You have been stripped of all belongings and wear simple, filthy canvas clothing: a shirt and trousers. The bulk of your day is spent locked within a slave pen. A heavy iron gate, bolted into the stone walls, separates you from the rest of Velkynvelve, this drow outpost located high in a cavern. You and the other prisoners are provided with clay chamber pots, and one of the duties of slaves is to empty them into the pool during their shift. There are no other comforts in this place. You must sit or lie on the stone floor, and you are fed only once each day — a thin mushroom broth served in small clay bowls passed through gaps in the bars of the gate.
Your time here, hellish as it has been, has not been wasted. You have watched, listened, and learned. Additionally, you have scavenged.
Calsipher was thrown into the slave pen ten days ago, and he seems to be a special source of amusement for Mistress Ilvara. More than once have his face and arms felt the sting of her scourge. None of the other prisoners garner such attention from the feared drow matriarch. And Shoor--one of Ilvara's male consorts--grins with sinister satisfaction as he watches each cruel incident.
Three days ago, Calsipher unearthed a rusted iron bar while cleaning the barracks of the rank-and-file drow warriors. Keeping the club hidden in a rock crevasse within the slave pen, only he knows the location of the weapon.
Merc'y joined the prisoner ranks five days ago. Few prisoners paid her any heed, but the lone quaggoth prisoner was the exception. Calling himself Prince Derendil, he regularly seeks to explain to Merc'y that he is not, in fact, a quaggoth, but a gold elf prince polymorphed by a curse. He claims to hail from the kingdom of Nelrindenvane in the High Forest. His crown was usurped by the evil wizard Terrestor, who trapped him in this form and exiled him from his people.
Yesterday, while carrying a basket of laundry from one part of the outpost to another, Merc'y spied a length of silk rope among the items. She now hides the rope, keeping it wrapped around her midriff and safely out of sight.
Orlan is the fresh new face in the slave pen, for he was kicked through the open iron gate a few hours ago. His face is evidence that he gave the drow a good bit of resistance; they compensated his uncooperativeness with several blows to his head. He feels the sting of his split lip and the taste of blood in his mouth, but he also firmly grips a drow crossbow bolt that he took off one of the guards during the fight. The lone orc in the slave pen--Ront--looks upon Orlan and chuckles. "I will eat your soup today while you mend your broken mouth."
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Orlan the Carnifex
Orlan's eyes darted towards the Orc. Despite the heavy swelling on his face, the rage behind his glare was unmistakable. Silently he studied the hulking man's features; he had driven his axe through many a criminal, but looking at this log-necked brute he began to wonder just how many swings it might take to sever that garbage-spewing head of his. Without averting his gaze Orlan collected the bloody phlegm building in his mouth and spat inches away from the Orc's filthy feet. (Intimidation: 17 )
The orc stares momentarily at the bloody mass that lands near his feet. A faint rage-filled growl fills his throat as he turns his gaze upon Orlan, and every eye in the slave pen watches for what might happen next.
The tension is suddenly shattered by a raspy voice. "Five gold! That's what I'll wager on this fight. Five gold on our glorious orc, Ront of the Iceshield!"
"Shut your ignorant mouth, slave!" comes the order from one of the guards outside the iron gate. "No fighting!"
The would-be gambler is Jimjar, one of the three deep gnomes in the slave pen, and those who've been in Jimjar's company for any length of time know that he offers to place a bet on nearly anything.
"Damned fool," remarks a bright-eyed derro who sits with his back mostly turned from the group. "Always making bets with not so much as a piece of dust in his pocket."
"I have the gold to cover his bets," remarks Derendil, the alleged elf turned quaggoth.
"An even greater damned fool," mutters the derro.
One of the drow guards remains near the iron gate as the others depart and go about other business. Ront glowers at Orlan but also turns his head now and then to check on the lone guard's whereabouts. Orlan can read the situation: Ront, for now, is more afraid of the drow than of Orlan.
Orlan could sense the Orc's fear, he had seen the many faces of terror in the countless times he stood outside the cells of the condemned. He said nothing, but took note of what the others muttered around him. If it came to blows, he knew the treatment they'd receive after the fight would be worse than anything this brute could do to him. Still, first impressions mattered greatly when dealing with these types, he had learned this lesson early in life and was ready to drive the "point" home if need be. For now he would stand his ground and observe.
Cal sat at the back of the pen tending to his wounds with careful consternation, he knew they would scar, just like the others had. A sense of guilt and shame washed over him, his body was a gift, one personally crafted by it. A living work of art now ruined by Ilvara, and for this she would suffer. He probed and tended to the bruises careful to not let the pain nor the disdain he felt for her color his face, it would only serve to enkindle Ilvara’s passion for him. His work was interrupted when the gates to the pen opened, and a new body was unceremoniously dumped in. This caught his attention. “Another toy added to her collection, yet I’ll still hold our lady’s attention I’m sure,” he mused to himself. He continued to care for his now tarnished skin, his back slightly turned towards Ront’s warm welcome to the newcomer. The appearance of a new buck threatens the reign of the old, an opportunity in the making. This musing he did keep to himself, a push in the right direction, a word whispered in the right ear, that’s all it would take. The guards would have to intervene, or Lady Ilvara would be short a new toy. He fought the urge to smile. An apt distraction to be sure, yet alone… I am limited, alone I will fail, even if I succeed in escaping, I won’t survive long on my own, I won’t be able to properly thank her ladyship' for her 'hospitality'… I need make alliances, he thought.
With that Cal turned and looked at the newcomer, it’d be a risk, but he would have to try. Cal used his Telepathic Speech to create a link between his mind and that of spring buck. “Hello, it would seem that you and Ront got off to a poor start. I would sleep with one eye open, that orc is a dog with a bone, he just can’t let things go. This is no threat friend, only a warning.”He said, putting an emphasis on the sweetness of the words, that he poured into the newcomers mind, like thick golden honey.
This post has potentially manipulated dice roll results.
Orlan's eyebrows perked up slightly when the voice flooded his mind, his eyes never leaving the Orc for second as he futilely tried to discern the direction of the words. "Who are you?" he asked in his own mind. Meanwhile he attempted to pinpoint any physical weaknesses on this Ront, his hand at the ready to draw the bolt hidden at his waist. (Investigation: 6)
An overview of the motley crew within the slave pen at Velkynvelve and what they know about one another...
Ront - male orc; malicious but shrewd; knuckles under to authority and threats; often bullies other prisoners
Jimjar - male deep gnome with a devil-may-care attitude, a fondness for coin, and an obsession with betting on virtually anything and everything; he manages to keep exact track of his debits and credits in his head, paying up on his bets (or demanding payment) as soon as possible; does his best to get along with everyone, although some find his gregariousness and constant wagers grating
Prince Derendil - male quaggoth; the most menacing-looking prisoner in the slave pens, and the other prisoners give him a wide berth; only speaks in urbane Elvish and explains that he is not, in fact, a quaggoth, but a gold elf prince polymorphed into quaggoth form by a curse; says he hails from the kingdom of Nelrindenvane in the High Forest, and his crown was usurped by an evil wizard who trapped him in this form and exiled him from his people; laments that he is slowly but surely losing himself to the savagery of his quaggoth form.
Sarith - male drow;sullen and keeps to himself, rebuffing attempts to talk to him; accused of murdering one of his fellow drow warriors in a fit of madness, but he has no memory of it; he varies between believing the whole thing is a setup to discredit and destroy him, and fearing that it is all true; he's being held until he can be sent back to Menzoberranzan as a sacrifice to Lolth and an example to others
Buppido - male derro; keen-minded; often explains that his personal setbacks (including his capture and imprisonment) as part of a divine plan; his patience with Jimjar have worn thin
Shuushar - a kuo-toa; a calm and peaceful presence; is aware of his people’s well-deserved reputation for madness, and claims to have spent a lifetime in contemplation and solitary meditation to overcome that legacy; is even calm and accepting of his current imprisonment, merely saying that it is what it is, and who can say what end it might eventually lead toward
Tov and Turv - twin female deep gnomes; captured by the drow while out gathering mushrooms in the tunnels near their home. Tov is by far the more social of the two. Turv constantly mumbles and mutters darkly, with Tov repeating or translating what her sister says
One such as yourself, tired of scraps and the unearned brutality gifted to us by our captures, said Cal to the newcomer. One that seeks to taste freedom once more. This time he let a hint of bitter sadness tinged his words. Alone I cannot escape, nor survive the underground hellscape, I am one that seeks an ally. He let that sink in for a second. You’re new, an unknown variable, that’s something we can use to our advantage. To stay here is to suffer, to forgo your own life, your humanity… you need only look at the elf, he’s Ilvara’s favorite toy. Said Cal hoping that scars and wounds gained from the scourge’s bite would be a good sell.
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He didn't know where this voice emanated from but its' pleas seemed authentic. As beckoned, Orlan glanced over at the broken elf seated far from the others, preoccupied with his wounded form. He wondered what about him made him so special. (Insight: 18)
"Depending on how things turn out here, I may not be much use to you," he said turning his gaze back to the Orc. "Besides, how do I know I can trust you?"
I do not ask for much, only for the opportunity to earn your trust, said the voice in a business-like manner. I can help even the odds, this time the voice was a purr, a good hit to the head with an iron club will send even that thick headed buffoon into a deep sleep.
A potential ally and candidate for my plan, thought Calsipher with stifled glee as he continued to tend to the wounds he had received. He knew that two would not be enough, he would need another at the very least. But who to trust, one wag of the tongue and the guards would swarm, they would find my hidden treasure.Caution would be his friend, right now he had an upper hand, a weapon to defend himself, and a potential brute with enough moxie to stand up to Ront that would do the defending. Cal finished his fastidious tending to his bruised skin and turned, his eyes settling on the human female. Another recent arrival, perhaps her spirit is yet to be broken, her loyalty might still be hers and hers alone. He sat and watched the pen inhabitants from the back of their shared enclosure. This time he did not have to pretend, his discomfort was real, his exhaustion written one the red welts, and purple-fading to yellow marks left by Ilvara on his flesh. Things were coming together, things had ben set in motion. He closed his eyes and dreamt of Ilvara, of the look she'd have on her face when first feeling the bite of her own scourge, and his time, he did smile, it pained him, but it was worth it.
She had been in the cell five days, if the emptying of the chamber pots were to be trusted.
The few pleasures she could wrest out of her newfound hellhole were the feel of the cool stone floor against her cheek as she slept and the taught delicacy of the silk rope fastened around her waist.
While idling the time away, back crammed against the wall, she would wonder if the guard's ashen skin would turn even more purple when she fastened the garrote around his neck. With cracked lips, she smiled, drowning out the near constant drone of elvish coming from the "prince," the gnome settling new debts.
When the squabble broke out, she realized blessed silence was another pleasure she would have to forgo during her tenure.
This post has potentially manipulated dice roll results.
Cal got to his 'work' of cleaning the Drow's filth. This was something he abhorred, he resent his captors for making him debase himself in such a way, yet the alternative meant more quality time with Ilvara, more time away from his scheming. How low have I fallen, is there still further left to go? The thought sobered him. With a look and some concentration he found the female, touched her mind with his and said, Hello there. He needed to sell her on this idea of his, this plan, the dangers need be outweighed by the reward... freedom. Enjoying the accommodations, has your prince charming driven you to verge of madness with his incessant gibbering? he did not wait, for his question was rhetorical. A short stark life filled with pain, misery, and filth are all we have to look forward here, he paused, prepared himself. I offer you a chance at freedom, not some flimsy bet at it, or some tale filled with transformations and evil wizards. You need only grasp at this chance offered, and together we could be free. Now he waited for a response, he kept at his task hoping not to give himself away.
She rested the shorn nape of her neck against the wall of chill stone. Hearing a voice in her mind, her eyes snapped open, then narrowed before scanning the pen.
At least, she thought, lolling her head towards the Prince, he has the decency to not talk into my mind.
Also, clicking her tongue, this is high talk for someone sitting in the same cell as me. She closed her eyes again, smiling sardonically. What exactly is your plan?
And there is my point, said Cal to the woman. I have just as much to lose as you, it is in this joint struggle that we find common ground. Now with a bit of desperation, I want out! as much as you... If not me, you can trust this. Thus he began to explain his plan, The newcomer has earned Ront's attention, they will fight, its only a matter of time before the kindling catches. When the guards come to stop the conflict, that's when we shall strike. He finished with a suborned certainty. Together, we can use the distraction to turn on the guards, we'll take their weapons and escape in the blossoming panic and chaos. What say you, can you taste the sweetness of freedom?
An overview of the general knowledge that the prisoners possess regarding their captors and the routines of Velkynvelve...
There are nineteen drow at the outpost, including Ilvara, Shoor, and Jorlan, as well as another priestess named Asha. There are also a dozen quaggoths and a number of giant spiders.
Ilvar, Shoor, and Jorlan visit the slave pens once per day usually.
Three drow guards watch the slave pen from the hanging guard tower across the rope bridge, visible through the locked gate.
The slave has some sort of antimagic effect on it. No one can cast a spell while within the slave pen. Calsipher has experimented, however, and learned that one can cast a spell while outside the pen and its effect will continue when the caster has entered the pen.
Jorlan the drow warrior suffered disfiguring injuries recently. Before then, he seemed more in Ilvara’s favor. Now Shoor seems to have displaced him.
Jorlan used to have a wand that shot globs of sticky material able to trap targets. Now Shoor carries it, as another sign of their change in status.
It might be a matter of days or tendays before a contingent from Menzoberranzan arrives to take prisoners back to the drow city.
From the one enslaved drow (Sarith), the prisoners have learned that a supply patrol from Menzoberranzan is a few days overdue, which is unusual.
The drow divide the prisoners into three roughly equal-sized groups and put them to work for a third of the day, supervised by the quaggoths. Your menial tasks include filling and hauling water barrels, operating the lift, cleaning any or all parts of the outpost (whether they need it or not), emptying chamber pots, food preparation and service, washing dishes, and laundry. Prisoners are periodically given cruel or pointless tasks to occupy them, and for the dark elves’ amusement. Such labors include moving or stacking rocks, coiling ropes, and organizing supplies, with prisoners forced to redo work that doesn’t meet the drow’s arbitrary standards.
The drow and quaggoths are cruel and capricious, but also somewhat bored and looking for amusement. The quaggoths are poor conversationalists, hateful and mistrustful toward the prisoners. The drow are more inclined to talk, if only to boast of their superiority.
You have been stripped of all belongings and wear simple, filthy canvas clothing: a shirt and trousers. The bulk of your day is spent locked within a slave pen. A heavy iron gate, bolted into the stone walls, separates you from the rest of Velkynvelve, this drow outpost located high in a cavern. You and the other prisoners are provided with clay chamber pots, and one of the duties of slaves is to empty them into the pool during their shift. There are no other comforts in this place. You must sit or lie on the stone floor, and you are fed only once each day — a thin mushroom broth served in small clay bowls passed through gaps in the bars of the gate.
Your time here, hellish as it has been, has not been wasted. You have watched, listened, and learned. Additionally, you have scavenged.
Calsipher was thrown into the slave pen ten days ago, and he seems to be a special source of amusement for Mistress Ilvara. More than once have his face and arms felt the sting of her scourge. None of the other prisoners garner such attention from the feared drow matriarch. And Shoor--one of Ilvara's male consorts--grins with sinister satisfaction as he watches each cruel incident.
Three days ago, Calsipher unearthed a rusted iron bar while cleaning the barracks of the rank-and-file drow warriors. Keeping the club hidden in a rock crevasse within the slave pen, only he knows the location of the weapon.
Merc'y joined the prisoner ranks five days ago. Few prisoners paid her any heed, but the lone quaggoth prisoner was the exception. Calling himself Prince Derendil, he regularly seeks to explain to Merc'y that he is not, in fact, a quaggoth, but a gold elf prince polymorphed by a curse. He claims to hail from the kingdom of Nelrindenvane in the High Forest. His crown was usurped by the evil wizard Terrestor, who trapped him in this form and exiled him from his people.
Yesterday, while carrying a basket of laundry from one part of the outpost to another, Merc'y spied a length of silk rope among the items. She now hides the rope, keeping it wrapped around her midriff and safely out of sight.
Orlan is the fresh new face in the slave pen, for he was kicked through the open iron gate a few hours ago. His face is evidence that he gave the drow a good bit of resistance; they compensated his uncooperativeness with several blows to his head. He feels the sting of his split lip and the taste of blood in his mouth, but he also firmly grips a drow crossbow bolt that he took off one of the guards during the fight. The lone orc in the slave pen--Ront--looks upon Orlan and chuckles. "I will eat your soup today while you mend your broken mouth."
Orlan the Carnifex
Orlan's eyes darted towards the Orc. Despite the heavy swelling on his face, the rage behind his glare was unmistakable. Silently he studied the hulking man's features; he had driven his axe through many a criminal, but looking at this log-necked brute he began to wonder just how many swings it might take to sever that garbage-spewing head of his. Without averting his gaze Orlan collected the bloody phlegm building in his mouth and spat inches away from the Orc's filthy feet. (Intimidation: 17 )
The orc stares momentarily at the bloody mass that lands near his feet. A faint rage-filled growl fills his throat as he turns his gaze upon Orlan, and every eye in the slave pen watches for what might happen next.
The tension is suddenly shattered by a raspy voice. "Five gold! That's what I'll wager on this fight. Five gold on our glorious orc, Ront of the Iceshield!"
"Shut your ignorant mouth, slave!" comes the order from one of the guards outside the iron gate. "No fighting!"
The would-be gambler is Jimjar, one of the three deep gnomes in the slave pen, and those who've been in Jimjar's company for any length of time know that he offers to place a bet on nearly anything.
"Damned fool," remarks a bright-eyed derro who sits with his back mostly turned from the group. "Always making bets with not so much as a piece of dust in his pocket."
"I have the gold to cover his bets," remarks Derendil, the alleged elf turned quaggoth.
"An even greater damned fool," mutters the derro.
One of the drow guards remains near the iron gate as the others depart and go about other business. Ront glowers at Orlan but also turns his head now and then to check on the lone guard's whereabouts. Orlan can read the situation: Ront, for now, is more afraid of the drow than of Orlan.
Orlan could sense the Orc's fear, he had seen the many faces of terror in the countless times he stood outside the cells of the condemned. He said nothing, but took note of what the others muttered around him. If it came to blows, he knew the treatment they'd receive after the fight would be worse than anything this brute could do to him. Still, first impressions mattered greatly when dealing with these types, he had learned this lesson early in life and was ready to drive the "point" home if need be. For now he would stand his ground and observe.
Calsipher The Dawn Flower
Cal sat at the back of the pen tending to his wounds with careful consternation, he knew they would scar, just like the others had. A sense of guilt and shame washed over him, his body was a gift, one personally crafted by it. A living work of art now ruined by Ilvara, and for this she would suffer. He probed and tended to the bruises careful to not let the pain nor the disdain he felt for her color his face, it would only serve to enkindle Ilvara’s passion for him. His work was interrupted when the gates to the pen opened, and a new body was unceremoniously dumped in. This caught his attention. “Another toy added to her collection, yet I’ll still hold our lady’s attention I’m sure,” he mused to himself. He continued to care for his now tarnished skin, his back slightly turned towards Ront’s warm welcome to the newcomer. The appearance of a new buck threatens the reign of the old, an opportunity in the making. This musing he did keep to himself, a push in the right direction, a word whispered in the right ear, that’s all it would take. The guards would have to intervene, or Lady Ilvara would be short a new toy. He fought the urge to smile. An apt distraction to be sure, yet alone… I am limited, alone I will fail, even if I succeed in escaping, I won’t survive long on my own, I won’t be able to properly thank her ladyship' for her 'hospitality'… I need make alliances, he thought.
With that Cal turned and looked at the newcomer, it’d be a risk, but he would have to try. Cal used his Telepathic Speech to create a link between his mind and that of spring buck. “Hello, it would seem that you and Ront got off to a poor start. I would sleep with one eye open, that orc is a dog with a bone, he just can’t let things go. This is no threat friend, only a warning.” He said, putting an emphasis on the sweetness of the words, that he poured into the newcomers mind, like thick golden honey.
Orlan's eyebrows perked up slightly when the voice flooded his mind, his eyes never leaving the Orc for second as he futilely tried to discern the direction of the words. "Who are you?" he asked in his own mind. Meanwhile he attempted to pinpoint any physical weaknesses on this Ront, his hand at the ready to draw the bolt hidden at his waist. (Investigation: 6)
An overview of the motley crew within the slave pen at Velkynvelve and what they know about one another...
Ront - male orc; malicious but shrewd; knuckles under to authority and threats; often bullies other prisoners
Jimjar - male deep gnome with a devil-may-care attitude, a fondness for coin, and an obsession with betting on virtually anything and everything; he manages to keep exact track of his debits and credits in his head, paying up on his bets (or demanding payment) as soon as possible; does his best to get along with everyone, although some find his gregariousness and constant wagers grating
Prince Derendil - male quaggoth; the most menacing-looking prisoner in the slave pens, and the other prisoners give him a wide berth; only speaks in urbane Elvish and explains that he is not, in fact, a quaggoth, but a gold elf prince polymorphed into quaggoth form by a curse; says he hails from the kingdom of Nelrindenvane in the High Forest, and his crown was usurped by an evil wizard who trapped him in this form and exiled him from his people; laments that he is slowly but surely losing himself to the savagery of his quaggoth form.
Sarith - male drow; sullen and keeps to himself, rebuffing attempts to talk to him; accused of murdering one of his fellow drow warriors in a fit of madness, but he has no memory of it; he varies between believing the whole thing is a setup to discredit and destroy him, and fearing that it is all true; he's being held until he can be sent back to Menzoberranzan as a sacrifice to Lolth and an example to others
Buppido - male derro; keen-minded; often explains that his personal setbacks (including his capture and imprisonment) as part of a divine plan; his patience with Jimjar have worn thin
Shuushar - a kuo-toa; a calm and peaceful presence; is aware of his people’s well-deserved reputation for madness, and claims to have spent a lifetime in contemplation and solitary meditation to overcome that legacy; is even calm and accepting of his current imprisonment, merely saying that it is what it is, and who can say what end it might eventually lead toward
Tov and Turv - twin female deep gnomes; captured by the drow while out gathering mushrooms in the tunnels near their home. Tov is by far the more social of the two. Turv constantly mumbles and mutters darkly, with Tov repeating or translating what her sister says
One such as yourself, tired of scraps and the unearned brutality gifted to us by our captures, said Cal to the newcomer. One that seeks to taste freedom once more. This time he let a hint of bitter sadness tinged his words. Alone I cannot escape, nor survive the underground hellscape, I am one that seeks an ally. He let that sink in for a second. You’re new, an unknown variable, that’s something we can use to our advantage. To stay here is to suffer, to forgo your own life, your humanity… you need only look at the elf, he’s Ilvara’s favorite toy. Said Cal hoping that scars and wounds gained from the scourge’s bite would be a good sell.
(Performance: 24)
He didn't know where this voice emanated from but its' pleas seemed authentic. As beckoned, Orlan glanced over at the broken elf seated far from the others, preoccupied with his wounded form. He wondered what about him made him so special. (Insight: 18)
"Depending on how things turn out here, I may not be much use to you," he said turning his gaze back to the Orc. "Besides, how do I know I can trust you?"
I do not ask for much, only for the opportunity to earn your trust, said the voice in a business-like manner. I can help even the odds, this time the voice was a purr, a good hit to the head with an iron club will send even that thick headed buffoon into a deep sleep.
"The time to prove yourself is sooner than you think, I'll be waiting," he concluded.
A potential ally and candidate for my plan, thought Calsipher with stifled glee as he continued to tend to the wounds he had received. He knew that two would not be enough, he would need another at the very least. But who to trust, one wag of the tongue and the guards would swarm, they would find my hidden treasure. Caution would be his friend, right now he had an upper hand, a weapon to defend himself, and a potential brute with enough moxie to stand up to Ront that would do the defending. Cal finished his fastidious tending to his bruised skin and turned, his eyes settling on the human female. Another recent arrival, perhaps her spirit is yet to be broken, her loyalty might still be hers and hers alone. He sat and watched the pen inhabitants from the back of their shared enclosure. This time he did not have to pretend, his discomfort was real, his exhaustion written one the red welts, and purple-fading to yellow marks left by Ilvara on his flesh. Things were coming together, things had ben set in motion. He closed his eyes and dreamt of Ilvara, of the look she'd have on her face when first feeling the bite of her own scourge, and his time, he did smile, it pained him, but it was worth it.
She had been in the cell five days, if the emptying of the chamber pots were to be trusted.
The few pleasures she could wrest out of her newfound hellhole were the feel of the cool stone floor against her cheek as she slept and the taught delicacy of the silk rope fastened around her waist.
While idling the time away, back crammed against the wall, she would wonder if the guard's ashen skin would turn even more purple when she fastened the garrote around his neck. With cracked lips, she smiled, drowning out the near constant drone of elvish coming from the "prince," the gnome settling new debts.
When the squabble broke out, she realized blessed silence was another pleasure she would have to forgo during her tenure.
Cal got to his 'work' of cleaning the Drow's filth. This was something he abhorred, he resent his captors for making him debase himself in such a way, yet the alternative meant more quality time with Ilvara, more time away from his scheming. How low have I fallen, is there still further left to go? The thought sobered him. With a look and some concentration he found the female, touched her mind with his and said, Hello there. He needed to sell her on this idea of his, this plan, the dangers need be outweighed by the reward... freedom. Enjoying the accommodations, has your prince charming driven you to verge of madness with his incessant gibbering? he did not wait, for his question was rhetorical. A short stark life filled with pain, misery, and filth are all we have to look forward here, he paused, prepared himself. I offer you a chance at freedom, not some flimsy bet at it, or some tale filled with transformations and evil wizards. You need only grasp at this chance offered, and together we could be free. Now he waited for a response, he kept at his task hoping not to give himself away.
(Persuasion: 25)
She rested the shorn nape of her neck against the wall of chill stone. Hearing a voice in her mind, her eyes snapped open, then narrowed before scanning the pen.
At least, she thought, lolling her head towards the Prince, he has the decency to not talk into my mind.
Also, clicking her tongue, this is high talk for someone sitting in the same cell as me. She closed her eyes again, smiling sardonically. What exactly is your plan?
(Perception: 10)
And there is my point, said Cal to the woman. I have just as much to lose as you, it is in this joint struggle that we find common ground. Now with a bit of desperation, I want out! as much as you... If not me, you can trust this. Thus he began to explain his plan, The newcomer has earned Ront's attention, they will fight, its only a matter of time before the kindling catches. When the guards come to stop the conflict, that's when we shall strike. He finished with a suborned certainty. Together, we can use the distraction to turn on the guards, we'll take their weapons and escape in the blossoming panic and chaos. What say you, can you taste the sweetness of freedom?
An overview of the general knowledge that the prisoners possess regarding their captors and the routines of Velkynvelve...
And a map...
Map legend: