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[IC] BANISHER: a Sword-and-Sandal Dark Fantasy
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| ________ |  Indicted, chained, and condemned, You were days away from the mercy of execution... | ________ |
On the far reaches of the Empire, in a land barren of greenery, where fertile earth gave way to arid sands. Where the dunes were so ancient, their snaking hills cast shadows and dust upon cyclopean structures; ancient, half-buried, and hewn of slate-black boulders. Amidst the scattering of these ruins, and underneath the scorching glare of daylight, a more contemporary structure struck out to pierce the sky. A tower of crimson sandstone, built not by ancient forces, but by the blood, sweat, and death of countless slaves. The Bloodsand Gaol. Behind its stone walls, hundreds of souls were interned over twenty floors, with the most wretched and condemned left to rot within its abyss.
As the sun reached its midday peak, as the winds howled to carve across the endless stretch of the dune sea, a chorus of hooves thundered from the west. A score of the Empire's jet-black stallions, their manes billowing, their muscular bodies straining beneath the weight of their charge. Reins of leather and chains conjoined them to an Imperial caravan, an oaken fortress on wheels, divided into two cars. A frame of bronze fortified their structure, whilst layers of red and gold signified the vehicle's allegiance. What few windows were built into it were barred, and constantly watched by the cavalry keeping pace beside the caravan.
Indicted. Chained. Condemned. Twenty days had passed since the disgraced general embarked on this unfavoured journey. With nothing but unwashed rags and the deluge of his own sweat to protect his modesty. His wrists were red and raw from the bite of his manacles, his hair matted and tousled over his eyes. The sturdy Imperial oak did little to protect him from the scorching heat of the desert, and even less when night fell and the air turned cold and numbing. Soothsayers muse that misery loved company, and on this journey, he was not wanting for either. Prisoners sat beside him, cuffed and chained, from all over the Empire and beyond. A slinking thief from the Capital. A corpulent brigand from the hills of the Heartland. A barbarian; bright-haired and light-skinned, his pale muscles painted with blasphemous triskelions common to Free March tribes. And across from the disgraced general, one of the Accursed, his body covered in frayed, oil-black fur, his mouth a snarling mess of warped teeth and drool, visible even through the studded leather muzzle forced around his snout. The creature stared at the man with yellow, pupil-less eyes, glaring wide with a bestial madness that seemed irreconcilable with his humanity.
“Oh, he likes you,” one of the caravan guards sneered, strutting towards the general with one hand on the pommel of his sword. His lorica segmentata rattled noisily with every step, its sheen dulled by layers of storm-born dust. “But then, who wouldn’t?” He scrutinised his prisoner, his arms spread in mocking declaration. “The prodigal general of the 12th Legion, forsworn conqueror of the Godless Seas!” The guard’s smile faded as he stepped back and shook his head. “Just another traitor, whom history won’t even remember.” He spat, leaving a congealed glob at the traitor’s foot, then walked away.
The storm calmed as the caravan neared the gaol. Wind and dust gave way to the full power of the sun, its sheer heat making the very air shimmer. The sands scorched the feet of the traitor and his fellow prisoners as they marched, ushered by the pitiless guards, themselves excreting their body weight in sweat underneath their metal armour. One especially parched guard splashed the contents of his waterskin all over his face in a careless attempt to quench his thirst. His commanding officer took offense.
Through the valleys of dunes, beneath the ever-vigilant watch of archers. The portcullis of Bloodsand Gaol groaned as it retracted, sand and rust trickling from its weathered fangs. The gaol’s foyer provided momentary respite from the desert sun as the traitor’s escorts exchanged formalities and papers with the officials. The cacophony of words was difficult to discern beneath the heatstroke, but the words ‘Giftless’ and ‘No collar necessary’ stood out. The traitor’s respite was cut short as a prison guard ushered him along. Beyond the foyer, and into the depths of the prison. Twenty floors of sandstone, carved into walls that curved around a colossal, hollow centre. A grand, open skylight peered at the very peak of the tower, bringing the Sky Father’s light even to the ground floor of the gaol… as well as beneath it. Down the spiraling stairs, towards the lowest level of the gaol, dug below the dunes themselves.
The traitor walked past cells upon cells as the sentries escorted him. Men, women, humans, Accursed. The Empire cared not for distinction, except between the innocent and the damned. Most kept to themselves, splayed out in their cells, with only filthy rags as comfort. Some passed their time simmering in fury, watching the patrolling guards for a moment of weakness. Others returned from outside, hunched and hyperventilating, caked in dust, filth, and sweat, their hands bruised and inflamed by hard labour. One of the cells on the other side of the traitor creaked open as prison guards stormed in, shouting and cursing, and splashed an unconscious prisoner with a bucket of vinegar. He sputtered and gasped, but remained aground. A beatdown of kicks and stomps followed. Above, carved into the stone beside the number that designated the traitor’s cell, was a simple phrase.
“Inside, prisoner!” The sentry escorting the traitor barked, then shoved him forward. The rusted door ground shut behind him, then clicked into place.
As the sun reached its midday peak, as the winds howled to carve across the endless stretch of the dune sea, a chorus of hooves thundered from the west. A score of the Empire's jet-black stallions, their manes billowing, their muscular bodies straining beneath the weight of their charge. Reins of leather and chains conjoined them to an Imperial caravan, an oaken fortress on wheels, divided into two cars. A frame of bronze fortified their structure, whilst layers of red and gold signified the vehicle's allegiance. What few windows were built into it were barred, and constantly watched by the cavalry keeping pace beside the caravan.
Indicted. Chained. Condemned. Twenty days had passed since the disgraced general embarked on this unfavoured journey. With nothing but unwashed rags and the deluge of his own sweat to protect his modesty. His wrists were red and raw from the bite of his manacles, his hair matted and tousled over his eyes. The sturdy Imperial oak did little to protect him from the scorching heat of the desert, and even less when night fell and the air turned cold and numbing. Soothsayers muse that misery loved company, and on this journey, he was not wanting for either. Prisoners sat beside him, cuffed and chained, from all over the Empire and beyond. A slinking thief from the Capital. A corpulent brigand from the hills of the Heartland. A barbarian; bright-haired and light-skinned, his pale muscles painted with blasphemous triskelions common to Free March tribes. And across from the disgraced general, one of the Accursed, his body covered in frayed, oil-black fur, his mouth a snarling mess of warped teeth and drool, visible even through the studded leather muzzle forced around his snout. The creature stared at the man with yellow, pupil-less eyes, glaring wide with a bestial madness that seemed irreconcilable with his humanity.
“Oh, he likes you,” one of the caravan guards sneered, strutting towards the general with one hand on the pommel of his sword. His lorica segmentata rattled noisily with every step, its sheen dulled by layers of storm-born dust. “But then, who wouldn’t?” He scrutinised his prisoner, his arms spread in mocking declaration. “The prodigal general of the 12th Legion, forsworn conqueror of the Godless Seas!” The guard’s smile faded as he stepped back and shook his head. “Just another traitor, whom history won’t even remember.” He spat, leaving a congealed glob at the traitor’s foot, then walked away.
The storm calmed as the caravan neared the gaol. Wind and dust gave way to the full power of the sun, its sheer heat making the very air shimmer. The sands scorched the feet of the traitor and his fellow prisoners as they marched, ushered by the pitiless guards, themselves excreting their body weight in sweat underneath their metal armour. One especially parched guard splashed the contents of his waterskin all over his face in a careless attempt to quench his thirst. His commanding officer took offense.
Through the valleys of dunes, beneath the ever-vigilant watch of archers. The portcullis of Bloodsand Gaol groaned as it retracted, sand and rust trickling from its weathered fangs. The gaol’s foyer provided momentary respite from the desert sun as the traitor’s escorts exchanged formalities and papers with the officials. The cacophony of words was difficult to discern beneath the heatstroke, but the words ‘Giftless’ and ‘No collar necessary’ stood out. The traitor’s respite was cut short as a prison guard ushered him along. Beyond the foyer, and into the depths of the prison. Twenty floors of sandstone, carved into walls that curved around a colossal, hollow centre. A grand, open skylight peered at the very peak of the tower, bringing the Sky Father’s light even to the ground floor of the gaol… as well as beneath it. Down the spiraling stairs, towards the lowest level of the gaol, dug below the dunes themselves.
The traitor walked past cells upon cells as the sentries escorted him. Men, women, humans, Accursed. The Empire cared not for distinction, except between the innocent and the damned. Most kept to themselves, splayed out in their cells, with only filthy rags as comfort. Some passed their time simmering in fury, watching the patrolling guards for a moment of weakness. Others returned from outside, hunched and hyperventilating, caked in dust, filth, and sweat, their hands bruised and inflamed by hard labour. One of the cells on the other side of the traitor creaked open as prison guards stormed in, shouting and cursing, and splashed an unconscious prisoner with a bucket of vinegar. He sputtered and gasped, but remained aground. A beatdown of kicks and stomps followed. Above, carved into the stone beside the number that designated the traitor’s cell, was a simple phrase.
Nulla Impiis Pax.
“Inside, prisoner!” The sentry escorting the traitor barked, then shoved him forward. The rusted door ground shut behind him, then clicked into place.
collabs - none | interacts - Agamen | @CabbageAngel
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2 hrs ago
The grease sizzled off Agamen’s forehead as he rested his head on the bars. Heavy eyes gazed across the pit, where some act of violence was obscured by heat warping the air. For weeks he had been paraded through the Empire a pariah, now he was here, locked up and isolated from civilisation with the rest of the unseemly. It felt so inevitable, the solid ground of his cell came as a relief. Here, he would finally rest. Here, he would repent, until the final inevitability befell him. Sky Father, in your glory, I will burn the sullied clean.
“You'll have better luck bartering with your cellmate than making any bargains up there,” a clear voice, too thick and melodic for the dry air, interrupted his prayers. Agamen’s head jerked just enough to catch honey-brown eyes glinting in the shadowed corner. The companion in his cell lounged on a cot, rags draping down from his shoulders with the dignity of formal regalia. His beard was remarkably well groomed for a desolate. Probably had something to do with the shiv he was using to pick under his fingernails. “Well, have you got anything on you?” Pure death carried on Agamen’s glare. An easy grin was returned. “First time, huh? You’re supposed to bring the goods to barter, and the bribe for the guards to ignore it. Most first timers forget the second one, but, ah… you’re not looking to make friends here without either.”
"For what end?" Agamen's voice was coated in dust. He didn't look at the thug anymore. "We're here to die."
"You might be," the man said with a certain theatrical diction. "Seven months in, myself." A glance, an unspoken, how could that be? The man shifted up, and Agamen tensed as he felt his approach. “If you’re smart and make their life easy while you’re here, sure, they’ll eventually kill you. Kick and writhe and curse your fate, they’ll get fifty lashes in before they kill you. Rise too high, piss off the wrong senator before you even make it through the gate? They’ll still whip ya. But they won’t kill ya.”
Solid, limber musculature joined Agamen’s hunched form against the bars. The man had weight to him, but leaned delicately. He gestured up and towards the pit.
“You see the shadow?” He asked. Agamen could not. “He’d be pretty far up. Near the top, where the vultures nest.” Agamen’s imagination raced before the man could lean in and utter, “They chain you up, ankle and wrist, and spread you buck naked. Hang you right in the eye facing The Sky Father’s judgement. He decides whether it’ll be the heat, the exhaustion, or the birds that will drag you to hell.”
The traitor’s neck and hands were slippery. He saw the sun, heard the roar of it as he was thrust before its mercy, naked and bloodstained as he’d been born. He had seen horror before, felt it done unto him, but it had never made him braver. He was as mortal as any other. Yet… “Maybe that’s what we all dese-”
“Anyway, if you see a corpse strung over your head out there, that’s Pollux, my last cellmate. Spare him a prayer. Only thing you brought with you,” the man finished glibly, and produced a small leather pouch from seemingly thin air. It sloshed, betraying the fluid inside. His hand was open in offering. Driven purely by mammal instinct, Agamen snatched and swigged it. He choked on the burn of pure ethanol and doubled over. The man yelped and swooped in to save it. “Whoa- whoa, man! What did you think it was, water?” A laugh. “That’s moonshine Cyclops made from the mushrooms growing out of the shit buckets. Do you know what I traded for this much?” He took a sip with little more than a slight wince and ‘ah’.
“That’s fucking foul,” Agamen growled, banging his chest.
“Mm. Well, you either live long enough to stomach it, or,” he whistled and pointed up. He slipped the pouch back somewhere in his rags and stepped back. Then something happened that made Agamen straighten, head lifting with memory of an old pride. This roguish peacock adjusted his posture and bowed, arm crossing his chest in a gesture that came naturally. “The name's Marcellus Starr, you must be aching to know. At your service.”
“You’re a soldier,” the former general said. He wasn’t aware of how much his flipping opinion of the man was in his eyes, in the way they locked onto him. Marcellus slouched back into a stance of ease.
“Once,” he said. “I’m not legion anymore. Mercenary. It was a path I took willingly, unlike… you, I presume. What were you? Not fodder… Centurion? Prefect? What the hell did you do to end up here?” Agamen shriveled back. An appreciative grin spread across Marcellus’s face. “Good, keeping your sin to yourself. At least you’re not that green. But, y’know, before you hear anything - I didn’t do it.”
He put his hands up as he paced backwards to his cot and flopped down, resuming his grooming with the shiv.
“Keep your prayers in your head and we’ll get along just fine, captain.”
Agamen looked back out at the pit. The sands blurred and silhouettes of patrolling guards wobbled like shades. He thought of the man strung twenty stories above, being scorched and torn apart in the eye of The Sky Father. He shut his own storm blue eyes and prayed.
Sky Father, in your glory, I will burn the sullied clean. Sky Father, in your glory, I will burn the sullied clean.
“You'll have better luck bartering with your cellmate than making any bargains up there,” a clear voice, too thick and melodic for the dry air, interrupted his prayers. Agamen’s head jerked just enough to catch honey-brown eyes glinting in the shadowed corner. The companion in his cell lounged on a cot, rags draping down from his shoulders with the dignity of formal regalia. His beard was remarkably well groomed for a desolate. Probably had something to do with the shiv he was using to pick under his fingernails. “Well, have you got anything on you?” Pure death carried on Agamen’s glare. An easy grin was returned. “First time, huh? You’re supposed to bring the goods to barter, and the bribe for the guards to ignore it. Most first timers forget the second one, but, ah… you’re not looking to make friends here without either.”
"For what end?" Agamen's voice was coated in dust. He didn't look at the thug anymore. "We're here to die."
"You might be," the man said with a certain theatrical diction. "Seven months in, myself." A glance, an unspoken, how could that be? The man shifted up, and Agamen tensed as he felt his approach. “If you’re smart and make their life easy while you’re here, sure, they’ll eventually kill you. Kick and writhe and curse your fate, they’ll get fifty lashes in before they kill you. Rise too high, piss off the wrong senator before you even make it through the gate? They’ll still whip ya. But they won’t kill ya.”
Solid, limber musculature joined Agamen’s hunched form against the bars. The man had weight to him, but leaned delicately. He gestured up and towards the pit.
“You see the shadow?” He asked. Agamen could not. “He’d be pretty far up. Near the top, where the vultures nest.” Agamen’s imagination raced before the man could lean in and utter, “They chain you up, ankle and wrist, and spread you buck naked. Hang you right in the eye facing The Sky Father’s judgement. He decides whether it’ll be the heat, the exhaustion, or the birds that will drag you to hell.”
The traitor’s neck and hands were slippery. He saw the sun, heard the roar of it as he was thrust before its mercy, naked and bloodstained as he’d been born. He had seen horror before, felt it done unto him, but it had never made him braver. He was as mortal as any other. Yet… “Maybe that’s what we all dese-”
“Anyway, if you see a corpse strung over your head out there, that’s Pollux, my last cellmate. Spare him a prayer. Only thing you brought with you,” the man finished glibly, and produced a small leather pouch from seemingly thin air. It sloshed, betraying the fluid inside. His hand was open in offering. Driven purely by mammal instinct, Agamen snatched and swigged it. He choked on the burn of pure ethanol and doubled over. The man yelped and swooped in to save it. “Whoa- whoa, man! What did you think it was, water?” A laugh. “That’s moonshine Cyclops made from the mushrooms growing out of the shit buckets. Do you know what I traded for this much?” He took a sip with little more than a slight wince and ‘ah’.
“That’s fucking foul,” Agamen growled, banging his chest.
“Mm. Well, you either live long enough to stomach it, or,” he whistled and pointed up. He slipped the pouch back somewhere in his rags and stepped back. Then something happened that made Agamen straighten, head lifting with memory of an old pride. This roguish peacock adjusted his posture and bowed, arm crossing his chest in a gesture that came naturally. “The name's Marcellus Starr, you must be aching to know. At your service.”
“You’re a soldier,” the former general said. He wasn’t aware of how much his flipping opinion of the man was in his eyes, in the way they locked onto him. Marcellus slouched back into a stance of ease.
“Once,” he said. “I’m not legion anymore. Mercenary. It was a path I took willingly, unlike… you, I presume. What were you? Not fodder… Centurion? Prefect? What the hell did you do to end up here?” Agamen shriveled back. An appreciative grin spread across Marcellus’s face. “Good, keeping your sin to yourself. At least you’re not that green. But, y’know, before you hear anything - I didn’t do it.”
He put his hands up as he paced backwards to his cot and flopped down, resuming his grooming with the shiv.
“Keep your prayers in your head and we’ll get along just fine, captain.”
Agamen looked back out at the pit. The sands blurred and silhouettes of patrolling guards wobbled like shades. He thought of the man strung twenty stories above, being scorched and torn apart in the eye of The Sky Father. He shut his own storm blue eyes and prayed.
Sky Father, in your glory, I will burn the sullied clean. Sky Father, in your glory, I will burn the sullied clean.
| _____________ | M A R C E L L U S  human | 31 | warfare | charisma | lore penned by CabbageAngel | _____________ |
collabs - none | pc interacts - none
GM
ThePigOrcEmpire
Member
Seen
2 hrs ago
Time passed by the hours. The desert winds quelled into a placid breeze, exposing all of the sun as it maintained its apex. The guards patrolling the prison noisily quenched their thirst with waterskins full of posca, ignorant of the prisoners’ seething eyes.
A dolorous sound boomed across the prison, coming through a set of three. The ring of a great brass bell, unseen from the primary complex. Before the guards could even bellow their orders, most of the prisoners had gotten onto their feet. “Straight to the mess hall, convicts! No deviations, no funny business!” The block commander warned, his rank denoted by the modest plumage adorning his helmet. The prison doors whined as they opened, rusted as the spirits of the prisoners they contained.
Up several flights of steps, towards the third floor of the complex. A towering shape bumped against Agamen’s shoulder as he walked past, nearly bowling the man over. Gold of hair and mane, with broad shoulders and the countenance of a lion. The accursed tossed a glance at Agamen, flashed his pointed fangs with a grin, then continued on his way, as two other half-beasts followed after him.
“You’re lucky your pockets are already empty. Bane just cased you,” Marcellus leaned in to remark, gesturing after the leonine’s flexing back. “I’d keep my distance. He runs the Fanged Pride, watching out for the accursed who can afford tribute. You’ll be fine so long as you don’t step on any tails down here.”
The mess hall was set within the north-facing area of the third floor, with a series of sandstone furniture arranged around the edge of the complex’s giant, hollow centre. The chairs provided no comfort to the condemned, being simple, roughly-hewn blocks too heavy to even move. A veritable battalion of sentries watched their every move, their backs against the wall, their hands steadied on the pommel of their swords.
A massive line formed behind the counter, manned by prisoners from another block, whose rags were visible beneath grease-splotched aprons. Once they had received their slop of the day, the prisoners relocated to different sides of the hall - humans by the west, accursed over east. A few errant souls stuck to their lonesome, hunching over their food. A red-scaled accursed was one of the loners; chained, collared, and muzzled. Every time Agamen snuck a glance, the traitor saw him looking back, with eyes that blaze with killing intent. One guard whispered a warning at the creature, whilst another undid his muzzle.
“Now that,” Marcellus pointed out, “Is a real good, gory reason to keep your sins to yourself. That lizard’s a godsdamned maniac. If he finds out why you’re in here, and it’s not up to his code? He’s executed more prisoners than the guards in the past month and they were all begging for The Sky Father’s judgement hours before he let them die. Eh, while they could still beg.” The man spoke out of the corner of his mouth in an exaggerated whisper, “Rumour is they confiscated a… tongue necklace from his cell recently. Yatagan despises oathbreakers the most.”
The next time Agamen spared a look, more out of impulse to check his own back, Yatagan’s burning glare trailed after him, like an animal sizing his meal. Like the meal that he ripped and tore, reducing it to a slurry of sludge, drool, and blood that trickled between his dagger-like fangs.
“Place your bets, let the tides of fate decide!” Over in the western corner, where the humans gathered, a woman announced through a clear, high voice. She sat on a table, legs crossed, surrounded by a gang of rippling muscles and shaved heads. With a swipe of her hand she spread a deck of cards in an arc. She was soft of face and voice, with cherry-coloured hair and a freckled smile. A smile she passed on to Marcellus as he walked past, topped by a wink.
He returned it, as well as a few hand signs that Agamen side-eyed and instantly suspected as salacious. “Our lovely lady fence Juno,” Marcellus hummed, “They say she’s nobility, you know. Does she look it to you, captain? Anyway, scratch my back and I’ll put in a good word, see if we can get about loaning you some bartering power.” A grin that almost appeared proud flashed on his face. “Just don’t try to pay off the loan by playing her games. You’ll never crawl out of debt, and you won’t know which of these bruisers she’s got in her pocket before you’re squealing.”
A guttural bark called for two of the names on the table. They stumbled to their feet to address their caller. A behemoth of a man, nearly hairless save for the patch of blonde around his chin. A crater-like scar spread from the remains of his right eye, and his flesh was marked all over by symbols of skulls, bones, and an eye. With a tilt of his head, the man signalled his cronies to follow.
The three humans lumbered eastward, to cross the unseen line dividing the humans and the accursed. Many eyes were set on them in an instant, yet most were averted when the lead brute swaggered onwards, undaunted and uncaring, his attention marked on a lonely corner. Spared from the Skyfather’s light, two accursed sat together. A woman with the pallor of a corpse and the horns and hooves of a demon. And a half-man, half-serpent, whose grey and pale scales reflected the little bit of ambient light that reached him.
“Where is it, you worm?” The one-eyed brute demanded, stomping towards the latter. “Where is my bloodroot powder?!” He roared, teeth bared and spittle flying. With a violent backhand, he sent their food and drinks tumbling to the floor. “You promised me a delivery two days ago!” Rage twisted his face and flushed it red. His voice bellowed through the hall, loud enough to reach their fellow prisoners and the guards, none of which saw fit to intervene.
A dolorous sound boomed across the prison, coming through a set of three. The ring of a great brass bell, unseen from the primary complex. Before the guards could even bellow their orders, most of the prisoners had gotten onto their feet. “Straight to the mess hall, convicts! No deviations, no funny business!” The block commander warned, his rank denoted by the modest plumage adorning his helmet. The prison doors whined as they opened, rusted as the spirits of the prisoners they contained.
Up several flights of steps, towards the third floor of the complex. A towering shape bumped against Agamen’s shoulder as he walked past, nearly bowling the man over. Gold of hair and mane, with broad shoulders and the countenance of a lion. The accursed tossed a glance at Agamen, flashed his pointed fangs with a grin, then continued on his way, as two other half-beasts followed after him.
“You’re lucky your pockets are already empty. Bane just cased you,” Marcellus leaned in to remark, gesturing after the leonine’s flexing back. “I’d keep my distance. He runs the Fanged Pride, watching out for the accursed who can afford tribute. You’ll be fine so long as you don’t step on any tails down here.”
The mess hall was set within the north-facing area of the third floor, with a series of sandstone furniture arranged around the edge of the complex’s giant, hollow centre. The chairs provided no comfort to the condemned, being simple, roughly-hewn blocks too heavy to even move. A veritable battalion of sentries watched their every move, their backs against the wall, their hands steadied on the pommel of their swords.
A massive line formed behind the counter, manned by prisoners from another block, whose rags were visible beneath grease-splotched aprons. Once they had received their slop of the day, the prisoners relocated to different sides of the hall - humans by the west, accursed over east. A few errant souls stuck to their lonesome, hunching over their food. A red-scaled accursed was one of the loners; chained, collared, and muzzled. Every time Agamen snuck a glance, the traitor saw him looking back, with eyes that blaze with killing intent. One guard whispered a warning at the creature, whilst another undid his muzzle.
“Now that,” Marcellus pointed out, “Is a real good, gory reason to keep your sins to yourself. That lizard’s a godsdamned maniac. If he finds out why you’re in here, and it’s not up to his code? He’s executed more prisoners than the guards in the past month and they were all begging for The Sky Father’s judgement hours before he let them die. Eh, while they could still beg.” The man spoke out of the corner of his mouth in an exaggerated whisper, “Rumour is they confiscated a… tongue necklace from his cell recently. Yatagan despises oathbreakers the most.”
The next time Agamen spared a look, more out of impulse to check his own back, Yatagan’s burning glare trailed after him, like an animal sizing his meal. Like the meal that he ripped and tore, reducing it to a slurry of sludge, drool, and blood that trickled between his dagger-like fangs.
“Place your bets, let the tides of fate decide!” Over in the western corner, where the humans gathered, a woman announced through a clear, high voice. She sat on a table, legs crossed, surrounded by a gang of rippling muscles and shaved heads. With a swipe of her hand she spread a deck of cards in an arc. She was soft of face and voice, with cherry-coloured hair and a freckled smile. A smile she passed on to Marcellus as he walked past, topped by a wink.
He returned it, as well as a few hand signs that Agamen side-eyed and instantly suspected as salacious. “Our lovely lady fence Juno,” Marcellus hummed, “They say she’s nobility, you know. Does she look it to you, captain? Anyway, scratch my back and I’ll put in a good word, see if we can get about loaning you some bartering power.” A grin that almost appeared proud flashed on his face. “Just don’t try to pay off the loan by playing her games. You’ll never crawl out of debt, and you won’t know which of these bruisers she’s got in her pocket before you’re squealing.”
A guttural bark called for two of the names on the table. They stumbled to their feet to address their caller. A behemoth of a man, nearly hairless save for the patch of blonde around his chin. A crater-like scar spread from the remains of his right eye, and his flesh was marked all over by symbols of skulls, bones, and an eye. With a tilt of his head, the man signalled his cronies to follow.
The three humans lumbered eastward, to cross the unseen line dividing the humans and the accursed. Many eyes were set on them in an instant, yet most were averted when the lead brute swaggered onwards, undaunted and uncaring, his attention marked on a lonely corner. Spared from the Skyfather’s light, two accursed sat together. A woman with the pallor of a corpse and the horns and hooves of a demon. And a half-man, half-serpent, whose grey and pale scales reflected the little bit of ambient light that reached him.
“Where is it, you worm?” The one-eyed brute demanded, stomping towards the latter. “Where is my bloodroot powder?!” He roared, teeth bared and spittle flying. With a violent backhand, he sent their food and drinks tumbling to the floor. “You promised me a delivery two days ago!” Rage twisted his face and flushed it red. His voice bellowed through the hall, loud enough to reach their fellow prisoners and the guards, none of which saw fit to intervene.
M A R C E L L U S human | 31 | warfare | charisma | lore penned by CabbageAngel | B A N E  accursed | 26 | warfare | plunder | curse of twin moons penned by ThePigOrcEmpire | Y A T A G A N  accursed | 35 | occult | skullduggery | curse of dragon (fire) penned by ThePigOrcEmpire |
J U N O  human | 28 | skullduggery | charisma | plunder penned by ThePigOrcEmpire | J A X O N  human | 41 | warfare | handicraft penned by ThePigOrcEmpire | C A S T O R  accursed | 23 | miracles | skullduggery | plunder | curse of dragon (poison) penned by CabbageAngel |
collabs - CabbageAngel | interacts - Agamen, Ignatius | @CabbageAngel
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2 hrs ago
Where is it?!... Was exactly the question Iggi himself had been asking hours ago when he was picking the scales off his poor scabby hands. But blubbering the truth - I don't know! I don't know where the delivery is, I can't ask around for the guard I bribed, do you think I'm some amateur? - seemed pretty unwise in the face of this furious, drug-hungry goliath staring him down. Everyone knew Jaxon One-Eyed hated whiners even more than he hated the accursed and having one eye. Which was already putting Iggi on an unavoidable two strikes in this confrontation.
So he made like a snake and lied.
"Safe! It's somewhere safe, Jaxon, my friend," the accursed spoke with a slight hissing lisp, voice crackling like a young fire sizzling tinder. His transparent youth spoiled his front of confidence and made him appear punkish and unbearably punchable. "You think I'm going to just walk around all these thugs (he made sure to gesture towards the accursed side of the mess hall. The accursed satyr sitting beside him gave a disapproving "ugh") with such premium product in my... pockets?"
He lifted his louse-bitten shawl. No pockets on the lad. Just smooth, dusty scales.
"Besides," he dared. Desperation was at the helm now. "I can't just be handing over product without... confirmation that there's any coin on the horizon for me, yeah? I haven't heard a jingle since we started talking business. I should be the one asking y- hnk!"
Iggi made the sound of a pufferfish inhaling air as a hand seized his thin, bony neck and crunched down.
So he made like a snake and lied.
"Safe! It's somewhere safe, Jaxon, my friend," the accursed spoke with a slight hissing lisp, voice crackling like a young fire sizzling tinder. His transparent youth spoiled his front of confidence and made him appear punkish and unbearably punchable. "You think I'm going to just walk around all these thugs (he made sure to gesture towards the accursed side of the mess hall. The accursed satyr sitting beside him gave a disapproving "ugh") with such premium product in my... pockets?"
He lifted his louse-bitten shawl. No pockets on the lad. Just smooth, dusty scales.
"Besides," he dared. Desperation was at the helm now. "I can't just be handing over product without... confirmation that there's any coin on the horizon for me, yeah? I haven't heard a jingle since we started talking business. I should be the one asking y- hnk!"
Iggi made the sound of a pufferfish inhaling air as a hand seized his thin, bony neck and crunched down.
J A X O N human | 41 | warfare | handicraft penned by ThePigOrcEmpire | C A S T O R accursed | 23 | miracles | skullduggery | plunder | curse of dragon (poison) penned by CabbageAngel |
collabs - none | pc interacts - none | @ThePigOrcEmpire
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2 hrs ago
A vein chiseled out Jaxon’s temple, and it grew larger with every word from Iggi’s mouth. There wasn’t much room for more words with the brute’s massive hand throttling him, however, causing the snake-man’s glottis to work overtime, gasping for breath. Without another word, he forced his free hand deep into the snake-man’s gullet - first the hand, then the wrist, the forearm, until he stopped just below the elbow. Jaxon’s backups cringed as they saw the bumps and distensions forming beneath Iggi’s neck, driven by their leader’s manic motions.
“Ghhh-- bl- hnk-- bllllppphhhhkk--”
After a good two minutes of rooting, Jaxon yanked out his entire arm, covered in a thick layer of saliva. “It’s not here!” He exclaimed with a twitching, disbelieving eye, as if Iggi’s entire speech had gone in one ear and out the other. He pulled the snake-man closer, his right hand clenching even tighter. “Listen here you little shit,” he started, his voice lowering into an uncharacteristic yet still growing whisper. Up close, Iggi could see how enormous his one good pupil was. “I don’t care what you have to do. Get me that bloodroot powder tomorrow, or I’m breaking all the fingers in your right hand. One. by. One.”
“Uh, Boss?” Jaxon’s male thug interrupted. To their side, three other shapes had come into view, too large and misshapen to be humans. Bane strutted in the middle, his chest puffed, a claw unsheathed to pick at his teeth. The female thug stepped up, meeting the lion at near eye-level. “Back off, fur-licker. This ain’t none of your business!” Bane scoffed, barely looked at her, then pushed her aside with as much effort as an empty cup.
“Business is the only thing I’m here for,” the lion declared, the undertone of a purr trailing after his words. “Ignatius is mine, and nobody lays a claw on him as long as he pays The Bane his weight in silver!” Bane directed his eyes at Iggi. A second of hesitation passed, the lion flashed a smile - though it was more of a sneer, with no joy reaching his eyes, and a mouth full of bared, pointed teeth. “You.. do have my money, yes?”
“Ghhh-- bl- hnk-- bllllppphhhhkk--”
After a good two minutes of rooting, Jaxon yanked out his entire arm, covered in a thick layer of saliva. “It’s not here!” He exclaimed with a twitching, disbelieving eye, as if Iggi’s entire speech had gone in one ear and out the other. He pulled the snake-man closer, his right hand clenching even tighter. “Listen here you little shit,” he started, his voice lowering into an uncharacteristic yet still growing whisper. Up close, Iggi could see how enormous his one good pupil was. “I don’t care what you have to do. Get me that bloodroot powder tomorrow, or I’m breaking all the fingers in your right hand. One. by. One.”
“Uh, Boss?” Jaxon’s male thug interrupted. To their side, three other shapes had come into view, too large and misshapen to be humans. Bane strutted in the middle, his chest puffed, a claw unsheathed to pick at his teeth. The female thug stepped up, meeting the lion at near eye-level. “Back off, fur-licker. This ain’t none of your business!” Bane scoffed, barely looked at her, then pushed her aside with as much effort as an empty cup.
“Business is the only thing I’m here for,” the lion declared, the undertone of a purr trailing after his words. “Ignatius is mine, and nobody lays a claw on him as long as he pays The Bane his weight in silver!” Bane directed his eyes at Iggi. A second of hesitation passed, the lion flashed a smile - though it was more of a sneer, with no joy reaching his eyes, and a mouth full of bared, pointed teeth. “You.. do have my money, yes?”
J A X O N human | 41 | warfare | handicraft penned by ThePigOrcEmpire | B A N E accursed | 26 | warfare | plunder | curse of twin moons penned by ThePigOrcEmpire |
collabs - none | pc interacts - Ignatius | @CabbageAngel
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2 hrs ago
Iggi was still spluttering for air and out of embarrassment after his very public violation. If he were warm-blooded his grey scales would be flushing red. He flexed his jaw, sawing it back and forth, clicking it back into place. His throat felt strange and bent out of shape, and he tasted something acrid and powdery all the way down the back of it. There was no relief as Bane’s maned head took focus over Jaxon.
Ah, the money. The money in exchange for the Fanged Pride’s protection. The money that he needed to save himself from Jaxon’s Ironhands. The money that it was looking like if he did not have, he would need to pay somebody else to keep him safe from the Fanged Pride until he could get it. He was trapped in a circle of agony he could not buy out of, so again and miserably, he tried talking.
“I -cough, cough- have it! Bane, buddy, of course I have it! Most of it!” Truth finally started to trickle out under pressure. He slithered his way back, hands up, the scarring near his arms peeking from his shawl as he tried to appease the prowling lion. “It’s just… technically… he has the rest of it?” A shaky finger pointed at Jaxon, scared to accuse him, but also desperate to throw the heat onto someone else. “We’re, aha, trying to work out an itty bitty payment plan for this shipment coming in- delayed, yeah, a little, you know, the sandstorms that have been coming through, my guy’s probably just escorting a prisoner caravan that got separated in the dust- Jaxon- JAXON-” He twisted to the approaching human quick, “Alright, maybe he didn’t pull through, but I’ll figure it out! I’ll just need - maybe a little more grease for the wheel and- I’m not pulling a fast on you, you don’t pull fasts in places you can’t get fast away from THAT’S THE POINT OF IT JAXON PLEASE-”
“Can you assholes back off the kid?” The accursed beside Iggi rose to her hooves, disrupting the two shadows that were closing in on his head. Glowing yellow eyes flashed with unveiled annoyance beneath her twisted horns and mossy hair. A runed collar, heftier and inscribed with more etchings than the ones on Bane and Iggi, weighed down her neck. The woman - Iggi couldn’t remember the name, though she’d been brought in with the same batch as him, it wasn’t like they’d ever exchanged words - was half the size of the brutes. And yet she was sneering up at them, her silence broken and arms crossed with attitude. “Surely you two big shots have something better to do than shake down a nobody you could use as a jump rope. Like you couldn’t get any more pathetic.”
Iggi closed his gawking mouth. He didn’t know whether he felt more grateful or insulted, but he did know for sure terror trumped both of those, and this woman (whom he would wholeheartedly place the blame on for any further consequence) was getting them killed.
Ah, the money. The money in exchange for the Fanged Pride’s protection. The money that he needed to save himself from Jaxon’s Ironhands. The money that it was looking like if he did not have, he would need to pay somebody else to keep him safe from the Fanged Pride until he could get it. He was trapped in a circle of agony he could not buy out of, so again and miserably, he tried talking.
“I -cough, cough- have it! Bane, buddy, of course I have it! Most of it!” Truth finally started to trickle out under pressure. He slithered his way back, hands up, the scarring near his arms peeking from his shawl as he tried to appease the prowling lion. “It’s just… technically… he has the rest of it?” A shaky finger pointed at Jaxon, scared to accuse him, but also desperate to throw the heat onto someone else. “We’re, aha, trying to work out an itty bitty payment plan for this shipment coming in- delayed, yeah, a little, you know, the sandstorms that have been coming through, my guy’s probably just escorting a prisoner caravan that got separated in the dust- Jaxon- JAXON-” He twisted to the approaching human quick, “Alright, maybe he didn’t pull through, but I’ll figure it out! I’ll just need - maybe a little more grease for the wheel and- I’m not pulling a fast on you, you don’t pull fasts in places you can’t get fast away from THAT’S THE POINT OF IT JAXON PLEASE-”
“Can you assholes back off the kid?” The accursed beside Iggi rose to her hooves, disrupting the two shadows that were closing in on his head. Glowing yellow eyes flashed with unveiled annoyance beneath her twisted horns and mossy hair. A runed collar, heftier and inscribed with more etchings than the ones on Bane and Iggi, weighed down her neck. The woman - Iggi couldn’t remember the name, though she’d been brought in with the same batch as him, it wasn’t like they’d ever exchanged words - was half the size of the brutes. And yet she was sneering up at them, her silence broken and arms crossed with attitude. “Surely you two big shots have something better to do than shake down a nobody you could use as a jump rope. Like you couldn’t get any more pathetic.”
Iggi closed his gawking mouth. He didn’t know whether he felt more grateful or insulted, but he did know for sure terror trumped both of those, and this woman (whom he would wholeheartedly place the blame on for any further consequence) was getting them killed.
J A X O N human | 41 | warfare | handicraft penned by ThePigOrcEmpire | B A N E accursed | 26 | warfare | plunder | curse of twin moons penned by ThePigOrcEmpire | C A S T O R accursed | 23 | miracles | skullduggery | plunder | curse of dragon (poison) penned by CabbageAngel |
collabs - none | pc interacts - none | @ThePigOrcEmpire
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Seen
2 hrs ago
Agamen had taken his seat on the western side of the mess hall, away from Juno's dubious gambling ring, and further still from the accursed. Near him, some of the other new arrivals were nervously surveying their surrounds, apart from a veiled woman and her male companion possessing the same amber hues, both of whom had been brought in with Agamen and observed the chaos around them deliberately.
Being close to so much fur and fang caused him to subconsciously lean into his cellmate. Faithless he might have been, he still had the soul of a man, just a wayward one, unlike these demons. To think, he would no longer have a soldier’s burial, but his bones would lie with abominations. It almost made a flicker of righteousness scorch away his defeat.
His garrulous guardian was doing something he’d just advised Agamen against, and spilling his Great Sin like idle gossip. It was theatrical and clearly three steps removed from Marcellus’s heart as he regaled the man, something about seducing the wrong rich client’s wife, then being framed for her murder when the husband slew her in a rage. ("There's a lot I've done for rich men like him that should've put us all here, but in the end, I was condemned for love." "Love?" Agamen probed. "A mythic ass," Marcellus amended.)
Whatever the true story was, Marcellus's lifestyle had condemned him, and Agamen held him to full judgement. Silently, as the slitted pupils on him had him in want of a friend. The commotion coming from the other side of the room had him distracted from thinking too deeply on his conflicted feelings about his guide. A wretched looking snake, his tail bent and dry, had his twiggy arms up trying to calm two behemoths, a man and that lion that had bumped him before. Marcellus leaned back on his stool and hummed.
"Mmm, there he is... Jaxon the Cyclops. Hey, don't repeat what I say if you want a chance of joining his little gang. He's sensitive," he advised, then squinted, "Don't know scales. Must be new. Oh, but her - that's Castor." His eyes brightened and Agamen knew why Marcellus deemed her worth remembering. "Weird one, that. She spends half her time in here praying. You don't see accursed communing with the gods often. Rumor has it, she casts miracles."
Agamen's jaw twitched. "It must be just that. The gods wouldn't permit it," he murmured, turning from the scene with disgust. Marcellus's lips curled.
"A lot happens down here that I don't think the gods are permitting."
A rough laugh rose above the rest of the crowd at Juno's table and beckoned Agamen's attention. Among the humans was a silhouette he had glazed over, either because it was smaller or... his mind had erased it, because it was too depraved to be true.
Being close to so much fur and fang caused him to subconsciously lean into his cellmate. Faithless he might have been, he still had the soul of a man, just a wayward one, unlike these demons. To think, he would no longer have a soldier’s burial, but his bones would lie with abominations. It almost made a flicker of righteousness scorch away his defeat.
His garrulous guardian was doing something he’d just advised Agamen against, and spilling his Great Sin like idle gossip. It was theatrical and clearly three steps removed from Marcellus’s heart as he regaled the man, something about seducing the wrong rich client’s wife, then being framed for her murder when the husband slew her in a rage. ("There's a lot I've done for rich men like him that should've put us all here, but in the end, I was condemned for love." "Love?" Agamen probed. "A mythic ass," Marcellus amended.)
Whatever the true story was, Marcellus's lifestyle had condemned him, and Agamen held him to full judgement. Silently, as the slitted pupils on him had him in want of a friend. The commotion coming from the other side of the room had him distracted from thinking too deeply on his conflicted feelings about his guide. A wretched looking snake, his tail bent and dry, had his twiggy arms up trying to calm two behemoths, a man and that lion that had bumped him before. Marcellus leaned back on his stool and hummed.
"Mmm, there he is... Jaxon the Cyclops. Hey, don't repeat what I say if you want a chance of joining his little gang. He's sensitive," he advised, then squinted, "Don't know scales. Must be new. Oh, but her - that's Castor." His eyes brightened and Agamen knew why Marcellus deemed her worth remembering. "Weird one, that. She spends half her time in here praying. You don't see accursed communing with the gods often. Rumor has it, she casts miracles."
Agamen's jaw twitched. "It must be just that. The gods wouldn't permit it," he murmured, turning from the scene with disgust. Marcellus's lips curled.
"A lot happens down here that I don't think the gods are permitting."
A rough laugh rose above the rest of the crowd at Juno's table and beckoned Agamen's attention. Among the humans was a silhouette he had glazed over, either because it was smaller or... his mind had erased it, because it was too depraved to be true.
"HA! Hand it allllll over, suckers!" Clawed hands stomped across the table, swiping up the contraband and gold that had been gambled. "I could clean you lot out with my hands tied, miserable fucks. Ceci, what are you doing, I could smell your bluff before I saw it. Lay off the beans and bloodroot. I'm 'bout to pay the whips for you to gas up solitary."
A cocky laugh tore from a mouth of sharp teeth. The accursed's face was round and furry, a nasty scar running down it and tugging his lips up to show off a golden fang permanently. He jumped from the table, onto his chair, landing again on his hands. The accursed had no legs. "Any sore losers want your shit back, you arm wrestle me for it," he hooted, then settled back with satisfaction. Until his gaze caught someone across the hall. Human, ragged, his unruly hair and beard turned blood red from dust, dust that had settled in the harsh crags around his eyes. Eyes like The Sky Father's fury, blue as a sea storm, which were looking at the accursed... well, like they were asking to be torn the fuck out.
"Heyo, Juni," he picked up a bone from his meal, which had a notable bit more meat than any other plate, and crunched down. Shattering it and ripping right through to the marrow. "Who the hell is that?"
A cocky laugh tore from a mouth of sharp teeth. The accursed's face was round and furry, a nasty scar running down it and tugging his lips up to show off a golden fang permanently. He jumped from the table, onto his chair, landing again on his hands. The accursed had no legs. "Any sore losers want your shit back, you arm wrestle me for it," he hooted, then settled back with satisfaction. Until his gaze caught someone across the hall. Human, ragged, his unruly hair and beard turned blood red from dust, dust that had settled in the harsh crags around his eyes. Eyes like The Sky Father's fury, blue as a sea storm, which were looking at the accursed... well, like they were asking to be torn the fuck out.
"Heyo, Juni," he picked up a bone from his meal, which had a notable bit more meat than any other plate, and crunched down. Shattering it and ripping right through to the marrow. "Who the hell is that?"
M A R C E L L U S human | 31 | warfare | charisma | lore penned by CabbageAngel | B A N E accursed | 26 | warfare | plunder | curse of twin moons penned by ThePigOrcEmpire | J U N O human | 28 | skullduggery | charisma | plunder penned by ThePigOrcEmpire |
J A X O N human | 41 | warfare | handicraft penned by ThePigOrcEmpire | C A S T O R accursed | 23 | miracles | skullduggery | plunder | curse of dragon (poison) penned by CabbageAngel | T H E.. P L A G U E S  human | 30s | occult | skullduggery | handicraft penned by ThePigOrcEmpire and CabbageAngel |
collabs - none | interacts - none | @ThePigOrcEmpire
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2 hrs ago
Jaxon and Bane’s attentions diverted towards the woman who had broken her silence. The human’s upper lip twitched with a contemptuous snarl. The lion, on the other hand, was slack-jawed and blinking. Then he scoffed, and his astonishment warped into a roaring laughter from deep within his belly. “GA HA HA HA! Oh, Castor, you are a woman after The Bane’s own heart.” He leaned close, his gaze lidded, the purr in his voice deepening. “A lioness like you belongs with my Fanged Pride.”
Jaxon rolled his eyes. “The she-goat is distracting you, Bane. Iggi screwed BOTH of us over!” The one-eyed bandit glared at the snake in his hand as he continued, “If I give this worm an inch, the rest of you half-beasts will be asking for miles!” Bane side-eyed him. The lion’s voice lowered. “What do you mean, ‘Us half-beasts’? Are you saying you have no deadbeats on your side of the block?”
Jaxon’s grip tightened on Iggi’s neck. He glowered at Bane on eye level. “Naw. They’re just dead.”
A cool smile curled the corners of Juno’s lips. She shuffled the cards as the round of the game concluded, her nails painted to match the bright red of her hair. “I don't know. He came in at midday, with the rest of this month’s batch.” She held up the cards as if to inspect them, yet her gaze peered right over their tops. “Hmm~... his gait is too tall to be a crook. His hands are too rough to be a noble. But not so rough that he’d belong with the miners. There’s something about the way he walks…”
Before Juno could finish her musing, she glanced at Blood, her smile turning pointed until it became a smirk. “He’s been sticking with Marcie all day. Do you want to be introduced, Blood?” She wiggled her brows. “Maybe he’s a fan of yours.”
Jaxon rolled his eyes. “The she-goat is distracting you, Bane. Iggi screwed BOTH of us over!” The one-eyed bandit glared at the snake in his hand as he continued, “If I give this worm an inch, the rest of you half-beasts will be asking for miles!” Bane side-eyed him. The lion’s voice lowered. “What do you mean, ‘Us half-beasts’? Are you saying you have no deadbeats on your side of the block?”
Jaxon’s grip tightened on Iggi’s neck. He glowered at Bane on eye level. “Naw. They’re just dead.”
A cool smile curled the corners of Juno’s lips. She shuffled the cards as the round of the game concluded, her nails painted to match the bright red of her hair. “I don't know. He came in at midday, with the rest of this month’s batch.” She held up the cards as if to inspect them, yet her gaze peered right over their tops. “Hmm~... his gait is too tall to be a crook. His hands are too rough to be a noble. But not so rough that he’d belong with the miners. There’s something about the way he walks…”
Before Juno could finish her musing, she glanced at Blood, her smile turning pointed until it became a smirk. “He’s been sticking with Marcie all day. Do you want to be introduced, Blood?” She wiggled her brows. “Maybe he’s a fan of yours.”
B A N E accursed | 26 | warfare | plunder | curse of twin moons penned by ThePigOrcEmpire | J A X O N human | 41 | warfare | handicraft penned by ThePigOrcEmpire | J U N O human | 28 | skullduggery | charisma | plunder penned by ThePigOrcEmpire |
C A S T O R accursed | 23 | miracles | skullduggery | plunder | curse of dragon (poison) penned by CabbageAngel |
collabs - none | pc interacts - Iggi, Blood | @CabbageAngel
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