Way of the Wicked Group 2

Game Master Diamondust

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.

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?

Current Situation

Describe how the others see you, introduce yourselves if your character feels inclined.

In the midst of this crowded cell, between the two women and similarly shackled to wall, was a half-elf with dark, straight shoulder length hair and skin that was pale like ash. Dressed in the ragged remains of what could once be considered a nobleman's outfit, the lithe frame of Araton Fal could be seen. With black fingernails and eyes that were usually dark like coal, the young nobleman had a strong presence about him and kept a fair, almost beautiful, state about him if it wasn't for the sickly demeanor he had. Bags hung under his eyes and his body seemed somewhat malnourished, though strong and flexible from the fight that he gave when they branded him with the mark of the forsaken.

Despite his elven appearance, his true heritage was visible to all as they held that heated iron against his flesh. It took too long to burn through the flesh and as it did, the half-elf's eyes flared a hellish red. A blasphemer that had consorted with the dark powers of Hell to restore his body, it was only the incompetence of his fellow cabal members that had led to his capture and the small infernal cult's demise. Some of the guards said that he had the blood of devils in them and that there were books of heresy discovered in his family's estate. All of that had been reclaimed by the crown and the last son of House Fal was doomed to burn to death.

For a long while now, Araton had been quiet since his branding. A curtain of black hiding the beautiful face as he let his head hang low. This was where he would die, alongside the other miscreants collected in the righteous palm of Talingarde. How pitiful he was. Slowly though, a low chuckle left him.

"Burned at the stake. Isn't that how you died, Rozas?" Araton mutters, his voice smith and dark like a rich wine. He shakes his head, his fingers clenching at the air. "No...no...that won't work. That dreadful concoction has robbed us our connection. It is just you and I now, great-uncle. Us...and them." Araton turns his head, looking first to the woman on his left. She looks like she could've been attractive at one point yet something unsavory stop him from compiling any such thoughts. The woman to his right was attractive as well but the scars of ropes along her neck and arms makes her less so. There is something broken inside of her, something lost that could never be fixed.

"None of them could've been forsaken for being the greatest whore in the land? At least let me die with a good image in my mind." Araton thinks to himself, wisely keeping his opinion to himself. The former was a labeled a grave robber and such folk never had tender reasons for such a profession. The latter was for murder and kidnapping most foul, a serial killer from Ghastenhall. Neither did he wish to make upset and meet his maker early. No, he would rather spend the last three days wondering if they fought over him, who would win.

Further down the line was a large goblinoid, a rarity this far south of the Wall. He was supposedly found in some sort of underground fighting arena and had committed heinous acts in the attempt to avoid capture. A monstrosity, he was sentenced to death. On the opposite side was another half-elf like himself, at least in appearance. Another devil worshipper caught by the glorious Inquisition of Mitra. He would burn with Araton as well. He seemed well-dressed as well, another noble like himself. Speaking of monstrosities, there was the massive man in the cell next door to them. Supposedly blessed by the earth elementals, this man was another rabid killer that ended a slew of lives in the mountains. Some say it was giant-blood that drove him to do it, none knew for sure.

"What a motley crew we all are." Araton said with a wry grin, looking down the way. "It seems that I will burn with at least one other believer. A shame, truthfully, that we never met friend. The rest of you will at least die faster. Just be the first one to the chopping block." He leans back some, looking all the way at Grengar. "Except you. You'll take awhile no matter what. Be kind, let the ladies or the goblin die first."

A permanent grin adorned Hilda's face, though none could see it as her black, now rather greasy and matted, hair fell before her face. Those that paid attention could spot movement in her hair, small, glossy black beetles crawled through it. And from behind the curtain of hair occasionally came the sound of someone swallowing, though the crack someone would expect when biting on such a beetle was never heard.

Beyond her matted hair the woman looked sickly and severely malnourished, despite the fact she was the only one that had received any food, just before she was chained up. Still her stomach rumbled loudly, complaining about the lack of nourishment.

"Chop chop! They'll take my head and then the bugs will eat me. They've been waiting, you know. Ever so patiently." The grin on her face somehow shone through in her voice. "I only sold them for parts you know? Didn't eat them or anything. Not fresh enough."

"Grrrrrrr. a beastial growl greets you from the other cell where the very large, very ugly man, sits, chained to the floor.

"Knock it off with all this RACKET, will you? My head hurts. I shouldn't have drank that last barrel of ale."

Grengar stank to top it off, like sweet and soot from the mines, like ale which he seemed to have drank and spilled on himself in equal quantities, like piss which he seemed to have let loose in his pants without a care, and like blood, which spattered the torn remains of his clothes and matted his rank wispy hair and beard.

After a minute, a low chuckle comes unbidden from his throat, "They said they were going to behead me. . . I hope they bring a BIG axe. Probably easier than building a scaffold big enough to hang me! Hahaha!"

Annoyed by the half-fiend's words, for they were true, Gildevar Broach rolls his head to the side only to be met by the sight of a mop of unruly hair infested with scurrying beetles. Unsettled and a little disgusted, the young man's head rolls back the way it came and he sighs. It goes by unnoticed, though, for a much louder sound was produced by the giant of a man in the cell next to them. A sound so deep, Broach can feel it reverberate through his bones. Just like the others, the giant too mocks the fate that awaits him. Have they all gone insane? Just because you've lost does not mean you can escape the rules of the universe by letting your mind slip away!

It seems that I will burn with at least one other believer. A shame, truthfully, that we never met, friend.

"Heh, half-fiend, at least we shall burn twice as bright together as we venture forth to meet the Divine. There is some solace to be found in that thought, wouldn't you say? But knowing we failed, knowing the seeds we ache to sow shall never come to grow in these lands and bring to it meaningful change, we'll burn for that too." The implication is clear: their suffering won't end anytime soon.

A madwoman, a gigantic drunk, and a true believer. What an assortment to die beside. No one had ever escaped Brandenscar Prison, even Rozas had remained silent on such a thing. There was no escape except their inevitable punishment in the pits. He knew the process it would take, his soul tortured until it lost all meaning and identity, just another tortured soul amidst the throng. How pitiful.

"Most true, most true. A shame really, I had such potential." Araton muttered, leaning his head back against the cold stone. Staring up at the ceiling, he licked his parched lips and truly regretted not taking a moment to enjoy a glass of wine and a fine meal before that evening's festivities. Now it was all burned to ash.

"I am Araton, the last heir of House Fal. A pleasure to meet you all, since you're all to be my company up until the very end." The man's voice was quite calm given the scenario, the resignation in his warm tones soft and gentle. "I hope you've all not gone mad, I would enjoy some decent conversation before I burn."

"And I would enjoy a drink, and the company of a beautiful woman, but we can't all get what we want." Grengar replied with a snort.

The giant's words earn a small laugh from the noble who nods softly in agreement, a sly grin on Araton's face as he looks back over in Grengar's direction.

"In lieu of that, I'll take what I can get." Araton said, his head sharply then turning to the right as he stares into the empty corner of the cells. It is almost as if he was listening to someone before he scoffed, shaking his head. "Those are rude things to say, uncle. They're our company."

One boon - perhaps the only boon - to come of Ceres Sejna's recent trauma was that she could sleep anywhere. When one is in constant discomfort, little annoyances - like being chained to a wall - fall by the wayside. Slumbering there, Ceres seemed almost at peace, and anyone who looked could see that she was probably once a bit attractive, in the way of one that comes by it naturally, and without the money to refine it. Her body was that of a laborer - wiry and strong, without being overly muscular. Her face betrayed her common upbring as well; lean, tan, and lined.

If she was once a beauty, it was no more. Ceres' lips were chapped and bloody, the tips of her nose and fingers were blackened. The fingers on her left hand were broken in multiple places. Her breathing was breathless and wheezy, as if labored. Perhaps most disturbing, scars reminiscent of cords of rope wound around her neck, wrists, arms, and ankles.

As the others began their conversation, one curl of hair rose and twisted around the chain running from her right arm to the dungeon's wall, and gave it three good yanks, shaking Ceres awake. Another curl ran across the woman's face, rubbing the sleep from her eyes and closing her slightly slack jaw.

Blinking the last of the dreamless fog from her head, Ceres zeroed in on her companions. Brandescar. The worst of the worst. It was surprising to Ceres that she should be here, hanging among them, even with everything that had transpired. At least until she dwelled upon the events of the last few months.

"You have a mentor too?" she asked the fop, her mind wondering what had happened to her crab, who she had yet to name. It had been hiding under her hair when the city watch clubbed her unconscious. Hopefully it had survived the assault, and was nearby. It was, for all intents and purposes, Ceres' only friend in this world, and she missed it fiercely.

Dwelling on the crab, Ceres was reminded there was still work to do. "I'm Ceres. No House to speak of, though I do have a daughter out there. And I for one am not dying here."

"A mentor? What an interesting way to describe you, uncle." Araton thought to himself, looking back towards the woman who had finally stirred. Was it a trick of the light but he swore he could see her hair moving in ways that were not natural. He shook the notion from his head, blaming it instead on the others that had followed his uncle. Annoying pests they were, occasionally useful but mostly annoying.

"More like a guide. He gets upset if I stray too far." Araton said softly, remembering idly the terrible pain that the ghost could unleash upon his body when he strayed too far from the intended path. "Now we're going to die and you'll be lost, uncle. I told you it was too aggressive of a plan." The dirt on the ground stirred in a small circle by an unseen wind, earning a quiet scoff from him. How could a powerful spirit be so petty sometimes?

"Is that so Ceres? What is your plan to escape from here?" Araton asked, his tone both condescending yet honestly curious. "No one has escaped from here before. If the giant-blooded over there couldn't escape his chains, how do you think you will?"

Her betters had been condescending to Ceres the woman's whole life. Unbothered by Araton's tone, Ceres' shoulders lift upward in the tiniest shrug, constrained by her chains to go any further. Her voice drops to a whisper, lest the guard(s?) outside the cell hear.

"I was recently bound and left for dead. I wasn't given a second life just... to be bound and murdered. My mentor is not so cruel."

"Besides, just because something hasn't been done before, doesn't mean it can't be done. The guard outside, or one like him... I'll make a ruckus, get him in here, within reach...."

A curl of hair lashes out, elongating and stopping just short of Araton's neck, flicking his bare skin playfully.

"...and I'll choke the life from him, lift him from the ground, and take the key to our chains from his pocket. And then I'm walking out Brandescar's front door. Anyone gets in my way dies. You're all welcome to join me if you'd prefer to live."

Ceres pauses, and then adds an addendum to her plan. "If Brandescar's got a chapel, I may stop and pay my respects on the way out."

The chains around Broach's legs and wrists rattle as he lets out a chuckle. Long dirty locks of hair bob back and forth as he savors an amusing thought in response to something the others said.

"To be fair, say someone did escape this place. Do you think they'd ever make that public knowledge? I'm not saying you ought to be hopeful and start fancying your chances of somehow getting out of here alive, but power often resides in the shadow of the construct we call truth. And truth, my friend, truth is a moldable thing indeed. Mitra knows this. It's why I'm here, after all, sentenced to die, for I know things I ought not to. I'll be taking an unwanted truth with me to the afterlife. Mitra is fine with that, for it ensures his version of the truth stays intact, and so his power."

As the tangent comes to an end, so too disappears the enthusiasm. Where his first two sentences hinted at Broach enjoying sharing his thoughts on the matter, the last couple of sentences underscore the palpable feeling that all of this - the conversations, the sharing of their pasts, their hopes, their perverted dreams - it's all futile.

"And who said I couldn't get out of my chains? I haven't tried to. I'm tired and hungover. I'll GET to it."

As the others talk Hilda mimes two talking mouths with her bound hands. "So much talking. So much talking! She sighs.

"No matter if we escape, we won't die here. Except me maybe, I'm starving. But they must have some special little place to kill the bad folk. That's us." She then glanced sideways to Grengar, "Or a special big place for the big boy."

"We're all here for some reason. I'm here because some rat I sold my wares to sold me out to get out of his sentence. Now I am supposed to die because he didn't want to go to prison. If I could I'd spit on him. Still, if they kill me for that I win. It means I got away with the rest. Can't sentence you when you're dead."

"Oh, and I'm Hilda. I have nothing out there except people who pretend they don't know me. Like my mother. Or my brother. I don't care where I go, just that I do so with my head on my shoulders."

Araton's eyes flickered down to the bit of hair that nearly lashed at his neck, a coy smile spreading across his face. The woman's unusual talent was intriguing and as he listened to her plan, his grin only got wider. It was simplistic, brutal, and straightforward. It was a dream to imagine but that was all that it was.

The other nobleman began to speak up as well and Araton entertained himself with the thought. If someone had escaped before and they covered up the truth, that would mean there was one less way out now. Each attempted escape ensured that another escape became more futile, more impossible. His hands clenched and he wished he could feel that power surge through him again. That corrupting touch, anathema to life, remained silent for now.

"Perhaps someone has escaped before. Perhaps we could just get out like you said Ceres." His head shook gently at the fantasy. The brands on each of their arms ensured their status in the world. Forsaken. Forsaken by Mitra, forsaken by Talingarde, forsaken by the world. None of his allies would dare try to assist him, what would be the point? His wealth was gone, what little influence his name had was extinguished, and those who were to be his allies died the night the paladins stormed his home. If all his connections and channels were burned away, what did these others have? "We are forsaken. There is nothing to rely upon outside of these walls. Even if we escaped, they would find us. I do enjoy the idea though and, should you succeed, I will join you on your desperate attempt. It seems a better death."

The others begin to grow more animate and a sigh of enjoyment escapes Araton. At least he won't die bored here. The giant murmurs that he'll try breaking his chains on his own time, earning a nod of approval from the fiend-blooded one.

The other woman, the one with the beetle infestation, begins to speak up and Araton listens quietly to her. Like himself, she was caught due to the incompetence of others.

"Hilda, was it? A pleasure. As much as it can be in such a place." The dirty commonfolk were now his company, he had better grow used to their ways for what little time he had remaining. "Now, now Araton, don't be so judgemental. Your birth, like so many, was simply luck. They are tenacious folk, be respectful of that at least." The would-be tyrant mentally reminded himself. "I feel the same way Hilda. It seems wasteful to have learned so much and now be doomed. The devil giveth and taketh away..."

"Your devil sounds a whole lot like the Mitra my granddad always described. And he should know, he's a priest of Mitra." She shivered at the mention of the man. Foul, old bastard. He could have acted, saved her father's standing in town. Instead he used it to drive a wedge between her parents.

"But yes, I'd like to get out of here. No idea how though. Doesn't look like these chains want to break." She tugged at them with some degree of force, trying to get her manacles free from the wall. She didn't expect much though.

Strength check vs manacles: 1d20 + 4 ⇒ (14) + 4 = 18

"And who said I couldn't get out of my chains? I haven't tried to. I'm tired and hungover. I'll GET to it."

Ceres laughs, a high-pitched, cruel chortle. "Well, you've got three days to get over that hangover, big boy. We've got three days. I'll give you first crack at being our savior." Leaning her head back against the wall again, Ceres sighs, as if wracked with a sudden bout of discomfort. "Three days hanging here? That's nothing..."

"We're all here for some reason. I'm here because some rat I sold my wares to sold me out to get out of his sentence. Now I am supposed to die because he didn't want to go to prison."

"Hilda," Ceres says, rolling the el sound out as she says it. "That's such a pretty name. I was betrayed too. Women like us, they'll always betray us the end. We've got to look out for each other, dearie."

Pushing her head forward, Ceres again looks down the line, searching in the dim light for the woman's eyes. "Anyways, your grandfather is a priest? I'd like to meet him."

Ceres falls to silence, turning ideas over in her head. Her mentor had taught Ceres some invocations, parlor tricks, useable at will, and more useful incantations. Let there be light! Ceres thinks, taking some pleasure in using one of Mitra's first words, or so the holy texts say, and opens her palm.

Nothing. Light! she thinks again, once more opening her palm. And again. And again, finally yelling the word, before sinking back into silence, ruminating.

"That tincture they made us drink? I think it dulled my gifts. Does anyone know what it was they gave us?"

I assume any knowledge check for the tincture would be arcana, which Ceres doesn't have.

"Fine! I'll try!" the massive man rises as far to his feet as his chains will allow, hunched inside the interior and exerts himself against his bonds for the first time.

Strength Check Vs. Manacles: 1d20 + 6 ⇒ (13) + 6 = 19

Not one unaccustomed to being chained up in a confined space, the large-for-a-Goblin Goblin found a sort of comfort with manacles, metal bars and hard floors, enough so to have managed to fall asleep, at least for a short while. Sleep, Tawg learned, was a great way to pass the time. A deep voice wakes Tawg from a distance. Pulling against the manacles, he shifts so he's sitting back against the wall, his muscles bulging under his scar-covered skin to pull his stocky frame upright. The cold stone fully waking him from his dazed state and he looks to the left to see the others talking about...something, he wasn't sure what. I bet that large man in the other cage has the large voice. He yawns, his oversized teeth coming in to full view.

While the others converse, Tawg quietly scans the room, an almost childlike wonder in his eyes. As he does, the memories of the last few days rush back over him; the men in armor, the beatings, the name Markadian, the ruling, the abuse, Markadian, the chaining, Markadian. His breathing becomes more and more heavy and labored until the clanging from the large man snaps him out of it.

He blinks a few times before turning again to face the group. With a pale green expressionless face, the Goblin speaks with a strained voice in a tone that would almost be mistaken for innocence, "This would be a nice cage to live in if it didn't mean we were going to die."

The moment Ceres mentions "women like them" and "We've got to look out for each other, dearie", Hilda bursts out into hysterical laughter.

"Sorry. It's just, you sound just like the town gossips. The ones that ruined my father just because he was poor and they thought he wasn't worth marrying my mother. Like the ones that made mother belief that was true. Like mother who abandoned me and my father when he suffered under their scheming. No. All those women were worse than the men. All bastards, but the men at least did not pretend they weren't."

When the goblin awoke Hilda's attention was immediately drawn to him, "Ooh, you talk. Never seen a goblin before. Are all of you so eloquent? The stories always say you are idiots, but then the stories hurt many people."

A noise from outside the door to the large cell block (there are 4 cells besides the 2 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.

He points to Araton 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 Araton, roughly grab him by a shoulder each and escort him 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 (heavy steel 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 holding room 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.

Sense Motive: 1d20 + 10 ⇒ (17) + 10 = 27

Araton watched as the entourage came in, his eyes glowering at the sergeant who so gleefully branded his arm with the unmistakable symbol of the forsaken. The antipaladin's hands clenched in a violent desire but then his head quirked ever so slightly. There was something off about the man, a daze in his eyes and a glassy look that wasn't quite right. When he pointed at Araton, the man's scowl deepened even as the guards came in and unshackled him. There was a quick strike to his stomach but the nearest one, forcing the air from his chest as they began to pull him out.

"Don't do anything foolish." Araton said to them all between clenched teeth, interested to see who this beauty was that had conjured such a spell over Blackerly's mind. Pulled from the cold, dark cell, he was brought into the prison just a little deeper before. Out of the guard's room and into the room next door, a beautiful woman awaited. With hair as soft as snow and eyes as brilliant as emeralds, she was a beauty to behold. Araton was also quite certain that he had never seen the woman before in his entire life.

Perception: 1d20 + 4 ⇒ (5) + 4 = 9Sense Motive: 1d20 + 10 ⇒ (13) + 10 = 23

Araton watches the small conversation between the the lady dressed in black and the sergeant, the man's eyes going glossy again before he broke protocol and left the prisoner alone with his guest. Araton watched with a fascinated look in his eyes, one that was more impressed than anything else. The concern and sadness in her eyes dissipates, replaced with a cold maliciousness and a wicked grin.

"Forgotten you? No, I don't think I've had the honor. Tiadora, is it? I'd introduce myself but I feel you already know more than I do." The nobleman says with a grin, listening to the instructions. They had a benefactor of some sorts, someone who wished to recruit them all for their veritable skills. He could not lie, they did have quite the assistant it seemed. When she handed him her veil, he took quick stock of it before hiding it away quickly in his clothing.

"A test. This reeks of a test. If we can escape, we're worthy. Blackerly's weak mind already shows that there is potential there." Araton thinks to himself, smiling viciously before giving a little bow. "Till we meet again, my love." Araton says with a smile before clearing his throat. "Guards! Bring me back to my cell. I am done with this...harlot." He says with the perfect amount of a sneer in his voice. The item had to be important, perhaps a key or tools to bring back their powers. In the quietness of their cell, he could inform and conspire.

When the goblin awoke Hilda's attention was immediately drawn to him, "Ooh, you talk. Never seen a goblin before. Are all of you so eloquent? The stories always say you are idiots, but then the stories hurt many people."

Tawg narrows his eyes a little, concentrating on the question. "Well, my masters never actually taught me anything, but I did learn Common from listening to their conversations," he says, tilting his head. "So, I'm not sure if that makes me an idiot or not." There's a brief pause before he kicks his feet out as far as the manacles will let him and he wiggles his toes, sighing heavily. "It's nice to stretch a bit."

His moment of zen is interrupted by the approaching guards, led by the fat bastard Blackerly. I bet he has lots of good food. I want his good food.

Perception: 1d20 - 1 ⇒ (3) - 1 = 2

His eyes begin to well up at the thought of various foods. Slop...stale bread...rotten fruit...

When Tomas enters their cell Hilda licks her lips. It's the juicy one. Now he would make a substantial meal. She'd love to take a literal bite out of the man, but maybe that was just the hunger speaking. No, not maybe, that definitely was the Hunger speaking.
She makes smacking sounds as he leaves.

Not trying the Sense Motive as I cap out at 19
Perception: 1d20 + 5 ⇒ (12) + 5 = 17

Once Araton gets escorted Hilda follows him curiously. A woman, for him it appeared. Not for the big man. Probably good, unless they found a woman as big as him he'd hurt the poor thing.

The guards come in and for a second, Ceres thinks this is their chance. Her hair twitches in anticipation, her fists clench. Just as quickly, her hair falls dormant and her body relaxes. The nobleman, Araton, seemed happy to let himself be taken. If it was a ruse and the man didn't come back, at the least they could gain some information about their captors.

The normal rotation seems to be two guards. One with a signal horn. That's a problem. If possible, he should die first. How? Think, Ceres, think. Undoubtedly, he'll hang back...

There's more happening, but from her vantage point, Ceres can't decipher what exactly. She hisses, low and forceful, her voice rolling down the line of prisoners. "What do you see? Wha's happening?"

Ceres also can't hit a sense motive DC 25 so am only rolling perception.

perception: 1d20 + 3 ⇒ (9) + 3 = 12

Tawg rubs his eyes against his arms and clears the tears away. He turns to woman with the long hair when he hears her question. "I don't see anything," he whispers. He looks back towards the guards, eyes darting between them, before turning back to the woman. "...what are we looking for?

"No talking!" One of the guards watching you barks at Ceres and Tawg. They don't move and stand stiffly, eyes on you all.

Araton is brought back by the guards and re-shackled in his place. The cell door is locked again and after taking one more searching look the 6 guards march out of the cell block, leaving only the 2 on duty in the guardroom nearby.

Prison level 1

Tawg's head snaps to the guards and he speaks up. "You don't have to worry about me." he calls out to them, shaking his head. "I learned early on that when someone says "don't talk", you don't talk!" He turns back to the group. "Though, it is nice to have people to talk to." Tawg looks down. "In the pits, it was just me by myself," he continues, looking back up. "But now I have friends, right?" His smile is predominately sharp teeth and would bring no comfort to a child.

The woman cooly and calmly manipulates the sergeant, entrancing him not to look Araton over before the guards take him and lead him down the way towards the cells once more. Araton's face is a scowl as the guards search the cell one last time before the majority of them take their leave and disappear out of the cell and leave behind the two in the guard room. Araton's head remains low until he heard them begin to chatter and talk to themselves, his head lifting up slowly with a wicked smile on his face.

"Alright everyone, I want you to pay attention. We're getting out of here." Reaching into his ruined tunic, he fetches out the veil and looks it over carefully for what it could do. "The woman I met serves an unknown benefactor, one who wishes for us to join them. I have been given instructions on a safe place should we successfully escape." Araton's eyes move over each one of them, studying them for just a moment. "Who wishes to join me?"

"Better than staying here, I suppose."

"Sure. If I stay I'm dead, if I get skewered while attempting to get out I'm also dead but at least it would have been fun. And maybe I'd even die with a full belly. Only upsides from where I'm standing." She sounds positively chipper.

"That said, how is a veil supposed to get us out of here?"

Before the guards lefts
"I said quiet you ugly slimer! Or I'll come in there and acquaint you with my club!" He smacks the club against the bars for effect. He would soon have entered the cell too, but stopped when the guards returned with Araton.

Looking closer at the veil you see strange patterns sewn into it that don't seem to match any style. The patterns actually seem like lace-outlined objects, 10 of them.

Tawg flinches at the loud clanging and a hushes. His eyes fall on the fellow prisoner returning to the cell and his ears physically perk up at the mention of getting out. He gives a side-eye towards where the guards are stationed and leans towards the group as far as possible. "If she can get us even nicer cages where we don't have to die, then I want to join you," he whispers, careful not to draw any attention from the guards again.

He takes a look at the fancy piece of cloth, but doesn't see anything special with it. "That looks pretty, but I don't think it would offer much protection in a fight," he says in a somewhat confused tone.

Ceres grins, a flat, mirthless smile. "I imagine our benefactor will have the prettiest gilded cage for us to step into. But we'll be stepping none-the-less. Let's send a few of our captors to Mitra on our walk, shall we?"

As to the scarf, Ceres could only guess. While her mentor had endowed her with some supernatural skill, a deep practical knowledge of enchantments was not one of them. "I suspect there's more to the scarf than we understand, my green friend. But what exactly, I couldn't say."

No ranks in Arcana, unfortunately.

Like the others, Broach is having a hard time coming to grips with their new reality. A mysterious benefactor gifted them a veil and now they're supposed to get out of here with Araton? "Die or join you? Life's smiling right at me, isn't it? Now, what's this veil all about? Surely those are more than mere knittings?"

Untrained in matters arcane, that's all Broach has to offer.

I will use my True Lore ability to give me a +10 in my knowledge roll.

Arcane: 1d20 + 7 + 10 ⇒ (9) + 7 + 10 = 26

Araton looks over the veil for a few moments, trying to ascertain why this was going to be the key to their survival. For a moment, he could not quite put it all together before memories that were not his own began to flash into his mind. The tiefling shook his head and the voice that spoke was not quite his own.

"How clever. These are the tools of our escape. Watch..." Araton would reach and grab the set that looked like lockpicks and would slowly begin to peel it away. As he did, the stitching gave way and there was the slight glow of transmutation magic appearing there. As he pulled back, the lockpicks came into existence and were neatly in his hands.

"So...anyone know how to use these?" Araton murmured with a devil's smile. It seemed that the dark lord was not quite done with them and, while he was certain that Ceres was correct, anything would be better than the pyre.

"Hrm. Let me see if I do."

Grengar focuses himself and tries a second time to pull out his chain.

enter rage for +4 str and try to pull out the chains holding him- I know I probably don't need to here, but he would try

STR to break chains: 1d20 + 10 ⇒ (1) + 10 = 11

Boy that didn't work!

As noise from all your talking and Grengar trying to break the chains 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.
Guard Perception: 1d20 + 1 ⇒ (12) + 1 = 13
Araton stealth to hide veil: 1d20 + 2 ⇒ (20) + 2 = 22

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.

Sorry Araton, True Lore is a supernatural ability so it is suppressed at the moment. Unfortunately the information is out of the bag so I will let you keep the 26 and remove your reroll boon.

Gildevar is trained in Disable Device. All shackles are DC 20. You have a -2 penalty for being shackled and a +2 bonus for masterwork lockpicks. Whispering or muted talking will not reach the guards. Pulling or trying to break chains or failing the disable device check might draw the guards in again.

My bad. I saw Ceres doing her hair thing and thought that maybe just our spellcasting abilities were nullified for now.

I didn't notice that. The hair is a supernatural ability and would also be supressed.

Oh no! I'm sorry I read that as spells and didn't think about supernatural abilities being an issue, but I should have. Thorn, please remove my reroll boon rather than Araton's, since the confusion is my fault!

Ceres exhales a low murmur of approval as the design shifts from embroidery to reality. "Our friend is powerful." Squinting, she looks at the veil assuming Araton makes it visible after the guards leave. "Seems we have a couple of daggers, a sack, a vial, a window, a lantern, a rope, and a... neatly stacked pile of bricks?" They're coins.

"So, what do you want to do? Shall we wait until the dead of the night? Create a distraction, gather the guards in, and go for the one with the signal horn? Something else?"

Having worn himself out to no avail, Gengar sits down again and seems to almost doze off, his eyes still open, but you can hear a distinct whistle through his nose as though he is snoring while awake.

End rage; fatigued for 1 minute

Giving up a reroll for a party member? ALIGNMENT SHIFT! Joking. Araton now has Ceres' reroll.

Tawg presses his lips into a tight seal to avoid gasping too loudly. Oooh," he whispers to the grinning tiefling. "That's not just pretty cloth. That's fancy cloth!" He's barely able to keep his excitement contained to a hushed tone. He looks closer at the tools in the tiefling's hands. "I don't think I've ever seen those before. If they're supposed to get us out of this cage, my masters would have never brought them near me, so I don't think I'll be much help there." He pauses and thinks for a second when the long-haired woman begins talking about the guards...and his eyes narrow as a toothy smile grows across his face. "I might be able to be useful there, though."

While the group closest to him discusses the pretty fancy cloth, Tawg looks past them to the large man, seemingly sleeping. Tawg had taken notice of his shows of strength. That large man is strong, Tawg thinks to himself. Maybe he can show me how to be stronger, like him. And larger, too.

"Hurry! Give me the lockpicks! I know how to use 'em,", Broach hisses at his fellow prisoners. There's no anger or vitriol to be found in his voice, but it is clear that the young man is feeling the stress of being offered a way out but with failure, at the cost of death, still being very much a thing!

If given the thief tools:
Disable Device vs 20: 1d20 + 9 ⇒ (17) + 9 = 26
Broach will try to undo his own shackles first (for obvious reasons!).

"The one with the horn seems to stay at the doorway if the other guards approach. We would need to incapacitate him quickly if we ambushed them in here. That elixir has muted my power for now, as I am sure it did to the rest of you. We will need to take them quickly and keep them from reaching the door." Araton explains how the room is setup in case others had forgotten, so it is easier to navigate and take out the enemy. With Broach's whisper, he quickly passes down the lockpicks towards his fellow Asmodean and sits back patiently with his eyes on where the guards are going to be.

You couldn't undo anyone else's first in any case. You're not chained close enough together.
Now with the masterwork thieves' tools in hand (+2 after your hands are free), Gildevar silently and easily unshackles himself. His hands are free.

To be fully free, unlock wrists and ankles for each character then 1 more for the long chain that connects your ankle shackles. DC 20 for cell doors also.

Am I correct in thinking the two guards are in their guard room right now, behind a closed door? If so ...

With a soft 'click', the last of Broach's shackles comes undone. He takes a moment to stretch and flex and for those with superior vision, it's clear to see that prison has done a serious number on Broach's physique. Not quite emaciated, he looks scraggy nonetheless, and the luster of youth and life is nowhere to be found on his face.

With the shackles gone, a rush of blood finds its way to tormented limbs and muscles, and force him to stifle a groan. The sensation of freedom more than outweighs the temporary discomfort of having the shackles undone, but he needs a moment nonetheless to gather himself. To his right sits Hilda and he inspects her restraints. Same treatment I got, it seems. Hrm, I can undo those.

"If the guards hear anything and come to check it out, just pretend we got into an argument. Now, sit still, please ..."

Stealth?: 1d20 + 9 ⇒ (3) + 9 = 12
Disable Device: 1d20 + 11 ⇒ (13) + 11 = 24
I'm not sure if I can take 10, and perhaps it is more reasonable to assume I do for the others (if possible), but Broach currently has a +11 on Disable Device checks thanks to the MW tools.

Take 10 is ok after your hands are free. That first roll is the riskiest. All groups have passed it no worries so far though.

The door to the guard room is like a wooden version of this. Cells and cell doors are just bars. There are no windows or light so the guards can't see you, they listen and come in when they hear something. Also makes it hard to tell what time it is.