The fourteenth day of October was dreary, overcast and foggy, with just a hint of previous rain promising buckets to come. A blackglass paddywaggon, pulled by two large dray horses, wound through the streets on the edge of the Merchant's Quarter.
On the seat of the waggon sits a driver, large, ruddy and smiling despite the dismal day. Around it when possible, and moving with curses and awkward maneuvers, particularly on the horsemen's part, walk six guards, two of their number a Corporal and Sergeant astride slightly less than inspiring nags. The prisoners inside the cart are dangerous, but the men worry little. Blackglass negates the powers of those touched by the Stranger, as being surrounded by water negates the Destroyers, or being suspended above the ground stops Builders. Perhaps they should be worried, but they have nearly handed off their charge to the slowly approaching Blackstone Penal Institution. Just a few more blocks of the straight Merchant's roads, through the Whore's Gate, and into the straightest and safest street in the Foreign Quarter before the men could take to their beds or their drinks.
But these Guards are not the heroes of this tale, if heroes is the right word for our focal characters. Those inside are the ones we follow now, between bars of blackglass to several prioners shackled to the walls of the waggon.
Rengo painfully cracked a swollen eye open as he was awoken by one of several bumps the wheels' delivered to the interior of the prison wagon. He noticed he was still in the now-tattered prison guard uniform for which he had exchanged his prisoner's rags during his breakout. And he was not alone.
Groaning slightly, he struggled to rise up to a sitting position, one hand to his head as he felt the puffy swollen side of his face where the mass of earth had struck him into unconsciousness. Gah, I must look a fright, he thought. Sitting upright brought pain in several places, and he could feel the dried blood on his forehead and cheek cracking as his facial muscles moved in a wince.
Glancing around, he saw other forms of men shackled as he was amidst blackglass, but the world was foggy, and he couldn't make out their features yet. Or was that just his eyes and head preventing his sight from clearly focusing on their faces?
No matter. The next move was to figure out how to correct the situation as nothing would stop Rengo's vengeance. Nothing.
"W-wait! What are you doing?!" Willard shouted out, as the guards grabbed him by the arms and pulled him out of his doorway. In his panic, the excuses he had carefully rehearsed were all but completely forgotten. "It wasn't me! I haven't done anything wrong!"
The guards paid him no mind, dragging him off with stoic expressions on their faces. Willard watched helplessly as two more of them entered his dwelling, no doubt to ransack it for evidence. At least with that, there was a glimmer of hope. He was always careful to leave nothing incriminating within his home. Surely, when nothing of the sort turned up, they would pass it all off as a simple misunderstanding. At the very least, it would give him an opportunity to speak in his defense!
But no such opportunity presented itself.
With his pleas growing increasingly desperate, one of the guards at last stepped forward and struck him right across the face. The writer cried out, the blow shutting him up immediately. The blow had certainly hurt, but it was the fact that it had happened at all that truly shocked him. Seeming pleased with himself, the guard finally spoke up.
"Stop spewing that nonsense," he said hoarsely, grabbing Willard by the forearm and pulling up his sleeve, "This is all the evidence we need."
"W-what are you...?" Willard started, before turning to look at his arm. His eyes widened in terror. Oh, no.
Chance winks at Rengo as he notices the man slowly regaining consciousness. The young hooligan clicks his tongue and motions with a roll of his eyes toward their surroundings and immediate predicament. "Not sure what you may have been dreaming about a moment ago," Chance begins with a smirk, "but I bet you're wishing you were still with her."
He's wriggling in his seat, as if extremely uncomfortable or trying to scratch some itch on his back. Even after acknowledging Rengo's increasing presence, his eyes return to a spot on the ceiling near the front of their compartment where they've been fixed for quite a while before.
"If I can just..." he whispers, still twisting and shifting, "...figure out where... oh! I may have found it."
Chance has spent more than his fair share of time in chains, even if only briefly. And he's always thought the craftsmanship ought to be of a higher quality for such critical application as confining prisoners. Most shackles had a weak point near the clasps around the wrists, and if he could find where these ones were then he might be able to share that knowledge and get the others working at it as well.
Chance's testing of the cuffs finds that they are the exact same used in many other places he has been momentarily incarcerated (Bellingsworth's Ironworkings: Makers of fine iron since C180) and that the Fault in The Cuffs remains where it always has been. Handy that.
The Corporal, alongside, gives a nasty look inside the wagon. "Quiet down in there. You can yell all you like once you're inside Blackstone." He says, clearly keeping an eye on the dapper young man. He's clearly watching him for further problems.
Willard had not spoken once since being shoved into the wagon, or rather, since realizing what he had become. Being a writer, the irony of the entire situation was not lost on him. Surely, the Stranger was a comedian, choosing to Mark him at the worst possible time. If his experience as an author had not made him so genre-savvy, he might have passed it off as an honest mistake.
The writer mostly kept to himself, huddling in the corner with a weary expression on his face. The ink-stained fingers of his right hand twitched consistently; if he just had a quill and some paper handy, he would be able to write all about this. Turn it into a story, even. Perhaps then he would not feel so utterly helpless.
The Whore's Gate, the only gate between the Merchant's Quarter and the Foreign Quarter, looms above you. Doxies of both sexes and many races adorn the balconies and rooms. The Whore's Gate is technically the Winter Gate, but has been rented out to Madame Durant's House of Pleasures as long as anyone remembers. Technically the Guard reserves the right to remove the courtesans and harlots to defend the City if necessary, but with little worry of a land war in Cemeas, the Whore's Gate will likely stand as a landmark for a time longer.
The courtesans get closer to the wagon than propriety would encourage, but the Guards don't seem to mind too much.
"Sergeant Phanas," calls a canak male dressed luridly, "I've yet to see you back in my boudoir... has another caught your eye?" He pouts prettily, and the Sergeant responds in the negative. "But my wife will have my head if she notices more horn powder on my trousers." The Sergeant laughs and promises to return soon.
One of the courtesans, a pretty elven woman with clear blue eyes, suddenly appears alongside the cart in the confusion and press of Guards and courtesans, pressing a small piece of paper through the bars toward Willard. She winks and states "The Beggar King sends his regards." Just quietly enough not to be noticed, smiles, and dances her way deftly back through the press of the crowd around the Gate.
It would seem that the long arm of the Guard has caught up to you. If the news is true, and you are a Stranger now, I may have a proposition for you. I would dearly love to now meet you in person, instead of through intermediaries. You can find me in the usual place you met my girl
Below this is the Sigil you know to represent The Beggar King
You're unlikely to get a better moment than this one.
Chance is a little distracted by the elven woman who slips the note to Willard. As soon as she passes on, the young hooligan flashes a look towards the writer that indicated mutual awe and jealousy.
"Well chaps," he whispers, "If there's anywhere I'd like to step off, this would likely be it." At that he tries to slip himself free, utilizing the fault in the cuffs.
He also will need to retrieve his wheellock before he can really sneak out, but needs to figure out where that could possibly be...
Rengo is a little startled by Chance's wink, but quickly grasps what the man's attention "on the ceiling" is all about. After all, how many times had Rengo had the opportunity to put knowledge of the shackles to use himself.
As Chance comments regarding the moment, Rengo nods and begins placement of his own manacles against the ring to which they are chained.
He flexes to keep the cuffs more stable and feels the metal bite into his skin. He begins to apply the leverage needed and hopes the sounds of the working "gals" is enough to cover any noise the shackles may make if they truly snap as expected.
The familiar, coarse texture of paper is welcome to Willard's hands, which stop shaking almost immediately. His eyes widen ever so slightly when he hears the courtesan's words, comprehension dawning on him. He hastily reads the note once, twice, and then a third time. A knowing smile creeps its way onto his face as he crumples the note into a small ball, before shoving it into his mouth and swallowing it. A shameful waste of perfectly good paper, but he did not want to take any chances.
What he was about to try to do, after all, was quite foolish. Catching onto Chance's words, the novelist makes his own attempt to break out of his cuffs.
The Sergeant, Chance notices, is happy to show off his newly 'confiscated' pistol, (If he keeps trying the mechanism that way he'll bend it) and a few oohing and aahing civilians keep him from even noticing the fugitives are slightly less fugitival than they were before. Unfortunately for our heroes, the Corporal is less distracted by the adoration of the townsfolk, and his steely eyes catch sight of Chance just as the cuffs make the distinctive clink of snapping. "Guardsmen! Truncheons! Get Gone! Make Way!" He draws his own truncheon, or 'swatty stick' as the lower classes call them, a mostly nonlethal leather wrapped club.
Edit: Added Actions, Aspects
With his shackles free, Chance ignores the Corporal who clearly is onto their attempted flight, and instead closes as quickly as possible on the Sergeant who's mistreating 'Esmeralda'. "Someone with curves like that deserves someone who can handle her far more deftly!" he remarks, as he tries to knock the Sergeant's gun arm down with one hand while snatching the wheellock free with the other.
Rengo is momentarily caught off guard when he feels the manacles separate at both ends instead of just one. He does his best not to show openly that his hands are now freed to move about even if wearing some rather gaudy new bracelets. The loose chain slips into his grasp. He glances up at the Corporal who begins shouting about Chance's own attempt to break the cuffs' weld. Has he seen Rengo as well?
Rengo quickly begins threading the chain around one of the blackglass bars. Using his own weight as leverage, he just might be able to break one or possible loosen it. If successful, this should mean escape, or at the very least a way to distance himself from this accursed blackglass which should give him the chance to utilize the power he had discovered he now had to use.
It occurs to him that he may not be alone in this desire. He glances at the man next to him, and looks at him and then down over his shoulder meaningfully at the chain.
"Grab hold. When ready, stand and pull!" he hisses as quiet as possible. Knowing the center would be the weakest point if the blackglass could be snapped at all, Rengo slowly rises up, hands behind his back holding the chain, eyes on the Corporal. He suddenly jerks his hands hard and drops all his weight forward.
;
Willard is far from being "strong," but even he is able to exploit the flawed cuffs. It just took the right amount of leverage. Frankly, he wasn't sure how to proceed from there, but fortunately, Rengo seemed to have something in mind.
At Rengo's beckoning, he grabs a hold of the chain on the man's manacle and pulls.
;
- Player (Chance's Roll)
- Enemy (Mook's Roll)
- Player (Willard)
- Player (Rengo)
- Enemy (Corporal)
- Enemy (Sergeant)
The chain shatters the two blackglass bars, leaving a hole wide enough to shimmy through, the guards' yells suddenly grow more frantic as several of them attempt to retain order.
Before the blackglass shatters, Chance steps clear to the other side of the paddy wagon and readies to leap free. There's hardly much room and the other gents seem more than capable of pushing through. So the young hooligan slaps his cheeks a bit to prepare himself.
As Willard and Rengo burst through the bars, it doesn't take much to notice that the space left is in now way something they all could burst through at once. They'll need some time.
He grabs part of his own shackles and rushes back to the bars on the opposite side of the paddy wagon. Sliding one hand out through the bars, he hurtles the chains at one of the nearest guards on that side. He knows it's unlikely to hurt the man physically, but might be able to keep some of their attention on this side while the other two shimmy out on the other.
"Hey, be a good lad," he shouts from between the bars, "And just bind yourselves for us, would ya? Save us some time. And do better this time than the last, wot?"
The Guards remain unfazed by Chance's belligerence, though the two hit by the manacles start forward with serious vengeance in their eyes. Truncheons come up and then down through the bars with a vengeance.
Willard wastes no time scrambling out of the paddy wagon through the hole they made, all the while wondering just what he has gotten himself into. Making it to solid ground, he glances about, trying to find something, anything that might help him - or them, he supposed - get away. He just needed to get far away enough from the blackglass to do something stupid.
"Come on!" he hisses back at Rengo and Chance, implicitly beckoning them to follow him.
Eyeing the already-present fog, Willard squints, trying to dredge up knowledge of the few tricks he learned from his father before giving up any prospects of carrying on the family business. He was not capable of anything especially dramatic, but a little parlor trick might be all that is needed. Dusting off his channeling chops, the novelist summons up his willpower and attempts to give them all some cover by thickening the fog. There is plenty of ambient moisture that isn't in the fog - it is just a matter of condensing that extra water. Easy... right?
Without hesitation, Rengo squeezes through the opening he and Willard created. His hand still firmly grasping the length of chain, Reno quickly wraps it around his hand and wrist. For a moment he's momentarily stunned by the volume of people around him. It's been a long time since he's been truly free, and the press of the crowd is claustrophobic.
Rengo senses a familiar shift in Willard . The touch of the Blackglass is fading, and Rengo begins to feel more complete. Feeling uncertain in the face of so many faces, Rengo looks around frantically for any place to which they can escape.
Unfamiliar with the streets and nervous about the crowd, Rengo darts down an alleyway only to find a dead end into the smooth back wall of a butcher.
The Sergeant is so excited by the idea of firing "Esmerelda" that he foolishly doesn't seem to realize his chances of hitting anything he wants to is near nil. He fires into the fog, blindly, finding nothing but empty air and stone cobbles.
The Corporal is less stupid, disappearing into the fog himself as he attempts to find his quarry.
However, the Corporal finds his feet loud on the cobbles and accidentally stumbles into Rengo at the mouth of the alley. "Now I've got you criminal! He snarls, raising his truncheon.
Chance stumbles backwards, half cursing and half laughing as the guards thrust their truncheons through the bars. He barely has time to spring backwards before their on him, hoping to avoid the blows and thankful they have such a small space to strike through.
Nowhere near quick enough to get out of the way, Chance takes a firm blow to the forehead just above his right eye. The eye immediately begins to swell, making it harder to see from that side.
Now that the rest of the wagon is vacated, Chance quickly stumbles out the other side, with little doubt that the guards he provoked will be coming around to meet him. And that's when he hears the familiar cry of Esmeralda.
"No!" Chance shouts impulsively. Even in the thick fog and pressed crowd he at least was able to find the general direction. He has to free her before he can truly consider any sort of further escape.
Chance rushes toward the sound of gunfire and the scent of powder, likely with furious guards hot on his tail. Then with little tact or self control the young man grabs the Sergeant's shoulder from behind and attempts to snatch the firearm from his grasp while pushing the man further away with a swift boot.
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Fate Points: 5 (Started 6, compelled +1, Invoked twice -2)
His reckless action is hardly well placed, and likely would have worked against him had some of the crowd fleeing from the escapees and conflict not bumped the Sergeant off balance. And Chance has never been above making a cheap shot. So rather than do something swift or impressive, he opts for the crotch shot with his knee while sprawling for his Wheellock before it has a chance to fall.
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Fate Points: 3 (Started 6, compelled +1, Invoked -4)
Chance's cheap shot hits home hard and brutally, the Guard Sergeant giving a strangled "Ulp!" as he folds toward the ground. Chance is smooth and sure at catching his darling out of the air, noticing as he does so that the guard had the chance to get her Primed and Ready before he was interrupted, and so leaving the Guard Doubled Over in Pain he turns to scout for a target.
The Corporal brings his truncheon down in a low swing, aiming for a debilitating shot to the leg or ankle.
Willard smiles crookedly, satisfied with his manifestation. His complacency vanishes however when the sound of a nearby gunshot practically makes him leap out of his skin. Not wasting any more time, he steps into the fog, attempting to get away in the confusion.
;
Rengo is startled when he nearly collides with one of the paddy wagon guards upon doubling back from the dead-end alley. Gritting his teeth he knows this won't end without conflict. And for conflict he's ready.
Even as he's gaining his bearings on the situation, the guard is bellowing and making an attack. Sensing the guard is just as startled to see him, Rengo attempts to leap to one side trying to dodge.
The Corporal strikes down at Rengo's leg, catching behind it with his truncheon and throwing him Off Balance.
The guards seem disorganized, and attempt to push through the crowd and get them out of the way while they fight, snarling threats and yelling at any who cross them, eventually clearing the street of almost anyone but the fog and the prisoners.
The sergeant, in pain and on the ground, pushes himself upwards with a snarl. "You'll pay for that you bastard, give me my new pistol back!" He strikes out with a meaty fist toward Chance, aiming for his blind side.
Willard slinks through the thick fog, keeping his eyes open for any approaching silhouettes. He had half a mind to flee to the place the note mentioned, but abandoning his now fellow Strangers would just be hypocrisy. Still, he had to be discreet about it. He comes across an alleyway, where he sees Rengo struggling against the Corporal.
"'Ey, Corporal!" he calls out from around the mouth of the alleyway, hoping to grab the man's attention without being seen.
;
The shout is not without consequence though, as it allows the guards currently without a target an area to search, a task they move to with angry, ugly words and grim demeanor.
Rengo grits his teeth as he feels the pain in his leg, and he feels his stance become clumsy. Suddenly, "Ey, Corporal!" comes from out of the fog. The Corporal flicks his eyes in that direction almost reflexively.
Seeing his opportunity to change this situation, Rengo loosens his grip on one end of the short chain in his hand. Trying to regain his footing, Rengo steps into a downward swing of his chain hand as he tries to incapacitate the man with a solid hit to his temple.
The Sergeant's clumsy swings are no match for Chance's dexterity, and he bobs below the punches without breaking stride. As he rises he raises Esmerelda, Primed and Ready on the Doubled Over Sergeant.
The Corporal almost gets his head around in time, but isn't fast enough, the chain snaps outward and across the Corporal's jaw, knocking him from his feet and to the cobblestones. He struggles to rise as he attempts to flee, turning tail down the nearby alleyway.
Rengo feels the solid hit as the chock runs up his arms. He leaves the man to run as there was no reason to kill a fleeing man when doing so would only complicate the situation further by giving the reinforcements further incentive to pursue.
He tries see if he can make out either of his fellow prisoners in the sudden fog.
Esmeralda sings out--music to Chance's ears. It's the way she should sound, at home in his arms. The shot tears through the Sergeant's upper thigh and hip. It's a nasty wound that drops him to the cobblestones. With medical attention, there's a hope that this won't be his last memory.
Chance clicks his tongue at the man on the ground then turns to join the others in the fog. There seems to be quite a commotion further into the alleys, and his presence might prove beneficial. But he can't take more than a couple steps before he turns back around, cursing under his breath.
He kneels beside the Sergeant, bleeding out onto the street, and quickly tears part of the man's uniform. Then, taking the strips of cloth, tries to hastily tie a tourniquet round the man's upper leg to stop some of the bleeding.
As the Corporal flees, Willard moves into the alleyway, fleeing from the approaching guards. He grinds to a halt before Rengo, panting profusely.
"We need to find that other fellow and get out of here!" he hisses through his teeth, glancing nervously over his shoulder. The guards, he was sure, would be upon them at any moment. His eyes then dart side to side, searching for an escape route.
As Willard approaches him and indicates the urgency of locating their fellow prisoner, a sharp retort echoes on the cobblestones if muted only slightly by the thick fog.
With a raised eyebrow, Rengo gestures in the direction it originated towards a figure hastily bandaging a fallen man.
"I'm going to hazard a guess on that," he says wryly.
Jogging over, he taps Chance on the shoulder. "We're looking to make our way out of here if you want to join us." He points at Willard who seems to be scanning the ground nearby.
Esmerelda's bullet seems to have just slightly chipped a bone, making for a particularly nasty wound. Between a bit of fieldcraft and a smidge of (perhaps unconscious) channeling, Chance manages to staunch the bleeding. It's likely the Sergeant will live, though his odds of developing a heavy limp are very high.
The Guards may be Disorganized, but they could hardly have avoided hearing Willard in the fog. They rush forward from all angles, truncheons coming down left and right around the poor writer.
Otherwise focused on trying to get the manhole open, the writer shouts out in surprise when guards emerge from the thick fog. Willard scrambles about, staying close to the manhole and trying his best to dodge the assailing truncheons.
;
With the Sergeant patched up as well as Chance can accomplish in such short notice, the young man resolves the officer to his fate and rushes back into the fog to find the other three--strength in numbers and all that. But he's quick to lift a token from the fallen Sergeant before he rushes off.
As he pursues Willard and Rengo, following the sound of conflict, he's working to prime and load Esmeralda again. A loaded gun is slightly more intimidating than a spent one, with significantly more potential.