Game Thread: The Prisoners of Tauric Castle
Is it all a dream?
The world is a blur of color, light, and sound. Is time passing? You can’t remember who you are; you haven’t the focus to even know it. Everything is a swirl of minutes; stars swirl around you, infinitely distant yet immediate, so immediate—
You were only alone for a moment. Perhaps you were just around the corner from your friends and family; a doorway away from law and order and every aspect of civilization. But that moment was all it took.
As your vision began to blur, you felt arms wrapping around your torso, around your legs, around your arms—though that was impossible; you were alone. You fell backwards into darkness and the swirling vacuum in your mind.
Slowly, the colors faded, and the world began to reform, though you could see it only darkly, through a shadowed lens; your moments of consciousness weak and intermittent. You could feel something heavy and tight weighing you down, pressing in from all directions at once, though you could also feel wind against your skin.
Dim light; dancing shadows; the sound of heavy footsteps. And then, cutting through the fog—if only for a moment—the sound of a man’s voice. Cruel, contemptuous, self-satisfied; an aristocratic voice that seemed pulled from a distant century.
“Let us see,” you hear it say. You feel your arms suddenly hoised; some semblance of the physical world seems to settle in your brain. You feel fingers prodding along you experimentally; a callused fist grasps you by the chin and rotates your head. Your eyes might flutter open, or maybe you only imagine it, but you are vaguely aware of a man looming over you, examining you.
“Very good,” he declares. “The Ivory King will be pleased.” You fall back into the swirling void…
“Shame. Such pretty little things,” rasps a crude, hoarse voice.
“Shut yer’ gab. Don’t give the big man any pause to pause,” croaks another, equally hideous.
“I’m jus’ sayin’. Seems unfair, really. Why ‘an’t we ever get something…soft, y’know?”
A slap echoes.
“Arigh’, arigh’. Bleeding ‘ell.”
Wheels turn. You bump and jostle, becoming aware of warm bodies stacked against and over you. Like you, they groan quietly, struggling for consciousness.
“’Ey! They’re arousin’!”
“Not our bleedin’ problem. Keep it shut!”
Another slap rings out as you fade once more. For a moment—just a moment—you’re able to open and focus your eyes…
Towers and spires loom against a starlit sky. Gargoyles leer down from buttresses and bulwarks; a tattered banner hangs lifeless in still air. Its impossible to gain a sense of scale: is the yawning gateway before you as massive as it appears? If so, how do you explain the man-like figure outlined against it?
A wave of nausea overtakes you and the darkness returns.
***
The pale moonlight filters into this otherwise-dark chamber through a barred window, casting a harsh glow on the cruel machinery scattered about within.
Wine stains and the marks of heavy furniture suggest once this room was ornately decorated and heavily used; though surely for a purpose far removed from its present form.
The center of the room is dominated by a heavy wooden post, from which dangles a number of heavy chains and even-heavier manacles. Shoved against the walls are two pairs of low wooden stocks, and three iron-bound cages occupy the corner. The door is reinforced with bars and a heavy padlock, though it hangs unlocked.
A soft moan fills the air: the room is quiet, though perhaps not for long. Three figures are imprisoned here, two locked in the stocks, while a third quietly awakens, wrists chained to a post over her head.
Heavy steps begin to echo through the doorway. Someone, or something, is coming...
This message was last edited by the GM at 02:54, Sat 02 July 2022.