It's not a bad dungeon, as dungeons go. Although deep in the ground, it is dry. Although cool like many deep caverns, you've been allowed your clothing and are adequately warm. There's light provided by continual flame torches. The food has been of good quality, even if it is unusually and intensely spiced, but there hasn't been any food for at least a day.
It's even got some genuine advantages over most dungeons. Unfortunately most of them have to do with the quality of the stone, bars, and locks of your cells.
Even boredom, ever the prisoner's bane, is not an issue. Conversation is not forbidden, and you've become accustomed to speaking without being able to see each other because the prisoners' cells line one long wall of the torture chamber. There are several possible topics of conversation.
The first topic is obviously your future.
A second topic is the nature of the muffled mechanical squeals, groans, and grating sounds that seem to emanate from the double doors across from the cells. That door was opened once and the space beyond is undoubtedly dark and vast.
A third topic is your jailer, Senshiir. Hard to believe that a woman of roughly twenty stone weight could be described as willowy, but she stands a full head and shoulders above either of you and the proportions all work out nicely. She wears layered sheer blue and turquoise robes over flawless brown skin accented with gold at her neck, waist, and all six wrists. When she looks at your face, her almond eyes are deeply inviting and you feel like she can see into the core of your being, if you're not distracted by the fangs poking just out of her lush lips and the memory of the two other faces evenly spaced around her head.
The fourth topic is the third prisoner. He is a Sable Company Marine by the look of his dirty tattered uniform. He's never spoken to you. The only sounds he's made while in his cell are muffled groans. You might doubt he had a tongue, except for the screams your jailer elicits when she drags him from his cell for another session. These are no interrogations; the only question is "Will you submit to my lord's request?" She seems to inflict pain for its own sake, and she takes copious notes. She never breaks bones, nor leaves a permanent mark on his skin. When they are over she lifts the unconscious wretch easily and carries him back to his cell. She often glances eagerly at either of you during these short trips.
A torture session has just ended, bringing you back to the first and third topics of conversation.
Garridan could not recall a time before this week that he had ever seen the inside of a prison cell. There had never really been any reason for him to. Usually things went according to plan for him, and when they did not, with a little bit of improvisation, he'd get off scot-free regardless. He had not thought that this time would be any different. At first, the surprisingly decent food and hot jailer had left him wondering why he had never just let himself get caught before. Of course, that was before he heard the screaming. Things only seemed to go downhill from there.
It was a little hard to tell because of the cocky smirk on his face, but Garridan was scared out his mind. Facing the (negative) consequences of his actions was not something he was accustomed to, and failure in general was not something he was not too fond of. Oh, and there was also the implicit possibility that he might never again see the light of day. That is perhaps what terrified him the most. Fortunately, he did have company, and so, he calmed his nerves the only way he knew how.
"Y'know, she isn't too bad looking," he says aloud for what must be the thousandth time, "Once you look past the weird crap I mean."
Trevorl sits on the floor, head lowered with wrists resting on his bent knees so his hands dangle. The sour expression on his face and the blank listlessness in his eyes seem to have become permanently fixed. Aside from the daily routine of exercise he forced himself to complete, revisiting the same arguments with his chum Garridan seemed to be of all their time consisted.
"Y'know, she isn't too bad looking," he says aloud for what must be the thousandth time, "Once you look past the weird crap I mean."
Trevorl wasn't sure if the eyeroll was purely mental at this point of if the storm grey orbs in his head had actually moved.
"Again? You want to live this fantasy again? Assuming she actually wouldn't rather listen to your screams than kill you for the sport of it, what makes you think you, of all people, would even have the chance to 'look past the weird crap?' Why would that beauty give you the time of day?"
As he heard the words leave his mouth, Trevorl inwardly groaned. Why? Why do I keep responding? Why do we continue to have the same conversations? Is there really nothing else to say?
In total contradiction to finding something new to discuss, Trevorl throws his hands up briefly before settling them back atop his knees and says, "And why are we still in here Garry? Can't you do your," Trevorl makes a twisting motion with his right hand," thingy and get these clodding locks open? Caiden's Tankard, man!"
Why don't you just open it with your magic then? Trevorl's prisoner imagination answered.
Trevorl tried not to think about what had happened the first time he had attempted his magic to open the cell doors..
"Now, now, little man. That just won't do," the multi-armed figure had said. She had easily pinned him, and she was in the process of jerking down his trousers as she said this.
The rapid smack! of three sets of hands spanking his rump would live in Trevorl's nightmares for years to come...
Trevorl grunted. Inside his head, a voice said, Man, this was stupid. And soooooooooo booooooring!!!
Forgetting all about his reflex responses to Garridan, Trevorl calls out to the quiet man...yet again, "So you ever going to fill us in as to why the hell you're here? It might give us an answer to how long we get before we end up on the other side of the door 'getting past the weird crap.'"
"I'll have you know that I am a very charming guy," Garridan replies, wagging his eyebrows at the wall. He was sure that Trevorl would get the message. "Besides, maybe she just doesn't know any other way to express her feelings. Women can be like that sometimes." Again, he was mostly talking out of his ass, but he had to keep morale up somehow.
He smiled to himself, knowing that if Trevorl had the willpower to bicker, then he was not out of the loop yet. So long as he could keep him talking, he would not have to worry as much about their predicament. They'd be too busy complaining. Perhaps that did not matter much under their circumstances, but it was still something.
It was no surprise to him that the idea of staging an escape came up again. Or rather, why they had not already done so.
"Maybe because I don't want to leave," he answers, his voice dripping with sarcasm. In truth, he did not even know if he could bust them out, or what they would even do once they got out. And he would never admit it, but in reality, their jailer unsettled him.
Trevorl snorts at Garridan's pride in his charm. While probably true, Trevorl had been friends with him long enough to have seen a few ladies enter the scene who were less than impressed with the young scamp's silver tongue.
"What about the one little wizardress wannabe? Shaylip? Saylin?Something like that. 'Shameless' would have been a better name if the rumors are true, but pretty sure she didn't give you the time of day, if Caiden hasn't aled my memory all to the Abyss."
...
Trevorl grunted. Inside his head, a voice said, Man, this was stupid. And soooooooooo booooooring!!!
Forgetting all about his reflex responses to Garridan, Trevorl calls out to the quiet man...yet again, "So you ever going to fill us in as to why the hell you're here? It might give us an answer to how long we get before we end up on the other side of the door 'getting past the weird crap.'"
In the pause following "Shameless Shaylip" the silent man sniffs, coughs, and speaks softly in a hoarse baritone that still carries easily to your ears.
"Oh, its a long sad tale and it revolves around a woman who whored her way into my master's house. To hear the tale in these dungeons might cost your lives. I think it has cost me mine. Before I tell it, you should reflect and I will need an answer to this question, "Are you true friends to Korvosa?"
Trevorl shrugs then realizes the military man can't probably see him and mutters, "I'm an idiot," to himself.
"Yeah well, I may not fit that description to a military man, but I've been known to thump the foreigner who doesn't mind his mouth about this city. I was born here, and I've no intention of standing by while the city falls apart. Me and my mate Garridan here, have done all sorts of things to 'make things right' including the reason we're sitting here now rotting in this place. Since somebody talked me into this foolish idea we could get some kind of plague curing herb in the treasury of this estate."
Once again Trevorl found himself gesturing despite the fact no one could see. Scowling, the mageknight finishes off softly his voice gravelly,
"I know not what you reckon is a 'true friend to Korvosa,' but I'll feed my fist to the first man who dares call me anything else."
"Fairly spoken." The man's voice is expressive. You can almost hear a satisfied grin, but the tone of the next remark is more somber.
"You were searching for plague curing herbs? Our gaolers told me there was plague in the city, but I didn't know whether to believe them. How fares the city, and why and how did you come to challenge the Arkonas for these herbs?"
"Sounds like my kind of story," Garridan replies, surprised that the man had actually answered. Truth was, it had not even occurred to him to talk to the poor guy. He thinks on the man's words as Trevorl speaks, arms crossed over his chest. As much as he liked kidding around, he could not help but to be genuinely intrigued by their fellow prisoner.
"As far as I know? The city's gone to hell. Lots of sick people out there," he answers humorlessly, leaning against the prison wall. "Word on the street was that someone had worked out a formula for some kind of plague treatment. Not really a cure, but I figured it was the next best thing. Some friends tipped me off about it, saying that it would need some rare herbs... herbs they said the Arkonas should have." He made it a point to avoid mentioning who his "friends" were. "As for why we are here, well, I suppose you can already guess that things had not gone to plan. We were never supposed to challenge them, because we were never supposed to get caught."
"So answer your question, yeah, I suppose I am. She hasn't always been kind to me, but there's more than a few worthwhile people here."
"Very well." The man clears his throat.
"My lord was never what you might call wise or faithful. Vain, self-indulgent, given to excess, a sybarite. Of all his vices women, especially young women, were the worst. He had a roving eye, and a man of his wealth and position has no difficulty attracting women, most of them of questionable virtue.
The lady's virtue was less, or more, than questionable, depending on how you parse the phrase, I guess. What was undoubted was her beauty and charm -- and guile. She seemed a mere slip of a girl when she arrived in Korvosa from overseas, but within two months she had won his heart like no woman before her.
For a short while I thought she might be good for him. He cut off his other women, something I thought he would never do, but it turned out to be no matter of devotion. It was a mark of his obsession.
Although he was a man of sixty winters, he pursued her like a boy in the first rush of manhood. He thought of nothing else. He sought to woo her with jewels, gowns, parties, luxuries of all sorts. He invited her to live in his house and she settled in. He tried to satisfy all her whims. And her whims were more varied and expensive than even his.
They married and she was truly mistress of the house."
He pauses for breath.
"Sounds like she played him like a damn fiddle," Garridan remarks, his tone one of amusement. It was not an entirely unfamiliar sounding story to him. "There's a lot of things a man would do for a fine woman."
"So, who was this lord of yours anyway? Some noble, I presume."
"Sounds like she played him like a damn fiddle," Garridan remarks, his tone one of amusement. It was not an entirely unfamiliar sounding story to him. "There's a lot of things a man would do for a fine woman."
"She played him, indeed. And he was a willing instrument. At least at first."
"So, who was this lord of yours anyway? Some noble, I presume."
A chuckle. "The best stories require some unresolved mystery or tension. The skalds don't begin Vandhammer and the Linnorm of Windswept Reach with
'Blood draining from the rent in his side,
Hands slipping on the haft of his spear,
The twice-forged spear of his father,
The jewel-helmed warrior thrust straight and true.
Deep and straight the road to the Abyss,
But no deeper nor straighter than that thrust.
The twice forged spear found its mark.
And Vandhammer received the great wyrm's curse.'
"No, I don't think I will reveal all just yet, for there is more to the tale."
Trevorl seems enraptured by their fellow prisoner's tale. He applauds quietly as the man recites poetry.
"Very nice. I've always appreciated the art of a good bard, and you, sir, certainly have the gift. I agree, the story's still interesting enough without names so far. Though if you felt like being a bit more liberal with your description of the lovely lass, I won't fault you."
Trevorl winks at the darkness, but this time doesn't realize his foolishness as he is lost in imagining the characters of the tale to be involved in some high noble court in far away Absalom. Trevorl has always wanted to see that city, and he always assumes the best dramas happen there.
"Fair enough," Garridan replies with a smirk, staring up at the ceiling of his cell. It was not as though there was anywhere better to look. "I haven't exactly got much to do but listen, so please do continue."
"Her skin is as white and smooth as milk. Her lips as red as blood and usually parted just slightly like she's waiting for a kiss. Her hair is a red russet river that trails to the small of her back, although she's more fond of putting it up in loops and curls than letting it hang. Her breasts enough to just fill a man's hand with soft warmth and his head with unseemly ambition. Her waist was made to fit an arm around and her long legs go all the way to heaven. She wears the finest long gowns, but make no mistake that she accents them. She'd be as beautiful in peasant rags. She looks like most men's dreams."
"Her eyes reveal her. They can be blue pools that invite you to dive in or chips of ice thAt freeze your marrow. It all depends on whether and how she wants something from you."
Trevorl whistles.
"Well, if that's what she is, she's sounds like a true scion of Calistria. Probably not the worst problem to have one of those in your life, eh? But now you're going to tell me something about her that makes me think twice. You bard-types always do."
"Of course," Garridan concurs, "You know what they say about things that are too good to be true. So I suppose she wanted something from your lord, then. Either that, or she must really be into older men."
"Calistria. If only she were that -- harmless. She's one to inspire the Sting's passions, but she's not ruled by them."
"And of course you're both right. There's more to tell, and she isn't really into older men, except that men of a certain age are more easily manipulated than young men. Age doesn't always breed wisdom. Sometimes it breeds desperation to breed."
Another pause. Perhaps he's considering the folly of the attempted jest.
Trevorl chuckles at the ribald flourish.
"That it does, good sir. That it does." Gesturing (unnecessarily) towards his friend in the next cell over, Trevorl continues, "Take this one. He's stuck in here and all he can think of is getting into the multi-armed Senshiir's skirts."
"Feel free to continue with your tale. I would hear more of this lady and your master, tragic as the tale may unfold."
"The next part is murkier. Usually there are no secrets from the staff of a great house. They will know all in time. I suspect our lady had many secrets, but she is unusually adept at hiding them. Up to this point, the tale has been truly told based on golden fact. From this point forward, it will be tarnished somewhat by hearsay and conjecture."
"If our lord might had been a trifle less eager, things might have turned out differently. The lady might have treasured her conquest more. But the battles most easily won are first forgotten."
"Gowns, jewels, balls, exotic wines and food, the company of the city's most powerful people, and the attention of our lord soon paled. The lady grew restless within months of the wedding. Within a year her eyes were those of a caged catamount. "
"What pastimes does a highborn woman have? She was not given to noble causes. No charity lived in her heart; no righteous crusade occupied her mind. She had no interest craft of any sort, and idle hands are the devil's playground.
"Of art, she had her music. Truly she could sing with the sirens. I have heard the finest divas of Cheliax and she had their measure. A peeling bell, a weeping fiddle, had not her clarity nor range. When she sang, the audience sat enthralled, transfixed, utterly enchanted, straining to hear the softest note, the next exquisite inflection. But it was a natural talent. She never practiced, never worked at it, and I don't believe she ever sang for herself, but only when someone else could hear and admire."
Trevorl is certainly impressed with the man's bard talents. Not muelse to do when caged up, so this certainly was a pleasant distraction. He clsoed his eyes and pictured the beautiful and bored noble lady, daydreaming about being one of her diversions and listening to her sing...