Upgrade your account to a Community Supporter account and remove most of the site ads.

Reply to thread

Message: <blockquote data-quote="Ambrus" data-source="post: 4739305" data-attributes="member: 17691">Crazy Monkey, I've updated my character in the Rogue's Gallery with a new image, descriptions of his two feats, his choice of language and a fleshed out character background. It describes what his fellow prisoners would know about him from the few days before he succumbed to death. It's supposed to preface the beginning of the campaign. I'm posting it here so everyone who's interested can read it. Let me know what you think.You know it occurs to me that, while waiting for the campaign to start, some of the players who are ready could entertain themselves by role-playing some time together in the dungeon; observing routine, greeting new prisoners, sharing backgrounds, etc. It'd be something to do while we wait. Just an idea. <img src="https://cdn.jsdelivr.net/joypixels/assets/8.0/png/unicode/64/1f642.png" class="smilie smilie--emoji" loading="lazy" width="64" height="64" alt=":)" title="Smile    :)"  data-smilie="1"data-shortname=":)" />––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––A prison guard with a split lip and spitting blood had brought the shackled prisoner down the stairs into the subterranean prison wing known, unsurprisingly, as "the dungeon". If the guard was injured, his charge was a bloody mess. The wretch's hair was matted with blood, his right eye ugly and swollen shut. He struggled to drag his left leg while desperately clutching his sore ribs with both arms. The pitiless guard kept the prisoner moving ahead of him with threats and generous thrusts of his truncheon to the small of the man's back. The prisoner continued to beg pathetically the whole time in spite of the guard's pitiless demeanor; a nearly incomprehensible litany of mumbled apologies, desperate explanations and senseless blubbering.The hardened criminals of the dungeon, both human and otherwise, laughed and taunted the pair through cell doors as they made their way down the corridor. Word spread quickly that the man was a petty thief who'd senselessly thrown away the possibility of an early release on a foolish escape attempt in which his current escort had been injured. The predictable result was a harsh beating, a much more serious criminal charge and relocation to the dungeon. Instead of opening a cell door, the guard stopped at an iron grate in the floor and fished out a set of keys from his belt. In a few moments, it was unlocked, the grate propped open and a darkened hole loomed ominously before the prisoner. Under better circumstances a wooden ladder would have been lowered into the hole to allow access, but the spiteful guardsman turned and unceremoniously pushed the prisoner in. Still blubbering his sob story the man was caught unprepared and was quickly swallowed up by the darkness with little more than a gasp and a resounding crack of bone as he hit the oubliette floor ten feet below. Nothing but the jeers of the other inmates and the squeal of rusted hinges could be heard as the guard closed and locked the oubliette grating and walked away.There was some debate amongst the other prisoners over the next day whether the man had even survived the fall seeing as how nothing could be heard from his hole. The question was answered in the wee hours of the morning when the man's moans and then screams of anguish echoed throughout the dungeon. Any pity the prisoners might have felt for the wretch was quickly eroded by his nearly constant cries of pain and more calls for mercy. Angry shouts for him to shut up went unheeded. A few of the more callous inmates dumped the contents of their chamberpots into the corridor so that their waste might drain down into the oubliette and so deliver a more poignant incentive to its occupant to be quiet.For days, the badly injured prisoner continued to weep in pain while repeatedly muttering a woman's name; something like Amberline. No one knew, or much cared, whether it was the man's lover, wife, mother, sister or daughter, but the wretch seemed more concerned for her well being than his own. Eventually, much to the gratitude of prisoners and guards alike, the man lost the ability to speak and only moaned occasionally. In time, even that sound diminished to nothing. The last anyone in the dungeon heard of the man was two days later when a guardsmen dumped a bucket of drinking water into the oubliette. Some sputtering and weak slurping followed for a few minutes and then, once again, silence. It seemed that the wretch had finally met his end; alone, in the dark, with no one to remember his name, except perhaps for the woman to whom he'd called in his last moments. Rest in peace.</blockquote>

Verification