The prison carriage rocked as it raced across the rough path approaching Branderscar Prison. You forlornly look out at the former coastal castle turned prison, its main spire reaching out to the dusky sky. Your thoughts turn inwards, contemplating the circumstances that brought you here today.
“Guilty!” the judge had intoned, frowning behind a stern face, almost glad to be rid of you. Branderscar Prison. The sentence had but one meaning. You were deemed wicked and irredeemable.
“Take a good look scum,” the guard’s mocking voice breaks through your thoughts. “That’s the last sight of the free world you’ll ever see!” The guard and his companion break into hearty laughter as the shades are pulled down on the prison carriage, leaving you in the dark – alone with your dark thoughts.
Shortly, the carriage rolls to a stop and the doors are thrown open. Before you have a moment to adjust, rough hands grab at you and a hood is thrown over your head . You hear shackles snap in place around your wrists and legs as you are half-carried, half-dragged by guards who have done this countless times before.
The hood comes off and you find yourself in a small room, being held down by two guards as a third, this man, approaches you holding a red hot branding iron. The cruel smirk on his face makes his intentions obvious.
You are branded upon your 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.
“Take this filth out of my sight. Justice will be served soon enough!” he proclaims as the hood goes back up over your head, blocking all sight. A sharp blow on the back of your head and you lose track of the next few hours.
Upon awakening, you find yourself chained and shackled in a 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 by manacles to the wall behind you. 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 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?
The first thing that comes from the thief's crooked-toothed mouth, aside from the hours of terrified whimpers, sobs and pleas for mercy that have punctuated his journey here, is a shrill howl of pain.
"oh please not the iron, chief! I swears I'm a changed man I am! Oh please, pleasenottheiron""
Twigs' knobbly knees knock together, his legs shaking so much it takes the guards several attempts to get the wailing brigand back on his feet again, earning him another beating for his trouble. He squirms against their grip, slipping out of their grip several times before being overpowered and manacled into place inside an empty cell.
The burlap hook is pulled from his face, revealing a pathetic sight indeed. A gaunt frame, lank greasy hair and red, tear-streaked cheeks frame a face best described as something the otyugh dragged in. His wide, watery eyes are darting about in terror, as if expecting the next of his torments to come any second. It takes several hours for the thief to collect himself, eyes red and puffy and voice haggard from screaming. He hangs in place, watching in silent terror as the next prisoner is locked into place.
"You know, 's not so bad, when you think about it." he says, to his first cellmate.
Numair kept his eyes down as the carriage rolled onwards towards the forbidding building. He didn't do it out of any sort of shame, or regret, or anything like that. No, he merely thought better when his eyes were fixed on a point. And he figured this would at least give the appearance of an appropriately cowed and subservient prisoner.
“Take a good look scum. That’s the last sight of the free world you’ll ever see!”
"Hehe ... yes, you got me there. Quite the sharp wit you have, sir. Sharp as a sponge." Retreating in their laughter, it was obvious the insult had passed well over their heads, so Numair went back to his thoughts.
When the carriage stopped, Numair was a bit taken aback at the treatment. He stumbled a bit with the hood over his head and shackles on his feet. The guards didn't care; when he stumbled, he was dragged along. And when Numair regained his feet, he was still dragged along. Still, nothing had fully prepared him for the sight of the man with the branding iron. Numair struggled as the full realization of what was to happen hit him, and when the hot, searing iron hit his flesh, he couldn't help but cry out in pain.
“Take this filth out of my sight. Justice will be served soon enough!”
Before the hood was replaced over his head, Numair shot the man a hate-filled glare. "This will not be the last time we meet, you slovenly dog. You will rue the day you ..." The blow to the back of his head cutting off his sentence, all went black.
Numair awoke to find himself alone in a large cell. The brand on his arm throbbed in pain, and he could still smell seared flesh in the air. So this is where I end up. Escape ... doesn't look promising, Numair thought as he looked around. And so, time began to creep by.
It wasn't too long before another was brought in and chained up, a thin greasy looking man. A bit shifty looking perhaps, but otherwise not very promising. As the man regains consciousness, Numair speaks to him. "Well, good morning. Welcome to the posh and extravagant Hotel Branderscar. It would appear I will be your cellmate, and my name is Numair Alazario. Who might you be?"
Over the course of the next few days, additional prisoners are brought in. First a human woman (I definitely won't be seducing that one, but her eyes betray an intensity ... she may be useful), then a tiefling (Fiendspawn? Definite potential there ...), and finally a half-elf (Seems to carry himself like he's someone important, could be good or could be difficult to work with. We shall see.).
Twigs blinks at the newcomer, before continuing on his tirade. "... I mean, I'm already brown bread and buttered, the way I see it. A lifetime in the salt mines. Wot's the worst they can do to me now, eh chief?" He forces a smile, and tries to whistle a tune, but his caked, dry lips only manage to produce a spluttering sound, followed by a hacking cough.
He licks his lips, staring vacantly about the room before his wits catch up with him. "Well, I'm Twigs, ain't I? Two-Shiv Twigs. That's me."
"Smuggling, brigandage, arson, kidnapping, looting, desertion, depravity and general lawlessness, though its the extortion they did me in for." he says, grinning with misplaced pride and revealing a few gold teeth. "What'd they do you for, eh?"
Your thoughts turn inwards, contemplating the circumstances that brought you here today.
“Guilty!” the judge had intoned, frowning behind a stern face, almost glad to be rid of you. Branderscar Prison. The sentence had but one meaning. You were deemed wicked and irredeemable.
"Damnation you are over-reacting! They were only halflings!"
The hood comes off and you find yourself in a small room, being held down by two guards as a third, this man, approaches you holding a red hot branding iron. The cruel smirk on his face makes his intentions obvious.
"You enjoy this don't you big ugly bastard?" Again and again the iron comes down on Malum's flesh to no effect.
When the acid is used Malum howls in pain.
Upon awakening, you find yourself chained and shackled in a communal cell, dressed in nothing but filthy, tattered rags. Manhandled and mistreated, any finery you once possessed is either ruined or long lost.
"Argh, my head hurts, and not in a good way from ale. I know my patron likes prisons, but I don't think this is what he had in mind." Looking around at his cellmates he asks, "I am Malum, did they get you for dealing in small merchandise as well? And I guess more importantly, when do they feed us?"
"You can't cage me!" Izabelle snarls as she's pressed down, thrashing about wildly. She manages to pull free for a moment, slamming herself into one of the guards in a full-body tackle, throwing him to the ground. She tears at him savagely with her teeth, ripping a large chunk of flesh from of the screaming man's ear before she's thrown off and beaten down once more. She spits the bloody lobe at him, laughing wildly as the blood drips down her chin. Even as the brand comes down she doesn't stop grinning, savouring the pain as another scar is added to the multitude that she already bears.
***
Izabelle growls, manacles rattling as she pulls against them. She writhes and wriggles, not content to stay still, even for a moment. Her muscles bulge as she pushes forwards, and not for one moment does she accept defeat. For the most part, she ignores the small talk of her cellmates, keeping her eyes fixed in a hateful glare on the guard's back.
Giltharon sat at the small window of the carriage, staring at Branderscar as it slowly loomed into view up ahead. His eyes and face spoke nothing of the thought in his head, a lifetime of practiced calm and proud posture refusing to give anything away. Only the knuckles of his hands, pale white from clutching the bars tightly, hinted at his state of mind.
Giltharon had never been one to fear things the way most men would. An almost innate understanding of how the world around him worked, an instinct of sorts, rarely left him with any reason to fear. But this was Branderscar, the prison that noone ever escaped. He had every reason to fear this place, no amount of logical thinking was able to dispel the simple basic truth of the events which would play out once he was within its walls. He was going to die.
As the guards taunted him through the bars, he looked up at them, neither fear, hatred or even defiance visible in his eyes. Only a stoic, proud look of superiority as the shudders were slammed shut, muffling their laughter. "They are beneath you, like vermin dressed as men. Their words mean nothing."
As he was finally removed from the wagon, he wanted to struggle, wanted to show that he did not approve of his sentence or treatment. But the ever present family creed compelled him to remain still, focusing on staying on his feet. "Though your lips remain sealed, a man need only look at your heart to know your mind."
However, all the determination in the world could not still his lips. Where his face had revealed nothing, his anguished howl of pain from the brands kiss reverberated with fear.
Awakening in his cell, his eyes still closed, the chatter of his cell mates warned him he was not alone. Even now, in a place like this, pride compelled him to gather his composure as he opened his eyes and sat up straight.
Looking about the cell, he took in the appearance of each of them in turn, before finally finding his own reflection in a small puddle on the floor. He hadnt seem his own reflection since that night. Even though only a week had passed since then, he almost didnt recognize the face staring back at him. His round face and squared jaw were obscured by grime and week old stubble. Where before his hair had been pulled back into a well groomed pony tail, it was now left to hang freely, flowing down onto his shoulders and in front of his face, thick streaks of freshly dried blood running from a nasty bruise where the guards had hit him.
For the barest moment his facade crumbled, despair crawling across his face, before once again being smothered by a cold blank expression. The womans struggling quickly became intolerable. Turning to her with dead eyes and an annoyed scowl on his lips he hissed at her below his breath.
"You wíll sooner break yourself than those chains. Not that it matters to me, but the sound is grating on my ears. How about we all just await our deaths with some silence and dignity?"
Izabelle looks over at the half-elf with distaste, beads of sweat rolling down her face. "Only the weak accept their fate. Life belongs to those who fight for it." she spits a loose strand of hair from her mouth, stretching her hands out in their bonds as she turns her head away from the man. An act of defiance.
"There is no dignity in death."
"Yeah! What she said!" the thief says, voice wavering. It sounds more like denial than any real conviction. " I ain't dying in here! No way, no sir! I can't die in here..." he whimpers. "Don't wanna die in here, by Mitra. Don't wanna die..."
He bites his tongue, despairing in silence for a moment, before continuing to chatter again. It's clear that silence and dignity are two very alien concepts to him. He cocks his head toward the half elf."So... you one o' them knife-eared bigwigs, eh?" he says, brow furrowed and mouth hanging open with the mental effort. "Old blood. 'ouse wossername. Am I right?"
He licks his lips, staring vacantly about the room before his wits catch up with him. "Well, I'm Twigs, ain't I? Two-Shiv Twigs. That's me.""Smuggling, brigandage, arson, kidnapping, looting, desertion, depravity and general lawlessness, though its the extortion they did me in for." he says, grinning with misplaced pride and revealing a few gold teeth. "What'd they do you for, eh?"
"Argh, my head hurts, and not in a good way from ale. I know my patron likes prisons, but I don't think this is what he had in mind." Looking around at his cellmates he asks, "I am Malum, did they get you for dealing in small merchandise as well? And I guess more importantly, when do they feed us?"
"I was merely trying to make best use of an old man's money. He wasn't going to have much use for it in the near future, and it seemed to me a huge waste to allow it to go to his foppish children. Amazing what these damned Mitrans consider a major crime."
Looking towards Isabelle and Giltharon during their exchange, Numair decides to interject himself. "I admire your spirit, my dear, but the half-elf is correct. I doubt even one as determined as yourself will be able to break the chains. Now, I know I do not intend to accept my fate willingly, and though I do not speak for everyone present, I would say that is a common sentiment. Perhaps if we were to 'put our heads together' so to speak, we could figure a way out of here. Discontinuing the chain rattling may help us think, so if you would be so kind?"
A sharp banging on the door, likely from the hilt of a weapon, interrupts your conversation. The slot at eye level in the door slides open with an angry set of eyes visible on the other side by those facing the door. Shut up in there maggots! I can't hear myself think above your chatter. There's no talking allowed! Quiet down before I come in there and gag your ugly yaps.
The slot slams shut and you hear some vague muttering between two voices before hearing footsteps fading away.
Izabelle pulls against the chains a final time before throwing her head back with a long exhalation. They were right. She would have to wait for an opportunity to present itself. At least these ones might prove useful in that regard.
She hangs in silence for a moment, listening as the guards walk away.
"Have it your way." she says coldly, turning her gaze in Numair's direction. "But call me your 'dear' again and I'll break your nose, chains or no."
Giltharon looked at the unruly woman with hard eyes, his contempt for her savage demeanor only barely visible at the edges of his mouth.
"There is no weakness in admitting defeat, especially when it is so readily apparent. If anything, weakness is refusing the reality of things. Even a mouse gives up the fight once it realizes there is no escape. But then again, the wild boar never acknowledges defeat." He stared off into space for a moment, obviously thinking back on real experiences with both animals. "Seems ive been chained to a pigheaded boar of a woman."
At the twitchy mans remark, Giltharon shot him an intense stare, clearly offended by the ear remark. He had barely been awake with these people for a few minutes, and already his ability to keep up appearances was being tested. He closed eyes a moment, exhaling audibly. When he opened them to look at the man again, they were once more flat expressionless orbs.
"If you cannot be still, atleast find it in yourself to adress my blood by its proper name, mongrel. Yes, I am of the old blood, of noble bearing and elven decent. But I doubt you would know my house. Likely you think me a Barcan?" For a moment he looked longingly into the empty space between them. "Where it only that I was.
The foreigners voice drew Giltharons attention, his exotic accent and more importantly the intelligence behind his words, piquing his interest.
"Ah, finally someone with some manners. You are welcome to try to figure out a way to escape, and I shall certainly listen. But it is surely a mental exercise doomed to bring nothing but false hope."
With a sudden spark of realization he added "Speaking of manners, it would seem I have all but lost my own. One should endeavour to know the company he keeps, as brief as it will inevitably be. However I did not keep secret my name and that of my family, only to let it slip now. Surely you will understand. For now, you may call me Gil. And what may I call you?" The question was clearly intended for the foreigner alone, Giltharons having lost interest in his other cell mates.
Whispering
"As I see it, we have three main obstacles blocking our freedom. One, the manacles. Two, the door. Three, the guards on the other side of that door. When they come to get us, they will have to unlock us... but they might pummel us first. Also they will have unlocked the door. The issue then is can we overpower the guards before an alarm is raised? And I don't know the answer to that. However if we want to hasten events we can make more noise and draw the guards in to muzzle us... but if we are still chained it does us little good."
Peering at the manacles. "And it seems the folks who run Branderscar didn't cheap out with the locks."
"Have it your way." she says coldly, turning her gaze in Numair's direction. "But call me your 'dear' again and I'll break your nose, chains or no."
"I have no doubt of that. Then what shall I call you?"
With a sudden spark of realization he added "Speaking of manners, it would seem I have all but lost my own. One should endeavour to know the company he keeps, as brief as it will inevitably be. However I did not keep secret my name and that of my family, only to let it slip now. Surely you will understand. For now, you may call me Gil. And what may I call you?" The question was clearly intended for the foreigner alone, Giltharons having lost interest in his other cell mates.
"I a Numair Alazario. A pleasure to make your acquaintance. Now, and I apologize if I seem rude, but if we turn our attention to getting out of here, we will have much more time for pleasantries then." Numair grins a bit to show he truly is glad to meet him.
Whispering
"As I see it, we have three main obstacles blocking our freedom. One, the manacles. Two, the door. Three, the guards on the other side of that door. When they come to get us, they will have to unlock us... but they might pummel us first. Also they will have unlocked the door. The issue then is can we overpower the guards before an alarm is raised? And I don't know the answer to that. However if we want to hasten events we can make more noise and draw the guards in to muzzle us... but if we are still chained it does us little good."Peering at the manacles. "And it seems the folks who run Branderscar didn't cheap out with the locks."
Escape Artist check for top manacles 1d20 + 1 ⇒ (18) + 1 = 19
If anyone else attempts to get free, Malum will use Inspiring Words on them to give them a +2 morale bonus for 1 round. He can do that for up to 6 attempts.
Suddenly realizing his stupidity, Numair begins lowering his voice.
"I agree. I have a few spells still uncast. One, I need nothing other than my hands and mouth free. The others ..." Numair looks around to see if he can scavenge some components.
A few hours after your warning to keep it down or be gagged, you hear a familiar noise out in the hallway - muffled struggles, agony, someone being slid across the floor. A few moments later, the door is unlocked and you observe two guards hauling another prisoner into your cell.
Two other guards (including a somewhat tubby one with a bandaged ear) stand at the door, crossbows ready in case of trouble. The tubby one holds a signal horn at his side. The new prisoner is shackled in place. He appears to have been worked over a bit more than the rest of you were.
In walks the man who branded you, breathing heavily. Dinnertime maggots! I got good news and bad news. The BAD news is that dinner tonight is Horse$hit... He pauses, waiting to see if someone asks the obvious question...
Charm person is verbal and somatic only, but Sleep requires fine sand and daze needs a pinch of wool. Is there anything on the floor of the cell that might be used for sand, or would anyone's clothing/rags pass for a pinch of wool?
You'd have enough movement to try and cast Charm Person. The floor of the cell is concrete. Not really swept on a daily basis so there's dirt/grime in the cell. If you were free, you might be able to hunt around to come up with the sand. As for the wool, no scraps on the floor but the rags you're wearing might produce a few strands.
"And the good news is I wont have to listen to you once you are done serving it?" Gil had barely finished the retort before cursing himself for his lack of restraint. Dignifying people like this oaf with a response always made them think he was just like them. Hah, I would have to fall farther than this to ever be on their level.
"'salright, Gilly. I meant no offense. Ain't no money in my name, no-sirrah. Twigs, I am! An' t'ank yew very much for askin'." he mutters, to the half-elf manacled beside him. "Oi! Horns! Wots your name, then?" Twigs spends the hour more focused on chattering to his captive audience than any serious attempt at escape, but it only takes one menacing look from the guard to shut his mouth. He stares at the unconcious Tiefling as he's brought in, but he knows better than to ask questions.
***
As Giltharon insults their captor, Twigs lets out a guffaw. "Ha! This one's a right crack he is!" he says, grinning at the half-elf. A little too emboldened, he turns to have another jab at their captor. "Wots the good news then? Yew gonna send us in a bit of skirt to keep us company, eh?" 'ows about you send in yer sister?"
"I have no doubt of that. Then what shall I call you?"
"Sabel will do." She replies.
***
Izabelle snorts at Twig's crack, clearly amused by the man's antics. "And why not?" she adds with a grin. "We're already sampling the family recipe, after all."
The man's squints at Giltharon, his beady eyes narrowing, obviously not being used to having prisoner's talk back to him. He walks up to the half-elf and lashes out with his gloved hand, catching him on the cheek. You notice a trickle of blood on Giltharon's lip as his head rocks back.
No one likes a smart @rse! Two more days scum and you won't be listening to anyone any more...
He turns to the rest of the prisoners, his thumb pointing to his chest The rest of you lot would do best to remember that Tomas Blackerly runs a tight ship here. That fool Mathias might think he's the boss, but don't you lot forget who's *really* in charge.
His mood turns jovial as he looks each of you over, pointedly ignoring Malum and Giltharon. Bad news - there's horse$hit for dinner - The GOOD news... is that there's a lot of it! He chuckles heartily at his own joke, his accompanying guards joining in more so to cater to Tomas rather than any actual mirth.
The guards put a stale piece of bread in each prisoner's hand, except the newcomer who's still out cold. None for that one either Tomas growls pointing at Giltharon. Looks like Gil will be hungry tonight.
As the guards prepare to head out of the cell, one of them brings in an iron pot and leaves it beside Twigs, within easy reach of his feet.
Gil took the backhand swing without a sound, only a slight gasp at the impact offering any indication that he had registered it. For the remained of the guardmens stay he sat looking in the direction the impact had turned his head. Occationally he would lick his bleeding lips and and purse his mouth as if to spit, but he never did. Instead he savoured its taste, its metallic sweetness reinforcing his belief in his own superiority.
When Tomas decided to make an example of him by denying him sustenance, he overcame the urge to reply. "Dignified, calm, superior...you are still a Doran, remember that."
Numair remains silent for much of the guard's rant, although a chuckle escapes his lips at both Twig's and Gil's insults. Once the guards leave, he seems lost in thought for a moment, then takes a large bite out of his bread. Chewing, he looks over to Gil and tosses the rest of it to land in the half-elf's lap . "Consider that payment for an evening's entertainment!"
Speaking to everyone as a whole (but also seemingly more focused towards Malum and Gil), Numair remarks, "Interesting. It would seem we have a bit of conflict within this place. Blackerly and this "Mathias" fellow, who I would assume is his superior. The question, of course, is how we use that to our advantage. I would think some of the guards may be loyal to the one and not the other, perhaps.
"Also, I believe I have enough play in my bonds that I could cast a quick charm spell or perhaps use one of my personal ...tricks. And were my hands to get free, I might also be able to scrape enough sand from the floor for a spell to put some of the guards to sleep, and enough wool from these rags they have us in to use a dazing cantrip. Is anyone else here able to use the magical arts?"
"Dispater has gifted me with some small power. I have some small healing, and a pair of words of command at my disposal, in addition of course to channelling the power of my patron to heal and harm... depending on whether you are like minded inclined or opposed."
Gil looked at the offered bread for a moment, unsure whether to accept it or not. Surely if the fool next to him had offered a peice of his, the decision would have been easy. But this "Numair" seemed to be nobility himself in whatever country he came from...And Gil was ever so hungry.
Doing his best to eat slowly and seem entirely uninterested in the bread, he looked at Numair while listening to the mans words "Charm and Sleep spells? Escape is still all but impossible...but maybe..."
"I possess some power, a few cantrips mostly, and a couple of more involved incantations, one of healing and one of speed. However on the subject of escape, I believe the only spell that bears mentioning from my repertoire is Mage Hand."
"Nature's might is mine to call." Izabelle adds. "Though little good it does here in this cage, and my power has waned with captivity. Freedom should restore it, but that hardly helps now..."
The newcomer hangs unconscious in his shackles for some hours as the others in the cell introduce themselves and speculate on how they might escape. He is tallish, slender and looks like a human. His bruised skin is quite pale, in contrast to his long black hair, and his hands in the shackles are rather large and covered with a scattering of little odd, bony knobs. These are matched by similar bony bumps and ridges on his feet and lower legs, visible through the tattered prison rags he wears.
Though he does not wake up, after a couple of hours he begins to mutter, incoherently at first, then more clearly. ”Clocksmith…after so long…human… He thought I was human. Everyone thought I was human. My own mother thought me human! Why did Modekas have to come to the shop? Why did he have to recognize me after all these years? One old man figures out I’m different, they lock me up! Damn them, damn all Mitrans to the hells!”
He quiets down for a bit, then startles without waking and begins to ramble again, his body tense and his head twisting back and forth as if recalling terrible pain, ”That Blackerly thought I was too, until he tried to burn me. Didn’t like that the brand wouldn’t take. Kept talking about another damn devil-child. Can’t burn devils. Didn’t like that. Made me pay.” He settles down a bit, his body less rigid, and his muttering tapers off, ”A schemer that one, keep an eye on him...”
He then subsides into silence once again.
Twigs looks nervous a the others reveal their magical prowess. "Look at us, eh? Thick as thieves, ain't we? Ehehehehe... ehhh."
"I 'ad it all planned out, I did, but they searched me well and good. Even found the vial of dracolisk acid I hid up me jacksy." he says, unabashed, turning to you and managing an awkward shrug despite the chains. "I-I-I... I 'kin work a lock better than any John, though! So don't even think about 'aving it away without me!"
Gil shrugged at Nimair. "Well ill be leaving you to ponder the usefullness of that. I doubt it will be very relevant to our escape. Mathias, Blackerly, whatever their allegiance, neither of them is with us. Id personally rather contemplate what can be used as a weapon to kill these mongrels if we actually manage to leave this cell by our own accord." His eyes gleamed for a moment as he talked of murder, an inkling of an almost sadistic smile breaking the monotony of his facial expression.
Being interupted by Twigs, Gil scoffed at the rat of a man, partly at the distasteful sharing of where he took to hiding his contraband, partly at the notion that this wretch could in any way be more proficient than himself at anything, let alone working locks. "Noone picks a lock like Giltharon.".
"Lets just see if theres even a sliver of a chance of a working plan before we go discussing who gets to come along. I for one do not look favourably on your chances. Cowardise has laid low more plans throughout history than any other emotion." Gil was more stating his opinion than trying to insult the man, but the contemptious look his was leveling at him told a different tale to all but the most astute of observers.
When the unconcious man started muttering to himself, Gil looked at him with a gleam of curiosity. Realizing the infernal influence behind his peculiar appearance, he emideatly lost interest, the excitement of the unknown gone.
It's been roughly 8 hours... Or 10? Perhaps even 12 (easy to lose track of time in a place such as this) hours since you were fed. Outside you hear a familiar sound, the scuffles, grunts of pain, someone being slid across the floor... But no new prisoner is thrown in your cell.
A short time later, you hear the door being unlocked - same drill - 2 different guards at the door holding crossbows. Tomas walks in with another guard and points at Twigs and the druid - Those two - special interrogation!. One of the guards from the door walks in to help the one in the cell as they frog-march the two prisoners out of the cell.
You're led left and then right, into a room and then finally left into another adjoining room.
You recognize the room you finally end up in - a single table, four chairs with built-in restraints. This is the room where Tomas branded you. You can almost smell the faint odor of burning flesh in the air.
Both of you are strapped in to chairs on opposite ends of the room. Tomas double-checks to ensure you're secured and turns to his entourage. Guards - Outside! His escort leaves as the door shuts behind them.
Tomas approaches Twigs, casually cracking his knuckles. You - stabbing the thief's chest with a finger - are a slippery little fish. I've known the likes of you - lying, cheating, building your fortune thieving and taking advantage where you can. The life you lived, the life you knew, is at an end. He turns his back on Twigs. But... there are still ways you can improve the life you are going to live. Better accommodations perhaps? Better food? Maybe even some... companionship. He turns back. A weasel like you surely has his stash squirreled away somewhere. How much gold did you hide away before you got caught? It'll be of no use to you now... but I would be inclined to make life a little easier on you if you share it...
As Twigs considers the offer, Tomas walks over to the druid, And you... you are nothing more than a caged animal! That idiot Barras almost lost his ear because of you. Your days are almost at an end vermin but I'll make you the same offer. Do what I ask and perhaps I can make your final days a bit easier. That smarmy half-elf and the demon-spawn in the cell with you... I want an example made of them. I want that half-breed broken! As for the spawn of Hell - his very existence is an affront to us all. He's not human like you or I! Break his fingers, smash his nose in, make it so he fears us... fears ME - and your final days will go by a lot easier.
Once the guards have left, Numair comments, "Well, it would appear as though there are others nearby. If there were a way to coordinate efforts, it might be to our advantage.
"But even if not, I was thinking of a potential course of action. It may be risky, but it isn't like we have anything to lose. If we could get just a one or two of the guards to come in to the cell, I could attempt a simple charm to convince one to unlock one of us. If that person could then overpower one and get the keys ... it may be a longshot, but I'm not certain what other opportunities we'll have."
Numair looks at the newcomer, still out. "Anyone want to try and wake up our new friend? The more the merrier, I always say."
"Hmm, yes, more heads are better than one in trying to figure a way out of here. Oh Dispater, bless us your servants and show us your power!" A small symbol on the back of Malum's hand glows briefly.
Will Save
Hmm, not knowing the DC I don't know if Malum is adversely affected or not.
"Ah gentlemen, I think we may have a slight problem. There seems to be something making magic difficult to use in here. That kind of changes things, and not in a good way if we were going to rely on magic to assist our escape."
As your mind fills with the buzzing noise, you find it extremely hard to concentrate with that annoying hum filling the air. You're sure you will get used to it in time. Now that you've experienced the effects the field has on you, you can always notice it in the background - a faint but persistent humming that you wonder how you never noticed before.
"Do the rest of you feel/sense a faint humming buzz? Right now if feels like it is drilling into my skull. I'm sure I will get used to it, in time, but the rest of you may want to try to sense it so you don't get a backlash like I just got."
An hour or so after his episode of mumbling and ranting, Felrin begins to move his head slowly, lifting it up most of the way, only to have it drop back down, as if it’s made of lead and too heavy for his neck to sustain. Little by little, he manages to get his head upright, and he begins the battle to lift his eyelids. Though they nearly defeat him, in the end he is able to look around the room and quietly study his surroundings and his cellmates. His attention lingers longest on the man with horns and a tail, his eyes growing contemplative as he studies him.
He has just reached this stage, and has not yet spoken, when the guards come for two of his fellow prisoners. He watches the encounter play out, studying everyone in the cell, guard and prisoner alike.
Felrin then hears the black-haired human talk about ideas for escaping. Escape! They’re planning to escape! I would give anything to be out of this place, to have a chance to punish them for what they did to me, to my family. I could bite the throat out of one of these guards in an instant. As his mind turns to this, the horned one calls upon Dispater, then reports that his magic seems to be blocked.
”Oh, no,” says Felrin, speaking for the first time. ”That cannot be!” He blinks his eyes quickly twice, then looks around, as if expecting something to have appeared. ”Damn! Well, my first plan for getting out of these manacles won’t work. I wonder if I can…” He brings the chains up in front of face, examining them closely for a moment. He then inserts a bony pinky into the opening of the lock and attempts to manipulate it. As he does so, he says, ”I am Felrin Vennax. And I wish to be free of this place. Can I join in your escape?”
In response to the question about the humming, buzzing sound, Felrin goes quiet and listens for it.
In response to the question about the humming, buzzing sound, Felrin goes quiet and listens for it.
Due to your char's wisdom score - I'll mention this - your best chance out of your predicament is likely making one GOOD escape attempt rather than a string of items that fail... because if you folks try and fail, the noose will likely tighten a lot more making subsequent attempts more difficult.
"You all don't suppose that the two humans would tell our captors about our desire to escape do you?" To Felrin,"I am Malum, I have no objections to you joining us in escaping, assuming we can get free of these cursed manacles"
Izabelle snorts when she hears the man's proposal.
"You miserable creature." she breathes out slowly, peering at him past locks of matted hair. "I am not your hound, to be unleashed on whomever you see fit. If you want them to fear you, then do it yourself."
"But you... you're not worthy of fear." she mocks, laughing derisively. "If you were, you wouldn't be so afraid as to hide behind shackles and the shields of other men. A strong man would pull the halfbloods down himself, put a weapon in their hand and prove his might before them. You are nothing but a coward."
Felrin's eyes move over Malum from head to toe, his lips slightly pursed. "Malum. I have much I would like to discuss with you, though perhaps now is not the time. I know nothing of the humans who were taken away but what they look like. And in neither case do I find that reassuring."
Poking at the lock a moment longer, Felrin drops the manacle in frustration, saying, "I have some ability with mechanical things like this, and with the right tools I believe I could get our manacles off. But we have no tools! I may be able to use an...ability...I have, to make myself smaller, and drop out of the manacles, if I can overcome the magic-blocking you mentioned. But then I will be out of the manacles, my feet still shackled and all of us still locked in this cell, with no tools to get the rest of you free, and the guards will kill me if we don't go together."
Looking around the cell for inspiration, Felrin says, "We need a plan that sees us all the way out, or at least through that door. Getting my hands free will only get us caught and more tightly shackled. We need to think."
"Hmm, assuming they stay to form, there is an opportunity when they bring the humans back. When they attempt to rechain Izabelle to the wall there is a small window that we could exploit... unfortunately the odds are still not good. With 4 opponents, Tomas and 3 guards we must try and neutralize them or turn them to our side as quickly as possible. If they have 2 guards securing Izabelle to the wall, one with the crossbow at the door and Tomas inside the room we need to prevent the one at the door from calling reinforcements, or shooting us. Izabelle might be able to keep one of the two guards tangled up which leaves one guard and Tomas to deal with. Numair might be able to charm the one at the door. I might be able to slow either Tomas or the other guard with a well-timed command... but unless we can keep them from raising the alarm our chances of escape are not good. Does anyone have anything else to contribute?"