|
Raveen draws out and hands over the herbs, mushrooms, and other materials on the top of the nearest table.
"Be sparing with these, Myrna, or try cultivating them. I don't think we can get more from delving."Raveen then rests on a nearby crate, letting out a grunt.
Myrna's eyebrows shoot up at the wide variety of your offerings. "This is... a lot more than I expected."
The healer hurriedly opens the door and leads you into her clinic—such as it is. Essentially another, wider hallway running perpendicular to the central tunnel, over a half of the former barracks is filled with more stored goods, but there is still enough space for a few decrepit cots, a couple of lopsided tables, along with a makeshift cabinet of piled-up boxes for storing tools and ingredients. All of these look scavenged, cobbled together from junk, or like hand-me-downs from the guards, left behind as the mining operations have burrowed their way ever deeper into the earth. Even amongst all this squalor, there is a sense of stubborn orderliness: each moth-eaten blanket represents a small victory in the face of overwhelming oppression, won through either cleverness or sheer, naggering persistence.
Her tiredness pushed aside, Myrna starts going through your haul, refilling cracked bottles and jars where needed, as well as dedicating empty containers for new additions to her collection. She mutters to herself as she identifies the various lichen, mushrooms and plants, marking them with pieces of coloured string for organisational purposes, before depositing them into her ramshackle shelves.
Raveen observes the sanctum Myrna carved out of scraps and chaos quietly, eyes assessing the organization of the place. The place spoke volumes of the woman--she didn't withdraw unto herself. It was as if her mask of cynicism was a shield to shelter her soul from further pain. Act with reservation, make calculated risks, and accumulate small victories until you have a safe place.
Wise."The warden gave me and my fellow delvers a couple of days off. He expects me to choose a post to serve. What jobs can I take down here?"Glancing up from her work, Myrna's initial reaction is that of incredulity. Once she realises you are being serious, she looks as if she is about to say something, but instead bites her lip and pauses, gathering her thoughts before speaking out loud. "Well, I suppose I could find a use for you here—though I loathe to think of what trouble you'd cause me, should I allow such a thing. Aside from this fool's errand, or mining, there are the crane crews, who are in charge of the lifts and the pulleys. You could also help out with the bookkeeping. I used to do that for a while—it's about as comfortable a position as you can get down here, though don't expect it to be anything too... intellectually challenging. They do accounting and logistics, mostly."
Raveen says nothing at that for a while, considering his options.
"Not really," says Myrna. "I've never worked there. The crane crews give me almost as much of a headache as the miners, though, what with people falling off their platforms, or getting their limbs crushed by cargo or their own machines. You're a quick one, good reflexes—just keep your eyes open. The prisoners up here are not as outright dangerous as the ones below, but that doesn't make them any more trustworthy."
Myrna pauses her arranging, as if she had suddenly remembered something. After a moment of digging around, she brings you small glass tube, stoppered with a cork. "Here, drink this. It's the last healing draught I have, though now I should be able to make more..."
The greenish, sour-smelling concoction is already familiar to you, similar to the mixture you got from the healer before your descent.
|
|
"The prisoners up here are not as outright dangerous as the ones below, but that doesn't make them any more trustworthy."
Raveen doesn't nod, as if either deep in thought or drifting off from exhaustion, old pains, and the emotional events of the day.
"Here, drink this. It's the last healing draught I have, though now I should be able to make more..."
He looks up to notice Myrna's hand. He grins softly, and asks, taking the tube, "My complements to the chef."
He pauses, observing the tube, and asks, once Myrna is about to turn, "What do you know about that big bell?"
The healer's expression sours, and she takes something of a motherly stance, hands on her hips, as if you were a child that had been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. There is genuine concern there, and weariness, the lines on her face making her look decades older.
"You shouldn't meddle in such matters," she says firmly. "None that do make it out alive. Do you understand? You're not the first to try, nor are you the cleverest, whatever you may think of yourself. I've known some of these people, befriended them—only to watch them die."
She sighs. "What do I have to say to keep you from throwing your life away?"
|
|
Raveen doesn't lift his eyes from the tube, but says softly, "That thing up there could kill us all at any moment; it already batters us every morning just by ringing. I want to know more of the sword hanging over my neck."
He looks up and raises an eyebrow, as if suggesting, That's not too much, is it?
Myrna's expression hardens, though you get the impression that it is more for her own sake than yours. "I know as much as anybody else: the warden has a magical rod, which he uses to sound the bell. Everyone wearing a manacle is bound to it, so he can hurt them or even kill them as he wills. I've seen a whole mob of rioting prisoners fall dead, screaming in agony and bleeding out of their ears..."
She shakes her head, as if trying to rid herself of the memory. "Some of the Acolytes say the bell was made by Razmir himself. There's nothing you can do against such power, believe me: I've seen him reduce a whole city to rubble. I don't know if he's really a god, but he might as well be.
You sense that, even though she is genuinely troubled by her experiences worried for your safety, Myrna is holding something back—or perhaps that is precisely why.
|
|
"I know as much as anybody else: the warden has a magical rod, which he uses to sound the bell. Everyone wearing a manacle is bound to it, so he can hurt them or even kill them as he wills. I've seen a whole mob of rioting prisoners fall dead, screaming in agony and bleeding out of their ears...
"Some of the Acolytes say the bell was made by Razmir himself. There's nothing you can do against such power, believe me: I've seen him reduce a whole city to rubble. I don't know if he's really a god, but he might as well be."
Cold ash raining from a moonlit sky upon ghost-haunted ruins. A vision--a recalled dream comes, unbidden.
But such visions would not blind the young man--yet.Raveen listens to the half-elf healer.
"Myrna..." he says slowly, gray eyes on Myrna's own green. "I can see it in your eyes. There is something you're not telling me."
Myrna meets you gaze, her face expressionless, and says nothing for a moment. Finally, she lifts her apron so you can see her ankles: neither of them bears a manacle, even though one shows the faded abrasions of past bindings. "Before you ask: no, I don't know why. Or rather, I don't remember. We've met for the first time, two times, so I assume I don't have to explain to you what that means—you're a bright young man."
She closes here eyes, her brow wrinkled in concentration. "I remember all the failed attempts at freedom, all the squashed riots. I can remember faces, and names, and conversations had with those who tried. However, I can't remember anything of my own involvement in these uprisings—only the aftermath, and my own helplessness. Did I really just stand by, and watch them all die? No. I could never do that. Those memories, they aren't mine."
The half-elf turns her back to you, her voice cracking. "I'm afraid you're where I was, before... before I stopped trusting myself. I don't know how far I got, before the warden caught me, or how many I've led to the same fate. You're bright young man, I'll give you that. I was bright, too. Perhaps that's what he wants out of his informants: the ability to comprehend, to correlate, to see the seams—combined with the arrogance to dismiss all of it as coincidence."
|
|
Myrna meets you gaze, her face expressionless, and says nothing for a moment. Finally, she lifts her apron so you can see her ankles: neither of them bears a manacle, even though one shows the faded abrasions of past bindings. "Before you ask: no, I don't know why. Or rather, I don't remember. We've met for the first time, two times, so I assume I don't have to explain to you what that means—you're a bright young man."
Raveen listens in silence, as things fall together.
"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?"
He then lowers his eyes.
"I remember all the failed attempts at freedom, all the squashed riots. I can remember faces, and names, and conversations had with those who tried. However, I can't remember anything of my own involvement in these uprisings—only the aftermath, and my own helplessness. Did I really just stand by, and watch them all die? No. I could never do that. Those memories, they aren't mine.
"I'm afraid you're where I was, before... before I stopped trusting myself. I don't know how far I got, before the warden caught me, or how many I've led to the same fate. You're bright young man, I'll give you that. I was bright, too. Perhaps that's what he wants out of his informants: the ability to comprehend, to correlate, to see the seams—combined with the arrogance to dismiss all of it as coincidence."
"The Warden wants another Myrna in myself, Raveen muses. No chains are needed once they are internalized. But I am good at subverting expectations...
"You...are killing yourself," Raveen says, shaking his head. He turns to the lantern in the room, observing the shadow-play in a silent moment of reflection.
The scent of dirt and soil and of hallucinogenic plants and poisons contrasted against the clean septic organization of the room's tools. How can the preservation of life be done with tools that bring death? Another just as real conflict also lay within the woman before him; nobility pit against self-loathing; purity pit against confusion; small acts of bravery pit against constant fear. How does she face every day, believing that she is a tool of a tyrant she cannot escape?
She must still live, but does not even own her mind.
It is broken. Then again--this prison is a mosaic of broken things.
A memory came to him.
"Perhaps it's the mask? Or perhaps it's... me? The mask is me."
"The mask is you. We all wear masks. That is all we ever are."
And another...
"As long they cling on to a false sense of self, the truth will elude them, as it does you..."
The hidden mask thrums with power as his shadow shakes.
"We are all masks...and I have remade some," he whispers.
Myrna's words do hold a certain resonance with your own experiences: her past failures and resulting self-loathing are the same as your own, though muted by the patina of age. Her mind is much like an old jigsaw puzzle—some pieces are missing entirely, while others have been replaced with crude replicas, only partly fitting in with the original image. These memories are not buried or lost in the attic of her thoughts, but utterly excised with the ruthless efficiency of an amoral surgeon. This phantom pain, this void of memory, is terrible to behold, and for her, a source of endless dread.
Without a considerable expenditure of magical power, there is only one cure: letting go, moving on, and creating new memories. Myrna's will to live is strong, but she is held captive by confusion and fear. With time, and with enough acceptance and patience, her wounds might heal—but not while she lives at mercy of the one who wields the scalpel. Perhaps he might be able to return her memories to her. This, surely, is something she clings to, hoping in vain her struggle has meaning.
|
|
With a sigh uttered from his lips, Raveen's power recedes from Myrna as if it were a withdrawing tide.
"Myrna...a person is not what they remember, believe, or think of themselves; they are what they hide," he continues. "And you hide strength, and the will to live. It's hidden inside, shielded by cynicism and compliance, embedded at your end of the mental battlefield. Don't fear what's lost of your memories. You are you, regardless of what you remember, and I think I've gotten a good measure of what you're like...that's what truly matters."
He stands up from the crate.
"If I am to be an informant, I can live with it. I've served before, all whilst keeping my core untouched--I came with the sun, after all."
There is a long, heavy silence. You catch the barest hint of a sniffle, and see Myrna wipe her face on her sleeve, never turning to face you.
Finally, she glances over her shoulder, eyes red, waving off-handedly at the beds in the clinic. "You can sleep wherever you want. I... I need to put everything away before it spoils..."
Without saying another word, she returns to her work, pulling a curtain between herself and the rest of the room.
|
|
Raveen sits on the nearest bed, leaning on the side.
As his mind fades to unconsciousness, an old tune touched by the dust of memory echoes in his mind--an old Varisian wandering song. As the waves of sleep wash over his mind, they come with the distant voice of a young girl.
My song resounds with love
as the aging day is dying;
it sows its shadows
and reaps a thousand pearls.
You awaken well before the bell rings by the sounds of the clinic door opening and closing. While you are alarmed at first, still half asleep, you soon determine it must have been Myrna, leaving for her morning rounds. There is a small portion of bread and hard cheese on the crate at your bedside, which you are able to consume before the inevitable tolling begins, bringing with it pain and the incontrovertible reminder of your captivity.
Almost immediately, before you have much chance to recover, the door opens again. Standing at the threshold is a Herald—the woman with an iron grip.
"Have you chosen?" she asks, in a tone promising retribution for a negative answer.
Once you inform her about your decision, the black-robed figure steps aside from the doorway and points into the hall, escorting you back into the central shaft. This time, you are brought only a couple levels down from the top. While the ramps are already bustling with both guards and prisoners, all hurry to make way for the Herald. She hands you off to a grey-robed priest—a man notably less robust than Curnow—who is quick to carry out her orders: to find a place for you amongst the crane crews. He, in turn, passes you to a team manning a crane on platform, one which extends quite a ways into the empty air in the middle of the shaft.
Two humans work the pulleys on the crane, one of them a one-eyed man of mixed Kellid heritage, with no tattoos to mark him as belonging to a traditional clan, and the other a Taldan woman. The latter appears more like a common labourer than his fellow: muscular, but with no markings of a life of violence. A red-haired female halfling hangs precariously off the side of the crane, calling out to her fellows as well the other crews, as everyone attempts to work without interfering with one another. As the crates of ore are brought up, she deftly clambers down the rope to disentangle the knots securing the payload, and up again as the others swing the crane back around to the shaft. These crates are then collected by teams running carts up and down the ramps, brought elsewhere for further processing.
Overseeing the crew's efforts is an inmate of Taldan descent, bald with an unevenly grown beard, and the physique someone less used to physical labour: he is short, and seems to have lost a lot of weight just recently, his skin drooping in folds from his uncovered arms. He has a blackboard and a piece of chalk, marking each load of cargo before it is carried away by other teams of inmates. This is who you are left to by the Priest, after some quick instructions to find you work.
He looks you up and down expectantly, not appearing atl all pleased by this sudden interruption of his routine.
"So," he asks in a nasally voice, "what can you do?"
|
|
Dreams brought no insight nor troubles during the night. In fact, Raveen hesitated to believe he dreamt at all, unable to parse anything from the mists of exhaustion and anxiety.
Raveen eats the food portions quickly, reveling slightly in something other than gruel, before the Herald enters.
He nods to the Herald, answering her with his intention to work the cranes.
He follows obediently to the site until the bald overseer assesses him, staying quiet.
"So...what can you do?"
"Carpentry," Raveen answers.
He pauses, and then adds, "I can make some reliable shit and stop at that. Need a demonstration, or should I go to my first task?"
If the overseer asks for more details, Raveen obliges, detailing neutrally, "I'm capable at carving using various tools. I have a good eye for detail and manual dexterity, as well as wood finishing, repair, and paneling."
He pauses, and then adds, "I can make some reliable s*&~ and stop at that. Need a demonstration, or should I go to my first task?"
The overseer squints at you sceptically, scratching the bridge of his nose. This leaves behind a smudge of chalk, but does not seem to notice.
"You're confident, I'll give you that," he mutters. "But yes, a demonstration is in order, before I let you anywhere near the machinery. Anything you break is coming off my hide, you know?"
He looks around, and then points at a nearby pile of broken crate parts—mostly splintered boards and bent nails. "Make me a... chair, or a stool, or... something. There are tools in that box over there."
Behind him, the one-eyed Kellid lets out a loud guffaw, only to be hushed by his partner.
|
|
Raveen wordlessly moves towards the pile, studying the materials, before picking up the required tools, crafting a stool.
While being crafted, Raveen sneaks a trio of thick nails and a piece wood into the stool's bottom, concealed from normal view between the splintered boards.
The stool, upon its completion, was good workmanship, and was focused on sturdiness over appearance with a solid handle.
Choice pieces of splintered boards were picked and reinforced together, and once he is done, Raveen calls to the overseer, heavy stool in hand, ready to present his work.
The overseer takes the stool, squinting at it from a multiple angles—it seems as if he is in dire need of spectacles. He does not appear to notice the unnecessary additions to the underside of the seat, or otherwise mistakes them for a part of its construction.
"Not bad," he says after a while, losing some of his initial sourness. "Not bad at all."
He puts down the stool, settling into it with a relieved sigh. "Much better! Now, how are you with heights? Say we lower you down in a harness—think you can work like that, without passing out or throwing up? There's a loose piling under the platform that's been giving us trouble, getting in the way of payloads as we lift them. What's worse, every time we bump into the damn thing, we also bring ourselves closer to a tumble down the metaphorical sh*tter..."
"Finch doesn't mind the vertigo," he says, gesturing at the halfling, "but she doesn't know which way to hold a hammer. The others are better at woodwork, but they're not what you'd call... acrobatic."
"Why don't you give it a try, baldy?" calls the Kellid, red-faced from his exertions. "I promise we won't drop you... too far."
The overseer just shakes his head good-naturedly, stubbly jowls flapping—there is a sort of rapport between these people, it appears.
|
|
"Not bad," he says after a while, losing some of his initial sourness. "Not bad at all."
Raveen lowers his tools, nodding in acknowledgement.
He puts down the stool, settling into it with a relieved sigh. "Much better! Now, how are you with heights? Say we lower you down in a harness—think you can work like that, without passing out or throwing up? There's a loose piling under the platform that's been giving us trouble, getting in the way of payloads as we lift them. What's worse, every time we bump into the damn thing, we also bring ourselves closer to a tumble down the metaphorical sh*tter..."
"Finch doesn't mind the vertigo," he says, gesturing at the halfling, "but she doesn't know which way to hold a hammer. The others are better at woodwork, but they're not what you'd call... acrobatic."
"Why don't you give it a try, baldy?" calls the Kellid, red-faced from his exertions. "I promise we won't drop you... too far."
"I'm comfortable with heights," he answers after the banter dies down, recalling his youth climbing trees. "I am not an exceptionally good climber, but I can do what you ask, overseer."
Satisfied with your answer, the overseer waves his hand dismissively.
"Just call me Pascal," he says. "We're all prisoners here. I'll have a chat with the guards and the other foremen, and see if we can delegate the next few payloads elsewhere—we can't start fixing the platform while the crane is still in operation. You can take the rest of the shift off, but don't wander off too far! We get off easy up here, relatively speaking, but the guards are like to toss you off the edge if you do anything shady..."
The man gets up, grunting as he does, walking off towards the nearest group of guards. None of the prisoners seem to be shackled to anything, though they still bear their manacles. Trios of white-robed Acolytes make their rounds between the two adjacent platforms. They are never out of sight, but stay at a distance, with none of them overseeing the operations directly. The grey-robed Priest is visible at times, but seems to favour a less hands-on approach than his colleagues below in the mines.
First impressions can be deceiving, but you do not notice anything immediately untoward about Pascal's behaviour—if anything, he seems quite content with his lot.
Underneath you, there are two more levels of crane platforms, manned by a dozen or so inmates operating different lifting mechanisms. Below that, there are several hundred feet between you and the bottom, surrounded by mostly empty platforms and ramps—majority of the cart crews work near the bottom and the top, where the payloads are handled, with the functioning cell blocks situated in between. Crates of ore are brought up and then taken into former cellblocks adjoining the crane platforms, assumably repurposed for further processing and storage—you do not see anything that would imply that there is a forge or a smithy on the premises. However, you also do not see anything being taken up above, where the lid covering the opening of the shaft is just as firmly closed as before—shipments are likely retrieved from the prison on a schedule, perhaps coinciding with deliveries of supplies. This would imply a remote location, far from any settlements.
From where you are, almost directly below the warden's platform, only the bottom side of it is directly visible. You can see the bell, though only partially.
There is the obvious route which you have already traversed, wooden ramps leading up to wooden platforms clinging to hewn stone ledges. The undersides of these structures might be traversable, although you are less than certain in your ability to do so—still, it is a better option than the sheer stone walls of the shaft. Some of the ropes on the pulleys on the above level might also be climbable, but these would not get you directly to the warden's platform. A lifeline would be useful, regardless.
You think you might have a better view from down in the shaft itself, as the platforms above partially block your vision.
Raveen doesn't reach out to the other workers, but does meet their eyes or observes their work quietly, dropping his own tools.
The other inmates meet your gaze with nods of varying enthusiasm (Finch being the most eminently sociable, and the Kellid just as taciturn), but do not engage in discussion: their work requires a bit more concentration and expertise than repeatedly swinging a pickaxe against a wall, even if it is less physically taxing. Pascal's absence does not seem to slow them in any significant manner, as his work appears to be more about communicating with the other authorities and coordinating schedules than the actual labour. There is a definite sense of trust between the three workers: when Finch the halfling makes a call-out, the others respond without a delay. By listening to them work, you gather that the Kellid is named Brynmor and the Taldan woman is called Olivia (or "Livvy," at least by Finch).
|
|
Raveen studies the platform above him. A memory drifts to his mind--scaling a tower manned by a tiefling thief with the aid of his friend Naberius's magic.
I should have asked to copy that spell, he muses with a small smile, sitting down on his newly-crafted stool, continuing to study the structure around him.
"Do you not have lifelines or harnesses except on special circumstances?" Raveen asks Finch in a moment of quiet or breaktime. "This platform seems...unstable, going by Pascal."
"Do you not have lifelines or harnesses except on special circumstances?" Raveen asks Finch in a moment of quiet or breaktime. "This platform seems...unstable, going by Pascal."
You catch Finch quenching her thirst in between shifts. She is drinking straight out of a bucket the size of her whole torso, rather sloppily at that.
"Not really," she says, her chin dripping with water. "Here's the deal, chum: we're all thoroughly f*cked if we go down with the platform, ropes or no—if the fall doesn't get you, the debris will. Some of the other callers use that stuff when they work, but I think it just gets in the way..."
The halfling indicates other crews, who have their own Finches clambering up and down the lengths of their cranes: most are gnomes, halflings or young humans, and some of them do indeed wear rope harnesses, while others pointedly do not. There is no enforced standard to be seen, one way or another.
"But don't worry about it too much," Finch adds reassuringly. "I'm thinking we'll lower you down using the crane, so there's little to no chance of you falling. We have some rope laying around, if you want to make sure the knots are all nice and tight before you go off the edge."
The prisoners, both those on Pascal's platform and those nearest to it, seem to agree that all of the their confiscated possessions—the ones not stolen by the lower-ranking Razmirans upon capture—are stored in the warden's office. He does not appear to trust his underlings with anything remotely important or valuable. Aside from that consensus, your fellows do not appear to know much: to be called up is to return changed, or not return at all.
The rest of the second shift passes without incident, though you notice that the shipments received by those on Pascal's platform seem to stop earlier than the others. As the inmates sit down for their midday meals—a thin gruel served from a cart much like that down below, with the added benefit of a mouldy piece of bread—the overseer returns. He looks red-faced and sweaty, and not at all pleased with himself, despite the fact that he appears to have been successful in his task.
"A couple hours of ass-kissing will do that to you," jokes Brynmor, noting the direction of your gaze.
Pascal scoffs, wiping his forehead on his collar. "I suppose you're hankering to fall down a f*ck-off pit. No? Then focus on chewing, not flapping your gums! We've got until the end of today's shifts to get this platform fixed, or it won't be fixed at all."
After a hurried repast, the team reassume their stations, with the addition of yourself, now attached to the end of the tow-line. A box of tools has been prepared in advance, ready to be lowered by Pascal on a separate rope next to the crane. Finch helps you secure the harness, making sure your knots are tight.
"Good to go!" chirps the halfling. "Brynmor and Livvy will lower you down as close as they can, and try to hold you level. Give us a shout if you need to be moved, and I'll call down if there's anything you need to watch out for, yeah? Just focus on the repairs, and leave the rest to us."
|
|
"Good to go!" chirps the halfling. "Brynmor and Livvy will lower you down as close as they can, and try to hold you level. Give us a shout if you need to be moved, and I'll call down if there's anything you need to watch out for, yeah? Just focus on the repairs, and leave the rest to us."
Raveen nods silently. He prepares a few essential tools on his person, not wishing to rely too heavily on the other box, but otherwise shows his readiness by stepping over the ledge smoothly.
Had I known I would be doing so much wood-work, I would have focused more on repairing the furniture in the Children's hideout than arguing with Tal, he muses with a sad smile.
Alas, Desna did not smile down on Raveen this day.
You are lowered some fifteen feet below the top of the platform, brought face-to-face with the loose piling: it is one of the four largest supports, resting against a stone shelf hewn from the wall of the shaft. Where the piling meets the level plane of the platform, it seems to have slipped free of the vertical beams connecting it to the rest of the structure—as a result, it is slowly slipping out from under the weight of the crane and the crew working it.
The work is painstakingly slow and nerve-wracking, accompanied by threatening creaks, the slow trickle of gravel from above, and the constant threat of vertigo—brought on whenever you make the mistake of glimpsing the hundreds of feet of air below you. Most of the time you are trying to reinforce the structures around the problem area, anchoring the loose piling in place while you slowly redistribute the weight of the platform elsewhere. Pascal lowers materials and tools in a steady stream, while Finch acts as the middlewoman, passing messages between you and the pair working the mechanisms of the crane.
Disaster strikes without warning, as the rogue piling suddenly and violently breaks free of its more conforming brethren. The platform lurches, sending loose lumber and tools falling down the shaft. Finch flies off the crane, but she is able to catch on to the rope above you, sliding down with a pained yelp—you can only assume her hands are burned raw from the friction. Olivia and Pascal manage to hang on to the platform, but Brynmor is not as lucky, stumbling over the edge with nothing to hold on to. He is wearing something resembling a harness, but there is enough slack to cause a twenty-feet freefall, ending with a sickening crack as the line snaps taut.
You have little time to gape at their misfortune, however, as you are showered with rubble and splinters of wood, a torrent of sharp edges dislodged by the sudden quake. Moving on instinct, you manage to kick yourself away from the scaffolding, avoiding the rain of debris. There are shouts from the lower platforms, as the offending piling collides with something equally heavy down below, followed by the pattering of assorted junk. Olivia—swearing profusely—manages to get the crane back under control by her lonesome, stopping you from flinging yourself into any of the crates being lifted and lowered around the shaft.
"Get back up here!" calls Pascal, motioning to Finch.
The halfling glances at the limply hanging form of Brynmor, teary-eyed. "B-but what about..."
"The one-eyed bastard can wait!" shouts the overseer. "We'll all go down if we can't fix this! Now, get your ass up here!"
Soon, the work continues as before, though now there is an element of desperation to your labour: hours pass, with your life literally hanging by a thread. Pascal covers for Brynmor, sweating at the pulley with Olivia, while Finch takes his place at the rope, lowering down supplies, while continuing to make call-outs.
Though one would be hard-pressed to call anything about the situation 'lucky,' perhaps Desna's hand is seen in one major way: by some miracle, the platform is still mostly upright, now supported by only three pilings. You are able to affix the platform to the surrounding structures, something of an emergency solution: there is little chance of the platform lasting for long in its current state without replacing the piling, but the immediate threat of collapse is postponed for at least a week or two.
|
|
Grit 1/3
You have little time to gape at their misfortune, however, as you are showered with rubble and splinters of wood, a torrent of sharp edges dislodged by the sudden quake. Moving on instinct, you manage to kick yourself away from the scaffolding, avoiding the rain of debris. There are shouts from the lower platforms, as the offending piling collides with something equally heavy down below, followed by the pattering of assorted junk. Olivia—swearing profusely—manages to get the crane back under control by her lonesome, stopping you from flinging yourself into any of the crates being lifted and lowered around the shaft.
Raveen shouts out, shielding his eyes from the rain of debris and dust, "Get out from below!"
The shouts from below and the sickening sound Brynmor let out as he dangled caused his eyes to harden as he looked down from below. He turns to his task silently, putting more effort into it without another word.Myrna, we need a little help...
Though one would be hard-pressed to call anything about the situation 'lucky,' perhaps Desna's hand is seen in one major way: by some miracle, the platform is still mostly upright, now supported by only three pilings. You are able to affix the platform to the surrounding structures, something of an emergency solution: there is little chance of the platform lasting for long in its current state without replacing the piling, but the immediate threat of collapse is postponed for at least a week or two.
Raveen observes his handiwork, teeth grit in dissatisfaction.
"This isn't good enough," he growls to Finch as he passes for supplies. "I need more time, and I need more parts."
He then examines his handiwork ()
He also spares a look for the damage the partial shedding the ledge caused.
|
|
In between one of Finch's periods of messaging or a lull in work, Raveen, biting down on his frustration and keeping his eyes on his goal, integrates a small series of modifications that could help him navigate the prison in the future in case he ever needed to go up the rope to the upper levels.
()
Myrna, we need a little help...
Though your upwards vision is mostly blocked by the platform, you can definitely hear the shouts of guards and prisoners alike—and after a while, Myrna's voice above the din. While she is too far to make out the specifics, it sounds as if she is unsuccessfully trying to get through a cordon.
Raveen observes his handiwork, teeth grit in dissatisfaction.
"This isn't good enough," he growls to Finch as he passes for supplies. "I need more time, and I need more parts."
Finch shakes her head ruefully—if she blames you for Brynmor's fall, she does not show it. If anything, she looks to be wrestling with guilt herself.
"Sorry," calls the halfling. "I don't think we're getting either. Well, at least not right now."
Olivia and Pascal lower you down intermittently, so you can rest your feet against the stone shelf, but the harness inevitably starts abrading in all the wrong places. After six gruelling hours, hammering and sawing, checking and rechecking every support, the platform has been stabilised. You are unsure how long the structure will hold, exactly, but you feel you have at least made the best of a bad situation—a week, at the very least. Replacing the beam would require a whole team of workers.
A few glances stolen downward reveal the piling glanced off a lower platform on its way to the bottom: that and the debris appear to have caused a few injuries, but no casualties which you can see. The guards are already ushering inmates back to work, though both keep a curious eye on you as they work.
In between one of Finch's periods of messaging or a lull in work, Raveen, biting down on his frustration and keeping his eyes on his goal, integrates a small series of modifications that could help him navigate the prison in the future in case he ever needed to go up the rope to the upper levels.
Even though you have made a spectacle of yourself, most of your audience is at a distance. Furthermore, you find refuge in the sheer audacity of your actions: who would try something like this, in plain sight? A minor addition here, a small modification there—slowly but surely the plan comes together...
After you have given the go-ahead, the others start moving to raise you and Brynmor. They are interrupted by the arrival of Myrna, whose flushed face pops up over the ledge above you. The healer is visibly fuming, but forces herself to act in a partway controlled manner—which is to say, like a hellhound on a hunt.
"Stop right there, you idiots!" she barks at someone on her right, before turning back to you. "Raveen, check on the patient. If his spine is injured, you'll need to support him on the way up. The rest of you, move him over! Yes, that man, he has a name..."
Pascal and Olivia dutifully swing you over to Brynmor's unmoving body. The Kellid is hanging face down, bent over at the waist. He does not show signs of consciousness: his skin is pale, and you can see a trickle of blood running from the corner of his mouth into his scraggly beard.
|
|
Myrna, we need a little help...Though your upwards vision is mostly blocked by the platform, you can definitely hear the shouts of guards and prisoners alike—and after a while, Myrna's voice above the din. While she is too far to make out the specifics, it sounds as if she is unsuccessfully trying to get through a cordon.
And the storm shall come, he thinks, a passing sense of affection and respect for the dedicated healer nearly distracting him.
"This isn't good enough," he growls to Finch as he passes for supplies. "I need more time, and I need more parts."Finch shakes her head ruefully—if she blames you for Brynmor's fall, she does not show it. If anything, she looks to be wrestling with guilt herself.
"Sorry," calls the halfling. "I don't think we're getting either. Well, at least not right now."
Olivia and Pascal lower you down intermittently, so you can rest your feet against the stone shelf, but the harness inevitably starts abrading in all the wrong places. After six gruelling hours, hammering and sawing, checking and rechecking every support, the platform has been stabilised. You are unsure how long the structure will hold, exactly, but you feel you have at least made the best of a bad situation—a week, at the very least. Replacing the beam would require a whole team of workers.
Raveen rests his feet against the stable part of the platform, stretching his sore arm. He assesses the work--from the stabilization to the secretive loops and hooks intended for climbing from lower levels safely to near the bell.
Just as this repair cannot be done alone, Raveen realizes sullenly, nor can I escape alone.
The soreness seems to spread in Raveen's body--but in his heart, he was not a mere thief or dabbling magician--he was a Northman...surely that would be enough.
It was as if Raveen's willpower and stoicism ran through his body like blood.
This thing can be done. We can escape.
|
|
After you have given the go-ahead, the others start moving to raise you and Brynmor. They are interrupted by the arrival of Myrna, whose flushed face pops up over the ledge above you. The healer is visibly fuming, but forces herself to act in a partway controlled manner—which is to say, like a hellhound on a hunt.
"Stop right there, you idiots!" she barks at someone on her right, before turning back to you. "Raveen, check on the patient. If his spine is injured, you'll need to support him on the way up. The rest of you, move him over! Yes, that man, he has a name..."
"And the sun shines upon us once more," Raveen muses aloud, before turning serious, nodding. "On your orders, doctor."
Pascal and Olivia dutifully swing you over to Brynmor's unmoving body. The Kellid is hanging face down, bent over at the waist. He does not show signs of consciousness: his skin is pale, and you can see a trickle of blood running from the corner of his mouth into his scraggly beard.
Raveen studies the man's posture, trying to determine if the loud crack was a spine-breaking whiplash. Not trained in medicine per se, he was familiar with superficial injuries.
Raveen studies the man's posture, trying to determine if the loud crack was a spine-breaking whiplash. Not trained in medicine per se, he was familiar with superficial injuries.
At first, you see no signs of life on Brynmor's limp form: he does not appear to be breathing, at least perceptibly so. You feel around for a pulse—and eventually find one, though it is alarmingly weak. Though you cannot judge the extent of his injuries for certain, the curve of his back falls within the acceptable range of positions for a living human. The fact that landed face-down might have mitigated the impact on his spine, but the blood dripping from his mouth hints at internal bleeding.
Myrna gives her blessing, and Brynmor is slowly brought up to the platform. With your assistance, Olivia and Pascal manage to not jar him more than is necessary. The healer looks the Kellid over, grunting and muttering dissatisfiedly. Finally, she gets up, and points to you and Olivia.
"You two! Put together something resembling a stretcher, and help me carry him to my clinic."
Pascal blinks at her incredulously. "Hey, wait! They can't just lea—"
"They can and they will," interrupts the healer. "There's going to be no work here until tomorrow, and you have a lot of explaining to do. Get to it, and let me worry about these three."
The overseer seems to have little to say in his defence, departing towards a nearby cluster of guards. Finch wrings her hands nearby. Having seen your previous work, Olivia looks at you expectantly. Again, she does not seem to blame you in any way. Perhaps they have not realised you caused the collapse...?
|
|
Raveen climbs along with the Kellid, straining to climb over the edge of the platform and resting aching muscles. He removes the harness, feeling it chafe, as he listens to the exchange between Myrna and Pascal.
"You two! Put together something resembling a stretcher, and help me carry him to my clinic."
Taking advantage of the momentum, Raveen pushes himself to his feet, looking for wooden poles and cloth wraps to improvise into a stretcher. He says nothing, reinforcing with stoicism an aura of competence and resolve.
In the middle of the commotion, he tries to notice if anyone has been watching his actions so far or looks suspicious.
Olivia does her best to assist in the assembly, showing at least basic aptitude in affixing two pieces of wood together in a half-way permanent manner. She does not seem to question your feigned confidence in the least, apparently more worried with Brynmor's well-being than anything else.
After coming up with an improvised stretcher, you lift Brynmor onto it, with Myrna's firm guidance. Some of the lingering guards look crossly at your and Olivia's departure, but they have their hands full shepherding the rest of the prisoners back to their cells. Finch is soon lost in the commotion.
The grey-robed Priest is nowhere to be seen, but as you climb the ramp, you can see the silhouette of a black-robed Herald leering down at you from the warden's platform. It is unclear how long they have been watching, but they never take their eyes off you for the entirety of your ascent.
Once you reach Myrna's clinic, she instructs you and Olivia to lift the Kellid's limp body into one of the scavenged beds. Olivia slumps next to the patient as soon as you are done, looking forlorn. The healer checks Brynmor's vitals, and then strides over to her makeshift cabinets.
"Care to explain what happened?" asks Myrna, as she begins going through her newly renewed supplies. Her tone is calm, but strained—you get the distinct impression that had you not recently contributed to said collection of remedies, you might be receiving a less restrained form of query.
"The... the platform collapsed," mutters Olivia, dazedly holding Brynmor's hand.
"Not you!" snaps the half-elf, waving you closer and switching to a whisper. "Did you cause this?!"
Myrna squints, frowns, and then her expression softens.
"Of course not," she says, shaking her head and sighing deeply. "Sorry. Trouble seems to follow you wherever you go..."
The healer bites her lip, glancing between Brynmor, Olivia, and the restocked cupboard. "This is not good. He won't die, not right away at least, but... damn. If I give him anything... substantial, like I did with you, there'll be no explaining his recovery—especially not with her here. If I don't... well, there's not much of a chance they'll give me the time to care for him until he's well. 'Hopeless' cases are more likely to be taken to the warden for his... experiments."
Myrna grits her teeth. "You don't get as proficient in inflicting pain and moulding minds as the warden without... test subjects. You've met his Heralds: conditioned with pain and brainwashed to the point where they Rastagar as their creator and god. They live only to serve him."
The healer sighs, her anger giving way to resignation. "Of course, those are the successful ones. I suppose my aim has been to give him as few opportunities to practise as possible, even if it's all in vain—I doubt he would even let me try, if he didn't think it caused me to suffer."
|
|
Myrna grits her teeth. "You don't get as proficient in inflicting pain and moulding minds as the warden without... test subjects. You've met his Heralds: conditioned with pain and brainwashed to the point where they Rastagar as their creator and god. They live only to serve him."
"Is that what they are now?" Raveen asks back softly. "I suspected something more...planar."
He pauses and then adds in an undertone, "Their servitude is for him, not for the Church of Razmir?"The healer sighs, her anger giving way to resignation. "Of course, those are the successful ones. I suppose my aim has been to give him as few opportunities to practise as possible, even if it's all in vain—I doubt he would even let me try, if he didn't think it caused me to suffer."
With this information, Raveen contemplated.
Another Herald? Just one could overwhelm me, given best circumstances on my side.A small voice echoed behind the pragmatic thought.
Wounded by my hand, the guilty voice spoke. And condemned suffer more before the end.
Raveen frowned.
"We need to ensure he survives," he says softly. "Can I do anything to help?
"Is that what they are now?" Raveen asks back softly. "I suspected something more...planar."
He pauses and then adds in an undertone, "Their servitude is for him, not for the Church of Razmir?"
"You might well be right," the healer says ruefully. "My area of expertise is alchemy: most of the warden's magicks are beyond my understanding. All I know is that those... monsters, they were prisoners once—my patients, troublemakers... friends..."
Myrna clears her throat. Her expression shifts towards something more thoughtful, or even wistful. "As for the Church... well, I only know what I've been told. Much has happened since I was imprisoned. What difference does it make, really? The guards may not be mindless automatons, but they obey Rastagar all the same. Whatever supplications he has to make above, he is the one who rules down here. He might as well be Razmir, as far as we're concerned."
Raveen frowned.
"We need to ensure he survives," he says softly. "Can I do anything to help?
Myrna nods firmly. From somewhere within the tangle of shelves, she pulls out two slats of wood. Between them are assorted scraps of paper and parchment. "Distract her—get her out of the room for a minute, or something. I'll mix and dose out the serum while you're away. His recovery will seem... unusually fast, I'm sure, but at least we have some time to come up with an excuse. Keep him here for a while longer than is necessary, perhaps, if he's cooperative."
As you look over, you notice Olivia has taken Brynmor's hand, and seems to be whispering something to the unconscious Kellid.
|
|
"You might well be right," the healer says ruefully. "My area of expertise is alchemy: most of the warden's magicks are beyond my understanding. All I know is that those... monsters, they were prisoners once—my patients, troublemakers... friends...""Is that what they are now?" Raveen asks back softly. "I suspected something more...planar."
He pauses and then adds in an undertone, "Their servitude is for him, not for the Church of Razmir?"
Raveen glances at the healer, silent.
The world seemed many times over cursed to the young man as he observed the healer, deep in her mourning. The crises and heartbreaks he saw in Nidal were no different--the disappointments in Cheliax as well.All the lost potential...
"They will be the last to suffer," he whispers to himself, defenses down.
Myrna clears her throat. Her expression shifts towards something more thoughtful, or even wistful. "As for the Church... well, I only know what I've been told. Much has happened since I was imprisoned. What difference does it make, really? The guards may not be mindless automatons, but they obey Rastagar all the same. Whatever supplications he has to make above, he is the one who rules down here. He might as well be Razmir, as far as we're concerned."
Raveen nodded quietly.
There will be no opportunity to hit the church with the church, he realized.
"There is nowhere to run to. This time, I win or die."He recalled the Other. He has something to prove...
But he could not do this alone. He needed more dedication and passion in the people around him.
He observed Myrna. Perhaps she was too wounded to help--too humbled to try again. Perhaps her light was put out.Raveen frowned.
"We need to ensure he survives," he says softly. "Can I do anything to help?Myrna nods firmly. From somewhere within the tangle of shelves, she pulls out two slats of wood. Between them are assorted scraps of paper and parchment. "Distract her—get her out of the room for a minute, or something. I'll mix and dose out the serum while you're away. His recovery will seem... unusually fast, I'm sure, but at least we have some time to come up with an excuse. Keep him here for a while longer than is necessary, perhaps, if he's cooperative."
As you look over, you notice Olivia has taken Brynmor's hand, and seems to be whispering something to the unconscious Kellid.
"All of us were supposed to get out of here, together."
Raveen blinked. Internally, he beamed. Embers the passion was, but ember was yet a form of fire.
"Olivia," Raveen says, approaching. "Come, Myrna needs space to work."
"Olivia," Raveen says, approaching. "Come, Myrna needs space to work."
Olivia blinks away tears, looking as if she did not quite understand what you are saying—or did not want to. The contrast between her burliness and the fragility of her expression is striking: though obviously not a fighter, she does not look as if she has had an easy life.
"B-but," she mutters, looking for an excuse, "no, I can't leave him..."
Raveen reaches to comfort Olivia first before trying again, saying, "Olivia, Myrna can handle this. I have full confidence in her. You have to give her a chance; she's the only one who cares about us in this hole."
Olivia sniffles, looking to Brynmor and then over to Myrna, who is busy preparing her concoction. With no strong objections forthcoming, her expression turns to frustration, and then fury. Nevertheless, she gets up and follows you out the clinic, stomping her feet all the way.
As soon as you are in the empty hallway of the former cellblock, Olivia turns and kicks a nearby box—hard. Though she is hardly a match for the likes of Pike, neither in skill nor temperament, a lifetime of hard work has left her robust and well-muscled. Unlike Pascal, she appears to have adapted reasonably well to imprisonment.
"This is so unfair!" she half-whispers, half-shouts. "How down do we have to fall before hit the bottom!? He doesn't deserve this..."