You find yourselves in a shadowy alley. The walls are cracked and crumbling, revealing grey bricks beneath the old plaster. Few doors and windows dot the walls here and there, all shut and most boarded as well. The black suns should dip bellow the horizon at any minute now. Black. Suns. Pale clouds slowly float behind them. Where are you? Nothing comes to your mind, but wherever you are, you are not safe.
The air is damp, musty and heavy. And dreadful. You can feel your hearts pounding, as if trying to make its way up in your chest and out through your mouth. Someone is out there. Something. Who you are? Prey.
Citrine fog dances amid the muddy cobblestones, brushing against your feet. Ensnaring. You feel its cold touch and its wispy tentacles pulling your clothes. Pulling? Metal grates against stone, slowly. The sound drags your eyes towards an end of the alley, now completely obscured by a wall of sick fog that sneaks upon you, hungry. Shuffling steps, shadows within.
The other end of the alley is free, for now, and splits, curving to the left and right...
Nothing makes sense.
Everything is disconnected and unreal… …or maybe too real. It’s like a bad trip he thinks with absolute conviction.
The man, who doesn’t actually know he’s a man yet, takes a split second to wonder at that. Wait. How do I know that?
He then wonders how he knows about bad trips but doesn’t know if he’s a man, a woman, or something else. What else is there? His only other conviction is that he isn’t going to waste time sussing out his gender or any other mystery in the face of the alarming suns, grasping fog, or shadowy shapes.
His third (and final) conviction emerges. RUN. He bolts down the hallway curving left, acting on pure instinct. There might have been other people in the alley, but it didn’t matter. The fog would catch the slow before the quick so… Be quick. Be REAL quick. As he runs, he looks for lurking dangers, other turn-offs, and any place that might be a good hiding spot.
HP: 11 / 11 | AC:15 / T:13 / FF:12 | CMD:14/11
Inspiration (4):
Broken, Not Beaten (1):
Effects:
Spooked – -2 saves vs fear & PER; +1 Initiative
"The horns... I don't hear ..." The young man in his twenties has seen better days, or he imagines he has, his longish dark hair matted, his facial hair askew from lack of maintenance.
His head twists to the left then right, and then left again...
"They're after us? Who is they? How ... where... I ..." Then he sees someone else run, and decides to follow them. "Are we heading towards a battle or leaving one I don't remember."
The whispers in his head mock him, sneering, and furious, and they won't shut up!
Danger!
The gaunt, white-haired elf stumbles to his feet, looking confused.
Then, seemingly by pure instinct, he utters an arcane phrase and a faint blue glow covers his worn, but finely tailored coat. For a moment, his ability to cast the spell causes a look of relief to flash across his face.
Unable to decide on the best course of action, he staggers in place, trying to get his bearings and determine the nature of the approaching figures.
The dusky-skinned, thick-armed woman sits up from the dust in the middle of the cobbles. She is draped in a sheer fabric that also covers the lower part of her face, only revealing her eyes, large and seeking, but bloodshot. As if she was crying not long in the past.
She akwardly pushes herself up, and though she's hardly nimble, she manages to scramble to her feet.
The woman sucks in a small intake of air when she sees the other humanoids around her, in the alley. Her hands clench her fifths into balls before relaxing slightly.
Then, the woman seems to regard the figures at the ominous end of the alley, she shuffles backwards slightly from them, towards the 'free' end. She shakes her head, as if trying to clear it and says only, stuttering as if slightly afraid, "b..battle. battle. What matters is that we must flee, from there." and she raises a finger towards the wall of fog, "from that." She looks ready to bolt away, but stays with the other humanoids she seems to be surrounded by.
You flee out of instinct. Sometimes fear is good, pushing you forward. Sometimes it is bad, freezing you in place. A last glimpse before turning left shows the sickening yellow fog getting closer to the stupefied. Sometimes fear is the last thing you feel. Many times.
You run as you feel the walls of the alleys encroaching upon you and then, a dead end. What was likely a tall building or temple had collapsed, bricks, wood and even twisted metal now forming a wall of rubble. A wooden plaque with three interlocked cogs and foreign letters beneath them lie discarded on the ground, broken and charred.
Looking back, you can't see the fog anymore, but should you go back, will it have reached the split yet?
Back to the rubble, you notice a small passage to a side. Narrow for sure, like the maw of a beast and, just like it, will it close upon you if you try to enter? Perhaps such beast can be climbed, grabbing on its spiked spine, unless of course it shakes at your touch before stomping over you.
The citrine fog approaches, tugging at your clothes, welcoming you. Mocking, lying. The shuffling steps continue, the metal gratings following the same pace.
The shadows within coalesce in a single shape, that of a gaunt and tall figure, still obscured by the fog. It keeps itself at the brink of the fog, showing you just enough so you know it is there. The fog bulges and then retracts around the man. Man? Thing. It contains it, apparently, keeping it from breaking free and rushing at you.
Something washes over you. A feeling: unrestrained murderous intent.
Looking back, there is no sign of the others, nor an indication of which path they took.
Alone and exposed, Vaelith does not waste another second. He whirls and bolts blindly down the alley, intent on putting as much distance between himself and the ominous figure.
Spinning left, he does not slow his pace but keeps sprinting as fast as he can manage.
Racing along with others, the scruffy man asks those with him, "What unit are you both with? Wait, are you with a unit?"
| 1 person marked this as a favorite. |
Mael feels in his pockets… nothing. What did I expect to find? Moving on to Plan B, he scans the rubble, looking for anything that could pass for a weapon: a spar that could be a club, a length of iron, or even a solid brick. His search is interrupted by talking. Maybe it’s a person, maybe a hallucination. Either way…
"What unit are you both with? Wait, are you with a unit?"
”Pal, I got no idea what you’re talkin’ about.” His own rumbling bass voice comes as a surprise to him. Guess, I’m a man… or a big, strappin’, farmgirl. After a quick hunt for a weapon, it’s time to decide.
Maybe those fog figures will overlook this gap just like I almost did. He doesn’t like the tight walls but the alternative might be worse. He shoves himself into the small side passage, hoping it widens soon and provides an escape route.
HP: 11 / 11 | AC:15 / T:13 / FF:12 | CMD:14/11
Inspiration (4):
Broken, Not Beaten (1):
Effects:
Spooked – -2 saves vs fear & PER; +1 Initiative
The stocky woman flexes her muscles, which seem to bulge against her loose clothing, her voice accented in a way that marks her as other ”nor do I. I do not think… I do not -“ She interrupts herself and seemingly tries to focus on the matter at hand by rubbing her temple. ”think I was with a unit. Or in a battle. I do not recall anything. But we are clearly different, yes?” She seems winded after their jog and is about to rest against a close wall before she thinks better and wraps her arms around her chest, as if trying to soothe herself. ”I … d - do feel we should keep going but - there was another one, behind us. Are they safe? Should we help them? The - the fog.” She shudders slightly uncertainly, and stands awkwardly.
The man looks around and quickly finds a piece of metal thick as his finger and as long as his arm. It is bent here and there, but should the need arise to use it as a weapon, it will be better than his fists. If it will be useful at all against the thing in the fog, that is still a deadly mystery. He then enters the opening and slowly begins to squeeze through it, slowly being the key.
As you slowly squeeze through the opening, the sharp rubble scratch your head and ribs at some point, but you only notice it when you emerge on the other side. Your shirt is torn, but you are free. For now, at least, as the twisting alley invites you to continue.
You dived your attention between the man squeezing through the opening and the other end of the alley. Suddenly, the white-haired elf appears running as you did.
Does this mean the fog is still advancing? Likely, your poundings heart answers, adding another question: Will there be enough time for the four of you to squeeze through that gap in the rubble? No, your guts adds.
The alley starts to become narrower as you leave the fog behind, but a glimpse tells you it is inexorably approaching. Ahead of you, but still in the distance, you see one of the men and the woman standing in front of a large wall of rubble. Perhaps the other man took the path to the right. Perhaps he was the only one to choose... right?
Vaelith stumbles into the narrowing alley, clutching the wall as his chest heaves, eyes wild.
He blurts out between ragged breaths:
“It's c-coming! The fog—something moving inside, something tall, gaunt...malevolent—”
He glances back, voice cracking as the mist presses closer.
“It wants to hurt me! It wants to hurt all of us! Don’t let it touch you!”
Without hesitation he sprints closer, desperation flaring in his eyes as he scans for a way out.
The woman seemingly breathes a sigh of relief when the elf appears again, but sees Vaelith looking towards the escape.
She snarls, "there's not enough time!" There's fear and anger in her voice. The woman is strong and heavy, and she moves past the others to get out first. Frantically, she seems like she's about to muscle her way through but she shrieks, and hold her head as if in pain, doubling over. She breathes heavily, and puts her hands onto her knees.
Rising, her voice is ragged, "No! There is not enough time -" She beckons for the elf to come to the exit where the other man escaped. "go first, go! I will hold it off." Her eyes are terrified, and she seems to be second-guessing herself. She points at the other man, and brusquely does the same, pointing at the exit.
The iron bar gives Mael a tiny sense of security… It is real and tangible. Or at least it deadens a hint of the anxiety that is his entire reality. But he can’t afford to stand still. Speed is an ally, hesitation – an enemy. He lunges forward, continuing his headlong flight. Mael caroms down this new alley, eyes peeled for shadowy dangers but also opportunities. If he can find a way up onto the roofs, he might spy the shortest way out of this low-rent maze and how far he is ahead of the fog. Maybe I'll find a good hide on the roof while whatever-they-are hunt the alleys.
HP: 11 / 11 | AC:15 / T:13 / FF:12 | CMD:14/11
Inspiration (4):
Broken, Not Beaten (1):
Effects:
Spooked – -2 saves vs fear & PER; +1 Initiative
Some small measure of relief glimmers inside Vaelith when the muscular female signals that she's not a threat and may even be an ally.
"I have...magic," he gasps as he reaches the two remaining figures.
Uncertainty floods his mind for a moment. He forces his eye shut and concentrates and instantly the arcane gestures and energies appear in his mind, ready to be released just as easily as the mage armor he just cast.
"I can conjure grease...slow down the approaching foe...or on the walls of that passage...make it easier to squeeze through...." he blurts out, forcing himself to slow down and speak more coherently.
"Also...summoned beasts...to help us fight!"
The elf approaches and the man through the passage in the rubble is gone. No warning, no scream, no message of success coming from within the passage or from the other side of the rubble. Did he even escape? He could be dead, or just hiding in there.
In the distance, wisps of fog can already be seen. Through the rubble, over it or... into the fog? There is too little time to decide.
You continue to run, looking back now and them. Nothing is coming after you, neither the thing, nor the others who you escaped with. Have they died yet?
Movement ahead. You stop, unwilling to let the sound of your steps carry along the alley. Two figures shamble, walking strangely. You sneak ahead, seeing the alley splits in a narrow "T" junction and, right in the middle, the two figures look inside an opened door of an old house. Armed with rusted mails and swords but devoid of any flesh, the skeletons watch and look, distracted for now.
”He doesn’t know what we’re talking about, they’re not part of a unite. Oh Pharasma, did we lose?”
A blink as a white haired elf arrives..
The elf cries about the fog, says its evil. And voices whisper in Vrek’s head that the elf is right!
He hears of magic, boy he wishes he had some! And he moves over the rubble rather than risk the fog.
”Of course , they’re real. They have faces!” He says aloud as he goes.
Think, dammit, think… The open doorway in intriguing. It might lead to a good place to hide or a way out. Better than being a rat in this maze of alleys. Mael looks hard, trying to see what the skeletons are looking at… but it is just too far and too dark.
The man regards the bent iron bar in his (first time he’s noticing) scarred and meaty hands. He weighs the bar and his brawler’s fists against the armed and armored skeletons. He vaguely recalls a fight in a dark alley. Did I win? I think so. He can almost smell the blood in the air. But he’s pretty sure fighting people ain’t the same as fighting skeletons of people.
Fear lends speed to his assessment. One on one, with surprise… Maybe I got a chance. Two on one, that’s a bad, bad bet. He weighs the alternatives. Sneaking past is possible, if he gets real lucky. But it just gets him down another alley. That doorway could be the best way out. Maybe that’s why the skeletons are guarding it. But to get through the door, he’ll need a miracle or… f@ck me …help.
The only help available to even the fight is back at that ruined temple. Mael is pretty certain the woman is a hallucination. What real woman wears a head-to-foot sack-cloth in Ustalav?! But the confused man could be real. And even if just one of them is real, that’s better odds against those skeletons.
Decision made, Mael backs away from the inattentive skeletons as quietly as he can. As soon as he is out of their sightline (or they spot him) he runs as fast as he can back down the alley to the gap in the wall.
HP: 11 / 11 | AC:15 / T:13 / FF:12 | CMD:14/11
Inspiration (4): x
Broken, Not Beaten (1):
Effects:
Spooked – -2 saves vs fear & PER; +1 Initiative
The man scrambles to climb the rubble while the woman and the elf get ready to face the fog. And slowly it comes, shifting and billowing. Shuffling steps, the sound of metal against stone.
When the fog is close enough for the two to see the silhouette inside it, their hands begin to shake, the pounding of their hearts obscuring other sounds. They get ready for it.
The figure stops as the fog envelops the two, obscuring them from the climbing man's sight. The wisps of fog tug at their clothes, wrapping around their legs. Then the woman is gone, pulled by the fog and dragged along the cobblestones, her scream cut short as something lands on her back, pushing all the air out of her lungs. The elf wills his legs to step forward, but they step back instead. The woman struggles, at least until she feels a blinding pain in her nape, then her arms and legs simply stop working. After a couple moments as it appears something is being removed from inside her, darkness.
The elf runs, panicked, throwing himself into the side passage.
The man climbing the rubble miss his step and falls. The rubble shifts, she sound of bricks and stones muffling the sickening sound of the elf's bones breaking under its weight. The side passage is no more, the elf is no more. Bruised and beaten, he lands back on the cobblestones. Close to his face there is a lump of flesh. A heart. His shock doesn't last as something sharp pierces hand hooks his jaw, lifting him, until he is eye to eye with the thing, a man wrapped in yellow tatters with white flaked skin beneath. It smiles a smile with pointed teeth and no lips before piercing his eyes with a bloody and spiked razor. A gurgling scream is the last sound the man makes.
You leave the skeletons behind and soon is running back. You hear a scream and notice dried blood in a nearby wall. It seams the word "me" is written in it.
As you make a turn and see the rubble wall, it appears to have shifted and then there is another scream, albeit more muffled. From countless cracks in the rubble, the fog already seeps through, wisps already threatening to breach over it.
Looking at where the side passage was, you see the broken body of the elf, crushed. From the blood oozing from his body, for an instant you can swear it formed the world "help".
Words written in blood - OK, it happens. Oozing blood that FORMS words - no, gotta be drugs. Maybe, MAYBE none of this is real, but I’m not winding up like that elf to find out I’m wrong. He turns and runs from the fog, from the blood words before they spell out something even more disturbing.
The math is simple. The fog took two of them - maybe more - and it is stalking him. How do you fight fog? The skeletons didn’t even see him. They are scary but real and fallible. At least he has a chance against them.
Maybe the skeletons have moved off and I can get through that door. Come’on Lady Luck! If not… Well, that’s what the iron bar is for.
HP: 11 / 11 | AC:15 / T:13 / FF:12 | CMD:14/11
Inspiration (4): x
Broken, Not Beaten (1):
Effects:
Spooked – -2 saves vs fear & PER; +1 Initiative
You turn around and run, the only sensible thing to do. Back at the junction, the skeletons have moved closer towards the right alley, making it somewhat easy to sneak through the left passage. The door remains opened and dark, but closer to the skeletons.
Vrek screams, and a dozen voices in his head scream with him, though one or two laugh!
Mael stops and weighs the options. Assume the skeletons are working for the Fog... The left passage was the safer bet to avoid the skeletons. But, if he can sneak through the doorway that the skeletons think is clear… then maybe the Fog goes down the obvious paths?
It is all supposition and risk. All he knows is he can’t run forever, fog doesn’t get tired, and now it set guards along his path. He needs to be more wily fox and less jackrabbit. He takes the gamble and tries to sneak past the skeletons and through the dark doorway…
HP: 11 / 11 | AC:15 / T:13 / FF:12 | CMD:14/11
Inspiration (4): xx
Broken, Not Beaten (1):
Effects:
Spooked – -2 saves vs fear & PER; +1 Initiative
You slip through the dark door into an old and lavish house, surprisingly being able to see in black and white a couple feet ahead of you. Moth eaten tapestries cover some walls while moldy and peeling paint cover the others. Many doors lead away from the main hall, but testing them show them are either locked or swollen into their frames.
You find a side alcove have spiral stairs leading up and down, even if the stairs down are filled with impossibly thick webs. A side broken plaque has an arrow and says "up", with the remaining of the message lost.
Up you go, ending up in an open atrium surrounded with dead plant vases. In the middle of it, there is a broken statue with no head or arms and, chained to its torso, a dead woman with limbs twisted in unnatural angles, one eye missing and the other being eaten by a crow. Around her neck, there is another plaque: "Death to the weak", with the last work being previously being miss-written as "wake".
After the initial shock, you look back to see the stairs bursting with the yellow fog, the same fog which now invades the atrium from above. From the alcove steps free a bald man with white skin, almost an albino, and covered in bruises, burnt marks and dried blood. Filled teeth show through a lipless mouth grinning at you, and his eyes are hidden beneath a filthy rag. A serrated razor in hand, shackles and broken chains around his ankles and wrists, old and dirty clothes and, finally a cloak made of yellow tatters combine to present a heinous appearance. Pointing at you, with a raspy voice, he condemns you. "Only... you... left."
Mael glances around for an escape route and finds... none. Trapped. Checkmate.
A broken picture mirror hanging askew on the wall draws his attention. It shows the only non-horrific face in the room. A week's chin stubble, receding hairline, a plug nose poorly fixed after a break, haunted eyes, some scars… the man rubs his chin and watches the reflection imitate the move. So this is what I’m working with. He shares an encouraging but wry smile with his doppleganger. Good to meet you.
Can’t flight so… fight. He turns his attention to the shark-toothed albino with the sepulchral voice. He glances at the wicked razor in the dead-white hand. Even sick with dread, Mael returns the smile and offers a deadpan quip. ”Sorry, Pal, I don’t need a shave.” Then he charges forward trying to strike the albino down… but fear makes his legs jelly and his swing is slow and badly timed. Nevertheless, he puts up what fight he can.
HP: 11 / 11 | AC:15 / T:13 / FF:12 | CMD:14/11
Inspiration (4): xxxx
Broken, Not Beaten (1):
Effects:
Spooked – -2 saves vs fear & PER; +1 Initiative
The strike misses as the thing sidesteps effortlessly, touching your arm with its nails and letting your own momentum to cut gashes in your arm. You feel the razor on your legs before you can react properly.
The atrium is now gone, only yellow fog around you. Bleeding and weakened, you know it is only a matter of time before the thing kills you, yet it plays with you as if savoring the moment. The metal bar is gone after losing the count of the cuts you've endured, you fall on your knees, with it appearing in front of you to push you back with a kick.
It steps on your arm and chest, before kneeling by your side to open your belly. It is a blessing that by the time the thing was should you your own intestine, everything was already blurred.
---
"WAKE UP, YOU DAMNED FOOLS! HELP ME!" A male voice pleads in a yell. You wake up in a small room, humid and partially illuminated by a single lantern hanging from the ceiling. It reeks of mold, dust, feces, and a faint smell of carrion.
In the middle of the room lies a man strapped to a wooden table with old chains and manacles. He wears only his pants and his chest and arms are crisscrossed with cuts, blood flowing from them.
Around the table and the man paces a woman with brown hair in a doctor's coat covered in blood. In her hands, half the blade of a pruning shear glints with the lamp above them. She watches the man, as if in deep thoughts before she slashes his ribs, apparently intending to expose them. The man cries and screams, desperate.
Between you and the tortured man lie iron bars and sliding doors secured with heavy locks. Each cell has two piles of straw and blankets that serve as beds, as well as two buckets, one with a ladle inside and the other with excrement. Besides the table with the man there is a side-table with various sharp instruments: a gardening trowel, forks, several long pieces of broken glass or metal, and the other blade of the tormentor's shears.
While the lamp only illuminates the center of the room, you can see a door to one side and a passage to the other, as well as sacks by the door. More importantly, however, is a ring with keys hanging by the torturer's belt.
Mael glances around to quickly familiarize himself with the cell and this ‘prison’, if that’s what it is. He does a double-take at seeing his cell-mate. He recalls the fella from the dream – the confused man. He offers the man a terse nod and hopes the fellow isn’t some psychotic that is about to dine on his liver.
His eyes fall on the tabled victim as well as the healer’s kit comprised of rusty garden implements and kitchen cutlery. It is NOT an encouraging sign for the future. This reality wasn’t much better than the nightmare he just woke from. And escaping it – like that dream – is the priority.
Mael feels in his gut that he isn’t a hero… but he also can’t abide some poor bastard getting cut on. If he can bait the ‘gardener’ into coming over, maybe he can put her down or wrestle the keys away from her… or both.
Fear rises up in him as he considers the dangerous gambit he’s about to play, but he tries to keep any tremors out of his voice. He leans his head against the bars and growls at the man on the table. ”We heard you. Now, shut up! Can’t you see she’s working?”
He addresses the ‘gardener’ casually, ”You are doing some good work there… but your tools. How can you do your best with that hodge-podge of crap? I mean the rust adds a little something but some of those blades are so dull, you might as well be using a wooden spoon, am I right? More effort to cut and the result is just sloppy and unprofessional. Where’s the artistry, the respect for the craft? Might as well just bash him with a rock if you don’t have a range of sharpnesses to display your skills. Am I right, or am I RIGHT? Hey! I’ve got some skill honing blades. It’s amazing what you can do… rough honing against a stone wall and then a bit of polishing with the water ladle. How about you give me a tool or two you’d like sharp and I’ll get to work. I got nothing better to do in here. Whaddaya say?”
HP: 11 / 11 | AC:15 / T:13 / FF:12 | CMD:14/11
Inspiration (4):
Broken, Not Beaten (1):
Effects:
Shaken – -2 on ATTs, saves, skills, and ability checks
"What..where? I died! I .. think. I .."
"Now SHUT UP" someone says and that snaps him out of it even if it wasn't intended for him.
He finds himself in the same cell as the man who called him 'Pal' in his..was that a dream? Then sees the torture, and something in him lights up with outrage..
That's not proper healing, that's torture! This offends him indeed. It.. he doesn't know why but it's just not what you do with medical skill or knowledge.
He is afraid, but he takes a moment to hear out the fellow next to him talking to the torturer.
"Yes, that much is true, clean tools, sharpened, and with solid handle installment is a must for truly delicate work."
"You're in danger of severing the very nerves that allow feeling by the way." How do I know that?
Narsina glances at the 'doctor', the man, the pair in the next cell, and finally at the elf with her, quietly. Seeing that the elf is seemingly in one piece, seemingly she stays quiet and doesn't add anything to the conversation, instead taking a closer look at the iron bars.
Jerking upright like a startled animal, Vaelith raises trembling hands to his face, feeling for injures that are not there.
As he lowers them, he notices the tattoos that snake up his left arm. Visibly confused, he spends a minute pulling up his sleeve to examine the unexpected markings before turning his attention the the scene unfolding beyond the bars.
While the two men in the adjacent cell try to reason with the blade-wielding woman, Vaelith quietly does a bit of mental inventory. Unlike in the dreadful dream, his magic spells are no longer etched in his mind, but what of his other arcane abilities?
The doctor turns towards the men, taking the bloody shear to her lips as if it was her finger in order to shush them. "Pipe down. You'll have your turn soon enough. And I'll start with you." She adds, pointing at the one who addressed her first
She then returns to her business, eliciting more screams of agony from the man, who seems to be in the brink of collapsing.
The woman inside the cage looks for weaknesses in the bars or lock, but luck is not in her favor. Despite old, everything looks remarkably sturdy.
Mariana thinks furiously, and looks around for anything she could use as leverage.
Finding little to help she gathers up her body and slams against the bars anyway, rattling them, then looks at the ‘surgeon’, panting heavily. She seems to growl, ”I will get out of here, and I will tear your head off. Leave that man be!” She looks like she’s getting ready to slam into the bars again.
Satisfied that he retains some fraction of his magical powers, Vaelith stands and moves closer to the frustrated woman.
"Stay calm. I can summon a bird of prey, stronger and tougher than its natural kin. It should be capable of disabling that lunatic and if not, I can call more." he whispers.
Recalling her futile attempts to escape the cell, he adds: "We gain nothing by defeating her if we are still trapped here, though."
So, she’s insane but not a raving lunatic. Bad luck.
Mael tries to sound personable, despite the fear of being on the table next. ”Oh, come on. You don’t like to talk about your work? I’ve never heard an artist say that before. Let's have a little chat to pass the time. Are you really happy with the quality of your tools? You can't be. Look at that fork... it's crap! The tines don’t even line up! I probably have better scrap in here somewhere.”
He begins hunting around the cell presumably looking for scrap metal to prove his point.
HP: 11 / 11 | AC:15 / T:13 / FF:12 | CMD:14/11
Inspiration (4):
Broken, Not Beaten (1):
Effects:
Shaken – -2 on ATTs, saves, skills, and ability checks
"QUIET!" The doctor turns at the woman's threat and yells.
Back to the man being tortured, she absentmindedly picks the fork and throws it at the talkative man. It hits the bars and bounce inside the cell. "Eat some shit with it, for all I care." She mumbles.
"My apologies, amazing work," Vrek decides to try to get on her good side too. She's insane, out of her mind. Not like us. No, not even like you, shut up.
Vrek looks about for a gap in the cell, anything. But the voices distract him.
Mael is genuinely pleased to receive the fork, but not for the reasons the ‘doctor’ thinks or her suggested meal. ”Hey, thanks, Doc! ‘Preciate the gift!” He begins humming while rubbing and straightening the fork against the bars. It might look like he’s refurbishing and polishing it. In actuality, he’s trying to configure the tines enough to make a half-decent lockpick. Of course, having the tool and getting out of the cell are different matters, particularly with fear lending persistent tremors to his hands. He bunches up his fists several times trying to reduce the tremors, but it just isn’t working.
And trying to pick a lock with a homicidal doctor just a few feet away isn’t exactly confidence building or smart. Even in the best of moments, this was a tall order. Mael would like to bust out of the cell, put the doctor down like the mad dog she is, and rescue the fella on the table… but the odds are heavily against any of that happening. The doctor’s suggestion may have inspired an idea, however.
Mael moves to the wall to polish the fork against it. He looks at the other prisoners. ‘Sackcloth Girl’, as he calls her in his head, clearly wants to kill the doctor. That’s good. None of them (except for maybe himself) look like they want to be here. He can’t imagine they all haven’t done the math on their chances. He glances into the waste bucket to see how full it is. I bet a couple buckets of spilled s^&t would make the floor VERY slippery. If we can get the doctor close to either cell, get her feet out from under her with some filth… maybe we’ve got a chance to get the keys and work together.
Mael keeps up his cheery conversation while working on the fork. ”Hey, Doc, how many surgeries do you do in a day? Is this like a sun-up to sundown job or what? It’s gotta be tiring. I worked a slaughter house one summer and after just half a day of carving meat, my shoulders ached like you wouldn’t believe! I know it’s not like what you do but I figure it’s kinda close. Same sort of motion, right?” Mael has no idea if he ever worked a slaughter house but it sounded believable and hopefully ‘relatable’ to the doctor. He would have preferred sticking to the truth. Being caught in a lie could come back to bite him. But the pay-off might be big. He needed an ‘in’ with the doctor unless he wanted to end up being the next side of beef under her blade.
HP: 11 / 11 | AC:15 / T:13 / FF:12 | CMD:14/11
Inspiration (4):
Broken, Not Beaten (1):
Effects:
Shaken – -2 on ATTs, saves, skills, and ability checks
The woman does not flinch at all from the terrifying visage. She stares down the 'doctor', apparently unafraid.
She crashes against the bars, and settles herself, against them, grabbing and shaking them, "come on! You want a fight? Come fight me. I do not need weapons - I am not afraid of you!"
The sudden change in the woman's appearance sends Vaelith scrambling backwards.
"No...It's another nightmare...It must be...please...." he babbles as he attempts to seek refuge in his memory palace, searching for familiar techniques to calm and focus the mind and finding only decay and equally frightening figments haunting the corridors of his own mind.
"Shut up, shut up, SHUT..." The doctor begins, thoroughly annoyed, and when she turns again at the woman, she is shoved towards her cell as, by a miracle, the man being tortured was able to free one of his legs and kick her in the small of her back!
"Let's all stay calm mm?" Vrek does not feel calm, the voices are hammering in his head that this is dangerous and then...the man being tortured kicks the doctor close to Narsina! He looks over to the fellow fiddling with the fork, and then decides to provide visual cover so whatever he's doing he can do it without being seen.
Mael has to admire the victim’s courage and he doesn’t let it go to waste… literally. He grabs the latrine bucket then heaves its contents towards the doctor’s feet. The bucket hits the bars but the filth flies.
HP: 11 / 11 | AC:15 / T:13 / FF:12 | CMD:14/11
Inspiration (4):
Broken, Not Beaten (1):
Effects:
Shaken – -2 on ATTs, saves, skills, and ability checks
Narsina tries to get a hold of them but can’t get any sort of hold on the Doctor with a scary face.
The outbreak of violence shakes Vaelith out of his terror.
With an effort of willpower, he draws upon his reserve of arcane power and channels it to summon a large eagle into existence directly above and behind the insane doctor.
With a flurry of beak and talons, the large bird of prey lashes out.
Given the surreal dream followed by this nightmarish reality, Mael practically jumps out of his skin when a bird suddenly appears between the cells and starts swooping on the doctor. ”Nine Hells!” Not for the first time in the last few minutes, he questions his sanity and whether he is currently drugged.
The bars of the cell keeps the angry woman from grabbing the doctor, but then, out of nowhere, a swirling portal appears and, from within a midnight black eagle appears, its feathers glinting with oil. It claws the doctor's arm as she protects her face, now her own blood staining her bloodstained clothes.
The doctor's face shifts. Her skin goes paler, with blueish veins beneath it. Her lips and nose are gone, her eyes enlarging and becoming milky white. Seething with anger, she thrusts the bloody shear blade into the eagle's chest, causing it to burst into feathers and vanish before hitting the dust-covered floor.
"WHO DID THAT!?" She says, looking frantically between the two cells, before turning back to the man in the table. She stabs her leg in frustration, then gets kicked in the face end sent against the side-table. Her "instruments" scatter and her ring of keys land close to the cell with the two men. She recovers fast, though, and abandons all pretense of medical examination as the repeatedly stabs the tortured man.
Close to panic at how easily the madwoman dispatched the summoned bird, Vaelith musters sufficient courage to repeat his spell.
Once more, sharp talons and a razor beak tear into the woman from above.
Mael scrabbles for the dropped keys and then gets to work on the lock.
HP: 11 / 11 | AC:15 / T:13 / FF:12 | CMD:14/11
Inspiration (4):
Broken, Not Beaten (1):
Effects:
Shaken – -2 on ATTs, saves, skills, and ability checks