You are a slave.

 How you got here varies from one of you to the next, but you are now one of twenty four depressed, subjugated and abused slaves in the hold of a Guild ship.

 The Guild of Master Merchants and Sea Farers controls all trade across the Republic.  They are a powerful and ubiquitous organization whose rulers, the mysterious Trade Lords, have a sinister reputation.  They have long been rumoured to use slaves in the carracks which ply the Inner Sea and beyond, but rare is the harbour master who would accuse a Guild captain of slavery.  The risks of the wrath of the Trade Lords keep most silent.  Those merchant captains who pay crew to man their oars do so at a cost; those who use slaves pay nothing for the manpower.  This means slavers can return more profit on their trips, and profit is the only thing the Guild appears to care about.

 That said the Guild captains do not flaunt their slaves.  You spend your time mostly shackled down in the sunless bottom reaches of the ship when not rowing [area 27].  When the ship pulls into port, guards stand over you, ready to silence any who try to call for help.  The cargo hold where the slavers keep you is below sea level so there is virtually no hope of anyone on shore hearing you and, even if they did, it is unlikely they would raise the issue.  Fear of the Guild keeps most people in check.

 The lower deck of the ship, the level above the hold,  is where you are sometimes called upon to row.  It comprises two rows of six benches, with each bench being sized for two slaves to pull on the huge oars [area 15].  At the bow-end of the oar deck, a lone drummer typically stands, beating out a cadence for the rowers to follow.  The drummer is a big, fat, bald Ibini, who you know to be called Bayo.  He is in charge of the oar deck when you are on it.

 A couple of guards typically wander the oar deck whilst the slaves are there.  These are typical tough Lucarcians, blond, stubbly, swarthy and wearing simple leathers.  They carry whip cords with which they delight in striking anyone who is shirking their duties or talking.  They also have cutlasses at their sides but you have never yet seen them draw or use them.

 Occasionally you are unlucky enough to be visited by Scraggs, the first mate.  He is a toothless, wiry man, with unkempt grey hair and a gait that only an experienced seadog can acquire.  He has a habit of chewing on raw garlic cloves and is almost always slightly drunk.  He's also the roughest, toughest and meanest man most of you have ever met.  He is vile, petty and crude and appears to delight in torturing the slaves - but never enough to actually stop them being able to work.  His visits are infrequent but it is never a happy moment when the waft of garlic and strong liquor arrives below deck.

 Above the oar deck you know is the main deck.  You can occasionally feel the breath of fresh, salty air waft down from the three ladders which lead up there when you are rowing, and the promise of sunlight occasionally streams down to light the otherwise dim lower deck where the oar benches are.  You are never allowed on the main deck.

 When in the lower hold you are all shackled on to rusty iron posts which dot the bulkhead.  At these times you are not usually guarded and so are free to talk and plot.  When it is time to row, two guards typically descend down into the hold, collect the slaves and usher you upstairs to the oar deck.  There you are manacled to the rowing benches and await the arrival of Bayo.  For some reason - probably something to do with egotistically wanting to make an entrance, Bayo always arrives on the oar deck a few minutes after you are all seated and shackled in place.  It is a running joke with the guards as to how long he will take to make his grand entrance.

Nos Heliwr will scope out the other slaves, looking for those who still have the spark of indignant and angry rebellion at their present circumstances.

A tall but skinny blond man stares back, then turns his head a bit and mimes pulling at the chains.

Nos Heliwr whispers, “I be Nos Heliwr,” and he, too, tugs at his chains at the same time miming unlocking the chains; a questioning expression on his face.

Just clarify if you are having this conversation in the hold with no guards around?

((Vaclav would have waited until there were no guards))

"Vaclav." He looks around again to see if anyone else is looking. "A few ideas but nothing that wouldn't be better with more friends." 

There are currently no guards in the hold, as is usual.

Some of the less adventurous captives look incredulous as you appear to be discussing a potential break for freedom. Most seem to try and disassociate themselves from you as far as the locked manacles allow. 

Salazar rubs the chafing in his wrists.  There's no way the injuries, small as they were over time, would not become scars.  Maybe I can tattoo over them at some point?  Ah, but they hurt like acid.  And those tattoos hurt no less.  Perhaps not.  But I can't wear long sleeves for the rest of my days, can I?  Mighty uncomfortable.

The sound of talking is surprising.  No one talks down here, everyone is too crushed in spirit.  A few days of weeping and attempted conversation, with urged whispers to shut one's godforsaken mouth;  that's all one really can expect.  Or at least that was Salazar's experience.  The most conversation he'd gotten in the past week was Scraggs mocking him for his weak arms.  He'd given Salazar a shallow cut on the arm, then poured some salt water in it, saying it'd toughen him up.  Then a quick clout on the head.  

Salazar replayed the words the blond man's words in his head.  An introduction?  What good is that?  But a jangle of chains and furtive eye contact?  Now that was interesting indeed.  Salazar coughs and lifts up his chains, wincing as the shackle digs into the thin, raw skin around his wrists, attempting to make eye contact with Nos.  

(I'm also assuming that this is in the hold)

When he is sure only the two, more spirited folks are looking, Nos Heliwr says, in a voice that, hopefully, carries to just them, “I might be able t’ unlock our chains. But it’ll have t’ be at night, best chance t’ get away. D’ ye know where they stashed our gear?”

Vaclav shakes his head. He then looks around to see if anyone else seems to want to join in.

Currently you can tell the ship is at sea.  The creaking of the rigging and the lapping of the swell against the bulkhead, plus the obvious rise and fall of the hull make that clear.  You would estimate you've been at sea a few days and it's unusual of the ship to stay at sea for more than three or four days at a time, so you would expect to make landfall soon.

One obvious question is, would you prefer to try and break out when at sea or in a port...?

Claire is jostled awake by the jangling of chains.  Wha--?  Oh.  Still in this nightmare.

Blinking wearily, she rubs her eyes and looks around for the source of the disturbance.  Two men fair-haired men in front of her seem to be plotting something - with little success, if the looks on the other slaves' faces are anything to go by.  Her brows knit together in consternation.  Could they be any more obvious?  She casts a quick look around and spots her neighbor of the day - the twitchy one with the short brown hair - rubbing his wrists and looking contemplative.

Seeing that he seems to be more aware of their surroundings than she, Claire leans in.  "What's going on?" she whispers under her breath, nodding at the two men still making noise before her.  "Are they serious?  Does someone actually have a plan to get out of here?"

Even as she asks, the sudden hope building in her chest causes her to keep a sharp eye on the steps to the hold for the tell-tale footsteps of the guards.  "Gods, please say that they do," she mutters, surreptitiously trying to work the soreness out of her arms and shoulders.

Vaclav turns a bit to the new voice. "It's not much but I have a few ideas, and some skills these brutes probably forgot to check on when they grabbed me." He waves a hand and a short gust of wind flows through the area. prestidigitation

Claire's eyes widen at the display of magic.  "You- you're a magician!"  She claps her hands over her mouth immediately afterwards, glancing again at the stairs.  Her excitement at finding someone able to channel arcane energy - something so strictly forbidden in her own family - nearly makes her forget about the chains around her wrists.  That is, until they pull taut with her motion.  Hissing in pain, she lowers her hands and rubs at her wrists.  "I'll help you if I can, but I don't know what I can really do without my weapons," she whispers back.  "I'm Claire, by the way."

Nos Heliwr looks up at the expostulation of the excitable Claire, "We wait for first night in port, I am not a good swimmer." A brief smile flashes across his countenance, one that does not reach his eyes. "Do you perchance know where they put our gear?"

Salazar whispers to the pink haired woman next to him "Looks like they are up to something for sure.  I'm eager to be a part of it, assuming the plan doesn't sound like it will get us killed."

The man looks at the magician with a bit of awe.  Bet you weren't expecting that, huh?  Alright, maybe we can survive this.  His moment of excitement is ruined as the woman yanks the chain, yanking his poor wrists with them.  "By the Light..."  Yeah.  They're going to start bleeding again.

"I'm Salazar.  I haven't seen where our stuff is, but I'd imagine it'd be somewhere below decks.  They may not want to give us easy access to it, but they don't want to put it out for display either.  For all I know, it may be in that locked room over there.  I second the waiting until port.  I don't fancy getting free just to get eaten by a sea monster or something.  Or starve."

(Blake, would we have any indication of where the gear that was confiscated from us has been relocated?)  

Vaclav nods and looks around at the others. "Alright, we wait for port then. Any of the rest of you are welcome to join as well, the more hands the better chance we have. Just know this, if any of you give us up to the the crew I'll use some of my talents on you, and rest assured, you'll die screaming." 

OCC There are two guards and that drunken sadist, plus the beat maker; those are the only 'enemies' we know about, well, other than the captain of course?

Claire isn't at all familiar with ships, and in fact privately emphatically agrees about waiting until reaching port, if just for the mere fact of the matter that killing all the capable sailors before reaching a port seems like a surefire way to die at sea.

What she does know, however, is how soldiers comport themselves.  And while the guards of a slaver ship are a far cry away from the knights, if there's one thing that's universally true, it's how the grunts spend their downtime: smoking, playing cards, and having a drink in the back rooms whenever they have the chance to drop rank away from their superiors.

Though she's not sure, Claire would guess this back-room for the heavies, where they felt they could let their guard down and relax, would be exactly the sort of place they'd be storing everyone's equipment.  The only problem would be finding where that room was on this ship...

History: 22  with advantage? 7