The day dawns. Somewhere. It is not visible here, in a dungeon cell buried deep in the stony womb that is Hive, adrift on the silver lake like a particularly ugly lilypad.
You awaken, feeling the inexorable turning of the hours, the urge to rise.
To be specific - and a little crude - you feel the need for a privvy or a convenient chamberpot.
Then you register the various pains: the hangover poubding your brain like an anvil; the rotgut drink setting your bowels on fire; the bruises the guards put on you when they beat you unconscious and tossed you in this cell like sacks of flour.
You register the rank stench of unwashed bodies, unwashed cell, and the privacy-less hole in the middle of the floor, which connects to the Maze below.
You see and hear the rats, walking freely through the corridor outside the cell. They're wearing particularly fine waistcoats today. One grey-whisker has set up a little chair and table and is alternately watching you and reading a rat-sized paper while he sips tea.
In other words, it's a perfectly normal day...
Ugh! My head! Chillmyst rolled off the bunk she was on, onto the floor.
ow! My everything! Getting up (three attempts at that) she staggered over to the sewage hole and employed it. Then she staggers back to the bunk to collapse once again. It smelled bad, but fairs fair, so does she.
"Bugger." Brin's head was killing her. Opening her eyes hurt her. Talking hurt her. Thinking hurt her. The hangover combined with the usual icepick behind the eyes headache that she usually had was almost incapacitating. The smell and the staggering about of that little woman over there certainly wasn't helping either.
"Cha-chukai, grant me merciful oblivion." For a second she was at peace. Then it hit her.
"Where's Lucky?" She sits up violently, sending pain through her entire body, but she ignores it. Where is her cat?
The headache was normal enough, Muraisa considered. It had happened before often enough. The hot, itchy feeing just under her skin was never fun, the feeling your eyes had been lightly pickled in vinegar - which, she supposed, they had been after a fashion, just before it was vinegar.
The groans and curses of others was less common, but strange things happened in the dead of night, and it wouldn't be the first time she'd woken in odd places with odder people. Normally just the one, but eh, she was always up for new experiences. This one didn't seem to be that fun, though. It was cold and chill. As Nagaji, she wasn't fond of the cold, really.
"If we're lucky someone can light a fire," she muttered, rolling her hand from over her eyes. Her eyes darted around, and she grimanced. "This...does not look good. This looks like a cell." The memories of...everything flooded back, and Muraisa swallowed down the panic and bile. She couldn't have been arrested. Someone would have come to get her out. She wouldn't just have been left to rot in the cold, with these people.
You win a prize. It is definitely a cell. Staffed by...rats? Am I still drunk?
Chillmyst closes her eyes. Then opened them.
None of us is lucky. Not even this halfling
She laughed, then groaned her head splitting. Laughing was a mistake.
"How drunk do you have to be to not remember why you're in a cell?" Muraisa asked, wishing for once that she could close her eyes. That special quirk of biology was less fun when you had an evil headache that may have escaped from a netherealm to exist right at the base of your skull and make your mouth feel dry and horrid.
There was...a fight? Oh, I can't think right now.
Across the cell, Imp twitches. They lie in a soggy heap, dark wings folded over their body. Suddenly those wings jerk open with a spasm, scattering bits of muck through the air like a poorly controlled umbrella. Imp winces at the involuntary movement, glaring around the cell with bleary eyes until it comes into focus. They're definitely not used to waking at dawn, but there's nothing like a sharp blow to the head to reset your sleep schedule.
They slowly pull themselves to their feet as the last few comments they heard register. "The pigs got us," they say in heavily accented Common. "What more to remember?"
Pigs? Chillmyst said uncertainly, her head throbbing in pain. I don't remember...oh you mean guards. Fair enough
She focuses. But why rats? and, do you have wings or am I still seeing things
Now it's Imp's turn to look confused. "Both." After stopping to use the hole in the floor, they trudge stiffly over to the cell's entrance and peer out into the passage.
The rats out in the corridor show no signs of being impressed by your presence. Their waistcoats really are extremely well-made, the gold thread and gemstones shimmering in the dim torchlight - shimmering bright enough to hurt your eyes. While you watch, they scuttle about, completely at ease as though they are the true masters of the world - and you but zoo exhibits.
A disconcerting thought, that. Strange things happen from time to time. Might a day really dawn when rats govern the world and it is your sad fate to languish in cages for their entertainment...?
Then there comes the hollow boom of a door opening somewhere beyond your sight down the corridor, and the rats scatter as rats do.
Heavy, booted footsteps approach, and a group of guards comes marching up. Imp's slur about them being 'pigs' is easy enough to understand, as each guard bears a boar's head amulet on his left shoulder; the mark of Hive's armed forces and the Spirit of the Swine which watches over them. It's no secret that the armed forces prefer following Shamanistic traditions over committing to one of the three gods, since none of them are a really comfortable fit for their line of work.
The scarred, lumpy-faced Hobgoblin who appears to be in charge of the dozen or so guards comes to a stop in front of your cell. His lips move as he points at each of you in turn, and then he bares broken and yellowed teeth in a hideous smile.
"Four of ya," he says. "That's just the right number. Alright, criminals! Off your cot and on your feet! Kneel facing the wall, hands behind your backs. You're off ta see the lord governor."
And as anyone who has spent more than five minutes in Hive knows, the lord governor is the aristocrats' aristocrat; the richest and most powerful man in the city and its de facto ruler, on the basis he's capable of bribing the most powerful people to go along with him...
Chill thought about giving some lip but decided it was too much effort. Her head ached too much, getting clipped would not be nice. She would save it for later. She gets up (somewhat wobblely] and does as instructed.
Well, hell, Muraisa considered. On the plus side it didn't seem like it was the possible...other thing...that she was being dragged before the Governor for. Not if all four of them were getting dragged into this. On the other hand, the attention of the Governor himself seemed like a really, really bad thing, all things considered. It wasn't like most cases weren't more likely to be handled by judges, or magistrates, right?
Without a weapon or booze Muraisa wasn't sure she could fight the guards, and was pretty sure she didn't want to. She was in deep in enough that she wasn't at all certain that her family would bail her out of whatever was happening. She was absolutely certain that assaulting the guards would mean she was left to her fate.
After a look around at the others, she knelt on the cold stone and put her hands behind her back.
Imp scowls at the guards, glancing over their heads as though assessing the height of the ceiling in the corridor. Their scowl deepens as they look back at the rest of the cell's occupants, then turn to face the wall, crouching down with their hands behind their back. They're not quite kneeling — with their birdlike legs and talons it's not entirely clear if they'd be able to — but their position roughly matches the others'.
Brin spits on the ground, but complies with the guard's orders. Her mind is almost completely occupied with the pain of the headache, but what little bits she could claw back were devoted to trying to remember where Lucky might be.
The guards wait until you are all in position before they unlock the door to your cell and send one of them inside to tie your wrists behind your heads. He's an old, toothless duergar with one eye obscured by cataracts. For all that, his arms are still pretty much solid muscle and bone, and he ties you securely.
"On yer feet, criminals!" the hobgoblin captain barks. "March!"
There is some confusion as you have trouble levering yourselves to your feet without the use of your arms and hands, but the guards solve this by hauling you all up and pushing you out into the corridor.
"Left! Right! Left! Right!" the captain barks, both at you and at his soldiers ... and you set off.
You are swiftly escorted out of the cells, which turn out to have been located under one of Hive's guard stations. Just before you move up into the station proper, you can see that there are several other cell blocks, most of them occupied. A troll looks up from the cellmates it had been devouring to bare its teeth at you -- and you're out.
Instead of being processed in the guard station itself, you are marched outside. Your hangover reacts badly to the bright light of day and the noise of people going about their day.
The light is too bright. The people are too noisy.
Once you've blinked the tears from your eyes, you realize to your surprise and confusion that you spent the night under a guard station in the upper levels of Hive. Palatial buildings of marble and granite flank a street as straight as a harp's string. Fragrant bushes and trees scent the air. Beautiful people with all their teeth, unblemished skin and rather less clothing than is entirely appropriate are dining at outdoor cafés, doing small drug deals on street corners, and all of the other things that are a part of civilized life.
None of them pay you any mind as the guards march you on.
On ... to the biggest building in sight.
This colossal monument to opulence and bad taste can only be the lord governor's palace; from the candy swirl minarettes to the gold-plated gates to the screaming colours painted upon its walls, it is ... unique.
Gate guards open up when your group comes marching in, and you are ushered through a tunnel with murder holes high in the walls, into an incredible garden.
Peacocks strut and fan their tails amongst flowers and trees from all corners of the world. A dryad gardener, chain clamped around her ankles, is tending a hedgerow as you pass. Tears streaming down her face, she is coaxing the branches and leaves into the shape of fanciful beasts.
Through the garden you pass, clouds of golden pollen doing nothing for your headaches and unsettled stomachs, and up to a courtyard. Acrobats and dancers are performing as best they can before a raised dais of marble, upon which lies a fat man, his black hair lavishly curled and oiled, his heavy eyelids painted gold. His yowls quiver slightly as he snores.
The performers are trying desperately to attract the fat man's attention while black-uniformed private guards casually crack whips at their ankles, and the occasional peacock screams to interrupt the music produced by a small brass band.
As your troupe arrives, one of the guards punches the orchestra's conductor in the ear, which sends him crashing to the ground and causes the rest of the orchestra to fall silent. Clearly exhausted, the dancers and acrobats fall to the ground like puppets who've had their strings cut.
One of the guards very carefully shakes the fat man's shoulder, saying: "M'lord, they're here."
The fat man opens his painted eyes and gives you all a dull, uncomprehending stare. He reaches out to seize the mouthpiece of a large water-pipe and takes a couple of drags. Finally, he wheezes out a disgruntled: "These strippers look a lot scruffier than the last batch, Dermott. Am I not paying these people enough to take care of their appearance?"
"No, m'lord governor," the guard says. "These aren't the strippers; they won't be here until this afternoon. These are the criminals you wanted. Four of them."
The fat man takes another, longer drag, and his eyes actually grow clearer - clearer and more predatory - as he looks you over. "Aha," is all he says. "A-ha."
Imp can barely start testing their bonds before their attention is yanked away by the glare of the morning sun — doubly painful for a nocturnal species with a hangover. For the first part of the walk they can do little but squint through barely cracked eyelids at the unfamiliar surroundings.
As their vision starts to adjust they almost wish it hadn't. They flinch at the sight of the chained dryad, stumbling slightly and barely keeping their place in the march. But they regain their composure, and by the time they reach the courtyard they only stiffen slightly with each cracking of a whip.
Imp stares back at the lord governor as he talks briefly with Dermott. Their expression is neutral, albeit still squinty, and when they speak their tone gives no sign that they're aware of the colossal impertinence of their words. "What could an expert criminal like you possibly need from novices like us?"
Muraisa bowed her head, largely to avoid looking at anyone or anything in case there was someone she knew, but also to avoid the lord of the city seeing her smirk at the Strix's joke.
It would be a lie to say that Brin's heart wasn't moved at all by the sight of the dryad in chains. But a life in the streets had inured her to that feeling. Push it down, ignore it, use that rage elsewhere. For instance... "If it pleases your lordship, I will rip the tongue from that creature's head." She keeps her head down, more out of an attempt to shield her eyes than in deference, but two birds, one stone...
Chill stays quiet and unobtrusive. And observant. Casting with these manacles would be a pain, so she just stood and waited.
She had never been this high in the hive before. Look at all the stuff.
So the fat fellow was the governor? Better see what he wanted. She smirked to herself. It wasn't like she had anything else to do, and at least he wasn't a god botherer
"What could an expert criminal like you possibly need from novices like us?"
The lord governor's lips twitch in an almost-smirk, and he waves away a guard who had raised his fist to punch Imp in the head.
"Child," he says, "your naïveté amuses. Of course a master criminal needs little guttersnipes like yourselves as flunkies and catspaws. There is such a thing as deniability; it allows me to live in pleasant luxury and grow fat, while lesser creatures struggle and die on the streets."
Those of you who dare meet the governor's eyes see something profoundly disturbing in his eyes. Here is a man to whom you are not nothing. Rather, here is a man who has uses for you, but sees you as no more than tools to achieve those goals.
Your lives, your pain, your own goals... such things clearly mean nothing to him, so long as his goals are met.
"If it pleases your lordship, I will rip the tongue from that creature's head."
"Gosh, can you really do that?" the lord governor asks, a faint flicker of interest in his eyes. "Hmm... Perhaps not this one; we might have reasons to keep the tongue in its head. But ... Dermott, is number twenty still alive and battle-ready?"
"Yes, m'lord," Dermott replies. "Kept living by eating the vermin in his cell. Fresh meat kept him strong."
"To the arena," the lord governor commands.
Servants rush forward to transfer the lord governor onto a palanquin; guards rush forward to haul you to your feet. You are moved to a different part of the grounds, where a large, sunken pit awaits. In the pit is a male Orc with an axe. He looks filthy, disheveled and more than half-crazed.
"Number twenty awaits," Dermott states, and he nods at the guards. One of them cuts Brin's bonds with a knife; another gives her a good, hard shove to send her into the pit. The fall is painful, but does not cause outright injuries.
With a dull thud, her quarterstaff lands next to her.
"We'll let you out as soon as you present the tongue," Dermott mockingly calls down to Brin.
Number twenty snarls furiously and starts to stalk forward...
"Feh." Brin ignores the quarterstaff on the ground, preferring to utilize her claws for this. Perhaps earlier in her life she might have tried reasoning with the orc, either to both die, or so she could slip a dagger in between his ribs when he least expected it, but today was not that day. Today she was mad.
She waits for the orc to get within range, best to get a full attack off and end this quickly. She's confident that she can take a hit from the axe, maybe two.
Chill stays silent moving only to get a view. As she watched to start of the battle her mind was thinking quickly, her headache was forgotten for now.
This governor will end us if it suits him at any time, or even if it is funny. Best to keep alert for a chance to scoot
She quickly looks around, seeing many guards.
Definetely not now. And I think the only way to get out from under this slime's thumb will be to end him.
She reflects on the situation
A chance will occur. Patience, and surviving what mess he is going to drop us in, is key.
Muraisa watched the fight, frowning. She knew the Lord was...not the friendliest ruler in history. But this was extreme, surely? She made a strong note to suggest violence, or anything else that might amuse the man until she was free and clear of whatever in the bowels of hells this strange game was. Apparently they were to be disposable pawns.
Imp doesn't overtly react to the lord governor's words, but something clearly made an impact because they remain as silent as the others while the group walks to the pit. Their head continually swivels from side to side as though studying every feature of their surroundings. When the woman who offered to rip out Imp's tongue is pushed in, they shuffle forward to the very edge and stare down with a grimace at the unfolding violence.