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Maneae StrongArm has been locked away in the Sundren Jail (at her own request) for quite a while now. She was still in that cell when the Second Sundering occured. This RP post is meant to describe what she experienced while imprisoned. I was not present for the events, so all the information I have is based on what has been posted on the forums. If any part of this story goes against any established Second Sundering lore, please let me know so I can modify the story accordingly.
The darkness in the cell was almost unbearable. The thick wooden door had iron bars set into it, and the weak light that managed to filter its way through them did not offer much in the way of warmth or comfort. Stone walls and an old straw mattress tossed in the corner were all they illuminated. Still, the bleakness of her situation was infinitely more bearable than the darkness that was creeping into her soul.
Maneae could not remember how long she had been locked away in the cell. The absence of natural light and her constant nightmares had caused her to lose track of the days. Even her meals had been arriving sporadically, as if her guards had other, more important matters to attend to than the needs of a prisoner. Once or twice she gathered the will to ask them what was going on in the valley, but her questions were met with either icy silence or apathetic indifference.
She sat quietly, huddled into a corner of the small prison, staring at the cell door. Even in the dim light she could see the scratches and blood caked into it. It was her doing, though she never could remember it when it happened. She would black out and when she came back around to her senses she would be panting heavily, and the fresh wounds on her hands would already be sealing themselves up. The magic dampening qualities of the cell had been powerless to prevent her episodes, nor had they had any effect on her rapid healing.
Her hands. She slowly extended them both in front of her, palms down, and examined them. The left one looked unremarkable, without even the tiniest scar to attest to her maniacal attacks on the hardwood door. Her right however still bore The Mark, the symbol which represented the arch-devil's claim on her soul. It was the only scar that would not heal. Maybe it never would.
At that thought, Maneae broke down into loud, heart wrenching sobs. Where was Emiliana? Where was Dante? Where was the priest of Lathander? Had Zane even noticed her absence? Her soul was on the line and none of them had visited her, nor brought her any hope. Had they forgotten about her?
Maybe they had. After all she was just a mercenary, and not a particularly well known or influential one. What loyalty did they owe her? Maybe they thought it was safer to leave her here, locked away in the darkness. Maybe they believed she was unredeemable, or not worth the effort. Maybe they were right.
Suddenly there was a rumbling sound, and the earth heaved beneath her. If she had not already been seated, she likely would have lost her footing and been thrown down hard onto the stone floor. Small chunks of stone fell from the ceiling and thick dust filled the air, choking her. She tried to crawl to the cell door on her hands and knees, crying out for help. As she did, a large chunk of stone came loose from the ceiling and hit her on the back of the head. The blow did not render her unconcious but left her woozy for a few seconds. As she slowly recovered her senses, she felt a stready flow of blood running down her face from a gash in her scalp left by the blow.
The cell had gone dark. Whatever the source of her meager light had been, it was gone. Or maybe the blow to her head had blinded her! In a panic she blinked her eyes a few times, but to no avail. Everything was dark. She reached up to touch the wound on her head and she could feel the flesh stitching itself together under her fingers.
It was then that she felt the sudden upward thrust. The force of it kept her pinned to the floor for what seemed like an eternity. She screamed hysterically. This was it. She was going to die. And the arch-devil who sat on his throne watching gleefully would claim her soul.
No! No! It couldn't end like this! She struggled against the massive forces that restrained her. She reached for her rage, but it wasn't there. The arch-devil had already claimed that part of her soul for himself. She floundered helplessly, unable to move, unable to protect herself, unable to avoid her fate.
Then, as suddenly as it had started, the rumbling stopped and the cell settled itself. The floor felt slightly askew, as if it had shifted somewhat, but for the most part it was level and, gods be good, it was still and sturdy.
Maneae heard the shouts of guardsmen outside her cell. She crawled to the door on her hands and knees, navigating by feel through the darkness. When she reached it she stood slowly, steadying herself by walking her hands up the rough surface. Once she reached her feet, she ran her hands across the door until she felt the cool iron bars under her fingers. She grasped them in her hands and let her forehead rest on the door. While other prisoners were screaming, she took deep breaths and a calm settled over her.
She was alive. The arch-devil would not have her today.
The wound in her head had completely healed by the time the dim light returned to her cell. Her eyesight was fine. She was fine. There was still hope.
Over the next few hours there were several aftershocks as the earth settled into its new position. Each was greeted by screams of terror from the other cells, but Maneae knew these were to be expected and that the worst was likely over. A new resolve filled her as she contemplated all that had happened. This cell was not safe. This city was not safe. Nowhere was safe, as long as the arch-devil held his claim on her soul. She had to get out and do something, anything, to win back her soul. She would be free again.
The darkness in the cell was almost unbearable. The thick wooden door had iron bars set into it, and the weak light that managed to filter its way through them did not offer much in the way of warmth or comfort. Stone walls and an old straw mattress tossed in the corner were all they illuminated. Still, the bleakness of her situation was infinitely more bearable than the darkness that was creeping into her soul.
Maneae could not remember how long she had been locked away in the cell. The absence of natural light and her constant nightmares had caused her to lose track of the days. Even her meals had been arriving sporadically, as if her guards had other, more important matters to attend to than the needs of a prisoner. Once or twice she gathered the will to ask them what was going on in the valley, but her questions were met with either icy silence or apathetic indifference.
She sat quietly, huddled into a corner of the small prison, staring at the cell door. Even in the dim light she could see the scratches and blood caked into it. It was her doing, though she never could remember it when it happened. She would black out and when she came back around to her senses she would be panting heavily, and the fresh wounds on her hands would already be sealing themselves up. The magic dampening qualities of the cell had been powerless to prevent her episodes, nor had they had any effect on her rapid healing.
Her hands. She slowly extended them both in front of her, palms down, and examined them. The left one looked unremarkable, without even the tiniest scar to attest to her maniacal attacks on the hardwood door. Her right however still bore The Mark, the symbol which represented the arch-devil's claim on her soul. It was the only scar that would not heal. Maybe it never would.
At that thought, Maneae broke down into loud, heart wrenching sobs. Where was Emiliana? Where was Dante? Where was the priest of Lathander? Had Zane even noticed her absence? Her soul was on the line and none of them had visited her, nor brought her any hope. Had they forgotten about her?
Maybe they had. After all she was just a mercenary, and not a particularly well known or influential one. What loyalty did they owe her? Maybe they thought it was safer to leave her here, locked away in the darkness. Maybe they believed she was unredeemable, or not worth the effort. Maybe they were right.
Suddenly there was a rumbling sound, and the earth heaved beneath her. If she had not already been seated, she likely would have lost her footing and been thrown down hard onto the stone floor. Small chunks of stone fell from the ceiling and thick dust filled the air, choking her. She tried to crawl to the cell door on her hands and knees, crying out for help. As she did, a large chunk of stone came loose from the ceiling and hit her on the back of the head. The blow did not render her unconcious but left her woozy for a few seconds. As she slowly recovered her senses, she felt a stready flow of blood running down her face from a gash in her scalp left by the blow.
The cell had gone dark. Whatever the source of her meager light had been, it was gone. Or maybe the blow to her head had blinded her! In a panic she blinked her eyes a few times, but to no avail. Everything was dark. She reached up to touch the wound on her head and she could feel the flesh stitching itself together under her fingers.
It was then that she felt the sudden upward thrust. The force of it kept her pinned to the floor for what seemed like an eternity. She screamed hysterically. This was it. She was going to die. And the arch-devil who sat on his throne watching gleefully would claim her soul.
No! No! It couldn't end like this! She struggled against the massive forces that restrained her. She reached for her rage, but it wasn't there. The arch-devil had already claimed that part of her soul for himself. She floundered helplessly, unable to move, unable to protect herself, unable to avoid her fate.
Then, as suddenly as it had started, the rumbling stopped and the cell settled itself. The floor felt slightly askew, as if it had shifted somewhat, but for the most part it was level and, gods be good, it was still and sturdy.
Maneae heard the shouts of guardsmen outside her cell. She crawled to the door on her hands and knees, navigating by feel through the darkness. When she reached it she stood slowly, steadying herself by walking her hands up the rough surface. Once she reached her feet, she ran her hands across the door until she felt the cool iron bars under her fingers. She grasped them in her hands and let her forehead rest on the door. While other prisoners were screaming, she took deep breaths and a calm settled over her.
She was alive. The arch-devil would not have her today.
The wound in her head had completely healed by the time the dim light returned to her cell. Her eyesight was fine. She was fine. There was still hope.
Over the next few hours there were several aftershocks as the earth settled into its new position. Each was greeted by screams of terror from the other cells, but Maneae knew these were to be expected and that the worst was likely over. A new resolve filled her as she contemplated all that had happened. This cell was not safe. This city was not safe. Nowhere was safe, as long as the arch-devil held his claim on her soul. She had to get out and do something, anything, to win back her soul. She would be free again.
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