ahayford
First Post
Cool winds and the scent of pine herald the waning summer and the coming of fall. Across the hamlets and villages of Talingarde, families are bringing in the summer harvest and preparing the stores for winter. The sweet scent of cider and the bite of pickling herbs fill every household with a sense of warmth and cheer. Laughter echoes through the valleys as children run through the reaped fields with abandon, trying their best to enjoy every last ray of sunshine before the first snowfalls blanket the land.
On the King’s Road along the coast, the frigid north winds blow freely across the sea, unhampered by the trees and hills that protect the heartland from Gozreh’s icy breath. The road meanders down the rocky coast line as it leads its travelers to their destination. This road has but one destination, and its travelers are either the damned, or their watchmen. The wagon that trundles down the stoney dirt path contains six such souls, four riders delivering the wretches to their cells in Branderscar Prison.
The frigid winds whipped through the steel bars on the carriage and burned like fire on the skin of the six prisoners who had been forsaken by Iomedae. Their thin roughspun prison shifts did little to protect them from the elements. Each prisoner sat chained to a heavy steel bar in carriage. The low roof allow none, except one child sized passenger to stand. Another chain ran through a manacle on each prisoner’s left foot, which in turn was locked to a steel bar. If that wasn’t enough, each of their hands were bound with iron shackles behind their backs.
Herik Torvin, son of a lesser house, sat dishonored and disowned. The trickle of spittle still sat in his grey hair were the guardsman had spat it after screaming “Traitor” and throwing him into the carriage. His cold blue eyes stared out across the ocean, still calculating and scheming despite his circumstances.
Rath Deviltusk sat behind him. The half-orc heretic to the teaching of Iomedae visibly fumed at his capture. The points of his tusks had been filed down flat after he had punctured a guard’s jugular with a flick of his head. He chuckled deeply at the memory of the fools sputtering shock as he watched his life ebb out of him. These week servants of Iomedae would soon know what true power was.
Sam Mason was an imposing man even stripped of his ceremonial vestments. The cleric of Asmodeus’s firey red hair and grey eyes dared anyone who saw him to question the power of the Dark Father. He sat, deceptively quiet. He knew Asmodeus awards strength and punishes the week and unworthy. When Mason’s moment came, he would should the Dark Father his strength, and thus prove himself worthy. He would not wait to die like a dog.
The son of a wealthy mechant, Quigly Sanderson sat, looking the most dejected of all of them. For someone used to the luxuries of him station, riding in these horrible conditions was worse then death. Quiqly was no fool though. His mind raced as he tried to formulate a plan to escape. He took in every detail. A well placed rumor here....a gratiating complement there...He still might make it out of here alive...
A dark skinned elf, an exotic beauty for this land, sat shivering in the cold. Firvinianna’s prisoner shift did little to hide her voluptuous form. During her trial, her beauty did more to damn her then save her. Arrested for suspected witchcraft and collusion with devils, the lascivious stares of the guards hardly aided her case. Her long white hair was bound tightly with a length of twine to keep it under control. Her mouth was gagged with a silk cloth delicately painted with the sigil of Iomedae, lest she use her powers to ensorcell any unwary guards.
The last prisoner, bound behind Firvinianna, was a freckle faced red-haired halfling girl. Zelda’s cheerful and friendly demeanor hid the dark scheming mind that lurked within. She had nearly avoided capture when the guards first came for her, almost passing herself off as a child, not the mastermind of plot against the King. The witch hunter, Sir Balin of Karfield saw the imp for what she was and clapped her in irons. As Firvinianna before her, a silk gag was placed in her mouth to prevent her from using powers influence anyone else.
Much too soon, the roar of the surf crashing and churning by the coastal fortress of Branderscar announced their arrival. The fortress sat on a high rocky peninsula jutting out into the ocean. The dark water below churned like dark oil, promising to swallow anyone that might try and leap from the castle’s walls.
Branderscar Prison once served as a fortification against southern pirates, but the southern raiders had stopped plying their trade this far north ages ago. It has since been repurposed into the most infamous prison in the small island kingdom. The prison didn’t have many cells, but its residents never stayed long. It mostly served as a holding cell until the death sentence could be carried out or the work gangs came to pick up a new batch of slaves. The brutal justice meted out by the Paladin King made some of the less ardent of Iomedae’s followers queasy. The remote location of Branderscar helped the King and his followers keep the worst of the worst tidily hidden away.
At a word from the lead rider, wooden blinds lower over the carriage to block the prisoners sight. Despite the cold ocean air, the carriage quickly became stuffy and hot from the six bodies trapped inside. After an uncomfortable eternity, the back and top of the carriage open up, the welcome buffet of fresh air rushing over the prisoners.
Well...A finer lot o’ scum I’ve never seen. Love that smell. Smell o’ fear an piss. Nathan, Gil...get them out and movin’.
The guards unclasp the prisoners from the carriage and lead them out single file, all chained in a row. Six guardsmen stand around the cart with weapons drawn as the prisoners file out. Several more watch from the battlements above the courtyard, crossbows at their side. The sergeant stops as Firvinianna and Zelda are led out.
Well what have we got here! Two beauties lads. I admit I don’t like em pint sized, but a lot o the boys here have been away a long time.... The guard stops to grin evilly. And then others are just a wee sick in the head.
The guards laugh until one of the riders drops off his mount and lays the sergeant out with one swift mailed fist. The crack echoes like a thunderbolt that silences the laughter like gavel.
I trust, Blackerly, that you will see the prisoners to their cells....where they will remain until such time that Iomedae’s will may be executed. These two are witches, devil worshippers. The whispers that come from their mouths are designed to lead men like you and I astray into the arms of the dark father.....or worse.
The dark haired rider takes a moment to deliver another swift kicks to the sergeants ribs before climbing back on his horse.
I mean it Blackerly...this time there will be no mercy. I will throw you off the wall myself. Iomedae’s justice is swift and final. Have I made myself clear?
Sergeant blackerly rubs his jaw. Ye...ye... yes Sir Balin. You heard him maggots. Get this lot o’ scum to their cells. Not one of ye bastards touches the women on pain o’ death.
The paladin, his three men, and the carriage, thunder out of the keep, their mounts clattering on the stonework like a cannonade.
The prisoners are led to the keep where they are processed like cattle on a slaughter line. Each is held down while the glowing brand of an F is burned into their forearm, forever marking each of the as forsaken of Iomedae.
An aged barber awaits at the next station. His spectacles sit precariously on the end of his birdlike nose. Rusty shears and razors sit along his wall, and he seems almost giddy to get a chance to do his work. Each prisoner is strapped to a chair, as the old main shears their heads bald. The old man holds a mirror up while he works, so each person can see him strip their old life from them. Each snip and swipe of the scissors is deliberately final. Soon, all that remains is a prisoner.
Bald, cold, and hungry, the six prisoners are led to their second floor cell. The chain that runs through their feat is bolted to the floor, and each prisoner's wrist shackles are secured to rings in the ceiling. In three days, the executioners axe falls or the pyre will be lit. Through fire or steel, you will pay for your crimes. A gaurd is posted outside your cell day and night. At Branderscar prison, little thought is given towards long term accomodations. Iomedae’s justice is swift.
Escape seems hopeless. You have all been well searched and every attempt to conceal anything on your person has failed. And if you somehow slip your bonds and fly out of the prison, where would you go? Who from your former life would want anything to do with forsaken? Despised, alone, and shackled - all that you can do now is await your doom.
For each of you, your old life is over. For each of you, hope is a fading memory. For each of you, justice will be fairly metted. And who can blame fair Talingarde after what each of you has done?
You look around at your fellow prisoners who share your fate. Could this be the fools fatal mistake? Do you see allies? Spies? Time will tell.
On the King’s Road along the coast, the frigid north winds blow freely across the sea, unhampered by the trees and hills that protect the heartland from Gozreh’s icy breath. The road meanders down the rocky coast line as it leads its travelers to their destination. This road has but one destination, and its travelers are either the damned, or their watchmen. The wagon that trundles down the stoney dirt path contains six such souls, four riders delivering the wretches to their cells in Branderscar Prison.
The frigid winds whipped through the steel bars on the carriage and burned like fire on the skin of the six prisoners who had been forsaken by Iomedae. Their thin roughspun prison shifts did little to protect them from the elements. Each prisoner sat chained to a heavy steel bar in carriage. The low roof allow none, except one child sized passenger to stand. Another chain ran through a manacle on each prisoner’s left foot, which in turn was locked to a steel bar. If that wasn’t enough, each of their hands were bound with iron shackles behind their backs.
Herik Torvin, son of a lesser house, sat dishonored and disowned. The trickle of spittle still sat in his grey hair were the guardsman had spat it after screaming “Traitor” and throwing him into the carriage. His cold blue eyes stared out across the ocean, still calculating and scheming despite his circumstances.
Rath Deviltusk sat behind him. The half-orc heretic to the teaching of Iomedae visibly fumed at his capture. The points of his tusks had been filed down flat after he had punctured a guard’s jugular with a flick of his head. He chuckled deeply at the memory of the fools sputtering shock as he watched his life ebb out of him. These week servants of Iomedae would soon know what true power was.
Sam Mason was an imposing man even stripped of his ceremonial vestments. The cleric of Asmodeus’s firey red hair and grey eyes dared anyone who saw him to question the power of the Dark Father. He sat, deceptively quiet. He knew Asmodeus awards strength and punishes the week and unworthy. When Mason’s moment came, he would should the Dark Father his strength, and thus prove himself worthy. He would not wait to die like a dog.
The son of a wealthy mechant, Quigly Sanderson sat, looking the most dejected of all of them. For someone used to the luxuries of him station, riding in these horrible conditions was worse then death. Quiqly was no fool though. His mind raced as he tried to formulate a plan to escape. He took in every detail. A well placed rumor here....a gratiating complement there...He still might make it out of here alive...
A dark skinned elf, an exotic beauty for this land, sat shivering in the cold. Firvinianna’s prisoner shift did little to hide her voluptuous form. During her trial, her beauty did more to damn her then save her. Arrested for suspected witchcraft and collusion with devils, the lascivious stares of the guards hardly aided her case. Her long white hair was bound tightly with a length of twine to keep it under control. Her mouth was gagged with a silk cloth delicately painted with the sigil of Iomedae, lest she use her powers to ensorcell any unwary guards.
The last prisoner, bound behind Firvinianna, was a freckle faced red-haired halfling girl. Zelda’s cheerful and friendly demeanor hid the dark scheming mind that lurked within. She had nearly avoided capture when the guards first came for her, almost passing herself off as a child, not the mastermind of plot against the King. The witch hunter, Sir Balin of Karfield saw the imp for what she was and clapped her in irons. As Firvinianna before her, a silk gag was placed in her mouth to prevent her from using powers influence anyone else.
Much too soon, the roar of the surf crashing and churning by the coastal fortress of Branderscar announced their arrival. The fortress sat on a high rocky peninsula jutting out into the ocean. The dark water below churned like dark oil, promising to swallow anyone that might try and leap from the castle’s walls.
Branderscar Prison once served as a fortification against southern pirates, but the southern raiders had stopped plying their trade this far north ages ago. It has since been repurposed into the most infamous prison in the small island kingdom. The prison didn’t have many cells, but its residents never stayed long. It mostly served as a holding cell until the death sentence could be carried out or the work gangs came to pick up a new batch of slaves. The brutal justice meted out by the Paladin King made some of the less ardent of Iomedae’s followers queasy. The remote location of Branderscar helped the King and his followers keep the worst of the worst tidily hidden away.
At a word from the lead rider, wooden blinds lower over the carriage to block the prisoners sight. Despite the cold ocean air, the carriage quickly became stuffy and hot from the six bodies trapped inside. After an uncomfortable eternity, the back and top of the carriage open up, the welcome buffet of fresh air rushing over the prisoners.
Well...A finer lot o’ scum I’ve never seen. Love that smell. Smell o’ fear an piss. Nathan, Gil...get them out and movin’.
The guards unclasp the prisoners from the carriage and lead them out single file, all chained in a row. Six guardsmen stand around the cart with weapons drawn as the prisoners file out. Several more watch from the battlements above the courtyard, crossbows at their side. The sergeant stops as Firvinianna and Zelda are led out.
Well what have we got here! Two beauties lads. I admit I don’t like em pint sized, but a lot o the boys here have been away a long time.... The guard stops to grin evilly. And then others are just a wee sick in the head.
The guards laugh until one of the riders drops off his mount and lays the sergeant out with one swift mailed fist. The crack echoes like a thunderbolt that silences the laughter like gavel.
I trust, Blackerly, that you will see the prisoners to their cells....where they will remain until such time that Iomedae’s will may be executed. These two are witches, devil worshippers. The whispers that come from their mouths are designed to lead men like you and I astray into the arms of the dark father.....or worse.
The dark haired rider takes a moment to deliver another swift kicks to the sergeants ribs before climbing back on his horse.
I mean it Blackerly...this time there will be no mercy. I will throw you off the wall myself. Iomedae’s justice is swift and final. Have I made myself clear?
Sergeant blackerly rubs his jaw. Ye...ye... yes Sir Balin. You heard him maggots. Get this lot o’ scum to their cells. Not one of ye bastards touches the women on pain o’ death.
The paladin, his three men, and the carriage, thunder out of the keep, their mounts clattering on the stonework like a cannonade.
The prisoners are led to the keep where they are processed like cattle on a slaughter line. Each is held down while the glowing brand of an F is burned into their forearm, forever marking each of the as forsaken of Iomedae.
An aged barber awaits at the next station. His spectacles sit precariously on the end of his birdlike nose. Rusty shears and razors sit along his wall, and he seems almost giddy to get a chance to do his work. Each prisoner is strapped to a chair, as the old main shears their heads bald. The old man holds a mirror up while he works, so each person can see him strip their old life from them. Each snip and swipe of the scissors is deliberately final. Soon, all that remains is a prisoner.
Bald, cold, and hungry, the six prisoners are led to their second floor cell. The chain that runs through their feat is bolted to the floor, and each prisoner's wrist shackles are secured to rings in the ceiling. In three days, the executioners axe falls or the pyre will be lit. Through fire or steel, you will pay for your crimes. A gaurd is posted outside your cell day and night. At Branderscar prison, little thought is given towards long term accomodations. Iomedae’s justice is swift.
Escape seems hopeless. You have all been well searched and every attempt to conceal anything on your person has failed. And if you somehow slip your bonds and fly out of the prison, where would you go? Who from your former life would want anything to do with forsaken? Despised, alone, and shackled - all that you can do now is await your doom.
For each of you, your old life is over. For each of you, hope is a fading memory. For each of you, justice will be fairly metted. And who can blame fair Talingarde after what each of you has done?
You look around at your fellow prisoners who share your fate. Could this be the fools fatal mistake? Do you see allies? Spies? Time will tell.
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