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Guilty. You are a lawbreaker – the worst of the worst. Too dangerous to live amongst the good people of Talingarde, they dragged you in chains before a magistrate and condemned you. They sent you to the worst prison in the land and there they forever marked you. They held you down and branded you with a runic F. You are forsaken. You won’t be at Branderscar Prison for long. Branderscar is only a holding pen. In three days – justice comes. In three days – everything ends. What a pity. If only there was a way out of this stinking rat-hole. If only there was a way to escape. If only… No. No one has ever escaped from Branderscar Prison. This is where your story ends.
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In the kingdom of Talingarde, many crimes may send you to Branderscar Prison, but the sentence has but one meaning. You are wicked and irredeemable. Each of you received the same greeting when you arrived. You were held down by rough hands and branded upon the arm with a runic F. The mark signifies ‘forsaken’ and the painful scar is indelible proof that each of you has betrayed the great and eternal love of Mitra and his chosen mortal vassals. You were then forced to drink a foul-smelling tincture, which - once it had worked its way through you seemed to suppress any magical abilities or spells you might have.
Condemned, you face at best a life of shackles and servitude in the nearby salt mines. Others might await the “gentle” ministrations of the inquisitors so that co-conspirators may be revealed and confessions extracted. Perhaps, some of you will be spared this ordeal. Perhaps instead you have come to Branderscar to face the final judgment. In three days, the executioner arrives and the axe falls or the pyre will be lit. Through fire or steel, your crimes will be answered.
You have all been chained together in the same communal cell dressed in nothing but the dirty, ruined remains of whatever you wore when you were captured. Manhandled and mistreated, any finery you once possessed is either ruined or long lost. No special treatment has been given any prisoner – male or female, commoner or noble – all of the forsaken are bound and imprisoned together. Your feet are secured by iron cuffs tethered by one long chain. Your arms are secured to the wall above by manacles. A guard is posted right outside the cell day and night. Little thought is given to long term accommodations. At Branderscar, justice comes swift and sure.
Escape seems hopeless. You have all been well searched and every attempt to conceal anything on your person has failed. And if you could somehow slip your bonds and fly out of this prison, where would you go? Who from your former life would want anything to do with the forsaken? Despised, alone and shackled – all that you can do now is await your doom.
For each of you, your old life is over. For each of you, hope is a fading memory. For each of you, justice will be fairly meted. And who can blame fair Talingarde after what each of you has done?
A rail thin elf hangs from the manacles second from the wall. His skin is sickly, and shreds of very fine clothes dangle from his body. His platinum hair covers his face as it hangs from his bowed head down to his chest. His chains jingle regularly from shivering and coughing.
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A slender woman hangs from her manacles just a couple seats down from the coughing elf. Were her blonde hair not quite so greasy and dirty from her imprisonment and transport to Branderscar, it would almost be glowing, and despite the filth covering her face, it is clear this woman is beautiful. Her golden eyes, taking in her cell, make her otherworldy heritage plain as day. Her clothes look to have once been fine, but have now been reduced to filthy rags that, somehow, still preserve her modesty. She winces as the pain from the recent brand of the Forsaken, still red on her arm, reminds her of her inevitable fate. In a quiet, pleasant soprano voice, she says, "So, are we all on the same journey to the axe, or do some of you have more interesting fates awaiting you?"
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Another woman had been dragged into the cell, hanging between two burly guards. The tatters of the cotton shift that barely covered her revealed bruises and cuts all over; the Forsaken brand bright on her shoulder. The guards had obviously given her some 'personal' attention. The face that hung low was puffy and bloody, lips split, blood and mucus hanging from her slack mouth.
Slammed up against the wall, the woman groaned as her hands were cinched into the manacles, but her head snapped up to spit a wad of blood and snot in the face of one of the guards. Two swift blows to her belly drained her of any more defiance, as she hung gasping for breath.
As the two guards left, one could be heard to mutter, "Damn, a Mourngrym...to fall so low..." The other guard snapped, "Shut yer gob! They don't have names anymore!"
With a crash, the cell door was shut, and a chuckle could be heard from the woman, "Who needs a name...." she says, the rest interrupted by a great cough, sending a spray of blood onto the floor.
Later she raises her head at the other woman's question, a fine patrician face marred by the beating she'd received, "Oh nothing so merciful as the ax for me, I'm bound for the pyre for my crimes..." she states, showing no fear of her coming fate.
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At the end of the line a wiry, dark haired man raised his head at the sudden conversation that breaks the silence. Stripped to the waist, he wears little more than the tattered remains of a pair of plain breeches. On top of his manacles and leg irons, a thick hemp rope is wrapped around his thin chest.
His sunken eyes take in his cellmates."Death is death no matter how it comes. It is the price paid for failure."
He flexes and pulls briefly against his bonds. "Be nice if they just got it over with already."
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As Morthos hangs from his shackles with his head hanging down, he listens intently to the others and mentally takes notes. He is a somewhat tall figure with long dark hair and skin that appears quite pale for someone with breath in his lungs. He appears to be fairly well built and somewhat lithe but he also takes on the appearance of one who might have trouble running any kind of race. And if you were to take away the wounds and the burn marks, replace the tattered, grungy clothing with something a bit more regal, give him a bath and comb his hair, one might gather that he himself was former royalty.
Raising his head, a snake-like grin can be seen as he looks over at Sarela through narrowed eyes and speaks with a marginally deep voice that is quite smooth and comforting, yet at the same time, could easily be taken as ominous. "Oh yes, my dear, I have a far more interesting fate. A fate that these pathetic Mitrans will not be fond of. For within three days time my fate will be a glorious one of freedom! Freedom from this prison and freedom from this injustice that has befallen me. But no matter, once freedom has been acquired then justice will be served for their wrongs against me. Time is a luxury these fools do not have. It will soon run out... for them ALL," he says, grinning wickedly.
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To the other woman Sarela says, "The pyre? Well, well, your crimes must make mine far more pedestrian. What did you do?"
To the man who spoke of freedom, she said, "Given your opinion of them, I doubt the Mitrans will just let you walk free in three days. What secrets do you have to ensure your survival? Something you'd like to share with the rest of us - and maybe get us off the block as well?"
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The figure at the end had been with his head down the entire time. Covered by the long black hair, slowly Seltyel moved his head up to reveal an even darker grin. He looked to be on his thirties, but it was fairly hard to identify his true age. Beneath the fangs, he turned his smile to the others as the tail finally revealed itself, crouching behind the back of the tiefling.
Yet, there was more to him that things would immediately reveal. He was somehow, somewhat familiar - he looked like the High Inquisitor Solomon Tyrath! Or, at least, a demonic perversion of him, clawed as the fiends themselves. There was a natural aura of evil behind his movements, but more importantly - there was something unnatural, inorganic, almost as if his skin was an ink reflection of where life would actually be. It was almost unnerving as he didn't seem to breath at all.
Yeah... I shall see the pyre as well. - he finally said, the voice sounding rasping, hoarse as if shut for a long time - And, to be honest, it's probably fit.
His voice now sounded more normal. The hair seemed to calm down more, coming out of the face, and his very expression looks more sober... And somber.
Yet, there are still secrets, like my axe bound companion points out. What, I echo, could one possibly know to still hope for freedom and not embrace its failures?
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Barnanas closes his eyes and leans back with a sigh. "The quiet was so lovely before..."
"Can we not encourage him. Once a madman gets to raving, it's usually pretty hard to make them stop."
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A noise from outside the door to the large cell block (there are 5 cells besides the one you are in) cuts off any discussion. A group of six guards, heavily armed and ready for trouble, come into the cell led by a fat, well-dressed sergeant of the watch. You all recognize him as Sergeant Tomas Blackerly. This was the man who held the brand that marked each of you. He laughed as your skin burned. Right now, though, the sergeant seems a little dazed.
The sergeant is under the effect of an enchantment.
He points to Eowithe and says gruffly: "You there! That’s the scum! Get ‘em unshackled. If any of you makes trouble, they’ll earn a thrashing! Today’s your lucky day, scum. You’ve got a visitor. How you ever warranted such a fine lady is beyond me. Seems she wants to say good-bye. Now step lively. We wouldn’t want to keep her waiting." Blackerly unlocks the cell door and two of the guards enter the cell and unshackle Eowithe, roughly grab her by a shoulder each and escort her out of the cell block with Blackerly. The other four guards remain just outside your cells and keep their eyes on you. A kite shield is held by their side on their left arm and a club is in their right. They also have a sheathed long sword at their waists. A chain shirt shows under a deep blue tunic with the symbol of Talinguarde on the chest just like Blackerly (a shield that's half blue, half white with a sunburst in the middle and a fortress inside the sunburst). On their heads they wear open-faced nasal helms.
At the door leaving the cell block there are 2 more guards on duty. One of them has a small signal horn attached to his belt as well. If it were to be blown it would likely summon more guards to come.
Eowithe, Blackerly and the two guards that escorted her pass through another door just past the cell block entrance. A minute later Blackerly and the guards step outside the room without Eowithe and wait with the two on duty.
Blackerly walks ahead of you leading the way out of the cell block into the guard room. The air in here is a lot warmer than your cold cell thanks to the chimney chute. Just to the left is another door which Blackerly opens and enters. You have no choice but to follow as the guards holding your arms walk closely behind Blackerly. In the meeting room is several chairs that sit around a long wooden table. The guards shove you into one of the chairs and stand just a step behind the chair, ready to seize you in an instant. Blackerly stands beside your chair.
You also notice a hauntingly beautiful women sitting in a nearby chair wearing a black dress and a soft silken veil. She looks as if she is headed to a funeral. Her hair is so platinum as to almost be white and her eyes are a vibrant almost unearthly green. She clearly has been weeping. You have never seen her before.
“Oh, dearest,” proclaims the unfamiliar woman. “I’m so relieved you’re alive!” She quickly turns to Tomas. “Could we please have a moment alone, good sir? For pity’s sake?” Tomas goes blank for a bit and then quickly agrees. “Of course, my lady. For you,’ tis no problem.”
As soon as the guards leave, the woman's demeanor immediately changes. She drops all pretense of grief or concern. She is immediately all business. “Have you forgotten me, dearest?” the unexpected visitor says with a smirk, dropping her pretense of grief. “Call me Tiadora. We possess a mutual friend who would like to meet you and your fellow cell-mates. Unfortunately, our friend is unwilling to visit you in your present rather shabby accommodations so it seems you must escape. Don’t be so dour. Just because it’s never been done before is no reason you can’t be the first."
“If you manage that, cross the moors on the outskirts of town. On the old Moor Road you’ll see a manor house with a single lantern burning in the second story. There our mutual friend waits. That is all I know. He did want me to give you this.” She takes off her silken veil and wipes away a few fake tears with it. “Something to remember me by, dearest.”
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To the man who spoke of freedom, she said, "Given your opinion of them, I doubt the Mitrans will just let you walk free in three days. What secrets do you have to ensure your survival? Something you'd like to share with the rest of us - and maybe get us off the block as well?"
"We shall ALL be free when the time is right," he says with absolute confidence.
Yeah... I shall see the pyre as well. - he finally said, the voice sounding rasping, hoarse as if shut for a long time - And, to be honest, it's probably fit.
His voice now sounded more normal. The hair seemed to calm down more, coming out of the face, and his very expression looks more sober... And somber.
Yet, there are still secrets, like my axe bound companion points out. What, I echo, could one possibly know to still hope for freedom and not embrace its failures?
He then looks to his left, "Hope? Hope is for fools. It is not 'hope' that will get us out of this. And to embrace failure of any kind is to accept that you ARE a failure. I do not believe in nor embrace either. There is a greater agenda here that is beyond me. I, simply, am a part of it and will see it to its fruition. I have not yet reached my destiny. And I can promise it is NOT to rot here until I am simply executed by these fools. Asmodeus has other plans for me, this I vow."
Barnanas closes his eyes and leans back with a sigh. "The quiet was so lovely before..."
"Can we not encourage him. Once a madman gets to raving, it's usually pretty hard to make them stop."
Hearing the remark from the far prisoner, Morthos lets his head angle back down as he stares at the ground, that wicked grin returning.
Just as soon as he gets quiet, his attention returns to the front of the cell as he eyes the just arriving guards and their leader. Ahhh if it isn't Blackerly. I haven't forgotten your crimes, Blackerly. Your death will be most rewarding. One less pompous fool in the world to be sure.
He attempts to focus on their direction, watching and waiting to see what may transpire.
The thin elf barely raises his head to somehow peer through the messed hair at their captors.
After Blackerly leaves he re-droops his head and his body throbs against the chains once more. This time though it is more rhythmic as if by a silent laugh amidst the coughs.
A fellow player of the game. This should prove interesting.
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To the other woman Sarela says, "The pyre? Well, well, your crimes must make mine far more pedestrian. What did you do?"
Eowithe chuckles, "Oh, something about the desecration a Mitran holy site; they were most unforgiving..." she says in a light tone, the adds more mysteriously, "...but the bargain was struck..."
Eowithe follows the metaphysical discussion for a moment, and is about to demand they cease their prattle when the guards make their appearance.
Eowithe is equally surprised that she has a visitor and offended at being called scum! But , she goes along with the guards , her interest in seeing this 'visitor' overwhelming any desire to stir up trouble.
Eowithe says nothing while Tomas was in the room, and stays equally quiet as the strange woman tells her tale.
Looking at the while veil in the woman's hand, Eowithe licks her lips, tasting the blood caked there, "Escape....from Brandescar?"
She reaches out and takes the veil, "And what, will you leave the door open as you leave? "
"Well what intrigue do we have here..."
He settles back watching to see what the winds of fate have blown their way.
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Tiadora chuckles, "I’ve helped you as much as I can. The rest is up to you."
A moment later Blackerly and the guards return. Immediately, her demeanor once more changes and she is again a perfect picture of grief. “No, I can’t bear to leave you!” She gives you a kiss on the cheek. The kiss is ice-cold and feels somehow alien and inhuman. Tomas shakes his head. “I’m afraid it’s time, miss.”
She looks deep in Tomas’ eyes and says, “Thank you for letting me say good-bye. There’s no need to search my dearest. You are such a good friend for letting me see my dearest one more time.”
“Such a good friend,” Tomas repeats his voice almost mechanical. Then the watch sergeant seems to snap out of it and bows politely. “A pleasure, madam,” She leaves unveiled.
Her eyes meet yours one last time and she briefly gives you a wicked smile. Three days, her voice echoes through your mind, Don’t disappoint me, dearest.
She is escorted away on Blackerly's arm while the guards seize you again and lead you back to your cell.
Within minutes Eowithe is returned by the guards, Blackerly nowhere to be seen. The guards shackle her back in place, lock the cell door and leave the cell block. The 2 on duty remain just outside the door to the cell block.
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Blackerly's entrance heralds an end to conversation - Sarela had no wish to invite the special treatment the other woman had apparently suffered on herself. She glares malevolently at him, for his hand had given her the scar that marred what had once been perfect skin. If only she could get out of here - then she would find a way to rid herself of it so she could once again be perfection. After killing him, of course. Come to think of it, Sergeant in charge of Branderscar might be prominent enough for the next ritual - although the Warden would likely be better.
Her eyes follow him as he escorts Eowithe away. She barely keeps surprise off her face as Blackerly and the other two guards step out of the room. Allowing her a private audience with her visitor? Who is this person? Or have I allowed my hatred of Blackerly to cloud my mind so I missed something else that's going on?
After the guards have left, Sarela, her voice still quiet, says, "A private conversation without the guards? How did you convince them of that?"
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Hm... - limits the "tiefling" to say, really more interested in the whole escorting thing.
As she's returned, he turns around to her.
It seems their fire doesn't burn as hot as one anticipated, huh? Or, maybe, they were more interested in asking the right questions? - he finally speaks - It wouldn't be the first time someone imprisoned isn't really there for his crimes, but for everybody else's...
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Again , Eowithe allowed the guards to 'escort' her back to the cell without trouble, her face reflecting the questions her meeting had raised in her mind.
After being re-secured, she looked up at Sarela and Seltyiel's questions, saying quietly, "Seem we have a benefactor outside that wishes to meet us....we just need to escape."
She saw more questions in their eyes, so continued, "A woman...if indeed she is one, named Tiadora met me. She was...is, unknown to me. At first she professed a great love for me while the guard was there, then stated that we were to 'cross the moors on the outskirts of town. On the old Moor Road you’ll see a manor house with a single lantern burning in the second story. There our mutual friend waits.', " she recited.
Then she looked up to her right hand, clenched in a fist. Relaxing her hand, she revealed the white veil Tiadora had given her, "She left me with this. I'm not sure if it's an aid to escape or merely our key to enter the manor....But, I think I get ahead of myself...first we need to escape..." she said dryly,
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"Difficult to do, manacled as we are, and with two guards out there. I might be able to charm one guard into freeing me, but I suspect the other would be less accommodating. With enough time, I could get both, but I doubt the second one would give me the time to do so. Is there anything special about the veil?"
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"My first instinct would be that this is all just an elaborate form of torture, but Mitrans aren't that clever. Besides, I don't know if anyone else noticed, but the good Sergeant was definitely ensorcelled."
"One would hope it's an aid to our escape. Whoever these people are, they went through a lot of effort to get that veil into this cell."
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Eowithe manipulates the veil until it is grasped between two fingers, "Let's see, shall we..." she says quietly in response to Sarela's question.
She gently waves the veil in the air, eyes narrowing at the pain in her wrist as her movement rubs already raw flesh against the unyielding iron.
Demian raises his head to look at the veil, his pupils faintly glowing blue.
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You were then forced to drink a foul-smelling tincture, which - once it had worked its way through you seemed to suppress any magical abilities or spells you might have.
Demian tries to cast a spell but is unable to focus enough, still being magically suppressed by an unknown drug.
Anyone that looks closely at the veil sees strange patterns sewn into it that don't seem to match any style. The patterns actually seem like lace-outlined objects, 10 of them.
Powerful transmuters have spells for turning objects into other objects. Even infusing them into other objects. If they can craft a robe of useful items. Why not a Veil.
The elf takes a deep breath as if to speak only to erupt in a fit of coughing. The coughing is accompanied by chain jingling.
After the coughing fit, the elf says weakly, "the...patches....are...real...objects..."
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Narrowing his eyes toward the veil, a slight grin forms. "Perfect. If they are 'objects' then let us use them immediately. The sooner we get out of here the sooner we can exact justice upon those who have imprisoned us wrongly."
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"Quiet!" Sarela listens carefully to see if the guards outside are coming to investigate the elf's coughing.
Once she's sure they aren't coming, she says, "Those patches wouldn't happen to include lockpicks, would they, and if so, can anyone use them?"
"Pass that veil over here."
Taking the thin cloth, Barnabas picks at the patch resembling lockpicks, it comes off and transforms into a real set of picks.
"Well would you look at the that..."
He sets to work on this shackles before moving down the line to unlock everyone else's.
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Seltyel just watches, silent at this point. As paranoid and concerned as he was, he was also very glad that something was happening. He should have imagined that his existence wouldn't end so fast; at this point, waiting and observing was the safest thing to do, and if there was a chance for him to be free again - then even the best. Burning some guards would be a very nice plus.
"Perhaps before you do that, we should wait and see if that concoction they forced down our throats wears off so we have our full abilities?"
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"Lady, somehow I don't think the guards are going to let it wear off before they take your head. I just don't see them as being that sloppy."
"An argument could be made for waiting until nightfall, but who knows when that is."
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As noise from all your talking reaches the guardroom, one of the guards opens the door and approaches your cell but doesn't enter. The other guard stays at the door with his signal horn ready. "Keep silent you lot, or I'll come in there and give you some bruises to help you." There is a thump as his wooden club hits his glove. He walks along the cell bars inspecting each of you. Finding nothing amiss he again tells to to be quiet or he will use his club to make you be quiet.
After they leave, Barnabus pulls at the lace stitching patterns that resembles lockpicks. After the last thread is pulled out, the threads that used to be shaped like a lockpick shrink together where they fell into one small ball of lace and then expand to the shape of lockpicks. Barnabus picks them up and can tell from their quality that they are a set of masterwork lockpicks. He will have a little trouble with his hands slightly restricted by the shackles, but the tools will help a great deal.
Eowithe's eyes widen as she see's the outline of various object woven into the fabric of the veil.
She scrunches it back into her palm when the guard comes by with his empty threats, then passes it gladly on to Barnabas at his urging.
Watching , her eyes widen as he 'pulls' a set of lockpicks from the material of the veil. She smiles as he begins to work on opening the manacles securing him to the wall.
She watches the corridor, anxious to avoid his being discovered by a curious guard...
Picks in hand, Barnabas starts to work on his manacles.
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Barnabus almost has it on the first try. The lockpick slips and the chains rattle on the second try. On the third try he drops the lockpicks down his back and must shuffle around to pick them up again. Eowithe only hears one of the guards say, "Was that a rat?" Luckily the guards don't suspect or hear any sounds coming from the cells. Finally after a 4th try, Barnabus expertly opens the shackles holding his wrists and gets his hands free and carefully lets the shackles hang against the wall.
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Free, Seltyiel smiles in a terrible grin, before approaching to examine the veil.
Oh, don't I wish it was someone else's! - whispers the living painting, looking at the unholy symbol of Asmodeus - Regardless, we probably stayed here already long enough. Let's save these chains for later... I can think of so many fun things to do with them!
Once the cell door is opened, the cleric of the Reaper of Reputation will sneaky closer to the door where the guards are in.
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Sarela quietly replies to Barnabas, "They were apparently careless enough to allow the Sergeant's mind to be charmed so someone could smuggle us the tools needed to escape, but I see your point. Best not to chance it. We'll only get once chance at this, though - if we don't do this right, we're finished."
Once free, she examines the veil. "There's a window and rope on here. So, the question is, do we go out the door - or make our own exit?"
The platinum-haired elf, once released, slowly and quietly collapses to the floor, as if standing were too much exertion.
From his prostrate position he whispers, "That was my thought, angel face. But we have to be sure that whatever wall we window leads outside." Without raising his head he points accurately toward Eowithe, "Fancy family here saw where the walls went on the other side of that door. Walls shared by multiple rooms are more likely to be the main walls." He then lowers his hand once more. "Until we are sure, I don't think it is worth it. Which means our best bet is to take out the two guards on the other side of the door. Casual reminder: one of them has a horn, so all efforts to prevent that from being blown would be ideal."
The minorly observant notice that throughout all of that he did not cough once.
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With his cellmates unchained, Barnabas quietly sets to untying the rope around his torso.
"I agree. Until we know more about the layout, it's best we don't use our resources blind"
"If we can get a jump those two guards and grab their kit, we'll be laughing. Who wants the knives?"
"Or should we check what's behind door number two?
He points to the door to the west.
Finally loosening the knots, he shakes free of the rope, revealing a thick, muscular tentacle that had been tied down. The appendage has been grafted to his torso and now extends in a long stretch, displaying it in all of its mottled purple glory.
You have never heard of a drug that suppresses magic unfortunately, but you can be almost certain that it should function like most drugs and not be permanent unless perhaps taken regularly for an extended time period. The only thing you feel is muted, the world is not as bright as before, sounds are not as vibrant. Hopefully it doesn't last too long, but you are sure that if it doesn't that more doses will be brought to you all.
Free from his shackles, Morthos stands and dusts himself off as if he's wearing some type of finery while ignoring the pain upon his wrists and legs and the various other places upon his person. "I would agree with that sentiment as well. Save any of the other items for when they prove to be far more useful. And I will take one of those knives."
Eowithe silently nods her thanks to Barnabas as he competently works on her manacles , freeing her abused wrists.
She stretches her limbs trying to feel where all of the bruises and soreness lay, knowing some action was coming soon.
She looks impassively down at the prone Demian, and says quietly "Indeed. The room the two guards occupy has a set of stairs going down, so either we go down that way....or make our own window and make use of that long chain there..."
She blinks a bit as Barnabas's unique physiology is revealed, but shrugs, if the tentacle can help her escape, she has no issue with it.
For a moment, she concentrates inwardly, attempting to access her Hell-given abilities....but felt nothing, whispering "I agree, we can't wait for the drug to wear off, the veil and it's tools have given us a momentary advantage....we must seize it. "
Hefting the weight of one of her manacles, she smiles and whispers, "Seems fitting to use this....Come, Hell watches, let us not disappoint..."
She moves to wait for the tentacled-man to open the cell door...
Demian maintains his prostrate position. "Yeah..so..I'm gonna be useless to you with fighting. So...I'm gonna stay here while ya'll go murder some peeps who have it coming. I'll be useful at some point later though..swearsies. Go team, go!..and by team, I mean everyone but me.."
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Morthos looks over at the sickly fellow as if studying him. Finally he asks no one in particular, "Did he just say 'swearsies'?" He ponders his own question a moment before mentally shrugging it off and preparing himself for battle.
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Sarela shrugs, unconcerned, although she stares at Barnabas’s tentacle a little too long. How in the name of all that is unholy did he manage that.
Shaking her head, she quietly said, ”If no one else wants it, I can use the other knife. I’m not strong, but I’m particularly skilled at making people bleed.”
Pointing at the door to the west, she says, ”Perhaps we should make sure the guards can’t come at us from that direction.”
"I don't know. Maybe there's something useful in there, but maybe that's where they keep the raving lunatics. Maybe take out the guards right outside and then double back? Or a couple of you set an ambush in case they come in, while I check the other room?"
"Yes, let us eliminate the guards as quickly as possible. Especially the one with the horn. And if there is a room you can investigate without being caught, then do so quickly. Once we move to end these fools, our time might be limited."
Once the cell door is opened, the cleric of the Reaper of Reputation will sneaky closer to the door where the guards are in.
Morthos attempts to halt the Tiefling. "Hold a moment, tiefling. Let us investigate these other rooms and see if we are able to find anything that might aid us. If not, then we proceed as planned."
Pointing at the door to the west, she says, ”Perhaps we should make sure the guards can’t come at us from that direction.”
"I don't know. Maybe there's something useful in there, but maybe that's where they keep the raving lunatics. Maybe take out the guards right outside and then double back? Or a couple of you set an ambush in case they come in, while I check the other room?"
"As I said to the tiefling, let us investigate these other rooms as quickly and as quietly as possible. But we would be wise to keep an eye upon the western door and one to watch the southern direction as well." Morthos will take a moment to look within the room that is next to them.