A vile stench wrenches you from your stupor. You gasp in shock from both the burst of reality and the extreme cold upon your body. You are cold and wet, and shivering. You look about, and see that you stand within a large courtyard outside, in a howling storm. The wind, bitter in coldness, screams into the yard, pushing people around. The wind provides you with a brief glimpse of clarity to your surroundings.
you stand within a courtyard, 100 feet wide by 200 feet long, a wide gravel trail running around the perimeter. inside is a lush green glade, with three large trees standing upright, untouched by the howling wind. You look beyond, and see that you stand within a line of fellow prisoners, shackled as yourself. 30 of you trudge along, grinding rocks into pebbles, pebbles into dust, as you shuffle your footsteps. your steps are mechanical, as your body moves without thought.
you look around and see at the far end of the yard a set of double doors. One set stand open, the other shut. From the open set of doors a man steps out into the storm. Instead of being knocked around and doused in water, the weather seems to flow around him, keeping him fresh and clean.
as you shuffle, you get closer to the man, who takes a few steps with each person, asking a question or looking at something on the patient.
as you get closer to the man, your awareness begins to fade away, to grow dark. You get closer to the man, and an intense fear begins to press upon you. "It is irrational" you think to yourself, yet your body is trembling by the time you get to him.
The man just smiles. His face is unassuming, and you have a hard time focusing upon his features. But his eyes. His eyes are weird. strange. deep. They look upon who you are, your sense of self, and not just upon your exterior body.
and how are we doing today? the man asks, his face breaking into a smile, but his eyes... his eyes dive into your mind, extracting your fear, almost feeding upon it.
As your awareness fades away, your last thought is screaming in terror.
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"No, no!" Canvy Mandrain cries aloud. "That hag is gone, gone to the boneyard. I tell you, I have wrested my life from her, I will not be hers..." A bead of sweat crosses his brow, before he slumps down, helpless after the fight for his life .. or is it sanity. Under his breath he mumbles, "See I have given my life to mother now, she is who I serve, not some old hag that died at the hands of my men. I led them forward, when they would not follow, to strike the first blow, to bring her down, though I don't remember the end, because my blood flowed into the marshes like many had lost their life's essence before. Mother gave me the strength to return, yes....that's what happened...."
His eyes glazed over as his head fell forward, on his chest. A large and powerful chest, but scarred by the many battles Canvy had survived, though he covered the one across his belly with the dirty gray stained vest that covered his muscles. He moved slowly, not the swift warrior he had once been, the old injuries had reduced hi ability to react, to run and climb above his enemies, to lead troops in battles. Now his legs, tanned and colored by inks, stiffly attempt to get up, but the will is not there. Canvy Mandrain, lies down, feeling the cold of the ground against his body....
Tindertwig yawns.
The little goblins eyes focus on his surroundings as they trudge along.
This would be more interesting if we were up front!, the frustrated goblin bemoans to Dirtbag, as his eyes stare ahead.
Rippit!, quietly croaks the toad.
Tindertwig frowns.
The little goblin then smirks looking at the cuffs.
Tindertwig chuckles as his hands are freed...
Rippit rippit?, comes a sarcastic croak from Dirtbag.
Tindertwig just shrugs his little shoulders.
Practice is fun anyways.
The smiling goblin tries his neck next.
Licking his palms, the little goblin begins working on his neck shackles.
Gotta crink in mee neck!
Rippit, comes an empathetic croak.
Fireskorn slowly opens his eyes. Heavy throbbing in the back of his mind. What it was, he wasn't sure. It wasn't pain. It wasn't a wound or anything he could place. But something was calling to him
"Where.... where are we?" he groans. It didn't feel right. His last memory was of complete terror. But why? What could have caused It?
He struggles against chains that he thinks may be weaker than the others that seem to bind his extremities. But still being groggy and the nagging at the back of his mind, he can barely muster the strength to move forward
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Most of Maqli's time in the sanitarium is spent either wandering in a stupor with his fellow inmates, or growing ferally and lashing out at those around him. He isn't incredibly tall for a half-orc, but his body is muscled and strong, and the tattoos and scars that cover his skin only speak further to his toughness. Lately, though, he's begun to have more verbal outbursts.
Today, he suddenly starts and begins thrashing about. "Bastards! Remove these chains! I am the chosen of Sezelrian! I WILL BURN THE FLESH FROM YOUR BONES UNTIL ONLY ASH REMAINS!" If the restraints provide mobility enough for him to cast a spell, two gouts of fire burst from his hands, washing around him, but there's little more he can do, at least for now.
feeling the slow creep of a blackout coming over him, Tindertwig acts quickly, knowing that the neck collar is just beyond his capability to break free from at this moment. Squatting down, he picks up a small handful of rock dust and pours it into the break of his wrist shackles. The magical runes still fluctuate and move about the band, but the stupor isnt as encompassing as before. He blacks out...
Everyone else screams loudly, at the same time, struggling against the shackles. Maqli, sensing an opportunity, attempts to burn his captors, only to feel his magic be sucked away from him as soon as he channels the energy.
Rage and surprise and fear all course through everyone's brain as they blackout.
A horrible smell, like curdled milk, rotten eggs, rancid/rotted meat 3 week old fish left on the dock all mixed with a month of raw sewage assails your nose. You gasp and cough, only to find yourself standing in a chow hall. You stand in a long line of other inmates, the likes of which blow your mind. Aasimars and Barghests, tieflings and drow, elves, dwarves, bugbears, hobgoblins and goblins, and other creatures stand in a line. 35 in total. yet the hall looks like it could hold more than 10 times that amount.
In your hands you hold a wooden tray. It is stained with leftovers from prior meals; yet you cringe as you seriously doubt that the tray you hold has ever been washed.
It is just you and the other inmates...even other inmates serve the line the food. Well, calling it food is like calling a house cat a lion. It looks like food...in color. There are no guards, perhaps they are outside in the hall?
You attempt to rack your brain for thought, for a memory, any memory, and yet you can only recall your time in the exercise yard.
You step closer, moving away from the stench... you have only a moment to act. your mind races...
Maqli scowls and slams his tray aside as the stench brings him to his senses. "What rot is this? I wouldn't feed such slop to a slave!" He attempts once again to bring forth his magic, wreathing his hand in fire and thrusting it forward at whatever unfortunate inmate is serving him.
After this attack (whether it works or not), the half-orc lets out a howl of anger and wrenches his wrists against the chains, trying (however foolishly) to break free of his bonds.
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Oh, and tiberion snaps a shackle. He can make another fort save dc 24
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Maqli grins as he snaps one shackle, and for a moment he feels the hold on his mind weaken... but then it seizes on him once more, and his consciousness slips away.
Tindertwig grins.
The little goblin's eyes go big, as he sees--and especially smells-- the chieftains feast layed out before him!
Straining his neck to better view the magnificent miracle, seemingly miles away, Tindertwig begins to jump and rattle in his place in line.
Hey now! Wees be wanting sum ov dat goods stuff toos!
Dirtbag yawns.
The determined goblin triples his efforts...
-Posted with Wayfinder
-Posted with Wayfinder
Once again he struggles with the shackles. He did not like this feeling of being bound
-Posted with Wayfinder
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Day 2
Although Canvy feels comfortable in line, in the recesses of his mind, his subconscious holds onto the familiarity of order, of regulation. He lets outs a sigh as he looks down at the tray, his nose screws up No matter what, food is strength. If only he could remember what his mother did to make his food better and how he could make her notice he needed help. The stench assails him.
He begins to move forward, and the red rash around his ankle feels the rough pain of the rusty shackle scraping his flesh. He kicks out at the hurt, hoping to break the chain.
He looks for a door, a way out of this madness... ready to run at the door to break out.