"Don't you know that a midnight hour comes when everyone has to take off his mask?"
You awake to an unbeareable brightness, and for a moment you are filled with the instinctual panic of a blinded animal. When you try to rise, a sudden lance of pain brings you back down: shooting up from your chest, it takes your left arm from under you, making you stumble. Abruptly, you feel calloused hands on your arms, gently but firmly pushing you back down. A feminine voice says something soothing, but the exact meaning of her words escapes you in your moment of confusion.
As your eyes finally adjust to the bright light, you can see the figure looming over you: a half-elven woman with a deeply lined face, pale skin, and long greying hair pulled up into a messy bun. She looks to be at least fifty years old, though her elven heritage makes it difficult to tell exactly. Dressed in rags, there does not seem to be any fat on her body, making her look like someone who is used to a lot of work, and little in the way of food. Perhaps most striking are her eyes: large and green, more vibrant than anything you might find on an average human—yet their beauty is marred by their haunting dullness, for there is no hope or joy in the woman's gaze.
Looking around, you can see you are in a small stone cell. The walls are rough, with no signs of brickwork, implying that they were hewn directly from the surrounding rock. Could you be underground? The air is cold and damp, with the smell of mouldy straw, sweat, and excrement hanging heavy in the air. The cell seems to be mostly empty, save for the pile of rags and straw you are lying on, and a small bucket in a corner, yet you and the woman quite effectively take up most of the available room.
Above, you spy the source of the painful brilliance: a shining orb of cold, white light illuminates the cell with all the radiance of the sun, if not its warmth.
The half-elf checks the bandages covering much of your left arm and torso, humming to herself as she does.
"You really shouldn't be moving so much," she says worriedly. "We don't have much time before the bell, and you need all the rest you can get."
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Raveen's eyes adjusts slowly, falling back. The pain in his chest drives him down to his back once more, glazed eyes resting on the bright orb high above.
This was weakness and pain he never felt, coupled with crippling exhaustion and, strangely, a near-supernatural feel of emptiness in the oppressive radiance--one that seemed for a terrible second as if it a form of divine punishment for an old sin.
Raveen never before rested when a stranger tended him, but the half-elven woman's suggestion seemed like the most intuitive thing in the world.
A dry tongue vainly tries to wet cracked lips, as he croaks, "Where am I?"
And although the radiance makes his eyes water, the fascination (or was it lethargy?) tore at him.
The stars...
He wracks his mind, trying to remember how he got to this point.
"The Forgotten Track," replies the half-elf. "A prison, and a mine. But I've told you this once already..."
She finishes fiddling with your bandages, pausing for a moment to study you as she gives you some water. Seeing no recognition on your face, she sighs deeply and shakes her head—a sign of genuine pity, it seems, though one deeply marred by her utter resignation.
"I see," she finally says. "We've met once before, when you were first brought in. But I suppose you don't remember any of that, do you?"
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Raveen inches himself back cautiously, resting his back on the wall and his left arm on his lap, propping himself up and taking a drink of water. His thin shadow seemed almost transparent and--not like itself. The feeling of emptiness seemed to settle in his stomach.
"I see. We've met once before, when you were first brought in. But I suppose you don't remember any of that, do you?"
Raveen's face pales slightly at the realization that he was supposed to know something he didn't.
That was not a feeling he was used to--he was the one who usually did the knowing, but the explaining.He hides his fears behind a wry smile, nodding thanks for the water carried in his right hand as if sweet wine, and says, "Thank you. My memory isn't usually this bad. Have I introduced myself?"
Observing the bandages covering his chest and left arm, the edge of his mouth twists.
Have I mounted a failed escape?
In the back of his mind, his eyes and ears attempted to catch anything outside the prison--the aforementioned bell, what lay outside the room, or anything not torched by the cold radiant light that seemed to drain him.
"Do they ever close the light?" he mutters, sheltering his eyes.
"Thank you. My memory isn't usually this bad. Have I introduced myself?"
"Do they ever close the light?"
The half-elf shrugs at your questions, and starts gathering up her equipment. She puts everything into an old leather bag, containing bandages, salves, and splints. None of her medical supplies appear to be particularly new or high quality, looking like they were cobbled together from whatever scraps could be found.
"Hmm. I don't think I ever caught your name," she says as she works, now seeming somewhat aloof. "I don't really ask people theirs anymore. It's rare for anyone to see the light of day once they've been dragged down here... just so that you know what to expect."
She glances up, also raising a hand to shield her eyes. "Though I must say, your cell is quite a lot brighter than mine..."
In the back of his mind, his eyes and ears attempted to catch anything outside the prison--the aforementioned bell, what lay outside the room, or anything not torched by the cold radiant light that seemed to drain him.
As you cast your gaze around the room, you see nothing that is not bathed in the brilliant light. Like a noonday sun on an open field, it leaves nowhere for the shadows to hide.
You also see nothing of the outside—there are no windows, further implying the prison is subterranean. The sole door into the cell is solid iron, somewhat rusty, but apparently in good condition otherwise. There are two slots on the door, one at eye level and the other near the floor. As you would expect from a prison, there is no handle or lock on the inside.
Pricking up your ears, you can just make out the sounds of a pair of voices conversing outside. They are too muffled for you to make out what is being discussed, however.
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"Hmm. I don't think I ever caught your name," she says as she works, now seeming somewhat aloof. "I don't really ask people theirs anymore. It's rare for anyone to see the light of day once they've been dragged down here... just so that you know what to expect."
Raveen nods, stretching his muscles to ease any soreness.
At least past-me was cautious, but now I must be curious--and open."Perhaps. Names matter, though," Raveen says levelly. "Raveen, from Cheliax. It's a pleasure, doctor."
"Though I must say, your cell is quite a lot brighter than mine..."
Raveen paused for a split second, before he began exercising his right shoulder, giving a smile and pointing at his pale skin. "Maybe they thought I need the exposure.
The smile was brief, however.They know...they know, and they're resourceful. Dangerous.
[As you cast your gaze around the room, you see nothing that is not bathed in the brilliant light. Like a noonday sun on an open field, it leaves nowhere for the shadows to hide.
You also see nothing of the outside—there are no windows, further implying the prison is subterranean. The sole door into the cell is solid iron, somewhat rusty, but apparently in good condition otherwise. There are two slots on the door, one at eye level and the other near the floor. As you would expect from a prison, there is no handle or lock on the inside.
Pricking up your ears, you can just make out the sounds of a pair of voices conversing outside. They are too muffled for you to make out what is being discussed, however.
Raveen's eyes narrow at the thought of eavesdropping, and he turns to the healer.
"Thank you," Raveen says, inclining his head to her. "I'll be fine from here."
1. Checks on his bandages--why is he bandaged from the chest to the arm, and how does the injury look like it was caused?
2. Can he walk?
3. Can the pile of rags (Raveen assumes is his bed) be used to provide a modicum of cover or concealment?
4. Are there any objects that Raveen can use as a pen or paper, or even carve something in the stone wall (possibly by another stone)?
5. Are there any objects Raveen can hide on him as a weapon or lockpick (or roughly craft them)? Raveen is more inclined to woodwork (carpentry), but he can improvise.
6. The doctor seems like another prisoner, who is given healing tools so she can treat fellow prisoners. Does Raveen sense that (through Sense Motive or by the way she handles her tools)?
Raveen nods, stretching his muscles to ease any soreness.
"Perhaps. Names matter, though," Raveen says levelly. "Raveen, from Cheliax. It's a pleasure, doctor."
The woman looks at you for another moment, eyebrow raised sceptically. "My name is Myrna, if you must know. Originally of Hymbria, and most recently of Melcat. Never mind which, since I'll never see either of them again..."
"And please," she adds with a scowl. "I'm not a doctor."
Raveen's eyes narrow at the thought of eavesdropping, and he turns to the healer.
"Thank you," Raveen says, inclining his head to her. "I'll be fine from here."
Myrna nods and gets up from her knees, dusting off her ragged apron. The garment is stained with blood and other, less readily identifiable liquids.
"I'll come by tomorrow morning to change the bandages," she says as she rises to her feet. "The wounds seem to be healing nicely, but you should be careful while you work. I'd rather not redo your stitches, and you wouldn't like it either—I don't have anything to dull the pain. Now, rest while you can..."
With that, she picks up her bag and walks over to the door, knocking on it twice. The slot set at eye level opens for a moment, revealing a masked face. Made from iron and adorned with a perpetual scowl, the imperious features of Razmir gaze down at you from on high. Having confirmed her identity, the guard opens the door, and Myrna disappears from view. You briefly catch a glimpse of a torch-lit hallway, as well as two figures robed in white. Then, the door slams shut.
Leaning heavily on the wall, you manage to struggle to your feet. Your entire body feels sore, and you find that the effort of standing up is almost enough to bring you back down again. As you stand there catching your breath, you make an unwelcome discovery: around your right ankle is an iron manacle, etched with magical symbols. There is a loop where one might link a chain, but it is currently not connected to anything.
After some minutes of further acquainting yourself with your own physical state, as well your immediate surroundings, you hear a sudden noise. Distant at first, it soon seems intolerable in its clamorousness. Not as much heard as felt, the clanging of a distant bell seems to resonate through the stone itself. At its peak you feel as if your bones are trying to rattle themselves free from your flesh. Then, as suddenly as it began, the noise ceases.
Almost immediately, the door swings open. Standing at the threshold is man robed in grey, wearing the same grim iron mask as the guards you glimpsed earlier—his accoutrements, however, seem to be of a slightly finer make. He is tall and well-built, nearly burly enough to pass for an Ulfen raider. Behind him, you can see other prisoners getting lined up and shackled to one another by those clad in white, occasionally receiving kicks or punches for their perceived attempts at procrastination.
The man steps into the cell, tapping his hand with a intricately carved wooden truncheon. He glances up at the light, his expression masked by iron.
"Get in line," he gruffs, his voice taking on a metallic ring. "No rest for unbelievers."
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With that, she picks up her bag and walks over to the door, knocking on it twice. The slot set at eye level opens for a moment, revealing a masked face. Made from iron and adorned with a perpetual scowl, the imperious features of Razmir gaze down at you from on high. Having confirmed her identity, the guard opens the door, and Myrna disappears from view. You briefly catch a glimpse of a torch-lit hallway, as well as two figures robed in white. Then, the door slams shut.
Raveen schooled his features, appearing neutral under the bright light, though curiosity tore at him.
When the slot closes, he stands up.Leaning heavily on the wall, you manage to struggle to your feet. Your entire body feels sore, and you find that the effort of standing up is almost enough to bring you back down again. As you stand there catching your breath, you make an unwelcome discovery: around your right ankle is an iron manacle, etched with magical symbols. There is a loop where one might link a chain, but it is currently not connected to anything.
Raveen studies the manacle.
He briefly considered tampering with it , but thought better of it. It'll be less risky if he saw the thing in action.
To be safe, no spellcasting, he thinks.
He turns his eyes to the sphere above, studying the lit object.
This seems familiar...but from where? he considers as he contemplates the object.
He then cast his eyes to detect traps or hidden features.
Once certain of no-one looking, he moved near his bed of straw, and reaches into his bandages. Gritting his teeth in pain, he draws out his finger with a dab of blood.
He draws a line marking 'D.1'.
I'll need a bit of coal later, he muses to himself, covering the line with the straw and blankets. But for now, I must assume they purge my memory every day.
His mind went back to how Myrna mentioned meeting him, and how he forgot. He grimaces, as he sits down, leaning on the wall to have as much rest as he can before the bells ring...
After some minutes of further acquainting yourself with your own physical state, as well your immediate surroundings, you hear a sudden noise. Distant at first, it soon seems intolerable in its clamorousness. Not as much heard as felt, the clanging of a distant bell seems to resonate through the stone itself. At its peak you feel as if your bones are trying to rattle themselves free from your flesh. Then, as suddenly as it began, the noise ceases.
Almost immediately, the door swings open. Standing at the threshold is man robed in grey, wearing the same grim iron mask as the guards you glimpsed earlier—his accoutrements, however, seem to be of a slightly finer make. He is tall and well-built, nearly burly enough to pass for an Ulfen raider. Behind him, you can see other prisoners getting lined up and shackled to one another by those clad in white, occasionally receiving kicks or punches for their perceived attempts at procrastination.
Raveen lowers his hands from his ears--useless, as the vibration could be felt in his bones. He stands up cautiously, gray eyes meeting the hidden ones of his captor.
The man steps into the cell, tapping his hand with a intricately carved wooden truncheon. He glances up at the light, his expression masked by iron.
"Get in line," he gruffs, his voice taking on a metallic ring. "No rest for unbelievers."
Raveen nods, moving into line, the picture of a cooperative prisoner.
Raveen studies the manacle.
He briefly considered tampering with it, but thought better of it. It'll be less risky if he saw the thing in action.
To be safe, no spellcasting, he thinks.
There is very little you can glean from the symbols without access to aura-reading magic, or some sort of written source to cross-reference them. They form a complex, interlocking web of etchings running the entire span of the manacle, which makes it hard to even distinguish one character from the next. You are fairly certain the hypnotically whirling patterns have some basis in enchantment, though their highly regular layout suggest an admixture of abjuration.
He turns his eyes to the sphere above, studying the lit object.
This seems familiar...but from where? he considers as he contemplates the object.
You are certain that the radiance is far too intense to be the result of a simple light spell, or even the common incantation of perpetual flame often used in creating everburning torches. You cannot be entirely sure, but the logical step up from there would a spell of daylight. Curiously, it does not seem to have a physical object as its focus and source, as is usually required. The orb of light seems completely insubstantial, hanging motionlessly in the air just beyond your reach.
Though looking directly at it is painful, the orb emits no warmth.
He then cast his eyes to detect traps or hidden features.
Taking a closer look at the walls reveals dozens of small inscriptions and faded drawings in chalk or charcoal. Most of them are little more than crude graffiti bearing names and dates spanning thirty or so years, as well as general vulgarity. There have been multiple attempts at keeping a tally of days passed in the prison. The longest anyone seems to have kept up is about a year, with most seemingly having given up after a month or so—assuming they conceded voluntarily.
Some of the markings prove more interesting than the former:
"Long live Melcat!
Long live the Duke!"
"O Lady of Valour
protect thy humble servant
guide me to righteousness
for as long as I walk
in the Light of the Sword
the darkness holds no fear"
"SAY WHAT YUO YOU WILL,
I LIVE FREE!!"
"if you can read this,
DESNA bless you!
please, if you go free
my wife RUXANDRA is in
JANOYT
she is with child
tell her i lo–"
You also find a small inscription that you recognise to be in the hodgepodge tongue of the halflings, but you are not able to make heads or tails of it in your current condition. There are four short lines—discrete sentences, perhaps—written one above the other, at human knee-level. There is also a faint drawing of a flower.
Closer inspection of the door reveals nothing of interest: the surface is dark iron with streaks of rust, and save from the slots, there seem to be no moving parts to fiddle with. Even the hinges seem to be on the outside. Quite impressive, all told—clearly, your hosts make security a priority.
Raveen nods, moving into line, the picture of a cooperative prisoner.
Most of the prisoners are in an unfortunare state of hopelessness, with none of them putting up any resistance as they are dragged from their cells—the guards' abuse and malnutrition seem to have fulfilled their function. Though many of them look like they might once have been formidable fighters in their own right, perhaps mercenaries or more unsavoury scoundrels, there are not many who seem to retain much of their bravado or rowdiness. The majority of them are humans—mostly of Kellid, Taldan, or Varisian extraction—though there is a significant minority of half-orcs, as well as a shifty-looking halfling and an elderly dwarf.
It soon becomes apparent that all of your peers bear an identical loop of iron around their right ankle: these are employed by the guards to shackle them together, using chains marked with similar symbols to form an orderly line of convicts. At the moment a chain is linked to one of the manacles, you notice the symbols flare up with pale green-and-yellow light. Once all of the prisoners have been so fastened, the entire length of the shackles—as well as the manacles themselves—are almost bright enough to rival the torches lighting up the hallway. The walls are of the same rough-hewn stone as the cell, painted with soothing shadows.
Since he is never far from you, it is not hard to notice that the grey-robed man bears a ring with similarly glowing symbols.
Soon after exiting your cell, you are jostled by a pair of guards, and shackled to the other prisoners as well. You are placed between a man and a woman:
The man is of Varisian descent, with a patchy beard and curly dark hair tied back with a piece of string. He has some tattoos and scars—the usual markings of a Sczarni—as well as piercings on his ears, which currently carry no rings. Further separating him from the throng of prisoners is his ratty longcoat, a stark contrast to the tattered tunics of the others. Worn with its sleeves rolled up, the garment makes him look almost relaxed amidst the surrounding wretchedness. Out of all the convicts, he seems to be the only one who has kept up any sort of distinguishable grooming habits—a small act of rebellion, perhaps?
The woman is a large half-orc with apparent Kellid heritage. Her dark hair is a long and matted mane, and her eyes coal-black and predatory. She has intricate tattoos of red pickerels swimming up her muscled arms, shown as if they were struggling against a current. The water is also depicted with the same dull red pigment, making it appear as if the fishes were nibbling at her arms, and that the waves were blood seeping from her wounds. Though she makes no aggressive movements, out of all the people in the row of prisoners, she seems to be the only one who the guards give a wide berth. Yet, she seems to step into the line of her own volition.
Once everyone is lined up and the grey-robed man has checked their bindings, the prisoners are shuffled through the cell block—a long hallway with at least two dozen cells along its walls, each door constructed from the same dark iron as your own. There seem to be individual marking on some of the doors, but you are unable to have a proper look at them. Did your cell have something similar? Led along by the white-robed guards, lagging prisoners are treated to their fists, or even batons or lashes if they cause a more significant delay. Fortunately, you manage to avoid unnecessary attention, even as you take in the sights.
The hallway leads into an enormous vertical mine shaft, its walls encircled by hewn platforms connected by wooden ramps. Various lifting mechanisms are placed at regular intervals along the scaffolds. Both above and below, you can see other groups of prisoners being led downwards—just over two hundred, you approximate. Like your group, the rest convicts have been divided into groups of about two dozen. Each appears to be guarded by a gang of a dozen white-robed guards, led by one in grey. Your group looks to be the third lowest, with two other being led down below you: as you descend, you pass cell blocks marked "19" and "20."
The shaft seems to be hundreds of feet deep, with no sign of sunlight shining in from above: everything is lit by braziers and torches. High up near the top, you can see an enormous bell hanging in the middle of the shaft. Made from dark iron, it seems to be marked with symbols similar to those on the chains and manacles. There is a wooden platform stretching below it, on which you can make out three robed figures moving about—one dressed in blue, and the other two in black.
You are led deep into the earth, finally branching off from the central shaft into a cramped tunnel. Far more rough than the cell blocks above, this is clearly where the actual mining takes place. Finally, the guards call for the prisoners to stop. All in all, the trip down took almost half an hour, and you feel exhausted already. The chains are affixed to the floor with iron spikes, driven into the rock with hammers. Only once they are unable to move, each of the convicts is handed a pickaxe. The grey-robed guard commander walks through the hallway, making a final inspection. Seemingly satisfied, he walks back along the throng, tapping his truncheon.
"Get to work!" he calls out. "No slacking off, unless you fancy a beating! And remember: all those who accept the Living God and renounce their sins will be allowed to leave, and offered a chance to join the priesthood... all you have to is ask."
There is a moment of resounding silence, after which the guards begin yelling and the prisoners start toiling on the stone with their picks. The half-orc—now to your right—grips the tool like a weapon, setting upon the wall with a vengeance. To your left, the Varisian takes a few swings, but pauses as soon as the grey-robed figure is out of sight. He side-eyes you for a moment, making sure there are no guards nearby before speaking.
"Can't help but to notice you're new 'round here," he says amiably, his voice almost drowned out by the surrounding clamour.
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There is very little you can glean from the symbols without access to aura-reading magic, or some sort of written source to cross-reference them.
As Raveen studies the runes on the manacles before the door was opened, he pursed his lips. Able to tap into a minor cantrip to study it, he opts to wait instead.
Enchantment. The ally you fear.Curiously, it does not seem to have a physical object as its focus and source, as is usually required. The orb of light seems completely insubstantial, hanging motionlessly in the air just beyond your reach.
Raveen gives a small smile at the arcane puzzle. A spell without a focus, or is it a projection from another place (such as a manifested trap of some kind).
You and I need to spend some quality time together, he thinks.Taking a closer look at the walls reveals dozens of small inscriptions and faded drawings in chalk or charcoal.
Studying them impassively, Raveen did not think further on the minor scribbles, though the plea to Desna did catch his eye.
Goddess of dreams and freedom...send me an omen! What did I get myself into?As Raveen made his own bloody tally, he feels relieved that there was no existing marks.
Raveen moves along in a smooth pace, keeping his head down. The wound in his chest spikes in pain when he descends stairs, but he makes as much effort to hide it. Occasionally, however, he can't help to let out a muffed wheeze or quiet grunt. His right arm does the job for two hands, and soon strains as well as he is jostled along with the Varisians, Kellid, and Taldans.
At the moment a chain is linked to one of the manacles, you notice the symbols flare up with pale green-and-yellow light. Once all of the prisoners have been so fastened, the entire length of the shackles—as well as the manacles themselves—are almost bright enough to rival the torches lighting up the hallway. The walls are of the same rough-hewn stone as the cell, painted with soothing shadows.
Since he is never far from you, it is not hard to notice that the grey-robed man bears a ring with similarly glowing symbols.
As the light from his manacled foot lights his face from below, Raveen had no outward reaction.
Internally, however, he sighs in relief. Perhaps that is all the manacles do. The ring he did not give a second glance to, but it did not require his honed senses as a thief to mark that as some focus for the other manacles.As he is moved between the half-orc and the Varisian, Raveen pinned his eyes to the back of the man ahead of him.
Once everyone is lined up and the grey-robed man has checked their bindings, the prisoners are shuffled through the cell block—a long hallway with at least two dozen cells along its walls, each door constructed from the same dark iron as your own.
...
The hallway leads into an enormous vertical mine shaft, its walls encircled by hewn platforms connected by wooden ramps. Various lifting mechanisms are placed at regular intervals along the scaffolds. Both above and below, you can see other groups of prisoners being led downwards—just over two hundred, you approximate. Like your group, the rest convicts have been divided into groups of about two dozen. Each appears to be guarded by a gang of a dozen white-robed guards, led by one in grey. Your group looks to be the third lowest, with two other being led down below you: as you descend, you pass cell blocks marked "19" and "20."
Raveen's mind tried to struggle against the mounting fatigue as he analyzed his surroundings.
Twenty cell blocks, two dozen cells each makes four hundred and...eighty prisoners. Gods, my chest is burning. But there is only half as much prisoners here. Not operating at full capacity. Twenty four prisoners guarded by twelve white guards and one gray guard, who is one rank higher-- he gasped as he nearly slipped on the seemingly endless stairway down, right hand steadying him. He moved ahead relentlessly, not spending a moment to delay the line. The half-orc with strangely predatory eyes behind him could have seen weakness. Focus!There is a wooden platform stretching below it, on which you can make out three robed figures moving about—one dressed in blue, and the other two in black.
Raveen spared them a quick glance, careful to not allow the manacles' runed yellow-green light to reveal his face from below.
White, gray, black, and lastly blue? Is that how ranks are here?The chains are affixed to the floor with iron spikes, driven into the rock with hammers. Only once they are unable to move, each of the convicts is handed a pickaxe.
Raveen takes his with his right hand, flexing his arm slightly and hiding his exhaustion behind a stony expression as he weighed the pickaxe.
"Get to work! No slacking off, unless you fancy a beating! And remember: all those who accept the Living God and renounce their sins will be allowed to leave, and offered a chance to join the priesthood... all you have to is ask."
Raveen poised himself at the opportunity, but paused once he saw no one take up the offer--even the most broken of prisoners. Between the calm Varisian, the sly halfling, and the quiet elderly dwarf, Raveen's brow furrowed as he observed the others.
Why?To your left, the Varisian takes a few swings, but pauses as soon as the grey-robed figure is out of sight. He side-eyes you for a moment, making sure there are no guards nearby before speaking.
"Can't help but to notice you're new 'round here," he says amiably, his voice almost drowned out by the surrounding clamour.
Although his first impression of the man was of rebellion, a darker thought flowed in from the life in Cheliax.
A mole?
Although his first impression of the man was of rebellion, a darker thought flowed in from the life in Cheliax.
A mole?
Looking at him, the man seems to be hiding little. His bearing is that of earnest confidence, without any of the markings of unearned arrogance or pride. You sense no malice from him, only curiosity—that, and a sense of being evaluated. Clearly, he is studying you right back as you do the same, his brown eyes searching for something in your gaze.
Barely skipping a beat, the Varisian smiles widely and carries on with his introductions. "Andrzej Kedzierski, at your service. I'd shake hands and all that, but they don't like us gettin' too familiar with one another..."
Andrzej, as he calls himself, has a slightly hoarse voice, a rough tenor not entirely unpleasant on the ears. He speaks with a distinctly Ustalavic accent, though to you he seems to be emphasising his rural drawl. The man pauses for a moment, leaning back and taking a few more swings at the wall, enough for a white-robed guard to pass your section of the tunnel. He shirks his duties with practised ease, never flinching as he risks a beating, or worse.
"That one," he adds, indicating the woman with his chin. "I call 'er Pike, for the tattoos, since I don't rightly know what her mother named 'er. She don't speak 'erself, on account of the, uh... well..."
With an irritated snort, the half-orc stops her work and opens her mouth, revealing the scarred stump of her tongue. She then scowls—or grins—at you before returning to work. The tusks make it hard to tell which, exactly.
"You got a name, friend?" asks the Ustalav.
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Looking at him, the man seems to be hiding little. His bearing is that of earnest confidence, without any of the markings of unearned arrogance or pride. You sense no malice from him, only curiosity—that, and a sense of being evaluated. Clearly, he is studying you right back as you do the same, his brown eyes searching for something in your gaze.
Barely skipping a beat, the Varisian smiles widely and carries on with his introductions. "Andrzej Kedzierski, at your service. I'd shake hands and all that, but they don't like us gettin' too familiar with one another..."
"That one," he adds, indicating the woman with his chin. "I call 'er Pike, for the tattoos, since I don't rightly know what her mother named 'er. She don't speak 'erself, on account of the, uh... well..."
...
"You got a name, friend?" asks the Ustalav.
Raveen gives Andrzej (and Pike) a shadow of a nod.
"Raveen," he offers quietly. After a few moments of mining, his normally smooth voice took a dry edge as he said, handling his pickaxe with finesse not dulled by fatigue, "Charming little community you have here, Mister Kedzierski."
Andrzej chuckles at Raveen's words, all the while inspecting his swings with great interest.
"What's with the formality, friend Raveen?" he asks amusedly. "We're all damn near equal down 'ere, so there's no need to be a stranger. Or perhaps you're being sarcastic? Well, I can take it. Just don't try calling Pike ma'am, or she'll rip your arms off!"
Pike shoots Andrzej a glare, which he waves off with a smile. "Anyway, I can hardly take the credit for this 'ere institution. As you can plainly see, I don't wear one of 'em masks... ugly mug he's got, eh? Shame the Living God isn't a beautiful lady—might make Curnow's ministrations a tad more tolerable..."
Confident as he is, the Ustalav makes sure to lower his voice for the last part.
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"Anyway, I can hardly take the credit for this 'ere institution. As you can plainly see, I don't wear one of 'em masks... ugly mug he's got, eh? Shame the Living God isn't a beautiful lady—might make Curnow's ministrations a tad more tolerable..."
"Curnow, eh?" Raveen mused, careful to not slow and attract the attention of the gray-robed guard. He paused for a moment, and then continued, "Friend Andrzej, I have a question: are the followers of the Living God truly keen to convert us? Has anyone accepted?"
Unless the 'renouncing sins' part involved a heavy cost, perhaps it is wise to join who I cannot defeat, Raveen thought wryly.
For the first time during the conversation, Andrzej looks like he is being serious.
"You really don't wanna do that," he says emphatically. "Aye, they're quite keen on haulin' away anyone who shows interest, and some folks have taken the bait. Can't blame them, really—this place gets to you. But that's a big mistake. Y'see, the first place they'll take you is the Warden's office. He'll test you, and see if you're bein' honest in your intentions. People who get called up there rarely come back, and if they do, they're... not the same."
He shakes his head, almost remorsefully. Pike keeps her attention on the wall, but you sense her swings becoming more aggressive.
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Raveen nods.
Internally, he frowns to himself. With what must have been a memory purge and now something akin to personality modification, these were dangerous foes.
"I see," he said without a long pause. He then stretched his wounded arm cautiously, and focused on his work.
Moments turned to minutes, minutes into hours as he incessant clanging and picking of sweating prisoners against the deep earth became something of a rhythm or hymn to the Midnight Lord of Torment.
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Guile 2/3
Actions
Over the six-hour worktime, Raveen acclimates himself to the mine. He is cautious to not stand near one of the torches, so to avoid allowing his strangely-shaped shadow to be noticed.
Perception
In the short periods of rest, Raveen studies his surroundings, the mine's structure, and the organization. His observations are quick yet subtle, reminding him of the days he once spied on coastal villages to assess whether they were good raiding targets for his long-forgotten comrades.
• Understanding the structure of the mine (overall map shape, from his cell to the shaft)
• Distribution of the guard force--are they quick to react or are they scattered all over the mine?
• The overall time structure of the mine (6 hours and any periods of rest/food)
• Intercepting messages from prisoners to one another and overall chatting (such as in lunch periods)
Raveen also studies the gray guard, trying to get a feel of him.
Sleight of Hand
Raveen pockets a small, sharp stone to use as a shiv or carving knife in his cell.
Diplomacy or Bluff
Raveen engages with Andrzej regarding the other prisoners, asking about what most are in here for. If the trio (Raveen, Andrzej, and Pike) are spoken to by another prisoner, Raveen sits back and listens.
He admits quietly that he himself doesn't remember how he got here.
• Raveen asks about any spellcasters here, using his Chelish accent to hint that he knows mad conjurers, and would hate to be trapped here with one without knowing it.
Appraise
Raveen studies the type of work he is tasked to perform--what kind of ore are they extracting, or the purpose of their excavation.
Perception
In the short periods of rest, Raveen studies his surroundings, the mine's structure, and the organization. His observations are quick yet subtle, reminding him of the days he once spied on coastal villages to assess whether they were good raiding targets for his long-forgotten comrades.
• Understanding the structure of the mine (overall map shape, from his cell to the shaft)
• Distribution of the guard force--are they quick to react or are they scattered all over the mine?
• The overall time structure of the mine (6 hours and any periods of rest/food)
• Intercepting messages from prisoners to one another and overall chatting (such as in lunch periods)
Raveen also studies the gray guard, trying to get a feel of him.
The prison complex does not appear to be overly labyrinthine. As far as you have seen, it consists of multiple straight tunnels extending horizontally from the vertical central shaft, some more finished than others. It does occur to you that old mining tunnels might have been repurposed as cell blocks, and that as the convicts burrow deeper into the earth, the prison is likewise continually expanded. From your trip down, it is hard to tell what the upper and lower levels might look like, but all the actual mining seems to take place down where you are, and below.
The guards seem to have shifts, though due to their masked nature, it is hard to tell how many of them are on duty at any one time. Certainly, at least half of the dozen seem to be on active patrol, along with their leader. Curnow does not seem to need any rest, ever stalking along the throng, looking for any signs of idleness.
There is a short incident soon after you begin working, as a result of the elderly dwarf stumbling and dropping his pickaxe. The guards are immediately upon him, eagerly jostling the old man and pushing him down on the floor. With the arrival of the grey-robed man, however, they suddenly scatter.
There is a practised ease to the way Curnow lays a series of kicks and punches on his helpless victim, implying that he would be just as comfortable with one that fights back. He uses his truncheon only sparingly, apparently not keen on inflicting any permanent damage. There are no broken bones, at the very least.
Once the guards have moved on, the dwarf struggles back to his feet, picks up his pickaxe, and stubbornly sets back to work, though he is considerably slowed down by his injuries.
"He ain't got much fight left in 'im," mutters Andrzej. "Poor old geezer..."
Sleight of Hand
Raveen pockets a small, sharp stone to use as a shiv or carving knife in his cell.
Your work produces a significant amount of debris, though most of it is unsuitable for your purposes. Finally, amidst the resulting rubble, you notice a sliver of flint about the size of your finger. During a lull in the guard patrols, you are able to snatch up and hide away in your rags.
After a while of monotonous labour with no daylight, it becomes hard to keep a track of the time. There is a short break after the first three hours or so, where the prisoners receive water, but no food. By the time the next three hours have passed, you feel famished. It feels as if you have not eaten for days—perhaps you have not. A longer pause ensues at the six-hour mark, with convicts laying down their picks and producing small wooden bowls.
To your alarm, you realise you possess nothing of the sort.
The food is distributed by an older human woman, hard-set and shackled to a rickety cart. She serves thin porridge out of a dented cauldron, slopping arbitrary amounts of the greyish gruel into the proffered bowls. When the woman reaches you, she shakes her head at your lack of a vessel. "No bowl, no food."
"Come now, Maggie," Andrzej cuts in. "He's new 'ere. I'm sure we can find 'im somethin' to eat from..."
The woman scoffs. "Bah, none of my business. You want your's or not?"
Andrzej looks to you uncertainly, trying to gauge your intent.
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Guile 1/3
"He ain't got much fight left in 'im. Poor old geezer..."
Raveen's jaw sets, and he does not realize his knuckles whitened while gripping his pickaxe. This felt too much like Cheliax.
Where I could help no one...again.He then turns his face away in frustration.
"In the twilight of his life, he deserves better..."
His eyes sweep those around him, seeing if he can notice any reaction from the prisoners.
Raveen stows the sliver away without an expression on his face. The hours of work began eating at him.
"No bowl, no food."
"Come now, Maggie," Andrzej cuts in. "He's new 'ere. I'm sure we can find 'im somethin' to eat from..."
"Bah, none of my business. You want your's or not?"
Raveen's mouth cracked into a practiced smile, as he said, "It is fine--I have a container. I'll go get it."
He then moves to his workspace, searching for a cracked pot, mining bucket, or (desperately), a rigid rag he can form into a bowl.
He then turns his face away in frustration.
"In the twilight of his life, he deserves better..."
His eyes sweep those around him, seeing if he can notice any reaction from the prisoners.
Andrzej shakes his head somberly. "Nobody deserves this, old or young."
Most of the other convicts avert their gazes and continue working, be it due to fear, indifference, or shame for their own inability to help the old man—judging from their expressions, their reasons seem to vary. Nevertheless, none of them try to intervene, not even your new friend.
Raveen's mouth cracked into a practiced smile, as he said, "It is fine--I have a container. I'll go get it."
He then moves to his workspace, searching for a cracked pot, mining bucket, or (desperately), a rigid rag he can form into a bowl.
Maggie looks doubtful, but Andrzej keeps her occupied while you look for a vessel. Conveniently, his bowl seems to have found its way to the floor behind him. When you glance up at him, he gives you meaningful look. Maggie promptly fills it with gruel.
When the woman turns back to him, Andrzej shakes his head and waves her off with an easy smile. "None for me, luv. I'm on a diet."
Maggie squints at him suspiciously, but does not seem to care enough to press the issue. When the woman has moved on, he lets out a deep sigh and looks at you apologetically. "Sorry 'bout that, friend. Didn't think to ask you. Eat up, you look like you're starvin'. And keep the bowl, I can get 'nother..."
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When the woman turns back to him, Andrzej shakes his head and waves her off with an easy smile. "None for me, luv. I'm on a diet."
Maggie squints at him suspiciously, but does not seem to care enough to press the issue. When the woman has moved on, he lets out a deep sigh and looks at you apologetically. "Sorry 'bout that, friend. Didn't think to ask you. Eat up, you look like you're starvin'. And keep the bowl, I can get 'nother..."
"Thank you," Raveen says, lowering his head in shame. He did not pause to observe or study the gruel--what else could he do?
Dark feelings stir in his stomach--shame, anger, and disgust. It was familiar.
Never again, he remembered, unconsciously conjuring up an image of a girl in a red dress. Never again...
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Actions
Craft (Carpentry)
While sitting for a short break, Raveen keeps his eyes out for broken down wagons or scaffolds. Taking a piece of wood that was discarded, he sets on a small project--carving its interior out with his pickaxe, holding the tool by its top for the best precision.
Putting a few minutes into the process between the hours of laboring work, the object slowly takes shape in his hands.
Although he takes care to not lose himself in the creation of something new, he can't help feeling nostalgic, and more than a little confused. As the bowl began materializing, he couldn't help notice how familiar his hands were in carving it.
He stopped himself before he noticed the bowl looked distinctly mask-like, and roughly cleared its interior to hold liquids.
Diplomacy or Bluff
Raveen engages with Andrzej regarding the other prisoners, asking about what most are in here for. If the trio (Raveen, Andrzej, and Pike) are spoken to by another prisoner, Raveen sits back and listens.
He admits quietly that he himself doesn't remember how he got here.
• Raveen asks about any spellcasters here, using his Chelish accent to hint that he knows mad conjurers, and would hate to be trapped here with one without knowing it.
Craft (Carpentry)
While sitting for a short break, Raveen keeps his eyes out for broken down wagons or scaffolds. Taking a piece of wood that was discarded, he sets on a small project--carving its interior out with his pickaxe, holding the tool by its top for the best precision.
Putting a few minutes into the process between the hours of laboring work, the object slowly takes shape in his hands.Although he takes care to not lose himself in the creation of something new, he can't help feeling nostalgic, and more than a little confused. As the bowl began materializing, he couldn't help notice how familiar his hands were in carving it.
He stopped himself before he noticed the bowl looked distinctly mask-like, and roughly cleared its interior to hold liquids.
Suddenly, you have the unnerving sensation of being watched.
"What's that you got there?" asks a hollow metallic voice.
Looming behind you is one of the white-robed guards, playing idly with a curved dagger. She does not seem as physically imposing as Curnow, but something about her tone makes her seem nearly as dangerous—almost playful, but without a hint of genuine joy or innocence. Andrzej and Pike exchange apprehensive looks.
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Raveen cautiously stands up, wary not to move suddenly against the guardswoman, before presenting his hands--carrying the pickaxe and no more. His eyes look down meekly, as he answers hoarsely, "Nothing, mistress."
As his words left his moth, he distantly remembered the discipline demanded of him from a Nidalese noblewoman and the quiet obedience he answered with--though the memory seemed foggy.
The guard looks you up and down, her exact intentions hidden behind her mask. It seems apparent that she is toying with you, however—she lets the silence linger for an uncomfortably long time, playing with her dagger all the while. Finally, she seems to think you have squirmed for long enough.
"Good," she purrs. "Back to work with you, then."
Turning away, she lets out a far less gentle call, one which is soon repeated by all other guards in the line: "Back to work, the lot of you!"
The break is over.
"Nice save," Andrzej says as he grabs his pickaxe. "But you got lucky there, friend. They don't always need a proper reason to rough you up, savvy? Might just be bored, or otherwise in a black mood. What where you doin' to set 'er off, anyhow?"
Diplomacy or Bluff
Raveen engages with Andrzej regarding the other prisoners, asking about what most are in here for. If the trio (Raveen, Andrzej, and Pike) are spoken to by another prisoner, Raveen sits back and listens.
He admits quietly that he himself doesn't remember how he got here.
• Raveen asks about any spellcasters here, using his Chelish accent to hint that he knows mad conjurers, and would hate to be trapped here with one without knowing it.
Andrzej is happy to share what he knows, though he is careful to keep his voice low.
"Well, I can't speak for everyone 'ere," he says as you work. "Me, I'm happy to tell you I'm in for smugglin', but most folks would tell you they're entirely innocent of any wrongdoing. Hah! Anyhow, only the most dangerous and the most stubborn get thrown down 'ere—a nasty mix of the murderous and the seditious, the dregs brewin' together at the bottom of the cesspool. Anyone who's in for somethin' more minor works above, doin' things less likely to get you killed."
When you confide in him about your recent amnesia, he looks at you with a mixture of suspicion and worry. "You haven't already been to the warden's office, have you? That bastard's been known to scramble up people's brains somethin' fierce. Well, I s'pose you wouldn't remember any of it..."
As for spellcasters, Andrzej implies that the halfling—known to him as "Friar" Keyes—is a priest of some sort, captured for spreading heresy. Keyes is a good person to know, he says, though not trustworthy in the least. The halfling is one of the only people who can procure things from outside the prison, through unknown means.
Other than that, there seem to be few magic-users amongst the imprisoned. "Scholarly types can't really keep up with the work schedule. Also, for some reason they seem really keen to convert mages. They might have some wizards workin' above, as scribes or somethin' of that nature. Honestly, I haven't ever thought to ask if we have any magical types down 'ere. We've had some turnover lately, so I don't know everybody as well as I might. I can try to ask around if you'd like..."
While he appears to be truthful for the most part, Andrzej seems somewhat evasive when it comes to naming potential magic-users amongst the throng. He might simply be avoiding trouble by not snitching on someone dangerous, or perhaps he is hiding something of a more personal nature...
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The guard looks you up and down, her exact intentions hidden behind her mask. It seems apparent that she is toying with you, however—she lets the silence linger for an uncomfortably long time, playing with her dagger all the while. Finally, she seems to think you have squirmed for long enough.
"Good," she purrs. "Back to work with you, then."
Turning away, she lets out a far less gentle call, one which is soon repeated by all other guards in the line: "Back to work, the lot of you!"
The break is over.
Raveen's eyes do not rise to the guard's back, but his seemingly blank features soon crack to reveal a hint of relief.
"Nice save," Andrzej says as he grabs his pickaxe. "But you got lucky there, friend. They don't always need a proper reason to rough you up, savvy? Might just be bored, or otherwise in a black mood. What where you doin' to set 'er off, anyhow?"
"This," Raveen said, tossing Andrzej his borrowed food-bowl, flipping his newly-made one in his palm. "I owe you one."
He then cracked a small smile before he continued working.
Raveen listens intently to Andrzej, nodding. It was the warden who did the memory modifications.
"Who is the warden?" Raveen asks, before tilting his head at the platform under the enormous bell, where he once saw the blue and black-robed masked ones. "Is it the blue one?"
"Scholarly types can't really keep up with the work schedule. Also, for some reason they seem really keen to convert mages. They might have some wizards workin' above, as scribes or somethin' of that nature. Honestly, I haven't ever thought to ask if we have any magical types down 'ere. We've had some turnover lately, so I don't know everybody as well as I might. I can try to ask around if you'd like..."
Raveen nods, filing away the information.
It is likely that they detect spellcasters by another method in this case. I will have to push the friar to cast something--if only as a test.
Perhaps he is a spellcaster?
Raveen stretches during the second period's break, and says, "Sure. Let's meet some of our fellow convicts."
"Nice save," Andrzej says as he grabs his pickaxe. "But you got lucky there, friend. They don't always need a proper reason to rough you up, savvy? Might just be bored, or otherwise in a black mood. What where you doin' to set 'er off, anyhow?""This," Raveen said, tossing Andrzej his borrowed food-bowl, flipping his newly-made one in his palm. "I owe you one."
He then cracked a small smile before he continued working.
Obviously taken by surprise, it takes a second or two before Andrzej realises what you have done. When he does, he lets out a laugh—a clear and melodious sound, as compared to his hoarse speaking voice. Shaking his head with a wide smile on his face, the Ustalav stows his bowl and goes back to work as well.
Raveen listens intently to Andrzej, nodding. It was the warden who did the memory modifications.
"Who is the warden?" Raveen asks, before tilting his head at the platform under the enormous bell, where he once saw the blue and black-robed masked ones. "Is it the blue one?"
Andrzej makes sure to lower his voice even further, glancing around him before continuing.
"That's the one," he whispers. "Rastagar, they call 'im. A right bastard, that one. Highest rankin' priest in the whole Track—a Mask of the Twelfth Step, or somesuch. Supposedly, he gets his orders directly from Razmir, tellin' us which way to dig... I can't really see any pattern to it m'self, honestly."
Raveen stretches during the second period's break, and says, "Sure. Let's meet some of our fellow convicts."
The prospect of actually walking over and having a discussion seems to amuse Andrzej, who quickly demonstrates that your chains barely allow you to move a yard from where you are chained. Instead, communications between prisoners are handled by a surprisingly complex set of mouthed words, hand-signals, as well as written notes passed through the throng—rarely on paper, instead taking the form of short messages carved on pieces of stone or wood.
During a span of several hours, you are slowly initiated into the cant, as Andrzej painstakingly introduces you to some of his more trusted contacts amongst the convicts: mostly other smugglers and thieves, with a handful of revolutionaries mixed in. Your new friend seems to avoid the most unsavoury types along the throng, though everyone seems to respect their common need for communication, and passes messages for others regardless of any dislike they might have for one another.
"That's the gist of it," Andzrej concludes towards the end of the workday. "You're a quick learner, my friend! If you actually want to meet somebody in person, you gotta volunteer for spelunkin' duty. Every so often—a couple times a week, at most—we break through into smaller caves and tunnels, and sometimes there's critters, or poisonous gas, or flesh-eatin' mold... you get the idea. The guards send folks in to scope 'em out, and sometimes they don't come back. However, that's pretty much the only time you're going to spend any time away from the pryin' eyes of Curnow... might be worth it, as long as you've got capable company."
He winks at Pike, who simply growls back at him.
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"You're a quick learner, my friend! If you actually want to meet somebody in person, you gotta volunteer for spelunkin' duty. Every so often—a couple times a week, at most—we break through into smaller caves and tunnels, and sometimes there's critters, or poisonous gas, or flesh-eatin' mold... you get the idea. The guards send folks in to scope 'em out, and sometimes they don't come back.
"However, that's pretty much the only time you're going to spend any time away from the pryin' eyes of Curnow... might be worth it, as long as you've got capable company."
As Andrzej turned to wink at the half-orc, Raveen's eyes narrow, before he turned to look at the platform. Though the gaze rested for a moment, it felt like an eternity.
"Rastagar, huh?" he mutters.Although no pain appears on his face, his arm and chest pulses with a dull pain, as well as his right arm, sore from work, and his eyes dulled from concentration in strong light and lack of good sleep.
Although no pain appears on his face, his arm and chest pulses with a dull pain, as well as his right arm, sore from work, and his eyes dulled from concentration in strong light and lack of good sleep.
Fortunately, it seems like Myrna's stitches have stood the test. Though your arm and chest are still sore, there is no new blood on the bandages.
The workday ends much like it began: the sudden sound of the bell brings many of the weaker prisoners to their knees, and even the strongest wince at the tremorous sensation. Curiously, none of the guards seem bothered by it, though they obviously are aware of the vibrations in the stone around them. Soon after the quaking has ceased, they start dislodging the spikes holding their charges to the cave floor, corraling you back into the central shaft and up toward your cells. Some of the prisoners inevitably lag behind due to their exhaustion or injuries, and are mercilessly beaten by the guards, who make some of the stronger prisoners carry any who lose consciousness. The elderly dwarf is amongst those punished, suffering his thrashing without as much as a sound. His eyes are ever downcast.
As one might expect, the blue-robed warden is once again overseeing the proceedings, looking down from his perch as the throngs worm their way up along the scaffolds. Around him, boxes and crates are lowered and raised by various cranes and winches, all operated by prisoners on the higher levels.
Finally, after a gruelling climb, you are back in the hallway of Cell Block #18. The convicts are detached from the chain and shoved back into their cells, or simply tossed in if they are incapable of walking themselves. You see now that Andrzej's cell is directly opposite to yours, and Pike's to its right. The Ustalav gives you one last nod before he disappears from sight. Once again you find yourself in your cell, the soothing gloom of the tunnel replaced by the searing brilliance of the orb.
The door slams shut behind you.
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As Raveen calmly strides into his cell, and the door slams behind him, he lets down his own mask, sighing deeply. After taking long breaths, he moves to the pile of rags.
He draws out the sliver of flint, and carves out a small mark on the wall.
"Day 1 since awakening. And, Pke, Myr," he writes in the short, crude script used by Shadowtongue.
He then slides and falls onto the pile of straw, hearing the clatter of metal on stone as the ankle manacle hits the ground. Resting his arm over his eyes to block out the ceaseless light, Raveen re-centers himself.
Perhaps tomorrow will be better...
You awaken to the sounds of the cell door opening and closing, dragged from a dream of a cool moonlit plain into the harsh light of reality.
Myrna enters the cell with her bag, kneeling next to where you lay on your makeshift mattress. Once more, she offers you water. Then, without a word, she starts unwrapping your bandages, crusty from dried blood and sweat. You now see clearly what caused your wounds: the cuts are even and methodical, at places having cleanly separated the skin from muscle before being sewn back together—signs of torture, not those of armed combat.
The half-elven healer does not seem taken aback in the least, handling the process with the detachment of one entirely jaded to such cruelties. Once the bandages have been removed, she starts cleaning the wounds of dried blood with a damp rag.
"You've managed not to undo your stitches," she notes tersely. "Good. Five days or so, and we can remove them. Keep your head down, and that'll be the last you'll see of me. At least I hope so, for your sake..."
Though her hands never stop working, Myrna's brilliant green eyes lock with yours. Her brow is set into a scowl, the creases on her face showing something of her actual age, normally somewhat obfuscated by her more elven features.
"Angered?" she says in a reproving tone. "No, he doesn't get angry. It's much worse than that..."
The healer sighs, her expression softening as she turns back to her task. "Sorry, it's not your fault you don't remember. I'm just so tired of seeing people throw their lives away for nothing. Please, don't cause any trouble. Obviously, you wouldn't be alive if the warden wanted you dead, but you also wouldn't be down here if he truly cared to keep you alive. Understand? Whatever he wanted out of you, he's already got it. You're disposable."
Myrna seems uneasy about the positive attention, pursing her lips in an expression of bitterness.
"Didn't it?" she mutters, seemingly more to herself than you. "I haven't seen the sun in decades, and I don't expect that to change anytime soon. There's no escaping this place: I've tried, and I've got the scars to prove it. For many years, I thought it could be done, but now I know better. Many others are dead because they never did. All we can do is try and survive—and help others to do the same, if we can..."
Even as she says so, however, the healer looks sidelong at her patient, seemingly at odds with herself. "The sooner you realise that, the better."
"The sun?" Raveen muses, before he looks up at the luminous orb, and then back at his healer again, giving her a small, meaningful smile "It seems I came with it."
Myrna glances up at the orb, the briefest hint of a wry smile touching her severe features. She finishes redoing your bandages, and starts gathering up her equipment without another word. Though she does her best to appear indifferent, she does seem to be thinking about what you have said.
Almost done with packing up, Myrna gets up from the floor and dusts off her apron. The healer purses her lips disapprovingly.
"This isn't a line of questioning I feel like I should be indulging," she sighs. "But fine, if it'll keep you from getting yourself in trouble, I'll tell you what I know..."
Taking a deep breath, she launches into a lecture that is almost academic in its exhaustiveness:
"Obviously, the main purpose of manacles is to restrain prisoners. Ours are no different in that regard, though they're magically reinforced to be practically impervious to mundane tools or weapons. However, they can also be used to punish us when necessary. You might have seen Curnow—the guard captain—wearing a ring of similar design. All of the Priests have one. By focusing on it, they can track you down, no matter the distance. They can also place a magical command on any prisoner who gives them trouble. Additionally, they're used to affix the manacles onto their matching chains, as you've witnessed..."
"Now, I know what you're thinking: snatch the ring from Curnow, and you're free to go. Believe me, I've seen it tried, and it won't work. There's a very good chance you'd get yourself beat to death, and even if you didn't, only the control rod can be used to disable the manacles once they've been secured. The rod is held by the warden himself. No doubt it has similar powers as the rings, though he hardly needs to employ them directly. If there's a riot, the warden can ring the bell twice to bring down every single prisoner in this mine. That's happened only a couple of times, but I can assure you it's extremely painful—the morning bell feels like a summer breeze in comparison. Though I've no real idea what would happen if he rang it thrice, I have to assume it would kill us all where we stand..."
"As to whether or not the manacles are used to spy on us, I can't say for certain. No doubt the warden is capable of such a thing if he so desires, for he is very knowledgeable, and powerful in the magical arts. I doubt he has the time to keep an eye on everyone all the time, but if he wants to know something, he'll make it happen—magic or no. Perhaps he is listening in on our conversation right now. It matters little, for all of this is to keep you from repeating my mistakes."
After she is done with her explanation, Myrna fixes you with a stern look. "All I've told you has been paid for in blood. If you're smart, you'll take it to heart."
With that, she grabs her bag and leaves the cell.
The following morning is nearly identical to the last: shaken awake by the bell, the convicts are lined up and shuffled down the ramps into the mining tunnels. On his high perch, the warden orchestrates the descent. Whether or not he is holding the rod Myrna mentioned is impossible to make out from so far away, but it is not hard to imagine the blue-robed tyrant clutching it in his claws as he looks down on you from above.
Back in the tunnel, the shackles are once again spiked to the ground. Curnow repeats his offer of conversion, and with no willing applicants, he directs his charges to start digging. Andrzej gives you an almost cheerful nod as you grab your pickaxes and set to work.
"You're lookin' much better already, my friend!" he says in the way of greetings. "Remember to thank Desna for the succour of peaceful dreams..."
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Raveen nods appreciatively at the healer once she gets up. For a brief moment, he observes his personal 'sun' quietly, gray eyes unreadable.
Raveen observes the marks on the doors he passes--something he missed his first way down.
Guile 1/3
"You're lookin' much better already, my friend! Remember to thank Desna for the succour of peaceful dreams..."
"Praise be," Raveen says in Varisian. On the mention of dreams, he pauses for a second. Right--that dream.
He touches his bandaged chest for a moment, and then shakes his mind free.
Actions
Survival
Raveen focuses on work, trying to learn the mechanics involved, to understand what the prisoners are doing and where the minerals/rocks are being disposed of?
Diplomacy (Gather Information)
"Andrzej," Raveen asks after the first period ended. "You said something yesterday about magical types..."
Raveen nods appreciatively at the healer once she gets up. For a brief moment, he observes his personal 'sun' quietly, gray eyes unreadable.
Looking directly at the orb is nigh impossible, and forcing yourself to do so makes your eyes water with pain. You are unable to discern anything about it, other than confirming the fact that the light seems to have no solid point of origin.
Raveen observes the marks on the doors he passes--something he missed his first way down.
Everything seems much as it did before, though you are able to get a slightly better idea about how the prison is organised. As you surmised previously, it appears like the cells are at half their capacity—just about every other block has been left empty, or is being used as storage space. Cell Block #19 is deserted, with #20 being the lowest, and the only one below yours that is currently inhabited. The guards have their barracks at the far ends of the cell blocks, allowing them to remain in close proximity to their charges even while not on duty.
As Andrzej explained, the people above you seem far less dangerous than the ones below, with the former seeming more like common people and petty criminals, at least compared to the varied assortment of murderers and revolutionaries you find yourself surrounded by. They seem to be tasked with operating the various lifting mechanisms surrounding the central shaft, or bodily hauling ores and rubble from the bottom using carts. Those under you seem even more hardened, with guards at their side being better-armed and slightly more numerous than those hounding your steps. You realise that two of the more distinctive individuals you noticed yesterday are no longer present in their midst—their turnover rate must be rather high...
Unfortunately, your gawking does not go unnoticed. Some way down the ramps, you are brought to your knees by a sudden blow to the back of your legs. One of the white-robed guards looms over you, immediately bringing his club down on your back with an audible crunch.
"Get up 'n get movin'!" he growls. "And no lollygagging, or I'll break more'n yer ribs!"
Pike is quick to drag you to your feet, giving you a shove to help you along—or maybe she does not like being slowed down herself.
Actions
Survival
Raveen focuses on work, trying to learn the mechanics involved, to understand what the prisoners are doing and where the minerals/rocks are being disposed of?
The convicts certainly seem to be uncovering precious metals and valuable ore—some silver, as well as copious amounts of copper, iron, and tin—which are periodically gathered up by less high-priority prisoners driving carts back and forth through the throng. These are assumably brought back to the central shaft to be lifted up to the surface. However, all of this seems almost coincidental: the digging at the far end of the tunnel seems more focused, with your part of the throng simply enlarging the tunnel as it lengthens. There appears to be some ulterior purpose to the tunnelling, even though you are not privy to it.
Diplomacy (Gather Information)
"Andrzej," Raveen asks after the first period ended. "You said something yesterday about magical types..."
Andrzej gives you a few pointers, telling you who to ask and what tact to take with each person, but like a proud teacher, he lets you do most of the work yourself while he observes. After some messaging back and forth, one of the other prisoners—a smuggler named Svetozar, of Kellid-Taldan stock common in Brevoy and the northern River Kingdoms—implies he might have valuable information. He is a bald, heavily tattooed figure with a drooping moustache, working about a dozen paces to your right. Having gotten your carved message, you see him nod. Some time after, you receive a message back, written in code on a small piece of wood.
earth magic
MURDERER
watch out"
"He'll be expectin' a favour in return," Andrzej warns as you look over the message. "Probably nothin' major, but I wouldn't spurn 'im when it comes to it. As a good a man as they come in our line of business, but that ain't much of a guarantee of any sort of moral backbone. Savvy?"
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Raveen's questioning takes him back for a while--the good old days when he could move without brutal oversight in day and unrelenting radiance in the night. In the first, not a moment of privacy, and in the second, not a moment of rest.
It was getting hard to avoid feeling that this whole stressful experience is nothing but a terrible nightmare he could not wake from.
Raveen keeps his eyes peeled for the order of action.
"Anyhow, only the most dangerous and the most stubborn get thrown down 'ere—a nasty mix of the murderous and the seditious, the dregs brewin' together at the bottom of the cesspool. Anyone who's in for somethin' more minor works above, doin' things less likely to get you killed."
Unfortunately, your gawking does not go unnoticed. Some way down the ramps, you are brought to your knees by a sudden blow to the back of your legs. One of the white-robed guards looms over you, immediately bringing his club down on your back with an audible crunch.
Raveen staggers painfully as he is shoved ahead by Pike, clenching his jaw in pain. He moves on quickly to avoid another blow, eyes downcast, body pulsing in more pain now than once he first came to. Unconsciously, he orbits his right hand’s thumb with his index finger.
"Probably nothin' major, but I wouldn't spurn 'im when it comes to it. As a good a man as they come in our line of business, but that ain't much of a guarantee of any sort of moral backbone. Savvy?"
"Aye," Raveen answered, cautious to avoid being seen speaking or relaxing. He then added softly, "I'll pay him back. I always do."
Actions
Gather Materials: Sleight of Hand
As Raveen focuses on his work, he continues working with more zeal than normal. A restless urge to succeed masks his true intentions, as he stealthily gathers objects of specific type and size.
Then, for a brief moment, Raveen studies the guard watching him, taking in his or her mannerisms into consideration while working.
Gather Information
After marking his guard, he cautiously opens a line of conversation with Andrzej.
"What does Keyes ask for when he smuggles something?"
He then observes Andrzej's coat, as if suggesting it was smuggled in.
Don't be another favor... he mused.
Gather Materials: Sleight of Hand
As Raveen focuses on his work, he continues working with more zeal than normal. A restless urge to succeed masks his true intentions, as he stealthily gathers objects of specific type and size.
Looking around the immediate vicinity proves mostly unfruitful, though after some hours of working and shifting through the debris between swings of your pickaxe, you are able gather an assorted collection of scrap: a bent nail, one half of a belt buckle, and a sliver of rusted iron from some broken tool. Any of these could be fashioned into a makeshift lockpick, though it would hardly be of professional quality. At least you have spares, should one of them break—as they very well might.
Then, for a brief moment, Raveen studies the guard watching him, taking in his or her mannerisms into consideration while working.
You find it hard to even tell the guards apart at first, all of them uniformly clad in their identical masks and robes. Finally, you do manage to pick out the one that clobbered you earlier, still hovering not too far from your current position. Seemingly armed with nothing more than a sturdy piece of wood, he does not seem all that formidable when he is not looming directly over you—little more intimidating than a common street thug, in fact. You think you could take him one-on-one, at least at full strength with all your equipment. As it is, he might have the advantage, even if you got free of your bindings.
Andrzej spits on the ground. "Bullies, the lot of 'em."
Gather Information
After marking his guard, he cautiously opens a line of conversation with Andrzej.
"What does Keyes ask for when he smuggles something?"
He then observes Andrzej's coat, as if suggesting it was smuggled in.
Don't be another favor... he mused.
Andrzej shrugs, pausing for a moment to smooth his ratty outerwear. He allows you a moment to gaze at his profile while he poses like a nobleman having his portrait taken, hand-in-jacket. Glancing around with a grin, the smuggler gets back to work before the guards notice him fooling around.
"Gold," he states matter-of-factly. "He wants gold. And no, I'm not tryin' to hustle you. Honestly, sometimes I wonder if that sly lil' devil got caught out of his own free will—the bastard certainly acts like he's in here just to make some money. Anyway, you gotta have someone outside who's able and willin' to pay for your comfort. Make arrangements for your people to pay his people, and that's that. Fortunately for me, there are still some folks out there who care about poor ol' Andrzej. Occasionally the Friar'll ask for somethin' less material, but that tends to depend on the type of favour you're askin'. What're lookin' for, anyway?"
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"Bullies, the lot of 'em."
Raveen grunts noncommittally, before turning his eye to one of the gray guards--the apparent supervisors of the white-ranked guards (and, if still available, the black, and the blue. His eyes move subtly, glancing inconspicuously between stumbles when hitting hard outcrops and the infrequent moments of noise when he has the cover to do so.
Andrzej shrugs, pausing for a moment to smooth his ratty outerwear. He allows you a moment to gaze at his profile while he poses like a nobleman having his portrait taken, hand-in-jacket. Glancing around with a grin, the smuggler gets back to work before the guards notice him fooling around.
"Gold. He wants gold. And no, I'm not tryin' to hustle you. Honestly, sometimes I wonder if that sly lil' devil got caught out of his own free will—the bastard certainly acts like he's in here just to make some money. Anyway, you gotta have someone outside who's able and willin' to pay for your comfort. Make arrangements for your people to pay his people, and that's that. Fortunately for me, there are still some folks out there who care about poor ol' Andrzej. Occasionally the Friar'll ask for somethin' less material, but that tends to depend on the type of favour you're askin'. What're lookin' for, anyway?"
"Hell if I know," Raveen answers quietly after the guards give him another opportunity to speak. "But I'm more concerned with the how. I had a couple of valuables before I was put in--reckon they're somewhere in the mine?"
"Bullies, the lot of 'em."Raveen grunts noncommittally, before turning his eye to one of the gray guards--the apparent supervisors of the white-ranked guards (and, if still available, the black, and the blue). His eyes move subtly, glancing inconspicuously between stumbles when hitting hard outcrops and the infrequent moments of noise when he has the cover to do so.
Curnow is the only grey-robed guard—or Priest, as Andrzej calls them—in attendance. He is obviously in charge of this group of white-robed Acolytes, all of whom follow his commands without question. Tall and sturdily built, the guard captain dwarfs all of his underlings, looking like a vastly superior opponent indeed. He is clearly more than a mere brute, all his actions making him seem like a trained combatant, one who is constantly scanning their surroundings for possible threats, as well as any sort of advantage that he might be able to use against them. He seems to have an eye for sussing out subterfuge.
Though it is hard to gauge exactly what he wears beneath his robes, the chinking of chainmail can be heard as he passes. His weapon of choice is a sturdy wooden truncheon, somehow seeming much more intimidating than the rough piece of wood carried by your latest assailant. The way he punishes his charges implies Curnow knows exactly where to hit in order to cause pain without causing permanent injury—though he could no doubt kill a man with his bare hands if he so wished. You doubt you could take him one-on-one even at your full strength, at least without twisting the circumstances to your advantage.
"What're lookin' for, anyway?""Hell if I know," Raveen answers quietly after the guards give him another opportunity to speak. "But I'm more concerned with the how. I had a couple of valuables before I was put in--reckon they're somewhere in the mine?"
Andrzej thinks for a moment before answering. "Hm. Sometimes the guards just take whatever they fancy from new prisoners, to keep or sell outside the mines. Assumin' they took you to the warden, however, he might have kept your stuff at hand. Anythin' that's officially confiscated from the prisoners is held near his chambers in the upper levels, or so I hear. All the Priests have access, with a permission from one of the Heralds—the ones in black robes, that is..."
The smuggler pauses long enough for one of the guards to pass by. "I could help you out, if you'd like. As I said, I've some pull on the outside. Might be able to get you what you need, if you let me in on what you're plannin'."
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"What're lookin' for, anyway?""Hell if I know.
...
But I'm more concerned with the how. I had a couple of valuables before I was put in--reckon they're somewhere in the mine?""Hm. Sometimes the guards just take whatever they fancy from new prisoners, to keep or sell outside the mines. Assumin' they took you to the warden, however, he might have kept your stuff at hand. Anythin' that's officially confiscated from the prisoners is held near his chambers in the upper levels, or so I hear. All the Priests have access, with a permission from one of the Heralds—the ones in black robes, that is...
"...
"I could help you out, if you'd like. As I said, I've some pull on the outside. Might be able to get you what you need, if you let me in on what you're plannin'."
"I was on a dire mission before I was captured..." Raveen says, not looking at Andrzej, before he adds meaningfully, "I am a curse-breaker, and cannot afford to stay here longer than I need to."
He then turns to him for a moment, finishing before turning back, "I need to leave soon...and I think I have a plan."
Andrzej hmms and hrms in response. "I see..."
The Ustalav weighs you with a look, considering your words for a long while as you work. Finally, he nods.
"Better to talk about this later," he says conspiratorially. "Preferrably in private. We're due spelunkin' duty any day now, so you just make sure to pipe up as soon as they ask for volunteers. Then, we'll sort this out as best we're able..."
Raveen nods casually, going back to work as if he didn't just suggest something that would have him beaten within an inch of his life.
Quietly, he analyzes Andrzej's response.
The lunch break goes by without issue, now that both yourself and Andrzej are equipped with bowls of your own. You study your neighbour closely, but only get a sense of nervous excitement from his sudden silence. It seems like he knows when to take things seriously, at the very least.
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Diplomacy to improve relation with Keyes
Raveen goes back to work, and after a few hours pass from his revelation, he asks Andrzej quietly in a whisper after getting his attention, "Hey...do you think I can get a coat in? Like the one you have. From Keyes."
He subconsciously reached for his manacles, before easing it into a pat on a dusty knee.
'Until I am sure these manacles are not spying on me--' he began the thought, before shaking his head in incredulity at where it was taking him. 'Spying manacles! by Norgorber...'
"These rags let in the cold."
Andrzej scratches his stubbly chin thoughtfully. "Hm, I s'pose we can give it a go... don't count on it, though. He's a stingy one."
Over the next few hours, the two of you painstakingly open a line of dialogue with the halfling. The Ustalav takes the lead, handling the introductions, and then attempting to guide you through the rest of the process without making it seem like you are relying on him too much. Multiple messages have to be exchanged even for the simplest transaction, and the constant waiting proves to be grating experience—especially with multiple guards looming nearby. To make it worse, you have some trouble following the discourse, with both Andrzej and Keyes being far more used to the cant than yourself.
As you get to know him, Keyes proves to be as cagey as advertised. The so-called "Friar" is too distant for you to read his expression directly, but your messages are met with pronounced skepticism. His final answer basically amounts to, "Do I look like a tailor? Get back to me when you have some real business."
At first, you do not get the feeling that you made a good first impression, but Andrzej seems quite happy with the interaction. "That went pretty well, methinks. The greedy lil' weasel seems to think we're up to somethin'. That's good. He'll try to profit off it, and we can use that to our advantage..."