Behold, Talingarde! A paragon among nations, a beacon of hope and light respected across the length and breadth of the world. Under the noble rule of the House of Darius, what was once a dispirited backwater drowning in sin has become a land renowned for its strength, honour and righteousness. Their enemies respect their might, their allies love their generosity, and the heavens themselves seem determined to bless the people and all their undertakings at every possible opportunity.
Such are the souls that have condemned you to death.
It sickens you. Where was your justice? Where was your mercy? All you ever wanted was a chance at greatness, a chance to enjoy some of the same blessed luck that the rest of the Kingdom is so infuriatingly proud to possess. And for this you have been condemned, dragged in chains before the magistrate and sentenced to an ignominious death. Doubtless the fine lords and educated ladies that condemned you will sleep soundly this night, safe in the knowledge that they have done the right thing.
Well, so be it. You will not go quietly to your appointed end, not at the whims of fools such as these. You will slip your chains, you will gather your strength and then… and then… well. You'll figure it out when you get there.
Not that Talingarde intends to make it easy for you, of course. The law has sent you to Branderscar, an island fortress just off the east coast, where you will stay until the proper authorities arrive to carry out your execution. Branderscar is the harshest, most infamous, most secure prison in the entire Kingdom of Talingarde - in the century or more that it has been used as a prison, not once has anyone interned within ever escaped. Most do not believe it to be possible.
You'll just have to be the first, then.
Article:
But first, who are you? Talingarde is a land of many peoples, and though they all bear the name 'Talirean', not all were created equal. Your origin will determine a great deal about your prospects.
[ ] A Dwarf Once, the dwarves were a proud and independent people, dwelling in mountain holds and worshipping the earth from which they came. No longer. Internal strife weakened them, and Talirean armies broke them. Today, the overwhelming majority of Dwarves live in small enclaves and ethnic neighbourhoods in the towns and cities of Talingarde, respected as artisans and scholars but little more. To be sent to Branderscar, you must have attempted to challenge that status quo in some significant way.
[ ] An Elf Elves are the ruling class of Talingarde, holding virtually all positions of secular power and filling the ranks of the nobility. Even the lower ranks of the aristocracy, the barons and local lords, count elves among their ancestry, their blood elevated by strategic marriages with the ruling Houses. To see an elf condemned to Branderscar is a rare and scandalous thing, for it means that even one of Talingarde's most worthy scions saw fit to turn against the crown.
[ ] A Human Humans comprise the vast bulk of Talingarde's population, from the farmers in her fields to the soldiers in her armies, yet it is in the Church that they find their truest strength. Mitra is a human god, and over centuries has pushed out virtually all other faiths from the mainland, until even the Elven Kings kneel before human priests to receive their crowns. Those humans sent to Branderscar are almost invariably guilty of transgressing against this dominant faith in some ways, and such flagrant heresy carries the death penalty.
[ ] One of the Lizardfolk Known as Iruxi in their own tongue, the Lizardfolk dwell predominantly within the humid depths of the Caer Byr, a temperate rainforest that extends along much of the western coast. Though they are a semi-common sight in the western towns, typically serving as labourers or guides, the Iruxi remain staunchly independent, buying peace with regular tribute and otherwise keeping to themselves. For one of them to commit a crime dire enough to be sent to Branderscar is all but unprecedented.
[ ] An Orc More than one Talirean king has dreamed of conquering the entire island in the past; none have succeeded, for the north belongs to the Orcs, and they will never bow. Those few tribes subjugated before the kings abandoned their dreams of conquest form an underclass in many of the northern regions of Talingarde, often pushed into criminal trades and prone to periodic bouts of unrest that add to their savage reputation among the wider populace. To be sent to Branderscar, you did more than simply break the Talirean's rules - you made them afraid.
The rattle of wagon wheels on stone is your only company, the roar of waves somewhere to the right your only point of reference. A rough sack over your head and shoulders keeps you blind and disorientated, while heavy manacles chafe at your wrists and ankles. The crude rags they gave you back in Mathryn do little more than preserve the last scraps of your modesty, and were it not the height of summer you might very well have frozen to death in the back of this carriage long before you reached your destination. You are tired, you are filthy, and you are pretty sure you have fleas.
And, of course, you're on your way to be executed. Can't forget that one. The guards certainly haven't - the odd jibe or cutting taunt is the only time anyone has addressed you since the trial, and your impending death sentence a favoured topic.
Bastards. Not one of them understands why you did it, they haven't even thought to ask, but from the way they act you'd almost think they take it personally. How dare a dwarf commit such a crime? Your people are rich, educated, respected, how dare they lash out at the society that has given them so much? It sickens you.
With a rattling jolt, the carriage comes to a halt. You tense, hands balling into fists, but nobody approaches. There's a distant murmur of conversation, the muffled exchange of passwords, followed by the dull rattle of chains - a portcullis? Some kind of gatehouse? - then the wagon lurches back into motion. You feel the wind pick up, whistling shrilly from seemingly all directions, and the dull crash of waves goes from somewhere off to the side to directly below. Yes, that's right, Branderscar is on an island, you remember that much. You're on the bridge, then. Almost there.
Another lurching halt, another brief exchange, another set of rattling chains. Two gatehouses? You feel a sense of dread slowly gather in your heart, but you push it down. You're not dead yet, and no prison is inescapable. You just have to figure out how. The distant barking of dogs marks another complication, especially when they fall silent moments later at a sharp command. Well trained guard dogs, then, likely patrolling the courtyard.
A third and final halt, the sound of the waves muffled now. The wagon creaks in place, and then a moment later someone is jangling your chains, unlocking the bonds holding you in place. Part of you wants to throw yourself at them, take the guard out at the knee, but what would that accomplish? You're still bound, your arms and legs tied together by those heavy chains, and there is an entire garrison standing between you and the shore, much less freedom.
"Alright, prisoner," the guard grunts, laying a calloused hand on your arm and hauling you upright, "Down you get."
You almost fall, descending from the wagon, and from the muted chuckles you think you were meant to. Stone cobbles rub at your bare feet, replaced a moment later by wet grass as you are hauled across some manner of courtyard. The guard slams a booted foot into the back of your knee, forcing you to kneel, and a moment later the heavy sack is removed from your head. You squint, spikes of pain radiating through your skull as your eyes adjust, and piece by piece the visage of the man before you comes into focus.
"Name?" the elderly man asks, and for a moment you're almost too surprised to answer. There's nothing military about this man's garb at all, only the tight-cut trousers and frilled shirt of a scholar at his leisure, but the cold edge in his one good eye is equal to that of any soldier.
You open your mouth, but before you can speak one of the guards who escorted you here steps forwards and hands the old man a piece of paper clipped to a board. Ah, of course. He wasn't asking you at all.
Article:
What is your name? Dwarf names tend towards hard consonants and are usually two syllables, like Agna, Dolgrin, Kotri etc.
[ ] Name (Write in)
What is your gender?
[ ] Male
[ ] Female
[ ] Nonbinary
"I see," the old man says dryly, looking over the sheet and then down at where you kneel before him, "Welcome to Branderscar, Dwarf. I am Matthias Richter, Warden of this institution. Your stay shall be brief - according to this, your date of execution has been set for sunrise, three days from now."
A cold pit forms in your gut, but you won't let this man see your fear, so you force yourself to smile instead. "Really? A shame. Though given the woeful state of your hospitality so far…"
Richter simply sighs, as if bored of the whole performance. "You will be given the opportunity to write a last will and testament, which will be delivered to your family after your execution. I encourage you to think carefully on what you will say to them. Should you wish spiritual guidance or a chance to repent, we have a priest on staff who has volunteered to minister to your spiritual needs."
The cold disappears, replaced now by a hot ember that burns your throat as you swallow it down. Except… why bother? You've spent your whole life choking down your spite and your rage, and what has it gotten you? They're already planning to execute you.
"To the pit with your priest," you growl, baring your teeth like an animal, "and with your god too, Talirean."
That draws a reaction, if muted - a narrowing of the lips, a raising of the eyebrow. Richter is a man of order, you can see that now, the sort of person who likes it best when everyone sticks to a script. Still, there is no malice when he gestures to the nearby soldier, nor when he speaks. Only the next stage in the script.
"Sergeant, I leave him in your care. Fetch the branding irons."
Article:
The Dwarf Kingdoms of old are dead and gone, but your people yet remember the old ways, and your family can still trace its ancestry back to those forgotten holds. Choose one of the following to represent your Heritage:
[ ] [Heritage] Anvil Your ancestors were craftsmen and artisans, and you grew up surrounded by the few works they could bring from their mountain holds. You are trained in the Crafting skill, and get the Speciality Crafting feat, giving you bonuses to two specific sub-areas of crafting, like metalwork or masonry.
[ ] [Heritage] Forge Your ancestors dwelled in the most hallowed depths of the old holds, where stone turned to magma and the air hurt to breathe. You reduce all fire damage by an amount equal to half your level, and find hot environments one step easier to endure.
[ ] [Heritage] Strong Blood Your ancestors were merchants and envoys, bargaining and intermarrying with the kin of other holds. You reduce all poison damage by an amount equal to half your level, and double your progress in reducing long-term afflictions stemming from poison.
In Pathfinder 2nd edition, all attributes start at +0. As a Dwarf, you get boosts to Wisdom and Constitution, bringing them to +1, and a penalty to Charisma, bringing it to -1. You also gain a free boost, which can be assigned to one of the following attributes:
[ ] [Boost] Strength
[ ] [Boost] Dexterity
[ ] [Boost] Intelligence
Finally, choose one of the following Ancestry feats, which reflect the lessons you learned from your upbringing and how you relate to your people's past.
[ ] [Ancestry] Dwarf Lore You memorised all the stories your parents had and then went looking for more, hoarding the cultural legacy of your people and holding it close to your heart. You are trained in the Crafting, Religion and Dwarven Lore skills. If you pick this and the Anvil heritage, you are trained in diplomacy.
[ ] [Ancestry] Stonecunning Your soul longs for the mountains, and even in these cities of brick and wood the stone speaks to you. You gain a +2 circumstance bonus on any check to notice unusual stonework, and may test passively without specifically looking for it.
[ ] [Ancestry] Vengeful Hatred Your heart burns hot with rage for those who took your ancestors from their homeland, and you swore to see their crimes repaid. You gain +1 damage on all attacks made against Talirean humans, or other people who have wronged you and your ancestors.
The warden turns away, already putting you out of his mind, and from behind you two guards step up and lay hands across your broad shoulders. Humans, both of them - a good thing, you think, for you are not sure you could bear to hold your peace if it were a dwarf that were doing this to you. With grunts of effort they manhandle you across the courtyard and over to a small shed tucked up against the thick stone wall. There, sheltered from the rain by an overhanging roof of wood, sits a gently smoking brazier filled with orange-red coals.
Gritting your teeth, you look away, searching for something to distract you from what is about to happen. There's not much to see - Branderscar was never a terribly large castle, constrained by the size of the island on which it sits and valued more for its position and reputation than anything else. A single curtain wall rises some five or six times your height in any direction, set with three-story towers every hundred metres or so, and save for a small garden tucked to one side there is only one main building. You suppose the guards and prisoners must share the space, which probably cuts down on capacity - but then, Branderscar is only ever meant for the worst kind of scum, and how many of those can there really be?
"Aw, don't be shy now, milady," a smooth, oily voice says in tones of mocking comfort, "Won't take but a second."
You work your jaw, but you don't have the moisture to spit properly, so you have to settle for glaring at the wretched excuse for a soldier waiting for you by the brazier. There's a thick layer of fat over the soldier's muscle, but more striking by far is the look of sick satisfaction in his beady black eyes as he pulls the branding iron out of the fire.
"Hold her steady now," the sergeant orders one of the two manhandling you, smiling as his minion grabs you by the wrist and forces your arm out straight, "there we go… don't worry if you scream now, missus, 'tis naught any of us haven't heard before."
Without further ceremony he presses the branding iron to the bare skin of your arm, and for all your resolve you cannot entirely strangle a cry of pain. The breath leaves your lungs, your jaw tightens to the point of pain, and the stench of burnt meat fills your nose. The sergeant is smiling, eyes alight with cruel pleasure at your distress, and only after several long moments does he pull the branding iron away and return it to the flames.
"There we go, all done," he says cheerfully, before nodding to the men still holding you tightly in place, "Alright, take her up. Put her in cell three."
Your arm alight and your vision swimming with pain, you're only just about able to make out the world around you as the guards drag you away. The scenes roll past your eyes in swift succession, punctuated by agony as your heart sends blood rushing through the seared and broken flesh of your arm; the courtyard, a bubbling fountain, double doors, a long corridor, a darkened stairwell. Then you are being led into the cell block, where flickering torches provide the only light and sullen eyes glare out from behind thick iron bars.
"Here you are, prisoner," the guard hauling you along says, keys jangling as he unlocks your cell and pulls you inside, "Home sweet home."
A moment later your arms are yanked upwards, drawing another hiss of pain from your chapped lips, and the heavy manacles binding your hands are shackled to a thick metal ring sunk into the stone above your head. The guard tugs on the chains twice, satisfying himself, then without a backwards glance locks the cell behind him and leaves.
For a few long minutes you can only sit there, back to the wall, suffering in silence. Then something shifts in the darkness before you, and you realise that you are not the only being in this cell.
"Well, well," a hoarse voice murmurs, filled with bitter amusement, "How about that. Another sinner joins our blessed ranks. My lady, let me be the first to welcome you to our humble abode."
The prisoner is a human, you think, somewhat withered and malnourished and chained as you are to the opposite wall. His dark hair hangs in a ragged mane from his liver-spotted scalp, and when he smiles, he has more teeth chipped than whole.
"Piss off," you mutter, and the prisoner only smiles wider.
"Aw, don't be like that," he chuckles, but not too loudly, the quiet murmur of a man who knows that the guards are nearby and he still has more ribs to break, "We're going to be seeing a lot of each other, my lady, until we see nothing more at all. Might as well be companionable in these last days, yeah?"
You look down, breaking your gaze. He's right, after all. You are, in all likelihood, going to die here, in this little castle at the edge of the world. No friends, no family, no clan… just you, and the soldiers who hold you, and the wretches who will die soon after.
Your eyes burn.
"Not the talkative type? Well, that's ok," the prisoner says with a bitter kind of cheer, "Why don't I start? Name is Sil, and I've been a sailor since about the time I could walk. Always loved the sea, I did. Now… how 'bout you?"
Article:
What is your background? What did you do, before the crimes that condemned you to this prison? Each of these options grants two attribute boosts, detailed in the brackets after the description.
[ ] [Background] Bookkeeper You were a private accountant, prized as so many of your kind are for your skill with numbers and diligent work ethic. You are trained in the Society and Accounting Lore skills, and gain the Eye for Numbers feat. (+Wisdom or +Intelligence) (+Any)
[ ] [Background] Barber Hair care and grooming are extremely important to dwarves, and being trusted with such things often led to your neighbours calling on you for simple dentistry and surgical operations as well. You are trained in the Medicine and Surgical Lore skills, and gain the Risky Surgery feat. (+Dexterity or +Wisdom) (+Any)
[ ] [Background] Miner Keen to live as your ancestors did, you toiled within the depths of the earth, seeking precious stones and valuable metal. You are trained in the Survival and Mining Lore skills, and gain the Terrain Expertise feat for underground environments. (+Strength or +Wisdom) (+Any)
-/-
Of course, good, upstanding members of their community do not get sent to Branderscar. What crime did you commit? By extension, where do your skills (and character class) lie?
[ ] [Crime] Arson, Blasphemy and Desecration (Animist) Though your people do not maintain a formal clergy, you were born with the ability to commune with your ancestors and channel the primal power of your mountain homes. When the local authorities started building shrines to Mitra in your neighbourhood and putting priests in your schools, seeking to extinguish the very traditions you embody, you knew that you had to act. For your crimes, you have been sentenced to death by beheading. (Animist, Sage Practice)
[ ] [Crime] High Theft, Murder and Sedition (Ranger) Dreaming of a restored Dwarven kingdom, you led a small band of rebels in a guerilla campaign against the Crown. You murdered government officials, stole tax shipments, intercepted royal communiques and did your best to build the resources necessary to retake your lost homes. For these crimes, you are to be hung, drawn and quartered. (Ranger)
[ ] [Crime] Extortion, Forgery and Kidnapping (Rogue) When the law would not protect your people, they turned to you. You raided businesses, blackmailed officials, broke knees and did whatever you had to in order to advance dwarven interests. Your people protected you as long as they could, but in the end you were caught, and now the sheer litany of your crimes has seen you sentenced to hang. (Rogue, Mastermind Racket)
[ ] [Crime] Grave Robbing, Heresy and Witchcraft (Wizard) The Church of Mitra retains the right of veto over all scholarly works published in Talingarde, a right they have used to viciously suppress the lore and histories of your people. Seeking to circumnavigate their authority and reclaim your birthright, you interrogated the dead and communed with beings of other planes. For these crimes, you are sentenced to burn at the stake. (Wizard, School of the Boundary)
Your background is that of a Bookkeeper, before you went and started trying to commune with the denizens of other planes and maybe do a bit of cheeky necromancy on the side.
Valka's character sheet is on the front page, but will be linked here for convenience:
"Valka," you say slowly, painfully, forcing yourself to speak, "I am… I was a book-keeper. Accounts, inventories, census data, that sort of thing."
"Ah, an educated miss," Sil nods encouragingly, smiling at you with his gap-toothed mouth, "What'd you do to end up here, then? Bit of fraud, fudge the numbers too much? Must have been a big score to get you sent to Branderscar…"
"Witchcraft," you say bleakly, and the smile drops from the old sailor's face as if struck. Not an uncommon reaction, that one.
You remember it all so clearly. The joy in being part of your community, the satisfaction every time someone judged you worthy of learning more of your heritage. The growing suspicion as elders fell silent and outsiders frowned reprovingly. The growing outrage as you realised just how much of your history, your culture, was hidden away from the younger generations by the dictates of the Church, condemned as unbefitting for loyal subjects of the King.
The hunger for more, the resolution to act. The painful anxiety as you sought out those who knew of such things, the greed with which you held your forbidden books. The exhilaration as your studies bore fruit, as your whispers were answered in the dark places of the night, as the dead and the foreign answered your call and told you all that you wanted to know and more. And then… the horror as you were discovered. The desperation, as you ran. The crushing, all consuming sense of loss as the witch hunters tore the secrets from your arms and burned them in a pile in the street.
(Dark eyes pin you to the spot. A harsh tongue pronounces judgement.
"May Mitra have mercy on your wretched, damned soul, for we shall not.")
"Well, now, how about that?" A voice from one of the adjourning cells cuts through your gloom, the refined tones of an aristocrat as alien to this place as the sun beneath the earth, "I've never met an actual witch before. Is it as exciting as the stories make it sound?"
You scowl, tugging at your chains, but it is no use. You have a bit of room to move around, but not nearly enough to look into the cell next to yours, nor to reach the gate that stands between you and freedom. You can see into the cell across from yours, where a bald human kneels as if at prayer, eyes closed and head bowed, but he doesn't stir.
"It wasn't a game," you scowl, shaking your head and sitting back down, the chains holding your arms awkwardly out in front of you, "and I don't regret it."
"Really? Well, if you insist," the highborn in the neighbouring cell sounds almost bored, though that might just be their (her?) accent. "Don't expect me to join you in such defiance, though. I most certainly regret mine."
Before you can reply, the sound of a door slamming open echoes through the cell block, followed by the trooping of booted feet on stone. A small band of guards, led by the same sergeant who branded you but minutes ago, stop outside the door of your cell… but they are not here for you.
"Alright, Sil, time's up," the Sergeant says with an unpleasant smile, watching as his minions unlock the door and step into the cell, "Hope you've done your prayers."
"What?" the old human opposite you blinks in shock, shrinking back from the guards in fright, "No, it - you told me it was tomorrow! Blackerly, you bastard, you told me-"
"Plans change," Sergeant Blackerly says with a shrug, his beady eyes barely blinking as he watches the guards unlock the old man from his chains and drag him to his feet, "Turns out the magistrate got waylaid, so we're doing it now. Come on, let's get it over with."
Sil curses, begs, reasons with them as best he can, but it is hopeless. The old sailor is manhandled out of the cell and then out of the prison level entirely, and you know with an iron certainty you will not be seeing him again. You sit there, in silence, for a bit, staring at the locked door to your cell and the corridor that you will be dragged down when your time comes, three days hence. The punishment for witchcraft is death by burning… will they do it here? Build a pyre in the castle courtyard? You've heard the kind ones strangle their victims first, but…
"What did you do?" you say abruptly, forcing the thoughts from your head, "To end up here. That thing you said you regret."
"Mm?" The languorous voice replies, "Oh, murder. Well, duelling unto death, which is a bit worse, at least according to our righteous liege. Bastard."
You blink, briefly thrown by that. Duelling has never been a dwarven custom, but you know it remains popular in wider society, and you've heard of more than one duel which ended in death without the perpetrator going to prison, much less being executed over it. You suppose there must be a nuance there that you're missing.
"And… what about the others?" It is still easier to ask the questions than think about the future, and what it doubtless contains.
"Oh, they're nothing special," the noblewoman sighs, "The bald fellow over there was a priest, I think, one of the martial orders, until he got caught stealing holy relics. There's an orc down the hall who got done for banditry, but let's be honest, it's because his skin is the wrong colour. Oh, and the ogre, of course. He eats people."
"...the what?" Again you stand, moving as far towards the door as your chains will let you, peering down the length of the corridor. You can't see anything in the cells to either side, but at the very end of the row there is a single large enclosure separate from the rest, and in there you can see something massively and vaguely humanoid sprawled out like a slumbering horse.
"Don't bother trying to talk to him - they keep him drugged," your neighbour adds with a faintly amused tone, "Good thing, too. I saw him reach through those bars and pull a man's arm clean off, the one day they forgot. Absolutely horrible mess."
You sit back down, chewing your lip as your thoughts race. An ogre… something like that would probably be strong enough to force open the castle gates, if you could get the drugs out of its system and convince it to try. The others here all sound like killers of one kind or another, so if you could find a way to get out of these cells, you might be able to win free. It's not much of a plan, but it is still something.
"If he doesn't talk, how do you know what he did?" You venture after a moment, trying to solve the first missing piece in your puzzle.
"Oh, the guards were kind enough to tell me," your neighbour snorts, chains jangling as she shifts in place, "Everyone thought His Majesty would have a change of heart and issue a pardon - we're family, you know, if distantly. My stay here was very comfortable, near the start. Clean clothes, proper food, daily walks around the courtyard… they changed their minds by week three, though. Guess they realised what a stickler for the rules he really is."
You nod, adding that little detail to the puzzle. If the woman in the cell next to you is nobility, and high enough to call the King a relative, then she must know people with the power and wealth to shelter you. Not forever, you think, but enough to get out of the country or perhaps start over under a new identity. It's a tenuous possibility, made all the more so by her supposed relatives' inability to get her out of here already, but it is something to work with. As is the fact of her relative freedom until recently - perhaps she knows more that might be of use…
Article:
Choose a total of TWO questions to ask your nobleborn neighbour about Branderscar, its security and its potential weaknesses. She will answer you accurately and in full, but will not know anything else worth sharing.
[ ] Write in
(Minor stuff like 'what is your name' etc will not use one of these questions, and will be incorporated into the next update anyway)
The rest of the afternoon is spent discussing the situation with your neighbour, who turns out to be named Lisara, an elven woman from the capital city of Mathryn. She is more than happy to talk, seemingly for the simple pleasure of conversation, but oddly enough none of the other prisoners join in. The orc and the ogre you might assume ignorant of the common tongue of the land, but the human opposite seems intent on ignoring you in favour of his own meditations. Well, his loss.
From what Lisara tells you, the garrison at Branderscar no longer lives up to its fearsome reputation. What ought to be regular shifts of twenty or thirty guards each now musters half that number at best, and more than a few of those spend at least a portion of their shift drinking and gambling than actually doing their rounds. Those out of favour with the sergeant end up taking the most unpleasant of shifts - standing watch on the gatehouse roof, or taking the night shift looking over the prison block.
(Lisara doesn't say it, but you know the signs - someone in a position of authority here is embezzling massively, probably using some portion of the stolen funds to buy the loyalty and silence of the rest. You expect if you checked the books you'd find the budget is still fit for a full strength garrison, with wages going to men who don't exist and repairs that aren't being made.)
The Warden, it seems, has gotten into the habit of delegating most of his authority. He takes his meals privately and arranges the schedules so he can have an uninterrupted night's sleep without exception, trusting his subordinates to handle things. He is also a wizard, at least by reputation, but Lisara does not know enough of the arcane arts to judge his competency at them.
You sleep poorly that night. The cell is cold and you have no bed, nor indeed the room in your chains to do more than lay down flat against the hard stone wall. When at last you begin to drift off, the door at the end of the hall scrapes open and the guards make a patrol circuit, a pair of them chattering idly to each other as they walk. You listen in silence, slumber's haze lingering heavily.
"You going to the gatehouse later?" one says, keeping his voice low but clear.
"Nah. Trying to save up," the other replies, lifting his torch to cast light over your cell. You squint and then roll over, but the guard hardly seems to care. "Besides, you know he cheats."
"Yeah, but the beer is pretty good," the first man chuckles, reaching the end of the corridor and turning around again, the pretence of due diligence completed. Together, the two of them head back up to their post near the stairwell.
"Hah, true. God save us if Captain Callidan…" Whatever the second man intends to say is cut off as he closes the thick wooden door behind him, leaving you and the other prisoners in darkness once again.
You consider what you have heard, then nod and allow yourself to fall asleep, nurturing the small ember of hope in your heart.
-/-
Breakfast the next day comes in the form of a bowl of stew laid at your feet by a guard who keeps one hand on his club at all times. They're not so lax as to unshackle you, forcing you to lift the bowl to your mouth and sloppily devour it like an animal, and an hour later another guard comes around to collect the empty bowl and the bucket that serves as a crude latrine. The lack of privacy is humiliating, but you know better than to complain. They're already planning to kill you, after all.
You spend most of the morning sitting quietly in your cell, eyes closed, running through what you know and what you might be able to do with it. Currently the biggest obstacle to escape remains the most obvious - you are unable to move more than a half dozen paces from the wall that you are shackled to, nor escape into the corridor. You lack anything that can be used as a lock pick, which leaves you with only the keys. Your magic is mostly lost to you here, but you are reasonably certain you could work enough to project your own grasp through the air, allowing you to lift the keys from the guard's belt when they go past… but you'll get only one try at that, and you need it to be a good one. After all, even if they don't summarily break your fingers, all they'd need to do would be to leave the keys in their post when they run their patrols.
So concerned are you with these thoughts that you almost miss the scrape of the door opening again, and by the time you look up there are half a dozen guards in front of your cell. For a moment your heart threatens to seize in your chest - it can't be now, it hasn't even been a day - but then you notice the disgruntled look on Sergeant Blackerly's face.
"Today's your lucky day, scum," he growls, and you distantly note the contrast with the smarmy charm he displayed when branding you, "Seems you've got a visitor. Step lively and don't cause any trouble, and you and her can have a nice little goodbye."
You blink, utterly confused, but make no protest as one of the guards unlocks the door and then detaches your chains from the wall. You've no notion of who could possibly have pulled such strings as to visit you in Branderscar of all places, but nor are you so foolish as to object.
One guard on either flank, you are swiftly frog-marched down the corridor and all but thrown through the door into a small room next to the guard post. One glance at the old brown stains around the drain on the floor tells you what use this room is normally put to, but today it has been set up for a private meeting, with a pair of crude wooden chairs set out in the middle. Your visitor sits in one of them, hands folded demurely in her lap - a pale human woman with vivid green eyes and hair so blonde it might almost be white, dressed in a silken veil and a long dress of mourning black.
You have never seen her before in your life.
"Oh, dearest! I'm so glad you're still alive!" The strange woman proclaims in a voice of absolute heartbreak, rising to her feet and stepping forwards. She looks over your head and fixes Sergeant Blackerly with a look of purest misery. "Could we have a moment alone, Sergeant? For mercy's sake?"
"Aye, lady," the Sergeant says, a touch unsteadily, "For you, 'tis no trouble."
Article:
Perception test! D20+5 = 20! Pass!
Your head snaps around as if yanked on a chain as you stare up at Blackerly in shock. That ready compliance, the half-dreamy quality in his voice - he's been enchanted! This woman has put him under a spell!
"Ah, that's better," the blonde woman says with a satisfied tone, all grief and distress dropping away from her voice as Blackerly backs out of the room and closes the door behind him, "Take a seat, dearest. We've some important business to discuss, and not much time to do it in."
"You enchanted him!" you hiss the words, grabbing the back of the chair so hard you think you can feel the wood splintering under your hands, "Who are you?"
"Why, I'm Tiadora, dearest - don't you recognise me?" The blonde woman says with a wicked little smile, "I'm pleased to see you picked up on my little trick. After all our mutual friend had to say about you, I was afraid you might not measure up."
Your mind races, trawling back through the years in search of anyone who could be responsible for this. You dealt with your fair share of shady and well connected individuals in pursuit of your ambitions - arcane magic is as tightly regulated as any other source of power in Talingarde - but who among them would send an agent capable of strolling into the most infamous prison in the country? Who even could?
"Our friend is rather keen to meet you, dearest, but I'm afraid your present accommodations are far too shabby. You'll simply have to escape, first," Tiadora continues after a moment, her smile growing wider at the expression on your face. "Oh, don't be so dour. Nobody has ever succeeded before, but we have every confidence in you."
"I see," you say through gritted teeth, resisting the urge to smack the smirk off the strange woman's face, "Do you, perhaps, have anything besides confidence to offer?"
"As it happens, I do!" Tiadora says with a laugh, reaching up and unhooking the veil from her face. She folds it carefully into a small square and then tucks it into the palm of your hand, her grip as hard as iron. "Our friend bid me give you this - all the tools you could need to chart your own path. Victory, as ever, rests on what you do with the gifts that life has bestowed upon you."
Your skin tingles at the magic in that small scrap of fabric, and with a jolt you recognise the craftsmanship. This is a smuggler's tool, similar to the sort employed by some of your less than legal contacts - cargo that a road warden might raise an eyebrow at is transformed by magic into a simple swatch of fabric, sewn into an existing item of clothing and returning to its original form at need.
The Veil contains the following items, each of which can be 'drawn' and if necessary equipped with one action. Note that once an item is drawn, it cannot be returned to the Veil, so be cautious about using it where guards might see.
- 2 daggers
• Bullseye lantern (full, lit and shuttered)
• Hempen rope (50-foot coil)
• Sack full of common clothes in various sizes
• Infiltrator Toolkit - Grants a +1 item bonus on attempts to pick locks and disable devices.
• Window (2 ft. by 4 ft., up to 2 ft. deep)
• Minor Elixir of Life (restores hit points and gives bonuses against poison and disease)
• 100 gold pieces
Note that the window patch will create a window (and therefore a hole) in a nearby wall. If there are no nearby walls, it simply turns into a common wooden window frame. It cannot be placed on a living creature, nor can it be removed once placed.
"Assuming you can make it out of here without being caught - or killed - you'll want to steer clear of Varyston," Tiadora continues, all business now, "Instead, cross the moor outside of town. On the old road, you will find a manor house with a single lantern burning in the second story window. Our friend will meet you there."
"Do I get to know who this friend is?" You ask, running your fingers across the silken veil and feeling the faint thrill of hope, "Or why I ought to trust you?"
"Mm… no, the less you know, the better, I think," Tiadora shakes her head, platinum-blonde hair whispering softly as she moves, "As for trust, why, who do you imagine is asking for such a thing? A simple meeting seems a paltry price for such a boon, wouldn't you agree?"
You're not fool enough to take that at face value - if you go to this meeting, you will be placing yourself in Tiadora's power, either directly or through her nameless friend. Yet you cannot deny that this boon is a significant one… something to consider carefully, either way.
Moments later, the door creaks open once more, and Sergeant Blackerly sticks his head in. "Apologies, miss, but you'll have to wrap it up. The warden will be making his rounds soon, and it's best you not be seen."
"Of course, sergeant, and thank you," Tiadora says tearfully, rising to her feet and making her way over to him, "It was… I will not say it was a pleasure, but a great relief to see my dearest one last time. There will be no need to search her."
There is weight behind those last words, power enough to make Blackerly blink dully, and he nods mechanically in response. Tiadora says nothing more, leaving you alone in the room without a backwards glance, and you in turn hold your peace as the guards escort you back to your cell and lock you back in place.
You have a plan to make…
Article:
You have all the tools necessary to attempt a breakout of Branderscar Prison. However, you are likely to only get one shot at this - if you fail, then security will be tightened and you will lose what few advantages you have.
Consequently, you will need to enlist the help of your fellow prisoners - violent criminals, one and all. How will you present this to them?
[ ] Fait accompli. This is not a discussion. You have the tools, you have the plan, you have the allies outside the prison. They will recognise reality and fall in line, or they will be left behind.
[ ] Eminence Grise. You will use Message to covertly communicate with Lisara, and arrange for her to take the lead, enacting a plan that you suggest. She's far more charismatic than you, and as a noble knows how to command others.
[ ] Common Cause. You will take the time to establish a form of consensus with the other prisoners, where everyone knows what must be done and has a good idea of how.
-/-
Rather than insist on a full vote for how you plan to escape, I will invite people to discuss their options and goals here. I will respond to questions and use the discussion and any consensus as a guide to running Valka's intended plan.
The escape attempt will take the form of multiple short updates in succession, giving you a chance to react as complications arise or new developments unfold.
There will be a follow-up post where I lay out everything you currently know that could be of use in planning the escape.
You do nothing upon being returned to your cell, at least not visibly. You simply sit there, mind churning, one point after another assembled like an artisan laying out her tools. With this veil and the items it contains, you have everything you need to attempt a breakout from Branderscar. Perhaps you could even go alone - put a hole in the wall, use your superior senses to navigate to the wall and use the rope to descend from there. It might work, but it would also be incredibly risky, and you will only get one swing at this vein. Having the others on side would be an advantage, but you know your own limitations. You are not a leader, you have neither the skills nor the temperament for it. That leaves you with one choice.
Step one is to get your hands free. You have heard tales of mages who can work magic with nothing save purest will, but you are not among them. Moving carefully, you pluck the small image of the toolkit from the veil, setting it on the ground next to you. A moment later the enchantment unravels and you are left with a small collection of picks, levers, wire and other assorted tools. It's good quality stuff as well - whoever Tiadora sourced this from knows their trade.
Article:
Thievery test! DC15, d20+5+1 = 15! Success!
It takes a minute or two to manipulate the little tools into position and unlock your handcuffs, mostly due to the limitations imposed on your dexterity by the bonds, but you manage it. The cuffs come free without so much as a sound, and with a soft sigh of relief you rub blood back into your wrists and hands. Then you flex your fingers through a series of arcane geometries and erase the distance between your words and your neighbour's ears.
"Lisara," you mouth silently, knowing that the magic will carry your words to her as if you whispered them in her ear, "My visitor was an ally. I have lockpicks, knives and a rope. Whisper your words and I will hear."
There is a long pause, and for a moment you worry that the magic did not work, or that you might have accidentally severed the connection early. Then Lisara's honey-soft words echo in your ears.
"How interesting," she says, and despite her superficial calm there is an edge of anticipation beneath the words, "Yet why are you contacting me, and so covertly at that?"
"Because we will need every hand to improve our odds," you reply, keeping the trans-geometry conduit open with simple intent, "and you are better with people than I."
"So I am," the elf agrees with a muted laugh, "Very well. Tell me your plan."
Speaking swiftly, and resisting the urge to get lost in minutiae, you lay out your key points - a breakout during the night, where the guards will be half-blind and possibly distracted with drink and gambling. A raid on the warden's tower, if feasible, to reclaim the arcane supplies you will need to be most effective. Then you use the rope to bypass the gatehouse and make it onto the bridge to the mainland, where you can either overpower the few guards at the coast or drop into the sea and swim for shore.
"Sounds good," Lisara approves, "You've got your hands free? Good, pass me the picks and a knife."
For a moment you hesitate - your own cell door is not open, and would it not be better to wait for nightfall - but you suppose you can't ask someone else to take the lead and then immediately refuse to follow their direction.
The telekinetic hand works on a similar basis to your messaging spell - by eliminating the distance between your hand and what you seek to grasp, without altering the space that it occupies, you are able to grasp something in your hand that lies far outside your normal reach. Slowly and cautiously, you use the spell to pass the small pack of lockpicks and one of the knives across to your neighbour's cell.
Less than a minute later, there is a sharp rasp of metal and a muffled curse that echoes through the entire prison block. The door at the end of the corridor scrapes open, sending your heart into your throat…
"Keep it down!" One of the guards yells down the hall to you, not even bothering to leave the warmth and comfort of his post, "And stay away from the bars!"
The door slams shut once more and you let out a shaky sigh of relief. Then you notice that the human who was meditating in the opposite cell has stirred, and is now staring intently at your neighbour.
"Gents, I've good news for you," Lisara murmurs, just loud enough to be heard by her fellow prisoners, "None of us are dying here. You with me?"
"Aye," says a low and rumbling voice from somewhere out of sight - the orc, you assume, who apparently can speak the common tongue after all. The human opposite you hesitates for a moment longer, then closes his eyes and nods decisively.
Article:
Lisara tests Thievery and Stealth to unpick the various locks.
DC of Thievery is 15. D20+7+1 = 26! Critical Success!
(In Pathfinder 2nd edition, any test that exceeds the listed DC by 10 is a critical success, any that fails by 10 is a critical failure. This also applies in combat.)
DC of Stealth is 13. d20+7=8! Failure! Natural 1 downgrades to critical failure!
As you watch with bated breath, Lisara slips from her cell and begins systematically picking the locks on all the remaining doors, following up by releasing your companions from their chains. She even pauses to wink at you, her elven eyes solid orbs of perfect azure, utterly without iris or sclera, and you can't help but note that were she human you might think her Tiadora's long-lost sister. Her hair is closer to honey-blonde than platinum, but other than that…
Lisara steps back inside her cell, drawing the door closed behind her, and the rusty old hinge screams in agony.
"What the…" Again the guardroom door opens, but this time the man inside is not content to simply shout warnings down the hall. This time he has heard something that should be entirely impossible, and so he comes down at a careful prowl, club drawn and ready. You see him pass your cell, and your dread rises to choke you. "The hell was that?"
"Relax, soldier," Lisara says in her lazy drawl, "Just stretching my legs. These damn chains make a racket."
Article:
Lisara tests Deception! Lying to someone requires a deception roll against a DC of their perception modifier+10.
DC is 17. Lisara rolls d20+5 = 11+5 = 16. Failure.
For a moment you think the guard believes her… then he takes another step forwards and his eyes widen in sudden shock.
"What the…"
You don't know what gave you away. Perhaps you never will. All that matters is that the jig is up, and before you can even put the thought into words, Lisara is out of her cell with a dagger in hand.
"Shame," she says with false cheer, tossing the knife from one hand to another in a fleeting display of dexterity, "Guess we do this the hard way!"
She punches forward with the knife in hand, sliding it past the soldier's guard and into the exposed flesh beneath his arm. Blood fountains forth, and with a strangled yell the guard swings the club in his other hand, a wild blow that catches Lisara across the chin with a horrid crunch.
The elf falls, and the guard staggers backward, clutching his arm. "Sacred Mitra that hurts…"
"Shit - Collins, you alright?" the voice of the second guard, the one still back at his post, is taut with alarm.
"Yeah, fuck, I'm good," the first guard growls, grabbing a set of manacles from his belt, "Bitch had a knife… sound the horn, get the sergeant up here. I'll lock this one up."
Your dread crystallises into urgency, and without a word you shoulder the door to your cell open and step into the corridor, turning towards the guard post at the end. You can see the soldier there already reaching for the alarm horn on its little wooden shelf, and with a shout of denial you stretch forth your hand and send your grip through the aether to seize it for yourself. You can't contest his strength, not remotely, but you can haul upwards and send the horn bumping against the corridor ceiling, and that is good enough for now.
"What in the…" the second guard growls, looking up at the horn, then back down at you. With a furious scowl he grabs a heavy crossbow propped up by the door and levels it at you, sliding a bolt into place. "Drop it, prisoner, or I drop you."
"Wait," the first guard says, frowning as he stands over Lisara's unconscious body, "If her door is open as well, then…"
Without a word, the human prisoner in the cell opposite yours steps out of his cell and snaps a high kick into the soldier's jawline. You hear the grisly crack of breaking bone as his neck twists fully around, and the man named Collins falls. His compatriot does not have time to react, because the orc too has emerged from his cell - a massive brute of scarred flesh and flea-bitten rags, one entire arm replaced with a scything claw more fitting to a children's nightmare. He knocks the guard's crossbow out of his hands with a single swing, guts him with the second, and kills him with the third.
You think the human might have been begging for his life there, at the end. It didn't help.
"My compliments on your quick thinking, miss," the human says, bowing politely to you, and he clearly hasn't been long behind bars because his physique is still flawless in its chiselled might, "I am Brother Mikael, late of the Serene Order. We have a small window here to win free of his prison. Come, let us not squander it."
"What about them?" you say, glancing back at the other prisoners. Lisara is sprawled in a limp heap on the ground, her jaw and the side of her face flushed and discoloured, but you think she is still alive. The ogre, meanwhile, is beginning to stir in his drug-induced stupor, clearly rousing at the sound of violence and the smell of blood.
"Leave them," Mikael says with a shrug, already turning away and hurrying to rejoin the orc, who appears to have shaken his arm back into something more fitting for his species, "We cannot risk delay, nor waste precious resources."
Article:
How do you proceed?
[ ] Leave Them You will leave the unconscious Lisara and the Ogre behind, and attempt to escape with your two remaining allies.
[ ] Revive Lisara You will expend the Elixir from the Veil to restore Lisara to consciousness, then press on.
[ ] Remain The guards likely have a first aid kit, with which you will attempt to revive Lisara and perhaps mitigate the effect of the drugs on the Ogre. This will take at least twenty minutes.
In each round of combat, everyone gets a total of three actions.
Round One
Lisara
Strides to leave her cell and approach the guard
Attempts a Feint - d20+5 = 20, success, natural 20 upgrades to critical success. The target is off-guard against attacks she makes until the end of Lisara's next turn.
Confident Finisher! AC is 18, reduced to 16 by off-guard. d20+7=17, hit! d4+3d6+1=12 damage. Guard is badly wounded.
Guard One
Strikes with his club. Lisara's AC is 17, d20+9 = 27, critical hit. 2d6+8 = 16 damage. Lisara is reduced to 0HP by nonlethal damage and knocked out.
Draws manacles
Applies manacles to Lisara
Valka
Strides out of the cell into the corridor
Casts Telekinetic Hand (2 actions) to grab the signal horn and lift it up to the ceiling.
Guard Two
Draws crossbow.
Readies action, to shoot Valka unless she cancels the spell on her turn.
Human Prisoner
Strides out of cell, adjacent to guard one.
Adopts Dragon Stance.
Makes a flurry of blows for two attacks. 21 and 14, one hit. D10+4 = 9 damage, guard one drops.
Orc Prisoner
Strides out of cell, up to the second guard
Casts Gouging Claw, attacks Guard two. 22 to hit, success. Deals 8 piercing damage and 2 persistent bleed damage.
Round Two
Valka
Ceases concentrating on the telekinetic hand, allowing the horn to drop.
"Wait," you call out, grabbing the attention of the bald man and the scarred orc alike, "We should help them both."
Mikael frowns, looking uncertain, while it is the Orc who speaks first.
"Why?" he grunts, fixing you with his bright red eyes.
"She's the reason we're out of our cells, and every extra hand will help in getting out of her," you say briskly, hiding your nerves beneath brisk professionalism, "and we have the time. The shift change won't be for hours yet."
Article:
Valka tests Diplomacy! D20+2 = 15. Success!
The other two prisoners don't look entirely convinced, but in the end they opt to simply move into the guard room at the end of the corridor to keep watch, and that is enough for now. Moving quickly (and trying not to look at the corpses) you root through the assorted old plates, playing cards, spare shackles and other detritus until at last you find what you are looking for. Prisons can be dangerous places, and while you expect anything truly serious would still necessitate a trip down to Varyston or a quick funeral, the aid kit in the watch room is more than enough for most minor work.
Article:
Valka uses the Medicine skill to Treat Wounds. DC is 15, roll is Natural 20 for a total of 25! Critical Success!
Lisara regains 4d8 (21) hit points and removes the Wounded condition. She is at full health.
Treat Wounds takes ten minutes, and a given person can benefit from it once per hour. This is your main source of out-of-combat healing.
You attend to Lisara swiftly - fortunately her jaw is not broken, merely bruised, and a topical painkiller and anti-inflammatory is sufficient to treat her direct injury, followed by a quick pass of smelling salts beneath her delicate nose to rouse her to consciousness. She blinks, clearly disorientated, then clears her throat.
"Well. That was embarrassing," she mutters, wincing slightly at the way her jaw twinges with the words before hauling herself back to her feet. For a moment it seems she is going to leave it at that, but then she hesitates, and nods to you. "My thanks for the aid. It seems I am in your debt."
"We'll talk later," you grunt, packing those pieces away and standing up in turn, "Come on, let's get the big guy."
Article:
Valka uses Medicine to Treat Poison. The DC is 15, roll is 11+5=16, success!
Normally, Treat Poison gives a bonus to the next test the target makes to resist the poison, and can be done in combat time. For this incidence, it is used to flush the worst of the sedatives from the ogre's system.
You've only the basic idea of an ogre's physiology, but in the end you settle for mixing together the antivenoms and purgatives and chucking it down his throat when he opens his mouth. The following purgation process is very unpleasant to witness, let alone smell, and in defence of your nose and lungs you opt to wait it out down the far end of the hall.
"Urgh…" the ogre groans a few minutes later, slowly rolling to his feet, "What… what did I eat…"
"Hey there, big guy," Lisara says smoothly, only wrinkling her nose a little at the stench as she steps up to the bars and looks up at the monstrous humanoid hunched within, "We're breaking out. You want to come with?"
The ogre blinks once, then grins, revealing stained and jagged teeth. "Oh yes. Let me out of this cage, little one. I will tear them all apart!"
"Mm, no, what you'll do is follow my orders," Lisara shakes her head, voice hard, "Otherwise my friend here, with her poisons and her magics, well - she'll make you regret it."
You didn't exactly plan it out in advance, but you can pick up on what Lisara wants easily enough, and with a degree of theatricality you wiggle your fingers and conjure a series of tiny magical glyphs into being around your hand.
Article:
Lisara tests Intimidate! Valka provides a +1 circumstance bonus to this test. Normally this would require an action, in this case the earlier medicine check counts.
Coerce DC is 15 (the target's will save plus ten), Lisara rolls 10+5+1 = 16, success!
The ogre swallows, his beady black eyes following you nervously, then nods. "Alright, alright. No need to be hasty. Grumblejack will be good."
Satisfied, you unlock the cell with the guard's liberated keys and let the lumbering creature out of his cage. Then, on a whim, you step back into your own cell for a moment and pull the sack of clothing from the veil, changing as quickly as you can into something more respectable. You may be about to die, but by your ancestors, you will do it warm and with a proper pair of boots on.
By the time you rejoin the rest of your little band in the guard room, Lisara has stripped one of the guards of their uniform and is adjusting the fit of his chain shirt over her lithe torso. The disguise probably won't hold up under close inspection, but it might buy her a few moments, which could be all you need. She nods to you, then turns back to the others.
"What do we have?" she murmurs, the swelling of her jaw making her once-melodious voice rough and thick.
"Those stairs lead to the main corridor downstairs," Mikael replies promptly, accepting her assumed authority with shocking ease for one who was prepared to leave her for dead mere minutes ago. "Dorgo says he saw lots of doors leading off. Probably barracks, armoury… main doors at the end lead outside, but they've got two guards there, watching the whole place."
"You weren't seen?" Lisara clarifies, looking over at the towering form of the battle-scarred orc - Dorgo, you assume - with a raised eyebrow. He just grins.
"Nobody sees a rat," he replies, rough and amused. For a moment you are about to ask, then you force your mouth shut again. Shapechanging magic is not unknown by any means, but if he is still here then there must be a limitation on it - perhaps he cannot hold the borrowed form long enough to get from the cells to the shore?
"Alright," Lisara nods, before turning and making a quiet hum. A moment later she steps over and into the unlit fireplace that dominates one wall, peering up and down the chimney at the back. When she returns, she is frowning thoughtfully. "Chimney is big enough to climb down, at least, looks like it leads to the kitchen… but there's a fire in the hearth. The servants must be cooking lunch."
Article:
Which route forward do you propose the group follow? Write-in sub-votes are allowed for each, such as suggesting how you might handle the guards in the corridor, or who goes down the chimney first.
[ ] The Stairs Simple, straightforward, gives you immediate access to the rest of the Great Hall, such as the armoury and offices. However, it is also the most well guarded - there are two men in the hall, and there may be more in nearby rooms.
[ ] The Chimney This will lead you down into the kitchens, where you can coerce the serving staff into providing supplies and information. However, it will require an athletics or acrobatics check to not be burned by the flames.
[ ] The Wall Use the portable window to make a hole in the wall, then rope down to the courtyard outside. Will bypass all enemies in the Great Hall, but the window cannot be reused, and will also be very obvious should a patrol spot it.
