Escape from Ironheart (IC)

[Gygaxphobia]

Kailess the Purifier
The Righteous One hurt in every inch of his form. The pain was small compared to his Purity and he tried to shrug it off but they was no sense of satisfaction in it. It wasn't a wound received gloriously in battle or inflicted by an unclean vagabond, he couldn't lick the blood from it and revel in the triumph.
Kailess felt the fury stir in him, an unconscious twitch that intended to crush these impudent scum where they stood the moment his shackles were loose, but he stilled it. They deserved far worse, and they might be useful. Filth like these could be persuaded to do Holy work, they just needed a little temptation and the chance for redemption. After all, what tormentor could resist thinking his work was proud and noble?

Guards of this place must have needs, they aren't men of good character or else they couldn't work here. And they can't all have sold their souls to walk gods of darkness...

Probably painful and possibly fatal? his dry lips part and his hoarse throat grates the words out. His head lolls and he stares about unfocussed. A teaching session for acolytes maybe? " his laugh is gravel in his coarse thick mouth and his chuckle turns to a cough. Hardly worthy of the Purifier! he growls.
He lifts his head to look at the guards, choosing one to lock eyes with. His voice is low and conspiritorial. "You've seen pain and suffering. You do your work here knowing it is Right and Just and that it needs to be done. How else could you steel yourselves, be so proud and so strong? What are we but servants of the gods? One dark god below wants a sacrifice, to feel powerful to be noticed, to be worshipped.
Well I sacrifice every day, I inflict pain and torment and I know more about it than any man alive. Yet I walk in light, the gods bless me and go with me. I worship light and truth and my duty is to torture those who follow darkness."
His bright eyes show through the dirt and the pain, his warm smile welcomes friends to his cause and tempts the weak with promises of strength. Kailess'believes every word, so powerful is his conviction that every the most cruel-hearted might actually believe he is worthy, that his actions are just.
Of course a man of good heart would recoil at the idea, but a man of no self-worth? A man who was weak and impotent? A man who needed to be seen as something more?

"I could tell you stories of how the vile and corrupt have suffered under me... you could serve the righteous and be named as Heroes... but ask yourselves this:
What suits your souls better? To scrabble around cloaked in cowardice and snivel to a feeble god who squawks about power like a child? You deserve more than that, you are Just and True. Hold your head high and walk with me, let all see your Holiness and respect your devotion.
Show me how you can hurt the servants of evil. Let them learn to fear you."

[WhiteKnight777]

Umber

Umber stumbled back and downwards as the paladin drove the holy water into his face. Umber screamed with pain and rage, and for a moment his universe shrunk to a dark, hot, all-encompassing shroud of pain. He cleared his eyes just in time, looking up through a bleary haze as the dragon and the paladin struggled for control of his hammer. He watched with impotent rage as the paladin delivered his taunts and fled, clutching his wounds. Slowly he felt the burning lessen to a dull ache as the remaining blood in his system tried to heal his wounds, with mixed success... his face was still badly damaged, but at least he could see. He would need more blood to restore himself. As always, the thirst dominated. He longed for a time when he could have hunted in a place where the only threat was a bumbling force of guards, easy to outwit. He rose to his feat unsteadily, growling, spitting blood and ashes onto the ground. He nodded at Akor, gratitude in his eyes.

My thanks... the bastard is quicker than I expected, or else I fear I need yet more blood to restore myself... He should not have been able to damage me so much. Umber shook his head, disgusted with himself. Squaring his shoulders, he dulled himself against the pain. I'm afraid I will be little use in a fight.. Better to try and escape... I apologize again for this... debacle. Umber snarled, forcing himself to remain upright, to not show any sign of pain or weakness, ready to move on down whichever path seemed safest.

[MrEdwardNigma]

Escaped, again. These creatures seemed to have an endless supply of tricks. At least he'd gotten a good look this time. A good feel as well. Victor knew how they worked now, though some of the details were still vague. The ability to transform into ooze had been somewhat of a surprise.

Victor had been wondering about the origins of these creatures, but he knew of no such creature on this planet (And Victor knows about all of them quite extensively...). There were only two possible conclusions: they were either not out of this dimension or not out of this planet.

Victor's train of thought was interrupted by the cultists approaching. Quickly he grabbed the book, still making sure it couldn't gnaw of any more fingers, and he vaguely waved his hand in the direction of the cultists.

"Get 'em, Spike!"

The zombie stormed into the cultists at full speed. Victor knew he wouldn't last against them, not alone, but he was both broad enough to block off the entire hallway and strong enough to detain the cultists for a while. Both Victor and Cassandra were fast, though she would still slow him somewhat they'd still be long gone by the time the cultists got past "Spike".

The two of them ran along the corridor, Victor reading as he went, only looking up enough to keep track of the route. He was looking for air ducts, or anything of the kind. The cultists' structure with th hump and the folded in bunch of extra arms should keep them from entering small passages and unless they had something else to send after them Victor and Cassandra would be relatively safe. The good thing about air ducts off course is that dungeons can't go without them and they always lead outside. Victor wouldn't pass up any other opportunities along the road though, he knew he had to take everything he could get to survive this place.

[Baerdog7]

Ander Windrivver

How long had Ander been hanging here upside down, trussed up from the ceiling like a ham in a butcher shop? Every inch of his body hurt. He ankles, wrists, and neck were raw and bloody from where his restraints had rubbed away the skin. His body had begun to decay and rot away where the leprosy had taken hold and his arms were constantly in pain from the ritual bleedings. Worst of all, though, was the pain in his head. A constant throbbing from having all of the blood drain out of his legs and into his now purple and puffy face.

How dare you greet me like a man of the cloth you worthless sack of pus, he croaks. You have no idea what happens in Hell. The souls of the truly devoted always find their way to the Light. But yours won't, Crane. No, your soul will never find peace. You are weak, twisted, and corrupt. Your soul will be reincarnated into the lowest form of demon filth, your physical form finally matching your spiritual one.

He strains against his restraints as far as he can.

You are afraid Crane. You are afraid of what awaits you after death, as you should be. There is no use trying to hide from it, Azguloth cannot protect you. One day you'll find me behind you, my fingers around your throat, my hot breath on your neck, and I will send you to him.

He tries to lunge forward again, but is unsuccessful. He coughs, shudders, and falls back against the holy symbol to bleed and bleed and bleed.

[OverWilliam]

~Tare

The first ten hours or so were the worst.

At first it was little more than a novelty. 'Hanging me upside down from the ceiling. How new. How exciting.' But it rapidly got worse. First his ears pounded and his feet went numb. That was manageable, but it was only the beginning. By the end of the first hour, Tare had relinquished all semblance of consciousness. Perhaps the effects of his inversion would not have been so severe if he had been well nourished, or well hydrated, or well rested for Hades' sake. But, as it was, Tare's mind was lost in the sea of nausea, wave after wave crashing against the fast yielding reserves of his stomach. The only thing reminding him that there was still something else in this universe was the shrieking headache. If the guards had shouted in his ear he would not have been able to hear them for the pounding ringing in his ears. Even when his nose began to bleed and run weirdly up his face he did not notice, though his dehydration ensured it stopped up quickly. Before the guards had ever touched him his nose was already stopped up with dried blood, almost every blood vessel in his eyes were blown, and he had already puked until nothing came but acidic stomach juices.

Finally his head began to clear as his body adjusted itself to being upside down. His eyes unfogged, and he saw someone even worse off than him. Little Heap, the translation that the reclusive and wary werewolf had given only to a few people, fighting his best against the torturing guards. He looked terrible, though little better could be expected. The torture went on for many hours after that, and now that Tare was awake, he got his share as well. Guards waiting for their shots at the prisoner and the bet took turns pounding on his kidneys with broken chair legs or the butts of their weapons. Some took a more direct approach to causing pain. More than once, he considered spitting a bloody projectile into their faces, but he had no idea what he would do after that. So he just stuck to what he knew-- shouting stinging insults about how delicate they must be if they wouldn't even give him one hand to defend himself with, how they were all going to the Fifth Hades for cruelty to animals, and how under the circumstances, with no woman alive or otherwise ever letting any of them touch them, that he wasn't at all surprised that they had to get their pleasures from each other. This got him several thorough floggings that left him unable to talk, think, or hardly even breathe for several minutes, but at least he pulled the brutes off of Heap for the few precious minutes it took him to reinforce his resolve.

Almost twenty four hours later, and the shifts changed again. An animalistic growl to match the one coming from the heavy chair in the center of the room escaped Tare's throat at the timekeeper's implied plan. "Beating on the friend," his voice was slowed and slurred a little by loose teeth and a fat lip, "To get under his skin where your previous efforts failed. That's almost clever for you, I'm surprised you didn't think of it sooner." He got a backhand that snapped his head back farther than his neck was built to turn for his efforts. He groaned it off. "You're wasting your time and your money, you know," he said, dragging a bloody lip across his tattered sleeve. "A plan like that might work on a human being," he shot a look at the werewolf, "But this thing is an animal." Contempt dripped from his voice. "You're not going to get to him through me-- he holds no pledge to any but his own kind." The guard looked from one back to the other, perplexed. "There's nothing in 48 hours or more that will break him, not pain, not loyalty, not pride... He's a monster. And some monsters can only be bent by time." He fired off a final glare at the werewolf before falling silent. But then, careful to move only when the guards were not looking, he gave the wolfman a penitent glance. Forgive me for saying that, Little Heap. You know this is far from true, and you know I don't mean it, but for both our sakes, please, let them believe it...

[Darkadvice]

Torches not lanterns, too much light to remove my goggles. They have the advantage here, fighting in the light and 4... no more than 4 torches creating shadows off the big one in the middle.

What have I got at my disposal? A solid stone floor, no loose rocks for weapons. An old moldy hey "bed", very flammable but not going to spread over stone. Ragged clothes, dry not going to be useful to put out a torch or two. Nothing else that can help me now. Looks like i can't make much of a fight against them, probably wouldn't even be able to do any damage with all the plate they're clanking around in.

Still though, a situation in the mines that needs my abilites though? That's interesting. And mines are a big dark place, even if they escort me, i'll still have more of an advantage down there. Not to mention lots of sharp objects, rocks and pick axes, always helpful. Whatever it is, it will at least allow me to entertain myself while these fools think I'm their lap dog. Best keep a close eye on the leash, second you don't you'll notice it's been ripped apart.

"One Seven Eight Four One, be glad to help you only if you promise me one thing. You lock your doors when you go to sleep tonight."

A rather odd remark, one boisterous guard to the right asked "What the hell does that mean scum?"

"Didn't you know? It's dangerous out at night, especially when the guards let someone like me out of their cages."

[The_Snark]

Mar

The little girl stares at the old man in a combination of fascination and nervousness. She shouldn't be stopping, she knows; she should just be walking on. She shouldn't talk to these people. But the old man looked so nice. He had blue eyes. Maybe she'd known someone who looked like him, once? Someone with—

No, no, she didn't think about that. She didn't know anybody but Daddy, and maybe some of the guards, but mostly Daddy. Still, she lingers for a second, staring at the old man's face.

She nearly starts again at his voice, all rough and scratchy like most of the men in the cages. It didn't sound like it should be coming from his mouth. If she hadn't been looking, she would have thought it was somebody else talking. But she doesn't run; he was looking at her nicely, not with the ugly faces most of the bad people had when they looked at her, as if they wanted her to die, and not with the terrible stern face Daddy had right before he hit her, which told her when she'd been a terrible girl. People didn't look at little Mar like that. They hated her if she had been bad, and if she was being good, they didn't look at her, because she was quiet and they didn't need to look at her. That was how things were. The old man's nice strange blue eyes held hers steadily.

"'M..." she begins, speaking in a low voice that's almost a whisper. It still sounds too loud to her, and she stops. She hadn't worried about the noise of her footsteps or her humming before. But she hadn't been doing anything bad before, either. Now she was. "... 'm not really supposed to..." She draws back slightly, eyes darting nervously down the corridor as if afraid somebody had heard her and was coming to punish her already.

[Pwenet]

Akor

As he flies through the air, Akor watches the scene below him. His Vampire ally was making a good showing of himself, dancing around the Paladin and striking several good blows. Yet in combat luck is a fickle mistress, and Ross slams something against the face of Umber and his screams of agony echo through the chamber. Landing on the ground Akor sprints forward and interposes himself between Ross and Umber and catches the giant hammer wielded by Ross in mid-swing.

Grunting with exertion he smiles as a primal part of himself enjoys this contest of strength, despite it being one-sided in his favor. And yet the events of this day and the poor treatment of his body throughout the long years even with his essence fueling it he was starting to wear down. Pain starts rippling down his chest and he takes a fraction of a second to look down and see that the deep gash in his chest is tearing open from the strain. Roaring loudly he summons the reserves of his strength and twists the warhammer out of Ross hands and shoves him back into the waiting Bone Golem.

His exhaustion starting to wear on him Akor watches as Ross is wounded by the Bone Golem before he eliminates it with a blast of Holy Fire that seems to consume him as well. Taking the opportunity to pull the wounded Umber away from the scene before his injuries get any worse Akor watches as the Holy Fire burns itself out revealing Ross.

“Well now, it seems that you and your little fanged friend have the advantage for now. But we’ll see if that holds true when next we meet. You had better keep my warhammer in good condition: it’s a family heirloom with a lot of pleasant memories for me. I’ll expect it returned to me, next time!”

Evidently he missed out on the condition of his opponents for he then flees. Holding himself up as Ross flees the moment he is out of sight he sighs and rests the Warhammer on the ground, holding himself up with it. Turning to look at his ally he winces as he sees the ruins of his face.

”My thanks... the bastard is quicker than I expected, or else I fear I need yet more blood to restore myself... He should not have been able to damage me so much. I'm afraid I will be little use in a fight.. Better to try and escape... I apologize again for this... debacle.”

Grunting out loud Akor pushes himself to a full standing position and swings the Warhammer over his shoulders. His stomach starts to growl, a strange human experience one that he never had to deal with before inhabiting this body fully. Reality seems to waver around him and he realizes he is starting to get lightheaded.

”Maybe it was foolish to try to deal with him. You are wounded, I am consuming myself.”

Sighing his eyes fall upon the ground, where part of the armor from Ross arm fell. The joint plate is covered with blood, yet it has the look that it can hold some liquid. Reaching down for it Akor lungs spasm and he chokes back a cough. Blinking in shock he shakes his head and picks it up. Holding it to his chest he tears open a small part of the gash, letting his blood flow into it, filling the piece with it. Once it has filled up he hands it over to Umber. It probably only has two, maybe three swallows with of blood but he hopes that it will help.

”Take this gift of mine, use it to heal yourself. Yet now you owe me, for soon I must give in to the flesh I wear now, and nourish it with food. All those decades trapped as a spirit, it is disconcerting to be trapped within this bag of meat.”

Inhaling deeply Akor looks around and bellows.

”CHILDREN! WE ARE LEAVING! COME NOW!”

Turning towards Umber, Akor narrows his eyes.

”That gift of blood, consider it motivation not to think about feeding on those you follow us.”

[WhiteKnight777]

Umber

Umber looked for a moment, blinking in surprise at the gift. Slowly, he nodded, taking it with something approaching reverence. He spoke slowly, his voice slow and solemn Indeed I do owe you... and I will add it to the account to which you are already owed. This is a princely gift... He grinned ruefully. Perhaps I should have dealt with the leechinglings and you with Ross... I doubt his "holy" powers would have had the same effect on you as they did on me.

Umber gave a low bow, carefully balancing the vessel so as not to spill a single drop. At Akor's last comment, he once again nodded solemnly... On one hand, he felt a brief twinge of wounded pride to have to take such a gift... but his pragmatism quickly overrode such foolish feelings. He inhaled the aroma for a momend, and then slowly set his lips to the vessel, tipping his head back and draining every drop. It tasted hot, a mix of copper, iron, fire... peppery. It seemed to burn within him and fill him with heat and light.. He felt it sliding down his throat, and he closed his eyes in pure ecstascy as he felt the incandescent energy consuming him... like a flame, but it did not consume his flesh, only surging through it, leaving a feeling of strength and incredible potence. He smiled as he felt his body once again refilling itself, his eyes shining red with inner fire as his flesh knit together and regenerated, and he flexed his fingers, a grin once again finding its way to his face.

[Adlan]

Garm

The wolfling could feel his hackles rise as they beat his, well, his friend.
The Halfman is a good companion
But his words cut deep into the warrior honour, Tares accusations made his growl deeper, till, he realised, the Halfman was canny, only trying to trick their tormentors.

Still, Garm did not supress the growl, which grew to a sound no human could voice, and he snarled a tone that was entirely wolfish.
'Free me!'
I am No Human! I will eat him. Let me free. I will eat him meat!

With Cold eyes, and a fearsome look, despite the bloody and broken appearance, he met one of his tormentors.
'Turn me loose, and I will break. I will break his neck for you to see. And then I will Break.....

There was raw anger in his voice, as if the wolfman truly was barbaric enough to want to eat his only companion in the darkness.

[Burrito]

"This will be tough, but even the hardest stone will break if you attack it from the right angle"

General Plan

Search the cell, generations of bored inmates will have done something to it. Loose stones, little hidey holes, someplace to store a bit of extra food, scraps of metal, rope, anything. What are the physical & mental conditions of my guards? Try to look in places they are too short to check, or too big and fat to get down and check. Or just too lazy to check. What is the latrine system? Grated hole in the floor? Bucket? Most guards don't like poop, so check those out also. The door/cell bars are probably good quality, but what about the stone they are set into? Bolted in or mortared? i.e. look for the weakest link.

Also, I will always call the guards "Sarge" (or whatever the appropriate title is for the highest ranking inlisted person is for this relm) Once you start calling them captain, lt. etc, they may start getting offended, since they don't often aspire to be officers/administration.

Do the guards do all the grunt work? E.G. deliver meals, clean, maintenance, or are there inmate workers/trustees that do this, or outside contracters (townsfolk)?

If this is my first day on the job, I am going to try and do my best to learn the routine, pathways, layout, guards, etc. If I've been doing this for a bit, then I will have memorized the rout back to the cell from wherever they have me digging.

What condition is the equipment/tools I am working with? If it is new, where is the old stuff kept/refurbished? If old and crappy, try to get new stuff. I will try and explaine it to the guards.
"Excuse me Sarge, do you think they would let us get some new equipemnt down here?"
(I will try to use inclusive/ exclusive words to get the guards to think it is a us vs them thing, us being the guards and work crew, them being his bosses and anybody else who would be in competition for a promotion/bonus. Askov doesn't think of it like this, he just knows how to talk to people)
"I know the captains don't care about anything but kissing ass to the higher ups, but you think they would at least give us the tools necessary to to our jobs. It just makes sense." "I don't want to kill myself trying to cut rock with this junk, and you just want to get your work quota filled and go home at night." "If we had the necessary tools, we would get more accomplished, in a faster time, and you wouldn't have to worry about catching hell from your boss" "I may be just a prisioner, but I know we both have some pride in our work, and at least want to do a good job" And so on and so forth.

If this works, then hopefully we will get new equipemtn in a few days. By then I hope to be able to try to at least get free enough to run around the place. I will try and do it when the equipment arrives, so they we have twice as much stuff to use/keep/turn into weapons.

If that doesn't work, I will try to keep some piece, part of the old tools when they are turned in for new ones, and work on getting free later, rather than sooner.

Fellow prisioners

Who and what am I working with. Who is in charge? How much interaction is there? Do I have a celly, or are they all single cells? Start networking and making friends. Help someone out if I can, do it a few times and they "owe" you one. If I feel I can make it today on less food, save some of mine, and give it away to someone who needs it. If I can use my knowledge to help out those in my work gang, then I will. I want them to look out for/and up to, me when the time comes for some sort of action.

(well, that is probably enough for a DM to chew on. :)

[Inspectre]

The Prism

Lonna

(OOC: I love how everyone’s first reaction to this guy is to lie through their teeth at him. )

For a moment the Judge simply stares at you, his expression unreadable. Then he speaks, his voice booming throughout the crystalline hallway.

YOUR GUILT HAS ALREADY BEEN ESTABLISHED. ARGUMENTS TO THE CONTRARY ARE IRRELEVANT AT THIS TIME.

A moment after he has finished speaking, however, the Judge reaches his right hand up to clutch the side of his head before continuing.

HOWEVER, DUE TO YOUR CLAIM THAT YOU WERE UNABLE TO SPEAK IN YOUR OWN DEFENSE DURING SENTANCING, YOU MAY TESTIFY NOW. THE VERDICT HAS ALREADY BEEN RENDERED, HOWEVER, AND SO ANY ARGUMENTS MADE WILL ONLY AFFECT YOUR CURRENT STANDING. THAT IS, WHETHER YOU REMAIN HERE IN THE PRISM, OR ARE RELOCATED TO ANOTHER LOCATION WITHIN IRONHEART TO AWAIT EXECUTION. OBVIOUSLY IF IT CAN BE ESTABLISHED THAT YOUR CRIMES WERE NOT AS SERIOUS AS PREVOIUSLY BELIEVED, IT WILL REFLECT FAVORABLY ON THE REST OF YOUR EVALUATION.

The Judge lowers his hand from his head.

SPEAK.

The Cells: First Floor

The_Snark

(OOC: When I think about the sheer extent to which your character has already been brutalized, I kinda feel bad. But then the evil DM in me cheers up, because like Pwenet would undoubtedly say, it all keeps going downhill from here! )

You look both ways down the somewhat brightly lit corridor, hoping no one could see you being a bad girl again. There was no one in sight, but it brought you no comfort. Somehow, Daddy always knew when you were a bad girl. Maybe it was just a sense Daddies had, you didn’t know.

He probably already knew right now that you had disobeyed him by stopping to refuse the man’s request, instead of outright ignoring him like you were supposed to. But he looked like such a nice man, surely he wasn’t like the other bad men you Daddy strictly told you to stay away from. And besides, you had already just disobeyed Daddy, so punishment was inevitable if he knew, if he could sense it coming off you, radiating out of you like the stench wafting up from the little grates in each prisoner’s cell. Maybe that’s how Daddy knew, he smelled your naughtiness? Your uncleanliness?

Torn between the fear of being punished for staying vs. the resignation that Daddy probably already knew anyway, you simply stare at the man as your mind fearfully scurries between the two options. You are just about to err on the side of caution and fear by leaving when the man croaks again.

“I’m sorry lass, I didn’t mean to frighten you so. By the Lightbringer, you’re white as a cloud right now! You were so happy a moment ago, humming to yourself. “The Sun Shall Shine”, isn’t that the hymn you were humming just now? That was always my church’s favorite, we sung it at least once every sermon!”

You weren’t certain what a Lightbringer, cloud, Sun, hymn, or church were, but you did understand the most important part: this man recognized what you had been humming to yourself. Does that mean he knew Mommy!?

The Cells: Second Floor

Burrito

(Whew! Okay.)

It has only been about forty years since Ironheart was converted into the prison. That being said, the turnover rate of prisoners is sufficiently high enough that there have been several prisoners living in your cell. The walls of your cell, like much of the rest of Ironheart that isn’t solid iron, are made out of granite and similar solid rock. You can detect several shallow indentations here and there around the cell, no doubt the result of abortive attempts by prisoners to carve something to prove their existence, later giving up after realizing that bare flesh makes a very poor tool.

The tiny hand-sized sewer grate is slightly more promising, however, as it is simply mortared in place within the hole that leads down into a similarly hand-sized trench that seems designed to carry the waste slowly away. Picking the mortar away to lift the sewer grate up away gives a small, safe, but very filthy and disgusting, hidey hole. Unfortunately, one must be careful to not be too obvious in their removal of the mortar, as during their very occasional sweeps of the cells, if the guards notice that the sewer grate is loose and able to lift out, there is hell to pay.

The man in the cell next to yours learned this the hard way, as he inherited a cell with a removable grate. When the guards discovered it a few weeks ago, you were awakened by his screams as the guards beat him savagely, breaking both of his hands and then shoving the bleeding remains down into the grate, picking up all sorts of nasty diseases from the filth rubbed into his open wounds. Then they broke his jaw, and left him there to moan in agony as he slowly starved to death/succumbed to disease.

Most of the guards are fairly muscular, although more than a few have a bit of pudge slowly forming into a pot belly as they age. Although to a greater or lesser extent all of them are cruel sociopaths, only the truly motivated actually deliberately go after prisoners. The rest simply participate in the institutional mentality of making the prisoners’ lives hell, as they are afraid that slacking off or actually (gasp) showing the prisoners decency or kindness will get them thrown into a cell right next to them.

Most of the actual guard/prisoner abuse work is done by the guards, with everything else being carried out by prison staff. These staffers are the cooks, lantern oil suppliers, cleaners, etc. They are actual staff hired and paid by the prison, and most are smart enough to keep their heads down and just do their job of keeping the unstoppable killing machine of Ironheart running.

Although it varies from level to level, at your level the bars to your cell are mortared into the floor, with heavy pins serving in the hinges of your cell door.

You have been on a mining crew for some time now, and thus sort of know the route you take. The guards will form a slave chain of six prisoners, manacling them each in turn to a heavy chain that connects all of them together. Because they typically pair up random prisoners together on a day to day basis, depending on your own order in the chain you may go directly to the Mines or weave around on the Second Level a bit to pick up the other prisoners for the day. This scrambles the route up for you a bit, but you do know that you typically pass through two guard stations before entering the Mines entrance cavern. Guard stations are typically their own self-contained units that cover an intersection, and both of the ones you usually pass through have stairways: one going up, one going down. Both are staffed by at least a dozen guards at all times, closer to two dozen for the one leading down to the Third Level.

The tools you have to work with are exceedingly shoddy in quality. Dull edged shovels and round-tip picks are what you have to work with, designed to minimize their effectiveness as weapons, but naturally also their effect on the hard rock of Ironheart. The guards don’t care about your requests, as while the work is ostensibly for the purpose of expanding the cell levels, it also seems to be a much better source of providing the prisoners with meaningless work to grind themselves against, tiring themselves out by furiously beating on the unyielding rock with their poor tools. And it gives the guards a source of entertainment by periodically beating and whipping the prisoners when they, naturally, fail to perform to some undefined standard. Occasionally, a tool will naturally break from the hard use, which typically results in a severe beating for the responsible prisoner and them being forced to use the broken tool for the rest of the day, with the expectation of “keeping up” with the other prisoners who have unbroken tools. You may have a wooden fragment from a broken tool if you wish, although nothing so large as a pick head or shovel head, as the guards would be sure to confiscate that.

Although talking is typically discouraged, even the regular patrols of guards can’t be everywhere at once. However, in an effort to maintain an oppressive silence that attempts to match the stifling nothingness of the Third Floor, the guards will mercilessly beat anyone that they catch talking. Thus, prisoners in the cells on either side of your own, and the three across the hallway from you, are naturally taciturn. Cells are single-person affairs.

Talking is also typically forbidden on work crews, enforced by a good crack from one of the overseeing guards, but is generally not quite as rigorously enforced. Due to the random nature of who you are paired up with, you haven’t made too many friends on the work crews, but occasionally someone you have seen before is placed on the work crew with you again, and even less occasionally still will recognize you as someone they worked with before.

Food is also a thin gruel ladled into a wooden bowl, your sole possession other than the crude burlap clothing and metal chains you are given upon entering Ironheart. Saving it and offering it to other prisoners is therefore difficult to impossible, as the bowl is hard to conceal inside of your simple clothing – especially with the intention of it still holding gruel – and will not easily fit through the close-together bars of your cell.

Ironheart is a brutally efficient machine designed to kill its inmates as quickly and as agonizingly as possible. Most die, go insane and then die, or simply despair, waste away, and then die very soon after arriving. The fact that the PCs have survived as long as they have is largely a testament to their PC-ness.

Any other questions? Next DM for you will likely feature the slave chain coming by to hook you up for your day of back-breaking, soul-crushing, futile labor unless you somehow stage a daring escape before then.

The Cells: Third Floor

Darkadvice

You hear several of the guards growl at your threat, but the leader of the bunch simply snickers. “Bold words for someone who’s going to go right back into their cage when we’re done with you. Alright, on your feet #17841, we don’t have all day.”

With a soft clank the heavy lock holding the door to your cell is unlocked, and the guard pushes the door open to once more fill the room with light. Careful not to get too close to you, the guards back up as you walk out of your cell. Now close, even with your poor vision you can see that they are heavily armed and armored. Although guards typically wore just chainmail while on duty, all of these were indeed in plate mail, and equipped with a variety of swords, maces, and crossbows. Each of the guards had a crossbow in fact.

Once you’re fully outside of the cell, two of the guards behind you leap forward, one each grabbing a hold of one of your arms, holding them immobile while a third guard attaches a long chain to the back of your iron belt. “That’s your leash, dog. You’ll be scouting ahead of us on our little search and destroy mission inside the Mines. But don’t worry, we have your back.” The guard grins and he brandishes his crossbow and jabs it at you, digging the tip of the bolt into your chest until it drew blood.

The guard then withdraws, standing aside while motioning you to move forward. “Let’s go dog. Lead on, we’ll tell you when you’re going the wrong way.” As if to demonstrate, the guard behind you holding your leash chain gives a hard yank, nearly ripping you off of your unprepared feet.

Gygaxphobia

Of the cluster of perhaps seven guards that were there to drag you away, only two actually enter your cell. One goes to work on removing the chains that hold your legs to the floor, while the other unbolts the chain connecting your neck to the wall. As the one guard kneels down beside you to unlock the chain, you begin whispering in his ear.

Your promises of glory and honor for committing distasteful acts tend only to affect the weak-willing, the worthless filth who are desperate to believe such lies. There is an amazing abundance of such men in this world, and this guard proves to be no exception as he stops working to listen to your words.

Finished with his own work on freeing your legs from the locks holding them to the floor, the other guard notices his fellow’s enrapture. “Silence, prisoner!” He grunts, drawing his club and jabbing it into your throat, stopping you from saying anything more as you break down into a coughing fit, gasping for air.

His trance broken, the guard hurries to finish unbolting the chain from the wall, but leaving it attached to your collar, a short leash that the two guards jerk upwards on to drag you up onto your feet, still choking and gasping. Still holding onto your leash, the unaffected second guard drags you out of your cell, while the first guard who listened to your words hesitantly follows along behind.

Weakened and very stiff, your legs nearly fail you several times as you are dragged from your cell, causing you to stumble and nearly fall. Each time, the guard tugs harder on the chain, pulling you back up onto your feet and dragging you forward a few more steps.

Once outside the cell, the guard begins to lead you down the pitch-black corridor, lit only in a small radius around you by the guards’ several torches. The other six fall into step around you and the guard dragging you forward, one remaining behind briefly to shut and lock the door to your cell.

As you are dragged onward towards your fate, the one guard potentially converted to your cause falls into step beside you. “Iz wut yew say true? Cud Ah be considera here Oh jus fer doing wut Ah do?” He whispers, prompting a laugh from the guard dragging you forward.

“Iz wut yew say true?” He says, mimicking the guard exactly before busting out into a guffaw. “Look at him. Look at this pathetic sack of flesh. He’ll say anything, anything, to keep himself alive a little longer. But it’s not going to work, because we’re going to do our jobs, and hand him over to die like the pig he is, just like we’ve been told to do.”

Stopping his relentless forward pace for a moment, unintentionally giving your battered legs a chance to rest and become used to holding you upright again, the guard whirls to glare at you. He then spits in your face, his spittle mixing in with the snot still continuing to run down your nose and cover the lower face of your face.

“Pathetic. I hope you squeal just like a pig when they butcher you, paladin swine.”

Torture Chambers

Dorizzit

“It is entirely possible they would give information against their will. Can you convince them not to?” Seraph argues, but stops as he crosses his arms across your chest, clearly giving you your time.

As you slam your fiery fist into the bars several times, weakening the metal enough that it snaps apart after the second or third blow, the two prisoners look from you to Seraph, then back at each other. When several bars to their cage have been broken off, leaving a sufficiently sized hole for them to clamber out of, both prisoners hurry to exit. The first looks around nervously, whispering to you, “But, where do we go now? The guards are everywhere, they will catch us eventually!”

The second prisoner meanwhile walks over to a nearby brazier, drawing two glowing hot irons from it. Coming back over, he throws one of them to the other prisoner, who misses catching it, fumbles for it, and manages to catch it at the glowing hot end at the last instant. The hot iron falls the rest of the way to the floor with a clatter and a yelp a moment later.

The second guard sneers at his incompetent companion who even now was trying to pick up the hot iron in the proper way, and then looks back to you. With his free hand he forms a fist, rapping it against his chest in a salute to you. “I was a footsoldier in the Baron’s army, once. I saw and did terrible things. But when I repented for my sins, I was thrown in here. I will not make the same mistakes again.”

Looking away from you to Seraph, the former solider continues. “I do not know why you are here, and it does not matter. The guards will hear my death rattle before a word about either of you is spoken. I swear it, just as I swear to ensure that my . . . friend here does not either.”

Bending up with the hot iron now uncertainly held in his hands, the other prisoner exclaims, “Hey, I didn’t agree –“Immediately the former soldier grabs the man by the arm, slamming him against the remains of their cell. He then holds the tip of his glowing iron a few inches from the man’s right eye, saying nothing. He doesn’t have to, as the expression on the cowardly prisoner’s face is enough to confirm his coerced agreement.

Finally releasing the other prisoner, the man nods at both you and Seraph. “Good luck.” The two then depart, dashing out the western doorway to parts unknown. As the former soldier passes by Seraph, he nods at him again, muttering “Sir.” For his part Seraph says nothing, although he does not return the soldier’s farewell, instead silently turning away to wipe off his bloody dagger before sheathing it once more.

“Yes, let us continue.” Seraph says, moving towards the north doorway. As he reaches it, however, he suddenly flings himself back, pressing himself against the wall right by the doorway. “Three guards plus elite.” He whispers back to you. “Hide and then ambush them. Take one of them alive to show us the way out of here.”

Shadows begin to play along the edges of the doorway: the guards would be entering the room in seconds. Looking behind you, you can see the Countess looking around frantically, clearly a bit panic stricken. “Hide? Where!?” She hisses back.

(There are a number of locations throughout the room you could hide in: at the doorway across from Seraph, inside the broken holding cell, one of the dark corners of the room, behind one of the nearby stands of torture implements, etc. This is your chance to be a little creative outside of combat. If you wish you can also initiate combat by leaping out and attacking the guards as they enter the room, or wait for Seraph (and essentially the next DM) to start combat. Also note that you can show the Countess a place to hide, but it may be difficult to get her somewhere and then hide yourself. )

OverWilliam/Adlan

At Tare’s most recent comments about their supposed brilliance, both guards flushed a shade of crimson. “He’ll break, everyone breaks sooner or later. But you won’t live long enough to see it!” The one guard snarled from his position kneeling on the floor, silver needles clutched in his hand menacingly. As he started to push himself back up onto his feet, however, Garm snarled his promise.

To this Needles simply snorted in disbelief, getting up to his feet and approaching Tare with clenched fists. “Yeah right, Doggie. Nice try.” But then Timepiece coughed loudly, bringing his companion guard up short from Tare. “Actually, I would like to see that, dogman eating man. I doubt you’d break willingly after that, but the irony is delicious nonetheless: “Savage dogman kills misguided fool who was protecting him.”

Shaking his head, Needles waves his handful of needles at Garm. “You believe that he’s actually going to kill and eat his only friend in here? Come on, you’re just desperate to try anything now that it’s your betted time on the clock now.”

Timepiece shrugs, slipping his signature item into his pocket with an evil smile. “Perhaps. But I think Doggie will go through with it. He’ll go through with it because if he doesn’t, he’s going right back into that chair. And then I will spend the rest of my hour cutting off pieces of his friend and force-feeding them to him. Do you hear that, smart mouth? You better hope your so-called friend is sincere, otherwise this will be your last hour whole. I think I’ll start with your tongue.”

Grumbling, Needles drops his handful of silver slivers back into the tray and sets them all aside. “Fine, I’ll go get a couple of the others with a leash for Doggie.” Needles then disappears, while Timepiece happily moves about the room, setting up a tray for himself that held a vast array of cutting implements, all of which he carefully showed to Tare before setting them back down.

Finally after a number of minutes, Needles returns with another two guards. “These are all the ones that are still awake and want to watch. Nate’s still pissed he lost.” Timepiece nods. “Alright then, let’s get started shall we?”

Needles and Timepiece arm themselves with crossbows equipped with silver-tipped bolts, while the other two quickly attach a heavy chain to the silver collar locked around Garm’s neck. The one guard wraps several loose loops of the chain around his hand, then moves back away from the chair and pulls the chain tight, drawing Garm’s head firmly back against the chair while the other guard unstraps him from the chair. Upon finishing his task of freeing the wolfman from the chair, this fourth guard steps back to retrieve his own silver crossbow.

Leash then relaxes his grip on the chain enough to allow Garm to get up and move about, although clearly he will attempt to hold Garm back should he go for any of the other three guards. For their part, Needles, Timepiece, and Random Guy all have their crossbows leveled at Garm, tracking him as he gets out of the chair. Will he actually eat his only friend? Or is this some mad plot by Garm in the hopes of overpowering all four guards despite his wounds, exhaustion, and their preparations to prevent just that? Tune in next time, to Escape from Ironheart!

The Cells: Maximum Security

Baerdog7

You were a paladin, you could withstand the pain. You had even grown used to the utter helplessness that defined your situation. But Brother Adamus Crane’s casual dismissal of your threats by laughing in your face was something you would never understand.

“Ho ho ho, I think not. Thanks to you, among other happy donors, we are nearing a breakthrough. Soon, immortality will be mine, and perhaps then with no further use for you I can finally send you back to report your utter failure to the Valkyrie. Or perhaps that is why she really sent you back here, to raise us pious leaders of the Church up to godhood? Maybe the Valkyrie is lonely, and requires someone new to fulfill the Lightbringer’s duties?” Here Crane makes several pelvic thrusts before laughing uproariously. “Yes, yes, get angry at my blasphemy, Ander! It makes the blood flow so much faster! Now you meditate on what I’ve told you today, and one of my acolytes will be along shortly to collect your helpful donation of blood! Tata! Hah hah hah hah!”

Still laughing, Adamus walked out of the room, followed shortly by his two acolytes after they made sure the bowl was positioned properly and the ladder had been returned to its storage place. The casual familiarity of your torment shamed you. How had it come to this?

Perhaps it was a mere hallucination from blood loss, but a few minutes after Brother Crane and the two acolytes left, the shadows began to congeal in one corner of the room. A formless mass, the shadows nonetheless moved as a unit, floating along the wall until it came to rest just slightly above your own shadow. The mass of shadows danced and moved, and resolved itself into a terrible mockery of a human face, complete with eyes, nose, and mouth.

“A peaceful dawn be with you, Lord General Ander Windrivver. We have much to discuss, you and I. My master seems to think you would make an excellent ally in the times ahead. I have been sent to negotiate on his behalf. Would you be willing to consider such an alliance, however temporary?”

Sanctuary of the Prophets

Pwenet/WhiteKnight777

Wounded badly between the bone golem and Ross, the two of you allow the paladin to flee, disappearing from sight as he entered one of the many passages feeding into this cavern. Yet he would be back sooner rather than later, you both knew, and probably with more friends.

Friends at least, would likely mean more blood, something Umber badly needed as he used the last of his meager reserves to restore himself enough to stand and see once again. Noting Umber’s condition, Akor offers him a taste of his own blood. The blood of dragons was something Umber had not tasted for a long time, as shortly after his transformation into a Lord of Blood the dragons had fallen utterly extinct.

Greedily, although careful not to waste a single drop, the vampire lord consumes the offered blood. The effects of drinking are immediate, as all of Umber’s wounds instantly regenerate. The dark room also seems much brighter to the vampire lord, the walls shimmering and shimming before him. He has a feeling of vitality and strength that he has not enjoyed in a long while, and despite the cautioning of his logical mind for the moment he feels invincible. Although still perhaps not even at a fourth of his former strength, Umber has at least regained a measure of it, and it shows.

Together, the vampire and dragon lord leave the cavern, followed by Mellita, the nameless girl, and the gaggle of small children. Not particularly caring of their destination except out, the group chooses one of the tunnels that has not yet been fully explored. As they enter the mouth of the tunnel, an unnoticed shadow detaches itself from the darkness at the mouth of one of the other tunnels across the cavern. Arguile smiles as he whispers to himself, “Found you.” He then turns and walks in the opposite direction, traveling back the way he had come to gather the rest of the Malevolent Seven for the hunt to follow.

************************************************** *

The little band makes its way down the tunnel in relative silence save for the occasional shout or complaint from one of the little children: seems they were getting hungry and irritable as well. Although the tunnel is fairly featureless during the first several minutes of travel, one interesting feature does eventually reveal itself in the dim torchlight: a door. Covered in strange runes, the heavy stone door stands resolutely at the end of the tunnel a short distance ahead.

None of the members of the little band can make any sense of the runes, although judging by the repetition of several such runes, it appears to be some sort of ancient language. The door itself also gives off a strong aura of magic that makes the hair of anyone approaching it stand on end.

MrEdwardNigma

Finally getting a really good look and feel for the strange parasites, you can determine that they are definitely nothing you have ever encountered before. But not simply that; you haven’t heard of anything like them before, or even remotely related to them. Certainly, they are not natural to this plane of existence, which suggests that perhaps they are some sort of demon or devil: those have an infinite multitude of shapes. Still, you had never heard of any demon or devil displaying these attributes before, which left this creatures as something of a mystery. More of them would have to be removed from their hosts for study, but preferably at times when the danger would be minimal to you.

With two of the black-robed figures and some sort of human follower closing on your position, now was not one of those times. Although it pained you to sacrifice such a valuable pawn, you were also painfully aware that your zombie companion had taken an extreme amount of damage in the fight with the flaming snake golem and the previous cultist-thing. This therefore, was the perfect time to sacrifice this pawn, and with a wave and a command to “Spike”, you send it down the hall to get in the cultists’ way.

Making sure to snatch up the book before you ran, you then proceeded in the opposite direction. Cassandra is right behind you, managing to keep up so far. As you run, you idly hold up the book, careful to keep your fingers away from the face, and flip it open. As it turns out, this happens to be a mistake.

Opening the book’s front cover reveals not a mass of pages, but instead a fleshy mass. A fleshy mass with four tentacles that rapidly unfurl, stretching out to caress your arms and face. Four tentacles that, before you can slam the book shut, stab into your ears, worming their way ever deeper into your ear canals and stab into your eyes, squirming through your pupils into your retinas.

An instant later you lose all consciousness, abruptly cutting off the sharp unbearable pain that your eyes and ears sent off to your brain. Instead you float along in a sort of dream, a ghostly observer as events unfurl around you.

A man dressed in similar garb as the cultists you’ve already encountered but with the addition of an iron crown stands on a dais in front of a pair of thrones, lecturing to an uncountable throng of black-robed figures standing in rank and file before him. This man you instinctively know as the Hierarch, your leader and lieutenant of the Master. You are now part of an organization known as the Prophets of the Final Age, or Prophets for short. As the Hierarch concludes his speech, the two gigantic wall flags hanging on either side of him, which depict a golden sunburst with each ray ending in a sword, are torn down. Beneath is the new symbol for your organization: a setting sun with the rays going inward, making it appear more like a vortex than a sun, and with that sun itself being eclipsed by a mountain of human skulls.

You watch calmly as the human army ahead of you doggedly trudges through the snow, inching its way up the mountainside. Suddenly, from its summit swoops an ominous shape: an arrogant lizard with wings the size of a small castle. As it approaches the human army, preparing to breathe its accursed purifying dragonfire over them all, the archers within the human army launch a volley of arrows. Prepared with a special necrotic poison, those few arrows which do manage to penetrate the dragon’s scales cause it to wither and die in mid-air, its corpse tumbling down through the air to crush the forward ranks of the cheering humans. One down, hundreds to go.

One of seven men comes before you, a representative of himself and the other six. Although each a powerful sorcerer with a vast kingdom under his command, none of them yet hold the power to stop time and so avoid their inevitable death. In accordance with the Hierarch’s wishes, you give the man what he desires. You tell him the last secrets of the puzzle to immortality, show him where to look to discover the answer. These seven men, these seven fools, would do the rest you knew, damning themselves forever and settling one more piece of the Hierarch’s plan into place.

Here the story ends, to be continued in the next volume. But as a final gift, you are treated to a depiction of the final results that your assistance in the grand project shall yield. The hated fortress stands at the summit of the snow-covered mountain, resolute and unmoving. Suddenly, its central tower topples, allowing a gigantic geyser of black oil, streaked with red lightning, to arc up into the sky. The oil rains down onto the remains of the fortress, coating it and obscuring it from view completely. Then, the oil begins to flow down the sides of the mountain, and beyond, covering everything in sight with a murky coat of black oil streaked with red lightning. The Master has returned!

You awake to find yourself lying on the stone floor, your ears and eyes throbbing but no longer screaming in pain and seeming to suffer no ill side-effects. On the floor next to you the book slowly retracts its tentacles, snapping itself shut. Looking around, you see that you are in some sort of supply room, as a number of heavy wooden barrels form a corner just behind you, sheltering you on two sides.

As your ears slowly return to normal, you detect heavy rapid breathing off to your right. Rolling over, you see that Cassandra, sans fungus torch, has pressed herself into the corner where the two rows of barrels meet. Her shapely chest heaves as she struggles to catch her breath, and a look of horror is plastered on her face as she cranes her head left and right, apparently trying to hear instead of see now that her world has once again been reduced to pitch black.

[Baerdog7]

Ander Windrivver
Ander shuts his eyes and tries to ignore Crane's blasphemies. The wretch knew nothing of the true nature of the Gods and it was no use getting worked up and donating more of your blood to his cause. Luckily, he opens them in time to see the shadow being appear in his cell. As it speaks, he attempts to sense the presence of evil in the being. It'd been a while since he had last tried to use that power, but it was worth a try.

Where have I seen something like that before? C'mon Ander, think!

Lord General Ander Windrivver? Dear gods, nobody's used my rank as a term of respect in years. He attempts to chuckle, but only succeeds in coughing up a large wad of phlegm. Well, my dad always told me never to look a gift horse in the mouth. What would your master ask of me? Get me off this accursed thing and I'll do what I can to help.

[Iethloc]

Sohssal

Sohssal grinned widely at the assistant's surrender. "Lucky for you, I've decided to let you live for now..." he decided. Then he flew down to the wards, preparing himself to act as swiftly as possible. He inhaled the remaining energy, and, instead of simply swallowing it, he used it to cast a spell. The sound of gentle winds played in the assistant's ears as Sohssal cast upon him the same spell that allowed himself flight. However, Sohssal made it behave differently for the assistant. Winds burst into existence right next to the assistant's clothing, quickly lifting him as far from the demon horde's reach as possible. The winds, however, did not give way to the assistant's movements; the spell would leave him trapped. "Don't bother trying to struggle against the spell. A normal, untrained human could never hope to be strong enough to break out without help. Be grateful I'm not having the winds encompass your head. I know how much humans like to breathe..." Sohssal commented with a sneer.

After trying to maneuver the assistant out of the control booth somewhat clumsily, Sohssal moves himself right next to the assistant. "Now, listen, human! I want to get out of this wretched prison, and you're going to tell me everything you know about the layout of this place! Cooperate, and I'll let you live...unless..." Sohssal said as he turned towards the demons, Omega and all, "...any of you have any suggestions?" Sohssal was still nervous about leaving any extra hostiles about, however. The concentration needed to move around two people with the wind spell left him unable to effectively cast any other spells.

[Adlan]

Garm
With barely supressed animal hatred Garm eyes his guards, as if assessing the numbers. With straining muscles he flexes his sinews as he is released, but it is no longer supressed rage as he looks around, and focuses on his friend.

He expression Narrows with hunger, or could it be anger. Anger at his 'friend' or anger at what has been done to his friend.

He stands, shakily, and as he stands, his snarl becomes more feirce, his fangs elongate, and his hide seems grow shaggy, but then. It stops. The silver disrupts him, and he remains just a barbaric man in a breech clout and leggings.

I will Eat You. Good Meat and good death!

Garm turns, and faces his guards before taking another step. But, shaky as he stood, even shakier are all his movements, two days of constant torture and endless shifts of mutilation have done for his muscles, they need rest, and despite whatever Garm's nerves say, they refuse.

Folding up, the wolflinf hits the floor, still snarling hatred, and spasming as he tries to move, before weakly he stops.

The floor is comfortable, the floor is nice, the floor is soft rock. Garm is out of it. Unconcious or asleep makes no odds at this stage.

[The_Snark]

Mar

Mar stares at him, eyes still wide with fear. The nice man didn't make any sense. She didn't understand a lot of what he said. Daddy might know what he meant, he knew a lot, and if he asked what they said during her punishment she would have to tell him. Maybe he'd tell her—but no, he wouldn't. Why should he tell her right after she'd been bad? Of course she didn't look happy. Happy girls weren't bad, and bad girls weren't happy, and talking to this man was bad.

But she didn't scurry away just yet, though her feet itched to be away down the corridor. He knew what she was singing? Nobody had ever told her; Daddy probably knew—he knew everything—but she didn't ask Daddy about Mother, or anything to do with her. She didn't even think about Mommy around Daddy, in case he could tell. Sometimes, she could sing the song, when she was alone; when there were people around, like guards, she sometimes got in trouble for doing it. Maybe she should forget it. But it kept coming back, and she liked it. Daddy didn't always hit her for humming, so it must not be very bad.

Darting another look down the corridor—it didn't matter, Daddy knew what she did and always knew when she lied, but she couldn't help looking—she leans a little closer to the old man's cage. "You—" she stops, her voice echoing too loudly in her own ears even though she was whispering. When she continues, it is in a very faint whisper. ""You know my song? What is it?"

[OverWilliam]

Tare

More than frightened at the prospect of being attacked by the raging, exhausted, wolfing, Tare went a little pale (though one wouldn't have noticed with all the blood in his face normally). Not sure what to expect from the werewolf, exhausted, plainly angry at something, and just now stung by his own words, Tare swallowed slowly (almost spitting it back up at the taste of blood) and stared Garm in the eyes, unable to do much else. When the behemoth fell to the floor, Tare thought he caught a little gleam of the Little Heap he knew just before his eyes closed. Reassured that his friend had turned against him in show only, Tare nearly succumbed to the same dragging feeling under his eyelids that Garm was peacefully surrendered to. However, Tare fought himself back to consciousness long enough to have a final word with the Guards, for whatever good it did anyone.

"I feel for you guys, I really do," He drawled, sleep advancing on him again. "You did your best, and it wasn't half bad, I mean look at us," he said, turning his head slightly to accent his swollen shut eye. "But let's face it, guys, you've got a lotta potential... But you're still not professionals... Still just.. amateurs at..." Now it was much harder to shake off. "Me? Never was my thing, no sir... But I've seen the pros at work, and buddy..." He chuckled groggily. "The things I could tell you about them..." And then he gave in to the wave of sweet, sweet nothingness. Not pain, not noise, not beating, not even the sensation of being upside down. And with his final seed planted in the guard's minds, he slept peacefully. Not pounding and biting, through cutting and torture, though noise and chaos... He slept...

[Dorizzit]

Korram's eyes dart around the room, looking for a good hiding place. He spots a likely piece of torture equipment, a large board with a pair of manacle set in it to allow a prisoner to be suspended while tortured. He whispers loudly to the Countess: "Countess! This way!" being as gentle but as firm as possible, Korram moves her behind the board. "Don't move a muscle." Korram then dives into the cell, sitting in a corner but still in plain sight of the door. Wiggling around, he conceals his burning arm. He then makes a "sh" motion to Seraph, and then waits for the guards to see him.

[Lonna]

Pyrene

So even if I convince this... person... that I'm innocent, I still won't get out entirely. On the other hand, at least outside this bizarre red crystal I won't lose three months in a world of dreams that may or may not be true. Well, I can't end up any worse off.

"My Lord, I am a prostitute. It is not a noble profession, but it is one in which I am skilled. I give men a night of pleasure in exchange for money to support myself and my half-sister, who I seek to protect." She shuddered, the movement nearly invisible through the leather body sack. "If you know much of what I have experienced these last three months you must know that my greatest fear is that I will not be able to save her from the hardships of the life I lead. But I digress. My mother's daughter has nothing to do with the crimes of which I am accused.

If I may, I will first address the lesser crimes of which I am accused. First, the charge of improper seduction: I must ask, what makes a seduction improper? Every man to whom I offered my services came first to the pleasure district. Are they then not at least partly responsible, for exposing themselves to temptation? If not, then my very profession, my very livelihood, is a crime, and one that I will not deny.

To the charge of theivery I have this reply: I took nothing from any man but for the price of the night's pleasure. I was called the greatest lover any man had ever known; is it so strange then that my price too was greater than any other? As for creating a display of public nudity, never did I leave a man entirely exposed, and never was the man so poor that he could not simply send for a servant and have new clothing brought to him. If a man I bedded exposed himself in public, it was of his own choosing, and none of my afair.

As for the last and most serious charge - I did kill a man, but it was in self-defense. He began striking me while I pleasured him. At first I simply bore with it; some men didn't realize that they did things like this, or didn't realize how hard they struck, so I assumed this was one of those cases. But soon he was hitting harder and more frequently, and when I asked him to stop he merely laughed and struck me harder, ordering me to scream for him. That's when I saw his expression. It was the same expression my mother's murderer wore when he beat her to death with his bare hands. I tried to leave. At that point I didn't care about taking payment for the night, I just wanted to escape with my life. He found his belt knife and blocked the exit, threatening to carve me up if I tried to leave. I attempted to pass him anyway, and he lunged at me with the knife. We struggled for control of the weapon, and somehow in the chaos the knife sliced the side of his throat, cutting open a major vein. He was dead almost before I realized he had stopped fighting, and the weapon that killed him was in my hand. I knew no one would believe it was self-defense; he was a noble and I a mere prostitute. Even dead, they would never believe any ill of him. So I covered his body with a blanket, took my payment, and left."

[MrEdwardNigma]

Immortality! At the tip of my fingers! I uttered the secret out of my very mouth, and now it is gone! But this book, the other books... One of them must hold the secret, surely. And if they don't these cultists do... Change of plans. We don't escape. Not yet anyways. We find the vampire, or any other prisoner who packs a punch. They hold some definite monstrosities down here, surely one of them will be willing to lend me a hand. And if not, we kill them. Make ourselves some nice zombies. An army. Kill 'em all, make 'em tell us what we need to know, raid the library. Off course, Cassandra doesn't need to know about any of that...

"Pssst, Cassandra, over here. What happened? Where are we? Where are the black cloaks?"

Victor quietly opened one of the crates from the side to check what was inside. Meanwhile, he tried to remember if he knew anything about the nature of these books. This place sure seemed to have a lot of equipment he knew nothing about...

Victor also tried to peek over the crates, to see what lay beyond.

[WhiteKnight777]

Umber

Umber smiled, feeling better than he had in recent memory. He felt some of his old strength return as the warm fire of the dragon's blood spread through his body, and that sense of momentary invulnerability was nothing short of glorious. He stretched languidly, feeling that old sinewy strength as he flexed his hands, moving down the tunnel with all the grace of a stalking panther, slipping easily between the shadows. His wounds healed, he felt brim-full of confidence as his eyes seemed to adjust better to the darkness... This, this was how it was meant to be. He was still weak as a day-old kitten, relatively speaking, but his strength grew. The potent dragon's blood fueled him, strengthened him - rather than just sustaining him, and fueling his own extant power, as weaker blood did, the more potent varieties of vitae were what truly counted - that was the real secret of the Lords of Blood- they did not have to simply wait for the passing of ages to increase their power, they could steal the strength from the blood and souls of others and make it their own.... Of course, his reduction to ash and long imprisonment had leeched away that godlike potence he had once possessed... but he would rebuild. As long as he avoided any more stupid mistakes, he should come through this all right. There was still much work to do, however - though his strength effectively had no upper limit, it would take a great deal of blood, not to mention likely a few potent souls before he had even a fragment of his strength at it's usual peak. As of now, though, he was grateful to the dragon - he'd have to find a way to repay him. Umber was not the kindest of creatures, but he always paid his debts.

As they approached the door, he moved close, leaning in to inspect the strange runes carefully, though he was equally careful not to make actual contact with them. "Strange" he mused I'm fluent in most of the commonly used magical alphabets and rune-codes, as well as a vast number of the more esoteric ones, but I'm not sure I recall seeing these before He continued to examine the door, looking for any similarities with anything he might have seen previously, either here or elsewhere.

He sighed For now, though, I wouldn't touch it... shame we don't have any prisoners. They'd be useful at this juncture.

[Pwenet]

Watching his Vampire sniff his blood, Akor shakes his head slightly. Far from disgusted, he is actually envious of the Vampire lord. The decades trapped within this human form, a spirit with limited control, how far he had fallen. And now like the vampire, he is suffering the basic cravings of life, such as hunger, exhaustion and tiredness. The last time he felt this weak was when those foul creatures had invaded his ancient home, where he had fled, barely surviving.

Throughout the ages that have passed, there were seasons of life and seasons of death. Dragons had arisen during one of the distant first ages, far before the ones called humans started their advancement to their current state of evolution. Born to flesh, after several hundred years the flesh was but a thin shell, containing their magical essence underneath it, giving them power beyond comprehension. The gods themselves held no sway over the dragonkin, and world was their plaything and they were the ultimate rulers of all.

And yet the dragon race suffered from several flaws. Most notably was a very low birth-rate. Hundreds of thousands of eggs could be deposited by the females, and yet maybe one out of a hundred would hatch. The rare number of females led to fighting within the race as they struggled for the power to keep their race alive. The lesser races were caught within the effects of the struggles that at times would tear apart the reality itself.

It was these conflicts that seeded the ancient hatred of dragons into the minds of the lesser species.

As time passed the dragons themselves started to grow weaker, with less and less being born each eon. The cause had never been found, and the lesser races, with ancient memories and tales of what the dragons had done, took full advantage. Dragons fell to the sword, the arrow, the magic that the lesser races were now able to wield. The great dragon clans united but they were too weak, too few being born each eon. Akor himself was part of the last generation of dragons, his birth along with those of his fellow hatchlings the last time a newborn dragon would be born. Between the death of the last female dragon, and the accursed forces marching upon their ancestral home where they had retreated to many millennial ago by, Akor fled.

Time passed, centuries, millennial, long, the feeble piece of neurons could not hope to hold his entire essence, his consciousness at this juncture. Death was approaching, old age, something that never even bothered dragons before their fall, now had creped up to him. Deep within his bones he knew he was the last dragon, the rest having been killed or died of natural causes. Spitting into the eye of death he made a desperate plan with the humans (or was it the other way around) and was fused with a human, the goal to be reborn in the full glory of his kind.

Shaking his head Akor stumbles and nearly falls upon the ground, barely catching himself in time with the captured hammer slipping to the ground. Dragging it along he focuses within himself, trying to pull energy from the air around him, to drag the faint nutrients that this body could be used and place them within himself. Yet the weak flesh would not be fooled, would not accept such sources of nourishment. Coughing he looks down at his hand in shock as he sees blood in the palm of it.

”So…. This is exhaustion. Dreaming of ages long past, probably longer than you have been walking this world, while awake! This sensation, the craving for food, nourishment, even at my worst I never felt like this. I think this shell is sick as well, and getting worse. Oh the irony, if only you knew vampire.”

Chuckling to himself at the irony of transferring one dying body and into another one, surprisingly the chuckles turns into laughter and he crying as he laughs. Recovering he sees that they are in front of a large stone door. The vampire takes lead examining the door.

"Strange. I'm fluent in most of the commonly used magical alphabets and rune-codes, as well as a vast number of the more esoteric ones, but I'm not sure I recall seeing these before. For now, though, I wouldn't touch it... shame we don't have any prisoners. They'd be useful at this juncture.”

Examining the runes Akor digs within his memory and tries to see if during his long life he ever saw them before. As he processes them he hefts up the hammer.

”Let’s try knocking, and I have a nice tool to use. I hope your friend minds.”

While the shell of the body is weak and tired, Akor forces it to wind up, and he swings the hammer at the stone door with all the strength that he can summon.

[WhiteKnight777]

Umber

The vampire lord smiled wryly at the Dragon's comment "Longer? I'm not sure. To be honest... I've lost track of the ages. Millenia have unfolded since I died and was reborn in a crucible of blood and pain. There are times when I slept away years, decades even. I can't honestly tell my real age anymore.... But I can empathize with your feeling. He grimaced There was a time when my strength was the stuff of gods and legends... There was a time when I slew an entire city in a single night with naught but my bare hands... now, now I feel as weak as a newborn babe. He shrugged Still... one of the benefits of my unique... condition is that I can regenerate my strength quickly enough, given potent vitae or soulstuff... its acquiring either one that's the trouble, of course. As for your own body... He gave an evil little grin We'll find something to do. If nothing else, I know a number of rituals that can sustain you once we're out of this pit. Given time, I could probably even construct a new body for you. I'd have to find some suitable remnants related to your former form, though... perhaps a draconic skeleton, or at least part of one to serve as the base... he mused And of course, it would necessitate a number of sacrifices... some suitably mystically significant number.

[Darkadvice]

Armed pretty well, wonder what there looking for... This chain though... cheap iron, not refined to remove all imperfections, must have made it here in the mines themselves. Too strong and heavy to break with bear hands, but easily broken by a sword. Too many here to try something now. All of this flashed through Cade's mind in a second after the leash was being pulled.

"Hope your not hoping to get a surprise on this guy, with all these chains banging around. Unless your hoping to disguise me as Christmas Past this situation isn't going to work so well. What exactly are you looking for?"
Cade said as he slowly walks ahead at the minimum distance of the leash before it rises off the ground.

(should they try a snide remark or inflict any more wounds on Cade, he will perform the following)
Shift from one side of the corridor/hallway to the other, making the chain roll along side to side tripping anyone running after him.
If the chain is yanked back to pull him back, he grabs the chain around his left arm and jumps with the chain throwing off the guard's balance (probably pretty bad if he's in full plate and holding a crossbow as well) and tacking into him, chained up fist first.

[Voth]

We should leave... Now.

Yes but... what of the girl?

What of her? Hopefully the guards will have a little fun with her.

I can't just leave her here!

What is with you and your new morals? Lets leave her to her fate. We have bigger fish to fry.

No. I refuse.

With that, Voth steps forward, attempting to grab the girl and drag her to safety.

[Burrito]

Okay, so I just now realized Askov has wrist and leg shackels....yikes, so change of plans I guess. Time for some editing.

OOC, wow, you aren't going to make this easy are ya ;)

Askov
As soon as I was shoved back into my cell, I sat down to think. Time to try a new approach. This isn't the work camps. I will die here if I don't do something about it, and do it quick. I'm just wasting away on the slop they feed us. While I was thinking I took out the sliver of pick handle I aquired. It was about 5 inches long, and about 1 1/2 inches wide at the base. Ash wood, and nice and hard. It only took a few minutes of rubbing it against the hard floor to finish the point. Well, it's not much, but it's a shank. I stood up and started pacing back and forth. Trying to stay limber and mentaly sharp. I began going over fight senarios in my head. How to react, where to stab, and how to do it quickly, and more importantly quietly. Go for the face and neck, inner legs and groin. That is where a man will bleed the most. Gotta go all out, commit fully. Time will be my biggest enemy.

Time. Yes, now is the time. No more hesitation.

It seemed to me that making the decision to act, was the hardest part. There was almost a euphoric relief that went over me as I began to prepare. I walked over to best tool I have at my disposal, the grate on the sh#tter. Two finger thick bars of iron, each about 5 inches long and welded/joined at the middle to form a simple cross. I pop it loose. I doubt I have time to file the ends to points, but it is still harder than the mortar on the cell door.

After several hours though, the euphoria was gone. Replaced by sweat, bloody hands, and determination. That and keeping an ear open for the hourly walkthough by the guards. Luckily they don't care if the inmates sleep or not, so they like to rattle the keys and bang on the cell bars. So I have plenty of time to huddle back up in my corner.
I've been working at the base of one of the bars on the end. The bars were placed into a simple slot in the floor and mortar filled in, quick and efficient. On the top, they were placed into holes drilled into the stone, and lightly mortarted to stop them from moving about. The one at the end sould be my best bet though, there should be some weakness where the mortar meets up the the stone.

Thank the Light for slave labor! I thought after seeing the bottom of the cell bar after going through only about 3 inches of mortar, in about 4 hours. I then began to work the bar back and forth, and much at I can, using it as a lever, buy grabbing it at the bottom. I only have about 8 inches to the left and right that I can move it (maximum). Right now it only moves about 1 inch each way, but old mortar is raining down on my head. I keep stopping every few minutes to clean up the mess and throw it down the toilet. Once it is loose enough at the top I should be able to slide the bar up into the hole, and then back out and into the cell. Giving me a way out and a sturdy, if clumsy, weapon.

Uh, oh, another walkthrough. Oh Light, he's close!

I scurry to the back of my cell, but in my excitement I wasn't as quiet as I should have been. I could hear the guards walking pace change. I realize I won't have time to place the grate back on so I squat over the sh#tter hole and hold the grate at my side and kind of behind me. The wooden shank is cluched in my left hand.

"Worm! What are you doing?" he snarled at me, resting his hand on the bar next to the one I was workign on.

"What does it look like I'm doing! Why? Do you want to watch?" The excitement of the past few hours getting the better of my judgement.

"Worm, you just earned yourself two days with no food." His face getting purple with rage. I could hear the leather creak on the handle of his metal studded club. A club that was long ago stained dark with the blood of prisioners.

"But if you stop feeding me, you won't be able to stop by and watch me squat like an animal and sh#t on the floor." I taunted. What have I got to loose. I thought. "Every prisioner and guard here knows that you like to do that. They all talk about it behind your back." "They will have even more to talk about when I tell them how you begged me to let you watch."

"You will say nothing!" he snarled and he fumbled at his keys and the lock on the door. "I will smash that smile right through the back of your head!" "Your smart mouth just got you killed!" He screamed, almost choking with rage. And with that he threw open the door and rushed in.

I was still squatting over the toilet when he rushed in. He must have though I would be vairly vulnerable like that, no backup, and entering my cell. That would be his last mistake. It only took two big steps to reach me. As he brought the club up over his head I acted. I jumped up as hard as I could, bringing the metal grate up into his groin. Keeping my head down and close to the right side of his body, to try and avoid any hit from the club. I heard a grunt from the guard, and felt an elbow glance off of my right shoulder. I took my wooden shank and rammed it into his right hamstring as had as I could, and then gave another hit to groin with the metal grate. I heard another grunt, and the guard started to buckle. Apparently my first hit had taken the fight out of him. Along with the abilty to procreate. The grate in my right hand was covered in blood, and the guard was just laying there shuddering and taking quick gasping breaths. I grabbed up his club, and put a quick end to even those noises. The whole fight had taken no more that four or five desperate seconds. I went back to the cell door, the keys still haning in the lock. I closed the cell back up, and took the keys. I still had work to do in the cell. I had to work fast, as there was only about an hour before the morning meal pass.

Where is the key! I could not find a key for the shackels...only the big key for the cell door. Think, think THINK DAMNIT! If I had the tools I would be out of these in a matter of moments. I sit for a moment and take a few deep breaths. I examine the wrist shackles. Fairly good welds on all the links. However, the iron loop where the chain link attaches to the left manacle, that looks promising...

(More OOC, had to change it around some, but this should do, I know it is freeform, so let me know if I took too many liberties with the story in this part. I am new at this. Also, I typed this from the Direct Supervision Unit, me in a big room full of 56 guys wearing orange uniforms. Ahh, the irony!)

[Gygaxphobia]

Kailess the Purifier

The Holy One steels himself and searches inside, if matyr he will become then he doesn't intend to go meekly.
His rage simmers beneath the surface and he latches on, his will is strong and only too willing to use it but the mistreatment of his body proves too great an obstacle. His mind is a whirlwind of thoughts and fury but without physical strength his power is suppressed and he can't release his anger.
Perhaps if they provoked his fury for him, what would happen if his anger exploded inside a body his frail? Would the energies heal him or would he be torn apart? Either way, he hopes to take the villainous dirt with him and send their souls on to suffer. The thought brings a smile to his lips and he glows as he thinks of the Valkyrie's reward for matyrdom...

"You'd like me to squeal for you, you would enjoy that." He states it simply, in a weak monotone. "Try your best then. If this is the evil criminal you believe, then tis your duty to make it suffer. And tis your reward to get satisfaction from it." His head remains low, bowed so no eye contact would make him more than an object.
He half-whispers, talking to himself as though delirious, but knowing the words will carry to the guards anyway. "What a waste... Such good strong men, so brave, so dutiful. Yet betrayed by an evil that uses them for it's own ends. What power there is in such loyal men, if only one of them could open his eyes..."

[ubersquid]

Elkwin - Catacombs

"I will trust my own knowledge of human nature on that topic for now."

As Marv tries to defend himself from the girls accusations, Elkwin throws him a wide grin.

Turning back to the ghost, he frowns in confusion.

"How will you...? I've never seen this kind of writing before."

"And more importantly how should I know whom to give that sword to. This place is full to the brim with evil, it's a prison after all."

Considering his last two questions will be answered sufficiently, Elkwin will carefully pull out the sword and wrap it into one of the tabards, as well as the book, and will try to cramp it into his backpack somehow.

Spoiler

Show

sorry, it's a bit short, but i'm on the run at the moment, will be back on sunday

[Inspectre]

The Spires: Ironheart Research

Voth

You idiot. I’m going to remind you of this moment, over and over again, when we’re locked back up in our little cage. Don’t expect me to help you save some stupid harlot that we’d have normally just butchered, or if we had had the time, had a little fun with first before butchering her.

You worry for a moment that Shadow is going to do something again to make the situation worse, but instead the demon retreats even further inside your head, seeming to abandon you completely for the moment. As such, you do not have his strength to draw upon, and whether or not this is really the case, you feel weaker as you struggle to quickly draw the girl out of sight with you.

Fortunately, the girl does not struggle, but mindless clings to you after you drag her up onto her feet to half-carry, half-drag her out of sight. Another fortunate thing is that a short distance away from where the girl stopped, back towards the back of the circular room instead of the desk, was a pair of spacious wooden desks with leather-covered padded chairs behind each. From the doorway, the space immediately behind the two desks is out of sight, and so you deposit the girl onto the floor behind one and then crouch down protectively over her, also rendering yourself out of sight of the two guards as the door swings the rest of the way open.

Unfortunately, it seems that your safety is only temporary, as you hear the two guard voices getting closer to your position as they walk across the room from the now-open doorway.

“Why are we even here again?”

“I needs a drink! An I knows the Moleskins keepa a fine flask o’ it ina ther desk!”

“You’re out of control! You know Bruce loves his whiskey and hates anyone stealing it! He’ll send you to go meet the Judge, and you won’t ever come back!”

“Ah, to thell wit dem! I needs a drink!”

You know, it’s touching, really, that you suddenly want to protect “innocent” girls. But why aren’t we beating the hell out of these two drunk *******s again?

Knowing that it will only be another minute before the two guards come around the side of the desks and once again find you, you only have a short time to figure out what to do. You could try hiding under the desks, although that would probably mean shifting the chair around which the guards might notice even in their drunken state. Or you could leap out and pummel them. Or perhaps you could somehow fool them, and convince them to go away? Better do something quick though.

The Prism

Lonna

The Judge listens impassively to your defense. When you are finished, he replies in his still booming voice.

IT IS TRUE THAT YOUR PROFESSION IS NOT STRICTLY AGAINST THE LAW, NOR IMPROPER IF INDEED YOUR VICTIMS SOUGHT YOU OUT AS YOU SAY. THE SAME HOLDS TRUE OF THE DOCUMENTED INCIDENTS OF PUBLIC NUDITY AND THIEVERY, AS PRESUMABLY YOUR CLIENTS UNDERSTOOD THAT TO BE THE PRICE PAID FOR YOUR SERVICES. THAT IS, HOWEVER, CONTINGENT UPON THE IDEA THAT YOUR CLIENTS KNEW YOU WERE TO BE PAID.

Here the Judge grimaces and rubs momentarily at his temple, adding:

OF COURSE, IT COULD BE ASSUMED THAT YOUR VICTIMS ALREADY KNEW AHEAD OF TIME WHAT THE PRICE WAS. INSTEAD OF PAYING YOU DIRECTLY, THEY OFFERED YOU THEIR CLOTHES FOR YOU TO TAKE AFTERWARDS AS PAYMENT. ASSUMING THAT YOU TOOK NO OTHER PAYMENT THAN THEIR CLOTHES, IT WOULD NOT BE THEIVERY.

Lowering his hand now, the Judge continues.

HOWEVER, THAT STILL LEAVES THE CHARGE OF MURDER. ALTHOUGH YOUR STORY HAS A RING OF TRUTH TO IT, IT IS ALSO A CONFESSION. REGARDLESS OF YOUR MOTIVATIONS FOR DOING SO, YOU, A COMMONER, KILLED A NOBLEMAN. ATONEMENT MUST BE MADE FOR THIS ACT. IT CANNOT BE FORGIVEN.

Again the Judge grimaces, running a hand over his gigantic bald head.

THIS IS AN UNFORTUNATE TRUTH, FOR IF COMMONERS WERE ABLE TO KILL NOBLEMEN, ANARCHY WOULD RAIN SUPREME OVER THE LAND. YOU MUST BE MADE AN EXAMPLE OF, WHICH WILL HAPPEN AT YOUR EXECUTION. STILL, THE CIRCUMSTANCES SURROUNDING YOUR ACTIONS SHOULD MITIGATE YOUR RESPONSIBILITY SOMEWHAT. ALTHOUGH YOU MAY STILL NEED TO DIE FOR THE GOOD OF SOCIETY, THIS COURT SEES NO REASON FOR YOU TO SUFFER NEEDLESSLY PRIOR TO EXECUTION.

The Judge finishes polishing his chrome-dome, and lowers his hand to point an accusatory finger at you.

VERY WELL, WE HAVE REVIEWED YOUR CASE. NOW, TELL US OF YOUR EXPERIENCES HERE, AND IF THEY HAVE CAUSED YOU TO REPENT FOR YOUR CRIMES. SPEAK.

The Cells: First Floor

The_Snark

As you lean in closer to ask the man as quietly possible about the song, he smiles. For an instant you flinch, recalling similar smiles from men locked in cages like this one. They’d pretend to be nice, smiling and beckoning to you to come closer, and then when you did they went crazy, screaming at you and throwing themselves at the bars to try to get at you.

One such incident suddenly floats to memory: the last time you were allowed down on the second level of cells. You had been an even naughtier girl back then, and stupider to match. Your job then was simple: go around to the scattered oil lanterns spaced every few dozen feet and refill them with oil.

You were almost finished when the man directly next to the lantern you had just refilled called out to you. His voice was quiet and soft and nice. He didn’t seem like a bad man at all. And he kept talking to you in that same quiet voice even as you turned and started walking away. But then you got curious and went back. The nice man kept talking to you, saying he had something to show you, and wouldn’t you come a little closer to see?

Even with the lantern almost right overhead, it was hard to see inside the man’s cage, and with him being such a nice man, you got curious enough to move very close to the bars of his cage. Too close. His hand suddenly grabbed yours, yanking you face-first into the bars. As you were dazed, he spun you around so that your back was to the bars, and then held you back against them, hand clamped over your mouth.

An instant later, his chains rattled against the bars as he worked his other hand through the bars, wrapping it around your throat. Then he dragged you up over a foot into the air, silently choking you as he tried to drag you through the bars. But you weren’t small enough to be squeezed in through the bars, and he was definitely too big to squeeze himself out. So he just shuddered wildly against the bars as he held you aloft, strangling the life out of you while rubbing his nose into your hair and muttering. He said all sorts of things you didn’t understand, but there were a few words you did, “harlot” amongst them. That was something Daddy called you when he was really mad.

For the first few moments you were angry at the way you were being treated, but quickly suppressed it. You were being punished, just not by Daddy. But this formerly nice man didn’t seem to know the rules – usually you weren’t choked. Daddy said it wasn’t painful enough for a bad girl like you: when you were punished there was supposed to be pain to help your body remember for you not to be a bad girl anymore.

Then you were afraid, afraid that Daddy wouldn’t approve of how you were being punished, and both you and the man would suffer His wrath. But then you started to just feel lightheaded. That felt good: peaceful, like you were just about to float away into sleep.

It was then that the guard-men showed up, four of them carrying torches on one of their walks around the cages to make sure everything was alright. They told the man to put you down, and he screamed that he would break your neck, which was *definitely* against the rules. No matter how much Daddy threatened to break your neck, he had never done it, even during the couple times when he had been strangling you.

But then the man cried out suddenly in pain, and a few hot drops of his blood fell down onto your head from his face just before he released you. The guards ran over and dragged you away, two of them carried you up to Daddy while the other two went to get the keys to the man’s cage.

You saw him again for a few days after that, in Daddy’s study, being punished like you sometimes were. Then you never saw the man after that. Daddy was furious with you for a long time after that, and you couldn’t speak for days after screaming yourself hoarse during the endless punishment sessions that followed. But when the guards first carried you in and explained what happened, you saw the relief in his face. Daddy really did love you, he just had to punish you whenever you were bad. It was your own fault that you were so bad and so often.

Coming back from the memory, you suddenly realize that you’re cold and wet. And that you’re lying on the floor in a puddle, arms wrapped around you for warmth as you mindlessly shiver on the cold floor. A short distance away is the bucket, tipped over on its side and now containing only a few handfuls of red water. Now you had really done it, blacking out over a stupid memory of when you had been bad before! You really were just a stupid girl.

But then your ears noticed a sound you hadn’t heard before, a soft deep sound that was oddly comforting despite how rough it was. A moment later you realized that the sounds were words, and a moment after that you realized that the words were being sung, matching in sound to the song you would often hum to yourself while alone.

“The sun shall shine,
Through darkest cloud,
Following blackest night,
Again and again,
To fill the world with the light.

So don’t frown,
And don’t cry,
The Lightbringer smiles
Upon thee, Fear not,
The Sun shall shine.”

“The Sun shall – oh praise be to Athelion, you’re awake! I thought the worst when you just collapsed lass! I thought about calling for a guard, but they’re never around when you need one and I was afraid they would just hurt you. I didn’t know what else to do, so I just started singing that old hymn. And I guess the Lightbringer must have heard me, because now you’re back! Are you alright, child?”

The Cells: Second Floor

Burrito

(OOC Heehee, yeah that is pretty ironic. )

You took a few liberties, but I must say that your ingenuity is impressive! Typically, however, guards use the buddy system while on patrol, even on the first level of cells. Down here in the second level of cells, you can expect to find three or four guards together carrying torches to help light up the somewhat gloomy hallways, as there are only lanterns spaced every couple cells. Also, no guards carry the keys to any cells doors or prisoner restraints unless they are specifically there to retrieve the prisoner or put some new type of restraints on that mandate taking the old ones off.

The restraint keys are often kept up in the Key Storage Spire, and brought down for the guards as necessity demands. Copies of keys to each of the prisoner cells, however, are probably stored somewhere on the level itself, scattered around the various guard posts, separated so it would be difficult for the whole floor to free itself at once, and yet not so randomly scattered that it’s a pain in the ass to find the key to a specific cell.

So, because I really do like the way you’ve been thinking, I’m willing to let the normal rules slide a bit. The guard you taunted was on patrol with some other guards, and after mockery from his cohorts, came back later after he went off-duty and retrieved the key to your cell.

He is equipped with a light chain shirt, good enough to protect the torso but offering no protection to the limbs and minimal protection to the groin as he discovered the hard way. He has the typical heavy wooden club guards carry, a smoothed, blood-stained hardwood rod between a foot and a foot and a half long. Underneath his armor he also is wearing a sweat and now somewhat bloody-stained Ironheart guard uniform, black cloth shirt and pants, worn leather belt and worn heavy-soled leather boots with iron-capped toes. He also has a simple black cloth cap to try to keep the hair out of his eyes, and was carrying a torch when he came in.

The torch is now out, but holding it against one of the lanterns outside should probably relight it fairly quickly.

Other than the key to your cell, which is a simply brass copy of the original, the guard has no other keys in his position at this time. In addition to your restraints, the guard’s clothing is all short-sleeved, leaving the identification number burned onto your arm clearly visible. Although not always, the guards typically checked the arms of incoming people to guard stations, so pretending to be a guard up close will be difficult even after you remove your shackles.

Fortunately, no one seems to have noticed the struggle, and after a moment’s effort you close the door to your cell again and pull the key out of the lock. You will be able to open the cell door from the inside with the key, so you can leave whenever you are ready. There is always the concern of another guard patrol passing by however, and while your cell was fairly dark on the inside the guards might still notice the dim outlines of two separate figures lying inside, which would definitely pique their curiosity.

Outside the door, freedom beckoned, even if it would only be temporary as you raced down the hallways of Ironheart until a roving band of guards found and caught you.

The Cells: Third Floor

Darkadvice

“Let’s just call this a fishing expedition, and you’re the bait.” The lead guard said with a laugh, gesturing for you to get a move on. “You behave yourself, and maybe we’ll even give you a dull knife to slit your own throat with to put yourself out of misery when this is all over.”

Deciding you were tired of their smart remarks and not particularly looking forward to the idea of a “fishing expedition” with you as the “bait”, you figured it was time to teach these guards a lesson. Suddenly dashing forward, you race down the hallway ahead of the guards, as if you were all running together and you expected them to keep up.

As you moved, you zig-zagged, and as the chain attached to your waist began to grow taut you could hear a few loud curses followed by one or two even louder metallic crashes as the heavily armored guards fell to the floor, tripped up by your chain.

You were in the black darkness outside the guard’s small radius of light now, and although you couldn’t see with the goggled locked over your eyes you continued straight ahead, figuring that the hallway of cells probably didn’t turn sharply up ahead. You could hear the guards loudly cursing now, as while for the moment you couldn’t see neither could they see you, negating most of their own advantages.

When the guard in charge of keeping you close via the leash finally woke up, you felt the chain suddenly grow tight and a strong pull backwards rushed through your body. But you fought against that, reaching one arm around behind your back to grab hold of the chain and rip it forward.

Again, you hear a loud curse and a scream as somewhere behind you the dumb guard is ripped off his feet and goes sliding forward towards you, into the darkness. Your territory. Racing back towards the guard, you find him by hearing his heavy breathing as he attempts to get up.

Looping a couple links of the heavy chain around your one fist, making your hand essentially one big ball of chains considering the manacle already snapped around your wrist with a chain leading down to your waist, you leap on the guard. You pull your fist back as much as the chain connected to your waist will let you, and prepared to deliver some righteous prison justice while you notice that you’re back in the light now.

“Don’t even think about it.” The lead guard calls, loudly preparing his crossbow to fire in order to get your attention. Risking a glance up into the bright light of their torches, you can see that while three of them were still picking themselves up and one was beneath you at your mercy, there were still three more pointing their crossbows steadily at you.

“Now, get off him and stay only a little bit ahead of us, where we can still see ya. You try a trick like that again and we’ll slow you down by hamstringing you and making your crawl through the mines.”

Gygaxphobia

As you continued to talk in response to the guard’s taunts, you could hear the others mutter amongst themselves. None of them were truly convinced yet, but you could sense their will wavering from your words. Given enough time, you would surely convince them of the truth, but it was entirely possible that your time was coming to an end.

Once the guards turned you over to the cultist filth, you would have no hope. Cultists were invariably fanatics, blindly devoted to their pathetic dark idols that they continued their blasphemy even after you ground those idols into dust. There was no swaying a fanatic from a course he had already chosen with words, and more often than not even your fists and sword could only remove the life from their bodies, and not the taint they had chosen to take into their souls.

Refusing to even answer your words but with hate still in his eyes, the guard turned away from you and tugged on your leash, dragging you on to your fate. Silently, the other guards followed. A minute later and the light of their torches revealed that you had arrived at the end of your destination. Standing in the middle of the intersection a short distance ahead, at the edge of the torchlight, you saw what appeared to be your stereotypical cultist. Wrapped in a cloak as black as midnight and with his head cowled, the figure stood impassively at the center of the intersection. Flanking him were two sleek forms ripped directly out of nightmare: Soulseekers.

Demons with the body of wolves, their lower jaws were divided in half, each capable of swinging open separately if needed, down and to the side. The upper half of their heads were swaddled in what appeared to be ashen petals. But those petals could peel back away rapidly, you knew, revealing the horrific countenance that was hidden within. It only revealed its true face, however, when it was prepared to harvest its prey. Typically collectors of souls for the legions of Hell, Soulseekers would run a man down, slicing him apart with their swinging lower jaws and razor-sharp claws. Then, when the man approached death, the ashen petals would peel back, revealing the creature’s true face to its victim as they looked each other eye-to-eye and screamed as one. During the screaming the demon inhaled the person’s soul, and then finished it by burrowing its muzzle into the person’s chest to bite through their ribcage and swallow their heart.

“Here’s another prisoner, as requested. He’s a mouthy one though, so I say you keep him gagged until you want him to squeal.” The hateful guard said, nodding back at you. You could sense that the other guards were uneasy in the presence of the Soulseekers, whimpering and crying with the voice of babies instead of normal dogs. The cultist however, seemed unphased by his pets’ behavior, which was odd as even the craziest demon-worshipper in the end was still human.

There’s been a chance in plans.

The figure suddenly replied, it’s voice rasping and croaking.

More souls are required.

“Uhh . . . well, we’ll go get some more prisoners for you then.” The lead guard said, even his usual angry confidence faltering before the alieness of the Soulseekers and the strange cultist.

No need. Your souls are no different than the souls of those you keep.

The cultist then makes a simple gesture, and the two Soulseekers leap into action, dashing forward to begin tearing into the guard’s ranks. As the guards begin to scream and shout as the carnage of battle begins, you and the cultist are forgotten. You watch as he slips away into the darkness, apparently confident in these two demons’ ability to harvest all of your souls and report back. It was not particularly an act of overconfidence, as you were truly the only one here with any experience in combating these creatures, and you were helplessly bound: undoubtedly the easiest of the victims to kill.

But as the first two guards fell, the Soulseekers screaming into their faces as the petals rolled back to revealed their true faces to their two victims, one of the guards rushes up to you. It was the one who had first began to fall under your sway.

“You are a warrior of justice, surely you know how to kill these things!? Will you help us!?” He shouts, already moving behind you to cut the straps holding your arms, as if he already knew the answer. And perhaps he did.

Torture Chambers

Dorizzit

The Countess follows your lead, allowing you to drag her out of sight behind the suspension board. You can see fear beginning to enter into her eyes as he crouches down behind it, but he nods and waves you off. Very nearly out of time, you dive into the abandoned cell through the gap you had just made in the bars.

You were just in time, for no sooner were you inside and huddling in a corner than the guards appeared in the doorway. Peeping out from the safety of your hiding spot, you watch as Seraph nods and very quietly begins to draw his bastard sword.

“What the hells happened here?” The elite at the head of the guards grunted, stepping fully into the room as his wary eyes shifted back and forth between the dead body of the man Seraph executed and the broken cell you were now “cowering” in.

As the tip of Seraph’s sword exited the sheath, it rasped against the leather: a faint sound, but nonetheless loud enough to alert the already wary elite.

As Seraph leapt forward to drive the hilt of his blade into the elite’s temple, the guardman whirled to face him. Now seeing the attack from more than just the corner of his eye, the elite guard was able to throw one arm up in time to block the blow, locking arms with Seraph.

With his free hand the elite draws his longsword and thrusts, but his attack is stopped short when Seraph clamps his own free hand around the guard’s wrist. The two stand there straining against each other for several seconds as the other guards curse and draw their own weapons.

Then, Seraph spins himself and the elite around in a half-circle while still locked in their contest of strength. Seraph ends the contest as his left foot flashes up and then out, kicking the elite in the stomach and shoving him stumbling back into a stand of wicked cutting implements.

“I leave the others to you, Korram!” Seraph shouts as he rushes towards the off-balance elite, leaving the three remaining guards to stand at the doorway in confusion, scanning the room for this seemingly-invisible “Korram” fellow.

OverWilliam/Adlan

For a moment, all four guards simply stare in shock as first one, and then the second of their victims fall back into sleep. The guards had been forced to account for this earlier, of course, using a variety of timely inflictions of pain, thrown water, and even drugs. Seeing this, it is Random Guy who speaks first, lowering his crossbow to start walking over to the stand where the vials of stimulants were held.

“You sure you really want to get close enough to the guy to pour something down his throat when he’s not tied down? I don’t think I’d be able to haul him back off ya fast enough.” Chains mentioned, a note of concern creeping into his voice at the proposed plan.

“Nah, screw that. I gots a better idea.” Needles said, actually grinning as he shifted his aim from the prone form of Garm to the hanging one of Tare. “Call me an amateur now, you little ****.” An instant later, there is the soft twang of a crossbow being fired, followed by a meaty thwack as the bolt buries itself into Tare’s right thigh.

“Good idea.” Timepiece replies, shifting his aim on the prone form of Garm before firing as well. Again there is a sharp twang as the bolt is released, followed by a soft impact and clatter as the bolt tears through Garm’s left hand, obliterating the silver needle still stuck there. The bolt continues all the way through his hand, emerging out of his palm to penetrate perhaps half an inch into the stone floor beneath.

“No rest for the wicked!” Needles shouts, and all of the guards immediately begin laughing cruelly, Chains retaining his readied grip on Garm’s leash and Random Guy covering him with his crossbow while Needles and Timepiece reload. This finished, if the two prisoners by now have still not somehow awakened from their new horrific injuries, Timepiece and Needles frown.

“Think we killed them?” Random Guy says, still covering Garm’s body but nervously shooting glances over at the other guards. “Nah, they ain’t stupid enough to die on our watch.” Needles grunted, slinging his crossbow over his back before walking over to the hanging Tare. “Watch.”

Grasping the crossbow bolt in one hand while using the other to hold Tare stable, Needles twists the bolt savagely within his leg. “Come on, tell me I’m an amateur now!”

Handing his own reloaded crossbow off to Random Guy, who nervously sets it down on the stand in front of him after a moment’s hesitation, Timepiece approaches the downed figure of Garm. “Good idea.” Kneeling down beside Garm, Timepiece twists the crossbow bolt within Garm’s hand, twirling the point out of its self-made indentation in the floor.

If the intense pain caused by twisting the bolts within the wounds still fails to rouse the two prisoners, both Needles and Timepiece exchange a look a few moments later, and nod. Then, as one, they both tear the bolts out of their respective victims’ bodies in a rush of blood. Barbed so as to discourage such hastily removal, the bolts tear the flesh around the wounds apart, leaving a gaping hole in Tare’s leg and ruining Garm’s left hand, perhaps crippling it permanently.

If this still somehow does not resolve into awakening the two prisoners, together the four guards drag Garm up to his feet and throw him back into the chair, making sure to strap him tightly back into it. They then casually bandage the two prisoners’ wounds, clearly not too worried about blood loss or infection. Then, they force a full vial of the strongest stimulant they have down each of the prisoners’ throats, which typically was more than enough to keep a prisoner awake and on-edge for twice the length of time Tare & Garm have been subjected to so far.

If even this does not wake them up, the four guards withdraw and begin to converse amongst themselves, clearly uncertain how to proceed.

(Pretty much you two have a choice in the following timeline as to when you want to wake up. Both of you can awake at separate times throughout the progression if you so desire. There are essentially five points when you can wake up: 1) Immediately after the crossbow bolts, 2) After the twisting of the bolts inside you, 3) After the brutal removal of the bolts, 4) After the introduction of the stimulants, 5) Never. Pretty much the guards become less and less prepared for sudden resistance as time goes on, but the severity of your own wounds also piles up. Note that choosing option 5 pretty much means that I have to do something unexpected to save you from the guards just shrugging next DM post, declaring you dead, and decapitating you both before disposing of the bodies. Please don’t force me to do something unexpected, as it would probably be something unexpectedly lame like the Howler Monkey Inquisition. )

The Cells: Maximum Security

Baerdog7

Although chained to the symbol of one of your greatest enemies and surrounded by walls that even themselves weakly radiated an aura of evil and despair, trying to identify which team this strange creature was playing for was worth a shot. You stretch out your senses to the section of wall that the shadowy face was on, and detect . . . nothing, aside from a very faint aura of evil that might very well simply be the ambience of this place.

An illusion then, some kind of projection that whoever this was, was using to speak to you either because they couldn’t or didn’t want to be in the same room as you. Small wonder really, given how Ironheart tended to treat its guests. But then your guest goes and identifies himself anyway.

“The Legions of Hell have a long memory, Lord General, and we will not soon forget what you once did to us. My master, however, is willing to forgive should you be willing to do one simple thing for us.” The shadow face hisses at you, although the mockery of a face twisted into a look of concern as your visitor rushed on.

“Now, before you refuse out of hand Lord General, allow me to finish. This task is nothing you would find against your own morals, and indeed I imagine would be something you would choose to do on your own. Quite simply, in exchange for your freedom my master wants you to destroy the Church of Light. Some of his rivals have grown quite powerful from their foul betrayal of partnership with the humans, and my master wants it to stop. That is all that is required of you, complete and total destruction of the Church’s leadership. So, do we have a deal?”

The Catacombs

ubersquid

“Oh thank the Goddess.” Marv sighs in relief, a little bit of color returning to his cheeks now that he seems convinced you weren’t going to kill him right there. As if you would really do such a thing anyway, regardless of what some crazy tied-up ghost told you.

As usual, the ghost is predictably cryptic in answering your questions.

You will know who to give the sword to when you meet them. Like you, they were brought here in chains. Like all who are brought here.

For a moment, the ghost seems to smile at the irony in her next statement.

Even me.

But the gods work in mysterious ways, weaving the world like a tapestry. What is true of someone may not be true the next, and even the darkest storm can end with a rainbow.

Here, her smile falters, and then fades completely as she whispers,

But not this one. Even the sun must set, and surrender the land to darkness. But it is how we live our life, and not how it ends, that is watched most closely by Athelion. All of us must bear our burdens, even into the jaws of the end, the all-consuming maw of Oblivion. Now it is nearly time for you to leave. I have one final gift to give to you. A kiss.

“Woah! Okay, just when I thought this couldn’t get any creepier!” Marv coughed, now slumping against one wall on the far side of the room, trying to catch his breath.

Kiss me, and then take my sword, my journal, and then go with my prayers.

The Labs

Iethloc

Draining the last of the wards’ magic away, you use their remaining magical power to give the research assistant a fly spell that was under your control, not his. Bringing him up to float in front of you, you sneer as think of how much trouble this little human brought you, and all because you couldn’t kill him because he had information you needed.

Upon your solicitation for suggestions as to what to do with him now that he was at last in your power, Omega spoke up. “I do, actually.” Flying up to alongside you, Omega locked eyes with the research assistant, staring at him intently. At first he stares back, but then his eyes go wide and he begins to make choking sounds and moans of pain. Finally, he seems able to unlock his jaw, and screams, a long endless howl of agony as his eyeballs melt, blood rushes out of his ears and nose, and then finally his head spontaneously bursts into flame from the inside out.

He would have lied to us about some seemingly inconsequential detail that would have been the end for us. Extracting the information directly from his mind and then executing him was far more efficient. Omega explains through your telepathic connection as she turns and begins to fly away from the man’s floating corpse, rapidly burning away into nothing but a floating pile of ashes. Also, I now have invaluable information that reduces the chances of you double-crossing me by 70% assuming my assumptions about your personality are correct.

Looking down at the rampaging demon horde below, Omega stares at them, watching as they all burst into flame, a rolling sheet of fire that consumes everything in its path to the door. Instantly Omega grimaces and cradles her head with her one human hand.

I will be unable to do that again for some time. The use of my powers is beginning to place a strain on my body. Clearly my father wasn’t quite done with my perfection yet. No matter, it seems that this next laboratory is the final one we must cross before entering the rest of the Maximum Security level. It is run by a Daniel Schrödinger, who apparently was researching ways of manipulating time in order to permanently freeze prisoners. Although intrigued, the assistant never got involved and simply passed through the lab every morning and night. He therefore does not know what security will be in the laboratory, save that Doctor Schrödinger will obviously be there, along with perhaps a few new test subjects: he never remembered seeing any guards.

Ritual Chambers

Sanctuary of the Prophets

Pwenet/WhiteKnight777

Struggling forward, the two of you approach the door, wary for more traps or other nasty surprises. Mellita and the girl have no suggestions of their own, and the little children naturally have nothing to contribute. So, with neither of you recognizing the actual language, Akor decides the next best thing to do is to knock.

Heaving the mighty warhammer of Ross up, Akor pulls it back and then swings forward at the door with all the might he can summon. The hammer does not even reach the door, however, as a field of green energy flashes into existence a few inches above the door’s surface.

It stops the forward motion of the blow, and then seemingly reverses it, throwing Akor back against the tunnel wall. There is a loud thromp that crashes through the room with the release of energy, and then all falls silent again as the green field slowly fades away once again. In its place, however, are glowing green letters that shift and morph periodically.

Umber now recognizes the magic in place over the door as some sort of conditional ward, protecting the door from unauthorized entry. Typically to open said door, some sort of condition had to be met, which was set at the time of the spell’s casting. As the green letters continue to shift and morph, both Umber and Akor suddenly recognize the letters as a block of text, rotating through several different languages. They both realize this at the same time as the text shifts into an ancient dialect of draconic, which had almost entirely faded away into ancient history even when both of them had been young.

The text reads:

I hold the key to your passage beyond.
Ruler of all things am I.
Sitting upon my throne I am a giant to some,
Yet others can barely see me.
I am gracious to my subjects,
But not all value my gifts and some curse my name.
Only my friends shall I let pass.
If indeed my friend you are, then speak my name.

MrEdwardNigma

Cassandra starts at the sound of your voice, but then leans her head back against the crate with a relieved sigh. “Oh, Victor. I’m so glad you’re alright. I was just running along behind you when that . . . book . . . thing . . . stabbed you in the face with a bunch of tentacles! You immediately collapsed, and I didn’t think trying to remove the book was a good idea, so instead I dropped the torch and grabbed you instead. Fortunately there was a door right nearby, otherwise I don’t know how I’d have managed to drag you very far with my hands still manacled like this: you’re heavier than you look and I still broke a couple nails as it is! I heard a couple of the . . . black cloaks . . . run past, but I imagine that they’ll be doubling back to search this room once they realize that we’re no longer ahead of them.”

Thinking about the books, you theorize that instead of storing information down in words written on paper, the information was instead stored in the cells of the fleshy blob creature living inside the book: inside its brain as it were. And then tentacles served as the physical bridge, sending the information to your brain along familiar signals that it could easily understand: sight and sound. The process tended to transfer information a lot quicker and in a more detailed format than the written word, but there were still some obvious drawbacks.

Obviously there was an issue of size, as each flesh-book tended to go more for quality than quantity of information. Also, while interfacing with a flesh-book, there was no way to do anything else and it demanded your full attention. This reason was actually the main one why you decided to abandon your own study of creating the things, as after a bit of thought you realized that you had no desire for one of those ignorant jackasses with a sword to show up while you were reviewing the chemical formulas for preserving brain tissue!

As you try to work one of the crates open, from somewhere nearby and below you a low thromp echos, the sound of a magical defense ward activating to repulse something. Cassandra hears it as well, pushing herself further into the corner in some way that defied conventional wisdom that said she couldn’t get any further into it. “What was that?” She whispered.

Looking around for the source of the noise, you realize that you seem to be in some sort of storage room, low aisles of crates and barrels surrounding you on all sides. A short distance away stood a stone door, opening directly into the aisle that you were currently hiding it. Where you were the aisle turns a corner, the result of the aisles further on similarly turning at this point to avoid running into the nearby wall. The aisle then soars down the length of the room, and at the very back of the room you can make out what appears to be a set of stone steps leading down to a lower level.

[Pwenet]

Akor

Picking himself up off the ground Akor cracks his neck and rests himself on the Warhammer of Ross. Seeing double he blinks until things stabilize and looks at the glowing green letters. As they rotate between various languages, he tries to comprehend them but several are exotic and ancients ones. Then they shift into one that Akor recognizes, one that the creators of have long since died, their bones mounted on display, and the bones turned into dust.

His ancestors. The legendary dragons of old.

While the language was long since ancient when he was born Akor had learned it before the final fall of the dragons. Watching the letters he speaks what they say aloud in a hushed whisper.

I hold the key to your passage beyond.
Ruler of all things am I.
Sitting upon my throne I am a giant to some,
Yet others can barely see me.
I am gracious to my subjects,
But not all value my gifts and some curse my name.
Only my friends shall I let pass.
If indeed my friend you are, then speak my name.

Closing his eyes and leaning against the warhammer his mind races. The creators of this spell would know that no species was truly immortal for that is the fundamental final fate everything faces, which even he himself spit into the eye of, which meant that it would not be a person the riddle was referring to. Even the most important person, the most famous of all, their name would in the fullness of time turn into dust.

Focusing on the line “Sitting upon my throne I am a giant to some” Akor moves that around his head.

”A giant to some, a giant to some, yet others can barely see me.”

That line indicates that the spell is referencing a geographical landmass. One that was ancient and would last through the fullness of time so that those would be able to read it. Focusing on the next few lines Akor runs those through his mind as well.

”But not all value my gifts and some curse my name. Only my friends shall I let pass.”

Akor smiles.

Not a traditional grin he might allow himself. A full-blown grin.

”Oh I love the one that created this spell. It is so simple to an outside observer! One who arrived as a guest and turned into one of you.”

Turning towards the door Akor smiles at it and clears his throat loudly, making sounds no human throat should make.

” si mi vi thurirl di wer zezhuanth hurthi di ironheart! open vur origato ve vur sia companions dolruth!”

For one that could understand the ancient speech of the dragons, they would understand what Akor said is thus:

Spoiler

Show

I am a friend of the ancient fortress of IRONHEART! Open and let me and my companions pass!