Dash
not disdaining other heavy beatings along the way to keep you down for good. You spent a few days in custody but the imperial prisons are better than many others, and prisoners are guaranteed a minimum of dignity ..... until a guard who came in your cell; he had an unusual appearance, he was not the usual guard assigned to you. After the heavy blow to the head you have lost your senses and you must have been moved to another cell, its whereabouts unknown to you.
not disdaining some heavy beatings along the way to keep you down for good. You spent a few days in custody but the imperial prisons are better than many others, and prisoners are guaranteed a minimum of dignity ..... until a guard who came in your cell; he had an unusual appearance, he was not the usual guard assigned to you. After the heavy blow to the head you have lost your senses and you must have been moved to another cell, its whereabouts unknown to you.
You have not even had time to see what hit you.
You are almost completely naked, and wear heavy metal handcuffs around your wrists and ankles ; the handcuffs are attached to the stone wall behind you with strong chains, which give you enough movement to get to a common waste bucket.
There are other chained alongside you in this cell, Bretons or Imperials, Dunmer, men and women alike; neither of you know the others.
You're not even sure how much time you spent under here or how you got here, you don't even know where you are; you knew you were in a cell on your own, each of you for different reasons, or that you were lying on a battlefield in the midst of other bodies, waiting to die as well.
But your condition has not changed much, If possible it got worse: since you're here every one of you has been taken in turn by hooded robes wearing figures that blindfolded and took you out.
You were dragged to some kind of torturing room, and hung to a large metal board, as you learned on your skin it was a stretching device. You were pulled taut until you felt your limbs ripped away from your body; a male voice in the meantime was asking questions to you.
Questions about your births, your families, your jobs and so on ; with every question, regardless of your answers, followed a whiplash on your exposed skin. This treatment went on until you were once again unconscious.
Each of you have undergone this torture a couple of times and when he woke up he was again in the cell chained and thrown on a bed of straw. The wounds from the lashes and torture summarily healed, near you on the floor a bowl containing bread and fruit and a glass of water.
Lately one of the unknown captors tried to take liberties of an intimate nature with the two girls who share your fate, but another stopped him saying that those acts had been forbidden ; the two have had a heated discussion as they left the cell.
This was the only interruption of a routine that each of you is beginning to fear will be for the rest of his life.
Rahn is a huge man. He's bigger than many Nords, which makes him tower over Imperials, and dwarf Redguards. Even Orcs have to look up to meet his ice-white gaze. Those beautiful eyes are now hazy, bloodshot, puffy, swollen from crying and from the beating he's just finished receiving. There is NO call for this. Nords don't treat their prisoners this way. His flesh has been peeled and magically returned so many times now, he's lost count. They keep asking him questions, and he continues to refuse to answer. After his first cooperation and punishment, he would rather give them nothing for their effort.
His muscles already torn from the scarring offered by the bandits who decimated his weakened force, the stretching he has taken has left him unable to move at all. Only the guards lifting him into his shackles and bolting him in again leaves him upright, his torn joints causing such pain that he gives a pitiful rasp, the remnant of an anguished cry through a throat too raw to make sound. Soon he will be free. Soon he will either gain the strength back in his limbs, or he will meet his gods. So shameful to die like this... tortured... unarmed... afraid. He has tried so hard to live a good life, to be a good man, to show others the joys of virtue and honor. He cannot help but weep silently as he prays, delirious, sliding down to recline against the cold wall amongst the other pitiful prisoners.
Birad on the other hand is almost the exact opposit of Rahn. Average height and weight. Not handsom, but not ugly either. At first glance you probably are wondering why they captured some government toady.
The last thing you would think is that he is some kind of Cleric, until he speaks a words of encourgement to those in pain, or if anyone has pasted beyond, says Arkary funeral rites for them.
Alric, taller than the average imperial, but not much heavier, retains his noble bearing through it all. After all, this is merely a physical beating by a bunch of savages, nothing compared to the mental beatings he had to absorb in court from his peers. He stays silent during the torture sessions, not afraid of death. After all, his ancestors await him on the other side, and it is they who shall decide his fate, not some Imperial scum. The attempts to take advantage of the ladies in the group simply confirms his suspicion that he now in the hands of savages. He appraises each of his companions with a cold, practiced eye, relieved to see that at least there are no Argonians among them.
Zesaste is tall for a Dunmer, powerfully built but nevertheless dwarfed in height by the giant Rahn. His red eyes flicker about in panic at his surroundings after waking with a start, and his hands istinctively reach for something that he does not find. Not for the first time, he strains against the chains holding him with all his might-
Unsurprisingly, the sturdy chain holds, leaving Zesaste fatigued and looking rather despondent. He seems to barely notice that he isn't alone in the cell at first. When he does notice his companions, he clears his throat By the Nine, I could use some water... and seems to shrink from those closest to him in proximity, huddling in on himself. After a few seconds have passed, he speaks in a hushed tone.
You were all fighting for the Dunmer too?
An Imperial with matted dark hair from the sweat and grime and ice blue eyes bloodshot with lack of sleep and tears- Emelia is a small girl, and judging by the lashes across her skin it's surprising she's still standing. Her head resting on the wall behind her, her back arched to avoid contact and her eyes are closed as if in preparation of the strain and energy exerted to open them again. She rubs her eyes, the cold steel of the manacles no longer shocking her as when she did this before. Even moving hurts, she grimaces.
She barely moves upon hearing another of her cellmates speak, shaking her head in response yet choosing to remain silent.
"It seems rather unlikely we were all fighting for the Dunmer; even if these others wanted to, there is still the matter of whether they would be allowed to." Alric points out quietly.
Zesaste shrugs, rebuffed somewhat by the comment.
Mercenary companies tend to accept all types... he points out, the words trailing off.
"Perhaps, but most people working for mercenary companies are working for coin, not national pride. That is not to say that the motives of one is better in the other, as many who claim the high road are really mercenaries in their own way, simply that they are different."
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Gabrielle, a smallish Breton with brown hair and dark eyes, moved to respond to the Breton's question. She'd been awake for a while, but after testing the chains that bound her and failing to locate her familiar, had chosen to remain quiet until she had more sense of what was going on.
"Fighting for the Dunmer? No. I'm military. What would I assist in rebellion?"
That giant of a man speaks, his voice raw, raspy, ragged from screams... "I see before me... ancestors. Calling. My gods... come soon for me. Before I die... I break free. Smash door. Kill... guards. I will die.. on sword... not... on floor. You... Dunmer..." He chucks his chin at Zesaste just across the way. They can reach each other if they go to the ends of their chains. "When I feel my arms again... you... will help me? If we live... I will help... you with... the lizards."
His bloodshot eyes flick to the door, making sure no guard is observing them, then he rises precariously to his feet. Beaten. Bloodied. Tortured. He will not surrender. He just needs some inspiration. A little bardic music would go a long way right now. "Together... we... free the others..." He shoots a poignant glance at Emelia as if in emphasis. There are others there less strong than the two of them. "Or die fighting free. Dunmer and Nord. Fire and ice... to weaken chain. No?"
A metal screeching announces the entry in your cell of one the torturers. He closes the heavy door behind him, and begins to move toward Emelia; he wears the usual black robes with no particular marks or signs, but his face is unmasked.
He could be an Imperial or Breton, hard to tell in the dim light, but it is an average man,neither handsome nor ugly, he has brown short and messy hair.
You note that the floor at his feet is stained with blood, his clothes are soaked with the red fluid and he has difficulty walking. He draws his longsword and uses it as support while he approaches the girl.
He begins to speak, but spits blood, and coughs.
"That traitorous son of a b@$$~ . He wants all that power for himself but still do not know which of you is the one we need, if he is ever among you. "
He again coughs and spits blood.
"It no longer matters now, I will kill you all myself, we will not have the one, but neither will him"
He takes another few steps toward Emelia, being the girl the nearest to the door, and lifts the sword, but in the end he drops to the ground, motionless.
After another few seconds, the soft noise of his breathing stops as well.
A sword and a keyring with some keys fall near his corpse.
"I have not been able to talk to my God, up until now, but I will try and see if he will Bless our endeavors. I can also see if he is willing to spread his healing touch to us all."
"This just gets odder and odder with every passing day. Oh well, I suppose the ancestors will simply have to wait another day, provided one of us can reach the key." Alric's calm is remarkable as he remains focused on the immediate situation.
Gabrielle is shocked by the guard's sudden death, especially the lack of apparent cause. She looks around, trying to find some hint about what killed him.
Emelia jars herself to her feet when the door opens, backing herself from the approaching man. She laces her fingers together into a fist should the need be, though just as the adrenaline coursing in her veins tells her to swing! the man falters, then falls. A new-found energy about her, Emelia stoops to try and reach the keys, checking the man to be sure he's dead.
Heal:
If she's able to reach the keys, she smiles as she turns to the others. "An escape. Now, be quiet," she rasps, trying to match a key to the manacles. "Can one of you use that?" she nods to the sword on the ground.
About to try to launch himself to the extent of his chains to try to deflect the man from attacking the apparently weakened small girl.
...
And he drops dead. Well. Let that be a lesson to him! Emelia stoops and snatches up the keys and he offers her an encouraging, if unsteady, smile. He stretches out his leg and skids the blade across to the dunmer he suggested help him escape earlier. Then holds out his manacles and waits quietly, his big hands trembling faintly...
Seeing that this is the time of action I reach out to Arkay for guidance
Heal:
As she waits for Emilia to attempt to free everyone, Gabrielle asks whether anyone has any idea what the dead guard's words could have meant.
A click of the lock mechanism brings a bit of color to Emelia's face as the manacles slide from her wrists. With fervor she begins the process of helping the others from their shackles. "They look like the ones I saw while on patrol before... well, all this." She pauses, looking out the door. "It appears the gods have answered the prayers, and it's best we leave now if we're able."
Rubbing my wrists, "Thank you. Obviously we were brought here for more then just being part of the riot. No matter which side we were on, it seems that we are destined to work together to get out of here."
Looking over the dead man, "I have seen members of my order actually be able to communicate with people that have already moved on to realm of Arkay, but unfortunately that is beyond my abilites."
Turning to everyone else, "Introductions are appropriate by now. My name is Birard Mene. Cleric Initiate of the order of Arkay. Though not much of a fighter, my abilities should be more then enough to support our attempt to leave here."
Seeing that this is the time of action I reach out to Arkay for guidance
Heal: 1d20 + 7
That giant of a man speaks, his voice raw, raspy, ragged from screams... "I see before me... ancestors. Calling. My gods... come soon for me. Before I die... I break free. Smash door. Kill... guards. I will die.. on sword... not... on floor. You... Dunmer..." He chucks his chin at Zesaste just across the way. They can reach each other if they go to the ends of their chains. "When I feel my arms again... you... will help me? If we live... I will help... you with... the lizards."
His bloodshot eyes flick to the door, making sure no guard is observing them, then he rises precariously to his feet. Beaten. Bloodied. Tortured. He will not surrender. He just needs some inspiration. A little bardic music would go a long way right now. "Together... we... free the others..." He shoots a poignant glance at Emelia as if in emphasis. There are others there less strong than the two of them. "Or die fighting free. Dunmer and Nord. Fire and ice... to weaken chain. No?"
"Erm... Ok... But i'm not particularly involved in the fighting i'm just trying to make a living... Zesaste mutters awkwardly, fighting the chains after making the alliance with Rahn.
He does little, shying away from the guard as he enters, his quick mind trying to piece together whats going on.
Sounds like they were expecting greatness from one of us... But lets not worry about that right now.
Assuming Emilia unlocks the shackles, Zesaste picks up and offers the longsword to Rahn, aware he has not trained in the use of the blade.
I... I'm Zesaste. I can't leave yet... he says, almost apologetically. Many of my possessions were of little value, but... a family heirloom, Szortel- I must recover it before I leave. I... understand if you are unwilling to help me...
"I'll help", Gabrielle replies. "I'm missing my familiar, and I don't intend to leave her behind if she's somewhere here."
"I am Emelia, scout of the Imperial Guard. While I can hold a blade, I'm certain my bow is somewhere here as well."
"I am Alric Dres, formerly of the Grand Court in Morrowind, more lately battle singer for Morrowind troops in our fight against the filthy lizards of the swamps. Collecting our personal belongings, and those of these savage idiots who dared to imprison us, would be a good thing. They have a signet ring that I would very much like to get back."
"I am a -Nord-. I can kill an imperial with my bare hands. There's no need to arm me if others need it more. Let's leave this cell." Despite the protest, the Nord does take the blade, holding it with practiced ease at his side and creaking the door open to look outside. His back is a -ruin-. Flesh peeled away from bone, muscle like raw meat twisted and scarred along the backs of his enormously muscled arms. He cannot be functioning at full strength. Indeed he must be -crippled- with such wounds. He hunches like a shy boy, the lash marks and shallow cuts along his back and sides and forearms angry and pustulent with infection. His blonde hair is shaggy and ragged, and with days growth of beard, he hardly looks inspiring... worse so with his cloudy, bloodied eyes.
Still, he steps out the door first, ready to strike down any of the robed bastards who have tormented them these long weeks. "Make sure to get his boots..." He murmers softly over his shoulder, hunkering low to narrow his profile against bolts or arrows that might be coming and looking eagerly each way down the hall. "Good boots will take you far."
From his position, Rahn sees little more, there are torch holders hung to the walls, but he is still on the entrance of the cell.
Apart from the scarse light around him, the rest of the corridor is in deep shadows.
You don't know what part of the day it is, but are all very tired ; you keep hearing noises of several people steps from coming from above your heads.
Checking up and down the corridor for more cell doors, "I suggest that we stay away from the room where we were tortured and head in the opposite directions. Or if anyone remembers which way we were brought in here."
Int roll to remember: 1d20 + 1
"I've been out of the cell many times..." Rahn growls in tortured remembrance "I don't know if I remember seeing any chests or anything where our effects might have been kept. Well... regardless, sounds like fighting about here. We may be able to loot the dead for decent gear to win our way free. If we turned left into the room, we go back down that way..." He points down the passage to the and starts cautiously down the hall, ready to stab any masked and robed fool who crosses their path... The brush of the Divine's hand already has him feeling a dozen times better, and he seems to stand taller, rising to the occaision and resolving to help free his fellow prisoners.
"We were all in hoods, chances of seeing anything were near impossible," Alric points out. "Hopefully, we can find a good clothes locker as well. I for one could use some proper attire, or at least something better than this. Is anybody here particularly a sneaky type that scout ahead with less chance of being seen?"
Emelia checks the dead man for anything else that might be helpful before exiting the cell, taking the boots at the Nord's insistence, eyes keen for anything to give them an advantage. And her bow. "I remember being dragged left, yet as much as I hate the idea there might be items there we can use... and perhaps a few less of these robed ones then above," she comments on the sounds above. "I can move ahead if you wish, though I'd suggest keeping close."
Having an inspiration, Alric adds, "Perhaps one of us should take the robes and put them on. It might help us bluff our way through at least minor hindrances, and hide weapons and gear as well."
Having an inspiration, Alric adds, "Perhaps one of us should take the robes and put them on. It might help us bluff our way through at least minor hindrances, and hide weapons and gear as well."
"Maybe one of us should check out the unknown door." Gabrielle says. "Maybe it's a storage room or something?"
Rahn pauses to take one of the torches from the wall and go RIGHT out the door for a bit, just checking down that cooridor. Just a little ways, maybe twenty feet. No sense not knowing what's behind you.
He heads back quickly enough to scout the other direction likewise until he sees some door or bend , and has a quick explore. "Stay close, and quiet. I don't like the thought of you wandering alone down here, little Imperial. Who's knows what hungry dogs might be lurking in wait for a taste of your bones."
Alric will stay near the middle of the group, alert and watchful.
Rahn pauses very quickly to check the cells for anything, then heads straight to the store-room. There's likely to be some goods of use in there. Even if it's just hammers and rakes they can take the handles off of. Those cloudy eyes of his keep watch, scanning the corridor resolutely in search of their approaching captors. Even a small victory in this next room could really make this group of prisoners into a group of men and women again...
The room seems to be a store for clothes and personal belongings of the inhabitants.Why they have stored here instead of keeping them in their rooms is a mystery.
Along the walls there are many cabinets and shelves, among which each of you find suitable clothing for his size and race, even the girls.
In one corner, there is a chest that holds objects and tools for various works ,and a rack is attached to the wall with several weapons hung to it.