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There I lay, surrounded by darkness. How long had I been here? Hours? Days? Years? The old heads often spoke of what this place would do to a man. The indignities you suffered among the other convicts were nothing compared to the maddening sameness of being segregated into solitary confinement. Swallowed by the absence of light, huddled on the cold floor, you keep expecting your eyes to adjust. They never do. You talk to yourself, sing songs from your childhood, touch yourself, search the floor for the hole and pray to whatever God's listen that you don't sink arm-deep in it, in the process of finding it.
I fumbled with the coin I had manage to conceal and sneak in. Coins were contraband, as you could hone them to a fine edge and use them as shivs. This coin, however, was precious to me. It bore the likeness of Lady Luck, Tymora, and served as a reminder that dame fortuna favors persistence, skill, and daring.
[Quick Prison Lesson: A shiv, usually made with a razor, coin, or similarly thin piece of metal, does slashing damage. A shank, usually made with a nail, utensil, or similarly stout piece of metal, does piercing damage.]
In that time, I spent so long thinking of the past. The real past. The past I didn't share with...anyone. I remembered being a bastard whore-son in the blighted district of Neverwinter known as Beggar's Nest. I remembered when mum met Roman, the caravan driver. A smuggler, really, who would become my da, and a friend. I remember the day Roman introduced mum to his boss, and he hired her on, making books for his legit front. I always wondered how mum, an educated woman, ended up a whore in the Nest. Roman said she'd got in deep with some serious types and had to vanish. So she chose the tramps life in a place they'd never think to look.
Piss on them, whoever they were.
I could hear the clack-clack-clack of boots approaching and then the jingle-jangle of an over-burdened key-ring. The tumblers of the lock fell and parted and then, there was nothing but whiteness. The darkness abated before the light, but my eyes could not tolerate it. Clinched shut, I never saw the guards who grabbed me. I didn't care. They were my heroes at the present moment. "Up, you nerveless cur!" Two of them, at least. One at each arm. They slammed me into the filth-caked wall, my wrists bent, and wrenched my arms behind my back to manacle. A hand hooped through each arm, they escorted me (nearly drug me, really) out of the building appropriately named "the abaddon."
In this time, I tentatively began to crack my eyelids and squint out into the light. Outside of the abaddon, it was so bright and loud. I could hear the other convicts nearby busily constructing some project or another, chattering among themselves as they worked before being ordered quiet by a suddenly alert overseer. The trustees greet the guards kindly as we passed, which could only mean one thing: I was going to see the warden. My vision was improving, albeit nerve-wrackingly slow, about the time passed through the cramped enclosure known as the sally-port. Before I knew it, I was inside and going to the gassers.
The gassers serve two functions; a easy-to-clean place for an execution, or a delousing tank. Thankfully, I was there for the latter, else wise this story would continue no further. I could remember a time, not long ago, when I was praying to Dame Fortuna that they would just bump me off and get it over with. The rags that served as my clothes were practically ripped from me and I was immediately doused buckets of soapy water. The guards scrubbed me with long-handled, stiff-bristled brushes. I could now tell that one of them was a dwarf and he seemed to be garnering some sadistic pleasure in his treatment of me.
"Enjoy it while it lasts, half-sized twit."
I couldn't say it, aloud. They looked for any excuse to beat a man around here, and distracting a guard by insulting him was as good as any. So I suffered in silence for another quarter-bell until they took me, naked, to the back. The manacles were removed and I was allowed a decent towel to dry myself. Next, they returned the original clothes I had confiscated upon my arrival. That could mean only one thing: my sentence was up. Had I really spent all that time in the abaddon? It seemed almost impossible, but there was no other reason for this treatment. I exited the room, fully dressed.
I was forced into a careful search before being manacled again and seated in a chair outside the warden's office. "We'll be right out 'ere, cur. Ye jes' sit ye'self right 'ere an' wait fo' the Warden." The dwarf got closer then necessary to tell me, his breath stunk of cheap spirits and pickled eggs. And they left. When they did, I'm not ashamed to say I cried. My nerves were shot and my senses still dulled by the time in isolation and darkness. I used to pride myself on being very willful, but that day, I lacked the will to even offer the impertinence the fight-hungry dwarf was hoping for. I just wanted to sleep.
And it happened. I nodded off for a short time, having nothing to offer distraction. I was awoke by the gentle clearing of a throat to see a stately and well-appointed gnomish lady. "Cazen, I believe?" she spoke sternly, in a tone more befitting a school marm then the warden of a prison. "Come into my office, son." I entered the small room behind her, which was all very neat and tidy, with the exception of the large oak desk. Cluttered by a menagerie of documents and time-saving (or time-keeping) mechanisms, it looked as though secretarial golem had been felled there. The matronly gnome sat in a chair that rose, slowly.
"Cazen, what is your sequencing number?" she slid on a pair of spectacles and expertly picked through the documents, finding several tacked together that I was sure had all of my information, including the number she just asked for. I thought about saying as much, but I still felt too tired to argue. "017599." She read through something before asking, "And you're from?" "Neverwinter." I smartly replied. "The City of Skilled Hands, huh?" she looked over the spectacles at me, eyes sharp, "Appropriate." She thumbed through the next page. "And where will you be going after you leave us?"
Even though I waited to speak, I didn't have to think on it, at all. I had dreamed of going back there since this whole nightmare started. It was the one place that felt safe, the one place that felt right, the one place I ever felt like I was more then just a cog in some cyclopean machine. "Sundren, ma'am." Her brows furrowed and she looked a bit puzzled. "Beg your pardon?" "It's to the north, other side of Icewind Dale. Kind've a frontier municipality, if you will." he smirked at the gnomish warden, "Good place for an ex-con to get a fresh start." She nodded in return, looked down at her papers and reached for her quill.
A few practiced strokes later, she looked up at me and removed the spectacles. "Cazen, I know your type. You've been in and out of entanglements with the Law since before you were old enough to properly snatch a coin-purse. If you're truly making for this Sundren, I don't suspect we'll meet again." "No, ma'am." I said, somehow managing not to smile. "However," she continued, "I don't need to remind you that the local authorities in these frontier areas are often not nearly as scrutinized or subject to the same jurisprudence as the one's your used to dealing with. The next time you decide to play grave-robber--"
"Treasure Hunter." I corrected her. She frowned at me, soon becoming an open scowl. "Whatever you consider it, the next time you're found hocking property that belongs to a dead man, I suggest you make sure one of the buyers isn't one of their descendants. Are we clear on all matters pertaining to your restored autonomy?"
"Yes, ma'am." I said, plainly.
She signed several of the documents that had been tacked together and I did the same. She placed some form of arcane mark upon the document and had most of the possessions I had taken from me upon my incarceration returned, save for the weapons and illicit goods. And with that, I was escorted to the front gates and officially became a free man, again.
I fumbled with the coin I had manage to conceal and sneak in. Coins were contraband, as you could hone them to a fine edge and use them as shivs. This coin, however, was precious to me. It bore the likeness of Lady Luck, Tymora, and served as a reminder that dame fortuna favors persistence, skill, and daring.
[Quick Prison Lesson: A shiv, usually made with a razor, coin, or similarly thin piece of metal, does slashing damage. A shank, usually made with a nail, utensil, or similarly stout piece of metal, does piercing damage.]
In that time, I spent so long thinking of the past. The real past. The past I didn't share with...anyone. I remembered being a bastard whore-son in the blighted district of Neverwinter known as Beggar's Nest. I remembered when mum met Roman, the caravan driver. A smuggler, really, who would become my da, and a friend. I remember the day Roman introduced mum to his boss, and he hired her on, making books for his legit front. I always wondered how mum, an educated woman, ended up a whore in the Nest. Roman said she'd got in deep with some serious types and had to vanish. So she chose the tramps life in a place they'd never think to look.
Piss on them, whoever they were.
I could hear the clack-clack-clack of boots approaching and then the jingle-jangle of an over-burdened key-ring. The tumblers of the lock fell and parted and then, there was nothing but whiteness. The darkness abated before the light, but my eyes could not tolerate it. Clinched shut, I never saw the guards who grabbed me. I didn't care. They were my heroes at the present moment. "Up, you nerveless cur!" Two of them, at least. One at each arm. They slammed me into the filth-caked wall, my wrists bent, and wrenched my arms behind my back to manacle. A hand hooped through each arm, they escorted me (nearly drug me, really) out of the building appropriately named "the abaddon."
In this time, I tentatively began to crack my eyelids and squint out into the light. Outside of the abaddon, it was so bright and loud. I could hear the other convicts nearby busily constructing some project or another, chattering among themselves as they worked before being ordered quiet by a suddenly alert overseer. The trustees greet the guards kindly as we passed, which could only mean one thing: I was going to see the warden. My vision was improving, albeit nerve-wrackingly slow, about the time passed through the cramped enclosure known as the sally-port. Before I knew it, I was inside and going to the gassers.
The gassers serve two functions; a easy-to-clean place for an execution, or a delousing tank. Thankfully, I was there for the latter, else wise this story would continue no further. I could remember a time, not long ago, when I was praying to Dame Fortuna that they would just bump me off and get it over with. The rags that served as my clothes were practically ripped from me and I was immediately doused buckets of soapy water. The guards scrubbed me with long-handled, stiff-bristled brushes. I could now tell that one of them was a dwarf and he seemed to be garnering some sadistic pleasure in his treatment of me.
"Enjoy it while it lasts, half-sized twit."
I couldn't say it, aloud. They looked for any excuse to beat a man around here, and distracting a guard by insulting him was as good as any. So I suffered in silence for another quarter-bell until they took me, naked, to the back. The manacles were removed and I was allowed a decent towel to dry myself. Next, they returned the original clothes I had confiscated upon my arrival. That could mean only one thing: my sentence was up. Had I really spent all that time in the abaddon? It seemed almost impossible, but there was no other reason for this treatment. I exited the room, fully dressed.
I was forced into a careful search before being manacled again and seated in a chair outside the warden's office. "We'll be right out 'ere, cur. Ye jes' sit ye'self right 'ere an' wait fo' the Warden." The dwarf got closer then necessary to tell me, his breath stunk of cheap spirits and pickled eggs. And they left. When they did, I'm not ashamed to say I cried. My nerves were shot and my senses still dulled by the time in isolation and darkness. I used to pride myself on being very willful, but that day, I lacked the will to even offer the impertinence the fight-hungry dwarf was hoping for. I just wanted to sleep.
And it happened. I nodded off for a short time, having nothing to offer distraction. I was awoke by the gentle clearing of a throat to see a stately and well-appointed gnomish lady. "Cazen, I believe?" she spoke sternly, in a tone more befitting a school marm then the warden of a prison. "Come into my office, son." I entered the small room behind her, which was all very neat and tidy, with the exception of the large oak desk. Cluttered by a menagerie of documents and time-saving (or time-keeping) mechanisms, it looked as though secretarial golem had been felled there. The matronly gnome sat in a chair that rose, slowly.
"Cazen, what is your sequencing number?" she slid on a pair of spectacles and expertly picked through the documents, finding several tacked together that I was sure had all of my information, including the number she just asked for. I thought about saying as much, but I still felt too tired to argue. "017599." She read through something before asking, "And you're from?" "Neverwinter." I smartly replied. "The City of Skilled Hands, huh?" she looked over the spectacles at me, eyes sharp, "Appropriate." She thumbed through the next page. "And where will you be going after you leave us?"
Even though I waited to speak, I didn't have to think on it, at all. I had dreamed of going back there since this whole nightmare started. It was the one place that felt safe, the one place that felt right, the one place I ever felt like I was more then just a cog in some cyclopean machine. "Sundren, ma'am." Her brows furrowed and she looked a bit puzzled. "Beg your pardon?" "It's to the north, other side of Icewind Dale. Kind've a frontier municipality, if you will." he smirked at the gnomish warden, "Good place for an ex-con to get a fresh start." She nodded in return, looked down at her papers and reached for her quill.
A few practiced strokes later, she looked up at me and removed the spectacles. "Cazen, I know your type. You've been in and out of entanglements with the Law since before you were old enough to properly snatch a coin-purse. If you're truly making for this Sundren, I don't suspect we'll meet again." "No, ma'am." I said, somehow managing not to smile. "However," she continued, "I don't need to remind you that the local authorities in these frontier areas are often not nearly as scrutinized or subject to the same jurisprudence as the one's your used to dealing with. The next time you decide to play grave-robber--"
"Treasure Hunter." I corrected her. She frowned at me, soon becoming an open scowl. "Whatever you consider it, the next time you're found hocking property that belongs to a dead man, I suggest you make sure one of the buyers isn't one of their descendants. Are we clear on all matters pertaining to your restored autonomy?"
"Yes, ma'am." I said, plainly.
She signed several of the documents that had been tacked together and I did the same. She placed some form of arcane mark upon the document and had most of the possessions I had taken from me upon my incarceration returned, save for the weapons and illicit goods. And with that, I was escorted to the front gates and officially became a free man, again.
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