Rivets Eternal: Metal Men and Fleshy Cogs

[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.

Sitting on the ground and leaning against a wall, Makh has been brooding for the many days that he has been in the cell now. And it did not help that all these others were about. His thoughts have gone back to his life on the plains... What was it all for? We never built anything, we never changed. All we did was survive. And look where I am now! The bugbear let out a low growl and slammed a fist into the wall, the dust from his outfit floated through the air.

Makh looks about at the others and gives a sneer at anyone who might say anything to his outburst. He slowly stands and moves over to the chamberpot and releives himself in a nonchalant way, looking upward through the stormdrain into the night wondeirng if he was going to see the open sky again.

Orb Kaftan - Human Bard

The guards open the door, and toss in a somewhat disheveled young woman, tearing her dress a bit as she does. They grin and joke to each other "We'll be havin' fun with that later."

The woman looks around, somewhat disturbed at her surroundings. She turns to the guards as she pulls herself up into a sitting position. "There's got to be a mistake.... There's men in this cell... and no curtain around the chamber pot," she says, but the guards simply laugh and say "Get used to it. I'm sure they'll be seeing a lot more of ya." and then turn their backs and walk away.

The woman pulls away her chestnut brown hair from her face, as she stands up as carefully as possible. Her brown eyes scan the others in the cell, and eventually she makes her way over to the bench. A shapely leg peaks out from the rip in her dress, of what appears an otherwise disheveled and loosely dressed woman. A tear runs down her face, as she stares off into the storm drain, and begins to hum a beautiful melody to herself as she tries to regain her composure.

OOC: Orb Kaftan

Malaci Barago - the big stink

Huddled in the corner, Malaci is rocking on the floor muttering under his breath.
'no... the red wire goes to the pink slot..... the green cog goes to the red wire.... no. no... the ornge cog goes to the pink spot.... no the red wire goes there....' It is easy for anyone who cares to look that the poor man is oblivious to the world around him.

[imager]http://img204.imageshack.us/img204/8010/prisondoor4ui.jpg[/imager]The Big Sink, Cellblock #1

The night creeps onward. Small sounds reverberate within the halls just outside the cell door. Faint gas lantern light spreads under that hinged iron beast -- the cells are not lit, but the hallways are. Above, the stormdrain offers little help, save the occasional curious rat who stuffs its face into the orifice for a brief second before moving on.

Almost rubbing the reality of it in your face, a rat, more free than a prisoner in this place.

The scuff of a boot, sharp breathing, sobbing, sudden, frantic screams -- these are the sounds of the Trenchtown justice system. The thick air makes every noise seem to originate from right next to you. Every scream a personal one. The weeping your own.

The room is cramped, with bodies and elbows touching uncomfortably. The prison makes prisoners forced brethren -- people you would never consider speaking to above are down here, jammed in next to you, watching you eat and a hundred other personal actions.

And, almost gleefully, sits that fat, iron door with a careful #1 etched on the door in faded yellow. Reminding you that you are but one of many. There are more. Your anguish is not unique or important.

You are a cog.

OOC: Jus' some more flavor text. I wanna at least let everyone post once before infamous THINGS HAPPEN. I'm honestly very curious as to where this campaign will end up.

Iannja, female elf

Iannja ignores the bigbear's little outburst and subsequent defiant look. After several days, it didn't even register. Nor do the screams after the first two or three days. Iannja was too busy trying to hold in her own scream. The slender woman wraps her arms around herself in an attempt still the urge to pace.

Iannja reflexively steps away from the door at the first sound of the key in the lock. On occassion the thaumaturges have proved rather spell happy. Iannja considers the new arrival in silence for a moment. With a sigh, Iannja steps forwards and hold out a hand to the woman.

"I am Iannja. And you will get used to the chamberpot. Personnally, I think the men suffer more than we do."

Iannja speaks quietly, but the is a turbulance lying just under the still surface.

ooc: Hey Bront, we didn't score a bench suit

Dartan sits against the wall with closed eyes, mulling over the events of the past month.

When the door opens and the human female is pushed inside, his attention is perked.

I wonder what she has been put in here for...

After Iannja's comment, Dartan laughs,

Truth be told, the chamberpot is not bad compared to the rest of the time here. Allow me to hazzard a guess and say that the guards found no time to give m'lady a proper introduction to this place?

In that case, I will do their duty. Welcome to hell m'lady, or as the higher-ups might see, welcome to a civilized hell, m'lady. You can call me Dartan, and you can call anyplace left on the floor yours. For putting you down here with us, I would guess you will have plenty of time to get used to the hard floor.

In any case, what did they sentence you for?

Josh Mornston, human bard - The Big Sink

Bibliophile said:

In any case, what did they sentence you for?

Click to expand...

"No doubt a false charge or a horrid misunderstanding," comes a voice from the crowd. "I'd never mark you for a hardened criminal--no assault or murder or the like. Come to think of it, you don't much look like you're used to the city at all, let alone well-enough acquainted to have gotten yourself in Big Sink trouble."

A young man extricates himself from his niche by the wall, joining the growing circle of inmates meeting the newcomer. He's lean and fit, and if his hair and beard are disheveled, they only add an attractive rakishness to his features. He smiles easy, green eyes flashing, and bows with a dramatic flourish.

"Josh o' the Mornin', at your service," he says. He winks as he rises, adding "And for the record: I'm here under the 'horrid misunderstanding' category."

The bugbear looks over the newcomer and then shrugs as he trods back to his piece of the wall, and slides down to the floor. And then starts, to no one in particular, in a deep tone "Does it matter why any of us is here? We are and that, is that. Get used to it," he motions to the blonde haired human going on about things of a mechanical nature, oblivious to all else it would seem, "Or don't."

Orb smiles at the friendly gesture from Iannja and accepts the hand readily. Before she can return the introduction, Josh introduces himself as well. She smiles again to him, a kind of warm smile of someone hoping to have found friend, and despite her disheveled appearance, the smile belays great beauty hidden under the sweat, tears, and filth of the Big Sink.

"I'm Orb," she says, in a somewhat melodic voice, gaining some confidence and melody as she speaks. "They say I killed some men. The number always changes, but they say I hacked them to pieces like some kind of berzerk barbarian." She pauses and sighs. "No one deserves what they say I did."

She catches her shapely leg sticking out from the rip in her dresch and blushes a bit, pulling the dress over it, and looking to see if she can mend or tend to the tear somehow.