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?
It should have been a struggle to stay awake, given how long it had been since he'd slept, but Hjálmarr was wide awake. Awake with his hurt, awake trying to stay upright in the too-tall bindings not made for a dwarf, and awake with the failures that had led him here. Not so long now, Mitra. Eh? 'Til you'll have your revenge? Never mind those thrice-damned bastards had deserved to be carved to pieces. No, justice didn't come to the Knights.
Despite mouth dry as a desert for want of drink, Hjálmarr manages to spit towards the door and the guards beyond it. "I spit on the lot of you. You claim your kingdom upholds honor and justice but I've seen the festering heart of it, Talireans!" He bares his teeth, which morph from a normal dwarves to vicious filed incisors and shouts with glowing red eyes,
It's only after another spit, for good measure, that he seems to notice his companions in chains. A disheveled dwarven soldier, for that is what his torn and bloodstained uniform declares him to be, asks of you. His remaining epaulette marks him an officer, though with the uniform it's hard to say of what rank. As you glance at him, his gaze returns fiercely from heavyset brows and amidst stern features. Whatever color you thought his eyes were before, they are now an earthy brown. Despite the grime and squalor, you can see that the dwarves hair must normally be a fiery red.
As he glances up and down the line, wincing as he leans forward to get a look and the shackles tighten, he says, "Eh, sorry about tha'. I'm a bit peeved to find myself here, deserved as I suppose it must be. Can't go against orders and leave the 'Righteous Knights of Alerion' to fight themselves out of a bloodbath they picked and expect to just walk away. Ah well, the bastards had it coming. What're you lot in for?"
The dwarf’s shouts are echoed by the sound of rustling chains to his immediate left. The massive, filthy creature towering next to him in the gloom tests the manacles at its wrists … for the millionth time. The big, ugly brute had been doing that for what seemed like forever. He appears too stupid, or maybe too stubborn, to give in.
"What're you lot in for?"
Two intense red eyes turn to regard the dwarf, collecting what little light inhabits the cell’s gloom and amplifying it. More features loom around those unblinking eyes. Brutish, blunt features give away his orc blood, and he has intricate tattooing running up his neck and across his face. Coarse, wild black hair explodes back off his scalp. And his features - including massive, sharp teeth - give a singularly draconic impression. A subtle scaling to his red-tinged skin, as well as the claws that tip each of his bound hands, complete the monstrous appearance.
”Murder,” the big man finally rumbles. You’re fairly certain that horrible, harsh snarl of a voice is an attempt to be threatening … until he continues, and you realize that’s just his voice. Magma scorching over burnt stones. ”I guess Mitrans get mad when you try to kill’em.” He pauses before spitting out what sounds like some kind of insult, ”*тэнэг хонь!”
He lapses back into brooding silence as his intense gaze takes in the rest of the cell’s occupants. His already-bloody wrists flex again in yet another subconscious attempt at freedom. It’s clear the hulking creature is still looking for the object of his liberation.
"Vengeance, but arson was the charge," Aelwulf says softly, his black hair obscuring his face as he leaned away from the wall to stretch his arms against the manacles. "Yeah people tend not to take kindly to being killed, they don't like it when you burn there churches, offices, and homes either I guess," although soft spoken there is palpable fury in his voice. He looks down the line of prisoners he was chained to giving the group careful consideration.
The orc monstrosity rumbles out a chuckle at that, "No, they don't."
Slanted golden eyes stared at an outstretched arm, gazing at the burned fur around the terrible charred flesh caused by branding. Despite matted and disheveled wine-colored fur and a sleek light green dress, at one point magnificent but now torn to near shreds, the Kitsune almost manages to make prison life look dignified. Almost.
"Forgery," came the quiet, soothing voice of the Kitsune. Despite being soft spoken, her words commanded attention. Her eyes flitted from the brand on her arm to the group before flicking back. "Apparently, when you fool most of the upper class in order to lead a better, more prosperous life, they consider you to be a criminal." She scoffed. "All the advantages in the world and they're too busy posturing to do or learn anything worthwhile."
With a shake of her head, the Kitsune finally puts her arm down. Although her fur was in the way, it was easy to tell that she was not made for physical labor. She was small. If she stood straight up she wouldn't even breach five feet, and even with all that hair it was questionable if she would reach one hundred pounds soaking wet. The punishment for forgery was a lifetime in the mines. Death was almost preferable to someone who would obviously suffer in that condition. However, the Kitsune looked more disappointed than angry when she looked back on her time before being caught.
Ivy glances up at the restraints and lightly tests them. With her slim wrists she didn't seriously believe that she could break them, but a little testing didn't seem to hurt.
"Well, I won't lie, this place is much less fun than what I pictured. Could do with a little music, or an overall improvement on the ambience" she remarks with a little bit of a wry smile.
With long midnight black hair, ivory skin and a slim physique, the woman is a striking sight. Only her unusually long sharp nails and pointed teeth point to the fact that she isn't fully human. Clad in the ruins of a backless red evening dress, she's shivering slightly in the chill cell.
"I'm in for witchcraft. I told them that I was just a good little witch but I guess my innocent face needs a little more work. Also, I murdered someone, which in hindsight probably didn't help my case, although it certainly felt satisfying. It will be the stake for me I think, although I wouldn't be opposed to a little warmth right about now, its bloody cold in here." Ivy finishes, in a half amused, half mocking tone.
Bladud listens to each woman, slumping dumbly back against the wall. ”Witches. Forgers. Burners and killers.” He looks back over at the dwarf, looking bored. ”You?”
Hjálmarr listens to the litany of misdeeds and crimes and has to struggle to keep himself from slumping in place. Yes, this is your kind of company now, Lieutenant. For the rest of your short, miserable life; these are your peers. Realizing he'd been asked a question, he looks at the hulking creature and replies, "Those Knights I'd mentioned. I was one of them. Some raiders from beyond the Watch Wall -a small band that snuck past somehow- were intercepted before they could go anywhere soft and important. The bulk of my fellows acted as bait and drew them in. I was get reinforcements and crush them from a flank. Never did."
He pauses a moment, looking off at the far wall as if seeing something other then the filth encrusted wall. He continues, "Yea, I expected something more of them and was left wanting. Brutes and enforcers and worse playing hero of the light." He spits. "The things I saw, they're rotten to the core... they deserved what they got when I left them out to bleed like stuck pigs. They killed the raiders, but there were more then the scouts knew about and it was a bloodbath."
He looks back at the brute, "So desertion's the charge, but you can bet the real charge was letting the nobles' blood get spilt playing soldier."
Razmir listened to the others talk. His eyes were closed and his head was down as he tried to rest while leaning back against the wall. His tiefling heritage was apparent given his red skin and horns protruding through his black hair. While he was tall, he was lithe and not physically threatening. He lifted his head and turned to the others. His glowing red eyes were startling at first. Some found them frightening while others were drawn to them with fascination.
"I too am in for witchcraft although I think they were going to throw blasphemy on for good measure."
Bladud shrugs, leans back and closes his eyes "Won't matter once we're out of here." He grins, opening one eye to point at one of their captors, "That one goes first. Then his blood is used to leave a message for whoever comes looking for him."
Hjálmarr guffaws at his monstrous companion-in-chain's words. Settling back against the wall, he closes his eyes and says, "Don't think any of us will be getting out of here, friend. A short drop and a quick stop for me and you, some burning at the stake for our other friends, and hard labor -might as well be a death sentence- for the entrepreneur."
"There is no justice in this world, so best thing is to hope for it in the next. I'm not counting on it. The gods seem to give no fig for it either."
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 Sophia 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 Sophia, 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.
Sophia, 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 Sophia 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.”
A smile tugged on Sophia's lips as she heard that she had a visitor. No doubt some hapless suitor who decided that all the evidence compiled against her were lies. Her thoughts were dashed as Blackerly kept talking. A fine lady? Who? Another, more dangerous thought escaped her head as she thought about the guard's cruel treatment before. The fur on her neck would have stood straight up if it weren't matted down.
She knew what would happen if she didn't comply, however. Sophia tried to look meek as she was getting manhandled. It wasn't difficult; physically, she was much smaller and weaker than any of the guards. There was no fuss.
Listening carefully to what Tiadora has to say, Sophia doesn't open her mouth until she's sure the woman is done. "There's no way I could have forgotten you, Tiadora. We have never met," Sophia asserted. "While I appreciate the assistance, I'm not sure what you're planning on gaining. If there is any more information you're willing to part with, such as the identity or motives behind our mysterious benefactor. Because while I am appreciative, it seems..." Sophia gestures to the room. "Perhaps a bit too good to be true.
While she listens to Tiadora's response, Sophia's furred fingers will delicately handle the silken viel handed to her as she looks it over.
The sargent's appearance pulled Aelwulf out of his momentary flashback to his wife's burning at the stake after the other prisoners mentioned witchcraft.
"Interesting..." he whispers to himself.
Well if nothing else her life might be spared, good for her, he thought.
You are sure that Tiadora has some sort of power over Blackerly with the strange way he is acting.
"The less you know the better." She says with a smile. Clearly, if you fail, she does not wish Talinguarde to know who was behind the attempted breakout. "Escape and your questions will be answered."
Inspecting the veil, you see patterns in the lace. 10 in total. "Don't let them see that!" Tiadora snaps. She rises as 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 them a wicked smile.
Three days, her voice echoes in your mind. Don’t disappoint me, dearest. The guards seize you again and lead you back to your cell as Blackerly escorts Tiadora out on one arm, offering condolences and cool refreshments before her journey.
Within minutes Sophia 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.
Having aired his fatalist declaration, Hjálmarr stays slumped against the wall -not bothering to look up- when the guards enter. He glances up when Blackerly enters, but seeing that he was not instructed, simply looks down again. Well, maybe she's done for. Just as we all are...
A few moments later, when the gate creaks open again, he doesn't bother to look up. He simply stands, waiting, for his fate to reach him.
Bladud watches the guards in return, his intense gaze exploiting the moment when the door is open to the spaces beyond. The big orc—hoping to be ready for whatever break might open up—gives a long, slow pull on his chains.
In case a Stealth check is also necessary to do it without being noticed...
Sophia was lost in thought when she was returned to her cell and shackled. Respect was had for this Tiadora woman. That was the kind of level she had hoped to be at someday before coming to this dreadful place. A competitive fire shown in her eyes. Once the guards left the cell block and silence descended on the group, Sophia began speaking in hushed tones.
"We have been given a wonderful opportunity," she started. "We have a contact on the outside who wishes to see us free. If we manage to break out of this hellish place, we will have a safe haven waiting for us on the outside. It's doubtful that this benefactor has done this out of the kindness of his heart, but surely this is better than a life toiling in the mines. Well, for me, anyway. It is definitely better than what they have planned for the rest of you."
The Kitsune's golden eyes look into each of her cellmate's eyes in turn. "I am Lady Sophia Blair. I have been given an opportunity to present to each of you. Let us escape together. Follow me to the meeting place. And, on the way out, let's burn this place to the ground."
Razmir looks up when the guards enter. "So soon? I thought they would leave us here longer to suffer in anticipation of our deaths. If I could only summon a friend to help us out. Maybe my lord wishes to have my soul. My work here had hardly begun. Doesn't he think I can bring him more souls by keeping me alive? Perhaps this is my punishment for having tainted blood. I wonder if things would be different if I had devil blood in me instead," he thinks to himself as he watches the guards take Sophia. He watches with curiosity, wondering what they are doing with her.
When Sophia is returned so quickly, he's even more confused. He waits, hoping she will fill the group in on what happened. A wicked smile crosses his face when he hears of the opportunity. "Perhaps I was too hasty in my doubt," he thinks.
"What do we have to lose? Anything is better than our current outlook. Did this contact give you a way to get us out of here?" he says, looking around the cell and raising his chained hands for a moment.
Anyone that looks closly 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 orc-blooded thug scowls over at the cloth. "I'm Bladud," he pronounces it with both syllables emphasized, like a one-two boxing combo to the face, "how will cloth help us?"
Sophia looks at the veil carefully before answering. "It's hard to make a guess, on account of that awful tincture they gave is preventing my use of magic, but if I had to wager then I'd say there should be a way to use the items embroidered on the cloth. Is anyone here proficient with a lockpick?"
"Aelwulf," introduced himself with a nod, "unfortunately, picking locks is not my strong suit."
"I can pick locks" Ivy says smoothly at the question. "I wouldn't call myself particularly good at it, but its something I can do. I think we would need more of a plan though than merely getting out of these cuffs. This tincture will prevent me from using magic, and those guards are going to be armed. I suspect that we only get one chance at escaping so I'd rather we prepare adequately."
Bladud considers Ivy's words. You can almost feel the gears in his (simple) mind (painfully) grinding towards a solution. Finally, he shrugs, "Maybe a distraction?" He looks over at Aelwulf and Hjalmarr, "Maybe a little scrap they need to come stop or something?"
EDIT
Hjálmarr wakes from his stupor as the woman begins to speak. Escape? A path to justice and maybe redemption? With growing interest, he shakes off his torpor and listens more carefully. He introduces himself with a distracted grunt, "Hjálmarr".
He whispers a reply to the others, "What is in your trinket? I've never heard of such a thing? If there are means to break our chains and the out of the cell, perhaps there is hope."
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.
The guards should have 8 hour shifts, rotating guardsmen at midday, 8pm and 4am if your soldiering has taught you anything.
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.
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Sophia breathes a sigh of relief and leaves the veil stuffed in her dress instead of risking taking it out again. "We have some time," She whispers. Sophia seems unfeeling to get the guards to suspect anything again. "I would rather spend a day or two coming up with a plan than bungling the whole thing immediately out of anxiety for freedom."
Bladud gives a brooding huff, "I hate waiting."
Ivy reflects for a moment on what she knows of poison and drugs and starts to formulate a plan, based on this, as well as what she observed moments ago when the guard approached.
"I don't think whatever is suppressing our abilities is permanent, but it might need to be reapplied. Which means that at some point, it will fail and I can get us out of these restraints. Then, we could either lure a guard into our cells so he could use that club of his, or wait until someone comes along to reapply the drug. Either way, someone would need to unlock the cell door to enter although I might be able to pick it myself once I get out of my restraints. Does anyone have any better suggestions or improvements to this?"
Hjálmarr falls silent at the approach of the guard. He watches him, eyes beginning to glow soft red, but doesn't otherwise react. No soldier of mine would dare...
After the power-mad guard has left, he waits a long moment, before adding his thoughts in a whisper, "Aye. The guards, unless they're particularly thick headed, will rotate on eight hour shifts. Generally midday, at eight hours past midday, and eight hours past that again. Feigning sleep and trying to slip free in the wee hours of the morning when the night guards are at their most tired seems like a fine plan."
"Waiting to formulate a workable plan seems reasonable. All I have right now are these," Razmir says, holding up his claws, "which I'm not particularly good with. If we can time our move for when this drug wears off, I think we will have a much better chance of success."
EDIT
Sophia whispers. "It is also worth mentioning that one of the guards has a horn they can blow into to signal the others. But I agree that, if possible, we should strike when they come to reapply the drug. The doses would likely overlap for maximum efficiency, but that would leave the least amount of time for this powerlessness."
When Razmir mentions his claws, Aelwulf looks at his own clawed fingers. Once released from his bonds, he leaves them loosely attached to his wrists and ankles.