Waywardly Wicked - Prologue

The wooden floor was cold, rough and altogether uninviting as the prison carriage shook and jostled the young woman about in her iron cage. Light crept its way slowly, almost reluctantly, onto her exhausted and disheveled form. The morning fog and biting winds coming off the ocean were her only companions beyond the uncaring stagecoach driver and two guards that had elected to avoid conversation with the convict in the cage ever since their departure from the great city of Matharyn. Reflexively, she tried to pull her limbs as close as the chains would allow hoping to shield herself from the bitter cold with tragically minimal effect. Her cheeks were stained with tears that had long ago run dry; leaving the mascara she once fancied as an utter mess on her naturally stunning face. She looked on with resignation as their destination began to appear on the horizon.

Branderscar Prison.

It was as close to the end of the line for most that one could imagine. Anyone sent here was considered to be the worst of the worst of Talingarde. The self-righteous nation had maintained their incredibly religious doctrinal rule of law for generations and the current regime did not act with leniency when the desecration or disturbance of one of their shrines might be concerned. A half-hearted smile crossed her delicate features if only for a moment as she dreamed of visiting the shrine of Mitra, the sun god in her home city of Ghastenhall with her beloved mother. She knew she would never see her mother again; Branderscar would be a temporary stop for her before she was to be taken to the salt mines to waste away in a life of hard labor. In that she was fortunate at least, or unfortunate, depending on one’s views as most who were taken to this particular prison were there to await execution by beheading, hanging or worse.

Across the hillside on the other road that led from the nearby town of Varyston, the young woman spotted another carriage identical to the one she resided bustling down the road heading for the same tragic destination. While she was not a full-bred elf like her mother, her vision was still better than most as she watched with mild curiosity at the spectacle taking place in the prison convoy across the way. The guard retinue was doubled and despite consistent prodding from the escort to subdue the wild man inside, he continued to thrash about. A half-orc, she decided as he ripped one of the guards’ blackjacks away from them and launched it back into the poor man’s face, sending him toppling from the edge of the sea cliffs. The convict merely laughed uncontrollably as the victim’s companions rushed to the ledge to attempt to rescue him, narrowly managing to pull him up after exhausting great effort. The brutish man in the cage was savagely beaten for his actions but despite the harsh rebuttal, the man didn’t cry out in pain. He simply accepted it and from this distance, it was difficult for her to tell but it seemed he kept that same sadistic grin.

A resounding chill ran down her spine.

That was the type of person that was meant for this place. The same place her carriage now approached as it began to cross the bridge. She heard the driver speaking to the guards at the gatehouse, but didn’t bother registering what was said, she knew the ordeals that awaited her. One particularly devious looking middle aged man with salt and pepper hair and cruel-looking eyes came right up to the bars of her cage however; he smiled darkly as his invasive gaze looked her up and down.

“Ah, now ‘ere’s a cryin’ shame. A pretty face like that destined for the salt mines? There’s the real crime. Don’t worry darlin’, I’ll be the one givin’ ya your mark. I’ll try to make it quick so as not to tarnish your lovely skin too much. You oughta be able to enjoy your looks for as long as ya can before you’re shipped off.”

She stared at him with an icy glare through the mess of her dark hair partially covering her face. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction, she wouldn’t give him anything. The world may have taken virtually everything for her, but she would not allow her self-respect to fade away even while facing the beginning of the end.

“Yer welcome,” he huffed, feigning taking offense, though his lecherous grin reappeared as he began to sneak his gloved hand between the cage bars, her legs reflexively pulling away.

“Sergeant Blackerly, the warden’s waiting for you in the hall,” a voice from out of sight of the carriage walls called the man’s attention.

The middle aged man sighed heavily and retracted his hand.

“Oh well. I suppose we’ll get a chance over the next few days to know each other more… intimately… before those awful men come and take you away from me. Take care darlin’, see ya soon.”

As he vanished from her field of view, and his footsteps faded away, she cursed him under her breath and relaxed as much as her restraints would allow. Men like that beast in the cage and worse monsters like the sergeant at arms would be the routine for the next few days in this hellhole. She would find her strength in the quiet moments of peace like the present as she listened to the distant waves breaking on the shore below the small peninsula where the prison resided.

“Ya know, the ‘F’ on this brand means, don’t ya orc spawn,” Blackerly chuckled as he lowered the tool to the flame as it became a vicious red, “It stands for ‘Forsaken’. It means everyone will know that you’re the worst of the worst and, heh, that even if you were to return to any you ever cared for… They would know the horrors you committed landed you here and that any goodly soul would turn you in to be rid of your vile evil.”

It took three men to hold down the half-orc as he was placed on the dais where he was to be branded. He struggled violently until eventually a fourth guard jabbed him heavily in the abdomen with the butt of his spear, knocking the wind from his lungs and dropping him mercilessly to his knees. In that moment of recovery, Sergeant Blackerly neared the downed man with a red-hot iron and pressed it firmly upon the prisoner’s arm. The brand adhered to the prisoner’s flesh with an angry hiss as the heat warped his skin and left the mark of the Branderscar emblazoned on his arm. The man tried to yell in pain but couldn’t find the will to do so, his breath not yet normalized from escaping his body, causing his response to merely be a short series of high-pitched wheezes.

“Ah now c’mon,” Blackerly groaned disappointedly, “A big tough fella like you makin’ a wimpy little racket like that? An’ after all the trouble you gave us gettin’ ya here? What a letdown. That pretty lass we brought in was tougher than you. She didn’t even make a peep when that iron scorched ‘er. Ah, what a fury she must be! I can’t wait ta pay her a visit in the cells.”

The half-orc finally caught his breath and twisted his head towards the sergeant-at-arms despite having the other guards keeping him virtually immobile.

“Before the executioner sets light to my pyre,” the half-orc said with a wicked smile pronounced even further by his twin tusks, “I’ll be sure to pay you a visit as well.”

With an unimpressed huff, the jailer made a quick gesture to one of the other guards and, in an instant the world became dark for the prisoner.

The scent inside the cells was utterly rank and disgusting. The briny sea air from outside wafted in and hung around like an unwelcome guest, settling in as it mixed and combined with other repulsive scents as if they were in an accord with the facilitators of this place. Like many other aspects of this horrid facility, much of the sanitation was left to negligence as the refuse and even some remains of previous residents rotted in the adjacent cells. The rhythmic sound of heavy boots stomping down the nearby stairwell echoed into the holding room like the drumming of a macabre death march. Sergeant Blackerly shoved his keys into the cell door and swung it wide open as he ushered his fellow guards to chain up the defiant half-orc alongside the others on the wall. Rusty manacles clamped down on his feet and hands as his unconscious form was restrained.

“Brought me another juicy plaything, eh Tomas,” one of the chained prisoners, a Halfling woman, called out with a smirk.

“Shut it, Furr or I’ll arrange to have that smart mouth of yours sewn shut,” Blackerly shot back with a snarl.

“Was never good with tailoring, sir,” she muttered quickly under her breath before returning to silence with a smug grin.

With a final clank, the manacles were in place and the guards began to disperse from the cell block, with Blackerly closing the door behind him as the last one out, locking the door and sneering as he looked in.

“Be sure to introduce yourselves to this latest monster. Wanted for murder, heresy and other quaint little atrocities… Seems like just your type, Furr,” he chuckled as he left the room, leaving the chained prisoners with their guest.

At first, the group remained quite silent, they were content to simply stew in their own misery and despair as they awaited their grim fates. That was not enough for the mouthy Halfling however, as she took a deep breath and sported a half-hearted smile.

“Alright, I know what you’re thinking: This is the worst bed and breakfast on the entire island.”

The dwarf in the corner looked up for just a moment to react to the sad attempt at humor to produce one of the most powerful scowls any one of them had ever seen before lowering his head back down.

“Oh, give me a break Red,” she said jovially, regarding the red-headed dwarf, “gallows humor is the only thing I’ve got going for me at the moment.”

“That would be questionable at best,” replied the tall blonde man who almost seemed peaceful despite being chained to the wall.

Furr looked taken aback by the quiet man’s sudden comment, but she fully expected the windbag beside her to open up momentarily. As if on cue, the wrinkled man jumped in as well.

“Honestly, could you just remain silent for a single hour? We live in a world of actual magic and gods that take a physical manifestation and direct interest in our daily lives and I don’t believe you’ve spent one moment without running your thrice-damned mouth since you arrived,” the frail looking man groaned with his eyes closed.

In an impish manner consistent with her demeanor thus far, she merely stuck out her tongue at the man in defiance, though he didn’t react.

“Well fine. I’ll just sit here like the rest of you then and whine,” the diminutive girl puffed out her cheeks and stared at the ceiling as she slumped down for dramatic effect.

Despite the direness of their situation, the young half-elven woman began to giggle at the childish spectacle before soon growing into a genuine infectious laugh with others soon joining in. Slowly, the laughter began to die down, leaving them with a brief glimmer of levity with which to carry forward.

“Sorry. Haha, sorry,” the young lady said, still chuckling and catching her breath.

“S’alright Blue Eyes,” Furr replied with a smile, “What’s your story anyway? You look too delicate to have done anything too wild to get in here.”

She shook her head slightly, tossing her dark brown locks to one side of her face.

“I was charged with High-Theft… The conviction is not so much inaccurate as it is imprecise.”

The Halfling tilted her head quizzically and asked, “Wait what?”

“I mean I didn’t— Or rather… There is a group of thugs in my home town of Ghastenhall are part of a large gang in the Heartland that put the screws to most of the lower class areas within the city. Protection fees, extortion and plenty of other—“

“Shit!”

The Halfling yelped as the giant half-orc stirred from his unconscious stupor, standing to his full seven feet despite the chains hindering him as best they could. A single rivulet of blood dripped down his forehead and stained his face as he took in his surroundings with a measure of disappointment.

“Two men, a Halfling runt, a dwarf and an elf,” he recited flatly.

“Half-elf,” the woman dared to correct, drawing a dark glare from the man and concerned glances from the others.

Silence perpetuated itself in those tense few moments until he surprisingly repeated with a chuckle: “Half-elf.”

The half-orc leaned back against the wall, looking at his cellmates and offered a disarming look of confusion.

“Well, we’re telling tales aren’t we? I get it. I’m a hulking pig nosed half-orc. If it’ll make you feel better, I can tell my crimes first and then you can all finish with your own sob stories.”

When nobody bothered to challenge him, he continued.

“The name’s Barriddon. I never believed in all this Mitra the sun god nonsense, as I never received of his so called blessings throughout my miserable life. Everything I’ve achieved is through my own efforts and struggles and there is one deity who knows precisely how I feel and how to best utilize my particular set of talents. You know, he used to be worshipped alongside all the other gods on this island but ever since the current regime took hold, they hunted down virtually every worshipper of the Dark Lord and put them to the torch. These fanatics slaughtered my entire village in the north; all peaceful half-orcs who had found a balance in life despite everyone’s animosity towards us thanks to the way we look. So, in my darkest hour, I called out to the gods and asked for justice for the horrors visited upon my home. I was found by a group of fanatics shortly after, but something else found me first.”

“Faith,” he said firmly, “Asmodeus found my heart and bestowed upon me divine strength and dark powers to claim vengeance upon those fools. I struck down an entire squadron of those Mitran fools before they finally apprehended me. I still remember the name of the bastard who bested me: Sir Balin of Karfeld. ‘Mitra may yet forgive your atrocities, but He flaunted his title at me like I cared, he was just the same as those fanatics… he just happened to be better with a sword. I believe even now that I have not been forsaken, despite this mark on my flesh that tells me otherwise. I may have been forsaken by the world, but not by the Prince of Nessus.”

There was a moment of silence after the half-orc finished his grim tale as everyone contemplated the seriousness and sincerity of Barriddon’s words.

“Ryahl, the blondie over there, is locked up because he was naked in public,” Furr blurted out, stealing virtually all momentum from the solemn half-orc and causing the room to erupt in laughter again after the initial shock wore off.

“Really, Furr? Is that how we’re going to play this,” Ryahl responded with a reddened face.

“Hehehe, yup,” came the expected reply.

“To expand on that a bit more,” the blonde man began despite Furr stifling a laugh at the use of the word “expand”, prompting another icy glare, “I am at peace in nature and I do happen to find that in the most tranquil of situations, one can attain that inner peace in one’s own most natural state. I was simply apprehended because the grove where I was communing with the wilds was evidently too close to one of the Mitran shrines. Officially, I’m being charged for Desecration of a holy site. A harsh sentence and a tragic turn of events, but I’ve accepted my fate.”

The older human cleared his throat and composed himself, as one might expect a politician to before beginning some stately speech. In his sack-cloth rags and dirt-covered exterior, he looked quite ridiculous indeed to be posing in such a manner.

“I am Cirano Dolvex, a wizard of some renown and one of the finest merchant lords of the Heartlands, master of over twenty wagon transports and cargo ships,” he said proudly.

“Former merchant lord,” Furr quickly corrected with a smirk, “he was brought in because of bribery and fraud. Big tough guy, that one; you better watch out Barri.”

The half-orc grinned widely at the ridiculousness of the statement, though the dejected merchant puffed up and looked about to begin a long-winded rant.

“Why don’t you tell us about yourself, Furr,” the half-elven woman asked quickly, mainly to defuse the pompous older man from his potentially fiery but likely half-handed retort.

“Hm? Oh, I was a pretty popular minstrel here in the south but you can guess that my mischievous ways got the better of my twisted little soul. I kinda wrote a song about the royal family being incestuous, uneducated morons and it became more infamous than I hoped and spread a hell of a lot faster than I thought. Y’know, like the kind of pox you get when you bump uglies with—“

“I think I get the gist of it,” the woman said with a charming smile before turning to the one member of their little group who had remained silent throughout the entirety of their discussion.

When he met her gaze, he merely offered what appeared to be a genuine smile behind his bushy red facial hair and offered an apologetic shrug.

“I’ve gotten to the point that I just refer to him as ‘Red’,” Cirano butted in with a haughty explanation, “He’s not spoken one word since I’ve been here and it’s been over a week for the two of us. I heard Blackerly state that the dwarf was convicted of Grave Robbing. Imagine the audacity. Well, I suppose digging does come natural to dwarves, you would just expect even them to have some restr—oof!“

Somehow, a small pebble was thrown while everyone was focused on the merchant’s rant that pelted him right between the eyes, leaving a rising purple bruise proudly on his forehead. Though none had seen it, everyone was certain that the now quietly humming dwarf was the obvious culprit. Cirano let out a whining howl, yelling in exaggerated pain from the minor assault.

“Keep it down you animals! Make me come in there and I’ll give you something to cry over,” the guard posted outside the cell block shouted.

The merchant’s cries dropped to a low whimper as he futilely tried to rub the bruise and soothe the irritation while the rest of the prisoners merely sighed or chuckled quietly. The half-elven woman while relaxed on the surface was carefully digesting everything that had been said. Willful sedition, bribery, desecration, grave robbing, heresy and murder… It was hard for her to accept that all the people in this room seemed like essentially normal people, eccentric but normal. Barriddon would likely be the only exception but his rampage was completely justified if his story was to be believed.

“Oh, we never got your name, Blue Eyes,” the Halfling interrupted her private thoughts once again, nearly startling her though she was able to quickly regain her composure.

She paused for a moment, remembering that she had not even bothered telling them her story; the awakening of the half-orc had required their immediate attention after all. She reflected on that as she decided her past did not really matter anymore. At last to answer, she considered the alias she had used during the series of events that had landed her here, and smiled sweetly.

“You can call me ‘M’.”