Dot it if you got it.
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Time passes slowly in the dark.
The conditions are cramped in the ship’s hold, stacked like so many sardines, but manageable. The smell is the worst part. Waste pails are removed daily, but after a time, the smell just perfumes everything, even cutting through the stench of so many unwashed men. You know the women are on another ship, you’ve seen them on your brief trips topside. 50 loops of the deck, rain or shine, and then back into the dark. The convoy has grown since you first set out, each ship with its sad little parade of forlorn ‘patriots’.
Twice a day you are fed a bland paste. It sustains you, but you’re never full. Your thin white tunics stave off hypothermia, but that’s about it. When you first found out you were being ‘volunteered’ to serve for the glory of the Empire, you feared that it was little more than a death sentence. That the ship would sail out just beyond the sight of shore and the whole lot of you would be dumped into the sea, but evidently the Empire still wants you alive. After all, ‘The Empress Provides’, if just barely.
Once you awoke to the sound of a great crashing. Screams of panic rose all around you, but still above that din, you could hear the monstrous roars from outside, so loud and deep that you could feel it in your chest. The ship lurched violently and the planks creaked alarmingly, but eventually the commotion died down. You saw that the convoy had lost a few ships, the next time you were topside. The crew would not speak of what had happened, but for the remainder of the voyage, you would catch them nervously scanning the water.
Eventually, land come2 back into view. Gulls wheeled and cried above and at last you arrived at your destination. Perched on the banks of a sluggish, muddy river sat an ancient and crumbling city of elaborately carved buildings, fighting losing battle against the jungle that sought to reclaim it. Foreign and unfamiliar flags hung limply throughout the seemingly deserted city. Closer to the water, flew the familiar pennants of your beloved Empire. Long stone piers, showing evidence of recent and extensive repair, extended out to receive you. The heat is cloying, the humidity oppressive and the smell might even be worse than within the ship’s hold.
Debarkation begins immediately, and soon long lines of disheveled malcontents file off of the ships and into another world, filled with red-faced, shouting Imperial soldiers. Lines are formed, seemingly at random, and you’re moved at a hustle towards ‘processing’, hurried along by a continual stream of epithets and the occasional kick.
‘Processing’ is located inside a large warehouse, again showing signs of heavy repair and restoration. It consists of a long table administered by sweating bureaucrats with massive ledgers. From what you can see at a distance, a short conversation is had and then a loyal patriot’s tunic is marked with a dab of paint, and then sorted into color coded groups, before being marched out another exit.
Finally, you reach the front of your line and are greeted by a bored functionary. ”Glory to the Empress. Long may she reign. Name and former occupation.”
Hathok's fingers twitch as he stepped to the front of his line, barely recalled chords and fingerings subconsciously playing only on air.
Is'at music I hear? Need a new damn lute afore I forget it all... Wonder how us greens do in this fresh hell... Welp, nothing to lose and no time like the present.
Hathok leans in on the table, both fists firmly planted, and turns the menace up to the eleventh (his harshest, favorite chord).
"Hathok the entertainer, na' mark me with whatever blasted colour puts a lute in my 'ands tha quickest and I'll put this shit show on the road!"
Hathok's well timed knuckle crack puts an emphasis on the last syllable as his curled perma-sneer nears the bureaucrat's face.
Tobir moved forward slowly up the line. He was in no rush, and stoically accepted the sideways looks and whispers regarding his burn scarred countenance.
When called forward, he was momentarily distracted by a nearby half-orc (and fellow neophyte) threatening tone.
The bald half-dwarf almost smiled;
That's the way of it lad. Make 'em earn their stipend.
Turning his attention to his own bureaucrat's question, he answers slowly in his low, accented voice;
"Tobir Drosschilde*. Former toiler for thee Clinker's Union. Now a man o' letters."
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Breg slides along in queue with the other downtrodden, mostly just happen to be rid of the cursed element of water beneath him, his body craving some form of heat. As he slides toward the front he faintly hears others answering..
"Tobir Drosschilde*. Former toiler for thee Clinker... ur put a lute in my 'ands tha quickest and I'll put this s&%$ show on the road!"
When he reaches the front of the line he looks up through dreary eyes,
"Breg SLAGHAMMER, no' to be confused with the imposter Slughammer"
Breg attempts to spit whatever moisture he can conjure in his mouth,
"profession, Scrivener"
The bureaucrat looks on impassively at you threat. His eyes flick over to one side and you feel the sharp pain of a blackjack in the kidney courtesy of a nearby soldier. As you double over in pain, he leans forward, his stinking breath hot in your face, "Show a little respect, scum."
The functionary gives a small, satisfied smile and mutters, "We'll break that spirit right quick." "General labor," he shouts and another guard splashes your tunic with a smear of white paint.
Your approach is greeted with a sour grunt of displeasure, the record-keepers disdain for your heritage clearly evident. "Best be leaving the reading to your betters." He makes a few scratches in his ledger and raises his voice, "General labor." A splash of white paint soon follows.
The administrator scans the ledger before him, "Slughammer, got it." He turns to the soldier next to him, "I wish they would send us some useful sorts. I think we're all full on artists and poets." More loudly, he says, "General labor." A quick splash of white paint and you're hurried off to join a disproportionately large group of white marked individuals.
In short order, you are all hurried off, out of the warehouse and back into the stinking heat outside. You are jogged along mostly empty streets. Here and there you catch a glimpse of the shadowy forms of humanoid figures in doorways and peeking through windows, but most of those you encounter are imperial soldiers.
You are bustled though the city towards the jungle side, as you move away from the docks, the city becomes increasingly run down. Eventually the buildings consist of little more than partial walls and crumbling masonry. At the edge of the city, you come upon the remnants of what must have once been a mighty stone wall, but now is in quite poor repair. You can see that mighty breaches exist in places and though it appears that a large amount of work has already gone into its restoration, the whole thing can barely still qualify as a defensive structure.
Along the length of it, several wooden pens have been erected. Your group is quickly partitioned and placed into a number of these holding cells. Some soldiers bring some hardtack and water and instructions to wait quietly, as orientation will commence shortly.
Through the divine fortunes of fate, the three of you end up in the same pen, awaiting what comes next.
Hathok paces for a moment then carefully tests the strength of the pens side bars, the pain in his flank rose as his arms tightened, but far more bothersome to the Half-orc was the familiar look of utter dismissal in the bureaucrat's eyes.
Same ole, same ole. Us greens be the grass and the rest be the boots and scythes, shoulda known to bend rather than be cut.
His cell mates were a rare pair, both looked like they'd spent some time inside a forge rather than stoking it. Hathok turned to the badly burnt, was it... yes, a half dwarf:
"Thought they taught ya to stay outta the fire... Name's Hathok, nice ta know it ain't just Orc half breds gettin' dumped on. Got any strength to help me here if we get an opening?"
He watches both of his erstwhile companions for their reactions as he says so, hoping to catch a glimmer of defiance to match his own.
A small halfling with a permeant wide eyed look on his face is in the pen after having tried to talk to a couple of guards and not getting anywhere he settled for looking and mingling through the crowd. After a a little bit in the pen greeting everyone he approaches the group that he hasn’t met yet, hoping to make a good impression.
“Hello! Welcome on this little adventure of ours! You three seem quite tough, I’m surprised you’re in here with me!”
The halfling looks rather plain with blonde hair and green eyes. A small build even for a halfling, though his eyes seem permeantly wide almost as if wired open. His voice though for a halfling lacks any sort of hesitation or weakness standing in stark contrast to the small and fragile little man it comes from.
Breg slumps half heartedly against anything that might provide some support, listening and watching Hathok test the mettle of the pen.
"Ye ought to be lucky your breathin' surprised ya made it to tell the tale...
He eyes the others,
"half-orc, half-dwarf, half..ling. I guess ye best call me Breg Fulldwarf when in yer lots company!"
Breg musters a laugh,
"Ya find some purchase lad and I'll lend ya a full blooded dwarven arm.
Tobir impassively takes the disdain, merely offering a nod to the clerk as he accepts his assigned duty.
Within the holding cell he sits stoically, at Hathok's jape he smiles weakly;
"Keepin' out t' fire has long been my problem friend. Name's Tobir."
As the halfling and dwarf speak up, he nods to each,
"Master Fulldwarf. Master 'alfling. Pleased to make your acquiantances."
The scarred-half-dwarf then turns his stoic gaze back to the bigger half-orc;
"Aye. I've strength an' a will to aid should ye need it."
A short while later, an imperial soldier escorts over another of the Volunteered. This fine Patriot is another dwarf and is dressed in much the same fashion as yourselves, but the clothing appears to be of higher quality and cleanliness. His tightly braided beard glistens with oil.
He holds a short, well polished, wooden baton that he raps on the bars of your enclosure.
"On your feet you layabouts! Vacation is over! Now the real work begins. I'm Crew Chief Ugin and I'm here to tell you how it is around here, so listen up!"
He points a finger to the wilderness beyond the wall. "There are mountains out that way and the Empress wants them, so we're going to help her get them. But there's lots of nasties out their that would rather eat us than let that happen. The Empire has made some sort of deal the with local degenerates that squat this excuse of a city so that we can use it as a launching point."
He waves a hand, taking in the general area. "This place is a shit hole. Barely fit for the rats, let alone the august presence of an Imperial Consul. We're here to make it into a proper city, fit for the capital of a new Imperial province."
"You listen. You do your jobs. You don't give no one grief. You do that and things wont be too bad. Might be better off than you was back home. You act up and things wont be so hot for ya. We'll have you on one of the outer wall work gangs real quick. We lost 8 men last week alone. Aint that right Sergeant Grack?'
The bored looking soldier glances over, "10 actually. They found what was left of Pickricks missing two. Apparently, they didn't run off."
"An even 10 it is then. So listen up and don't cause a fuss, or you might be next. Now, you might be thinking, 'I can make a run for it', and you might right, but I ask you, where are you running to? It's death out there," he points to the jungle. "The locals in here wont help you. We're pretty sure that they might even the cause of some of the more recent disappearances. There's nowhere to run to. You aint never getting back to the Empire, so you best start working to bring the Empire to you."
He accentuates that last point with a thrust of this baton.
"Now I'm a busy man with important things to do. You think on what I've told ya and we'll get you moved into some proper quarters right quick. Real work starts on the morrow."
After listening to the 'rules' of the new world Breg pleads with the man,
"Ya got the wrong Dwarf! I am SLAGHAMMER. Ye can't be throwin ' me in with this lot! I'm meant for the library not the wilds!
As Breg's intensity escalates he begins to radiate more heat.
"Git me out of here, ye barely qualify to be in charge 'ere! Send me to these nasties if ye not the beard to see the difference between a Slaghammer and a Slughammer!"
The halfling approaches the edge and smiles at the supposed leader. “Surely you have better accommodations than this. Me and my compatriots can do wonders if given a little more to work with. We are barely even clothed!” he says pulling at the roughspun tunic.
Hathok barely resists the urge to smash his arm through the pen to pull the beard off the bootlicker's face but instead asks, "Them locals, they like the sound o'th'lute and songs in Common?"
Tobir just hangs back, keeping a stoic air of quiet defiance as the others make their complaints and plays audibly to the Crew Chief.
Steady lads. Nowt to be gain'd by rattlin' 'is cage.
Like Hathok, he too attempts to discern what he can from Ugin's words;
:
In response to Breg, the soldier pipes in. "Everybody round here is innocent, ain't that right Ugin? We would never let an actually murderer be a Crew Chief, would we?"
Ugin puts on a forced grin, "Right you are Sir. I was framed, just like I keep telling you.'
"Hold your horses short stack. We'll get you properly kitted out and settled, soon enough, but that's not my job. I'm just the first part of the welcome wagon. There's a lot of fresh faces to process, they'll get you eventually. You wont be sleeping in there."
He pointedly ignores Hathok with a sneer of disgust.
The pair move off, heading towards another enclosure and another group of prisoners. From what you can hear, Ugin gives much the same speech as he gave you.
About an hour later a group of dwarves, escorted by a pair of soldiers and a clerk carrying a large ledger, arrive to you cage.
The four of you are pulled out and your names are taken and recorded into the ledger. The clerk says, "All Glory to the Empire, Patriots! Welcome to Work Group F. You are now Crew Pod 37." You are each handed a yellow armband, with the number 37 inked onto it. [/b]"You will wear this on your upper, left arm at all times. If report it lost, you will earn 10 lashes. If you are caught on the grounds without it, you will be considered a deserter and dealt with, with extreme prejudice."[/b]
"If after two weeks, you find that you are unable to work with your assigned Crew Mates," he looks pointedly at Breg when he says this, [b]"you may put in a request for transfer to a new Crew Pod. After two months, Crew Pods may put in transfer requests to new Work Groups. Transfers are awarded based on performance and good behaviour."
He waves over another dwarf, he, like all the others in the group, save the soldiers and clerk, wears a yellow armband. [b]"This fellow is on work crew 35. He'll take you to where you're to be billeted and see that you're all properly kitted out. Now go forth and bring honor to your Empress."
With that, the group heads towards the next enclosure. Your guide waves a hand at you to follow and says, "Let's get move on! I'll not earn a lashing for your lollygagging.'
Not waiting for an answer, heads off back the way he came, expecting you to follow.
Dwendle smiling at the others as he slips on his armband, So what exactly are you all here for? You aren’t murders are you?” he says this as he stats to walk towards the dwarf he has the wide eyed look but it gets a little bigger looking at you the other three either out of fear or interest it’s hard to tell.
"Mostly for being green I 'spect. Although breakin' Fen's jaw an 'and mighta contributed summ'at." Hathok muttered in response. "How's about you half pint?"
While listening to the halflings response Hathok stares resignedly at the piece of cloth and slowly struggles to pull it above his brawny elbow, the number 35 barely legible amongst the wrinkles. He follows the dwarf and halfling, pointedly keeping himself well behind and attempting to slow Breg inconspicuously.
Bending forward pretending to struggle with the arm band still he says under his breath to Breg "Fulldwarf, if ye've a mind to become Slag'ammer agin, and want 'elp doing so, see if ye can figger anything 'bout these locals, wild and otherwise. 'Parently I ain't worth the spit o' a response with yer uppity kin."
Tobir barely reacts to the barked orders, just listens intently as if marking the words as he too slips on the signifier armband.
When the clerk exits, he shoots a quick look to the others speaking in a flat an slow voice;
"Right lads, like it or nowt, our collective fates 're bound together. Leastways for 2 weeks..."
With a scarred hand he gestures for them to follow the administrator;
"Master Fulldwarf... best befittin' if you lead."
“Oh I am innocent. I was framed, but it’s ok I guess. Its all apart of the plan.” he smiles big and wide, “It’s brought me here, to meet you fine folk!”
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Breg follows in turn, mostly ignoring the mutterings of the companions he's been left to be with. Speaking loud enough for those wanting to hear he goes through a mental checklist,
"Vestrlannd, o' course Slug'ammer would want me 'ere. Wonder what the Empire 'as found to spark it's interest. Far too warm for my likin', would do wonders for the books though. Nay a drop a mildew in site."
Knowing that the Imperials will not tolerate disobedience Breg follows quietly the rest of the way.
Your guide leads you through a maze of streets. This part of the city appears to be substantial disrepair and everywhere there are signs of activity. Groups of armbanded individuals work at repairing building, clearing rubble from streets and scrubbing moss and vegetation from the stones, all under the watchful gaze of imperial soldiers.
Eventually you reach a cluster of apartments in reasonable repair all encircling a central courtyard. In the center of the courtyard gurgles a large fountain decorated with terrifying depictions of serpents.
Your guide waves a encompassing the buildings. "This is where most of Work Group F is barracked. The fountain water is safe, if you are thirsty. No running water inside as of yet. The city's set up with a mighty aqueduct system, but it's dry as a bone. No one is keen on backtracking it into the jungle to find the problem, so don't expect that to change anytime soon."
He leads you into to one of the buildings. "You're in here. Third floor." He points to a door as you head to the stairs. "Latrine's on the first floor. Don't make a mess of it."
There are 4 doors on the third floor each labeled with a number: 34-38. You are led to #37. There are no locks on the door and it doesn't even really close properly. He pushes it open and walks in. The apartment is a single room. A pair of rough wooden bunks are pressed up against the walls and a small table and stools sits at one end near an open window.
On each bunk is laid out a set of plain clothes, in the same style as you've seen other workers in. (all the clothes are standard dwarf sized, so they may be too large or too small).
"This is your room, do with it what you will. The Imps toss the rooms from time to time, looking for 'contraband', so you're likely to lose anything of value that you leave in here to them. Assuming that someone else doesn't rob you first."
"Roll call is at dawn in the courtyard. That's when you'll get your daily work order and rations. Curfew starts at dusk. If they find outside after dark, they will shoot you."
"You're the fresh meat, that means you're targets. Keep your heads down until you get a feel for the way things work around here and you'll make out alright."
Dwendle walks in and looks bout curious to see the building. “Is there anything else we should know? Whatever you think is liable to keep us safe and may help us. It’d be awfully nice of ya!”
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Breg raises a furry brow as he listens to the guide give his speech, He lets the little one speak before chiming in,
"Aqueducts ye say. Can't be havin' a city without water lad. If say a group were keen to find the troubles in the blockage. Volunteers mayhaps? Could they get themselves out o' this mess hall and inta some liveable condition?"
Breg leans in a tad closer to the lad,
"Would ya mayhaps have some writin' material for an old scribe?
Hathok walks to a bunk, leans on a top bunk to see if his bulk is remotely supportable and stares glumly at the obviously too small clothes while he waits for the reply to his companions questions.
He pops his head out the window and judges there to be _____ hours till dusk. Hoping to catch a note of song on the breeze he listens for a moment.
Tobir acknowledges the details and advice with a nod toward the clerk.
The half-dwarf walks to one of the stools and parks himself, waiting patiently for their guide to leave them before he potentially speaks...
At Dwendle's question the Dwarf says, "Don't piss off the Imperials, but don't suck up to them neither, that wont make popular with the workers. Also, I don't care who you are or what you did, but remember there wasn't just malcontents on those transports. There are some genuinely bad folks around here and some dangerously crazy ones as well. Cross the wrong person and you'll be dead, or worse. The soldiers wont abide any really rough stuff, but they don't have eyes everywhere. Like I said, keep your head down."
To Breg, "You're already a volunteer, you go where you're told. Besides, you don't want to beyond the walls for any reason. That's punishment detail and you're as good as dead. Regarding the aqueduct, it's not a priority anymore, too many losses. I hear that the last expedition was a whole platoon, battle-hardened veterans all. Never came back. Ain't no conditions available that are worth that kind of risk."
"Paper and such? Depends, what have you got to trade? Nothing round here is free. Either put in a requisition with the powers that be, or figure out what you got to barter with."
If there are no more questions, you new workmate moves to leave.
With little to do, you decide to follow your fellow convict's advice and keep your head down. Remaining in your room, you watch the shadows lengthen as dusk approaches. You would hope that with the setting of the sun, the air would cool somewhat, but you barely notice a difference in temperature. Though with the onset of evening, the air comes alive with all sorts of insects, mostly of the biting variety, and soon the various Crews of Work Group F trickle in. The relative quiet of the apartments is broken by shouts, curses and laughter.
The door to your room opens with a clatter and in walks a burly black-bearded dwarf. A wicked scar runs from hair to jawline and across an empty socket where an eye once resided. Behind him follows another pair of dwarves, both as mean looking as their leader.
The scarred dwarf snorts loudly and then spits in the middle of your floor. "Told ya lads I smelled fish. Fresh off the boat, the best kind."
His gazes takes you in one at a time and he sneers, "Not much to look at are ye? Really scraping the bottom of the barrel these days, the Imps are. No matter. Now what might ye have for ol' Shank? Only right to be bringing a gift when you visit a dwarf in his home."
Dwendle sits on his bed during the time humming a tune to himself as he waits. As they walk in to the room he looks at the dwarves with a smile, but at their insult it quickly changes. He says nothing as the usually cheerful look on his face disappears, reforming into a deep frown. As the dwarf finishes his speech about tribute he stands up.
“I believe this is all our home, so unfortunately no gifts will be given. Maybe after some time together and you show us the hospitality new door mates deserve we can exchange some gifts.” the little halfling says this with an almost anger to him that hasn’t been seen yet from him.
The burly half-orc uncoils from atop the comparatively tiny stool as the door bursts open, picking it up from between his legs as he stands. He idly picks at the stool clenched tight in his fist as Dwendle greets their visitors. Hathok's gravelly voice comes out in a jaunty, but quiet tune as Dwendle finishes,
"The color, the color, the color of your skin don't matter to me." He takes two slow steps forward as he finishes his tune, "As long as, as long as, as long as we can live in harmony."
Hathok feels his rage boiling, readies himself for violence and puts on a hungry grin.
Breg makes no move, no interest in interfering with the fools choice of words.
Still a half-orc in these lands lad, they haven' changed at all.
As Hathok steps toward the newcomers with a growling tune, Tobir stoically eyes the group attempting to discern what he can;
:
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Noting the neutral stances of his two burlier bunkmates, Hathok does a quick and dissatisfying calculation of odds in his head as he finishes his ditty, paces slow but thoughts racing.
They knows we fresh and ain't got a crust to give, mebbe it's a test, mebbe it's a jumpin in. Faaaack it, if'n I'm to catch a beatin may as well earn it and make em think twice bout next time.
"The gift o'song... s'all I got to give friend." Hathok says as he performs a rapid courtly bow sweeping a leg out behind him and flourishing with the stool while keeping his eyes up, on the leader.
Dwendle stays back near the bunk but readies himself if they attack. His wide eyes looking about the room at his other 3 companions.
As his cabin mates shackles raise Breg stands from his position,
"Ol' Shank is it. Dwarf's be givin' gifts when they enter a den. They don't ask for one, so unless you have somethin' to give. Leave us be. We are innocent after all."
He crosses his arms, not moving from his standing position.
Breg wishing he had a component pouch to encase himself in mage armor instead hopes that some bravado might win over the aggressors. Although he was never good with words,
Shank attention falls to Dwendle, "That's where ye'd be wrong friendo. This here floor is mine, and ye be guests at my pleasure."
He seems unimpressed by Hathok's posturing, "A song is it? Well let's hear it greeny. Maybe a little dance from yer furry toed friend to go along with it? A bit of song-and-dance might be just the thing I be needin' now.'
“I think you should leave, before you get more than a song and dance. If you want something you’ll have to look elsewhere. We don’t have anything.”
"Ye've had me song friend, ya dinnae wanna see me dance." Hathok says his grin widening menancingly as he drops into an obvious fighting stance. His intimation borders on explicit statement; he's referring to something slightly more violent than a ballroom waltz (despite his bow moments earlier).
Rage
The room grows uncomfortably quiet, as the threat of violence fills the air. Suddenly Shank breaks into a grin and barks some forced laughter.
"What's with the fish these days not being able to take a joke? Ye boys need to learn to lighten up. Won't make it far in life without a sense of humor.'
He turns to his companions, "Well, enough with the welcome wagon. Let's beat it boys, we've other business to attend to."
He pauses at the door on his way out to address you all, "Best be watching your backs. Not everyone's as friendly as ol' Shank here."
Breg grunts as they leave, eyeing the cell mates briefly before slumping in his bunk.