closed | nessum prison blues

[cozen]

WHO: Bastien, Byerly, Talin, Tav, Teren, and Vlast
WHAT: Prison break
WHEN: Mid-Harvestmere (October) 9:50
WHERE: Southern Tevinter. Not actually Nessum–the post title is a joke—but somewhere in the wilderness not too far from there.
NOTES: OOC post. General violence cw.

The trap is not immediately apparent. They're met by a man dressed as their contact, Georgios, was meant to be dressed. Maybe the clothes are a little too big on him—but the People of the Silent Plains have bigger things to worry about than careful tailoring. Maybe his manner is a little wary and skittish, but he's a freedom fighter on the outskirts of a war zone meeting a group of strangers, some of them wholly alien, to escort to the People's hiding place.

And maybe the plan was meant to go better than this. Maybe the Vints waiting at the end of the road with their grenades and telekinetic prison spells planned to mount a more organized attack, neat and swift, once everyone had been lured into long-parched desert ravine ahead.

But something gives it away first. "Georgios" grows a little too anxious on the approach; the wind catching his jacket and lifting it enough to show a flash of a bloodstain on the back of his shirt that's too dark and too maroon not to be from earlier this same day. A glimpse, if nothing else, of one of the people lying in wait ahead of them, something in their posture that twigs as too tense, not quite right for a lookout protecting a hide-out and only seeing an expected group of visitors on the approach. Regardless of what tips various members of the group off, it's enough forewarning for them refuse to be led quietly into the corral that's been set up for them.

Half a chase, half a fight. The grenades and dirty magic tricks still come out. So do more drastic measures: arrows, fire, the blunt sides of heavy swords. Threats to cut the throats of whomever's been caught first if whomever's still fighting doesn't lay down their weapon. One way or another, in the end, everyone's wrangled into a wagon, hands bound and heads covered with sacks to obscure their view of where they're being taken. No gags, though. There's no one out here to hear them.

Comments

[allthatgleamsisgold]

It's not far and his wrists are a bloody mess under the iron where the shackles have rubbed him raw. After the first time he broke his bonds, they learned to give him as little leverage as possible so he wouldn't pull the damned things right out the wall. A rampaging Qunari is one thing - a rampaging Qunari with a make-shift chain flail is another matter entirely.

(There are signs that the chains won't hold forever - hairline cracks in the stone suggest Vlast's constant struggling may yet yield results in a day or two. The problem is, they may not have a day or two.)

"If you mean to pick it, I already tried. Snap the tip off if you think you'll have better luck."

That will at least grow back. He's lost all hope for the other horn.

[doneisdone]

A throaty, humorless laugh emerges, followed by a wet cough and blood spat on the ground.

"How am I meant to snap the tip off," Teren remarks, almost amusedly-- have you seen that fucking thing-- and wiggles into a better position before beckoning Vlast to lower his head. His horn is likely too thick around to make a difference, but at least they'll be able to say they've both tried it.

[allthatgleamsisgold]

"A rock...?" he suggests. There's... less of a growl underlying his tone. Not exactly the usual quippy fare most are used to, but by his standards, it's positively lighthearted banter.

He lowers his head, letting Teren manipulate it as she sees fit. There's not exactly much else to do, and the worst case scenario is that it does nothing other than give him another crick in his neck.

His gaze lingers on the splatter of blood and phlegm staining the flagstones. Vlast may have time to spare, but Teren's fate seems less certain.

"You need a healer," he says. "Soon."

[doneisdone]

"Don't fuss," Teren growls, doing her best to maneuver the tip of the horn toward the keyhole.
It's too large, naturally-- even if they snapped off the end of it, she needs a significantly thinner, pointier object to have any hope of picking the lock. With a sigh back against the wall, Teren releases Vlast's horn and closes her eyes with a wince.

"They took all my hairpins," she grumbles indignantly.

[allthatgleamsisgold]

An irritated, half-hearted grunt of protest rumbles up from the Qunari. He's not fussing, just stating facts, thank you very much.

With his head free, he lists forward, held by the chains, just to give his legs a rest.

"They've taken much. All the more reason to get out and recover it," he says and plants his feet once again, trying to pull the chains free of the wall.