In the Cell (pre-session RP)

(Some folks asked for a scene to introduce their characters before our session. Sounds like a good idea to me. So herewith:) There are no windows in the cell block, and the only illumination you have is a poor-quality torch that produces as much smoke as light. You have no idea if it is day or night, or how much time has passed since you were delivered to Branderscar. All you know is that in three days it will be your end, whether sent to the mines, turned over to the inquisitors, or the simple release of death. The guards do not seem interested in expending much effort on you, given how short your stay is planned to be. You are bound together in a single communal cell without regard to gender or station. Your wrists are shackled to the wall behind your heads and your feet are held by iron cuffs secured to a single long chain. You have been left nothing but prison rags, and the freshly burned F-rune, indicating that you have forsaken the light and mercy of Mitra, marks each of you on the right arm. The stone wall sweats cold at your backs. Only two doors lead out of the cell block: one to a guardroom from which guards periodically emerge to check on you, and the other a reinforced oaken door with a small barred window in it.

While others may be content to wait for their slowly approaching demise, Sandra Verdun is not one of them. Tapping her foot irritably, the slender young woman constantly fidgets and glances about, muttering under her breath and eying both the guards and her fellow prisoners. Pale and miserable, she mirrors the dismal surroundings well. Her ragged clothes hang off her petite frame, and it's only by looking at her defiant expression that one could tell her apart from a corpse. After a few moments of impatience, she sighs and leans back against the cold stone wall, her head tilted up to look at the ceiling. "So," she mutters, addressing no one in particular. "What do you think the afterlife is like?"

"You'll feed the worms. The worms will feed the earth. And the earth will feed something else. It's an immortality, of sorts," comes a gruff answer from a rather hairy man in the cell with them. Riss could almost pass off for a large human, but the slightly pointed ears and the noticeably sharp and large bottom canine teeth when he talked marked him as part orc. The chains binding his feet jingle a bit as he braces himself and he strains against the wall, trying once again to rip his arm shackles loose, and once again failing. He slumps back down, exhausted for the moment.

If I can I want to cast the light cantrip. I sit there and as they start talking he says,"Afterlife...ha...I will probably be melted down into scrap metal." If the light worked Tek is a large gearforged man with parts of the metal all over his body are welded together like he was thrown into a giant can opener, and then melted the metal back together.

"Afterlife. Does it even matter?" A soft female voice comes from a small wood elf in the corner. Vinha has slightly green skin with long dark hair. Her eyes are green, too, and seem to almost disappear in her face. Her build is slight and boyish with lean arm and leg muscles. "We all deserve death. But they who put us here deserve it more."

"Deserve it...maybe," he chuckles with a metal on metal sound,"But I'll be damned if I don't get my revenge soon."

Riss makes a sound of profound discontentment and gives another jerk to his manacles. "The waiting is the worst," he grunts, stretching his muscles as best he can, considering the circumstances. "What time is it? Does anyone know?"

Tek shifts around in his bolts and manacles uncomfortably and says,"Who cares what time it is at this point...either we die or we don't. Simple as that." he grunts as he struggles against the bolts keeping him from disassembling and keeps talking,"I learned that lesson in the Gastenhall Fighting Pits."

Edit: Devon -- I forgot to refresh the page, so I didn't see your last post. --- "I like you, metal-man. I say we don't. And I say we get that revenge, too, once we find our way out of here." She turns her head. "One thing I have learned, not in any fighting pits, is that patience is key. Let them think we're powerless as long as we can, while finding ways to become . . . less powerless. Then surprise them at the right moment."

"Revenge for it's own sake is a waste of effort," Riss grunts, finally giving up pulling on the chains again when they cut into his wrists a bit too much. "You could slaughter every guard in this prison and it wouldn't stop them from trying to re-imprison you. And it matters what time it is because I'd like to know how much longer I have to get out of this damnable cold iron."

"Who said I wanted revenge on these guards?"

"Well, you're here with the rest of us, so you're obviously dangerous," Sandra points out, shifting her body slightly away from the straining half-orc. "When you hear someone dangerous talking about taking revenge, one tends to get nervous that's they're gonna be the target. Perfectly normal reaction, of course." "Just don't give them an excuse, is what I'm saying."

"It was just an example."

"Don't worry I have no problems with you..."he chuckles that metal on metal laugh again,"nice people."

A small spider scuttles across the room and settles on Vinha's leg. She stares at it for a long moment. Finally, she speaks again. "Yes, I think revenge on the guards would not be what we really want, a poor substitute. It's the ones in charge of the guards we want. The ones who think they're better than us. But I get the example. Revenge is a luxury, which is why I suggested it after we're free and clear of this place. It's not a waste of effort if it's enjoyable." She looked over at the human woman. "You make a good point, lady. As for me, I was not thinking of any of you when I was considering revenge. In fact, I think it might be best if we help each other out. Once we're free, I'll take revenge on my enemies, and the rest of you can deal with yours as you see fit. I'd even be willing to offer my services should you prefer to keep your own hands out of it . . . why you'd want that, I don't know, but if you do, it's an option."

"When I break free, I'll free the rest of you," Riss promises. "No one should be caged, whether animal, elf, man, or...other. They should struggle and fight and die their own volition. It's only natural."

"When you break free . . . you mean, when we break free, right? And yeah, if anyone else is still here or imprisoned elsewhere, I'll come back for you, too."

"Pretty friendly lot for a bunch of murderers, aren't you?" The woman chuckles bitterly, yawning. "Say stuff like that and it'll just make it easier for the guards to break you. I don't have any illusions about our chances of a breakout and I'd advice you to think the same way." Shutting her red-rimmed eyes, Sandra leans back against the stone wall, shivering only momentarily. "Now would you try and keep it quiet? I'm gonna try and get some sleep."

"Well, I wouldn't necessarily call myself a murderer...I fought in the arena and didn't throw a match and ended up beating the other guy" he stops laughing at this point,"well, it was to the death but that was expected. The real reason I'm in here now is because he was the son of the man who owned the arena. As far as "us" breaking free, I will help to get myself out of here and if that includes you as well, then the more the merrier."

"I don't think the guards are worried about breaking us," Riss hums. "They've written us off already. For good reason, considering this prison's reputation. Go to sleep."

"You can sleep if you want, but I good sir, have no need for it." He keeps fiddling with his bolts trying to loosen or break them.

Who knows how much later, the door to the guardroom swings open, and dazzling lantern-light pours through, stabbing at your eyes. Dimly through the glare, you can see several guards filing into the cell block -- at least six. Through their ranks comes an all too familiar heavyset figure. Sergeant Blackerly was on hand to take charge of your branding, personally directing every detail and nodding with great satisfaction as the pain lanced through you. "You think that's bad, just wait 'til you scum get what's coming to you," he pronounced, as if he were a god himself, weighing out your ultimate fate. The sergeant looks to have been a strong man once, but the years have not been kind to him, not that he seems to have made much effort to resist them. His blue and white tunic is stained, jowls unshaven, and his stomach droops over his swordbelt. The sergeant's small, piggish eyes peer into the cell. "Verdun, you got a visitor. Your sister's here to see you." At his nod, one of the soldiers moves forward to unlock the cell door, while the others wait, clubs and crossbows at the ready.

"Maybe you could tighten these bolts..."gesturing with his head to the joint bolts, then he smiles the dirtiest robot smile he can manage at Blackerly,"tight bolts make me all warm and fuzzy inside."

The tall, gaunt human male with the wild gray hair and beard has slept since being shackled to the wall. He wears only a raggedy blood splattered loincloth and smells so bad you can't help but move away from him as far as possible.

Sandra blinks wearily, raising her head as the guard says her name. Her brow furrows slightly but she doesn't complain when the guards move to unshackle her. Scanning the line of prisoners, her gaze focuses on Riss for a moment before she nods at the guards. "Alright then." She offers no resistance as the guards escort her out of the cell, yet her mind is working furiously. Her sister? More than likely someone masquerading as such. Her father's feeble genes could only barely sire her, unless her mother had another man on the side. The thought wouldn't surprise her, the late Lord Verdun wasn't a very likeable man. Still, what purpose did such a meeting serve, imposter or no? Best to be on guard..

Riss doesn't seem concerned with the smell from the tall human. Maybe it's because he's part orc. Or maybe because of all the time he's spent in the woods as an animal. Either way, he's the model of the perfect prisoner when the guards arrive, sitting still and not struggling in the slightest. Though he does give a faint lift of an eyebrow at Sandra.

Vinha watched the woman leave the cell. Verdun, was it? Well, at least she had a name to go with the face. And what was with the glance at the half-orc? Was it the conversation about the guards breaking them? Did she think this was proof that they were going to try it? Or did the two already know each other somehow? Something to consider. And then that bad smelling human. Finally, he was awake. "Awake, I see," she said, nodding to him. As for Blackerly, she did not react to his presence, and continued to twirl her fingers, wondering if the spider would eventually leave her stomach and move up to her hands. The little one couldn't replace Usruth, but the sight of the spider was a comforting familiarity. Let Verdun say what she might, Vinha knew that kindness had nothing to do with whether you were broken or not. It was a matter of will.

Waking up, Orm looks around the cell, taking it all in. Suddenly his pupils go black, he begins shaking and muttering to himself. In a rage he pulls on his chains, straining, blood dripping from his arms, joints cracking and popping.

As the guards watch warily, Blackerly and another guard enter the cell, unlocking Sandra from the leg coffle and releasing her arms from the wall, though they leave her wrists shackled. Up close, Sandra can see a strangely glazed look in the sergeant's eyes, although there's no smell of alcohol about him. Relocking the cell door, Blackerly and the guards surround Sandra, escorting her out of the cell block and through the guardroom. She notices a staircase down in the corner, although there are too many guards around for making a break for it to be an attractive option. Blackerly opens a side door and ushers her through into a small, unpleasant-smelling side room with a scarred table and a few mismatched chairs. As they enter the room, a tall woman in an elegant mourning dress and silken veil turns to face them. Her long hair is platinum blond, almost white, and her eyes are brilliant green. Sandra has never seen her before in her life, and she's sure she would remember if she had. "Oh, sister dear!" she exclaims. "I came at once when I heard you had been condemned! The grief! The heartbreak! Is this the doom of the House of Verdun! Oh, woe! Oh, woe!" Although she speaks in tones of deepest tragedy, the green eyes above the veil are cold and hard. She clutches at her chest, smirks, and then addresses herself to Blackerly: "Could you please, good sir, find it in your heart to allow my sister and me a moment alone? Please, for pity's sake..." The sergeant blinks slowly a couple of times, and then says, "Of course, my lady. For you, I shall see you are undisturbed." He steps back out through the door, closing it firmly and leaving Sandra alone with the pale-haired woman.

Meanwhile, back in the cell. The hairy, gaunt man continues to pull at his chains. Blood flowing, the gruesome sound of bones and joints snapping. To everyones amazement the chains finally give and break free from the wall. He takes a step, a huge smile on his face. Then falls on the floor, a mishapen heap lying still in a pool of his own blood. You can't tell for certain, but he appears to be dead.

OOC: Orm, you probably should let the GM decide when they break.

OOC: Knowing the GM for 32 years, I think he might accept the kewl death scene. Of course he might not. I do think it passes the kewl test though.

ooc: Are we down a character already?

OOC: So that was just a way of you to leave the game? I guess it doesn't matter at that point, I thought you just felt like breaking free or something. Also, knowing the GM longer doesn't mean you get special priveleges anyways and if it did then I wouldn't want to play. :/

From the moment Sandra enters the room, it's clear that this is no simple visit. In the short time that she's known him, Sandra knows that Sergeant Blackerly is not the kind of man who would ever address someone so politely. As for the woman herself, she's no actress but she does seem to be the one holding the script, as it were. Sandra waits until the guards leave before taking a seat in one of the chairs. "You can drop the act, Sister . What do you want?"

Devon, knowing the DM well enough to be one of his groomsmen just means that I have a good idea of how he thinks, not that I'm looking for special privileges. Life is too short to go around assuming the worst my young padawan, Have fun, he's a great GM.

Okay thanks, and sorry if I came off as a jerk. I didn't mean to sound that way.

My apologies too Devon.