The night air was filled with the taste of a storm. Brine cut into the musk on the wind, sharp and bitter, while dark grey and midnight blue clouds swirled restlessly over the horizon. Against that horizon stood the bleak and massive walls of Carceris Bastion, a black scar jutting into the restless sea. From their table inside The Last Ferry, Pam and Mikhail had a clear view of the prison’s silhouette, its watchfires burning like angry eyes in the dark.

The tavern itself was busy, crowded with sailors, merchants, and a scattering of prison guards off duty. The guards were easy to spot by their red-and-white tunics and bronze cuirasses, faceless helmets tucked under arm. Even unworn, the masks seemed to watch anyone foolish enough to let their gaze linger. The smell of wet wool, fish stew, and spilled ale thickened the air.

Only a day had passed since the incident at the ball. Things hadn’t just gone wrong—they’d collapsed entirely. Both Jane and Izzy had been captured and transported here, to the Bastion. It had taken footwork, quick tongues, and more than a little luck for Pam and Mikhail to track them this far. Now, with five crewmen and Jane’s five ladies in tow, they sat in the damp, dim tavern, listening for the smallest detail that might become a way in.

Outside the window, the prison seemed to draw the eye like a curse. The only path to its gate was a narrow causeway, lit by braziers that guttered in the wind and rain. Even from here, one could watch every figure making the walk, silhouettes carved in flame against the storm. Beside the fortress, a long dock thrust crookedly into the sea, waves crashing against its pilings and rattling the chains of the vessels tethered there. Three ships strained at their moorings, their shadows flashing in the lightning: one vast and commanding with tall sails snapping like banners of war; another low and ironbound, lanterns glowing faint through grated ports; the last sleek and sharp, its dark sails thrashing like a raven desperate to break free.

At the bar, a sailor’s voice rose above the noise, thick with drink and self-righteous anger.
“Serves ’em right! Every last one of those no-good thugs! There’s a reason they’re all locked up. And if that little lady gets her jollies makin’ ’em pay—who cares?”

A low murmur of hesitant agreement followed. To his side, a younger man tugged nervously at his sleeve.
“Come on, Roan, enough. We’ve got to get the shipment in before the storm worsens—”

But Roan only slammed his cup down.
“Shipment’ll wait! I saw ’em myself, the drunkard and the painted clown. Hauled in chains right through the Bastion gates. Heh! Tomorrow they’ll be tossed down in the pits with the beasts. Ain’t no one climbs back outta there.”

Around the room, ears strained to catch his words. Some smirked; others turned grim. A nearby guard barked a laugh, then muttered to his fellows:
“Best hope the Warden don’t hear you runnin’ your mouth. She doesn’t like when the rabble knows her plans.”





The world had narrowed to stone, iron, and the cold.

For nearly a day Jane and Izzy had been confined to a cell, stripped of everything save rough prison garb—thin tunics the damp air bit straight through. The walls sweated with salt and mildew, the ceiling dripping with the steady rhythm of stormwater leaking through the fortress above. Their cell was small, little more than a cage of black bars and slick stone, the iron door bolted tight.

The corridor outside stretched in both directions, lined with other cells. Yet the silence was oppressive. Most of the cages gaped empty, shadows swallowing their corners whole. Only one farther down seemed occupied, though it was hard to say by what. A shape slumped in the straw, pale in the dim light of a single guttering lantern. Bone? Flesh? It was impossible to tell from here—and perhaps better not to.

The air reeked of rust, wet straw, and something sour—old blood, maybe. Even the sound of the sea outside was muffled, as though the Bastion had swallowed them whole. Every so often, heavy footsteps echoed from far above, reminding them they were not alone, but no guard had passed this lower hall since they had been thrown inside.

Time had blurred—long enough for hunger to gnaw, for thirst to dry the throat, for the weight of waiting to press down like the walls themselves.

Somewhere deep in the Bastion, a muffled clang rang out—distant, indistinct—before silence reclaimed the hall.

Izzy sat in a corner. One knee pulled close to her chest while the other spread out. Her head leaned against the cool damp wall, eyes fixed on a very specific point in the stone, though there was nothing to see.

“…Kin ye sing ah song? Es that’ one’v th’ things ye kin do?” She rolled her eyes towards the clown woman who had been robbed of her makeup—save the faint smear around her eyes, which only made her look sadder.

It had been the Warden’s pleasure to strip it away. She had stopped the guards from removing any more, laughing at Jane’s face as though it were some cruel prize, but saying nothing despite the clown’s banter.

Izzy sighed, shifting her knee.
“Ah onleh know happy songs… an ahmno feeling too happy.”

“Poor babe. Don’t feel down.” A voice called from a nearby cell. “It’s not that bad here.” The voice sounds cheerful, but there was definitely something wrong with it.
Inside a nearby cell at a skeleton. Sitting cross legged. His bony fingers fiddling a bit of straw that had he was tirelessly weaving into a make shift hat. A rat sat patiently in front of the skeleton.
“We got a roof over our head. They even feed us once a month. Plus you can befriend or eat the rats.” The skeleton said loud enough for the others in cells to hear. “Could definitely be worse…”
If the skeleton had a brow, it would furrow in frustration as his fingers struggled with looping a bit of straw back on itself, but it didn’t want to work. “Could be worse…”
The skeleton placed the tiny makeshift straw hat on the rat’s head. Taking a moment to appreciate his handy work. The hat looked awful. Barely held together.
About five seconds after being placed on the rat, a bit of straw snapped and the whole hat fell apart. Leaving the rat standing in a small pile of straw. It squeaked and scampered away.
“Well, I got a few jokes if anyone wants to hear them.” The skeleton rose to its feet and began pacing the cell. “Jokes will lighten the mood.” The skeleton said more to itself than the others.
“What’s a skeleton’s favourite instrument?” The skeleton asked.

It all went to shit so fast

Mikhail looked deep into his mug of ale, entranced by his own reflection. He wore a strained expression on his face, hidden behind his usual blue shades. The image of Jane disappearing replaying in his eyes, he should’ve known better than to leave her alone.

Izzy didn’t fare much better either and Pam was taking it hard in her own way. Mikhail felt inclined to comfort her but showing sympathy to a girl as aggressive as she was at this time wasn’t the best thing to do. She likely would’ve yelled at him or punched the elf in the face.

The best thing he could do for her was get them back.

It hadn’t been long since he’s been riding with this new bunch of folks but it all seemed to be falling apart. The captain was ill, and the other half of the crew's whereabouts are unknown. He felt a bit of responsibility, having said he’d watch over them but at this rate. There wouldn’t be much crew to look after.

Mikhail glanced at Jane's clown crew, a look of despair on their face with their captain missing. There was something about genuinely sad clowns that really made alcohol taste bad. The elf would honk one of their noses in a playful manner, one akin to that of an older sibling.

“She’s in jail, not dead. I bet she is giving Doc a hard time as we speak. You’ll see her again.” He smirked. Mikhail didn’t know Jane long but she was pleasant to be around. She wasn’t all that serious of a person and animated who made light of most situations. Her presence right now was greatly missed. To be honest, Mikhail wasn’t too worried about how she’s holding up. Having faith that the girl was keeping her spirits high.

Izzy was where his concern was at, the girl was tough as nails but also wore her heart on her sleeve. No doubt she was likely taking accountability for it all. Mikhail would take another swig of alcohol, the taste being non-existent damn near. He’d hone in on the ramblings of the tavern, his ears wiggling as he picked up on different conversations rambling. Some people spoke about women, others booze. He found it a bit difficult to cipher through the bullshit. But thanks to the loud drunkard, an in was provided.

“Ya heard that bun-bun?” His gaze didn’t leave his mug as he called for his comrade. She obviously heard that, with those huge fluffy ears. Pamela was surely formulating something in her head.

"Let me out!!" Jane shrieked frantically as she pulled and pushed at the jail bars. Her Frenchie accent clearly giving her foreign origins away. "Can't you see this is no place for me? I'm like a rose that the finest choose! And my rhymes are better than yours!!" Her ability to entertain was quite glitchy by this point. She had been at this for a few hours by now. The cuffs around her wrists, ankles and neck were enchanted to keep her from transforming to her more, seductive form. It kept her from gaining sympathy.

"Whatever happened to Yz? She shoulda rescued me by now, I.. I thought I was special to her!" Then another pained shriek before collapsing on the muddy ground. "You may have captured this beautiful bird but I shall STILL SING! Thou shalt not e prison my soul!"

It was then that an annoyed Izzy would request her to sing a song. "Happy songs? Here?! Will all due respect cap'n but this isn't exactly a happy place? Hey uhm.." getting close, on her knees. "You wouldn't happen to have anymore of that liquor would you? That would make me happy." She then began to sob and cry as her hands came over her eyes. "I can't believe you get to see my without my makeup! It's an absolute insult, I.. I should have my makeup on its.. it's.. heresy ! I'm an imposter! A nobody, without my image I am NOTHING!"

Suddenly she'd get up and go back to gripping the jail bars, shrieking at the top of her lungs. "LET ME OUT!! LET ME OUT!!" The high pitched timbre of her voice blasting in waves through the dungeon walls. "Why that stupid countess, how did she even know I wasn't Helen? It was her blasted marshall. That BITCH! Im going to kill her!"

It was then that she would hear the echoes of a pair of voices, she'd suddenly run to the edge of the cell, and listened. "Ooooooh.. yes.. yes.. my misery will end in the morning!" Jane would quickly return to Izzy, "This is to be our final night alive. Cap'n.." suddenly holding Izzy's face. "..I'm.. going to kiss you now. Close your eyes and at least our love will transcend this torment." She was just about to kiss the captain before suddenly letting her go. "No! I can't.. I can't.. it's not proper, my makeup is smeared and look at me." Raising her chains. "What can someone such as me offer to someone such as you."

Jane would curl up in the mud and weep, begging whoever could hear to help her get out. "I was so.. prestigious.. everyone was in awe of me, it was.. so embarrassing when they dispelled my transformation and everyone laughed!" Turning back to Izzy, "They laughed!" Her face suddenly distorting back to one of crying. "Not because I was funny, but because I was pathetic!! Can you believe that?!" The clowns voice raising a few pitches, "They all called me a shrink, a crazy woman with screws loose! They called me a CLOWN! They actually called me that!" By now, Janes weeping was tearless, "I was so beautiful, and everyone treated me so wonderful just a few moments before that. Couldn't they just.. accept me? Those nobles. They're.. they're all rich and cozy meanwhile I'm actually TALENTED! And poor! Oh but I own the world with my art, I am a living piece of art, colorful and delicate. Like.. like.. a Picasso painting!" Then crawling up to Izzy, "Aren't I?" Her eyes wide and teary, and on the brink of losing her another piece of her soul.

♩Interlude♩

How did I get here...?

It was windy that night when she had gotten to the roof -- doing as she had done practically her whole life. There was a point when Pamela was helpless in a fight and defenseless. When she was like just all the other bunnnykin who could scantly throw a punch. But for as long as she could remember, she could run. And when the three West Empire slavers had shown up that day, that was just what she had done. Sought to run away to fight her pursuers on better ground. Without all the empire's goons coming for her at the same time. Yet one makes plans and god laughs. As instead of her hide being claimed for all the trouble she's caused, it was Izzy.

Right....

Everything had gone to shit. And soon there was both them and the West Empire goons to worry about. By the time she had ever gotten back down she was gone and the pressure on the group was caving in. Members of the crew were missing or had outright left.

What a shit show.

"Just get me some juice. I'm not much for drinking anyway. And especially not when I'm like this." For a lot of people, it dulled the senses. She'd been around quite a great many people who drank. On the day her old crew with Garder and company were ambushed -- some people were drunk too. Izzy was a little different. She could scarcely begin to wonder how one could even fight like that.

"Actually. On second thought, why don't you get me a bottle of...that. That rum you got right there. To go." With a single clawed finger, Pamela pointed out the bottle. Yet it wasn't really for her.

A twitch of her ear, as she caught wind of Mikhail's voice even through the thick crowd. She took the bottle wrapped in a back and stowed it away, placing it in a bag on her back. She walked over with a hoodie on, thick white fur like hair still visible beneath said hoodie. Yet the most important part of her ears being tucked away.

When Mikhail spoke, she considered how she ought to answer. Could she really say that were just fine. "Yeah I heard. Our colorful friends seems the type to try to brighten up a shit hole like that. All I'll say." She said, sounding rougher around the edges than usual -- hardly able to make much light of this. Taking a seat next Mikhail, Pamela placed her arms in front of her. She had her own cup, but it didn't have a single hint of liquor in it. It was nothing but juice.

"But I'd say I want her to be brightening up MY day. So, why don't we get started boys and girls." It was perhaps the closest thing she could equate to humor.

Despite those big ears not being on display, Pamela had indeed been listening and considering their options. There wasn't really much way she knew of to get map of the place, unlike the last heist. That said, Pamela sought to gather at the very least a way in. Closing her eyes, those hidden ears of hers sought to cut through the chatter and listen towards the man talking about shipments [Perked] trying to figure out if that shipment was on it's way to the Carceris Bastion or somewhere else. Seeking to begin something of a plan. She was accustomed to operating on little more than instinct and relying on the word of those around her. Yet this time, she knew something for sure.

She to reached to her left and put a hand on Mikhail's shoulder. "No splitting up this time. We stick together." Her eyes move to trace over Jane's girls. "That goes for you too."

Izzy blinked owlishly as Jane unraveled in front of her. The half-smeared makeup looked like a cracked mask, a reflection of the girl’s fraying mind. She could only shake her head when the clown asked if she’d smuggled rum in — Gods, she wished she had. That would’ve been a mercy, however small.

Between Jane’s ranting and the storm’s distant growl, Izzy caught another sound — a voice drifting from the shadows of the far cells. She couldn’t quite make out its shape in the dark, but she could hear the strange mix of cheer and gloom in it, the kind of gallows humor that only came from someone who’d been here far too long. The words were oddly hopeful in a grim way, talking of rats and roofs and laughter. It made the silence around them feel almost alive.

She was about to answer the unseen voice’s joke when Jane crawled close and seized her face, eyes shining wild with a fevered need for comfort. Izzy’s golden gaze widened only a fraction. She didn’t move — just watched, patient and unreadable, waiting to see whether the clown would follow through.

When Jane faltered and collapsed into more desperate dialogue, Izzy let out a slow, measured breath. Her chest rose and fell once before she exhaled sharply, a huff of air that was half sigh, half reset. Then she leaned forward and caught Jane’s chin between her fingers, a hint of a smirk tugging one corner of her mouth.

"List’n ’ere, girly."
Her voice was low, steady — the kind that could hold a ship together through a storm.
"Ye’re ah right beauty. A livin’ piece o’ art. An’ jes’ ’cause a bunch o’ fochn’ snobby-arsed brats giggled at someone else’s misfortune, dunnae mean yer pathetic."

She leaned in and pressed a quick, gentle kiss to the clown’s forehead — not quite tender, but grounding, solid as iron.

"Ye’re ah right smart lass. Good with navigatin’, writin’, an’ actin’. Ye’re clever. We’ll find ah way out. Ah’ve still got tae take ye lot t’ the skies."

Izzy rose, stretching out the stiffness in her shoulders as she gave Jane a small, defiant grin.
"Ye’d like tae perform up there, wouldn’t ye? In th’ clouds? Ah’ll bet ye’ll have ’em all in awe. Stiffen that upper lip, lass. We’ll figure it out."

She crossed to the bars, leaning her weight against the cold iron. The torchlight from the hall flickered over her damp hair and the rust-stained floor. Somewhere, water dripped in steady rhythm, like the ticking of a slow clock.

"Ef yer in ah good enough mood tae tell us ah joke," she called toward the voice in the dark,
"then whad’ye ken about findin’ a way outta this shite hole?"

She paused, thinking back to the unseen man’s earlier quip. A faint grin returned.
"Es’ it ah bone flute?"

The wind moaned through the cracks of the stones. Somewhere beyond the corridor, the unseen thing gave a small, echoing chuckle — and the prison seemed, for a fleeting moment, to breathe.



The storm pressed against the tavern like a living thing. Wind howled through the cracks in the shutters, and rain beat steady on the roof, the sound muffled by the hum of voices and the crackle of the hearth. The Last Ferry reeked of brine, wet wool, and spilt ale — the perfume of a hundred men waiting out the weather and pretending not to look toward the prison that loomed beyond the window.

Outside, lightning split the clouds, briefly painting Carceris Bastion in pale blue light. Its towers cut hard against the horizon, watchfires burning like eyes that never blinked. The causeway shimmered with rain and torchlight, each brazier a flickering heartbeat along the narrow spine that led to the gate.

Inside, the talk had turned low and rough. The earlier argument at the bar had burned itself out, leaving only the occasional burst of laughter from men too drunk or too stupid to care who might be listening.

At one table near the hearth, a few dockhands leaned over a water-warped map, arguing over the next day’s work.

“Told the foreman the causeway’ll be flooded by dawn,” one grumbled, tracing a line with a stub of charcoal.
“Aye, but he don’t care. Bastion needs its shipments — always does. Food, alchemy supplies, new cells for her damned pets. They’ll just send the wagons anyway, rain or no.”

Their boots dripped onto the floor, leaving trails that steamed faintly in the heat. The parchment between them bore the seal of the East Empire and another stamp beneath it: the Bastion’s crest — a coiled serpent bound in chains.

At the far wall, a group of fishermen huddled around a deck of cards, half-watching the storm through the slatted shutters.

“You’d have to be mad to row out there tonight,” one said, gesturing toward the jetty.
“Mad or paid,” another replied, laying down his hand. “There’s old drain tunnels under that rock. Used to feed into the cove when smugglers ran their trade. Most are blocked now, but some still breathe with the tide.”

They laughed, but it was the kind of laughter that came with crossed fingers and glances at the window.

Near the bar, a weary guard sat hunched over his drink, armor dull and streaked from the rain. His helmet rested beside him like a second head.

“Double shifts again,” he muttered, rubbing at his eyes. “Half the lads are sleepin’ in the lower rooms now. Warden says stay clear of the east stair — lock’s broke. Says she’ll deal with it herself.”

The bartender poured another measure, unimpressed.

“That woman’s always sayin’ that. You can hear things movin’ down there when it’s quiet — rats, spirits, or worse.”

“Don’t care if it’s the gods themselves,” the guard replied, raising his cup. “As long as I’m not on duty down there.”

Their laughter mingled with the thunder, echoing faintly under the roof beams.

Another flash of lightning drew a few uneasy glances toward the windows. Outside, the Bastion’s silhouette flickered — three ships tugging at their moorings below it, sails whipping in the gale like torn banners. The braziers along the dock burned stubbornly against the storm, sending up plumes of orange smoke that curled into the black.

Somewhere in the din, a sailor’s voice rose just long enough to be heard above the rest:

“Storm like this’ll wipe the sky clean. Perfect night to vanish off the map.”

And then the tavern swallowed the words again — a dozen voices, a dozen clues, waiting for someone sharp enough to piece them together. Outside, the thunder rolled closer. The Bastion loomed, patient and waiting.

---

From what’s been overheard throughout The Last Ferry, a few potential leads stand out for anyone sharp (or desperate) enough to act on them:

Supply Wagons at Dawn —
Dockhands mentioned that supply carts for Carceris Bastion will cross the causeway before sunrise, despite the flooding. They’ll be carrying rations, alchemical goods, and other cargo under the East Empire’s seal.

Possible approach: disguise yourselves as dock workers, smugglers, or supply guards; intercept a wagon before it reaches the gate; or stow away within one.

Timing: before or during the next storm surge when visibility will be lowest.

Drainage Tunnels Beneath the Bastion —
Fishermen traded rumors of old smuggler routes running beneath the fortress, connecting to the southern cove. Most are believed to have collapsed, but during high tide, some of the lower tunnels may open briefly with the swell.

Possible approach: explore the shoreline near the cove, follow the storm drains, or find a local who remembers the old smuggler maps.

Risks: flooding, creatures, collapsed passages. Quiet but dangerous.

Broken East Stairwell (Internal Access) —
A drunk guard complained about a broken lock and an unguarded stairway within the Bastion’s eastern wing. The Warden herself supposedly ordered it off-limits and moved most of the garrison elsewhere.

Possible approach: cause a distraction, bribe a lower-ranked guard, or infiltrate during shift change to slip through the disused stairwell.

May link directly to lower cell blocks or interior corridors.

The Storm Itself —
Several patrons commented that the weather is worsening. Heavy wind, poor visibility, and flooding will make travel across the causeway treacherous — but also easier to mask movements.

The storm can serve as cover for infiltration or escape.

In summary:
You currently have three potential routes into Carceris Bastion — by cart, by tunnel, or by storm and stair — and the worsening weather may grant an opportunity soon. You can follow one, split efforts to gather intel, or create your own method based on what’s been seen or heard.

“A bone flute?” Fingers said quizzically from the darkness. Sounding almost perplexed at the suggestion. The confusion quickly changed. As if a switch had been flicked. The once jovial skeleton was up and pressed hard against the bars an arm reaching through as if trying to claw its way at the one who made the suggestion.
“A bone flute!” He repeated, this time not sounding confused but furious. “How do you suppose a skeleton play a flute you small minded git!” Fingers howled as she rattled and strained against the bars of his cell. “We don’t even have lips or lungs! How you suppose we play a flute!”

There was a small pause as Fingers seemingly takes a deep breath to calm down. “I’m sorry.” He said easing off the bars. “I didn’t mean to lose my cool. I didn’t realise that would have been a trigger for me.” He sounded much more somber. He sat back down. “Well, the answer was a xylophone.” He followed the punchline by tapping a little tune one his exposed ribs.

Fingers paused for maybe a moment too long. Just long enough for the silence to get awkward before leaping to his feet. “Wait, wait, wait!”
Skull pressed suddenly between the bars of his own cell.

“You talking about escape? I can be down for an escape. What’s the plan? Bribing a rat to fetch keys? Using magic to blow the doors of their hinges? Asking a guard politely? Playing dead? Calling for a doctor?…” Fingers excitedly rambled on and on, almost to himself. Listing various plans of escape. Most nonsensical or wildly impractical.

The past weeks had been troubling for Aleris. Memories of times gone from his mind. Seemingly entire people that he knew, wiped away from his memory. And even odder, in one such case he felt better off for it. Medness, every thought and lack of thought about it driving him closer to an edge that he cannot afford to reach. He must do well for his Master. His Lord, who granted his powers upon him when he came to this world, must have their wishes fulfilled. And every lost memory feels like a failure. A piece along the path towards his final goal that Aleris had stripped from him. A scar on his chest that he still remains unnervingly lucid of the fact that he does not recall what caused it. Waking up in a swamp, surrounded by redcap corpses, with no recollection of why he was even there to begin with. Were these merely isolated events? Or had he lived an entire life unknown to him now? Any every possibility in between are equally possible. All flash through his mind like a horror film. One even greater than any fear of the deepest depths that one might experience.

He could not wallow in it. He needed to progress. He was stronger than he was at his start. That much he knew. But not strong enough. Not wealthy enough, nor had he begun to attract followers to his Lord's flock. Failures, all of them, in his eyes. As he surely believed they were in his Lord's. He marched on, stomping through the rainy and stormy weather. On a path for his next job or opportunity. Anything that would allow him to earn coin or anything else along the way. Though as the storms pick up, Aleris' hood is becoming less sufficient in keeping him protected from the weather. Luckily, he stumbles upon an inn. 'The Last Ferry', as the sign out front named it. Seems to Aleris that it is more for sailors than the typical traveler. But in a storm like this, Aleris can't rightly afford to be picky. He enters, The large rusty metal hook slung across his back bangs against the doorframe as he enters as he is still getting used to carrying it on his back. He wastes no time in moving towards the fireplace to warm himself and attempt to get a little dry.

Looking around the room, he sees quite the odd collection of people. The Bunnykin, and the Elf with what appears to be metal arms stand out the most to him. He eavesdrops, listening in as they discuss their situation. It seems like his best opportunity to offer his services. Or at the very least, it may lead to something greater in the future. He stands, walking over towards their table and placing a hand on the top of a chair, preparing to pull it out should they allow him to join them.

"Apologies for listening, uninvited. But I heard you two speak from by the fire. I'm sorry to hear about the imprisonment of your comrades. My name is Aleris. May I sit?" He asked, introducing himself in a neutral tone. His expression is curious, and very calm. Almost too calm for someone still standing in a cold and rain soaked cloak.

Jane kicked and screamed some more but not before being caught in the middle of her inner chaos by Izzy's fingers. Jane gasped, her weeping subsided suddenly but her tears still flowed. Listening to her words were like the sun peeking through a storm. Much more after the faint feeling of the captains lips on her forehead. Suddenly, a rainbow formed in the eye of that emotional storm.

Jane couldn't answer to much of anything, she could only perk up her expression, albeit the smeared makeup contrasted the feelings in her heart. But when the captain mentioned performing in the clouds she couldn't resist but I part her comments on the matter. "Y-yes.. yes very much so cap'n. And I want to throw dynamite in the world below as I do so! I've given up on trying to make ends meet on the streets of this country. If I can't get the recognition I deserve then I shall take it for myself." Wiping her tears with her torn sleeve she sat up on her knees. "How spectacular would it be to blow up this prison and this castle and the stupid countess and her butch marshall?" Her voice hoarse from so much screaming she sat her back against the metal jail bars.

Jane flinched when the voice of the skeleton suddenly erupted in anger. Attempting to get closer but the shackle at her neck kept her from getting a better look. "Oh? You're.. bones. That's it." A smile drew upon her face. "Well it's nice to meet you there! My name is Jane! What's yours?" Before long the skeleton was mumbling escape ideas to himself. Jane would try to think something up all the same. "It might work.. no.. well.. if I knew lock picking." Then an idea came to mind. She'd get close to Izzy suddenly, her face right up to hers. "How about I pretend to get convulsions and you go about panicking? That'll get the guards to open the doors. Then.. then.." Jane bowed her head in defeat. "..somehow you kick his ass. But how, with your hands bound?"

@AClockworkEd@Maverick Six

Mikhail clutched his mug tightly, perhaps if everyone was around he would’ve
made a joke about Pam her juicy but the elf preferred having his pearly whites intact.

“Aye Barkeep! A pint of juice for my friend here and a bottle of rum!”

He would go along with Pam’s demands just this once, she was usually pretty sour in mood but she had a reason now. Besides, he’s going to need her as level headed as can be if they’re going to get captain and Jane back.

She seemed to be responsive at least, finding the bright side of the situation that Mikhail spoke about. “Exactly Bun-Bun, Izzy is a ray of sunshine and Jane is as positive as can be. Probably the two best people to get locked up together, they’re going to stay strong until we save em.” Her rebuttal earned a smirk from Mikhail.

“They’re alive for sure. We’ve just gotta do our best and keep a level head.” Mikhail would take another swing of his rum when she placed a hand on his shoulder. It was firm but definitely anxious, another order.

“Didn’t know you cared about me that much. Aye-Aye First mate.” Mikhail nodded as he gave a playful salute to the Pam.

Suddenly, a newcomer was at their table. A man that looked suspicious as all hell with a hood draped over his head. Mikhail’s expression fell flat as he studied the man. He looked like he had been in the rain for sometime. Why approach them of all people, they definitely were the most interesting group in the hub thanks to Jane’s girl. But not the most approachable right?

“You seem a long way from home, friend. What brings you to our table?” Mikhail prodded, for all he knows. Aleris could be a bounty hunter looking to finish the job. The elf was on alert around this mystery man. He would tilt his head down, enough that his hat covered his eyes as he looked to Pam to take the lead on this one. Whatever she decided, Mikhail would back her up.

Thunder rolled again, shaking the tavern’s roof beams and loosening another thin stream of rainwater that began to patter steadily into a corner bucket. The barkeep cursed under his breath and stuffed a rag around the leak before returning to polishing a cup with the same rag.

The door creaked again, and a sudden gust of rain-laden wind swept through the room before it slammed shut behind a new arrival—a courier in a soaked red cloak, the Bastion’s sigil stitched across his shoulder. He stomped water from his boots and barked toward the bar, his voice carrying easily through the mutter of the crowd.

“Shipment’s been delayed again. Foreman says the carts can’t cross till after first light. The tide’s higher than the braziers now, and the bridge guards are about to mutiny. Warden’ll have my hide if she don’t get her supplies.”

He slapped a soggy pouch of papers onto the counter. The barkeep eyed the crest on the courier’s shoulder, lowered his voice, and leaned in.

“Tell her to come collect it herself, then. You seen the sea tonight? The causeway’s half underwater.”

“Aye,” the courier replied grimly, wringing rain from his cloak. “But she will. You know she will.”

The courier’s voice dropped further as he leaned over the counter, the crackle of the hearth nearly drowning him out.

“Says she’s moving something down below—one of her experiments broke loose again. Half the guard’s been pulled off to the lower floors. No one’s watching the docks tonight.”

He took the barkeep’s offered drink and downed it in one go.

“One of these days, the sea’ll take that place whole,” he muttered before heading for the door again, pulling his cloak tight. “And I’ll drink to that.”

The heavy latch clicked as he stepped back into the storm.

For a while, the tavern went quiet except for the rain and the low rumble of dice across wood. Then, as though the courier’s words had left a bruise, new whispers began to spread.

At the card table, one of the fishermen who’d spoken earlier leaned closer to his friend, keeping his voice low but not low enough.

“No guards on the docks, eh? If someone had a mind to, they could walk right past the jetty’s checkpoint and no one’d be the wiser. Long as they didn’t spook the sea-watch dogs.”

Another snorted softly.

“Ain’t no one that mad. Not unless they knew exactly where to go once they hit the outer wall.”

“Maybe so. But the storm’s a gift from the gods if you ask me.”

Their laughter died in their throats when lightning struck somewhere far too close, rattling the bottles behind the bar. The barkeep crossed himself and went back to scrubbing.

For the briefest moment, the room seemed to hold its breath. A few heads turned toward the group near the corner table—the rabbit-eared woman’s hood, the elf’s mechanical arm, the soaked stranger newly joined them. Too many strangers for one night, in a port town that preferred the familiar.



The skeleton’s sudden burst of fury died into a brittle little laugh as its own absurdity found purchase. Its skull bobbed in the dark, ribs tapping a hollow xylophone as if to prove the joke true.

"…A xylophone, eh?" Izzy let the corner of her mouth twitch. She leaned forward, palms flat on the cold stone between her knees so the motion looked casual. Her voice was low and even, a tether in the dark.
"Aye, ye got rhythm, bones. Keep yer ribs warm and yer beak shut 'til we needs yer help."

When Fingers began rattling off escape schemes like a fevered merchant hawking impossible wares, Izzy gave a dry snort. She rubbed her thumb along the inside of her wrist as if feeling for pulse — for luck — then pushed herself up to her knees and turned square to Jane.

"Convulsions, eh?" she said, not unkind, more pragmatic than mocking.
"All the theatrics in the world won't open iron. Guards like a show — true — but they like a tidy show with orders and cuffs. If ye go full fit, they'll drag ye out, fling a sack on yer head, an’ throw ye in the Pits faster than you can finish a verse."

She hooked a finger under Jane’s chin and tilted it, inspecting the smeared makeup like a captain checking a map for flaws.
"Listen. If we’re to make light o’ a plan, do it clever. Make ’em think ye broke right proper — then when they haul ye past the door, we make a scene that’s small enough fer us to work with. Kickin’ an’ clawin’ at a doorway while shackled? That’s a puppet show for the Warden."

She let Jane’s hopeful talk of dynamite and burning castles pass like a spark against wet straw. Izzy’s gaze flicked down the corridor toward the place where Fingers’ chuckle had come from, then back up.

"Bones, shut yer yap an’ listen proper — if ye’ve anythin’ useful — keys, a bit o’ wire, a rusted nail — spit it out. We won’t fashion a flute fer yer ribs, but we’ll take what works."

Fingers rattled a few more impractical suggestions, then quieter, a murmur of something like eagerness. Izzy’s jaw worked once; she hummed under her breath, thinking, eyes going distant as she measured risks and time. The torchlight painted her face in long shadows. Water dripped like a slow metronome.

From the hall above came the clank of heavy boots, voices raised in that lazy cruelty prisoners knew well. Two guards paused outside their block, leaning against the corridor wall with torches guttering in their gauntleted hands.

"Heh — they’re gettin’ fresh tonight, ain’t they? New lot’s gotta be feedin’ the Warden’s toys tomorrow. Heard she’s got some new… pets. Big ones. Gonna be a show."
"‘Course. We’ll toss ‘em down in the ring, let the beasts pick through the crowd. Best entertainment this side o’ the Empire. Bet the Warden’s got a bottle of ambrosia lined up for the front row."

Izzy’s lips thinned. Her fingers tightened around the iron bar until the knuckle cut the air, but she didn’t shout. She simply watched the guards’ shadows pass, noting the cadence of their steps, the way one of them kept looking over his shoulder like a man waiting for direction.

Then the corridor doors banged open with a rush of wind, and another guard barreled in, rain and mud slinging from his cloak. His voice cut like a blade through the low-jeer chatter.

"All hands! Down to the lower floors — the Warden's experiment’s loose! Pets broke out! Contain the lower blocks, contain the lower blocks NOW!"

The two idle guards snapped upright. One barked an order without pity.
"Move! Move! You lot — double time! Down the east stair, quick! Keep the prisoners penned—do not let ‘em near the doors!"

Boots thundered as men scrambled; armor clattered, belts jangling. For a heartbeat the hall hummed with confusion, then the guards’ pacing quickened into a rout — men shoving past the cell doors, torches bobbing as they streamed away toward the stairwell. One of the departing officers threw a glance back at the row of cells, voice sharp and mean.

"Stay where you are or you’ll be bait, got it? Don’t be stupid."

Their footsteps faded down the corridor, echoing into the stone throat of the Bastion. The only sounds left were the drip of water and the distant, panicked noises of men running toward the lower wards. For a moment a hush hung where the guards had been — an absence that rang as loud as a bell.

Izzy breathed out slowly. The torchlight flickered, and in that shrinking light her face set like flint.

"Well," she said, soft enough for only Jane and the nearest bones to hear,
"looks like the Warden’s pets are out. That’s music t’ the ears o’ anyone needin’ empty watch posts."

She let the words sit, eyes on the iron, listening as the last echoes of boots vanished into the lower dark. Outside, the storm rolled on — and somewhere above, the Bastion shifted, the Warden’s appetite for spectacle peeled back for a moment to reveal a sliver of opportunity.

"Opportunity, is all." Aleris replies to the elf in the pointed hat. "I have recently found myself wanting for coin. So I have traveled in search of an opportunity to earn some. Or at least, if not coin perhaps earn some favors. Anything that can enrich me would be of great benefit. But frankly, I do not know this region well. So I sit here before you know in hopes that... well, in hope of anything really. I heard lamenting. So if I might help in alleviating it, who am I to turn my nose an such a chance?" Aleris speaks in a consistent and cool tone. Just barely enough emotion is spliced within as to prove that he does in fact feel, something. His words fly from his mouth with the speed of certainty but laced with the ichor of deception. As if every word is a half truth. Not for sake of the lie, but for sake of the self. Omission in the name of a guarded self. Armor forged through careful choice of words.

He listened closely to the men speaking around the tavern. Eavesdropping some more. Though still listening to Mikhail so he does not miss what the elf says in reply. Once there is a lull in the conversation though, Aleris took the opportunity to note what he has heard.

"It would seem that fortune is smiling upon your comrades as well." Aleris notes. "Far be it for me to suggest anything unlawful. But if you wish to relieve the castle of the burden of caring for prisoners, then we might just have an opening. I'm sure the murmurs of this tavern have hit both of your ears as well. A lack of guards presents quite the opportunity for you." He pauses, taking a deep breath and scratching the nail of his middle finger with the nail of his thumb. "Perhaps an opportunity for us, if you find need of my services." He smiles warmly, a stark contrast to his previously neutral expression. The wide smile almost not seeming to fit his face. He patiently awaits their answer, hoping for them to go out on a limb for his own sake. Whatever the compensation might be. If there is any to be had at all.

@AClockworkEd@Maverick Six

“Opportunity you say.” Mikhail smiled, swirling his cup around in a circle. Aleris seemed to want coin, the desire seemed a lot more appealing as opposed to a favor. The elf knew all about favors, it's best not to owe one to shady individuals.

Aleris seemed friendly upfront, but there was a very telling way of how he weaved his words together. Unfortunately, the crooked blades were in a jam. It seemed like Aleris was looking to take full advantage of that for his own benefit. If they would do business, at least his intentions were upfront.

Mikhail let the conversation die for a moment, his attention pulled elsewhere. Valuable information tantalizing his ear, seems like the stars were shining on the pained souls of the pirate crew. A guiding light in the dark of night. Even Aleris caught wind, causing a smirk to arise on the elf’s face. He wasn’t one to believe in fate, the bitch was fickle.

“Perhaps, let’s hope Lady Luck isn’t building us up to tear us down.”Mikhail would clear his mug, washing away the pessimistic thoughts with the spirits. “I don’t mind accepting your services but what exactly can you do for us?” The Fae leaned in, resting his heavy metal arm on the table. The weight of the limb causing the wood to creak in discomfort.

“I apologize for my weariness, friend but you’ve popped in at a very peculiar time. You also strike me as a strange individual, one not used to salt and brine.” Mikhail’s words came off friendly, his tone friendly as could be but his words and body language was sharp. Almost piercing even, as he started directly at Aleris. The glasses on his face were hanging slightly off nose, revealing crystal blue eyes that were trained on the magus.

"Salt and brine, I am most familiar..." Aleris replies longingly, yet almost cryptically as he thinks off to his first memory in this world. Waking up in the depths of the ocean to the wonderous horrors of his Lord's visage. "It is more the crowd that I am less equipped for. As you say it yourself, I hold no illusion to my lack of social conformity. And you are well right to be weary. I am... Strange. But that is also precisely what I am able to offer you. What use is a man that offers skills and qualities too similar to your own? I cover what you might not." He explained, his tone not changing in the slightest. "As for specific capabilities, I carry with me a breadth of knowledge and skills. Namely, power that my Lord has granted unto me to strike, and restrain those that need it with great efficiently. I am a mage of Rapture. To what weight such title carries, I am not certain. But it is what I am." He explains relatively thoroughly.

The storm seemed intent on swallowing the coast whole.

Thunder rolled low across the slate-colored sky, rattling the beams of The Last Ferry and shaking loose another trickle of rainwater from the warped ceiling. The barkeep muttered curses at the leak, shoved an already-soaked rag into the crack, and continued polishing a cup with the same rag — a ritual of resignation more than cleanliness.

The courier’s sudden visit left a ripple in the tavern’s atmosphere, something taut and uneasy. Patrons shifted in their seats. Card games stalled. The fishermen exchanged glances. Even the guards — those few still lingering — finished their drinks faster and left in pairs.

The door groaned open again, and a spear of frigid wind cut through the warmth of the hearth. Outside, rain sheeted across the muddy lane, turning the world into streaks of silver and shadow. Lanterns swung violently on their hooks. The smell of tar, tidewater, and fish guts poured in with every gust.

Beyond the rooftops, Carceris Bastion loomed — a jagged silhouette with watchfires burning like angry gods’ eyes. Lightning flashed and revealed the causeway nearly underwater, waves smashing against the jetty. Three dark shapes — the ships — pitched and strained at their moorings.

It was no longer a question of whether the night was turning.
It was how fast.

The barkeep finally grunted:

“Last drinks, folks. Storm’ll drown the chimneys before dawn. Best be movin’ if you’ve business outside.”

Which, in its own way, was an invitation.

People began to leave in twos and threes. The rabbit-eared woman’s hooded shape, the metal-armed elf, and the strange man beside them didn’t go unnoticed; more than one sailor cut their eyes toward them with idle curiosity — maybe suspicion — before the storm swallowed the street again.

When the trio stepped into the night, the wind hit like a wave.



The lane forked almost immediately:

Downward toward the harbor, lanterns flickering over the crooked jetty.
The small guard post at the dockhead was dark — door hanging open, brazier cold. The three ships thrashed in their chains, sails cracking like whips in the gale.

@AClockworkEd@Maverick Six@Moonberry

Mikhail leaned back in his chair, the cybernetic arm slinking lazy over the backrest of the wooden stool. “Word of advice, the quickest way to get noticed is to have a hood pulled over your head. Makes you look like an informant or some kind of weird cultist. Take it from a bar rat like myself.” The elf smiled, his voice holding a tinge of playfulness. He would then take another swig of rum, drowning himself in the savory alcohol as Aleris continued talking.

When he mentioned that he comes with powers from his lord, the elf nearly spit out all the rum and looked toward the other pirates.

“SEE i fucking called it!” He slammed the mug on the table with a chuckle, admiring just how good he was at picking people apart. “I should’ve put some coin on that dammit.” He would turn back to Aleris with a smirk. “Fuck it why the hell not. I’ve done business with all kinds of people.” Behind his shades, the elf’s eyes teetered on the clown girls. “Hell even shadier people than you.”

With that, the barkeep called the final round of drinks. “Guess that’s our cue.” Mikhail turned to Pam who seemed a bit down sullen, she seemed rather in the dumps meaning that it was on him to take charge. Thankfully, he had a couple of tools at his disposal to make it happen.

“Alright you salty sea dogs, it’s time to reunite with our family. No man left behind.” Mikhail would raise his mug before slamming it into the wood, earning a sharp glare from the barkeep. He would then knock his head back and down the rest of the contents, the delicious nectar dripping down his chin.

The rest of the crew would follow, standing with him and following the elf outside the bar. The weather was much fiercer, pelts of rain assaulted the elf, causing his hat to slink slightly as it absorbed water. Continued down to the dock, the group would put a bit of distance between themselves and the bar. Once he felt adequately situated away, the elf would unpack his guitar. “I’m sorry for putting you this hardship today, but some friends need us.” He spoke silently to his guitar before giving it a strum. A dome of magic would surround the group, preventing any sound from escaping the bubble.

“Get a man drunk and he’ll tell you anything I suppose. Seems like we’ve got one might to pull this off, with the dock empty, the storm giving us plenty of cover, and security being non-existent. We’re got a real good shot at getting our friends out of that jam.” Mikhail would turn towards the men at the docks.

“You all will be in charge of ensuring we’ve got a firm getaway. If we don’t return by first light, assume the worst.” Mikhail would then turn to the couple of clown girls and Aleris.

“We’re gonna head in to retrieve the captain. Her name is Isabella, pretty lady with tawny brown skin and chestnut eyes. But she has one hell of a sailors' dialect. Can’t miss her, the other one is a girl named Jane. She’ll probably look quite different if they took off her makeup,thankfully I’m sure her girls know her face. Once we cross the dock, we’ll enter through the sewer drain. It’s gonna suck but it’s the best chance we got. From there, we’ll clear the floor and look for our people. You see a threat, you ice em. If all goes well, we rendezvous back at the sewer tunnel.” Mikhail looked at the long dock with a smirk.

“Let’s go, and don’t tell in the ocean please.”

Mikhail would strum his guitar once more, this time a line of darkness would cast out before him. Snuffing out the light, he would play a soft note every second or so all the way up to the tower. The sound of a soft note serving as Aleris and the clown girls guiding star in the darkness of night.

Aleris tugged at his hood. Mikhail had a good point. Though he did not care much for it. Especially at a time when his hood protects him from such heavy rains. He is about to pull the hood off when Mikhail exclaims his confirmed preconceived notion.

"To be quite fair," Aleris began, "can you call a lone worshipper a cultist? Does a cult not need multiple members?" He asks with a somewhat cheeky tone. Though he was happy to have his offer accepted. Finally having found some work and people to align with. A goal for the short term, something to give him the paths towards his goals in the long term.

With the drinking and revelry completed, Aleris follows the rest out of the bar. His hood firmly back up, perturbed by the severity of the storm. "I have not seen weather like this inland before. It does not feel natural." He comments, though he would freely admit to not being particularly familiar with the region. He was made quite happy for the bubble of protection that Mikhail provided.

"I understand." Aleris replies to the instructions, following closely to the sound of the strumming. He waited until they go a decent bit away from the men at the docks to ask, "Can those men be trusted? Forgive my ignorance, but seems quite the risk to trust our only method of escape to them."

@AClockworkEd@Maverick Six@Moonberry

Mikhail chuckled, “Hell yeah I can call you a cultist. Even if you’re a loner cultist.” The elf doubled down on his comment. There was a strong possibility that he was wrong, dead wrong. However, his words felt correct and with enough conviction [Persuasion F] he could twist reality how he wanted.

The bard turned to Aleris with a smirk, “the gods are taking pity on my crew. Does a cultist like yourself believe in fate?” He questioned the man with a wry smile. “I’m sure you believe in divine intervention at the least.” He poked some fun with his comment.

When the man asked about whether they could be trusted, Mikhail shrugged. “Honestly probably not, however with the storm raging. This is a gamble I’m willing to bet on. We wronged some pretty powerful people meaning they’re not gonna wait long to execute my crew. Time isn’t a luxury we can afford. It’s tonight or never. Either we get that ship and sail away or die.” Mikhail smiled, he would slap the back of Aleris’s back with his cyborg arm. “But something tells me. The devil’s luck is on ourside.”

Aleris nodded, the Elf's conviction on its own is enough to make him see merit to Mikhail's statement. He would not argue further. To even attempt to do so would be to risk sharing secrets to his faith that he would not dare to spread to those who do not follow his Lord of Death. Instead he looks towards Mikhail and answers his question plainly. "Fate? Well, yes to an extent. We are all fated to die, are we not? Fate however, can be defied. One need only find a Lich for proof of that." He explained, with clear vitriol and ichor tainting his tone when he utters the word 'lich'.

"Understood." Aleris replies firmly as he followed the Elf onto the vessel. "Limited options is quite the builder of trust." He added, knowing good and well that every moment going forward, he will be watching these two sailors. Any errant action would pique his interest and attention. As who knows if these men will even truly row them to where they say they shall? With no better choice though, Mikhail is right, discussing it only risks the lives of these friends of his. "Let us not waste another moment."

@AClockworkEd@Maverick Six@Moonberry

“All fated to die” the words struck a silent cord within the elf, his words slightly somber. “If fate can be defied are you truly tampering with its threads, or was the interaction merely predetermined. An illusion of control.”

“Limited options in a dire situation is a great way to peel the layers back.” He smirked looking at the cultist.

The brief philosophical conversation had been safely contained in the sound bubble Mikhail had created. Salty sea water raged around them. The lack of sound coming from water crashing into the docks gave a rather eerie feeling. If one of their men fell into the water and drowned in the depths, none would be wiser.

Their guide through the darkness would eventually come to a halt. His large hat billowing in the weather conditions as a powerful gust of wind struck the group. The rain picked up in its pace and began to pelt the group in a strong torrent, further weighing down their clothes.

“Hug the walls, we’re going to wrap around the building and into the drain. Hope you guys don’t mind smelling like absolute garbage. We’ll put our dry cleaning on the captain's tab. Unfortunately you’re out of luck cultist.” A smirk formed on his face as he hastily put his back to the stone fortress and wrapped around its perimeter.

The mantle of darkness shrouded the group nicely, making them no different from the dark of night outside. The storm drain also wasn’t too far away. The elf was able to make out its round silhouette in the dead of night. The stench was already burning his nose in the small glimpses he inhaled. The elf strummed some more notes on his guitar, sending a wave of energy that blew the drain gate open sending a flood of sewage out into the water.

[Color=#00FFFF]“Alright children, everyone in the crap hole. Just watch out for alligators and large rats.”[/colod] He gave a devilish smile as he looked towards his cohort. Most of them returned a bleak expression towards the bard before reluctantly entering.