The youngest prisoner, a coltish girl chained furthest from the door, has hung limp in her chains for a very long time now.
She moans. Beneath her ragged bangs, one black eye opens and peers through the dark of the cell. She shifts her weight and moans again.
"I am so, so, bored! Ugh!"
She kicks her legs against the chains a few times, then goes even limper.
"Somebody say something before I go berserk. Tell us all how you got here." Her black eye closes. A small grin twitches onto her face. "Whoever tells the best story, wins."
"The game has not even begun, girl, and already you are bartering for stories."
The speaker is a pale-skinned gnome, his small frame half-lost in the oversized shackles. His once-proud broad-brimmed hat is now a flattened, bedraggled thing, clinging loosely to his head as if too ashamed to fall off. Where once a glorious mustache might have curled with flair, now two drooping strands hang limp and unkempt, bereft of wax or dignity.
A dark, thin beard traces the line of his jaw, stretching from sideburn to chin, and it too is in a sorry state—tangled, uneven, and streaked with the grime of confinement. Stubble has begun to creep across his cheeks and neck, a rough shadow betraying his lack of access to a proper barber.
The left side of his face is marred by the absence of an eye, the wound hidden poorly beneath a crusted scrap of linen—likely an old nightshirt, knotted haphazardly around his head. His clothes are shredded and threadbare, little more than suggestion and memory.
Still, his remaining eye sparkles with something untouched by prison filth: ambition, calculation, or perhaps just a stubborn refusal to be forgotten.
"Names, however, cost nothing." He inclines his head with theatrical politeness.
"I am Poshment Stemtimple. You may call me Posh. And you, my dear, have not yet earned my tale."
He leans back against the cold stone wall as best the chains allow, a faint smirk curling the good corner of his mouth.
Let them wonder. Mystery is worth more than truth, and I can always raise the price.
Kid's head throbbed from where the guard had bashed him after the scene at the Magistrate. The blood had long since dried and now painted his chest and the rags he was wearing in a dirty brown, not unlike the ancient stone walls of the prison. The thirst and hunger didn't bother him so much; he had endured worse by better. The cell was dry and it reeked only half as bad as the sewer that served as his hideout this past year. Pros and cons.
The bored girl might serve him, if they were to escape. She seemed the right type for the gang - a certain strangeness about her, an indifference to the situation. Maybe it was an act, but when did that matter? Everyone was hiding something.
He had been considering his bindings. He wasn't a smith and didn't have an eye for the quality of such things, and he figured they'd been tested for as long as the prison had been around. Maybe all that struggling had loosed the iron pins that anchored them to the ceiling.
"I don't care what you call me. Names don't mean much - it's what you do that matters." He clears his throat and spits forcefully. "Here's a story for ya. I'm gettin' outta here, and the rest of you can come with or stay and die, I don't care. But it's easier for me if I don't gotta drag your asses behind me while I leave a trail of dead guards out the front gate."
Kid balls his fists and tucks his legs, pulling on the others, using their combined weight as leverage. Then with all of his strength he tears against the manacles holding him to the ceiling, intent on breaking free.
Treesa accepts the bonds, for now, and looks around at the other prisoners. The brand had been painful but otherwise accepted. Forsaken? Ha! Their gods meant nothing to her. She only missed the voice of her Patron!
"Game? I'm just waiting to be led to my new life in the salt mines. They can't keep me in heavy chains like this if they expect me to work."
While she is human, she is petite and her 4' 11" "stature" isn't exactly towering over the gnome. She may have been good looking before she got here. But like the others, she obviously hadn't been allowed to maintain her appearance. Her long black hair hung limp and unwashed. What skin showing through the tears in the clothing was almost white under the mottling of bruises. But her blue eyes showed anger, and purpose. Plotting?
"But you are right little man. Names cost nothing, and mine means about the same. I chose to be called Treesa. My original name matters even less than that."
"I'm headed to the mines, life at hard labor! Ha!. But most of you are probably headed to the executioner, right? So what does a story matter? Nobody outside of this room will ever hear it! My crime was extortion. But really my crime was not researching my prey better. I should have just killed him and just taken the money. But what's a girl gotta do!!!"
Watching the strong man straining against the chains Treesa just shakes her head. "Break the chains? Do these arms look like I could break anything? Besides, doing so will just bring the guards and more chains. You have to plan if you seriously want out of here."
Kid strained. He didn't plan, he just did what needs doing. Guards are just men. "Good" men who expected to go home and see their families when the shift was over. Given a reasonable chance that might not happen, who knows what men will do. Once Kid broke from his bonds, it would be the guards that would have to contend with him, not the other way round.
He looked down the row of prisoners. There was at least one other that had the strength to help...
Treesa watched the kid. Yes, under the dirt and blood he looked young. Too young to be in such a place as this. And he continued straining. He was going to hurt himself, and maybe her as well.
"Listen kid. I don't know your name and I guess you don't care. For now I'll call you kid 'cause you look young. But if you want out of here you will have to plan. If you somehow break your chains the sound will alert the guards. Then maybe you kill the guards that come. And maybe you kill the ones that come after that. But without a plan there will just be more and more and eventually there will be too many for you. Then they'll break your arms, and maybe slice into those pretty muscles so you can't break chains any more than I can. Wait for the chance. The guards are only human. They'll make a mistake. Then maybe we all get free. Then it won't be just you killing the guards and getting free. So wait for it, and be ready."
The tall, pale man hanging limp within his chains, his face aimed at the floor, his long dark hair - all dirty and unkempt - flowing downward and covering his visage, hangs loosely. One may wonder if he's already dead with his lack of reaction to... well... anything. He doesn't move, doesn't respond to any questions, nor does he flinch when the young prisoner attempts to break the manacles.
It is not until the one called 'Tressa' says something that catches his attention.
Slowly raising his head, he looks calmly over at "The Kid" and says, "She's correct," in a tone that is firm and smooth, and somewhat deep. "Patience is what is required currently. Your time for leaving a 'trail of dead guards' will come, I promise you. Because they will most definitely make a mistake. They've already made a mistake and they have yet to realize it. They've given us three days." Morthos looks toward the bars of the cell through narrowed eyes before, "Fools. All of them. Time is on OUR side, and they will learn that soon enough." Morthos then returns to staring at the floor, awaiting the moment that he knows will come. The moment freedom is at hand. And when it does come, I will be coming for you, pathetic King.
The iron bindings hold fast, resisting his best effort. Kid hangs exhausted, his face flush with blood and rage. The skin around his wrists is torn from the attempt, more pain washing over him. The others are probably right, and he would be wise to heed their counsel. The Master would berate him for his carelessness, first with the way he'd bungled the coup, then for not watching his gang closely enough to see what they had done, and finally for not finishing off the Magistrate. The beating would have been severe and well-earned.
"Kid," responds Kid. "Others call me that. Good a name as any." Truth was he liked it, or at least he liked it when his gang called him that. He had already grown tired of Falcon, and it reminded him too much of his past life, but it still held some street cred he might need again if they managed to get out of this gods-forsaken prison.
Rendylyn sighs inwardly. Do none of them have anything to brag about? Perhaps they find it hard to break the habit of secrecy. How dull.
She toys with the idea of killing them all. It would be almost too easy: She could start channeling the dark power over and over, watch them die screaming in their chains. It would be over in less than a minute, and when the guards finally arrived, there'd be a fine riddle for them to ponder, a pentacle of corpses dangling around where she stood. She snickers quietly to herself at the mental image.
But anyone sentenced to Branderscar might be more interesting alive than dead. Maybe even useful. And if not, she could always kill them later.
"I also agree with Tressa," she says in a near whisper. "How many dire criminals have hung from these chains, and striven to pull them from the wall? Do you really think you're the strongest person to ever try? Our captors have been playing this game of guards and prisoners far longer than we have. They're prepared. They even have tiny little gnome manacles for Posh over there."
"To have any chance at all, we need something more than the desperate gambits that have been tried here before. Honestly, we'll probably need a miracle."
"So.... Our first step should be to pray for one."
"I'm Rendylyn, by the way. I'm here for burning the richest family in Daveryn alive. Well, all of them but one, anyway." She frowns. "I suppose you've all been busy with your own trials, or you'd probably know about mine. Some of you look familiar, though...are you from Daveryn? Maybe you visited Stoker House before the fire?"
Posh shifts slightly, as much as his chains allow, and turns his head toward Rendylyn’s voice. A faint twitch of his mouth could be called a smile—thin and dry, like a line traced in old ink across cracked parchment.
"Rendylyn, was it?" he says, voice low and warm, like tea left to steep too long. "A name with an echo to it. Like a place on a forgotten map—charred at the corners, but not yet erased."
He lets the silence breathe before continuing, as if drawing a compass slowly across vellum.
"Stoker House. Yes... I recall the name. It came up once, I believe, during a business arrangement with a particularly fragrant wine merchant. Shame about the fire. Though I imagine it brought a certain... clarity to your affairs."
He tilts his head toward the others—Kid, Treesa, Morthos—acknowledging them all with a small nod, as though they were each fine landmarks in a wild and shifting landscape.
"And how fortunate we are, gathered here—each of us a singular province in this little empire of iron and stone. A strong foundation, if one is ambitious enough to start mapping a route outward."
He exhales slowly and leans back against the wall, his one visible eye hooded but watchful.
Names, confessions, bravado. All useful topography, if you know how to read the land.
Witty comebacks not being his strong suit, Kid merely hangs silently while Rendylyn yammers on. He crosses her off the list he had just added her to. The gang doesn't need anyone who talks this much. Then she revealed her surname.
Kid laughs. "You're that Stoker girl? You're nuts! But good one, burning them alive. You win your dumb game."
Of course Kid knows House Stoker. And if he bothered to give anyone his real name they'd all instantly recognize the name Falconbridge. Names meant nothing. The only thing that matters is power. And power that comes from nothing more than a name is the easiest power to take away.
"Go ahead and pray. I'd like to see which clown god walks through that door to save us." Kid sneered.
Rendylyn snorts. "If the Clown God came through that door, you'd shit your pants. But I wasn't proposing we pray to Alichino, as much as I revere him: The god with the most to offer us is the greatest god, Asmodeus. What could it hurt to offer up our devotion to Him, here in His sheltering darkness?"
"Don't be too quick to spurn His help. You seem angry at the gods, probably because of where we've all ended up...but whose fault is that, really? Ours, certainly. It was my mistake to think the Trinitarians wouldn't have the sack to send a maiden child to Branderscar. But if any gods are to blame, it's His enemies the Trinity that the bleating masses bow and scrape to. By Asmodean law, my so-called crimes would be named justice!"
"If it will shut you up I'll suck Asmodeus' cock."
Thd truth was Kid had never given the gods much thought. The only impact he'd seen was to warp the weak minded fools that ran the whole damned country. What the Hell, if Asmodeus cared to do anything about that, Kid would follow.
"As long as nobody suggests praying to the "Trinity" I'm fine with it. I never got a name from my Patron before my familiar was killed. Maybe Asmodeus would send me a new familiar."
"But you burned down the house with the family in it? Blades and magic are more reliable. You can verify that you got them all. Once the family is dead, then you burn down the house to remove evidence. Besides, then you have time to take any easy to carry valuables before you burn it. Payment for your services!"
Rendylyn smirks and raises an eyebrow. Oh, he's funny! That's a plus. "Let's not get sidetracked into a long declamation of whose cocks you'd suck and why. We only have three days to plan before we'll be in Hell for judgment."
"Treesa, Where were you when I was planning my holocaust? I could have used some practical advice. Though burning them alive was rather the point." Focused on her material interests, this one. The Lord of the Pit would approve. "Asmodeus is Master of Witches, but it's more common for other devils to be patrons--the Malebranche, the Dukes of Hell, the Queens of the Night. Tell me more about your patron later--perhaps I can deduce who that was and how to invoke them."
"So what do the rest of you say? Just a simple, short prayer to the god whose house we're likely to enter soon. The First Pledge of Devotion from Asmodean Disciplines should do."
Dargon hung limply in his manacles, the leg irons around his ankles secured him and kept him so his arms didnt get torn from hanging to far.
somewhere in the banter he awoke. He had taken a bad beating fighting back after the sentencing. He was unconscious when he was branded and stayed that way up to now. He remembers, vaguely, guards supporting him as he was drug into Brandescar.
Now he was slowly regaining consciousness though. He was slim and wiry, black greasy hair matted with blood hung around his battered and bruised face. His eyes bloodshot, lips split and swollen.
He looked up and glanced to his left at the youth straining at his chains, then to his right at the line of other prisoners. He was closest to the door, directly across from it. He muttered through the puffy bloody lips Names Dargon he spit blood. Dont care who we pray to, long as they answer. Then looking up and grimacing, yes 3 days. all I need is a wire and I can free us from these manacles. Yeah Im that good. They didnt know that, or I wouldnt've made it here. I heard of you Stoker, nice job that. And I think I recognize you Kid. he coughed up a little blood, it ran down his chin and dropped to the floor. Im here for dueling and killing the bankers son in the duel. Nolan. ha. he didnt know the first thing about fencing.
Posh shifts just enough to tilt his head toward the new speaker, his single eye narrowing as if plotting the coordinates of an unfamiliar landmark. He listens, lips pursed slightly in thought, then speaks.
"Dueling, was it? And a banker’s son, no less. I must say, that is a particularly instructive case."
His voice is smooth, quiet, but not secretive—more like someone reading aloud a particularly amusing footnote from a history book.
"Two men enter into a pact of blades, mutually agreed. One lives, one dies. And the victor is punished."
He lets the words linger in the dark like a dropped pin on a flawed map.
"You see, in most civilized realms, that would be called winning. But here?" He chuckles softly.
"Here it is not the contest, but the result that condemns you. The rules are drawn in sand, and the winds of favor shift daily. Today you win a duel; tomorrow you hang for it. A curious topography of justice, is it not?"
He exhales faintly, a sound like the brushing away of dust from an old scroll.
"Still, your skill with a blade may yet prove valuable. And your willingness to speak plainly? A rare trait. I find that… useful."
He gives the faintest nod toward Dargon, not quite a bow, but a gesture of recognition all the same.
The paths we walk may be different, but even the roughest trail may lead somewhere worthwhile—if it is charted carefully enough.
Indeed. was all he got out before Blackerly and his guards entered with a Lady...He started moving his body around, bringing blood to flow to his extremities, and flexing them, working kinks out. Hed be ready when it arose.
,
'...such a fine lady...'? Mother? Rendylyn's eyes go wide with hope and fear.
Then she laughs. "Pray to Him, I tell you!" she calls back as she is marched from the room.
As the conversation continues, Morthos rarely budges except to work a slight kink out every now and again. He does raise his head upon hearing Blackerly's voice and watches what transpires. A visitor? Interesting.
As soon as Blackerly and the guards take their leave with Rendylyn in tow, Morthos simply says, "And so it begins."
Calmly turning his focus to the others, "Our time is near. Prepare yourselves." And with that, Morthos returns to waiting. Soon. It won't be long now. And do not worry, my dear, Asmodeus's plan is already in play, and YOU are its catalyst. And as that thought crosses his mind...
...a wicked grin forms.
Posh watches the door swing shut behind Rendylyn, then exhales slowly through his nose, as though quietly redrawing some mental map.
"How unfortunate. I was just beginning to enjoy her company."
He gives a small shake of his head, almost regretful.
"The gallows is such a crude ending for one with such... potential."
Still, no road ends where it ought to—not in Talingarde.
Treesa watches as the other female prisoner is unshackled and taken out. A visitor? Perhaps an unknown ally?
Morthos’ words make sense, and need no reply. She isn’t strong, but that doesn’t mean that she should ignore possible cramps. She quietly stretches and thinks. Not all of her magic needs components. In fact. Some of it can be done chained up like she currently was.
She considers her options and offers a silent prayer. Asmodeus? If you or one of your servants is willing to accept a new worshipper, I need a patron, and a new familiar if that’s a possibility?
Posh watches the door swing shut behind Rendylyn, then exhales slowly through his nose, as though quietly redrawing some mental map.
"How unfortunate. I was just beginning to enjoy her company."
He gives a small shake of his head, almost regretful.
"The gallows is such a crude ending for one with such... potential."
Unmoving as usual, "Her time is not at end yet, Posh. That day will arrive at a different time that is not of her choosing." He then slowly turns his gaze upon the gnome, "But trust me when I tell you that this is just the beginning... for us ALL," he finishes, sounding quite cryptic. One could potentially determine that he's a prophet, or possibly just flat-out mad(The latter more so than the former, most likely). Either that or he possesses confidence at an insane extreme level, which may very well lead back to considering him 'flat-out mad'.
Kid's senses are dull from his earlier exertion. He was sure he almost broke out of the manacles, regardless of what the others say. If any of them would have given a little effort, they'd all be crushing skulls right now instead of pissing in the wind about the removal of the girl.
On the other hand, the one who could have helped was the big bastard who speaks in riddles. Kid would give a lot for his fellow inmates to do less talking and more... anything else.
"Any one of you knows how to sing? Get the rest to shut up with a tune. Sing about the fuggall Trinity for all I care. You, gnome, you've got a clever tongue. Does your voice match your wit?"
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Posh lifts his head just enough to peer down the row toward the kid, his expression somewhere between amused and indulgent.
"Alas, my dear fellow, I leave singing to the birds and the desperate. I prefer my voice in the service of persuasion, not performance."
He pauses a beat, just enough to let the words breathe.
"Still, if silence is your goal, I daresay you would do better asking Morthos to glower louder. It seems far more effective."
Or we might all simply wait for the guards to return—nothing hushes a room quite like sharpened steel.
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"Perhaps we should all try to match Morthos' glowering so we can listen."
"Uhh, fine. Which one of you is Morthos?"
Dargon watched Blakely and guards and the woman leave with the Stoker girl. He listened to what was being said by his comrades-in-chains and idly said Hes down at the far end Kid for his keen perception had already started his brain like a team of draft horses underway. I think youre right Morthos. There was something in the eyes of that woman. The way she looked at Blakely like he was a bug. Didnt she arrive right after Rendylyn prayed to Asmodeus? Not a coincidence. He continued to work on reawakening his limbs as best he could..
then chuckled under his breath. does Morthos Glower? it still looks pretty dark in here
Treesa listens, staying quiet. Had things changed? Had they realized how dangerous they were and decided to execute everyone early? If so, using a so called visitor as a distraction so the released prisoner wouldn't fight....
She stops her chain of thought when she realizes how foolish it is. Chained to the wall it would be simple to just run a spear through any of us. She had magic that could be used even while she was chained, but nothing to help. The others were likely just as crippled by the situation. As she thinks about her magic she realizes that she can't even create light. She had the wrong cantrip prepared and needed a firefly to cast it!
She considers her other magics. Her hexes were supernatural abilities that didn't need anything but her willpower to activate. None of them killed though. Then her spells? False face was useless here and needed a paper mask. She could entangle a guard with adhesive spittle, but a weapon would still be needed to kill him. Acid Splash would do. Daze and Guidance.... She'd need to remember to pull a thread from one of the rips in her clothing and unravel it. Yes. If they freed her she might have a chance.
Feeling a little more 'limber' she stops moving and listens. They should hear the guards returning.
Then chuckled under his breath. Does Morthos Glower? it still looks pretty dark in here
"Uhh, fine. Which one of you is Morthos?"
Shaking his head and rolling his eyes in irritation at the impatient kid who seems to spend more time complaining than anything else, It will take all of us to escape. Unfortunately, he will also be needed, Morthos finally responds with, "I am Morthos." His voice sounding barely audible to the monk, seeing how they are manacled on opposite ends of the cell from each other.
"Wait! You're Morthos? THE MORTHOS? The same Morthos whose dark deeds resound throughout the Talingarde underworld? THAT Morthos??"
Kid smiles. "Never heard of ya."
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Treesa rolls her eyes at the kid's words. If they were going to get out of here his strength would be needed. But maybe after she could help Morthos kill him....
Dargon rolled his eyes and anyone who could see the look on his face would know he thinking the same as Treesa
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Normally, the sound of someone rolling his or her eyes would not be audible. But when it happens that three people in close proximity perform the act at the same moment, while their tear ducts are congealed from extreme thirst, in such confines as this prison cell, where the quietest noise bounces between hewn stone walls that close tightly around them, the viscous rotational slog around each pair of eye sockets is amplified one hundred-fold. It's as if a great ooze is seeping at once through the cracks.
Kid can't see the cacophonous triple-roll happen, but of course he hears it, and wonders at what new horror has just penetrated the cell. If the associates of Asmodeus are indeed watching, invisibly and in silence, what must they think of this slapstick performance? Are any of these mortals worthy of anything besides mockery and death?
a grin spreads on Dargons face. She's ensorcelled the guards. be ready. ...oh and theyve been drinking so will be careless. after a second Dargon says. Did you hear that noise?
Narrowing his eyes, Interesting.
Morthos then turns his attention toward the west.
A grin spreads on Dargon's face. She's ensorcelled the guards. Be ready. ...oh, and they've been drinking, so they will be careless. After a second Dargon says, Did you hear that noise?
"Yes. That is also interesting. Another prisoner, perhaps? Either that or a creature they may decide to feed us to. It is either/or," he says plainly in a tone of complete unconcern.
This can't be Mother, can it? At the very least, her eyes would be red...unless she were disguised, with magic. Rendylyn stares intently at the green-eyed woman's face, concentrating on piercing any illusion.
Well, whether it is her or not, it's best to play along, whatever the game. She comes to attention in her seat, focusing on Tiadora's exact words. She said, 'He did bid me...' So her mysterious friend almost certainly isn't Mother.
She hears Tiadora out, then reaches her filthy, chained hands out for the veil and speculatively turns it over and over.
Suddenly she stops, and fixes her one red eye on her visitor. "You and our mutual friend are looking for someone dangerous and desperate, are you? Well, you've found me. My new friends too. I shan't ask more about you two now, lest the guards torture it out of me if my escape fails."
"What a good friend you are, to undertake the journey he felt was beneath him. Such a good friend will not want to see him disappointed, so I'm sure you will want to aid in our escape. You might start by telling me all you know of the prison--its layout, its staff, its weak points."
Rendylyn spreads the silken veil between them. "An elegant gift, and I thank you. I presume there is more to it than our friend's fond wishes?"
Posh watches the guards leave with Rendylyn, his gaze lingering just a moment longer than necessary before turning to the others.
"A word of caution, if I may."
"These are not watchmen from the docks or hired muscle from some back alley in Daveryn. These men are soldiers—trained, disciplined, and well-practiced in brutality."
He glances toward the door, then back.
"If you are the sort who must pick a fight, do so with a proper map in hand. Otherwise, you are simply marking yourself for burial."
"The time is coming quick where we must fight. Be sure that no guard with a signal horn is allowed to blow it. The horn is more dangerous than the sword."
Treesa focuses on the grumbling to the west. Words? Or animal growling? Unsure she activates her feral speech hex.
Posh watches the guards leave with Rendylyn, his gaze lingering just a moment longer than necessary before turning to the others.
"A word of caution, if I may."
"These are not watchmen from the docks or hired muscle from some back alley in Daveryn. These men are soldiers—trained, disciplined, and well-practiced in brutality."
He glances toward the door, then back.
"If you are the sort who must pick a fight, do so with a proper map in hand. Otherwise, you are simply marking yourself for burial."
Morthos raises a curious eyebrow and turns his focus in the direction of the gnome. He stares with narrowed eyes as if trying to discern something about him. Unable to come to a solid conclusion, "These guards? Is that to whom you refer?" Still working on deducing Posh's level of reasoning, Morthos finds himself at a loss. "Have you been drugged, Posh?" he asks, completely serious. "These guards are no more than underpaid watchmen who are only here because they lack any real talent to succeed at anything in their small, pathetic lives. Whoever it is that's compelling you to speak in such a way, or whoever it was that drugged you, should be executed for such ridiculous information."
Morthos returns his attention to the cell bars. "Time is on our side. We will have what is needed when the time comes." Lowering his head as he returns to his mind palace, Because I am Morthos of Talingarde, and I am burdened with glorious purpose.
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Kid doesn't know what the Hell Posh is talking about. He doesn't need a map to know how to kill someone.
He can't tell if Morthos is serious, but that was pretty damned funny.
Posh lets out a soft sigh, as though the conversation itself were a particularly stubborn ink blot refusing to dry.
"My esteemed colleagues, I must confess... I am struggling to keep pace with this newfound optimism."
He tilts his head slightly, his lone eye glinting with bemusement.
"This is Branderscar. The crown jewel of Talingarde’s penal system. A place reserved for the *worst* of the worst—and staffed accordingly."
"Whatever personal failings these men may have, they are not amateurs. The realm does not entrust its darkest secrets to fools in borrowed armor."
He reclines against the wall again, a faint trace of a smile crossing his lips.
"But by all means—if anyone here believes they can *shout* their way past the gallows, I shall be most interested in the results."
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Treesa chuckles quietly at the discourse. "It's simple Posh. The chance to get out of these chains is coming. We know it because it is the only chance that any of us have to have a life in three days. And we are optimistic partly because we know we are better than the guards. But we won't 'shout' our way out of here. We will be the silent knife that slices our way past the guards, leaving only the dead behind us. Shouting, or letting any of them sound the alarm with one of their horns, will only mean re-capture, beatings, and being shackled again with the guards more alert than before. Some of them are even drunk, making our chances that much better.... They won't be if we fail.
Listening intently to the conversation, Morthos slowly cuts his attention toward Treesa when she finishes, studying her intently for a moment. Somewhere, extremely deep down inside the stone-cold exterior of this man, who has only known pain his entire life, a tiny spark of something is felt. An odd feeling. I wonder what that was? It's almost like... I don't know. I don't think I like it. Probably poison of some kind. It is of no concern. My internal system will destroy it, and I will survive.
Turning his focus to Posh, "Her words are utter perfection. Just like her beauty," he says, sounding as if he's simply reading facts from a book. "You would do well to heed them, Posh. I find your lack of faith ... disturbing." Morthos then returns to watching the cell door, awaiting Rendylyn's return.