The Escape from Dour (Closed)

They are moving me today… Ioder thought as he etched the fortieth or so mark on his cell wall. As his fingernail drug against the grittiness of the stone wall it snapped. Ioder instinctively brought his finger tip up to his mouth to try and comfort the sharp pain. There was no sound, no winching or suckling. It was humorous to think that these mere mortals could so effectively bind and neutralize him. He worried that his time was up and that he wouldn’t last much longer, especially once he is moved to the next cell block.

It had been about forty some odd days since Ioder and Virgil got themselves involved with the wrong kind of people. Out one day on a routine mission the two companions got caught up in the cross fire of two rebel forces. The Dour Saints had just uncovered the location of Gilgamesh’s crew and unfortunately for Ioder and Virgil, who had just made contact with their client, were taken down in the madness. Thought out the fighting Ioder and his friend were both caught and accused of being a part of the rival group. They were taken the remote Dour Garrison a massive prison constructed into the cliff side overlooking the sea separating Corone from the mainland.

It wasn’t long before the two of them had been identified as unnatural and certain precautions were taken to prevent their immediate escape.

Quote:

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A message was snuck out, how is unclear, but nevertheless word has spread. Ioder and his companion have proclaimed their innocence and seek aid in escaping their current confines. Also a promise of a reward to anyone able to make it happen.

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There was a small crowd gathered in the lower slums of Radasanth. The commoners and mercs that dwell in these parts were of a mixed variety. A focus was drawn to group of street performers who were doing a myriad of things outside a busy tavern. This was a relatively well know location of underworld dealings within the city, a place where one would go looking for work. The performers were a low-key sign to the well informed that a someone inside was looking for less than refutable help.

Inside the place seemed overflowing with activity, the mead flowed like am amber brook from barrel to tankard, and the room was littered with colorful people. As the noise of merrymaking and delight resonated all around there were a group of men sitting around a circular table in the back. Strangely they weren’t apart of the commotion, instead they were setting up for a stark adventure.

“He promises a reward to anyone able to get him out,” one of the men said unfolding a parchment and showing it to the others.

“Full of it,” another one said yanking the paper and examining it intently. “There is no way this is legitimate. Even if he is telling the truth what’s the catch?”

“You mean besides the legion of Dour Guards, the jarring location, and lack of anything tangible to even validate this claim.” A third man said.

The man who originally had the parchment quickly grabbed the page back stashing it in his coat pocket. He was a tall burly fellow who looked to be about fifty or so while as the men around him were all young whippersnappers barley out of their teenage years. They weren’t going to be any help to the man and he knew that. Politely he stood and left the men walking over to an empty table in the rear of the establishment. There he sat waiting for anyone looking to make some coin to approach him, having already addressed the bar earlier someone would take him up on his wild plan eventually.

"Anyways, whippersnapper, what was I saying? Of course. Replace the fourth engine cog with a lubricated jack-bolt, and your steam wagon will move at twice the speed. Perhaps thrice!"

"What are you talking about?" The youth demanded, face as red as his hair. "What's a steam wagon? What's a jack-bolt? What does lubricated mean? Look old-timer, we agreed that if I bought you a few cups of whisky, you'd share valuable Alerian secrets. So far all I've heard is a bunch of made-up sounding words spewed by an old drunkard. Should I tell my brothers you went back on our bargain?" The boy nodded at two older, much larger youths with red hair to match his own. They waved menacingly from the bar and flexed their muscles.

"If you'd been bloody listening," Phyr Sa'resh muttered, "you'd have learned plenty of use already. And you should know better than to threaten an armed elf." He tapped the sheathed flintlock cutlass he'd lain upon the table before sitting down.

"You mean a one-armed elf?" The boy scoffed, looking at the empty sleeve where Phyr's right arm would have been. The old dark elf shuddered. Twenty years since he lost the arm in that Salvic prison, and he still felt phantom pains in it.

"A wise one-armed elf," Phyr retorted, "with more experience and knowledge than you and your whole family combined. So, you don't find my ramblings helpful. Ask a question then, youngling, and it shall be answered." Sa'resh picked up his tumbler glass and took a long swig of mediocre whisky. It burned all the way down, but the fire was pleasant once it reached his belly.

"If you're such a clever steam-smith or whatever, why don't you build yourself a new arm?" The boy asked. He sipped his ale, still fixated on Phyr's empty sleeve.

"I was a gunsmith, and a clockwork mechanic," Phyr corrected. So long as the liquor kept flowing, he could have all the patience in the world. "But here on Corone, I don't have the technology required for such a mechanism. I would need to return to the laboratories of Alerar in order to even attempt to build a functioning arm."

"So why don't you go back?"

"I lost my arm in prison," Phyr growled, "after being falsely arrested for treason. If I returned to my home country, I would be imprisoned again, or even executed."

"You were in prison?" The youth sounded impressed for the first time. His eager eyes roved the scars on Phyr's face, his long crooked nose, his matted silver hair and his bent posture. "I suppose I can believe that, just from the looks of you. Where'd they stow you? Dour? Terrinore?"

"Devil's Keep," Phyr said darkly, "it lies on the border of Salvar and Berevar. No one sent there was ever meant to leave." He took another long drink, hoping the heat would burn away the bad memories.

"But you did?" The youth inquired.

"I did what?" Phyr growled over the rim of his glass.

"You left. Were you released?" The boy leaned forward, crimson hair falling over his brow.

"No," Phyr said, leaning forward conspiratorially. "I orchestrated a great escape, and then a Coronian Ranger named Christina Bredith chased me the length of the North. But eventually I found my way onto a ship sailing for Corone, and-"

"Alright, alright. I didn't ask for the tale of your entire life." The boy said, waving his hands. He scratched his hairless chin, a faraway look in his eyes. "Let me go talk to my brothers," he said, "you might be worth some coin after all." He stood and moved away from the table, slopping ale across the sawdusty floor as he went.

Phyr was content to sit in peace and drink. He had only recently returned to Radasanth after the events surrounding the invasion of Corone. He shook his long silver mane, scarcely believing everything that had happened in the past year. First he'd abandoned his post as Captain of the Watch in Underwood, and taken up a station as special advisor to the Baron of Serenti. When the invasion had begun he'd done his level best to keep the nation intact, but some of his actions could easily be misconstrued. When the fighting ended and the dust settled, he'd no longer been welcome in the Baron's employ. And so he'd returned to Radasanth, and returned to the drink.

His azure eyes followed the redheaded youth to the bar, where the boy spoke briefly with his brothers. They exchanged words, and the larger of the brothers pointed several times to a table at the back of the tavern where a lone man sat as if waiting. The boy nodded and carried his ale to the table. He kicked a chair back and sat facing the burly older man.

"So," the redhead said, and then leaned forward and lowered his voice. "I hear you're looking to break someone out of prison?"

They all looked weak, the whole lot of them. But beggars weren’t choosers.

“Aye,” the scruffy old man said lifting his gaze up to the youth before him. Solomon eyed up his potential henchmen and the others he caught peering from across the bar, they didn't look like much. With a free hand he began caressing his burly beard contemplating how to go about detailing his plans. Discretion was key in these types of situations. “The Dour Garrison.”

“The prison on the west coast?” the young redhead asked.

“Yeah, the garrison is built into the side of the Cliffs of Nor.” Solomon continued. “The Dour Saints and their leader Raphael Constantine are currently the one operating the prison.”

“Oh I’ve heard of them, didn’t they stave off the invasion along our western front?” the youth said as he pulled out the chair opposite of Solomon. He politely offered a spare tankard rich with ale to the older man who in turn accepted.

“That’s right.” He answered as he took a hefty swig of ale. “Two of my men are locked up inside.” The scruffy man lied through his grinning teeth. But this was more convincing than just ‘I’m going off of a rumor’. The youth raised an eye brow, he was suspicious but not detoured.

“Do you have a plan?” he asked.

“Aye,” Solomon answered as he sipped deeply of his ale. “A good one at that.” While Solomon might have been a scoundrel he wasn’t a fool. The Dour guards weren’t idiots and this wouldn’t be a simple task, but he only needed a few men. A few pawns to sacrifice should the moment arise.

“Let me hear it.”

“I can’t, not yet.”

“If you’re looking help this isn’t the way to get It.” the youth insisted.

“You’ll know soon enough,” the burly man said with a wicked grin. “Besides your only the help, nothing more.”

“Wait, what!?” the youth quickly spat. “What do you mean nothing more, what games are you trying to play?”

“Boy,” Solomon grunted in the deepest voice he could muster while slamming his tankard on the table between them. “I don’t even know who you are, or who your friends are.” He began to glare at the boy’s brothers watching from near the bar. The redhead’s brothers must have gotten worried because Soloman noted that everyone had placed their hands gently on the hilts of their weapons.

“Think twice old man,” the youth said. “I’m more interested in getting payed then starting a fight. Besides by the way your parading around here pandering to everyone you're desperate.” He was right, but what the youth didn't know was that all he needed from them were to play there part and this was perfect. After a tense moment the older man gently reached for his belt.

“A bit now, then the rest later.” Solomon relented as he lopped a sack of coin at the boy. “Divide your coin however you like, I’m only paying for four men.”

Please let at least one of these jackasses be competent.

"I said I was only paying for four men," Solomon growled, shivering in the night wind.

"And you are," Phyr replied. "Four men and one woman. Or four humans and one drow."

"I thought you said the girl was a half-elf?" Solomon protested

"Look at it how you will." Phyr trudged gamely along the road to Dour Garrison. "We'll likely be glad we have her."

"I don't like it," The grizzled human said for what seemed like the hundredth time. "No matter how I look at it, I'm paying for an extra head, and I still somehow have to play the lead role in this farce of yours."

"Well which of us looks more like a Coronian guardsman, and which like a prisoner?" Phyr snapped. He fluttered the limp right sleeve of his raggedy jacket for emphasis. "And we couldn't have any of the brothers play the part, they're far too recognizable with that red hair. You're a good, nondescript human. Here." He pulled the flask from beneath his jacket, where he had the daggers stashed, and passed it to Solomon. "Have a swig of that. It'll put you in the right mood. Just stick to the plan, and if anything goes wrong, whack me with that truncheon and swear a lot."

"Why don't you walk me through the plan again?" The human said. "Since you're so confident in it, you should know it backwards and forwards."

"I should hope so," Phyr said, "it's rather short and simple. You, dressed in that uniform that your questionable contacts so graciously procured, will escort me, clad in this prisoner's attire, into Dour. Once there we'll disable any resistance we meet and bring out the prisoner. The brothers will guard the road and the cliff approach from this side, while the half-breed girl covers the rear. If there’s any trouble, all we have to do is get noisy, and she’ll rush in to rescue us.”

“Don’t know how I feel about putting my life in the hands of a slip of a girl,” Solomon muttered. “No matter what sort of powers she says she has.”

“If things go wrong, we’ll be glad we have her.” Phyr repeated. “Don’t fret, you made a wise investment with your coin. I used to be financial advisor to the Baron of Serenti, you know.”

As they rounded a bend that hugged the corner of the cliffs, Dour Garrison came into sight. Phyr felt the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. He still wasn’t certain that all the gold in Corone was worth stepping into a prison voluntarily. His time spent in Devil’s Keep had cost him an arm. The missing limb throbbed distantly, a phantom pain he had felt many times before. Phyr put his lone hand on Solomon’s shoulder and they stopped. One of the shadows alongside the road separated itself from the others, and the youngest of the red haired brothers became visible.

“We’ve got the road and the cliff face locked down,” he whispered, “no one’s getting in or out except you two.”

Phyr made a sharp gesture which sent the lad back to his hiding place. He and Solomon continued along their path, approaching the flickering torches that stood sentinel either side of the garrison’s gate. Two men in chainmail and Dour uniforms hailed them from the guardhouse as they approached, Solomon shoving Phyr ahead of him. The guards were crowded around a small pot-bellied stove, barely bothering to look out the barred window as they called to Solomon.

“Hoi, yew ‘aint Judd!” One of the guards called after an initial greeting was not returned. “What’s goin’ on then? Why ‘aint that prisoner in irons?”

“Errr,” Solomon stammered.

Phyr gritted his teeth and half-turned toward the man. Solomon suddenly remembered his instructions and lifted his heavy truncheon, thrusting its blunt end into the drow’s gut.

Winded, Phyr doubled over. As he gasped for air he heard Solomon calling to the guards.

“Couldn’t put the irons on this fucker, boys, he’s only got one arm! I had to fill in for Judd, the stupid bastard’s got the shits. Now let me in before I freeze my damn tits off!”

By the time Phyr managed to stand up straight, the guards had already activated the winch that opened the gate. Solomon gave them a wave with the truncheon and shoved his charge forwards. A dark note of foreboding replaced the pain in Phyr’s stomach as they stepped through the gateway into Dour Garrison.

A hood covered her head, a black cloak flowed as she wrapped it around her. Her pale face and black hair were elegant, yet her devoid expression was complex. On the slightest hint of trouble, she would bolt up from ger hiding place to rescue these... most of them were mere grunts, amateurs. Meanwhile, the young woman fought the bloodiest war in recent history, destroyed crime rings, and effortlessly murdered too many to count with a flick of a hand. Yes, while the elder with one arm obviously had years of experience, even their only half competent leader shunned him. The half-elf, hidden away, was not prideful, however. Not anymore. She was instead exhausted by the men's stupidity.

Any time she could have lashed out. Any time, she could of used her ice based powers to inflict fear and submission onto them after they hurdled insults at her. She was tired, however. She decided to stay silent in their spitting. She simply had not the energy to pick up a meaningless fight with, dare say, partners today. Not on the brink of a mission. She wisely held her tongue and remained silent through it all. She would prove her skills when needed; yet as of now she was worn out from a life of conflict. It would have been just like Ayleth to put them in their places, but Ayleth was no more. Ashla had taken control again, and she was a mess.

They obviously were just doing this for coin. Made sense, with them being as cheap and foul mouthed as they were. Ashla, however, was here for more personal reasons than money. It was an internal question, a curiosity. How could someone be imprisoned wrongfully? Was it their own misunderstanding and delusion of their world? Was the justice systen flawed? Just because someone killed in self defense, did it make the action right? Ashla was horrified by what Ayleth had done. In attempts to figure herself and her distorted view of the world out, she took this job.

With a bunch of useless armatures.

She was positive they would need her.

Years had been spent boiling in rage, bathed in the blood of herself and others. The girl was weary. Sick and pained from her agony... Was her own moral compass jaded? Everything she had done wrong, was there validation in it? It would take releasing the prisoner inside the Dour Garrison to find out.

Ashla waited. She waited for the moment they would need their "back up plan."

She was just about done playing second fiddle over here.

Elven ears perked, her mismatched blue and burgundy eyes watched from the well hidden corner. Her hand slipped beneath her cloak, gripping the hilt of a sword.

She waited, vigilant and poised.

“You’ll never get away with this,” a raspy voice echoed from the corner dresser of Knight-Captain Garret’s chambers. It sounded like whoever spoke had gargled mouthfuls upon mouthfuls of sand, like they were dying. The inside of his chambers was dressed in the most luxurious of silks and linens, on his wall hung the stuffed heads of the mightiest beasts of Corone. Sir Garret was what you might call lavish, he wore only the most expensive armor and gem stone his garrison could afford, he was a spoiled brat to say the least. “Someone will come for me…”

“Shut up!” Sir Garret yelled as he heaved a heavy golden goblet across his room. It made a loud clanging sound as it ricocheted off the doors of his dresser, spilling crimson red wine all over stained yew furniture. “No one is coming for you and if they did how would they even know what’s going on here.”

The Knight-Captain was right about one thing, the circumstances of the situation were… unorthodox to say the least. For the last month or so Ioder had been the prisoner of the Dour Saints, group of Knights commissioned by Radasanth to govern Dour Garrison. Ioder and his partner were caught in the cross fire of a raid carried out by the Dour Saints and had since been their captive. But there was a chance, just before his freedom had been taken from him the Half-elf managed to leave behind a note etched in parchment. It offered anyone insurmountable amounts of gold upon his liberation. But that was a long shot, and since then much had happened.

It wasn’t going to be that easy.

“You’ve gravely underestimated what I’m capable of…” Ioder managed to say, every word seemed like it would be his last. “In the end, I promise to return your politeness to you tenfold.”

“If I hear another word out of you demon ill shove a hot poker down your throat just like last time.” He said as he threw a goldenrod platter at his dresser.

Elsewhere on the property the plan had seeming been going well as Solomon escorted the fake prisoner to the holding cells. They had to travel through the main courtyard avoiding any suspicious eyes as they did. It couldn’t be helped and often Soloman had to head Phyr’s instructions clobbering him a little to detour the passing guards. As the pair made it to the cells they could see that other than a few roaming guards the place was largely without patrol giving them slight relief.

“Alright, this is what I’ve paid you for, you’re the lead from here on out.” Soloman said as he pulled a large butchers knife from inside his jacket.

Phyr’s gut ached from a combination of dread and the truncheon’s constant prodding. Solomon had gotten a bit too comfortable whacking him with the wooden club, and just being inside a prison again had set the old dark elf’s nerves on a razor’s edge. He hated the mildewy, sickly smell of the place. He hated the way the guards sneered at him as they passed them by. He hated the uncontrollable feeling that he would never leave this Thayne-forsaken place.

“I hope you’re better with that pig-sticker than you are with the truncheon,” Phyr commented as Solomon unveiled his knife. “Otherwise we’ll end up with screaming guards and blood everywhere.

“Don’t you worry about my skill with a blade,” Solomon grunted back, “just concern yourself with finding the prisoner. He should be in their most secure cell, wherever that is.”

“This way,” Phyr said, turning down a hall which led to a descending staircase. They always kept the highest value prisoners in the bowels of the jail, with as many doors as possible between them and the outside world. The man and the elf sauntered down the stairs together. Phyr reached beneath his jacket with his lone left arm and pulled out his heavy iron bayonet. They followed the hallway at the foot of the stairs and then paused just shy of the next corner.

“There’ll likely still be a pair of guards between us and our goal,” he whispered, leaning so close to Solomon he could smell the man’s pungent odor. “We can’t just bypass them like we have the others, or they’ll hear us breaking into the cell and raise the alarm. We’ll have to take them down. Let me go first. Wait for my distraction.” Solomon nodded, white-knuckling his butchers knife and following a few steps behind Phyr.

The old Alerian held his dagger in an icepick grip against his body so its blade was barely visible. He shuffled around the corner and through an open doorway, which, as he’d anticipated, had two guards flanking it on the far side. Phyr got a full step past them before they snapped to attention.

“Hey, who let yew outta’ yer ce-” the guard collapsed soundlessly as Phyr turned and slammed the butt of his bayonet into the man’s temple.

“What?” the fallen man’s compatriot gasped, reaching for his sword and inflating his lungs to raise the alarm.

Solomon appeared behind him like an ill omen. The butcher’s knife flashed in the torchlight, and a gaping gash appeared across the guard’s throat. It spewed crimson across the wall in a ragged line. Solomon held the limp man up for a few moments before dropping him in a pool of his own blood.

“How’s that for pig-sticking?” The human asked, wiping his blade on the guard’s uniform.

“You could have used the truncheon,” Phyr pointed out.

“A bit squeamish, are we?” Solomon taunted.

“I lived in a place that makes Dour Garrison look like a pleasant inn for over thirty years.” Phyr deadpanned. “I watched while a gang of orcs held me down and chopped off my arm with a blunt axe.”

Solomon paled slightly at the notion, but did not respond. He took the lead, striding confidently down the hall. Phyr shook his head. An aged human, Solomon was still young by elven standards.

They rounded another corner and found a long row of empty cells set against the hard stone wall. All were empty, except the last, which contained the lumpy shadow of a single man, apparently asleep.

“Hey, wake up,” Solomon whispered through the bars, “we’re here to break you out.”

“He may have difficulty rising,” Phyr commented mildly. His azure eyes could see deeper into the shadows than Solomon’s. A jolt of surprise and confusion lanced through his veins.

The body inside the cell had no head.