Wicken was always a fine place to live. The seasons came and went as really the only marking of the passage of the years. The winters forced you to huddle around your hearth or to escape to the Smiling Pig Tavern to enjoy the smiles, laughter, and singing over mulled cider. Winters soon became warm springs, but Wicken was far enough from the city — the one you call the Blight — to enjoy clean air, so you could enjoy the newly arriving warmth and greenery. Summers were a blur of festivals and heat, lazing in the fields of barley, and waiting for the harvest and orchards of sweet apples to ripen under the sun. When harvest-time came, and the nights began to draw in, the larders were filled and made ready for a cozy winter.
The peaceful hamlet lay beyond the city walls, a small group of cottages that in spring and early summer were a riot of wisteria: the heady perfume dancing across the meadows around the hamlet itself. At its heart lay a church with a grand spire. This church was built within and about a stone circle, and once a year the locals would thank the older pagan gods for the harvest — a week of celebration would be held. The cider would flow, pigs were roasted, and thanks were made. Even old Father Gromwell, the great painter of angels, joined in with the celebration; he believed the old gods still walked the world.
Yes, Wicken was a fine place to live. Yet when the old crone died, you decided enough was enough and made to pack your bags and get out. Your instincts, as usual, were good but not quite enough. The day of your planned departure, the soldiers arrived. They rounded up the locals, took them away in wagons, and despite your heroics and bravery, you too were taken. Your last sight of Wicken was on a late summer afternoon, as a group of men with crimson robes over their bright armour strode into the village like conquering heroes. Since that day, your life has been a blur. You were taken in chains and moved from holding cell to holding cell, until, at last, you arrived at a floating prison known as the Redemption, a stitched mass of boats crushed into one, a place without hope. Your sentence: death.
***
***
So, this is the end.
The rope hangs tight about your neck, and a musty black hood covers your face. In the background, you can hear the steady walk of the executioner. Perhaps it is for the best; you try to move your hands but they are bound, as are your legs. The bindings are strong, too strong for limbs weakened by imprisonment.
You can barely remember the reasons, if any, you were brought in from the countryside beyond the mires outside the city walls. As for the other villagers, you have no idea what happened to them.
Somewhere beyond, the sound of hymns wafts over the water. The time has come: a clock strikes in the distance.
One, two, three…the count goes on…seven, eight…the bells toll steadily, and you struggle with your bonds to no avail.
Nine. Your brace your neck for the coming fall, the snap of bone, the crushing of your windpipe, the severing of your spine. Whatever the hereafter might bring.
But it does not come. All is still.
Your hood is removed by a tall woman, with long brown hair held in a pony-tail. She smiles broadly.
- The clothes on your back, now somewhat tattered and very filthy.
- A prisoner's ring. The old crone made you wear it, claiming it was for your own safety, while she wore the accompanying jailer's ring. After she died, you were shocked to discover that her jailer's ring was in reality a fake - you have no clue who the owner of the real one is. Furthermore, by that time the local cleric, Father Gromwell, had long since left town on a pilgrimage rendering you unable to seek out a remove curse. This also meant that the guards couldn't get it off your finger either. Lucky for you that the ring appears worthless to the guards, otherwise they might've made good on their threat to cut it off you.
- If you can beat the roll bellow with a Sleight of Hand check, you may sneak a concealable item past the guards.
Ahel, stood, resigned to her fate, listening to the distant bells countdown the time she had remaining to live. In a flash the last few days rush to the forefront of her mind and pass in a blur. She cursed silently at her misfortune, No heroic escape this time. She shook her head remembering all the trouble she went through to conceal her book of spells and it wound up being of no use to her. The woman cursed again thinking it would be her final pronouncement in this life, when her hood was ripped off and a smiling woman is standing before her.
Ahel blinked a few times and let out a short breath, ”Hells!” She looked the other woman in the eye and with a sardonic grin remarked, ”I take it this isn’t Nirvana and I haven’t passed through the veil of mortality yet?
”You’ve taken correctly.” The woman returns your smile. ”And you,” she says as she swings round to face the executioner, ”Ought to be apologizing to the young miss for all of the theatrics! Release her immediately.”
The dour man ambles over to untie you. ”Gods save the Queen!” As he says this he looks back over his right shoulder. ”If you’d taken a bloody second longer to get here Shenk, those wouldn’ve been theatrics. You know who signed her execution warrant? Occularis himself!”
Ignoring the executioner, the woman turns back to you. ”My apologies, it’s not easy sneaking onto a prison hulk, much less the Redemption.” Seemingly out of nowhere she produces a pipe which she goes about packing and lighting as she talks. ”My name is Eleanor Shenk. Your name, I do not know. This is good because it means you’re an outsider, which means I have a proposition for you, which means you have a ticket out of this place.” After a quick puff, Eleanor continues. ”Just down the river is the isle of Festival, rather unfortunately infested with a cancer long overdue for removal - wererats. A friend of mine by the name of Uriah Agaric went to investigate their relative strength, from whom I’ve learned that the rats have organized themselves into several loosely allied gangs called ‘Families.’ Problem is, this friend of mine just disappeared. You find and if possible rescue this friend, you walk free.
Now, I know you must be wondering why I’m asking you and if you aren’t, you won’t survive long. Aside from the fact you’re completely unknown in Festival, you also have the advantage of being prison mates with Ammos Grast. Grast is the bastard son of a Family head. If you help him escape, you’ve got an in with the rats.
Or, we can resume the execution. Your choice.”
Ahel shook her arms, trying to regain circulation in them, as she listened to Shenk’s offer. Pain shot through her extremities as feeling began to return to them, It seems that fortune shines on me again. She fights through the pain and replied with a grimace, ”I’m fine with canceling the execution,” she glanced at the executioner, ”I don’t think your man will have trouble finding work.” She looked the woman in the eye, ”Truth be told I’ve sort of grown fond of this life and I am just about willing to do anything to prolong my stay here.” Ahel nodded her head, ”I’ll find this friend of yours and bring him back if I’m able.”
With a shaky voice she asked, What can you tell me about your friend and how am I supposed to escape from this hole with this Grast person when I’ve been unable to do just on my own.”
The executioner chuckles and almost says something but then changes his mind.
Eleanor finishes smoking and with a flick of her wrist the pipe is gone. ”Excellent. The best description I can give of Uriah Agaric is tall, with a swan tattoo on the back of his neck. As for your escape...” A flick of the other wrist and a dagger appears. She holds it out to you. ”For starters, you can take this. Keep it well hidden. Only the two guards outside are loyal to me and even they won’t lift a finger to help you if you get into trouble. Once you’re back in the holding cell, find Ammos - he’s a halfling and he’ll probably be by himself. At midnight, one of my men will unlock the grate immediately opposite the aft sail. Simply climb out and you’ll find a jolly boat in the water below. Festival is about two miles north, Ammos should be able to direct you. Lastly, inside the boat will be a trio of glass vials. I wouldn’t look too closely at them, but break one and it’ll release a messenger that will reach me within an hour.” Shenk folds her arms once she finishes and stares at you.
”Interesting pair of eyes you’ve got there,” she adds.
Ahel took the blade from her liberator and tucked it into her waistband as she listened to the plan. She ignored the lady's comment about her eyes and got down to business. "Straight forward and simple," Ahel acknowledged but had a few concerns, "Is anyone else going to be in the holding cell?" She immediately added, "Any time line or advice on when to use the message vials?"
She paused for a second, took a deep breath, and continued, "Let's talk contingencies. Backup communications? And where do you want me to drop your friend off?"
"The cells on these prison hulks are converted ships' holds, so you can expect at least 40 to 50 other cellmates. The guards never pay any real attention unless there's a huge commotion. As for the vials, their use is up to your discretion. Ideally you won't need them until you've rescued, or if that proves to difficult, found, Uriah. That'll be when we set up a rendezvous point. Or if you lose the vials, Uriah will lead you back to me." She speaks calmly, with any hint of rudeness or mistrust. "No backup communications, and no information about my whereabouts. There's an old saying in the City: Never tell a stranger everything, never tell a friend anything."
"Words to live by," the witch agreed and added warily, "I'm sure if I don't find you you find me but what's to prevent me from joining forces with these wererats and betraying you?" Ahel shrugged her shoulders, "The task before me is better then the hangman's noose but no less dangerous." She saluted the hang man and concluded,"Best get on with the business at hand, take me to this cell."
Shenk shrugs. ”Betray me? By telling the rats that Uriah has a friend whose name is supposedly Eleanor Shenk that you know nothing else about? Go ahead, I’m sure they’ll reward you handsomely for that. Now, let’s be getting on. Mister Gryme?”
The executioner returns your salute and then signs a few papers on a nearby desk. ”Execution warrant's done. Congratulations miss, you’re officially a dead woman!”
Eleanor gives a nod and the executioner ushers you outside into the arms of two waiting guards. As they lead you to the hold you peer over the deck where the Great Lyme River laps by sluggishly. The water is oily and dark, a viscous phlegm-blackness that is impossible to see through. Seeing anything beyond around 100 feet is impossible, for a bleachy-smelling chemical fog has settled. The cloying vapours can be sensed almost as much by touch as they can by smell. You know that somewhere beyond lies the Great City, the City of a Million Stories, the Blight. A strange feeling of safety washes over you for a moment and you realize you’ve been smiling, almost against your will.
Out in the fog, something smiles back. Welcome home, it says.
”Welcome home,” grunts one of the guards as the other opens the hatch to the hold. They begin uncoiling a rope with which to lower you in, but a far door opens and something startles the guards, who abandon the rope and simply shove you down into the darkness.
The hold lies knee-deep in water, which combined with your natural hardiness helps cushion your fall (your spellbook is thankfully didn't go under the water). Everything is damp, and the walls are slippery with black mould. Some forty prisoners trudge about the hold, squabbling, talking, or sobbing - some showing foul sores from too much exposure. A roof of iron bars stares down at you from a twenty-foot height, and guards occasionally walk across a catwalk above. As Eleanor mentioned, there is another grate in the far corner of the ceiling. Two flotsam islands have been constructed by the prisoners, allowing a select few to stay dry.
Sure enough, a lone halfling sits atop a small crate against the wall.
Better than a push off the gallows, Ahel though about her abrupt entrance. She stood in the knee deep warmer for a few moments and considered her options, How do I get the halfling to go with me without rousing his suspicion."
She settled on a course of action and strode over to the halfling, "Mind giving up your seat for a lady? She let out a short laugh, "or is chivalry dead?"
Two rather striking brown eyes glance up at you from underneath a huge pair of equally striking eyebrows. ”Chivalry?” Ammos’ voice is deep and calming, ”I heard that died with the Last-King. I cracked quite a few skulls to get this seat and haven’t seen any ladies besides.” Grast shoots you a wink and a sly smile.
Ahel smiles back, "True, I've haven't been accused of being a lady for quite some time." She shrugs her shoulders, "But it doesn't change the fact that I need your box." Holding her hands in front of her, trying to convey her lack of aggression, "no I'm not willing to test your skull cracking prowess. Rather, I'd just like to borrow your box for an hour."
She paused and looked at the halfling suggestively, "I'm even willing to trade for the time."
Ammos raises his eyebrows at the offer, but just as quickly averts them.
From behind you comes a voice, "Trade, eh? Me brother's and I 'appen to run a little trade enterprise ourselfs. How bout you 'and over any possessions you have ferreted away and then no trouble. If that don't sound good...well...don't count on the guards comin' to 'elp you." The owner of the voice is an ugly, brutish-looking man with one ear. He stares directly at you.
"Haaaa,"Ahel laughed and held the men in her steely gaze, "I think you're mistaken. It is you who will be begging the guards to come help. Now run along boys and let the adults talk."
The thug considers your words for a moment and storms off in a huff. A few of the other inmates notice this.
As he leaves, Ammos mutters, "Here for not more than a minute and you're already picking fights with the goon squad." He leans to this side to look past you. "And here the idiots come. Let's see how you handle them and I might just consider sharing my box."
The one-eared man is back with three more men who seem to have been slightly more careful with their own ears. One-ear sheepishly hides behind them, while an even uglier, bald-headed man speaks. "Do...you...know...who...I...am? I'll tell you who I'm not. A barber, which you desperately need." He pauses, but nobody laughs at his joke. He continues, more angrily, "I'm Spiv Sharkley, these are the Sharkley brothers, and YOU are about to hand over whatever goods you snuck in whoring yourself to the guards!"
"Well .... Since you asked so nicely, how can I refuse, Ahel retorted as she drew the knife from her waistband and in one quick movement she tossed the knife to the thug who was talking. Now if you don't mind I have some business discus with this halfling.
"Now if you don't mind I have some business to discus with this halfling."
Spiv catches the dagger and quickly passes it back to one of his brothers. The four march off to the other side of the hold without a word.
Ammos is shaking his head. "You cracked - if you're going to make a threat in prison you've got to live up to it. Observe." The halfling stands and nimbly leaps onto a pile of debris occupied by another inmate. Before this man can react, Ammos sends a knee into the back of his head, and the inmate goes tumbling into the water. Ammos cocks his head back at you. "My box is now yours until dinnertime."
Ahel takes a seat on the vacated box and winks at the halfling, "Lesson learned ...but I got the box." She squirms around trying to get comfortable and adds, "Whats for dinner?"
"I believe tonight's options are jellied mar eel or fillet mignon, although I'd have to check with the chef to be sure," Ammos says with one eye on the man he kicked into the water. "You seem uncommonly cheery for a lass doomed aboard a prison hulk."
"Sounds yummy," she replied wistfully.
Ahel leaned her back against the wall and let out a forced chuckle, "This is me depressed, gallows humor and all." The witch paused and hesitantly asked,"[/b] "Have you ever made a plan... one that was perfect... but missing one vital piece and that piece would probably lead to your doom?"
She shakes her head and asks in a conspiratorial whisper, "If you could escape from this place where would you go?"
"I say it's safe to assume that most everyone in here has made plans leading to their doom." Ammos narrows his eyes at you when you mention escape. "Did my un--" he stops himself, "I reckon I know a place or two where I could go."
Not wanting anyone to overhear the next part of their conversation Ahel jumps down off her crate and moves toward the halfling, "Move over," she asked as she forced her way onto his crate.
She whispers in his ear, "I might have a way out of here in the next twenty four hours. But that's were my plan turns to crap." She forced a grin, "That's were you come in. If your place sounds like somewhere I can hole up for a few days I'll take you with me."
Stifling what might've been a laugh, the halfling whispers, "You must be extremely new or extremely paranoid, because otherwise you'd know that laying low is next to useless. The Watch is too small and too corrupt to go searching through millions to find two low profile criminals such as ourselves. But I'll tell you what - I happen to co-own a small business, a legitimate one - and you can hole up there for a few as reward for springing me. So how about some details?"
"New," Ahel conceded with a shrug of her shoulders. "But I've been here long enough to know never tell a stranger everything and never tell a friend anything," she added with a short laugh.
The willowy woman gets up and returned to her box, "Just stay close and I'll let you know."
"We'll see what you've got in mind then."
Looking around, you notice that most of the prisoners are on their feet and milling about the grate through which you fell in. You quickly realize why as the guards lower three buckets down, each filled with some sort of thick gruel. When the buckets move low enough, the mob of prisoners erupts into a sudden frenzy. Fists, feet, shouting, anything the hungry can do to claim their scraps, they do.
Up above the guards laugh at the mass, "Looks like there's been another prison break - all I see is pigs down there!"
Ammos haughtily ignores the mob, as do a few others. The Sharkley brothers push through and claim themselves a bite to eat with ease as most of the others seem terrified of them.
You yourself are quite hungry, having not been fed since your capture.
Stomach rumbling Ahel looks toward the halfling, "Any advice on how to best get a bite to eat?" She added softly, And keep my teeth."
With a shrug, "Make someone else lose their teeth? Or don't eat? I'll help with the escape but don't think I'd dive into that mess for you."
Realizing she needs to eat or she won't be much use when the time comes to escape Ahel makes a decision. She sits on her crate and begins an incantation, slowly mystical energy surrounds her. With an evil grin the witch got up and made her way toward the other grate and stops about thirty feet away from the food buckets, I was hoping to avoid this but these bastards deserve this.
Ahel mumbles something unintelligible and points her finger at Spiv, directing the magical energy toward the man, "My turn to eat fool. Move aside as I haven't decided if it will it be that gruel or your flesh that sates my hunger."