S
Sarky
Guest
Original poster
Dice room: Roleplaying Dice Roller · Rolz
@Excession @Chaka @Sideris @Hair @Ragoza
"Why haven't they just killed me?"
Thus speaks the first prisoner to break the silence. There are a dozen of you today, a motley selection of races chained to the wall by the wrists, or held in place in heavy iron stocks. The numbers have changed over the days. Sometimes twenty, sometimes nobody. There are only two constants. First, the only sunlight you have seen since arriving has been through narrow-slit windows high on the walls, and secondly it is always the case that someone in this prison is being hurt.
There is a room somewhere upstairs in this prison. The way up is confusing but you have learned every detail of that one room. At least once a day, armed guards come for you, knock the wind from you with mailed fists, and drag you there, strap you to a table. You've lost count, but you don't think you've suffered the same treatment twice. And the masked individuals seem endlessly creative. Even prisoners made of steel and springs can be tormented, a worn cog tooth here, rusting a joint there, deliberately stopping the key from turning at its proper speed, unique forms of pain are inflicted. And yet, they don't ask questions, nor do they demand you repent of some sin or heresy. It seems to be cruelty for the sake of cruelty.
"Why haven't they just killed me?" he says again. Is he asking you, or the gods, or wondering aloud? You've not seen him before, you think. You can't have been here more than a month and that has been heinous almost beyond belief, but something about his resigned, dead stare makes you certain he's been here longer than anyone. Through the filth and grime he looks pale, malnourished. He wears no chains, as if the very idea of escape has been beaten out of him. when he shifts slightly from his half-sitting heap in the corner, you see his legs- broken and re-broken so many times, it is unclear if there is any bone left below the knees.
So many questions. You have few answers. You can recall being arrested in the Patchwork Lands, the charges bearing no resemblance to any crime you might have actually committed. The court, if there even was a court, was a farce. You could swear you heard the clink of money changing hands before judgement was delivered. Bound and blindfolded, you have no idea where you were taken, only that the weather is colder than it used to be, suggesting you likely remain in the Patchwork Lands, perhaps further south than before. The architecture is nondescript stone, the guards and torturers wear no identifiable uniform, and the food-if such it can be called- is bland where it isn't rotten.
A new stench brings you back to the present. The old man has soiled himself. He doesn't seem to care. He seems lost in his private world of misery. Perhaps he is just another tool of the torturers, testing your spirits. Today has a more ominous air about it than even usual for the place. The light is dim, the air tense, as if before a storm. The trickle of water flowing from the window tells you that it is raining outside.
Thunder rolls.
@Excession @Chaka @Sideris @Hair @Ragoza
"Why haven't they just killed me?"
Thus speaks the first prisoner to break the silence. There are a dozen of you today, a motley selection of races chained to the wall by the wrists, or held in place in heavy iron stocks. The numbers have changed over the days. Sometimes twenty, sometimes nobody. There are only two constants. First, the only sunlight you have seen since arriving has been through narrow-slit windows high on the walls, and secondly it is always the case that someone in this prison is being hurt.
There is a room somewhere upstairs in this prison. The way up is confusing but you have learned every detail of that one room. At least once a day, armed guards come for you, knock the wind from you with mailed fists, and drag you there, strap you to a table. You've lost count, but you don't think you've suffered the same treatment twice. And the masked individuals seem endlessly creative. Even prisoners made of steel and springs can be tormented, a worn cog tooth here, rusting a joint there, deliberately stopping the key from turning at its proper speed, unique forms of pain are inflicted. And yet, they don't ask questions, nor do they demand you repent of some sin or heresy. It seems to be cruelty for the sake of cruelty.
"Why haven't they just killed me?" he says again. Is he asking you, or the gods, or wondering aloud? You've not seen him before, you think. You can't have been here more than a month and that has been heinous almost beyond belief, but something about his resigned, dead stare makes you certain he's been here longer than anyone. Through the filth and grime he looks pale, malnourished. He wears no chains, as if the very idea of escape has been beaten out of him. when he shifts slightly from his half-sitting heap in the corner, you see his legs- broken and re-broken so many times, it is unclear if there is any bone left below the knees.
So many questions. You have few answers. You can recall being arrested in the Patchwork Lands, the charges bearing no resemblance to any crime you might have actually committed. The court, if there even was a court, was a farce. You could swear you heard the clink of money changing hands before judgement was delivered. Bound and blindfolded, you have no idea where you were taken, only that the weather is colder than it used to be, suggesting you likely remain in the Patchwork Lands, perhaps further south than before. The architecture is nondescript stone, the guards and torturers wear no identifiable uniform, and the food-if such it can be called- is bland where it isn't rotten.
A new stench brings you back to the present. The old man has soiled himself. He doesn't seem to care. He seems lost in his private world of misery. Perhaps he is just another tool of the torturers, testing your spirits. Today has a more ominous air about it than even usual for the place. The light is dim, the air tense, as if before a storm. The trickle of water flowing from the window tells you that it is raining outside.
Thunder rolls.