The Game of Kings
stonegod
Spawn of Khyber/LEB Judge
"We do as we must. I do not care to be a 'prisoner' in any case. However, recall that only your four"---the kobold points at Doral, Carver, Partash, and upstairs towards where the shifter is sleeping---"were the goal of the bugbear, so keeping the three that were of the other group hidden may be ideal."
Deuce Traveler
Adventurer
"So be it," Doral says. He hides the motions of his hands and casts charm person on the prisoner.
Morika awakes much later that morning, perhaps the last of her group to arise. She had wanted to write off her drinking binge, fight, and lengthy torture session of the bugbear as a terrible nightmare, but the faint headache behind her eyes negated that. Taking a few moments to rebraid her hair and brush the remaining dried blood out of it, Morika goes to the nearest window to catch a glimpse of free sky.
Staring into the late dawn sky, she chants softly in the Druidic tongue, a language comprised of Sylvan words, animal calls and whistles, the faint rustling sounts of trees and plants, and the occasional deep thumps of stones. Her words are directed at herself and the beast spirit within her breast, and she little mind to her surroundings. Her form seems to grow a little larger, her muscles swelling slightly as she calls for strength to attend her. With a battle on the horizon, she could afford nothing less than all of the power her spirit could grant her.
When finished, she padded to the front room to see the others, only to watch Doral begin fascinating incantations on the bound bugbear.
"But he was so nice and cooperative last night," she comments with a lopsided sneer, contemplating her clawed hands with unseemly interest.
OOC: Spells prepped are same as yesterday, and Morika is taking Strength as her +2 ability bonus for the day (granted as per her Feral Spirit shifter druid substitution level).
Staring into the late dawn sky, she chants softly in the Druidic tongue, a language comprised of Sylvan words, animal calls and whistles, the faint rustling sounts of trees and plants, and the occasional deep thumps of stones. Her words are directed at herself and the beast spirit within her breast, and she little mind to her surroundings. Her form seems to grow a little larger, her muscles swelling slightly as she calls for strength to attend her. With a battle on the horizon, she could afford nothing less than all of the power her spirit could grant her.
When finished, she padded to the front room to see the others, only to watch Doral begin fascinating incantations on the bound bugbear.
"But he was so nice and cooperative last night," she comments with a lopsided sneer, contemplating her clawed hands with unseemly interest.
OOC: Spells prepped are same as yesterday, and Morika is taking Strength as her +2 ability bonus for the day (granted as per her Feral Spirit shifter druid substitution level).
Deuce Traveler
Adventurer
"Yes, he was cooperative before, but now he realizes that we are all now friends. Or at least that I have his best interest at heart," Doral says while patting the bugbear on the shoulder and moving to cut his bonds.
stonegod
Spawn of Khyber/LEB Judge
"Ask him once again where political prisoners would be kept. Make sure that if he does not know where they are, then where they would not be. I do not like having to storm this place blindly. It would be best if he know were our Baron was, but apparently that is not to be."
Dark_Jackalope
First Post
The bugbear watched Doral loose his bonds, and looked up at the gathering group with a new expression of intrigue. While still not particularly happy looking, he had exchanged his anxious and apprehensive manner for a more comfortable one.
In direct answer to Vhir’s question, the ungainly humanoid said, in a more hardened and drawling tone than the night before, “We usu’lly keep prisoners in th’ prison cells unde’ th’ barracks, but I havn’t seen eny new ones lately.”
Sensing an imminent and frustrated dismissal by his new “friends”, the bugbear continued, a shadow of pleasure touching his face as if crossing the Prince gave him some private happiness.
“But we don’ usu’lly get import’nt prisoners, more like common law-breakers. Yet th’ Prince hardly doesn’t ‘ave enemies… So ah figure ‘is Highness has a particul’r place for those prisn’rs. Probably right in ‘is manner, ah’d bet.”
Seeing he had the group’s attention, he broke out in a toothy smile for the first time. “Th’ Prince might ‘ave cells under his manor, or mebbe they’re up in ‘is private chambers, if this prisn’r you’re looking for is real important. Ah don’t b’lieve they’re in th’ barracks, though, ’ll tell you that. An’ probably not in the commons on th’ first floor a’ the manorhouse, either.”
On that note, the bugbear concluded his speech, and began to root around for his bag. “’M starved!” he commented casually, as if this was his normal state of being.
“There’s a kitchen upstairs, though it’s been many years since I’ve cooked anything for somebody in it,” Carver offered.
The bugbear’s fist emerged from his small leather sack with a cut of dried meat. “Nah,” it answered, “Ah’ve still got a bit leftov’r from last night.” He sat back down in the chair in which he had until recently been bound, seeming to forget this earlier treatment. His aggressive and proactive personality was already beginning to show as he became comfortable with his “fellows”, with an oddly artificial air of helpfulness masking what was probably a normally more independent and solitary attitude.
“So, yeh all really gonna take an imporant pris'ner right outta the Prince's hands? Well then, what's the plan? We better get movin' fast, yeh know. They be s'pectin' me at th' barracks soon.”
In direct answer to Vhir’s question, the ungainly humanoid said, in a more hardened and drawling tone than the night before, “We usu’lly keep prisoners in th’ prison cells unde’ th’ barracks, but I havn’t seen eny new ones lately.”
Sensing an imminent and frustrated dismissal by his new “friends”, the bugbear continued, a shadow of pleasure touching his face as if crossing the Prince gave him some private happiness.
“But we don’ usu’lly get import’nt prisoners, more like common law-breakers. Yet th’ Prince hardly doesn’t ‘ave enemies… So ah figure ‘is Highness has a particul’r place for those prisn’rs. Probably right in ‘is manner, ah’d bet.”
Seeing he had the group’s attention, he broke out in a toothy smile for the first time. “Th’ Prince might ‘ave cells under his manor, or mebbe they’re up in ‘is private chambers, if this prisn’r you’re looking for is real important. Ah don’t b’lieve they’re in th’ barracks, though, ’ll tell you that. An’ probably not in the commons on th’ first floor a’ the manorhouse, either.”
On that note, the bugbear concluded his speech, and began to root around for his bag. “’M starved!” he commented casually, as if this was his normal state of being.
“There’s a kitchen upstairs, though it’s been many years since I’ve cooked anything for somebody in it,” Carver offered.
The bugbear’s fist emerged from his small leather sack with a cut of dried meat. “Nah,” it answered, “Ah’ve still got a bit leftov’r from last night.” He sat back down in the chair in which he had until recently been bound, seeming to forget this earlier treatment. His aggressive and proactive personality was already beginning to show as he became comfortable with his “fellows”, with an oddly artificial air of helpfulness masking what was probably a normally more independent and solitary attitude.
“So, yeh all really gonna take an imporant pris'ner right outta the Prince's hands? Well then, what's the plan? We better get movin' fast, yeh know. They be s'pectin' me at th' barracks soon.”
Deuce Traveler
Adventurer
Doral ponders the choices before nodding to himself. "Very well. I'll be one of your 'prisoners' so that we can get into the barracks. Perhaps we can say that Morika here switched sides and helped you bring us in, since she was being recruited by some of your fellow strongmen. Of course, Carver will not be seen at all..." Doral moves his items and weapons into his backpack and slings it back to his shoulders. He gets ready to cast invisibility on Carver, watches his allies make similar preparations, then puts his hands over his head in a gesture of surrender before allowing himself to be marched out.