A Land Far Away

1382 - Year of the Starving. Sometime in Eleasis.

...

Rum is a distilled alcoholic beverage made from sugarcane or directly from sugarcane juice, by a process of fermentation and distillation. The distillate, a clear liquid, is then usually aged in oak barrels.

...

"This is a nice cell" remarked the prisoner to no one in particular. To be fair, it -was- a nice cell, as far as cells go. There was a minimal amount of graffiti, the blankets weren't ridden with fleas, and it had been recently washed out with soapy water.

"Enjoy it while it you can, you'll be hanged in the morning" replied an anonymous wit from somewhere up the corridor. The prisoner had no idea who it was with his view limited by cell bars.

"Maybe you'll get a nice cell in the afterlife as well!" taunted another voice.

"As long as I get better company, i won't mind to much" he retorted, though he was beginning to mind, a lot. Hanging was very much on his list of things to avoid, along with torture and jail buggery.

"They'll probably torture the truth out of you first though" mused someone.

"Right after they bugger you" added another someone.

The prisoner sighed and pressed his forehead to the bars of the cell. They were cool to the touch. "I'm innocent!" he protested, which was met with a barrage of laughter.

"Yeah, yeah, me too, we all are in here" sniggered a voice.

"Don't matter none anyhow, they got a quota" advised a particularly sage voice. "Gotta meet the quota, and I hear they're falling well short this month. Might as well hang yourself now, and save them the bother, don't forget to sign the confession first though!".

"Bastards" muttered the prisoner.

"HEY! SHUT YOUR HOLES, OR I"LL SHUT THEM FOR YOU!" yelled an authoritative voice from further away. The banter died an alarmed death. Moments later the prisioner could hear quiet conversing from further along the corridor, though distance defeated what they were saying.

After a few minutes, they grew louder in stages, seemingly stopping and conversing outside every cell. Gradually a smattering of words become clear.

"... as charged"

"Hanler was an accomplish?" Accomplice?

"Not him"

"Is scared of his own shadow"

"Has consumption, better hang and burn in the morning, and clean out the cell"

And so on. Eventually the footsteps accompanied two men who paused in front of his cell. The prisoner eyed them apprehensively. The first looked like any other guard, though he carried a stylus and impressive looked vellum parchment, marking himself as somewhat of a learned man. The other seemed to be some kind of foreign dandy from all appearances. His hair was coiffed, and he wore hose that no practical Ffolk man would be seen dead in.

"Narda Narkin" stated the guard, reading from his parchment.

"Aye, that's me" stated Narda Narkin.

The guard looked sideways at the Dandy, who shook his head a little. The guard nodded and made a mark with his stylus on the parchment.

"Of Alaron" added the guard.

Narda nodded, and was slightly perturbed when the Dandy shook his head to the guard.

"Smuggler of weapons to Ruathym, and also sub-grade sugar cane-liquor" said the guard reading from his list, before looking up at Narda.

"I believe the term is rum, it was fairly good quality, and I that wasn't me" advised Narda, his eyes flicking to the Dandy.

The Dandy nodded, and the guard paused, his stylus hovering over the parchment, with a slightly questioning look.

"The rum, or the smuggler?" he asked sideways.

The Dandy sighed before informing "Both".

The guard nodded, and began reading from a prepared list of questions, some of which were very odd indeed.

"Did you climb trees as a boy?"

"Have you ever sailed?"

"Are you obviously dying of any ailments?"

"Have you ever killed a man?"

"Have you ever killed a man in cold blood?"

"Would you like to kill a man?"

"Would you kill a woman who deserved it?"

"Are there any other crimes you want to confess?"

"Would you kill someone who was trying to kill you?"

"How do you feel about your mother?"

"How do you feel about Queen Alicia?"

"Tell me what the Moonshaes means to you".

"Do you fear death?"

"Would you rather die by hanging or drowning or by being bleed to death?"

"Do you get sea sick?"

"What is the worst thing you have ever done?"

"What is the worst thing you would like to do?"

"What crimes deserve death?"

"Would you kill for money, or love, or revenge, or fun?"

And more questions besides.. Narda answered more or less at random, trying to paint himself in the best possible light, growing more confused at the odd questions as answers were demanded of him. The Dandy had long since taken the stylus and began to make notes of his own.

At last the questions ended, leaving him feeling exhausted, as though he had been awake for far too long, and he had developed a headache from somewhere.

The guard looked at the Dandy at the end of it all, who nodded. The guard nodded in return, before reading what the Dandy had written down and turning back to Narda.

"You have been sentenced to hang from the neck until dead for your crimes against Queen Alicia and the Ffolk. Sentence will be carried out immediately, may the gods have mercy upon your wretched soul".

The prisoner known as Narda promptly retreated to the furthermost corner of his cell.

"Told you there was a quota!" yelled out someone from down the corridor.

Great stuff, keep him alive!

Agreed! The longer he lives the more stories we get!

I am getting a vibe of Midkemia stories (Feist, Riftwar stuff), Calis's troop of "dead men" being recruited out of prison for an elite fighting force... maybe coincidental resemblance, but if not, it's a cool way to have an origin for adventurers. Good writing as always.

1382 - Year of the Starving. Sometime in Eleasis.

...

A blind or blinded experiment is an experiment in which information about the test that might lead to bias in the results is concealed from the tester, the subject, or both until after the test. Bias may be intentional or unconscious. If both tester and subject are blinded, the trial is a double-blind trial.

...

Death is an odd beast. For many it comes unawares in the night, claiming it's prize without protest. For others, a clarion call is sounded, and they can see it coming long enough to look back with a smile and fond memories at a life well lived, or with tears, mourning opportunities not taken. It has even been said that in the far east there are men who not only face their death unflinching, but will actually plead to give it to their masters to atone for a misdeed or dishonor, sliding their own ritual blades into their belly. Noble is he who faces his end without flinching.

The prisoner had to be dragged kicking and screaming from the cell.

Even the other prisoners who took delight in the misfortune of others became subdued upon hearing the struggle. For was this not their probable future? Being dragged to the noose or head-mans block before a swift and terrible end?

Eventually a small cudgel was produced and fingers broken, breaking the prisoners hold on the bars he had been clinging to, before his arms were bound. With broken fingers went his spirit, and he allowed himself to be carried down the corridor, past silent captives who turned away at his passing, ashamed of their earlier taunts. Though they were the lowest of the low, they were still Ffolk, and the teachings of the Earthmother was deep rooted indeed.

Down a twisted corridor he was carried, then stairs, eventually being led to out into an all too familiar misty Moonshaes morning, a set of gallows and head-mans block. In attendance were the executioner, the Dandy, a grizzled looking man in a plain smock, and the four guards who removed him from cell.

"The shade or the blade?" asked the executioner, holding up a hood, and sounding more than a little bored.

"This one will swing" advised the grizzled man.

"Unless he confesses" he added as the executioner advanced, pulling a stinking hood over the prisoners head, blinding him.

"I'll confess!" the prisoner shouted.

"Let the record show, the prisoner chose not to confess" came the voice the the grizzed man.

The prisoner leveled a futile kick in his direction, emphasizing it with a string of obscenities as he was carried up to where he presumed the gallows were. "Steady on lad, you kiss your mother with that mouth?".

"I'll kiss your mother!" he mumbled, awash in fear and anger, tears mingling with the dead man sweat in the hood.

"My mother is dead, you smuggling little prick" advised the executioner, poking him in the sack here he guessed an eye to be.

"Sorry" the prisoner mumbled, jerking his head back in eye watering pain.

"Right!" the grizzled mans voice bellowed from nearby. "Narda Narkin, you have been sentenced to death, do you have any last words for your family?".

The prisoner croaked out, almost incoherently "I... just tell."

"Let the record show the prisoner had no last words, let him swing" came the last words that Narda Narkin would ever hear as somewhere a lever was pulled, and a trapdoor opened underneath his feet.

so anyways...

What i never quite got around to writing...

they drop him through a trap door onto a pile of hay, and cart him off to another cell for blackmailing. Join the crew of the queen robyn, or be hung for real. So he does.

And did. Then got his head split open by a pirate sword. A true hero.

(Then i rolled a half orc, whom i have deliberately created no significant back story for)

*BB picked it well, I hadn't consciously been emulating the riftwar stuff, but i have read it many years ago. I really like the vibe of the last chancers / nasty motley crew / dirty dozen genre.