Revolution
D3AD ST4R
PalmerEldritch
Stryder BC
lustrousfox
Ducksworth
Tau
CinderRadcliffIzzy 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.
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.
