dave_o
Explorer
[imagel]http://img288.imageshack.us/img288/4252/prisoninterior9cu.gif[/imagel] They call it "The Big Sink," that rusty, wrought-iron prison sunk beneath Trenchtown. It used to be sewers, they say. But there were just too many people the aristocracy wanted off the streets so they all had to end up somewhere. Rennovate the upper level of sewers, they must have thought, they're offal anyway.
As a result, the place is haphazard. Various sections of it rest under various parts of Trenchtown. The usual access is via ladder in an alley, or on occasion just in the middle of a thuroughfare -- always guarded by Militia, of course. Those dark-blue uniformed ghosts hanging around. They don't gamble. They don't drink. They rarely talk. But they do show up when things get out of hand and they do get them right back in hand posthaste.
There are hundreds of folks stuffed in The Big Sink. Murderers, rapists, con-artists, burglars, or just folks who rubbed some money the wrong way. Or abolitionists. Or purely innocent folks who just happened in the wrong place at the wrong time.
A city as big as Trenchtown, there are a whole lot of those.
And here we come to the Griffon block of the Trenchtown Formal Incarceration Center, better known as The Big Sink, just underneath the cobbles of southern Lowtown. The walls here are grubby with grime, lit by sputtering gas lanterns drooling pale yellow light. The halls echo with the booted footsteps of the guards -- man and dwarf, both, wearing long black jackets and carrying big black rifles. Not Militia, just rough folks controllable enough to be put on prison duty.
Two loaves of bread, greasy butter, and a pitcher of water get jammed through the door twice a day. The few prisoners who made the mistake of rushing the door learned quick that the city of Trenchtown employs a few thaumaturges, as well. They tumbled back into their cells with their faces peeling off, wasting half a day's water trying to put an arcane fire out.
It's cramped, nine or ten to a 35' by 35' cell. Sometimes you get lucky and there's a stormdrain up by your roof, letting in a little air and light. But then you reckon you're not so lucky when the rain starts pouring in. Sometimes there's a bench, sometime there isn't.
In a particular cell I know, they got lucky. They've got a stormdrain up near their room and thank the gods it hasn't rained the whole week they've been incaracerated. There's nine of 'em jammed up in there -- a few men, a woman, two she-elfs, a druid, and one of those great big bugbears.
They didn't get lucky enough to have a bench, however.
Enjoy. Have some fun introductory roleplay before some stuff happens.
It's currently night-time, according to the slit of sky you can see thanks to your stormdrain (at the top of the western wall, about a two inch slit that's maybe a foot long). As I said all nine of you are in a 35'x35' stone cell, with a 5' metal door on the eastern wall. Your meals are delivered twice a day, and you have a chamber pot to relieve yourselves in. You have no equipment except for a single set of peasant's clothing.
As a result, the place is haphazard. Various sections of it rest under various parts of Trenchtown. The usual access is via ladder in an alley, or on occasion just in the middle of a thuroughfare -- always guarded by Militia, of course. Those dark-blue uniformed ghosts hanging around. They don't gamble. They don't drink. They rarely talk. But they do show up when things get out of hand and they do get them right back in hand posthaste.
There are hundreds of folks stuffed in The Big Sink. Murderers, rapists, con-artists, burglars, or just folks who rubbed some money the wrong way. Or abolitionists. Or purely innocent folks who just happened in the wrong place at the wrong time.
A city as big as Trenchtown, there are a whole lot of those.
And here we come to the Griffon block of the Trenchtown Formal Incarceration Center, better known as The Big Sink, just underneath the cobbles of southern Lowtown. The walls here are grubby with grime, lit by sputtering gas lanterns drooling pale yellow light. The halls echo with the booted footsteps of the guards -- man and dwarf, both, wearing long black jackets and carrying big black rifles. Not Militia, just rough folks controllable enough to be put on prison duty.
Two loaves of bread, greasy butter, and a pitcher of water get jammed through the door twice a day. The few prisoners who made the mistake of rushing the door learned quick that the city of Trenchtown employs a few thaumaturges, as well. They tumbled back into their cells with their faces peeling off, wasting half a day's water trying to put an arcane fire out.
It's cramped, nine or ten to a 35' by 35' cell. Sometimes you get lucky and there's a stormdrain up by your roof, letting in a little air and light. But then you reckon you're not so lucky when the rain starts pouring in. Sometimes there's a bench, sometime there isn't.
In a particular cell I know, they got lucky. They've got a stormdrain up near their room and thank the gods it hasn't rained the whole week they've been incaracerated. There's nine of 'em jammed up in there -- a few men, a woman, two she-elfs, a druid, and one of those great big bugbears.
They didn't get lucky enough to have a bench, however.
Enjoy. Have some fun introductory roleplay before some stuff happens.
It's currently night-time, according to the slit of sky you can see thanks to your stormdrain (at the top of the western wall, about a two inch slit that's maybe a foot long). As I said all nine of you are in a 35'x35' stone cell, with a 5' metal door on the eastern wall. Your meals are delivered twice a day, and you have a chamber pot to relieve yourselves in. You have no equipment except for a single set of peasant's clothing.
