words, Kaynen frowns as the dwarf begins coughing.
As Barnabas chimed in, hope lit within Kaynen. This one has spirit! And humor! So many ripe roles for him!
Kaynen was about to reply, having difficulty waiting for the others to voice their crimes and aspirations, but paused as the woman began her monologue. Toward the end, as it degenerated into a series of insults and threats, he rolled his eyes and struggled feebly to wave his hand in a dismissive gesture.
"Yes, yes. With your apparent talents, if only you could spit acid, we could dissolve away these manacles."
"Or if only our honest businessman had a lockpick..." It's always the honest ones who can pick locks, isn't it?
"Or if only our good doctor here could have his appeal heard..."
Kaynen gives the dwarf a long look, then observes both the purple-eyed and pale men in turn wondering how long they will maintain their silence.
"First, we must identify which of us merits a second lease on life. Then, we should certainly share our respective talents, for undoubtedly our Quest for Fresh Air depends on them."
Once again, Kaynen struggled with his manacles in an attempt to effect something of a flourish.
"Now, if only I had a pinch of fleece or a bit of wool and could get my hands free, I might be able to make something of a convincing case for a request when our next meal arrives..."
'So, at least two of them are spellcasters,' Ethaniel notes as he takes a better look at the others, almost as if sizing them up. 'And at least two of them are more or less insane,' he reminds himself as a soft sigh escapes his lips.
"I am fairly certain that, given the chance, any one of us would do whatever he -or she- could to avoid the fate that awaits us," he says simply, his voice calm and even. "Whoever succeeds or at least survives would 'merit a second lease in life', wouldn't you say?" Another sigh. "But until that opportunity presents itself, the point is kind of moot, isn't it?"
Though hardly optimistic, Ethaniel finds that the continuing conversation interests him somewhat. After all, it is a welcome diversion from both the burning sensation in his forearm courtesy of the fresh brand, as well as from other thoughts concerning the recent past and the future, or rather the lack of one beyond the next three days.
Oswald draws back his open hand after no-one appears interested in returning the attempt at civility. He curls the digits upon that hand until he can inspect his nails. So much dirt. Penelope shall surely chastise me for setting such a bad example for the children… the children, where are they?! Suddenly, Oswald’s eyes dart about the cell, looking in each dark crevasse and corner for something that he doesn’t seem to find. The filthy man’s muscles tense as his breathing grows deep and slow. His voice grows raspy once more, ”Yes, escape is the answer. We must all escape. I can find my sweet little one when we are free. The ugly one with the stick, we anger him, he comes close to make good his threat and then we spring. Trip him, bash him, and spill his brains. With my hands across his throat, the dark spirits shall have his soul.”
Oswald turns his gaze to look at Kaynen and extends his index finger at the eloquent half-elf, ”I shall join your revolution. They took my little ones. I shall get my dears back once more and then all of those that would hurt them must burn. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Then I shall bury the ashes and dust in the deepest pit, so deep that never will they see the light of day once more.” Oswald scratches with a painful winch at his own brand in irritation.
Kherg has a go at pulling the manacles out of the wall. As the end of the line he exerts full flex for a moment and whips his body against the top hole as powerfully as he can.
"Strong chains."
As you all continue to quietly plan your escape, your interrupted by the sound of the iron reinforced prison door at the end of the hall creaking open on its rusty hinges. As the light shines out of the room, the silhouettes of seven men can be made out against the light. Marching at the head of the group is Sergeant Tomas Blackerly, the Captain of the Watch for Branderscar Prison and the man who held the brand that marked each of you. This is the man who laughed, spit and beat you into unconsciousness after he burned you. Right now, though he seems a little dazed.
As the Sergeant reaches the cell, four guards behind him withdraw their clubs while two hesitantly open the cell with a loud Taking his truncheon from his belt he points with it towards Barnabas and says gruffly:
You there! That’s the scum! Get ‘em unshackled. If any of you makes trouble, they’ll earn a thrashing! Today’s your lucky day, scum. You've got a visitor. How you ever warranted such a fine lady is beyond me. Seems she wants to say good-bye. Now step lively. We wouldn't want to keep her waiting.
As the chain around your feet is withdrawn, Blackerly eyes Oswald who seems to be moving far too slow for his taste. Raising his truncheon he gives the mad gravedigger an encouraging rap on his bare feet with his truncheon.
With the other guards ready for any trouble, Barnabas is carefully released from the shackles binding his hands, before being fitted with a second set of manacles and fetters and being pushed out of the cell. Carefully the guards reset the chains binding your feet before withdrawing from the cell and closing it with another loud
Your roughly shoved down the hall with the occasional push and prod from the guards truncheon. Blackerly escorts you to the iron reinforced prison door at the end of the hall. As it opens you can see a small guard room and a landing that has stairs leading down towards another floor as well as another door, this one not reinforced. There's little furnishings in the room save for a small table and three chairs. There is also a ridiculously large fireplace and a peg near the door that has several sets of keys hanging on it. Without wasting any time the guard captain leads you towards the only other door and shoves you through it into a plain and unadorned meeting room where he forces you to sit in a chair.
Seated across the table from you is a hauntingly beautiful woman in an elegant black dress and soft silken veil. She looks as if she is headed to a funeral. Her hair is so platinum as to almost be white and her eyes are a vibrant almost unearthly green. She clearly has been weeping. Oh, dearest, proclaims the unfamiliar woman. I’m so relieved you’re alive! She quickly turns to Tomas. Could we please have a moment alone, good sir? For pity’s sake? Tomas goes blank for a bit and then quickly agrees. Of course, my lady. For you,’ tis no problem.
Giving a thankful nod, the blond haired woman dabs a single tear from her eye and watches as Blackerly leaves. Immediately the woman's demeanor changes.
Have you forgotten me, dearest? the unexpected visitor says with a smirk, dropping her pretense of grief. Call me Tiadora. We possess a mutual friend who would like to meet you and your fellow cell-mates. Unfortunately, our friend is unwilling to visit you in your present rather shabby accommodations so it seems you must escape. Don’t be so dour. Just because it’s never been done before is no reason you can’t be the first. If you manage that, cross the moors on the outskirts of town. On the old Moor Road you’ll see a manor house with a single lantern burning in the second story. There our mutual friend waits. That is all I know. He did want me to give you this. She takes off her silken veil and wipes away a few fake tears with it. Something to remember me by, dearest. She finishes, pushing the silken veil into your hands.
"Easy boys, I'm moving."
Barnabas is rarely surprised, but the woman's has him completely thrown. When she drops the act once the guard is out of the room, he relaxes a bit as the conversation slips into more familiar territory. Always was a fool for a pretty face.
Barnabas takes the veil, inspecting it closely and the secreting upon his person
"Interesting embroidery. I take it that this supposed to help in our escape somehow? Also, I know our time is short, but do you know the time of day? I'd rather not time our daring escape so as to emerge into the revealing light of the noonday sun."
As Blackerly and the guards enter the prison, Kaynen keeps his attention trained on each and every men, scanning their bodies for weaponry and armor while his eyes hunt for the keyring to their manacles like an eagle hunts for a rabbit in an open field.
As Barnabas is escorted away, Kaynen muses over the businessman's recent departure.
Unfortunate, he had a sense of humor that I was beginning to enjoy - an audience always loves a player who brings comedy to each scene. Although, I suspect he'll be back as it seems something of a conjugal visit. I wonder if Ella would be so kind to visit me in turn and include something a little extra in a cake she bakes for me...?
Kaynen smiles at the thought, but composes himself as the guards disappear out of earshot, hoping to resume the conversation where it off.
"Well, there goes the man who can pick our way out of these--," Kaynen rattles his chains slightly
"Although, men of his age and profession shouldn't take long for the transaction I'm certain is about to take place..."
Kaynen turns his head slightly to detect any further sounds coming from the cell block, seeking confirmation for this suspicions.
Oswald clutches at his foot, hissing in pain as Blackerly beats at him for being too slow. The madman's eyes narrow as he points a dirty, long-nailed finger at the Sergeant and whispers, "Soon. Soon. Soon. Your soul is going to a dark place." His eyes follow the guards back out the room with Barnabas. As the door closes with a loud metallic clank, Oswald starts talking louder, "Return my sweet little Rosaline to me, you knaves! Vile, s!$~-eating porcines! I know what horrible things you are doing to my poor little girl! Your souls will burn in the deepest pit of hell for your perversions!"
After roughly ten minutes you all watch as the iron reinforced door at the end of the hall creaks open.
A moment later Barnabas is shoved down the hallway by six guards lead by Sergeant Blackerly. Following the same routine as before the Sergeant is the first to reach the cell and he opens the door with a key from his belt. As he does so the four guards behind him withdraw their clubs while two hesitantly open the cell with a loud . Motioning for you to all back up he raises his club in a threateningly posture however each of you seems to have learned from Oswald's painful lesson and quickly back away. With a careful efficiency Barnabas is re-shackled to the wall and his feet are bound to the chain that runs the length of the cell. As the guards leave the cell the door closes with a loud before the guard cadre marches down to the end of the hall and slams closed the iron reinforced cell door. Amidst the gloom and darkness of the cell block you are left in chains, alone with the other six prisoners.
With a smile that doesn't touch her eyes, Tiadora waves to the veil that your hiding away. I was led to believe that your resourceful. I'm sure you can figure it out. As for the time.. it is roughly two hours before sunset. Now, if you will excuse me, I have other matters to attend to.
Her message delivered, Tiadora rises and the guards return. Immediately, her demeanor once more changes and she is again a perfect picture of grief. No, I can’t bear to leave you! She cries giving you a kiss on the cheek. The kiss is ice-cold and feels somehow alien and inhuman.
Tomas shakes his head. I’m afraid it’s time, miss.
She looks deep in Tomas’ eyes and says, Thank you for letting me say good-bye. There’s no need to search my dearest. You are such a good friend for letting me see my dearest one more time.
Such a good friend, Tomas repeats his voice almost mechanical. Then the watch sergeant seems to snap out of it and bows politely. A pleasure, madam, She leaves unveiled. As she exits the room escorted by a guard and led down the stairwell her eyes meet yours one last time and she briefly gives you a wicked smile.
Three days, telepathically echoes in your mind. Don’t disappoint me, dearest.
Your visitation concluded, you are prodded back to your cell once more by Sergeant Blackerly and the six other guards. Once there your hands are tightly shacked back to the wall and your feet are attached to the chain that runs the length of the cell. As the guards leave the cell the door closes with a loud before the guard cadre marches down to the end of the hall and slams closed the iron reinforced cell door. Amidst the gloom and darkness of the cell block you are left in chains, alone with the other six prisoners.
Focused more on his conversation with the other prisoners, Kaynen completely misses observing the details of Barnabas' return, events he had completely intended to focus his undivided attention onto in order to ascertain further insight into future escape plans.
As the guards depart once again, Kaynen studies Barnabas for the tell-tale signs of the romantic encounter that the businessman just completed.
Hmm. No lipstick. No wrinkles. Either he is cleverly discrete, or his farewell session was brief and uneventful - for surely there is no fault in my methods of detection. I wonder?
Unable to hide his permanent smirk, Kaynen cannot help but to inquire about the encounter, at the very least hoping that Barnabas gained further insight into methods of egress from the prison.
"And...? Was the lass's final gift a particularly pleasant one?"
Barnabas waits a long while to make sure that none of the guards are coming back.
"I hope so my grinning friend, but it seems that it comes with some strings attached."
Barnabas fishes out a silken veil that was tucked up into his dirty uniform.
"Looks like we have some friends on the outside folks. All of us." He gives the group a meaningful look.
"Our mysterious benefactor wants to meet us all and has provided this dainty as a means of securing our escape. Now I hope this garment proves to be terribly magical and not some cruel joke. Some of you implied that you possessed talent for the arcane. Anyone want to take a look and tell me what this does?"
He proffers the veil to Kaynen and Arianna.
'Beautiful, elegant, exotic-looking hair,' Ethaniel thinks to himself as he manages to catch a good look of the woman in question before she is escorted away. He ponders on it for a few moments before turning his attention to his returned cellmate.
"All of us?" Ethaniel repeats the man's words, doubt clearly evident in his voice. "Seeing as we ourselves have never met before, I find that rather unlikely. And I would remember knowing a woman like the one who asked for you. Still, at the very least, it all sounds very intriguing." He accompanies the words with a shrug before moving a little to get a better look at whatever it is the other man has just taken out of his prison uniform.
"What is that?"
Kaynen frowns when he notices the gift was a veil, and not something more apparently useful.
"Ah yes, the magic hankerchief! Known to prevent the spread of illness through the concealment of mucus and nasal secretions."
The symbols are intriguing - are they actually keyed to an enchantment, or representative of some secret society intending to be our benefactor?
"Thanks for this gift." Kherg nods and smiles to himself again. "Do you know the symbol? The one like a spiked star."
This appears to be a fine silk veil of gossamer cloth. Only as it is held and closely inspected can you see small cloth patches of various shapes
Examining the veil you are able to determine that the symbols stitched into the veil seem to correspond to real life objects and while your keen mind is able to grasp what most of the images relate to, your unable to determine what the star like object in the center of the veil is. All told the veil contains the following images.
To the untrained believer this object would look like a star or perhaps a compass, however you instantly recognize it as an Unholy Symbol of Asmodeus. The way that the thorns intertwine with the inverted pentagram makes it obvious to one such as yourself.
Kergh dribbles.
As Barnabas flits about the veil from his shackled hand, appearing much like a grappled prisoner waving about a white flag of surrender, Kaynen's eyes narrow in the dim light as he tries to sort out the symbols.
Daggers... a lantern... rope... are those, lockpicks?
"Barnabas, stop waving about your prize, I need to focus for a moment. That symbol, just under the five-pointed star. It seems to resemble an 'honest businessman's' tools of the trade."
Nodding to himself, Kaynen almost sees it as a cruel joke and chuckles to himself.
"What a cruel joke this mistress has played - a veil with all the patches representing all the tools needed for an escape."
Kaynen attempts to bring one of his hands near his face to bat away an imaginary tear.
Kergh's mouth closes like a mantrap. His eyes narrow and he watches whatever happens next very carefully.
How do I get my gift? Thank you, thank you, thank you master. I knew you would come and save me.
Barnabas gives the half-elf a glare.
"I have eyes Kaynen. I can see what's embroidered on the the damned thing. The thing's practically a how to break out of prison shopping list. I can't open a lock with a drawing. I was hoping that there was some way of turning the stitching into what they represent. "
"Oh and before I forget. It's apparently 2 hours before sunset, so we have sometime to solve this puzzle."
Mikhail is in no position to see the woman as she exits. Even if he were, he is lost in thought about the motivations of the others. When Barnabas returns with his prize and the others debate it, he continues to assess them to determine their desires. Mikhail has always had the talent to know how to motivate others, by preying upon their desire for power or kinship. He speaks quietly at first, his voice gaining a rhythmic, mesmeric cadence. "You shall walk free, friend, and in your freedom you will gain all which you desire. People like us were sent here by a society that fears us and our potential. Why else would they choose fire as the weapon they wish to use against us? It isn't enough for them to kill us, but they wish to eradicate our very memory. How many ideas have burned upon that pyre because the people of this country were too fearful, too cowed by Mitra and Markadian to think for themselves? I stood to do something about it, and they seek now to throw me down - just to keep it from the people. One day, one day soon, the people will talk of this day, where heroes were as chained as ideas. Just as we will throw down these chains and walk free, so shall the minds of Talingarde. When the people are free, no one will stop you from that which you desire. No one will want to stop you, and they will celebrate with you when you achieve it. It is good to meet you all. My name is Mikhail Halancoun, and I shall see us free." Mikhail has the ability to make each person in the room view his own dreams and wishes, and feel as if Mikhail is talking to them directly.
It appears as if you might be able to tear away the stitched images that decorate the silken veil.
The veil in question is actually a:
Veil of Useful Items
Aura moderate transmutation; CL 9th
Slot none; Price 7,000 gp; Weight --
DESCRIPTION
This appears to be a fine silk veil of gossamer cloth. Only as it is
held and closely inspected can you see small cloth patches
of various shapes. One patch can be detached each round
as a move action. Detaching a patch causes it to become an
actual item. This veil contains:
and common clothes in the PCs sizes
Note that the window patch will create a window (and therefore
a hole) in a nearby wall. If there are no nearby walls, it simply
turns into a common wooden window frame. It cannot be
placed on a living creature however. Once removed, a patch
cannot be replaced.
CONSTRUCTION
Requirements Craft Wondrous Item, fabricate; Cost 3,500 gp
Kaynen shrugs to Barnabas.
"Tell us more of this tasty trollop of yours... was she fetching? What color was her hair? From the color of her hair, you can always tell the way a woman likes her---"
Kaynen pauses mid-sentence as he observes the veil wavering in Barnabas' hands.
"Wait a minute... try tugging the patch off? There's stitches there, like it's meant to be pulled?"
The window patch... can we simply set it against the wall for a portal to the outside? We did go *UP* stairs. How many steps were there again? Wouldn't that be a clever handkerchief, then? Double, no a triple tip for his delightful lass upon our freedom. I simply must learn wherever our businessman here originally discovered her.
"Actually, I believe I am going to be beheaded," Ethaniel points out to the one named Mikhail, feeling for some reason the need to correct him in regards to the manner of execution awaiting for them. Perhaps he does so in an absent-minded manner, seeing as how his attention is focused on the silken veil that seems to be the point of interest at the moment.
"Though I cannot be entirely sure, I believe it is magical indeed. The patches represent the items they turn into once they are removed from the fabric. Of course, it is a theory only." Ethaniel shrugs. "Until we try it out anyway."
As an afterthought, he adds, "Call me Ethaniel."
Oswald slumps once more against the wall as his tirade against the guards winds down. The former doctor barely notices Barnabas' return as his eyes narrow at their wardens before they make their way back to the guardroom. A pox upon them! The fiends, the cads! Keeping a father from his poor children! The conversation that springs forth about Barnabas' 'visitor' is lost on Oswald as another voice begins to permeate his aural cavities. A masculine voice that filled his mind with the feeling of expensive silk and spoke of those that had done them wrong. Those in power would be thrown down and the people would rejoice. Oswald loses himself in the imagery of his family gathered around a simple meal upon a blanket on a grassy hill. Perfection. The warmth of the sun shines down on their faces as a wide smile spreads across Penelope’s face. She always loved picnics. My darling Penelope, where have they taken you?
Oswald reaches out to touch his wife’s beautiful face and is jarred back to reality when his fingers brush through thin air instead of soft flesh. His eyes wide in surprise as the hilltop morphs back into the bare stone and iron walls of the prison cell. The others are now talking about something that they are passing about. The words magic reaches Oswald’s ears over the other voices crowding in for his attention. Oswald speaks softly to himself as his fingers weave in patterns made more difficult by the heavy shackles encompassing his wrists. A new world of imagery overlays Oswald’s vision as the fabric of creation itself becomes visible. Oswald sweeps his gaze over by the others as they fiddle with something in their hands. The auras that spring forth from the object tell him somewhat of how it was made but little of its true purpose. Oswald’s raspy voice speaks forth once more, ”Forged of the magic of transmutation. A gift of change. Change our fates perhaps.”
"The answer to our prayers, discipline and strength to follow those orders, meet the hidden saviour." murmurs Kherg, more to himself than anyone else. His eyes focus still on the shimmering hankerchief and its vital patches. Afterwards he tries to lick his fingers clean but the manacles stop that happening after several attempts.
The dwarf hangs curled and stretched making his feet taut and bent. One sandal has fallen off to show the grotty mess of mud and old blood. The nail buckled and twisted into the body of the toe.