The woman’s scream was particularly ear-splitting this time. It ends quickly, though, when she falls lifeless to the ground, crackling with electricity from her magical collar. You witnessed the entire scene through the bars of the wagon, helpless but safe from the whims of the driders towering over the other slaves still piling into the other wagons. This woman’s offense had been minor, speaking a few words of common or perhaps looking at an unfamiliar drider wrong or not understanding one of the two languages the driders speak or not saying “I comply” fast enough. It was a scene every slave has seen at least once before. It caused every slave to feel the chafe of the delicate collars around their necks.
The wagons are underway soon, leaving behind the half-elf woman by the side of the road. The slender, black legs of the driders scuttle alongside your wagon as a second set of bars to remind you that you are caged by the dark elf-spider hybrids that rule this part of the world. They do not need the wagons except for transporting you and the other humanoids they employ as labor, entertainment, and breeding stock.
It has been a century and a score years since the sun dimmed. Day is now in constant shadow, brighter than the night but far colder and darker than it once was. Winters are longer and summers now bear anemic crops. The world of Trimeon changed forever when the sky turned dark.
No one knows how or why it happened. Sages had little time to find the reason before monsters from the underdark flooded to the surface, almost as if they had been waiting for a shroud to blanket the sky. First it was the drow, assaulting cities from their sewers and mines. Soon the driders swarmed as well, taking cities like Duskwell.
Since Duskwell fell, other creatures never seen on the surface before run wild, such as myconids, quaggoths, oozes, and troglodytes. Furthermore, those that once roamed the surface world unafraid now serve drider and drow masters or flee from the monsters of the underdark. Resistance against their slaver masters lasted a decade or two but only a few of the long-lived races remember those times. For a hundred years, humans, elves, halflings, and those other races who built and lived in the cities of the surface toil in servitude to cruel masters, masters who have bred and interbred humanoids to make them subservient and dim as the sky.
You serve among these slaves, as the recent generation bred from 5 generations of slave stock or recently captured from the “wild” people still free of the underdark masters. You work for the driders as their laborers, their personal servants, their messengers and their bureaucratic clerks, their breeding stock, or their source of entertainment.
Their primary method of control is a magical slave collar, produced en masse to allow most of the drider populace to administer punishment or control to a slave, even one that is not their own. Every slave, even the newly captured, have experienced the pain of the necrotic punishment the collars deliver, as well as the calming spell, the sleep spell, and the hold person spell. Few have experienced the lightning punishment the collars deliver, like what killed the half-elf woman, although her death was not the first time any had witnessed such a use of the collars.
This is the state of the humanoid races in the Post Darkening year of PD 120 when this tale of the Great Uprising begins. It begins as really nothing more than a whisper, slaves riding in a prison wagon towards Duskwell. You sit with these slaves, these men and women who will be pivotal in this whisper of rebellion. Some of them you recognize among the new faces. The wagon is transporting you and your fellow slaves along a bumpy road back towards the once great city of Duskwell, whether to be your new home or returning to the only home you’ve known. This caravan of driders is returning to the city after business with the drider nest in the next town over, bringing with them their personal, private company’s, or recently acquired slaves.
You and these other slaves did not necessarily all travel together to begin with or even know each other before today. It is simply a common practice for driders to share slave wagons when transporting their slaves long distances like this. One such new face is actually something of an old face, an elderly elf. He is weathered not only by time but also mistreatment by the driders, by disease, by the hardships of being a slave. But he keeps a cheerful countenance.
“Dravis Whytefern,” the man says, by way of introduction.
His tone clashes harshly with the gloomy web-covered forest the wagon is now rattling its way through. He is speaking in common, largely considered a slave language that most driders do not speak. His voice is low, barely loud enough to hear over the creaks and bumps of the wagon. This is because speaking Common is often grounds for punishment.
“I’m a healer,” he says. “If anyone has any necrotic burns, I have salve for you.”
He looks around at the others, some with their eyes cast downwards or shaking their heads. He nods.
“Tilly, how close are we?” he says to a young halfling woman next to him.
Tilly holds up two fingers.
“Very good, very good. That should be plenty of time to get to know each other,” Dravis says. “How about some introductions, Tilly?”
The halfling is curt, efficient in laying out every slave in the wagon.
“Xev’ren, servant to Kednukha Usi. Gofer, city messenger in Elokla Dulzi’s stable. Elsol, player for Testrek Mevo’s company. Zaonvoril, new guy bound for the slave market. And Lia…”
“Oh yes,” Dravis says with a wry smile. “Lia Sparks. I know all about you and your mischief.”
“She was to be assigned to the arena,” Tilly says, which was startling news to Lia, “But I’ve nudged Lady Lassada Vezu to give her a final chance as a farmer. She will be laboring in the Wallshadow Orchard.”
Wallshadow is the closest orchard to the city and the worst orchard to grow anything, due the city walls casting shade over many of the trees there. Most slaves sent to work here have not last long since they were deemed failures at picking sufficient amounts of their assigned crops.
Before Tilly can say anything further, Dravis continues his hushed pleasantries. “Thank you, Tilly,” he says. “There are few people to trust with your life. Tilly is one of them.”
The halfling’s stony expression softens at the compliment.
“She is the reason we share this wagon today,” Dravis says. “Tilly is one of the few of us with influence among the driders. She has the ear of Lady Vezu.”
Dravis seems proud of this for some reason and Tilly’s stony expression returns. Dravis does not seem to notice, however, and continues.
“Tilly is also the reason I have found a small flame of hope in my heart. I have gone to sleep every night for the last 120 years imagining how we will drive the driders back into the underdark,” the old elf says. These are dangerous words for any slave to utter. He says them casually, and probably not for the first time. “And every once in a long while, I get the urge to try again. This time, it was because of Tilly, our dragon ace in the hand. All we need are some people willing to risk everything and fight back with me.”
Dravis’ voice turns from cheerful to sad to furious over the course of his speech. He recenters himself, letting only the sounds of wagon clatter fill their ears.
“You are among the best we have, either due to your placement or your skills or your temperament or all three,” Dravis says. “I don’t expect anyone to beat them overnight. It might take years. We will be slow, and careful, and build the resistance. When we are ready, and only then, we will take back Duskwell.”
Dravis looks at each of the slaves in turn, beginning with Tilly, gauging their reactions. He looks concerned as he surveys the group. The elf does not voice his concerns, though. He looks back to Tilly, who nods. Dravis, satisfied, says, “Are you in?”
Lia listens to the old elf speak. She sits with her feet dangling out of the cage's bars, her small body leaning against those bars as she looks outside. She has short cut red hair, which looks as if she has been cutting it herself, using sharpened rocks if nothing else would do. Her frame is no bigger than the halfling's own, slender and wiry. As the old man speaks she would turn her head, watching him as he utters words that would likely get him into loads of trouble, if their guards hear them. she finds she respects the old man for his speaking of them, knowing she herself, even with her many nuicances she had propigated against their captors, wouldn't have dared say such things herself.
"If you have a plan I am in." Her softly musical voice pipes in once the man asked if they were in. She watches those around, wondering if any of them would turn him in, or her for that matter, now that she had agreed to this. She didn't overly care, she was not meant for this sort of life, but one under sunshine, with friends and family all around. She would truly rather die than continue in this way.
Zanvoril listens to the tale cheerfully, but doesn't stop looking around, with obvious interest and excitement, at their surroundings. The tall, slender man appears to be approaching middle age, but has a face well creased with lines from his near constant smile, nothing sinister or sarcastic, just looks like he is genuinely having a good time. His shoulder length black hair is filthy and clings to his face and he wears the same slave rags as the others, but with a casual confidence more befitting a nobleman wearing the finest silks. As the man stops speaking and Lia adds her ascent, he quickly speaks up, though he does remember, barely, to keep his voice low enough the driders wouldn't hear, "Of course we're all in, destiny has obviously brought us all together so you can help me achieve my great destiny! Maybe this rebellion is my destiny! It'll be so exciting to find out! So, what do we do now? When do we start?" Even in a careful whisper, his excitement is painfully obvious to those more experienced with the life of a slave.
Bayut he whispers to complete his slave-handle. The enormous bugbear is folded surprisingly compact, and otherwise does not react. He is used to hearing and repeating treasonous words in the course of his messenger travels. But this goes on longer than before and he eventually moves one ear. Usually he trades in one sentence platitudes or slogans. So he repeats one by way of assent, at the same low volume, but with conviction: The Liberators will know Glory
Xev'ren looks up from the bars. He was lost in thought but hearing the words spoken by bugbear snapped him out of it. His once handsome face covered in a pattern of scars. The reward to make hime more interesting. His eyes, one a deep blue, the other a dull brown, shine at the words. This is the first time he has heard such words spoken aloud, and he wants more.
Elsol raises his head. The half-drow is likely the most put-together and clean in the wagon, as well as most likely the youngest. His striking blue eyes stare directly at Dravis. "I'm with you," he softly says.
Dravis nods, a kindly smile on his face. "We are starting with nothing, with less than nothing."
Excitement dances in the old elf's eyes as he considers what needs to be done. "First, Zanvoril will be sold at the slave market this afternoon shortly after our return. Tilly has one opportunity to sway Lady Lady Vezu's influence on the prospective buyers. Do any of you have any thoughts on where Zanvoril should be placed? He will most likely go to the farms or mines with little need of Tilly's persuasion. A nudge to make him a laborer, cook, or messenger would not be difficult. Let's just avoid the arena. How hard will it be to place him as a clerk or servant?"
Tilly shakes her head but says, "It is possible."
"And," Dravis cringes a little, "A breeder?"
"Really?" Tilly says, wrinkling her nose. Then she sighs. "Breeder, crafter, entertainer, healer...these will all be a challenge. But I can try. It might end him up in the arena if I have to push too hard."
Dravis nods, thinking quietly. Eventually he looks expectantly to Zanvoril and the others for input.
Asking my own actual opinion? Bayut has not had that one before I dunno, messenger lets you move around, and cooks see a lot of coming and going with supplies and all. 'Pends what you wanna do.
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
Galanodel Deacon Tosh - Less-than-Half-Elf Bard - & -Flitterbug - Pixie Sorceress : Meanwhile in the Westwoods Amadow 'Tug' Rioux - Human Psionic Palooka : Revenge Heist - - - Gofer Bayut - Bugbear Paladin Messenger : Shrouded Sky
Zanvoril shrugs and smiles, "I'm sure wherever I go, it will turn out to have been the right place. But I do have some skill with alchemy, if that's any help."
"Being a servant isn't so bad, but cooks have it better." As he talks Xev runs his hand over his shaved head, feeling the pattern of scars criss crossing his scalp.
Dravis looks to Tilly, who nods. "I'll try for a cook, laborer, or messenger placement for him," she says.
Dravis turns back to his new recruits. "I was part of the original resistance to the driders," he says. "That was 110 years ago or so. We fought hard and long and lost many good people then. Now...now we are sedate, cattle for the drider overlords. The anger and...and..."
Tilly puts a hand on Dravis' arm and he settles down.
"My point is that we had established bases of operation around the city. They were safe places where resistance fighters could meet, heal, train, and seek refuge. We need to discover which of these still exist and are still safe. Some were certainly discovered long ago but not all of them. I've been thinking about it and we need to check on five locations that might still be hidden."
Dravis proceeds to describe the locations as follows:
A supply shop for slaves on the west side of town in the Glassgate district. (Blue star; B3)
A root cellar below a sweatshop on the southwest side of town, very close to the wall. (Red X; B5)
Behind a warehouse on the northeast side of the city (Pink plus; E2)
A farm storage building for equipment outside of the city walls to the northeast (yellow shuriken; F1)
An old brownstone outside of the city walls southeast of the city (blue plus with arrows; F5)
None of these are especially close to anyone's usual place of residence or business and freedom to move about in Duskwell is somewhat restricted. The collars that all slaves wear, however, make driders relatively complacent about allowing slaves limited movement within the walls, as long as they look like they are engaged in a task for their masters. Loafing around or suspicious or unusual behavior will be immediately questioned. Traveling outside of the walls is typically not permitted without a drider escort, although those already living outside of the city, such as on the farms or at the mine, have a lot more freedom to move around.
The map also contains the starting locations for each character, as follows:
Gofer stays in the messenger stables by the Glassgate entrance to the city (blue arrow; C1)
Elsol's troop stays near the center of town adjacent to the Eight and Two, a drider inn (read teardrop; C2)
Xev'ren serves his master in the Upper Ward close to the noble estate (purple rounded square; E4)
Lia is moving to a new job just outside of the wall opposite Gofer at a small, well-guarded farm (orange circle; C1)
Zanvoril will begin at the slave market until he is purchased (green cross; D3)
Dravis is kept at a small healer conclave near the Upper Ward (D4)
Tilly serves the ruling noble drider at the drider estate (D5)
"There is one more thing...a test of sorts, not of your intentions or commitment but of your mettle. We all risk pain and death moving forward. Caution is necessary but so is boldness. To begin our little rebellion, we will need supplies. Try to steal three useful things from your masters. It could be candles or rope or cooking supplies. We will have no place to keep them until we have scouted possible safe houses, so if you find an opportunity early on, look for a place to keep your contraband until our rebellion finds its home."
The discussion about the details of where everyone is located in the city, where to find the potential safe houses, and what kinds of supplies everyone could steal is carried out in hushed, low voices for the remainder of the trip into the city. At last, though, the caravan arrives at the city, entering through the Glassgate entrance, where all the slaves from every wagon are herded out. Masters or their proxies collect their slaves and begin to depart, but not before a disturbing reminder of a slaves' tenuous position.
"You lot," a drider, who was one of the caravan guards, says in undercommon. "I saw you talking. No slavespeech allowed and I know that's what you were doing."
He clearly does not, but that does not stop Tilly from speaking up in elvish. "He was, Weaver," she says, using the honorific all slaves use for driders.
She points at Dravis. Her answer is quick and brutally honest. "He kept asking us questions."
Dravis slinks down, also speaking in elvish. "I was just offering them healing, Weaver," he says in elvish.
"That is not your place," the drider says, still in undercommon. "If their owners wants them injured, then they remain injured."
"I comply, Weaver," Dravis says.
"You best do, elf," says the drider, then motions with his hand at Dravis, speaking the dreaded phrase that activates the collar.
Dravis cries out as he is punished with necrotic magic for 1 HP of damage.
There is little incident after this as the slaves and their masters disperse into Duskwell.
At the moment, everyone is just following a single drider across the city to their home location. If you don't want to do anything during this time, you can post stating that and I will convey what "home life" is like for each of you or the market auction of Zanvoril. Elsol, Xen'rev, and Gofer are all familiar with the driders leading them. Lia and Zanvoril do not know the driders leading them.
Bayut falls in with his drider, thinking how he's been into rebellious activities for years, but it's all been bollox until now. He won't try to steal anything on this short walk home. He gets sent all over on errand-boy duty so time will be better when the screws ain't watching.
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
Galanodel Deacon Tosh - Less-than-Half-Elf Bard - & -Flitterbug - Pixie Sorceress : Meanwhile in the Westwoods Amadow 'Tug' Rioux - Human Psionic Palooka : Revenge Heist - - - Gofer Bayut - Bugbear Paladin Messenger : Shrouded Sky
This post has potentially manipulated dice roll results.
Zanvoril rubbernecks like a tourist as they walk through the city, but he does try and remember the plan and makes an effort to see both how people behave in the streets, what draws attention and what is ignored, as well as sizing up his fellow slaves to be sold.
This post has potentially manipulated dice roll results.
Gofer Bayut is back in his stable within two minutes of getting out of the wagon, as the drop-off point is conveniently next to the messenger stables. With no messages bound for Duskwell, he finds himself in his small room sitting on his straw mattress on the floor. There is little else in the room, save a basin with fresh water and a change of clothes, if needed. As a rule, Gofer is expected to stay in his room until summoned, which happens 3 or 4 times a day, or in the small common room just outside the messenger individual rooms. This common space has a couple of worn instruments and some gaming sets. There is nothing to read or craft with. Gambling with worthless chits is the most entertainment a messenger can expect.
Occasionally, as with his most recent trip, he is sent to deliver a message to a neighboring town, which garners him a little ribbing for sexually servicing a drider to get the gig. For now, Gofer is left to sleep, play with a gaming set or an instrument, or chat up one of the other messengers.
---------------------------
Zanvoril is the only one from his caravan bound for the slave market today, although he is by no means the only one up for sale. Walking from Glassgate to Eastgate takes about half a kilometer. Through the crowded streets, with towering driders and humanoid slaves scurrying underneath them, it takes about 10 minutes. It is a leisurely pace, which results in prodding from the slaver escorting Zanvoril to the market.
Looking about, the newly captured slave picks up some of the expectations of slaves easily. The proper response to just about any command is "I comply" or "I comply, Weaver." Slaves never say "yes" or use the past or future tense. In a rare display of brutality, one drider beats a half-orc with a broom repeatedly. The half-orc cries out "I comply! I comply, Weaver! I comply!"
Humanoids always defer to driders. The overlords have right of way in the streets and appear to command any slave with authority. A trio of juvenile driders are harassing a woman at the entrance to an alley, telling her to do opposing things, like sit and stand in different places. She dutifully, and fearfully, complies with each command. The drider juveniles laugh and push her down at times, leaving their game only when called away by an older drider.
At the market, a slave is up for auction as Zanvoril passes by. He is large, well-muscled, but scarred on his bare chest and back. According to the auctioneer, the slave was a laborer and is being sold to pay some debts. The currency is unfamiliar to the budding sorcerer, so it is hard to tell if the muscular man sells for a large amount or not. It seems that two or three competing bids were made, at least.
Zanvoril is deposited in a locked cage. The jailer was unnecessarily rough in pushing him in and slamming the metal door. Here, he waits, only able to listen to the muffled sounds of the auction outside. He does not even have a bed and shares a trough between his cage and four others, filled with fresh-looking water. Two of the three adjacent cages are filled with slaves patiently waiting their turn. One looks rather nervous, in fact, though neither feel compelled to say anything to Zanvoril. For now, he sits waiting his turn on the auction block.
One of the slaves waves weakly at Zanvoril, seemingly just as an instinctive response to being waved at. The other one furrows her brow at him in a constipated look of confusion.
--------
Lia is brusquely shown the communal living quarters for the fruit pickers of the Wallshadow orchard. It is a longhouse with beds lining two of the opposing walls. A few roughly crafted wooden tables and chairs stand in the center. A few of the farmers are knitting or patching their threadbare clothing. Tools for such activites appear to be haphazardly piled onto an old bookshelf leaning against two walls in the corner of the space.
There are far more beds than people in the longhouse, probably because most of the pickers are out in the orchard working. The few who are not appear to be untroubled by the driders, who generally seem to keep a perimeter around the orchard and one stationed at a scale to weigh the fruit picked each day.
A lanky, lean half-elf with graying temples leaning back against the wall on one of the beds looks Lia over as she arrives. He cannot help but let out a snort. "You are not gong to last 5 days," he says.
A human patching a pair of pants looks up at the half-elf's words and groans. "Great, someone else to dilute the pickings," he says.
"Don't worry, she won't last long," the half-elf says.
A woman knitting by the empty fireplace says, "Can she even reach the fruit?"
The half-elf shakes his head. "I'm sure it would be interesting to watch, but I don't intend to stay out in the field long enough to find out," he says. He turns back to Lia. "No offense, but we tend to not get attached around here."
The sounds of a distant fight resound through the ensuing silence, beginning with bickering and escalating from there. No driders within sight of the windows appear to move to intervene as the distant pickers argue over the meagre offerings of the orchard.
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The woman’s scream was particularly ear-splitting this time. It ends quickly, though, when she falls lifeless to the ground, crackling with electricity from her magical collar. You witnessed the entire scene through the bars of the wagon, helpless but safe from the whims of the driders towering over the other slaves still piling into the other wagons. This woman’s offense had been minor, speaking a few words of common or perhaps looking at an unfamiliar drider wrong or not understanding one of the two languages the driders speak or not saying “I comply” fast enough. It was a scene every slave has seen at least once before. It caused every slave to feel the chafe of the delicate collars around their necks.
The wagons are underway soon, leaving behind the half-elf woman by the side of the road. The slender, black legs of the driders scuttle alongside your wagon as a second set of bars to remind you that you are caged by the dark elf-spider hybrids that rule this part of the world. They do not need the wagons except for transporting you and the other humanoids they employ as labor, entertainment, and breeding stock.
It has been a century and a score years since the sun dimmed. Day is now in constant shadow, brighter than the night but far colder and darker than it once was. Winters are longer and summers now bear anemic crops. The world of Trimeon changed forever when the sky turned dark.
No one knows how or why it happened. Sages had little time to find the reason before monsters from the underdark flooded to the surface, almost as if they had been waiting for a shroud to blanket the sky. First it was the drow, assaulting cities from their sewers and mines. Soon the driders swarmed as well, taking cities like Duskwell.
Since Duskwell fell, other creatures never seen on the surface before run wild, such as myconids, quaggoths, oozes, and troglodytes. Furthermore, those that once roamed the surface world unafraid now serve drider and drow masters or flee from the monsters of the underdark. Resistance against their slaver masters lasted a decade or two but only a few of the long-lived races remember those times. For a hundred years, humans, elves, halflings, and those other races who built and lived in the cities of the surface toil in servitude to cruel masters, masters who have bred and interbred humanoids to make them subservient and dim as the sky.
You serve among these slaves, as the recent generation bred from 5 generations of slave stock or recently captured from the “wild” people still free of the underdark masters. You work for the driders as their laborers, their personal servants, their messengers and their bureaucratic clerks, their breeding stock, or their source of entertainment.
Their primary method of control is a magical slave collar, produced en masse to allow most of the drider populace to administer punishment or control to a slave, even one that is not their own. Every slave, even the newly captured, have experienced the pain of the necrotic punishment the collars deliver, as well as the calming spell, the sleep spell, and the hold person spell. Few have experienced the lightning punishment the collars deliver, like what killed the half-elf woman, although her death was not the first time any had witnessed such a use of the collars.
This is the state of the humanoid races in the Post Darkening year of PD 120 when this tale of the Great Uprising begins. It begins as really nothing more than a whisper, slaves riding in a prison wagon towards Duskwell. You sit with these slaves, these men and women who will be pivotal in this whisper of rebellion. Some of them you recognize among the new faces. The wagon is transporting you and your fellow slaves along a bumpy road back towards the once great city of Duskwell, whether to be your new home or returning to the only home you’ve known. This caravan of driders is returning to the city after business with the drider nest in the next town over, bringing with them their personal, private company’s, or recently acquired slaves.
You and these other slaves did not necessarily all travel together to begin with or even know each other before today. It is simply a common practice for driders to share slave wagons when transporting their slaves long distances like this. One such new face is actually something of an old face, an elderly elf. He is weathered not only by time but also mistreatment by the driders, by disease, by the hardships of being a slave. But he keeps a cheerful countenance.
“Dravis Whytefern,” the man says, by way of introduction.
His tone clashes harshly with the gloomy web-covered forest the wagon is now rattling its way through. He is speaking in common, largely considered a slave language that most driders do not speak. His voice is low, barely loud enough to hear over the creaks and bumps of the wagon. This is because speaking Common is often grounds for punishment.
“I’m a healer,” he says. “If anyone has any necrotic burns, I have salve for you.”
He looks around at the others, some with their eyes cast downwards or shaking their heads. He nods.
“Tilly, how close are we?” he says to a young halfling woman next to him.
Tilly holds up two fingers.
“Very good, very good. That should be plenty of time to get to know each other,” Dravis says. “How about some introductions, Tilly?”
The halfling is curt, efficient in laying out every slave in the wagon.
“Xev’ren, servant to Kednukha Usi. Gofer, city messenger in Elokla Dulzi’s stable. Elsol, player for Testrek Mevo’s company. Zaonvoril, new guy bound for the slave market. And Lia…”
“Oh yes,” Dravis says with a wry smile. “Lia Sparks. I know all about you and your mischief.”
“She was to be assigned to the arena,” Tilly says, which was startling news to Lia, “But I’ve nudged Lady Lassada Vezu to give her a final chance as a farmer. She will be laboring in the Wallshadow Orchard.”
Wallshadow is the closest orchard to the city and the worst orchard to grow anything, due the city walls casting shade over many of the trees there. Most slaves sent to work here have not last long since they were deemed failures at picking sufficient amounts of their assigned crops.
Before Tilly can say anything further, Dravis continues his hushed pleasantries. “Thank you, Tilly,” he says. “There are few people to trust with your life. Tilly is one of them.”
The halfling’s stony expression softens at the compliment.
“She is the reason we share this wagon today,” Dravis says. “Tilly is one of the few of us with influence among the driders. She has the ear of Lady Vezu.”
Dravis seems proud of this for some reason and Tilly’s stony expression returns. Dravis does not seem to notice, however, and continues.
“Tilly is also the reason I have found a small flame of hope in my heart. I have gone to sleep every night for the last 120 years imagining how we will drive the driders back into the underdark,” the old elf says. These are dangerous words for any slave to utter. He says them casually, and probably not for the first time. “And every once in a long while, I get the urge to try again. This time, it was because of Tilly, our dragon ace in the hand. All we need are some people willing to risk everything and fight back with me.”
Dravis’ voice turns from cheerful to sad to furious over the course of his speech. He recenters himself, letting only the sounds of wagon clatter fill their ears.
“You are among the best we have, either due to your placement or your skills or your temperament or all three,” Dravis says. “I don’t expect anyone to beat them overnight. It might take years. We will be slow, and careful, and build the resistance. When we are ready, and only then, we will take back Duskwell.”
Dravis looks at each of the slaves in turn, beginning with Tilly, gauging their reactions. He looks concerned as he surveys the group. The elf does not voice his concerns, though. He looks back to Tilly, who nods. Dravis, satisfied, says, “Are you in?”
Lia listens to the old elf speak. She sits with her feet dangling out of the cage's bars, her small body leaning against those bars as she looks outside. She has short cut red hair, which looks as if she has been cutting it herself, using sharpened rocks if nothing else would do. Her frame is no bigger than the halfling's own, slender and wiry. As the old man speaks she would turn her head, watching him as he utters words that would likely get him into loads of trouble, if their guards hear them. she finds she respects the old man for his speaking of them, knowing she herself, even with her many nuicances she had propigated against their captors, wouldn't have dared say such things herself.
"If you have a plan I am in." Her softly musical voice pipes in once the man asked if they were in. She watches those around, wondering if any of them would turn him in, or her for that matter, now that she had agreed to this. She didn't overly care, she was not meant for this sort of life, but one under sunshine, with friends and family all around. She would truly rather die than continue in this way.
Zanvoril listens to the tale cheerfully, but doesn't stop looking around, with obvious interest and excitement, at their surroundings. The tall, slender man appears to be approaching middle age, but has a face well creased with lines from his near constant smile, nothing sinister or sarcastic, just looks like he is genuinely having a good time. His shoulder length black hair is filthy and clings to his face and he wears the same slave rags as the others, but with a casual confidence more befitting a nobleman wearing the finest silks. As the man stops speaking and Lia adds her ascent, he quickly speaks up, though he does remember, barely, to keep his voice low enough the driders wouldn't hear, "Of course we're all in, destiny has obviously brought us all together so you can help me achieve my great destiny! Maybe this rebellion is my destiny! It'll be so exciting to find out! So, what do we do now? When do we start?" Even in a careful whisper, his excitement is painfully obvious to those more experienced with the life of a slave.
Bayut he whispers to complete his slave-handle. The enormous bugbear is folded surprisingly compact, and otherwise does not react. He is used to hearing and repeating treasonous words in the course of his messenger travels. But this goes on longer than before and he eventually moves one ear. Usually he trades in one sentence platitudes or slogans. So he repeats one by way of assent, at the same low volume, but with conviction: The Liberators will know Glory
Galanodel Deacon Tosh - Less-than-Half-Elf Bard - & - Flitterbug - Pixie Sorceress : Meanwhile in the Westwoods
Amadow 'Tug' Rioux - Human Psionic Palooka : Revenge Heist - - - Gofer Bayut - Bugbear Paladin Messenger : Shrouded Sky
Xev'ren looks up from the bars. He was lost in thought but hearing the words spoken by bugbear snapped him out of it. His once handsome face covered in a pattern of scars. The reward to make hime more interesting. His eyes, one a deep blue, the other a dull brown, shine at the words. This is the first time he has heard such words spoken aloud, and he wants more.
"I am Xev'ren, servant to Kednukha Usi."
Elsol raises his head. The half-drow is likely the most put-together and clean in the wagon, as well as most likely the youngest. His striking blue eyes stare directly at Dravis. "I'm with you," he softly says.
Dravis nods, a kindly smile on his face. "We are starting with nothing, with less than nothing."
Excitement dances in the old elf's eyes as he considers what needs to be done. "First, Zanvoril will be sold at the slave market this afternoon shortly after our return. Tilly has one opportunity to sway Lady Lady Vezu's influence on the prospective buyers. Do any of you have any thoughts on where Zanvoril should be placed? He will most likely go to the farms or mines with little need of Tilly's persuasion. A nudge to make him a laborer, cook, or messenger would not be difficult. Let's just avoid the arena. How hard will it be to place him as a clerk or servant?"
Tilly shakes her head but says, "It is possible."
"And," Dravis cringes a little, "A breeder?"
"Really?" Tilly says, wrinkling her nose. Then she sighs. "Breeder, crafter, entertainer, healer...these will all be a challenge. But I can try. It might end him up in the arena if I have to push too hard."
Dravis nods, thinking quietly. Eventually he looks expectantly to Zanvoril and the others for input.
Asking my own actual opinion? Bayut has not had that one before I dunno, messenger lets you move around, and cooks see a lot of coming and going with supplies and all. 'Pends what you wanna do.
Galanodel Deacon Tosh - Less-than-Half-Elf Bard - & - Flitterbug - Pixie Sorceress : Meanwhile in the Westwoods
Amadow 'Tug' Rioux - Human Psionic Palooka : Revenge Heist - - - Gofer Bayut - Bugbear Paladin Messenger : Shrouded Sky
Zanvoril shrugs and smiles, "I'm sure wherever I go, it will turn out to have been the right place. But I do have some skill with alchemy, if that's any help."
Lia frowns. "Best to be a clerk, cook, or messenger in my opinion. Stay away from breeder, that is just not right."
"Being a servant isn't so bad, but cooks have it better." As he talks Xev runs his hand over his shaved head, feeling the pattern of scars criss crossing his scalp.
Dravis looks to Tilly, who nods. "I'll try for a cook, laborer, or messenger placement for him," she says.
Dravis turns back to his new recruits. "I was part of the original resistance to the driders," he says. "That was 110 years ago or so. We fought hard and long and lost many good people then. Now...now we are sedate, cattle for the drider overlords. The anger and...and..."
Tilly puts a hand on Dravis' arm and he settles down.
"My point is that we had established bases of operation around the city. They were safe places where resistance fighters could meet, heal, train, and seek refuge. We need to discover which of these still exist and are still safe. Some were certainly discovered long ago but not all of them. I've been thinking about it and we need to check on five locations that might still be hidden."
Dravis proceeds to describe the locations as follows:
None of these are especially close to anyone's usual place of residence or business and freedom to move about in Duskwell is somewhat restricted. The collars that all slaves wear, however, make driders relatively complacent about allowing slaves limited movement within the walls, as long as they look like they are engaged in a task for their masters. Loafing around or suspicious or unusual behavior will be immediately questioned. Traveling outside of the walls is typically not permitted without a drider escort, although those already living outside of the city, such as on the farms or at the mine, have a lot more freedom to move around.
The map also contains the starting locations for each character, as follows:
"There is one more thing...a test of sorts, not of your intentions or commitment but of your mettle. We all risk pain and death moving forward. Caution is necessary but so is boldness. To begin our little rebellion, we will need supplies. Try to steal three useful things from your masters. It could be candles or rope or cooking supplies. We will have no place to keep them until we have scouted possible safe houses, so if you find an opportunity early on, look for a place to keep your contraband until our rebellion finds its home."
The discussion about the details of where everyone is located in the city, where to find the potential safe houses, and what kinds of supplies everyone could steal is carried out in hushed, low voices for the remainder of the trip into the city. At last, though, the caravan arrives at the city, entering through the Glassgate entrance, where all the slaves from every wagon are herded out. Masters or their proxies collect their slaves and begin to depart, but not before a disturbing reminder of a slaves' tenuous position.
"You lot," a drider, who was one of the caravan guards, says in undercommon. "I saw you talking. No slavespeech allowed and I know that's what you were doing."
He clearly does not, but that does not stop Tilly from speaking up in elvish. "He was, Weaver," she says, using the honorific all slaves use for driders.
She points at Dravis. Her answer is quick and brutally honest. "He kept asking us questions."
Dravis slinks down, also speaking in elvish. "I was just offering them healing, Weaver," he says in elvish.
"That is not your place," the drider says, still in undercommon. "If their owners wants them injured, then they remain injured."
"I comply, Weaver," Dravis says.
"You best do, elf," says the drider, then motions with his hand at Dravis, speaking the dreaded phrase that activates the collar.
Dravis cries out as he is punished with necrotic magic for 1 HP of damage.
There is little incident after this as the slaves and their masters disperse into Duskwell.
At the moment, everyone is just following a single drider across the city to their home location. If you don't want to do anything during this time, you can post stating that and I will convey what "home life" is like for each of you or the market auction of Zanvoril. Elsol, Xen'rev, and Gofer are all familiar with the driders leading them. Lia and Zanvoril do not know the driders leading them.
((looks like you left a backslash off the roll))
Bayut falls in with his drider, thinking how he's been into rebellious activities for years, but it's all been bollox until now. He won't try to steal anything on this short walk home. He gets sent all over on errand-boy duty so time will be better when the screws ain't watching.
Galanodel Deacon Tosh - Less-than-Half-Elf Bard - & - Flitterbug - Pixie Sorceress : Meanwhile in the Westwoods
Amadow 'Tug' Rioux - Human Psionic Palooka : Revenge Heist - - - Gofer Bayut - Bugbear Paladin Messenger : Shrouded Sky
Whoops! Thanks. Looks like he just got a little zap is all.
Zanvoril rubbernecks like a tourist as they walk through the city, but he does try and remember the plan and makes an effort to see both how people behave in the streets, what draws attention and what is ignored, as well as sizing up his fellow slaves to be sold.
Perception: 13
Insight: 3
Gofer Bayut is back in his stable within two minutes of getting out of the wagon, as the drop-off point is conveniently next to the messenger stables. With no messages bound for Duskwell, he finds himself in his small room sitting on his straw mattress on the floor. There is little else in the room, save a basin with fresh water and a change of clothes, if needed. As a rule, Gofer is expected to stay in his room until summoned, which happens 3 or 4 times a day, or in the small common room just outside the messenger individual rooms. This common space has a couple of worn instruments and some gaming sets. There is nothing to read or craft with. Gambling with worthless chits is the most entertainment a messenger can expect.
Occasionally, as with his most recent trip, he is sent to deliver a message to a neighboring town, which garners him a little ribbing for sexually servicing a drider to get the gig. For now, Gofer is left to sleep, play with a gaming set or an instrument, or chat up one of the other messengers.
---------------------------
Zanvoril is the only one from his caravan bound for the slave market today, although he is by no means the only one up for sale. Walking from Glassgate to Eastgate takes about half a kilometer. Through the crowded streets, with towering driders and humanoid slaves scurrying underneath them, it takes about 10 minutes. It is a leisurely pace, which results in prodding from the slaver escorting Zanvoril to the market.
Looking about, the newly captured slave picks up some of the expectations of slaves easily. The proper response to just about any command is "I comply" or "I comply, Weaver." Slaves never say "yes" or use the past or future tense. In a rare display of brutality, one drider beats a half-orc with a broom repeatedly. The half-orc cries out "I comply! I comply, Weaver! I comply!"
Humanoids always defer to driders. The overlords have right of way in the streets and appear to command any slave with authority. A trio of juvenile driders are harassing a woman at the entrance to an alley, telling her to do opposing things, like sit and stand in different places. She dutifully, and fearfully, complies with each command. The drider juveniles laugh and push her down at times, leaving their game only when called away by an older drider.
At the market, a slave is up for auction as Zanvoril passes by. He is large, well-muscled, but scarred on his bare chest and back. According to the auctioneer, the slave was a laborer and is being sold to pay some debts. The currency is unfamiliar to the budding sorcerer, so it is hard to tell if the muscular man sells for a large amount or not. It seems that two or three competing bids were made, at least.
Zanvoril is deposited in a locked cage. The jailer was unnecessarily rough in pushing him in and slamming the metal door. Here, he waits, only able to listen to the muffled sounds of the auction outside. He does not even have a bed and shares a trough between his cage and four others, filled with fresh-looking water. Two of the three adjacent cages are filled with slaves patiently waiting their turn. One looks rather nervous, in fact, though neither feel compelled to say anything to Zanvoril. For now, he sits waiting his turn on the auction block.
DM shield:
P(15): 12
L, F, M: 1
Zanvoril waves cheerfully to the other slaves awaiting sale and sits back to see what happens.
Lia follows meekly along. She knows it is best to lull new guards with letting them think she is timid and easy to control.
One of the slaves waves weakly at Zanvoril, seemingly just as an instinctive response to being waved at. The other one furrows her brow at him in a constipated look of confusion.
--------
Lia is brusquely shown the communal living quarters for the fruit pickers of the Wallshadow orchard. It is a longhouse with beds lining two of the opposing walls. A few roughly crafted wooden tables and chairs stand in the center. A few of the farmers are knitting or patching their threadbare clothing. Tools for such activites appear to be haphazardly piled onto an old bookshelf leaning against two walls in the corner of the space.
There are far more beds than people in the longhouse, probably because most of the pickers are out in the orchard working. The few who are not appear to be untroubled by the driders, who generally seem to keep a perimeter around the orchard and one stationed at a scale to weigh the fruit picked each day.
A lanky, lean half-elf with graying temples leaning back against the wall on one of the beds looks Lia over as she arrives. He cannot help but let out a snort. "You are not gong to last 5 days," he says.
A human patching a pair of pants looks up at the half-elf's words and groans. "Great, someone else to dilute the pickings," he says.
"Don't worry, she won't last long," the half-elf says.
A woman knitting by the empty fireplace says, "Can she even reach the fruit?"
The half-elf shakes his head. "I'm sure it would be interesting to watch, but I don't intend to stay out in the field long enough to find out," he says. He turns back to Lia. "No offense, but we tend to not get attached around here."
The sounds of a distant fight resound through the ensuing silence, beginning with bickering and escalating from there. No driders within sight of the windows appear to move to intervene as the distant pickers argue over the meagre offerings of the orchard.