[center][h2]PROLOGUE[/h2][/center]

[center]~ [@A Lowly Wretch] [@ShwiggityShwah] [@Veradana] [@Eisenhorn] [@DocROck] [@Letter Bee] ~[/center]

The constant taps and tings were soon heard by the present guards and they halted their idle activities. [u]Gangraena's[/u] loud remarks about them summoned their full attention and some of them began to head over to the table of commotion.

"Th' names Kedvin..." one of the nearby tablemates muttered in response to [u]Ashton[/u] in between bites, making the motion look fluid enough that it was almost difficult to tell he was the was speaking. He was a lean type in their late twenties, early thirties at a guess, with a swimmer's tone, a widow's peak of black hair ran tightly wavy in a quaff over the right side of his face almost to the point of touching his brow. Dark hazel eyes peered out from under a strong brow, moving constantly as to never give the impression of actual attention, though strongly implying they were scarcely missing a single detail. A scar ran up their right nostril to a healed gash which took out a bit of their brow with the scar of it healing, an unfortunate clip keying into a profession that was hardly a stranger to violence, but one that seldom saw a helmet, at least one of proper design.

As soon as the nearest guard approached, Kedvin drew what appeared to be a shortsword; an amalgam of spoon-shaped imprints and seams bent and honed into an edge and tip, likely crafted from two dozen or so spoons. How they were shaped was anyone's guess, though.

"Ah hey! Hold 'is for me!" Kedvin said, grabbing the guard's arm and pulled them down enough to run the blade between their breastplate and helmet, just between where their collarbone and throat would be. From the depth, it seemed like it was a serviceable blow, and it was reflected by how the guard spewed an inky cloud of tendrillic wisps that curled and grasped at the mass that quickly left their body before the suit of armor heavily toppled back with a crash against the table.

Two others followed suit with similar knives they tore from their clothes, likely loosely sewn against the inside of their prison garb, quickly ganging up on another two nearby guards. One had short black hair to a nearly faint fog of hair against their otherwise bare scalp. With hazel eyes much like Kedvin, theirs were accented with an outer ring of a gold-ish hue.

The third man, however, was an Adonis of ebony endeavor, standing over seven feet tall with long dreads tied into a bun of sorts. Cold chocolate eyes blinked out of the shadow of their own brow as they looked up and moreso grappled with a guard to render them free of their footing and punch them to the ground with a small dagger of meshed spoons.

The six remaining guards guards in the hall all rushed towards Kedvin and his company, their sticks of hard steel at the ready. They would probably overwhelm the three-man revolt. Unless others were to join them and give them a helping hand and a fighting chance. 

But looking at the other tables, the other prisoners only looked in shock and horror as Kedvin engaged the other guards and had no intention of joining in. Could there be a reason?