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Topic Started: Apr 1 2014, 05:16 PM (1,516 Views)
Bellaerys
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She woke to prickly straw ends jabbing at her cheek, a miasma of brine and urine emanating from the filthy stubs filled her nostrils and slithered its way to her lungs. The noxious stench made her wretch and a surge of vomit fought its way deep from her gut and poured into her mouth. Bellaerys tried in vain to pull her head away but the weakness in her foiled the attempt. All she could manage with shaking hands was to wipe away the wet foulness that came after. The aftertaste lingering at the back of her throat told her all she needed to know. Dreamwine. Drugged, like some mewling virgin, she thought.

Fired by the defiance burning in her, Bellaerys soon found the strength to push up away from the soiled straw bed. She sat in the dark for an eternity, feeling time stretched before her as her wits slowly gathered. Searching her recent memory, she looked for clues however insignificant to reveal answers. All that came were little jabs of recollections - snippets from a feast made the briefest first appearance; followed by a raised goblet, its content eddied and waned before her mind’s eyes. There! Faces! Formless men and shapeless women and... lamb. Unctuous meat roasted with figs and mustard, cooked on the bone, rare and dripping with redness so... Concentrate! She chided herself and purged the hunger from her mind and made another attempt. Conversations wafted hazily past her, ghostly murmurs both formless and intangible. She tried latching onto a stray word heard, a rogue phrase escaping but none yielded. A futile attempt, she decided, no doubt hampered by the Dreamwine still lingering in her blood. Better to turn her attention to the present. The here. The now. Start with that. Yes.

She knew she was in a dungeon. Bellaerys had woke up in a few in her time to know one. But where? Which? There were no clues visible to her in the all encompassing darkness. All dungeons are alike in the dark, she reminded herself. The solitude and desolation they invoke never strayed far from type. Nor did the piss and vomit. The only differing details being the amenities and there were never any. The one thing she knew with certainty was that she was alive, that the Stranger had not taken her for a salt wife as she slumbered. No, this was no Great Hall of the Stranger. Bellaerys tried to draw comfort from that one tenet but the darkness refused her peace of mind, edging her thoughts one step further. No, this was someplace dishonorable, she ventured. Death would have the courage to sit before her now and laughed in her face with a mocking grin on its goat face while it supped on her soul. Not her captors, these cowards. The ones responsible for her imprisonment were far less honest, far more despicable and far too cravenly.

The thought of her gutless faceless captors brought forth a surge of anger. The rage thumped at her core like a blunt ram against the fortified gates of her composure. Bellaerys let out a scream of rage and wailed into the abyss around her, only to find her voice refusing to ferry the ire from her throat out into the world. She sat frustrated with her head hung back, her eyes staring up into more darkness unrelenting as she refused her tears egress. That would be one humiliation too many, she thought. Feeling their watery attempt at escape succeeding, she shut her eyes tightly, her last attempt to stop herself from weeping. And shapelessness stirred.

A distant moaning.

She was not alone.

Edited by Bellaerys, Apr 1 2014, 06:54 PM.
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Henly-Hill
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He watched from the corner, cloaked in shadows, as his fellow prisoners slowly awakened. The man was grey haired and looked about forty. His eyes, black with flecks of grey, flitted about the room, sizing up the other occupants. A woman, head still reeling from some kind of drug, he saw some poor sod was moaning in the corner, crying his bloody eyes out from the sound of things, and a few other lumps off in the shadows. Whether the lumps were people or just sacks he couldn't be sure.

"Well it looks like we really are in for a show this time Balthazar" he says to the molted raven perched on his lap. He pulls out a weathered black-oak pipe and slowly lights in, casting shadows of a flickering flame about the room for just an instant, but never once does the raven's shadow appear. "I wonder why you are here as well Balthazar" he states calmly to the raven. "But it matters not, first we need to discern where we are. And whether this is because of my last contract, or another reason entirely."

He noticed that the walls were covered in some sort of grime and salt, not all that different from solidified sea-brine. Running a finger along the stone closest to him he realized that it was wetter than any dungeon he had ever been in before. "Must be in the godsdamn Iron Islands" he thought to himself. "Better keep this under wraps for a while, don't want to cause a panic among the inmates. None of these lot look like they've had their sea legs in years, if ever" Chuckling softly to himself the man looked about the room for more clues. The rafters seemed abnormally thick and strong for a dungeon. In fact the man could't recall a time he'd ever seen a dungeon with rafters. "It seems we are under a roof Balthazar, and not the floor of some castle. Quite the odd arrangement don't you think?" Balthazar caws back, almost as if he understood the man's speech. But his cries never seem to take to the air, leaving only silent shadows.

The man sifts through the detritus covering the floor of his prison. After several long minuets he finds what he was looking for, a crumpled piece of yellowed parchment. "Ahh Balthazar it looks like they didn't find my contract after all." He slowly un-crumples the parchment, revealing a short letter written in High Valyrian, it consisted of one word"

"Jēnqelie"

It seems our work is far from over Balthazar, but we have time. This is just the beginning, I can feel it in my bones."

The man slowly takes a draw from his pipe, and waits for the others to awaken. All the while, he ponders about his situation, and that of Balthazar's.
Edited by Henly-Hill, Apr 2 2014, 10:48 PM.
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StormWolfe
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Coming awake all at once, the hooded figure slumped in the straw slowly opened one eye. dark, can't see much. The smells and sounds filled her senses, and they clearly added up to just one thing: prisoner! The smell of ruined straw and the sound of ruined men left little doubt in her mind.

Someone was speaking, quietly; feigning the sluggish movements of a sleeper, the young woman shifted, hoping to see more of the cell she had found herself in. The voice seemed to be coming from the corner, but the shadows were too deep to be sure. There were other shapes as well, some sort of communal pen for her and her fellow captives to rot in together.

Strangers could be a problem, too hard to tell if they're allies or enemies, or just idiots. The hooded woman was patient, however, intimate friends with the waiting game, she had all the time in Westeros to see how this played out. She'd make her move when she had more information.

In the meantime, she mentally assessed what she did know. She didn't seem to be injured, that was in her favour. She didn't know where she was, or how she came to be here, that was a problem. When she tried to remember, it was blank, like that moment before falling asleep. She'd been on a boat, that much was known to her.
Edited by StormWolfe, Apr 3 2014, 05:13 AM.
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Jon The Devout
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Iron manacles worn long enough would split skin and cause wild pain in a number of ways. First, the skin would begin to chaff and cause soreness around the wrist. It would be a mild discomfort. Then, a bruise would develop; red ring first and then turn the skin blue and purple. In an act of desperation, some would attempt to use their strength to break free of the shackles and would cause them to dig further into the skin and split the bruised flesh causing blood to come forth. Finally, a slow painful death was sure to follow as the welts and cuts would make way for an infection and fever. If one was lucky though...they would only lose their hands...if one was lucky...

And so Jon’s wrists were fairly bruised; the red rings were begin to turn color and welts were beginning to itch and cause pain. If he positioned his hands into just the right angles he could scratch just under the cuff and a moment of sweet relief would come. On the first day, he tried to remember what had brought him to this place. His memory was fogged worse than a night visiting the brothels in Kings Landing.

Being held in the darkness for so long had sharpened his other senses; he could smell the smoke from a pipe, hear the sniffle of suppressed tears. He began to pray . .


“Our Father above please send me your justice. If it is for your judgment that I should wallow and wail, please make thy will swift and my time here short. If your will is my death then please release my soul from these physical chains. Dear Mother above show me your mercy and compassion and rid this evil body of mine of all its faults and sins.

Warrior release me from these shackles! Give me the strength to withstand my detractors and help me gain my freedom through the blood of my enemies. Crone light my way back into the sweet light of the Seven. If it please you, in the holy name of The Seven I pray.”


The prayer finished Jon called out. ”I know you’re there, who are you? Why are you here?”
Edited by Jon The Devout, Apr 3 2014, 09:07 AM.
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StormWolfe
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Posted Image The young woman tensed at the bold voice calling out.

There was a tang of salt in the air, they were near the sea. Despite the miserable conditions, the air wasn't as cold as it could be, by all likelihood they weren't any further north than the Neck.

There were manacles around her ankles, she could feel the hard edges through the leather where her legs rest in the damp straw. Whomever her captors might be, they'd foolishly left her hands free, perhaps thinking that the drug in her system would keep her subdued, or that once she was behind bars, she was no longer a threat.

Enough pretending, she decided, slowly pushing herself into a sitting position, her chains didn't make a sound. Paying no heed to the others in the cell, but mentally alert to them all the same, she drew her cloak around herself to help conceal her movements.

She'd been searched, they'd taken the dagger from her waist, and they'd found and confiscated the others as well. The matching pair of knives had been taken from the sheaths inside her boots, they'd found the slender sheathe strapped to her left forearm as well, taking the whole thing. At least they let me keep my boots, she thought sourly. The second dagger from her belt was gone, as was the special set of three heavy throwing knives that should have sat in the small of her back.

Irritation growing, she began to check the hidden pockets in the lining of her cloak. A sly smile formed on her face, Not so clever as you think, the various contents of those small pockets might not be as helpful as a knife, but just knowing the tricks and tools of her trade remained at hand was more than enough, for now.
Edited by StormWolfe, Jun 24 2014, 07:30 AM.
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Henly-Hill
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He had noticed a few more signs of movement from several of the lumps on the floor. He thought it was becoming a bit crowded in the room, spacious as it was. The only prison he had seen that was larger than this was Castle Black. "It seems that several more have joined the land of the living Balthazar. I wonder how many more are hidden about." It really was an ingenious prison, he thought. In the middle of the ocean with nowhere to go and the only way to escape is by ship. "Quite the position we have landed in here Balthazar. I think we will need to band together for a while if I am to complete my contract."

The room was getting slightly warmer. The man figured that this must mean that the sun would be rising soon, and light might reveal what, and whom, had been hidden in the shadows. He decided to ready himself for any altercations from any confused or still drugged prisoners.


He then heard a call off to his left, approximately 30 yards off. ”I know you’re there, who are you? Why are you here?” Still smoking his pipe the man turns toward the voice. "And there Balthazar, is the first to gain his courage" he mutters to the Raven. In a louder voice he calls out in response and says, "Heard you praying over there Knight. What business does the Seven have in a place like this? No place for the righteous or the devout. We are in the Iron Islands now. So please do tell your name, I have had enough of the quiet for a while." After a brief pause he calls once again "Alright then I will name myself first. You may call me Henly, consider yourself lucky. Not many in this land know of me, yet."

He sat in the silence awaiting a response. A small clink, barely audible, off to his right told him another prisoner was alive. From the sound of the breath and rustle of clothing he could tell that it was a female. But she masked her intentions well, he would have to hear her speak, or see her face, before he would be comfortable again. She moved like a thief in the knight, well trained in subterfuge.
Edited by Henly-Hill, Apr 4 2014, 01:02 PM.
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Bellaerys
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The source of light was a mere flicker but in the tar-like darkness it was a star fallen too close to earth. In its briefness, Bellaerys could see the man who summoned it across the far corner in their shared prison. The flames danced on his face briefly, too short-lived to reveal his identity; but the vileness from the smoke summoned by their dance told her more than she cared to know.

It had clung onto him the first time they met, an odious film that sheathed his person like some invisible cloak, made from the burnt remains of plants not meant to be inhaled. The scent reminded her of those travelers she and father had met, those men and women whose origin she could never ascertain. Even now as a grown woman, and a Master of Secrets, she still had doubts as to where they came from.

Bellaerys remembered the menfolk smoking the leaves packed into the ends of carved pipes while their women preferred chewing, staining their smiles with the juices and spitting them out without any care for grace nor decorum. Father told her they hailed from a land passed the Bone Mountains and beyond forests where basilisks roamed, but Bellaerys knew that was not where the spymaster called home and Braavos had not strayed that far from her past that such disgusting practice would have taken hold of its denizens in her absence.

The presence of an ally offered no solace. She would have preferred someone with a mental state a tad more balanced than the self-styled spymaster. And when she heard the voice of the man calling out demanding answers she did not have, Bellaerys wished then for her captors to grant her the swiftest mercy with a slit to her throat. Chained and confined in the dark with the Maiden and the Crone she though. A new cruelty defined. Still they would have their uses, she admitted. Lord Jon was quite the swordsman and Lord Henly had hidden skills, not to mention the implement to light a fire. That left just one unknown quantity. She turned in the direction of the shade glimpsed from the embers of Lord Hill’s pipe.

'Perhaps you could enlighten us.' she said, addressing the figure who had momentarily suspended her pretense of sleep.

Edited by Bellaerys, Apr 6 2014, 06:11 PM.
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Jon The Devout
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“Henly is it? I once knew a man named Henly, dangerous fellow. Are you dangerous Henly? The potions coursing through Jon’s body had made him paranoid. He lifted his wrists and felt the familiar pain of the shackles. He found the hidden space a captive must have made long ago and removed the sharpened piece of rubble he had been grinding. When he felt the jagged rock a lust of excitement and pain flooded his body and he began to move closer to where he saw the flash of flame. Henly… speak to me Henly, tell me your story

Jon’s mind raced with paranoia, first he would bash Henly’s skull in then he would take his boots. There were two other captives, that he was sure of, but no one felt the pangs he felt. He needed an outlet of violence in order to drive back the madness, for it commanded him and sheltered him in the deep dark place.

But then he heard the movement; something, no someone closer to him. New paranoia sprouted in his mind and fought against the light that The Crone waved before him….Henly...is a friend… but what about this sound of shuffles. They became curious, and Jon slithered his way on the ground towards it. It was dirty and when he finished each movement, his head came down to rest against the floor and the dirt and the dust filled his nostrils.

Day turns into night and night turns into day, but how many times had that happened? Jon could not be blamed for his state of mind, the goalers poisoned the food they brought to him. The poor devout knight was easily distracted and with the fatigue he day dreamed of a different time. He stared into the darkness and smiled.

In Jon’s perturbed mind he could not figure friend from foe. He fought back the feelings of ignorance dust and disease. He called out once more: WHO IS THERE?!
Edited by Jon The Devout, Apr 7 2014, 08:07 PM.
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StormWolfe
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Posted Image Henly. The praying knight. The woman.

Seemed like she'd been mistaken her for someone of importance, locked her up with the Lords and Ladies. Not that there seemed to much of a difference in the accommodations, high born or low.

Since she had been addressed, it would be unseemly to let the remark go unanswered, "you may call me Daena," but she offered no more.

Drawing her knees up to her chest, under the cover of her cloak, she ran her fingers over the manacles, examining the type of lock that held the cuffs closed around her ankles. There was a set of picks concealed within her cloak, but the awkward positioning meant it would take some time, time she might not have.

She slotted the tension pick into the lock, conditions in places like these quickly deteriorated the internal workings, if luck was on her side she'd be able to scrub the pins in no time at all. If it wasn't, however, nothing but the key would budge the rusted tumbler. A brief prayer to the Smith flitted through her mind as she concentrated on her work.
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Henly-Hill
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He heard the quiver in his voice, paranoia had poisoned his mind. The Jon he had met years ago was mentally strong, well armored against coercion, so that meant poison. The man realized that it would be in his best interest to think of everyone as an enemy until proven wrong.

"You may call me Daena" a voice said from the darkness, female and what the Westerosi would call lowborn like himself. It was the thief-like one he had heard earlier. Jon he had once known, and Bellaerys was a friend the last time he had seen her. But this Daena was of an unknown quality. She had skill similar or better to his own, and experience from the sound of it. But whether she was an enemy until she proved otherwise. But the man decided to be friendly to them all to protect himself, at least for now.

"What do you suggest we do Balthazar" he asked in a low, but audible, voice. "Well, why are we all here seems to be the question at hand. So why don't we all determine what is going on" he says in a louder voice.
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