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 On the Island

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Posts : 487
Join date : 2009-10-29
Age : 27
Location : Cabinet Vaults

PostSubject: On the Island   Fri Jun 10, 2011 1:19 pm

Exactly what was on the Island, past the stinking bog and surrounded by Hydra and Naga was often subject to question among the sea dogs and sailors that regulated the port tavern, rumours from guards who were stationed in closer guard towers were often worth a pint of the Landlords finest bitter and a nights worth of attention. The Port city, cut off by all but sea and a dangerous marsh road from the rest of the alliance had little else to spawn rumours, lest to say Proudmores Garrison was not near enough to spare its squalid troops for an expedition to determine the truth, and they had little need to, the distant movement of shadows on its sandy shores, and the air traffic that approached under cover of darkness had never caused the ruling nobles any grief, no warships rolled from hidden docks and no troops mobilised on distant shores. So the inhabitants of the Island compound’s identity fell to the smoke filled drinking holes of the paid man, subject to lie and falsehood, hardly a basis for reasonable fact.
As with any good rumour, certain factors remained at the top of the pecking order of fact and fiction, the word that the Island compound is, and always will be a prison was one of the favourites among bar staff and patrons throughout the Port, although even then they couldn’t determine the ruling body, for this is where the favourite rumour began to collapse. Reliable eyes claimed to have seen naga long ago flittering among the silvered waves, but no such sight had been seen in the last few months and, indeed, word was it that the Island had changed hands. Hushed voices claimed to have seen robed cultists performing in the barely visible guard towers, but defiant cries of protest at such thoughts rallied around the fact that no cruel black elementium spires or ominous weather conditions had been seen around the Island, beating those rumours down in turn. The enemy was another favourite theorem, that the Orcs had taken over the Island Prison as a lookout point, but once again nay sayers rebuked the eyewitnesses’ claims, Theramore had no quarrel with the Orcs, a tenuous peace existed between the factions that did not warrant such local suspicion, least of all a heavily garrisoned Island. The last, and often most convincing rumours spoke of Prirates, a local alliance of sea raiders that had adopted the abandoned stronghold as a base, rumour bolstered by the fact that further north, in Northwatch keep, pirates had been often seen by the garrison stationed there raiding the local coastline. Rumour here was bolstered by greed; adventurers and overkeen mariners heard of the Pirate treasure and would often go searching, never to return alive, their bodies washing up only encouraging the already wild rumours.

In his new home, Cain knew none of this wild Rumour about the Horde Prison on Alcaz isle, his only concern that he had somehow found himself an inmate in the Orcish High security Gaol. In his long and turbulent past he had suffered many injuries, he had been shot, skin and meat had been torn out of his arms, be had been beaten, stabbed, burnt, and poisoned, had even suffered his eyes torn out, the scars still thick and deep over his left eyelid, but nothing, nothing he had yet felt compared to the hollow emptiness he bore without magic. Its loss had cost him everything, his freedom, his work and his sight, and yet it was still the void inside his heart that drained him the most. Around him the world was black, with little to no hope left but his ultimate desire for revenge, to lash out against everything and everyone that would do him harm. His great expansive mind, capable of holding a thousand thoughts catalogued everything, from the exact dimensions of his cold cell to the precise temperature of the Steel grate that prevented his escape. Fifteen strides, exactly measured through the movement of his old muscles would get him from the touch of one stone wall to its opposite, the latter of which had a large Iron sarcophagus lined with damp spikes leaning against the corner. Outside the cell was sealed, but every so often, when a Guard descended to feed him, he would hear the hubris of his inmates, stretching their legs in the yard outside. Sometimes he would be visited by fellow Apothecaries, seeking his advice on problems in the Apothecarium, and with prompting they brought useful items – his Cell now held no less than twenty six hidden Vials, a variety of elixirs and potions required for his work to continue unhindered. A Leather bound wing backed chair also sat in one corner of the cell, old and musty but still comfortable. Beside it stood a table, already piled high with reports needing his signature, all unsigned and waiting to be read to him. In the few inches of space left on the table stood a Decanter, already empty with a Port glass with a few dregs left in the Bottom sitting next to it. A bag of tea leaves sat on top of the pile of reports, awaiting a Teapot to be smuggled in, its matching teacup perched precariously on the wing of the chair. And in another corner, through the near violent insisting from his physiotherapy advisor was a Dumbbell rack, the weights chained to the bench by a cautious guard.

The way is shut,
It was made by those who are dead
And the dead keep it.

Skeleton in the closet.
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On the Island
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