Irdenvahl: Escape from the Spyres (IC)

[Erhialam]

Our tale begins in the main courtyard of The Spyres, just past dawn. The prisoners of the Western wing of the Spyres, who number just over a hundred, stand in near-silent shackled lines, their faces stiff with the cold air of a mountain morning and their wan shadows stretching only just behind them. Inspecting them are a few groups of royal overseers, tasked with selecting the most able-bodied workers for the building of King Ronan's fortress. With each group of overseers is a hunchbacked jailer, ready to unshackle the chosen ones from the lines.

A single figure stands at the fore of the courtyard, hooded but unmistakable. Overwarden Ennevire Syros is watching with her cold, black eyes. She seems to see all.

Each prisoner silently questions the two fates that lie before them. What would be a better fate? To rot forever in idleness in the cells of the Spyres? Or to be dragged across Irdenvahl to face toil under the lash until their backs inevitably broke from the strain?

Alosin Rains closes her eyes against the cold wind, tries to shut the world out and hide, as if she could make of her own skull a fortress. She is several rows back; the overseers will not reach her for some time yet. Her hazel eyes flick open again, and she shifts her manacled feet, exhaling a shuddering cloud of bodily steam.

She was not afraid, and she was not angry. Fear and anger lurked below the surface of her psyche, still smoldering like embers in a cold grate, but they were not her own. Not today, at least. Today, on the day her fate was to be decided. Alosin Rains felt nothing. She was cold, and heavy, and hollow this day.

Glancing about, she studied her fellow prisoners as they stood, tried to guess at their fate merely by looking at them, their stance, their shuffling and coughing, their bleary eyes...

[Nuridia]

Blodeuwedd
The Princess of Powys was having a bad morning. Well actually all her mornings had been bad for the past four years, ever since she was sent to this gods forsaken hole. She should be at her coronation today. Or better yet, she should'be been with her parents in their castle, dancing in the Great Hall and visiting the farmets but instead, she was standing in a line with other prisoners, imprisoned for a crime she did not commit.

There were times that she almost broke, but she refused to forget who she was. The rightful queen of Powys, the blood of kings. The only thing that kept her going was the thought of liberating her people and getting her throne back from the one who had taken everything from her in the first place. Gwydion, traitorpus bastard. He had killed her parents, denounced her as a murderer and took her crown and then she was sent here. It was humiliating, first they cut her hair. In Powys a royal woman never cut her hair, it was a symbol of their authority. And then all the other things she had to endure...she thought about them every day. Forced herself too, she must never forget. Or else she would become comfortable and then she'd lose herself. Even with the bruise on her healing split lip and the color gone from her cheeks, painfully thin with lank hair in her worn prison shift, she knew she probably didn't cut an impressive figure right now. But that didn't matter, and as she thought a spark returned to her eyes.

She had gotten hurt, her lip had been split and other things. She fought back, she was a troublemaker and had gotten the bruises and scars to show for it. It hurt but it didn't matter. She had nothing else to do but fight, she had to keep fighting. Or die.

[Ceannairceach]

Aurel Ludor was perhaps among the most confident men to ever wear the chains of the Spyres. He stood tall, the lash marks that bled through his thin tunic hardly breaking his composure as he sneered at the Overwarden, his eyes filled with fire and steel as he wished death upon her. On the merchant ships that sailed along Irdenvahl's western coast, they had various rituals and incantations to do should they want someone dead: old, mythic black magics that may or may not work, but for every ten men it did not kill, one fell over after their name was sung. Since his imprisonment over two weeks ago, Aurel had thought to maybe try a spell, but the price was too steep: spare water was itself a luxury in the Spyres, let alone salt water, and bones of sea creatures even harder to come by.

So he was content in merely dreaming of her death, somehow hoping that one night his sleeping thoughts might translate into reality. Thus far, though, he has found himself wanting, as each morning he awakes to the sight of the damned overwarden looking down at him, a symbol of his imprisonment stronger than any other.

He hardly listened when they were told what project the teams were being pulled for. Some fortress on the far-flung borders of the nation, far away from the brutality of the Spyres, but also from the healers and food and hearth that many in the king's prison valued more than anything. It was said that barely one man in twenty returned from these work details, and those that did usually filled the ranks of the jailors, broken and beaten from months of hard labor. Aurel did not fear this: he knew that if he was to die, he would die. Fate did not care for his input, and although it had not been kind to him thus far, obviously it did not want him dead just yet.

So when the overseers started their slow, long march through the lines of assembled prisoners, Aurel did not expect his name to be called. He expected, like every day before, he would be passed over, 'too new' to the prison to be given work. Too rowdy and undisciplined.

He did not know why he was chosen. Perhaps a guard held a grudge after a lost game of dice. Perhaps a jailer wanted revenge after one too many abusive words. Maybe fate just felt cruel. Whatever the reason, when the overseer passed by Aurel, he grabbed him by the collar and dragged him away from the mass of prisoners towards the holding cells. Aurel was stricken dumb, and went limp as he was dragged across the assembly field. No, he thought, stunned and confused. No, why would they want me?

Whatever air of confidence Aurel had held to evaporated as he was tossed into the holding area to await the selection of the other prisoners. He grasped at the bars of his cage and yelled at the overseers to release him. "Let me go! I swear to whatever gods will listen, I'll kill you if you don't let me out!" His rage was for nought, however, as a guard punched his face through the bars and sent him sprawling out on the floor of his cell. His face bloodied and his nose now crooked, Aurel shrunk back into the corner, quietly cursing to himself, as he awaited whatever fate had in store.

[Altegonnia]

Andros Turner would sit against one of the cold stone walls of his cell. These three bleak walls and their iron bar counterparts had been his constant companions for four years now. Outside of the occasional work detail or another round of torture for any information about the Smiling Crux's Guild leadership he spent his days rotting away in this infernal tower of dread. He would close his eyes and sigh, hoping possibly to doze off and waste some of this dreary day away.....but then he heard it.

knock knock

one of the nearby inmates had knocked on his cell door, making a metal noise all down the hall. This was an alert to all the prisoners that the overseers were coming. They would arrive at Andros' cell and would come in with the usual grim faces. He would smirk and say,"Is it time to not feed me again already? I must have really lost track of time." His quip was quiet friendly met with a punch to the gut.

Only one hit? They must be behind schedule today. he would ponder as they'd bind his arms and legs in chains and drag him back up onto his feet, prodding him to shimmy forward. They would take him to blessed sight of the main courtyard. There was no better place to be as it meant he might get to leave the prison for awhile. As he got in line he'd notice some of his boys among the crowd. Maybe I can catch up with them on the latest beatings they've enjoyed. been who knows how long since we Smiling Crux's got to meet up in the same place thanks to this prison. he'd think amusingly.

However the amusement would wipe of his face after looking up. The Ice Queen herself graced the group with her annoying gaze. Andros has associated with thugs to serial killers to bankers and he'd never been shaken by any of their evil. However Over-warden Syros...something about her was just wrong. He often speculated in his head that she was actually a monster wearing a woman's skin. It would fit the crown to employ something from an evil fairy tail to guard their prisoners. He'd take a quick gander around and see many faces he recognized as well and many he didn't. Had to be new meat brought into the prison recently. Although he was amused that he and his boys had a chance of getting out he didn't exactly have high hopes. must have been hundreds of prisoners for this project and he and his Guild affiliated compatriots were not popular among the guards.

they would unlock his chains and with a smirk he would be escorted to a holding cell. Inside would be some other assorted prisoners, one who was bleeding like a fool. He'd be pushed inside landing on his hands and knees as they locked the door behind him. One of the guards grumbling,"Try smuggling yourself out of there..." He'd get up and smirk again saying,"The fools. Well hello fellow inmates the day has arrived for many of us. I've been here four years and not many that leave survive the harsh labor. If any of you were wishing for death it has arrived. A man's last thoughts should be of home; I am from Kyren. where do you all hail from? Do you think they'll let our bodies be sent back to our hometowns to be buried?" Although some of what he said was grim the tone in which he said it was quite uppity for a man in the Spyre. It is easy to tell he's just attempting to mess with any new inmates.

[Nuridia]

Blodeuwedd looked up when her name was called, surprise etched in her features. She was being sent to this new fortress complex, with the real criminals? She'd die for sure...but what if she didn't? They were being transported, maybe there was some way that she could get out. Maybe there was some way that everyone could get out.
Suddenly she felt herself pushed and realized that she hadn't moved. When she regained her balance again, two of the overseers grabbed her preparing to take her to where the other prisoners who had been chosen were.
Roughly one of them pulled her along but she sharply wrenched her arm from his grasp, biting her lip to keep from crying in pain.

"Hands off! I can walk!" she snapped and got a backhand to the eye for her trouble, when her head snapped back forward there was a fresh stream of blood from her torn bottom eyelid. They grabbed her again and pulled her along, she stared straight ahead with mouth set in a hard line. She would not cry, queens didn't cry.

[Yuzhou]

Ran Kastor
The Spyres

Ran stood there in the cold, damp courtyard. Though small drops of rains hit his skin and head, he did not shiver. One got used to the cold and damp here, for it was even cold and damp when you had a fire next to you inside the prison. Such a gloom roamed here.
The wind brushed past his ears in a low howl. He was used to this routine. Same shackles, same line, the only thing that ever changed was the faces of the people standing in it. Some were new, others old -- some he was surprised to see were still breathing.

As for himself, the son of Dusk Lord Kastor was really just a hallow shell. He retained a little bit of the muscle he molded so well during his days out prison. For someone fed so little, he still retained an air of strength about him. But on closer inspection, one would see nothing more than a small man in big clothes, barely standing against the wind in the long line of hallow men.

As the overseers made their way to their picks, he reached up and scratched his beard. Each month he traded some food to get his head shaved, but he never had enough to style the facial section, so he grew that out. Over the course of four years it turned from a close goatee to a great brown bush. Such was one of the most minor annoyances a resident of the Spyres dealt with.

Kastor watched as the overseerers dragged and pulled many off to the pen. Some got punches to the face and gut, one in particular because he threatened the overseerer who chose him. Ran couldn't help but smirk at this.
"New guy...", he thought.

Another was a women who he had seen around. Some rumors he heard said she arrived around the same time as him, but he never really felt the need to verify. This too he found amusing. He knew she was a trouble maker, but that's not how you got along in this place. Not with "that woman" watching. He looked up at Syros, and for the first time despite all the cold, a shudder ran down his spine.

Just like clockwork, an overseer nicknamed 'Grate' called him out.
"Raider", he shouted from across the yard in that abrasive voice of his. That, by the way, is where he got his nickname.

Unlike the last two to be chosen, the jailer simply walked up and unlocked Ran's shackles.
Kastor knew he was going to be chosen. That was because he was chosen every other time. He always worked, never caused trouble, and had an unnatural ability to stay alive. The overseerers liked that about him, and so on the rare occasion, they didn't treat him like piss.

Ran rubbed his wrists from where the heavy cuffs had sat and walked over into the holding area. In truth, he liked to be picked. It meant an extra meal, and he got to leave the prison. The only thing that could kill the adventurer Ran Kastor, was boredom. Once inside, he turned to the new guy that got socked in the face and given a crooked nose.
"See kid, THAT'S how ya do it."

[Beiarusia]

Gwendolyn Tallow

---

The young woman was cold. Not because the sky was gray and the day lacking in warmth, but because her jailors had seen fit to douse her in water whenever they felt that she was becoming too dry in what was a misguided attempt to prevent her magicks from having any real power, thus eliminating a potential threat and leaving the witch as nothing more than a frail girl. It was an absurd assumption, but alas it was one that worked wonders. Try as she might Gwendolyn could get not even a spark from her damp hands much less a warming flame. For two days she had endured this mistreatment, locked in chains in the back of a wagon with buckets of cold water thrown atop her with little forewarning. The young woman had cursed at her captors, wishing them horrible fates that were beyond her control, and though it made her feel somewhat better it was a fruitless endeavor. The burly men had merely laughed and doused her again. After the first day Gwendolyn had merely sat in silence.

After her capture in Auerumn it had been decided that she would be transferred to the Spyres, a prison that held all manners of criminals, miscreants, and enemies of the state. This was to be her new home if Gwendolyn were to believe her captors. It was an imposing sight, nothing like the city that she had grown up in. Black stone towers surrounded by desolate landscapes that neither welcomed nor supported life. This was the sort of place where men came to die or to disappear, and the Spyres gladly accommodated.

Gwendolyn was pulled along behind the two men that had seen to her bondage, her hands chained together with another encircling her waist. Small puddles were left in her wake as she went. The guardsmen watching the main gates spoke curtly with the men and, satisfied, took reign of the girl before handing her off to the jailors within. Apparently she had arrived just in time according to the slimy, bald man that now held her chains, his yellowed eyes giving her an unsettling stare that lingered too long in any given place. He smiled a snaggletoothed grin before cackling to himself. Unsure of how to react Gwendolyn did the same, adding her own small laugh to his raucous cackle. The guardsmen only looked on with curious displeasure.

“Not so droll, are ye? I like that,” the jailer said as he guided her through the main arches of the prison.

There was a small courtyard just beyond the main gates with an obsidian statue depicting a kingly man, his back against the far wall, whose name was not outright known, lost to time and to the Spyres itself. Gwendolyn only gave the ugly work of stone cursory glance. “Enough to let me go?”

Another cackle. “I like thee but not that much.”

A few more passages and they arrived to the main courtyard that dominated the center of the prison. It was an open space that served well for some fresh air when the prisoners were allowed out from their cells, but like the countryside just beyond the walls it was desolate and without any warmth to be found. Currently there was some matter being attended to and hundreds of men and women were being gathered in chains for some reason that remained obscure to the late arrival. More jailors, overseers, and a cruel looking woman watched on as the mass of bodies grew before them. Gwendolyn was added to the far end of the front row, not so much attached to the filthy men already chained but left to stand as there was really no point in trying to escape. For propriety’s sake her jailer told her to stay put and then wandered off to attend to some matter.

The grim situation hadn’t yet dawned on Gwendolyn. Likely it never would. Life had been cruel to the girl, and though far from mad she was far from right, living her life with little care or reason. Not to say that she was content with what was happening but neither was she upset, water buckets notwithstanding. To her it was just another day and another change, and so long as she found something for which to content herself she wouldn’t have reason to care otherwise. That, however, may well be a problem. Over the last few years she had grown to accept her innate abilities, to the point of obsession, and her charge of arson was very well warranted, as was the fear shown of her by the men and their buckets of water. The very thing that had caused her so much hardship was now the only thing that brought her gratification. Fire was all she had, Gwendolyn would need something to burn if only to sate her growing lust. A release that served as her only tether to a sound mind. It was an addiction, one that had led to her capture and her being dragged to the Spyres. The governor’s palace had only served to increase her appetite and another burning had been needed, and it was this act of arson that had seen to her capture several weeks later. A death sentence if the governor had had his way.

For a long while Gwendolyn stood as the courtyard filled. The prisoners milled about in mostly even lines, their captors inspecting them for one thing or another with a few being dragged off after being marked as satisfactory. Some cried and others marched on with sullen acceptance. Gwendolyn knew not what was happened and so fidgeted as best she could within her bindings, water pooling at her feet and a shiver running up her spine, her nose leaking as a cold worked its way into her being. Again she cursed the men now that they were no longer present with their buckets.

The bald jailer returned and motioned for the young woman to follow. She did with little question as she had nothing else to do, and anything was better than standing for however long it had been. In his words he had gone out of his way to win her some favor with his superiors, being that he liked the cut of her jib and all, and she was to be put to work in a manner that suited her, whatever that entailed. Gwendolyn didn’t question and merely nodded along, casting a sidelong glance at the prisoners still shackled to one another. A few eyed her back but most seemingly did not care. Who she was mattered as much as they mattered to her, which was to say not much at all.

“Me name’s Javer by the way,” the bald jailer said. “So tell me, how’d a little birdie like you end up in a hole such as this?”

Gwendolyn shrugged. “I burn things.”

Another cackle that the girl quickly joined in on since it seemed the right thing to do. A few awkward glances later and the laughing died down as they approached the holding cells. “Here we be. Try not to get yourself killed and all that miserable business. I like having me a laughing buddy.”

The door was opened and Gwendolyn was let in, hands still chained but the binding around her waist removed. Javor nodded in farewell, closed the iron bars, and went off on his way. There were already a few others here. The young girl gave them a small look and quickly found her a place to sit, damp and cold and enjoying this as much as a toothache. With little else to do she allowed her mind to wander with thoughts of warmth and light and flame.

[The Valyria Empire]

---

Valarr "Lord of Cinder" Goldfyre, King of Gold and Lord of House Goldfyre

---

Valarr looked down at his wrists, they were still bleeding. He gazed at the prisoners next to him, wondering what they had been called for. Then his mind wondered, to when he first arrived at the Spyres. His mind is the only way for Valarr to dull the pain, just a little escapism made him feel a little better.

Baelor, his only friend and brother laid beneath the ground. With his surrender, he expected a quick and peaceful death, so that he might join Baelor. The look in Ronan's eyes was something else, and the next thing he knew, he was taken to the Spyres. The last time Valarr had seen the sun was a month ago. Valarr was wiped, tortured, and beaten daily. Every time he could feel death's embrace only to be healed and chained to the wall, awaiting the next day. Every night as he tried to sleep, he would see Ronan's eyes...those cruel, evil eyes. Valarr lost count how many times he had cried himself to sleep.

Then his mind snapped back to where he was. A guardsman had approached him, he unlocked Valarr's cuffs with them making a thud as they hit the ground. Then a guard pulled out his whip and hit Valarr, which caused him to fall to his knees. After a few cracks, the guard stopped, pulled up Valarr and shoved him. Thankfully Valarr landed on his feet, and slowly began walking.

"THE LORD OF CINDER, HERE HE COMES! THE LORD OF CINDER! THE LORD OF CINDER!" Valarr heard the shouts of the many younger guardsmen. Ronan, in another way to destroy Valarr's morale, dubbed him "Lord of Cinder" after burning all the men captured from Valarr's rebellion. As Valarr walked, the jeers continued until he reached the other prisoners that had been called. Once he made it, the men had stopped but even after they stopped he could still hear their voices, mocking him for he had failed everyone. His people, his family and his brother. By the Gods....please let it end. Just finish me now. Valarr thought as his legs began to shake, as they tried desperately to keep him from collapsing.

[Transoxthraxia]

The Spyres

Gerribald Brax. Three thousand six hundred and eighty seven. Gerribald Brax. It was one of the few things that caused the Blind Bastard to wake up every morning; reciting the name of the man who placed her in The Spyre and the time she'd been in there. Of course, her count was off by two days, but for a girl who was placed in one of the most notorious prisons known to the world at the tender age of fourteen, it wasn't nearly her fault. The name Gerribald Brax rebounded throughout her brain, crawling, invading, creeping into the inner sanctum that had become the sightless mind of Neridis.

Gerribald Brax.

Her own grandfather had her committed to the Spyre faster than a pirate fled from real resistance. Flesh and blood meant nothing to the nobility if part of the flesh was contaminated, and it was only made worse for close relatives. So close, yet so far. The words circled her blind brain, the voice that spoke them was not hers, but his. He haunted her, his visage burned into her brain. She knew not if he was alive or dead. The old wretch was roughly half-seventy when he had her arrested on false charges. She could tell herself that she didn't care if he was alive or not, but she did; even her conscious could not fully suppress the notion. She wanted to feel her hands crush the codger's windpipe if it was the last thing that she did. She imagined it: placing her hands on the raspy, bearded neck of the ancient man, his sunken eyes beginning to pop as her hands, impossibly strong, continued to tighten around the reprobate's trachea. Gerribald Brax. "Scum." She whispered.

It was weird to hear her voice. Its raspiness, breaking mid-syllable, the once dulcet tones of her femininity now gone to the years, disease, and general disuse. It brought her back to reality, and his voice now rapidly draining away from her brain, the creeping advance turned to rapid retreat, met with the forces of reason and reality. She collected her thoughts. Being born with sight and losing it was a massive adjustment, and ten years after the fact it still was often difficult to tell what was reality and what was mere fantasy, especially if one was trapped in a cell all day, not being able to feel anything aside from the walls and stack of hay that she was allowed to sleep on, or the smells of the waste buckets or other prisoners, all slowly decaying; everything in The Spyres were slowly dying. Even the rats that ran amok throughout the barred fortress seemed to have magnificently short lifespans. And the Gods be damned if they taste awful. She thought to herself.

The four dull grey walls that had been her home for the past decade never changed. She knew exactly where everything was, and who everyone could be, often just by the way that they walked and how their weapons and armour jingled and shifted as they strode, turned, or in some cases even drew breath. On a long enough timeline, this place breaks people. Everybody. Neridis thought as she began to hear the familiar jingle of jailer arms and armour. But me? Not yet. Soon enough, came two of the guards. They talked to one another; one she recognized as "Witless". Witless was a big bastard - Gods, did she hate that word - who had probably seen the right end of a fork for too many years. Took the job for fun, or something to do. Some powerless fat creep with compensation issues. But he was easily scared. He had done a lot of the rumours circulating about "The Blind Bastard Witch", even when he had first arrived, about how any man who laid a sexual hand on her would have their member rot off, and that anyone who did anything provocative to her body would die of The Rot.

How did he know this? He had a cousin who had a friend who's town blacksmith's son died of... It went on. Pure lunacy, of course, but it did alleviate some issues with some of the guards. The second one didn't talk, but even by the sound of his gait she could tell that he was new, someone that she didn't know before. "Well well, what do we have here?" His accent was thicker than Witless', but she could tell by his voice that he was probably about as slim as she. The bars to her cell swung open, and New stepped into the cell. Standing up from her hay corner, she gripped the wall, trying to pinpoint exactly who and what New was. "What's this pretty lil' thing doing in here, Baldie?" New's voice rattled through the cell, getting closer and closer to Neridis. Witless is bald. She noted it for later. Fun to play with a guard's mind, especially when he believes you to be blind.

"Careful now, Les, she's a witch." Witless said, slightly worried from outside the cell. New stopped and turned, his chain mail jingling as he did so. "Oh, is this that blind bastard you've been on about? You never mentioned that she was such a beauty." The jingling continued as the New guy continued towards her. Neridis, now fully uncomfortable, was preparing to defend herself from whatever New was planning. She already had a few new names for the guard floating around in her head. If he played his cards right, dickless would be one of them. "Come on, Less. if you want to get your cock rotted off, do it on your own time. The Overseer wants her and the rest of these blasted shitstains out in the courtyard as soon as possible. And you know how much she loves to pick on the new guys, don't you? Hardly better than those prisoners you're so fond of fondling." Witless cackled at his own joke. "Get those shackles on her, but careful. Any touch by the likes of you and you'll catch Rot."

Neridis thanked the Gods that the intelligent had better things to do than guard jails.

---

It was dawn. Or was it? It was impossible to tell, being blind. You could fall into a deep sleep at five in the afternoon, wake up at three in the morning, and prepare for your day as if it was seven. One small mistake and your entire schedule was off. But if you were outside, there were a few telltale signs. Smells, sounds. But the only thing that she could hear was the general hubbub of the courtyard, and all she could smell was week's worth of waste buckets being emptied. Work-order day. She grimaced, knowing that she would be standing in the freezing cold in little better than complete rags, listening to able-bodied, non-blind people be chose for certain death, working on projects all day long for a king who would never know, nor care, about their names.

Shackles on her wrists and ankles severely limited her movement, and Neridis felt more claustrophobic out in the courtyard than in her cell, where at least her movement wasn't restricted by cast iron. It started off. At first, Neridis wasn't fully paying attention. She was counting the time, down to the seconds, that the Overseer was wasting of hers. Many were called. Some accepted it with guarded stoicism; others screamed, shouted, kicked, resisted. It didn't matter what you did. Man after man they called. But then Neridis could hear an unmistakably feminine voice, and one much to reserved to be the Overseer. Neridis looked around as if she was trying to see what was going on. The irony was that she couldn't; it was only to hear better. The woman protested slightly, having a noble tone to her voice. Neridis' stomach churned.

Why were they choosing both men and women? She couldn't remember a time when that happened. Unless the prison had finally reached capacity and then all they'd start doing was lopping off-"Missy, I'll need ya to come with me." A firm hand grasped her bicep, a massive hand tugged her from the formation that she had been placed in, far at the back. Her heart was pounding, and her knees were weak. Show no pain, show no fear. The words came into her mind in a calm, oddly feminine voice. She simply nodded to the guard, and went with him. If they were going to finally end her, they wouldn't get the satisfaction of her squirming. Lux, the guards, and the intentional mismanagement of the Overseer herself had all been set up to break her. Perhaps they finally did, in a way. She had no fear in death, and partly welcomed it, assuming that she'd be killed for another open cell to provide for a more useful prisoner.

---

"Just fucking kill me if you're going to fucking kill me!" Neridis screamed at the guards who had escorted "her" into the new cell. Having undone her shackles, she was quite a sight, ironically, for those in the cell with her. Dressed in rags with a tight cloth around her eyes, it was fairly clear to those who had been in the Spyre exactly who she was. For those who were new to the complex, it must have been alien in sight. She could hear, however, the subtle creaks, rustling, and body movements of those that were in the cell with her. Looking around, she spoke to the cell. "Yeah, it's uh, weird for me too. The blindness."

[Erhialam]

Alosin shuttered her eyes and kept them closed for a long time, trying to be swept up by the tides of her memory and left on happier shores...Happy...Had she ever been happy, truly? Never had she been happy when she was Raninas, except for in those precious afternoons of rebellion, those hours among the limbs of high oaks, those hours in the marketplace with Auerumn urchins, just another child of the streets. But was it ever pure, that happiness, that joy of grime on the face and feet, knowing that she'd have to return to her arcane lessons? To her very name?

Pride. With age came pride, if not happiness. Pride in her rebellion, her head thrown back; pride in the shearing of her dark hair to the nape. Pride in the sweet agony of the incantations as the mana drained from her veins, pride in the dizzy ride from Auerumn, pride in the slashing, the rearrangement of her name. Rains. And the years of training...There was humiliation...difficulty...but pride returned once more as she threw them all to the dust, and as they pinned the Lieutenant's brooch to her bloodstained cloak. Pride, but never happiness. Never had she been happy when she was Lieutenant Rains.

And then, the shearing of the name, again, as she bowed her head against the winds of an army screaming for its deserter. She was simply Rains. Pride was gone, and in its place were passion, and determination, hatred, and even a wild kind of hope. Rains, the mercenary captain. Rains, called upon to liberate Mother Irdenvahl from tyranny.

Never had she been happy when she was Rains. Rains, who led those who trusted her to the slaughter.

What was she now, this broken woman in her filthy shift? They saw her as no more than a sallowed face in a sea of sallowed faces, and, aye, perhaps she was. If every name had failed her, perhaps it was better to be nameless until she was rocked away in death's cradle.

As the footfalls of the overseers and the jailers grew closer, Alosin opened her eyes. They were already at her line, a few prisoners in. She stiffened slightly, planted her feet firmly and squarely despite the shackles that bound them. It was the instinct of one who had once been a soldier. Her body still remembered standing in formation.

"We'll take just one more," the overseer said. "We need a few small crews, this time. Easier than one big mob...Unlock that tall wench. The rest of this line is just too sickly."

Alosin had worn her strange numbness like a shawl for the last four weeks, keeping out feeling the way one might keep out the cold. As the jailer pushed her on, however, she felt a sudden wash of rage that caused her to clench her cold fists, seeing the rows upon rows of blank faces and dead eyes, as close to human as poor children's roughly-hewn wooden dolls.

How dare they. How dare they keep men and women like witless cattle. How dare they husk away soul and warmth and feeling, leaving only shells behind. How. dare. they.

The initial anger passed as ration took over and Alosin remembered her impotence. But the flame that had once burned in her breast, though still an ember, was still burning.

They arrived at a larger ground-level chamber that was more cage than cell; squinting in the dim light, Alosin could make out several other huddled figures: her fellow work crew members. She stepped in before the jailer could push her in to join them.

"Now, we'll come for you lot in three days ti--" the fortress overseer's barking voice was abruptly cut short as he heard the soft footsteps of the cloaked figure behind.

"Overwarden Syros!" the man said, whirling on his heel. His fellow and the jailer seemed just as startled. "J-just few smaller crews this time, madam, 'tis easier than--"

"You think I'm unaware of such things?" The voice was soft, hardly above a whisper, but the ice at its edge was unmistakable. "Or, for that matter, that I would care for some pathetically fumbling explanation were I not?" The Overwarden waved an imperious hand. "Go. You've made your selections."

"Ah, yes. Um. Of course, m-madam. Sorry for...upsetting you..." the overseer made an awkward bow from the neck and beat a hasty retreat with his two companions.

"Jailer!" Syros called, snapping her fingers. "Not you. I need you."

Murmuring faintly, the jailer crept back into the ring of torchlight by the cage.

In the dim light, only the glint in her black eyes could be seen from beneath Ennevire Syros' hood.

"None of you wretches has any particular desire to see me. Of that, I'm well aware." The Overwarden gave a brittle, sardonic laugh. "I'll keep my visit brief. I need one of you."

The jailer scurried to unlock the cage door, and Syros approached the bars of the cage, running two spidery fingers up and down the bars, surveying the new work crew. One tall woman was standing; the rest were crouching in groveling positions. That one had a leader's carriage; she would not choose that one...There were two that looked as if their blood pulsed azure in their veins...not them. A wench with a cloth over her eyes...That would certainly be interesting, but not practical.

"You." The Overwarden pointed a finger at a ragged girl with red hair curled up in a corner. "Come here, outside the cell. I have something for you. " Syros turned her gaze to the jailer. "Shackle this one to the outside."

"I'm giving you some power over these rats, girl," Ennevire Syros said, reaching around the girl's neck and placing around it a thin silver necklace of chain. "Wear this and you'll be a sort of...honorary overseer when you reach the fortress. They won't take it from you, I can promise that."

Hushing her already quiet voice to a barely-audible whisper, Syros bent to the girl's ear and continued. "I need eyes and ears on the inside of the operation, my dear. Be that for me, and I can do far more for you."

Straightening back up, Ennevire Syros nodded to the jailer as he finished locking the cage door and swept away into the darkness of the Spyres, her cloak billowing slightly behind her.

[Nuridia]

"Do you know where they're taking us?" Blodeuwedd asked the woman in the cage with her and the fellow prisoners, Rains or Alosin she thinks her name was. The blonde had torn a piece from the bottom of her shift and now was using it to dab the blood from her eye. It hurt like hell but she was not going to cry out. Not if she could help it. If she shed tears, at least it would sanitize the wound but she wouldn't make a sound. Wedd was impressed by this girl's strength, she could tell she wouldn't let this place break her.

[Altegonnia]

"Do you know where they're taking us?" Blodeuwedd asked the woman in the cage with her and the fellow prisoners, Rains or Alosin she thinks her name was. The blonde had torn a piece from the bottom of her shift and now was using it to dab the blood from her eye. It hurt like hell but she was not going to cry out. Not if she could help it. If she shed tears, at least it would sanitize the wound but she wouldn't make a sound. Wedd was impressed by this girl's strength, she could tell she wouldn't let this place break her.

Andros would scoff from the wall hes leaning on and would proclaim,"We're going to Oblivion or we arent." He'd wave his hand nonchalantly like what he just said wasn't cryptic as all hell. He'd then continue saying,"I've been in this prison many years and let me tell you this is the best thing that can happen to us. Either we get to die outside this spyre or we get to live to remember what the sun looks like for a brief while. I guess we should be grateful to even have this chance to be work slaves." He'd then grin and laugh saying,"That is if my boys don't crash the party....nah who am I kidding? That's wishful thinking right there. They're mercs and thugs not soldiers. Anyways to answer your question I heard mention of a fort. Knowing the Crown they're likely fortifying some land they just recently invaded.'"

[Beiarusia]

Gwendolyn Tallow

---

Gwendolyn had little reason to care for those in the cell with her. They were strangers, and likely criminals – if the kettle would call the pot black – and truth be told she was too preoccupied with her own problems to care for theirs. Not that she wasn’t observant. It was a natural curiosity that drew her eye. The man that had cried out was here, as was a young woman who sported some blood on her face from where she had been backhanded. Another man seemed rather jovial all things considered. One in particular caught Gwendolyn’s attention, however: the Lord of Cinder. The name was enough to draw a more direct glance as anything related to fire was likely to peak her interest. He was young and had with him a broken look, but otherwise was unassuming. A few more were added to the cell including a blind woman who made clear to everyone of her disability. Growing bored, Gwendolyn went back to her daydreaming.

A few of the segregated inmates were speaking amongst themselves when another woman was added to their mix. Not long afterwards the Overwarden herself was outside the iron bars, berating her staff and looking into the melting pot of prisoners with black eyes, as if searching for something lost amongst a trash pile.

And then she pointed and called out for Gwendolyn to come outside the cell.

It took several moments for the girl to register that it was indeed her that was being spoken to, and several seconds more for her to stand and to make her way from the corner of the cell to the now open gate. If anyone looked on from behind then Gwendolyn did not notice nor care.

“I’m giving you some power over these rats, girl,” the Overwarden said before placing a thin chain around Gwendolyn’s neck. It was a simple ornament that contrasted with the plain, somewhat tattered and still wet garments that would suit well a beggar on the street. Gwendolyn twisted the necklace between her finger and thumb as the Overwarden went on about her new role and, leaning in, added that she was in need of a mole to keep a watchful eye on the others.

A small smile came to Gwendolyn’s lips. She wasn’t entirely sure about her position but understood that she would be granted some measure of freedom – or so she assumed. That in of itself was enough for her to accept the proposal with little question. She knew no one here and thus had no qualms about their potential mistreatment, and so long as she thrived she could care less about the others. She may even have enough freedom to indulge in her fetishes with fire. That only sweetened the deal offered.

“Will I get to burn something?” she asked like a child asking for candy.

The Overwarden offered a twisted grin, finished with the jailer, and disappeared with a billow of her cloak. The jailer, in turn, offered a nasty glare but didn’t dare speak for fear of going against the Overwarden’s decision. He merely grunted and left without a single word.

Gwendolyn continued to toy with the necklace, still shivering but now with a small warmth inside of her. She had no reason to hate the Spyres and was even optimistic. For the first time in a long time someone had offered her some degree of acceptance, and though not sought it nonetheless was something that made the girl beam with a simple joy. It was almost as if she mattered. Such a feeling that was long overdue.

The girl looked into the cell and studied her new charges. She then asked a very simple question that had been brewing on her mind ever since her arrival, and maybe, just maybe, one of these poor souls would have an answer. “Why are we here?”

[The Valyria Empire]

---

Valarr "Lord of Cinder" Goldfyre, King of Gold and Lord of House Goldfyre

---

Valarr felt it, his legs were at their limits. He collapsed onto the ground of the cell, he then looked at those in the cell with him. He heard one of them say something about going to oblivion, with that Valarr crawled into one of the corners of the cells and curled up, holding his legs to his chest. He was alone, even when surrounded by others.

Valarr watched as the Overwarden awarded some girl with a necklace. He couldn't hear what she said to her but he knew it couldn't be good. He remembered the Overwarden breaking his fingers herself when he tried to use his magic to give himself some warmth in his own personal cell. Then the girl turned and asked "Why are we here?". The question made Valarr think, why was he here? Did the Gods damn him and his family? Was it his brother's fault, his forefather's or his? Valarr did know who to blame, but he knew one thing.

"We are here for we are weak, and they are strong." Valarr spoke, as he tightened the grip on his legs. "Whether chance put us here, or whether the Gods willed it. We are here because we are weak...nothing but specks of dirt compared to them." Valarr then looked away from the group, unable to look them in the eye after speaking that. He closed his eyes, and could feel tears. Baelor would find this shameful, to our house and myself. Baelor would of never said that...I've failed you brother, I'm sorry. Valarr thought as he tried to keep his gaze away from the group. He then heard a few tap sounds, the blood from his wrists had dripped onto the floor.

[Nuridia]

---

Valarr "Lord of Cinder" Goldfyre, King of Gold and Lord of House Goldfyre

---

Valarr felt it, his legs were at their limits. He collapsed onto the ground of the cell, he then looked at those in the cell with him. He heard one of them say something about going to oblivion, with that Valarr crawled into one of the corners of the cells and curled up, holding his legs to his chest. He was alone, even when surrounded by others.

Valarr watched as the Overwarden awarded some girl with a necklace. He couldn't hear what she said to her but he knew it couldn't be good. He remembered the Overwarden breaking his fingers herself when he tried to use his magic to give himself some warmth in his own personal cell. Then the girl turned and asked "Why are we here?". The question made Valarr think, why was he here? Did the Gods damn him and his family? Was it his brother's fault, his forefather's or his? Valarr did know who to blame, but he knew one thing.

"We are here for we are weak, and they are strong." Valarr spoke, as he tightened the grip on his legs. "Whether chance put us here, or whether the Gods willed it. We are here because we are weak...nothing but specks of dirt compared to them." Valarr then looked away from the group, unable to look them in the eye after speaking that. He closed his eyes, and could feel tears. Baelor would find this shameful, to our house and myself. Baelor would of never said that...I've failed you brother, I'm sorry. Valarr thought as he tried to keep his gaze away from the group. He then heard a few tap sounds, the blood from his wrists had dripped onto the floor.

A mirthless laugh rang through the cage at Valarr's words. "You really believe that, do you?" she told the man and then got serious when she saw him bleeding. "With that attitude you'll never get out of this rathole. We're in here because we can't take them alone." Rummaging around in her shift she found a relatively clean piece of cotton tucked in her collar. She had torn pieces off her bedclothes for wounds. Taking the piece she had, she tore it in half and proceeded to tie his wrists. "I know you, you're the Lord of Cinder. You were once a king. You still are, until the day you die. But are you still a man? A human is nothing without a soul, where's yours?" she asked, seeing the lack of anything in his eyes.

[Beiarusia]

Gwendolyn Tallow

---

Gwendolyn couldn’t help but to frown as the man, the supposed Lord of Cinder, went about his spiel when the girl had wanted only a simple answer. Why were they here? The Spyres was a prison first and foremost, so even Gwendolyn could surmise that she and likely everyone here was a criminal of some sort – not that the girl was apologetic for the actions which had landed her such an immoral title to begin with – but why were they here, segregated from all the others? She could have been more specific in her asking but had merely assumed that anyone willing to offer an answer would have understood her meaning. As one could guess the girl was not the most thoughtful in her reasoning.

A tall, thin woman was attempting to comfort the pitiful man with persuasive words and clean linens for his apparent injury. It was a kindness that was no doubt lacking in such a bleak place such as this.

Another shiver as the puddles beneath Gwendolyn’s feet became less pronounced. The girl had little interest in the lanky woman and wished instead to know more about this man despite his apparent weakness. So she leaned in to grip the iron bars from where she stood outside the cell to call out to him in a boorish manner. “Lord of Cinder. I ‘alfway expected the demon heself with such a title, but instead I see a weak and broken man. Why is that? Why aren’t you strong like your namesake?”

There was disappointment in the girl’s tone. Her fixation with fire had drawn her towards the ideal of the man she had expected, if only to witness something that was quite possibly makebelieve inside her own head, but to see such a wretched soul had been quite a blow to her eagerness. Still, maybe something lay beneath the broken shell.

Given her recent string of luck, most likely not, but she could have some hope to stave off the boredom.

[Erhialam]

"Let's not shame the man," Alosin said, her deep voice echoing through the cage-like chamber. Her cracked lips pulled into a little mirthless smile. "A cold, wet hellhole has a way of dampening anyone's fire."

She did not want to sit just yet, and so Alosin began to pace, running her fingers over the bars of the holding cell, giving an occasional glance at their new honorary overseer. The red-headed girl did not seem as if she wanted to play at Queen just yet, despite her newfound power; she was still acting as if she were just another prisoner. Rains had hated them, those soldiers who had risen in rank and immediately used their title as an excuse to kick their former fellows about.

" 'The Lord of Cinder,' mm?" Alosin glanced down at the pale man. "From what I hear from the guards, Raleth himself gave it to you in jest." She sought his eyes. "The way I see it, names are only what you make them to be. You should twist that one into something you like. Something that you're proud of wearing."

[Aidannadia]

The sky cracked open with rage as the hunched sight of a cloaked figure absconded from a basket on the steps of the Greystone Abbey. Late into the night, the wails of the storm muffled the small cries of the basket's sole inhabitant. Only when the sun threatened to peak over the horizon past a long stretch of dispersing cloud the next morning, did an acolyte finally peak her head from the window to find the basket soaked to its core. Surely, the child had expired in the storm- no human child could have survived such neglect.

As the weeping form of the monk inched towards the basket to remove the sheet from what assuredly was the cold corpse of a little babe, the sky cracked open once more and stuck the orphaned child with the full force of nature. The monk shrieked, and ran to the child's side to hear faint cries; She had survived, but just barely.

She without a word inched closer, and closer before she pulled the covers from its face to reveal the grotesque features of a demon laughing at her. She recoiled and ran inside to tell the others the tale of the small creature. Not a soul believed the hysterical monk- How could anyone believe such a tale, from even the most reputable of sources? It was impossible... Surely, it was...

---

May sat in the pitch room in chains. Dirt had caked her skin, but there was no reason to remove it; Not a single ray of sunlight could permeate this far into the Spyres. Snap! Crackle! Pop! A bolt of electricity moved from one of May's hands to the other, briefly allowing her to observe her surroundings. They had not changed, but it allowed for the occasional break from the absence of excitement, and more importantly it allowed for May to tell how long she had been locked in solitary confinement. That definitely took a few hours to cook up. That would make it almost a week now.

Time passed. She wasn't sure how long exactly since her last spark, but before she could find release in the sweet sound of nature's fury, a loud BANG! rang out in the cell. "We're coming in, freak. Get against the wall!" May smiled, then giggled malevolently before the door slammed open and three guards came tumbling through awkwardly. She had gotten used to their visits, and they also had become accustomed to her tricks. It had only been two months, and yet she had definitely made a name for herself among the guard.

"It's your turn, Jorg." One of the guards came over to apprehend the prisoner, but as soon as his hands met her wrists a loud SNAP! rang out. They hadn't figured out not to wear their tin cans yet, but they surely would eventually.

"Jorg, get off the ground, ye'! Come on! Be pro-" May's face was against the stone wall in an instant. She'd run out of juice, and the other two pigs knew this well enough. They undid her cuffs, threw her to the ground and roughly pinned her to the floor, with a kick in the ribs for good measure. She put up little fight after they released her. May hadn't been injured. No, beatings had been frequent at the monastery, and they had taught her how to take a punch as much as they did how to throw one.

The rest of the walk was accompanied by the usual hollers. "Slit her throat, won't ye? Do us all a favor!" May had a reputation among the inmates as well.

The guards opened the new cell, and threw May in with the rest. She wiped her mouth, studying the crimson liquid that covered her hand. "Aye! Those bastards busted my nose!" She shouted in frustration.

[Yuzhou]

Ran Kastor

When Ran looked back on the courtyard from his huddled position, the change in perspective flashed him back to his childhood courtyard at Kastor Keep. He focused on this memory, pulling in all the senses he could from so long ago. In the pool of his mind formed the red arches of the courtyard around him. The sun sat blazing in the azure and he could for once feel it's touch upon him. The great green oak spiraled upward at the far side, it's great green top of lives breathed in the breeze and cast brilliantly against the sky. An instructor would have stood before him and his brothers somewhere to his side, but the only person he could recall vividly in this scene was his father, who stood off to the side talking with an associate and watching on the line between shadow and light. Only the lower half of his father's face was illuminated by the sun, and Ran could not see the man's eyes. When his father finally moved and paced the edge of the yard he always had a way of melding in with that line between shadow and light.
As a boy, Kastor never believed his father anything other than an overly glorified man. As an adult, however, he could finally appreciate the almost mystical aura that radiated from the Dusk Lord. It played a part in every memory he held of Rothford Kastor.

He was snapped back into the dreary environment of the Spyres by Overwarden Syros' voice. Naturally, he recoiled at bit at her presence. No prisoner worth their salt didn't physically tense when she was around. Despite her looks, the rumors about her were enough to give any man cause of fear.
She skipped over him and chose a brand new prisoner as the 'manager' of the group. Kastor could see right away the ploy behind this, and he was bound and determined not to let this little girl interfere with his survival.
He could only scoff as Syros whispered something to her new pet.

After a brief talk between two of the others, the newly designated spy of the group turned around asked a small yet resounding question: "Why are we here?"
Ran faced the ground for a moment and for the first time gave a shiver due to the cold. There was, in honesty, too many answers to that one question. Finally, the withered little man every prison knew as the "Lord of Cinders" gave his answer.
"We are here for we are weak, and they are strong." he said. "Whether chance put us here, or whether the Gods willed it. We are here because we are weak...nothing but specks of dirt compared to them."

Kastor did not agree with him there. Sure, a good majority of prison staff was stronger than them, but being selected as work crew meant you had enough in you to be of use...even if for only a short while. Then the strong-willed girl replied to him with a laugh. "You really believe that, do you?", she asked before attending to his wounds. "With that attitude you'll never get out of this rathole. We're in here because we can't take them alone."

Ran listened to her talk, but he had long been past the point of inspiring words. Now, the only words he meant to speak were practical ones. The little overseerer asked another question, "Lord of Cinder. I ‘alfway expected the demon heself with such a title, but instead I see a weak and broken man. Why is that? Why aren’t you strong like your namesake?"

It was then that Ran noticed she talked like a backwater illiterate, but then yet again, anymore he didn't fare much better. Her words were true, however. A name can be a very powerful thing. Finally, one of the newer girls spoke. "Let's not shame the man,", she said before pacing across the bars. " 'The Lord of Cinder,' mm? From what I hear from the guards, Raleth himself gave it to you in jest. The way I see it, names are only what you make them to be. You should twist that one into something you like. Something that you're proud of wearing."

It was in this statement that Ran found the truest words spoken to him in a long time...
But that wasn't going to change much. It was time to set these dampened spirits straight.

"Don't bother with him.", he said as he went to stand up. "Either they've broken him or he's broken himself. Not much more we can do."
He stopped and quickly ran his hands through a knot in his beard in an attempt to straighten it.
"For those of you new here or those who haven't heard of me, my name's Raider. I'm a seasoned veteran of these little 'field trips', so let me give you some advice.", he placed his hands on his hips. "Most people do not make it back from these projects. If you want to be with the few that do, then listen well. Watch what you're doing, and keep away from idiots. There's bound to be at least a few building accidents, and being crushed by a rock or falling several hundred feet is not pretty. I've seen it more times than you can probably count."

He lifted two fingers up. "Secondly, do your fucking job, and don't cause trouble. The overseers will kill you out there. They have deadlines to meet, and if you want to fight against them, they will simply lay you down."

"Thirdly", he continued. "Keep as warm as possible if it's cold, or you'll be a corpse froze in the snow. If it's hot, work as easily as you can. Lots of new kids make the mistake of overworking themselves in the heat because they fear punishment. The overseers will openly tell you that if you're caught slowing down on purpose, then you'll be punished. This..is horseshit. They've got too many bodies moving at once to care. They won't even bother if they do happen to catch you. The heat gets to them too, after all."

He stopped for just a moment and let his points sink in. He turned his eyes to the girl tied to the outside and pointed.
"Lastly, stay the hell away from her! She's Syros' now."

[The Valyria Empire]

---

King of Gold Valarr "Lord of Cinder" Goldfyre

---

Valarr was surprised by the sudden act of kindness done by this random woman. He pulled away his wrists after she wrapped them and looked away. "T-Thank you...." Valarr whispered keeping his gaze from her. Her words did hit Valarr though, while he wasn't a King, he was still a man.

Then a girl spoke, something about him not being strong, followed by a woman saying to wear the title with honor. "Girl...being Lord of Cinder isn't a privilege. It's a curse, brought by the King. Tell me, what strength is there to find once you see all the men that rallied to you, that believed in you, be burned at the stake before your eyes. I was forced to watch and listen. All those men, women and even children died that day, and for what?! So my dynasty could be Kings again? " Valarr blurted out in rage, his eyes watery. Valarr then looked away from everyone. In his mind he could see the thousand men that survived the final battle fighting with his brother burning at the stake before his eyes, their screams and cries still echoed through his ears. Some called out for Baelor, some called out for him...and he hated himself for it. He thought that by surrendering they would spare the rest of his men. He was wrong.

[Erhialam]

Alosin stood back several steps as another young woman was hurled into the holding cell, shouting that her nose had been busted by the guards. The former lieutenant was briefly surprised; even in the dim light, she could see that the newcomer had a somewhat odd, almost inhuman appearance, with her skin a pale greenish in hue. An arcane mutation, and a strong one at that. Nevertheless, her military leader instinct took over. She tore a slip from the sleeve of her shift and handed it to the newcomer, crouching down.

"Staunch the blood with that," Alosin said, checking the woman's nose. Indeed, it was broken. A common injury during practices, and a difficult one to heal even in the best of times. But it was one she knew how to handle.

"I'll push the bone back in place." With that warning, Alosin reached out and did so. A small crack indicated that the bone was back where it needed to be. Standing, Alosin turned her attention back to the man with the moniker Lord of Cinder. Her captainly instincts and her former passion were returning to her more and more.

"Your name might be a curse, but so was mine. So were mine. Alosin Raninas carried the weight of a magic bloodline, and Lieutenant Rains ordered houses burned with children still in them. And Rains..." Alosin swallowed hard, her guilt washing over her like a cold tide. "Rains led the men and women who trusted her to their deaths because of her own hubris." Her voice steeled slightly as a slight touch of anger colored her words; it was as if blood were rushing back to a dead limb, hot and searing. "But I'm none of those now. Those names were curses, and I'll remember them until the Gods drag me into the next land, but they're no longer mine. My name is my own to keep."

Turning back to the girl chained to the outside of the cage, Alosin sought her eyes. "Is he right?" She gestured to Raider. "You're not getting above yourself quite yet." She was about to propose something dire to the group, but it was better now to get a read on the Overwarden's new pet.

[Beiarusia]

Gwendolyn Tallow

---

“Me name’s Gwendolyn,” the girl stated definitively and with some aggression after misunderstanding the words of the man whose name was Raider. She fiddled with the necklace, half afraid that some curse had been placed on it to make her Syros, whom she correctly guessed was the prison’s warden, but quickly she reinterpreted the meaning of the man’s accusation to be not quite as literal. Gwendolyn was far from being simpleminded but she was quick to draw abstract and oft times wrong conclusions. Not that she cared what others thought of her.

The Lord of Cinder spoke up just then, not so much angry as lost in despair as he painted a scene that, truth be told, interested Gwendolyn if only for the thought of the massive fire that would have painted the skies, the source of which should be kept far from mind. Gwendolyn wasn’t wretched enough to strike down one’s life, but she knew not these men and women and so was eager to fantasize about a flame that would no doubt be even more impressive than the governor’s mansion. Of course she was likely embellishing these thoughts as it was quite impractical to set ablaze hundreds upon hundreds of people – or what she assumed was hundreds upon hundreds of people – all at once. It was a grim thought nonetheless. Still, the Lord of Cinder invoked a warm feeling by name alone. If only his character matched his title. Gwendolyn said no more, smartly assuming that her idle musings would bring about another jagged outburst.

A new girl, green of skin, was thrown into the mix not long after, complaining about her nose and how she had been struck. Another woman who carried herself like a soldier helped by snapping it back into place. She then turned to address Gwendolyn.

"Is he right? You're not getting above yourself quite yet."

“Should I be?” Gwendolyn asked with no ill intent. She paused and thought for a long moment before giving as honest an answer as was to be expected of her. “You say that I’ve been granted a status, the first time in me life actually of what you say is true, and you wonder if it’s gone to me head like a drunkard to his liquor? No. Why should it? I don’t care, about you or about the warden or about what you think of me or why the gal over there is a few shades too green. I do what I want and what suits me best, and what suits me best is doing what others want when I have reason to do so. Is that the answer you want to hear?” She leaned most of her weight into the iron bars in a manner that was more inquisitive than threatening.

[Aidannadia]

May looked up at the cloth being offered, took it hesitantly and stalled the blood flow. When the woman moved her hands towards May, she held up in her hands in defense, "Wait what are you do-," The sickening crack that marked May's nose being placed was followed by the raucous yells and curses of the woman. "Thanks." She grunted, holding the cloth against her nose once more, causing a rather muffled reply, but a courteous one all the same.

"And do what you will." May turned to Gwendolyn, responses still rather muffled, stung a bit at the acknowledgement of her dull, green skin. "It hardly matters. We're all to be slain eventually, whether by blade or time." She hunched in the corner, tending to her nose, occasionally making noises of discomfort.