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Spring, LA 99
Plains of Eris Aman, on the road from Foul Bog to Steel Hill, the journey of more than 600 miles
The long lines of slaves follow the carts laden with tribute gathered from the peasant hovels and lordly manors alike. One hundred slaves from all the races of Eredane trail the carts, chained to one another, guarded by the horseman on Sarcosan steeds and hobgoblin slavemasters with whips and flails.
At the beginning of the column rides a tall legate in a segmented black armor. A large black dog follows his horse, growling at the slaves from time to time.
Most of the chained slaves are Erenlanders and Sarcosans, intended for the mines and foundries of Steel Hill, but there are some captives among them, caught at the edges of elven forest...
A rather tall man is chained to the rest of the gang. He is muscular, with shoulder length white hair. He seems to be wearing the tattered remains of the clothes he adventures in. As he moves with the slaves he doesn't speak to anyone. The only thing he does is observe each slaver and the legate in particular.
The hobgoblins are keeping away from him oddly enough. When they meet his gaze he stares with obvious hatred at them. They don't keep eye contact for long. They put him in the back of the line. His gaze seems to make them nervous.
Anwyn moves along silently along her fellow slaves, her gaze fixed straight ahead ignoring the appreciative looks she received from the others. Certainly she cut a striking figure, with her long white hair trailing behind her down her dusky grey skinned back. The dress she wore, while faded and torn from the long journey, was of a high quality speaking to her high social standing (not that it mattered at this point.) Those who had the (mis)fortune to look directly at her face were immediately struck by her blood red eyes which smoldered with long-repressed emotions. Those who looked soon ended up averting their gazes. The slave masters while they were unsure what this newly found slave portended knew this was a valuable find. She was therefore placed near the front of the train where the legate and the guards could watch her more closely.
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Of all the coffles to be chained into, one little Gnome had seemingly lucked out - as had the very tall prisoners in front and behind his position - because the collar for this set was broken. In addition, the manacles for wrist and ankle were human-sized, and too big for his diminuitive limbs. So instead of dangling between the two taller folks by his neck, or forcing them to hunch the entire trip, Eadfaas would, with the manacles fashioned into a makeshift metal belt, be able to touch the grpund easily. His orc jailer and both fellow prisoners had seemed glad for his having suggested the fix. It didn't look exactly comfortable, but it certainly seemed secure, and allowed him to walk.
So walk he does, four chains leading upwards, attached to the primary chain, but not seeming to hamper his mobility much - aside from preventing the wearing of the floppy-brimmed black hat he carries. His head being at waist level for those around him, Eadfaas seems to be literally beneath the notice of the guards most of the time. Which means his forest-green vest and trousers are mostly un-marked by lash or rod, and his black leather boots and sailor's longcoat are relatively clean. His hand-length black hair is shaggy, but almost artfully so - as if the result of deliberate styling, rather than countless days without a bath, comb, or mirror.
Despite the gloomy circumstances, Ead's silvery-pale blue eyes seem unconcerned. Except on the rare occasions that the Legate chances to ride by. Fortunately, those occasions have been few, so far.
Stepping lightly ,Yardiff Bey concentrated on the gait of the tall Erenlander in front of him, adjusting his own steps to ease the chafing of the shackles joining him to the rest of the chain. However, the man behind him stumbled, sending jolting pain up his legs as he was caught off guard and was unable to adapt quickly enough.
Mashad would see think this a suitable penance for my rash actions. Yardiff Bey thought to himself, wincing. With a sigh, he again began the mental exercise of studying the man in front, while now also trying to keep an eye on the man behind.
The man behind Yardiff Bey was in turn studying the strange man before him. Red hair was not uncommon among Dorn and Erenlanders, even the odd Sarcosan will turn up auburn; but this man's hair was almost like fire. The man would swear that at time it moved as if on fire, even when there was no wind. And the skin...like burnished copper, unlike anything he'd seen or heard of. At first he was quite disquieted to have this strange man so close but the man was of such a calm, unprepossessing nature that he soon gave him no thought , so occupied was he with placing his own steps just so.
Ever since they had passed the outskirts of the elven forest, a somberly dressed elf had walked not far behind the lucky gnome. Paler than most of her kin, she looked around with interest, almost as though she hadn't realized the gravity of her capture. So slender that they'd had to use manacles fit for a child on her, she moved with a quick grace, easily avoiding obstacles that made others stumble and trip. Her raven hair was tied back into a long, thick braid, and her dark longcoat was buckled over loose pants stuffed into her scuffed and worn boots. Her golden-brown eyes were startling amid all that darkness. She was a figure of delicate beauty despite her sober expression and the dirt and soot that grimed her clothes and skin. Oddly, she never spoke, simply staring at whatever caught her interest as they marched.
Rÿar has removed her cousin's rings for safekeeping.
Being only slightly shorter than the typical human, she did not struggle walking with the chains fastened to her neck and ankles. With the neck brace on she was prevented in pulling her hood of her cape over her head, thus revealing her facial ritual scarring and her oddly coloured amber eyes for a Danisil. Being much larger than the typical Danisil with scary looking scarring on her face, body and limbs, as well as her taloned hands, kept most of the slavers away from her concerned that she may have demon blood. Even those chained either side of her tried their best to keep their distance from her when they stopped. Under her cape, the shape of two wings can be made out, and occasionally the black feathered wing tips sticking out from under her cape as she made no effort to concern her wings as all present around her knew of her wings.
As she walked she kept a constantly look out for the slavers' positions and actions. Keeping very quiet as she plotted to regain freedom, to escape into the night.
Alan received a fair share of lashes and kicks from the hobgoblin slave drivers, and all because he wouldn't keep his head down like the rest of the line. If he was not craning his neck to look forward, hoping to catch a glimpse of Anwyn somewhere right behind the cart, he was looking back to see Lantesh, a score of prisoners behind him.
This did not start as he - as they had planed. He hopped that they would find the way to Eredane and join the resistance or whoever fought the Shadow. Instead, after barely a couple of days, they were captured by servants of Izrador. It might be their luck that they were captured by a group of not too smart Orcs, or they might have questioned them more closely about the origins of their equipment. But they were too greedy to grab the loot, they even got into a fight over dividing it. After a legate yelled for Orcs to prepare a hundred slaves for the mines, they were just pushed into a crowd, got separated and chained up.
We could have been killed just for having weapons.
But Alan refuses to be defeated, the only thing that was in his mind since the moment the rusty manacles were bolted around his limbs was escape. And in his mind it involves all of the slaves in the line.
His stride is steady and long, and his back straight,a demeanor of someone who never lived under the yoke of the Shadow. Long black hair is matted with blood from a blow he took to the scalp, and with his head still held up high, it is evident that he is far from despairing resignation and his lively dark eyes are constantly moving up and down the line of slaves, trying to plan an escape and look for potential allies. Standing taller than most helped, one of the things he did take after his father, rather then his mother.
So far he has spotted a couple of people close to him that drew his attention: an elf, only two places in front of him, and a man a bit to the back, with glowing hair, reminding Alan of a flowing lava he read somewhere about, shining almost like a beacon.
We just need to wait for the right time he thinks, determined to approach these two if possible the next time they make one of the rare stops.
The short one behind Lantesh was slow. Enough that he kept causing Lantesh to stumble.
Grabbing the chains, he pulls them taut and drags the man along.
"Keep up or you'll face worse than the slavers." he growls.
Lantesh was angry. He couldn't see Anwyn and it was driving him mad. Every slaver that
looked at her wrong would have to face him. The legate he would deal with in his own time.
Lost in the middle of the pack there walks one that does not look like the others. Tall for an elf, he stands just a bit shorter than a man. However it is his colour and appearance that mark him as different. He is one of the rarely seen Erunsil; the snow elves, of the mountainous far northern reaches of the Veradeen. His skin is not pale, as you would discribe a Dorn, but instead chalk-white; bright enough to almost glow in the dim light. His hair looks equally stark, hanging loose and straight as silk to his waist. These features certainly mark him out among the throng, but there is more to him that draws the eye. For one thing, he is shirtless, stripped to the waist and wearing only his breeches, even his feet bare. While those who know of such things have heard how hardy a people these Snow Elves can be, it seems unfathomable that he could walk about in this cold northern expanse and have not succumbed to the numbing cold that pervades. And yet, he walks without trouble, without issue, and without even shivering. Third is that the man seems physical perfection. His features are well cut and defined, and his sleek body is perfectly proportioned, though crossed by dozens of old scars from both blade and barbed arrow. The last thing that marks him is perhaps the most obvious: a coating of dried blood, clotted and perhaps days old. The blood rings his mouth and cascades down his bare chest and on to the front of his breeches. For there to have been so much, it seems he would have had to have vomited blood for minutes, leading one to question how he had survived, let alone how he could be well enough to continue walking. No, the other explanation was more likely; that he had bitten someone in a place sufficient to bring on such a sport of blood. Perhaps he tore someone's neck out with his very teeth. Though chained now, it did not appear he had made the capture easy.
The man's eye are downcast; not forlorn or broken, but lost in thought, as though struggling with some internal turmoil. He has walked tirelessly, without missing a stride, for these many miles, and looks no more close to giving in than he did before the first mile began. This one is most certainly a fighter. The hatred he bares for his captures is apparent to any who gives him even a passing glance. His eyes seem to drive away every one of the guards that bears even close, and soon there is a bit of a gap surrounding him, as the orcs and hobgoblins seek to escape the fury in his eyes and gain their power from lesser willed prisoners.
The Caransil elf halted with the others, but after the guards had ridden past, swinging their whips, she stepped slightly to the side, the better to see what was going on at the head of the column. She stared unabashedly, head high, neither anger nor fear in her expression.
Position 45
Perception
Eadfaas had come to a halt, like the others. He was a bit too short to see up or down the line, most of the time, so while he did spare a glance in both directions, he mostly directed his attention to the ground around him, looking for any rocks that might fit into his pocket - as he usually did.
He jumped a bit when the slavers rode by, and the whistle of a lash slicing through the air ended with a wet-sounding crack! and a scream right behind him. Turning, Ead saw the man who walked behind him had fallen to the ground with a badly bloodied face clutched between his hands.
He managed - barely - not to glare after the slaver's back.
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[dice=Perception]d20+6
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[dice=Perception]1d20+9-2
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[dice=Perception]1d20+12
The Caransil elf halted with the others, but after the guards had ridden past, swinging their whips, she stepped slightly to the side, the better to see what was going on at the head of the column. She stared unabashedly, head high, neither anger nor fear in her expression.
Anwyn feels a sliver of fear prick her feelings of lassitude. Grasping at the feelings now flooding her mind, she shakes off the feeling of helplessness and looks around her for any signs of the attackers. As the Legate with his other guards become more distracted, she once again looks for an opportunity to wriggle out of her bonds.
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** spoiler omitted **
Lantesh suddenly seems aware of something new. It seems to agitate him as he begins pulling somewhat against the chains that bind him.
Danger, and the best escape... To the west? But what sort of threat? Rebels? I doubt any large force could operate this deep within the Northlands. So some sort of monster perhaps? Beasts or elementals or outsiders, or... Fell? Regardless, this might be the only distraction we get for a while; maybe the only one we ever get.
Taemon'dow feels his bonds without looking down too much, feeling if there is any way to slip out of them.
It seemed the legate and his lackeys were momentarily preoccupied. The dark-haired elf stepped back into line and looked around, considering the positions of the guards and scanning for any likely bolthole or cover.
The slender elf began to work her hands in the small cuffs, trying to pull free.
Unfortunately, the child-sized cuffs were closed tight about her wrists. She quickly abandoned the futile attempt, instead leaning out to observe the legate, and the prisoners ahead of her, once more.
Yardiff Beys quiet observation of the prisoners surrounding him was interrupted by the sudden stop. Standing straight, he watched as the guard whipped random prisoners.
Unimpressed by such displays, Yardiff sees a number of individuals that like him continue to remain unbowed by there captivity a human of local heritage and an elf woman. Taking a look behind him, he notices an elf of striking pallor.
All others close to him reek of fear and hoplessness.
Taking advantage of the apparent guard's distraction and the stoppage, Yardiff Bey tests the skill of the maker of his bonds; being careful if he was successful to keep the bonds on to appear to still be a prisoner.
Escape Artist
When Yardiff senses the tremor, he tries to determine the direction it came from
Perception
Unable to see what is happening at the front of the column to why the sudden stop in the march, she quickly looks around to spot a hobgoblin nearby briefly staring towards the legate with pure hatred. Something is wrong and the hobgoblins dislike what they seeing.
She did not bother to try to escape the manacles for she tried so many times the first few days after being captured. Instead she looked upon the ground for any sizeable rock within reach, so she could try to break the chains and perhaps get a lucky opportunity to knock out one of the slavers or guards to gain a weapon.
She looks around when she can so the slavers won't lash her for looking about.
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The legate moves away from the remains of the burned caravan and starts shouting. "Quickly! Turn the carts around! Form a circle! Slaves and the the oxen inside!"
Slavers start whipping you furiously and for a while everything is in a state of confusion, while the horsemen ride in circles keeping an eye on the slaves and the surroundings.
"Yer Grace!", shouts one of the hobgoblin slavers.
"It cannae be done! The chains!"
"What about them, fool?"
"Chains are in the way, Yer Grace. We has to free the meat."
"Well, do it then! But it will be your heart on our Lord's altar if even one of them escapes!"
Things are hectic during the next hour or so, while the slavers remove the slave from the long chain tied to the leading cart. Of course, individual chains remain on the arms, but the legs are now free.
One slave decides to make use of the opportunity and tries to run, but before he makes tenth step, a horsemen runs him over, jumps from the saddle and strikes him hard with the pommel of his curved knife.
"Your Grace! We have a runner!"
"Bring him here!", commands the priest while the final cart is towed in place by the frightened drivers.
The space inside the circle is small - too small for hundred slaves, six slavemasters, twenty soldiers and twelve cart drivers. And one legate of the Dark God.
The unfortunate man is brought to the legate, who grabs him by the hair and unceremoniously slits his throat. "Izrador!", he cries. "In your glory!"
Soldiers draw their swords and raise the shields, while some of them prepare their horsebows.
In the distance, a hollow thundering of drums accompanies the strange loud sound, almost like shuffling of hundreds of legs...
Taemon'dow looks about him at who might be useful among those he has been herded in with.
In circumstances such as these, it would likely be easy to overpower the guards, were we to get all of these slaves to act together; however, it would likely be wiser to wait for them to face the threat, and either attack them while they are distracted with the fighting, or to wait until they are tired and injured and finish them off during the aftermath. The Legate will be the key; the filth he brings to his side could change all tides of battle in ways we cannot predict...
Taemon'dow holds his head high, looking for anyone else who stands straight-backed and resolute. Catching the eye of a few, the flame haired man who was chained just before him while in line, the confident looking young Erenlander, and the Caransil woman who was chained just a few positions before him are the first to return his gaze. He nods to them, using the subtlest of body language to indicate the Legate, a slight chin thrust, a little nod and a knowing glance. He gestures with a flat hand to indicate patience, but makes a subtle calling gesture with his fingers to indicate that the three of them should try to make their way through the crowd towards the black robed cleric.
As he passes through the crowd, the blood spattered elf whispers to anyone nearby, "Be ready. Wait until they are weakened," repeating the phrase over and over.
His commanding tone, combined with a confident posture and stern gaze radiates an almost palpable aura of power and authority to those around him as he moves.
Anwyn abandons her attempt to escape as she sees the commotion caused by the slaver's grisly find. She does not resist the slaver guards, and she watches the slaughter of the escapee emotionlessly.
One thing is on her mind: I must find Lantesh!"
As she scans the faces of the other slaves she notes the strikingly handsome Erunsil who seems to have taken charge of the situation. As his gaze meets hers, she gives him an almost imperceptible nod showing her agreement with his strategy of patience.
Yardiff Bey notes the tall elf's silent communication with himself and a few others. He catches the eyes of each of them as well, allowing only a single nod of recognition.
He then moves through the throng of "meat", in the general direction of the dark cleric. Seeing that the attention of the guards and soldiers it on the outside of the circle, Yardiff Bey moves up close to one of those soldiers.
Picking one that has a conveniently located dagger or knife, Yardiff times his move for one of the crowd surges to push against this side of the circle.
Slight of Hand, grab dagger/knife, DC 20
Sucessfully snatching the knife, Yardiff Bey lays it against his inner arm , hopefully concealing it from prying eyes.