Garuda

Garuda

Plots
Staff
Heavenly Egg
Awarded for just bein' around on April 18, 2025. Sugilite Troudon
Hatched on 4/10 Verdant Troudon
Hatched on 4/10 Rosy Chiffin
Hatched on 4/10
Open scene: A family on the run from the empire.

Caught in a caravan checkpoint. The sun hangs high over every head. Its heat. Its light. Without a single mercy.

Neath the shade of caravan tarps, a family huddles close. The father bids the others not to worry. All will be well. The children cower. The mother holds them closer.

The bark of legionnaires at the head of the van, as the rumble of the wagons comes to a full stop. Father peers out. Tries to see through the gauze of tarp, through what crack his eye can find in the wood that hides him.

“Dula,” the horned mother pleads there in the dust filled darkness.

“Quiet now, Niladeva” Dula, the father, urged. “The giyaari will get us through, that’s why we paid him,”

The children huddled closer. Clutched at their mother’s robes. Tears squeezed out of their eyes as they simpered. Small as they could be betwixt the board of false crates. The sobs of those around them hushed out by hard whispers.

Families. Hopefuls. Slaves cut free from their shackles, if only for the ride on that very wagon.

Each bootfall crunches closer. Armor rattled by the knock of sheathed blades and hung clubs. A squadron of Arshaka’s finest come boot stomp there beside the wagon. Hands at hilts.

“Cargo manifesto!”

INCANDESSED BY HIS RADIANCE, THE RAJ IMPERITUS, INDARIUS MAHAN KOTEK X, ON THE DAY 13 MIUZUND, YEAR 349

By Imperial Decree, Effective Across All Territories Bordering Conflicts by Land, Air, or Sea, as Ratified, Honored, and Upheld by the Praetorian Council, in Conjunction with the Senate-elect, Relating to the Combating of Foreign Hordes, and Maintenance of Arshakan Sanctity.

In accordance with the DECREE OF ARSHAKAN JAGHIC BURDEN of 346, Servants Illuminated by the Imperial Will of Our Resplendent Father Must act Swiftly and Without Impediment along the Frontierlands, and those Territories held in its contest.

I. Legion commanders first and foremost, as to be followed by legion councils at the frontlines, must:
  • Prevent the retreat, or desertion of Arshakan souls from the Frontier, and eliminate any and all forms of propaganda that will convince subjects of His Imperial Light that retreat will bear no consequence to them.

  • Without fail, strip of rank and send to the Jaghic Command any commander, officer, or legionnaire of rank that have allowed unauthorized retreat or desertion of their forces from occupied territories, without given the order to do so by Jaghic Command.

  • Conscript and utilize, upon each face of the Frontier, any amount of imprisoned Mortal Material deemed fit to be used in defence and maintenance of Arshakan Sanctity. This Mortal Material must be put upon the most difficult faces of the Frontier, so that their souls might find redemption for their crimes and failures against His Imperial Light.
II. Legion commanders first and foremost, as to be followed by legion councils in all territories illuminated by His Imperial Light, must:
  • Prevent the corruption of the Imperial Legions by removing from command, rank, or title, any and all legionnaires who have aided in the desertion, or retreat of occupied territories, and route them to legion councils to be sentenced.

  • Reinforce unstable positions, fortress, checkpoints, legions, with well equipped Kachion squads (of 300 souls each), and have them sweep, reinforce, and bolster the efforts to prevent loss of held territories, desertion, and acts of disgrace and cowardice by any means necessary, giving those truly in His Imperial Light the aid needed to serve faithfully.

  • Each legion may forcibly conscript and utilize Mortal Material that has been found lacking in upholding their Jaghic Burden, on the field or from any Prison Fortress sanctioned by Jaghic Command. This Mortal Material must be put upon the most difficult tasks, so that their souls might find redemption for their crimes and failures against His Imperial Light.
III. Primus Khashatrii and Khashatrii of the Karmic Legions must:

  • Prevent the corruption of the Imperial Legions by removing from command, rank, or title, any and all legionnaires who have aided in the desertion, or retreat of occupied territories, and route them to legion councils to be sentenced.

  • Provide all support to the Kachion squads of the legions in their duty to strengthen and make resolute His Imperial Light.

This order is to be read to all Legions, garrisons, and members of Jaghic Command.

By the Will of Our Resplendant Father
Indarius Mahan Kotek X

“In you go,” said, gruff and careless as the guards tossed Dula into their cell.

A hard crack of bones against stone in a room with too many people already crowded in it. They half scattered back. Some even tried to catch him. Remembered the clubbing. The kicks. The whips when the guards felt too bored with all of it not to be cruel. Stilled their hands.

Slumped on the ground. Eyes red with tears. His dark skin bruised and mottled. Back lined with scars. He smelled the foul reek of too much waste caked about the cell. Felt the hunger tearing at his guts.

None of it. None of it at all. Compared to the dread that ate away at him. For his family. His wife. His children.

A red inked hand reached down to pull Dula up to his feet. Brushed him off. Too sure to be tender. “Welcome to Hestio,”
 
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"Pox on Hestio and pox on this dumb bastard." Yet he still hooked an unceremonious arm under shoulder to bring Dula to feet.

Vinicus Shan, ex-Legionnaire, kicked futilely at immutable bars. He wasn't supposed to be here. Certainly not herded like cattle with a bunch of degenerates and fools. He was different. Noble. Gifted. Destined for something greater. Fate, however, couldn't even hide the slight limp from his earlier outburst. Made for a rather undignified walk back to his crowded corner.

Even in this godless place an officer's rank meant something. Not much, but something. Familiar faces looked to him, the same faces which led him to this entirely despondent situation. He'd learned too late that closing your eyes was better a gambit.

"3-6-6-9" He muttered. "3-6-6-9" He swore louder.
 
"Not like that, like this." Tool gently guided the new kitchen hand in the proper kneading of the dough. This was an art that could not be done with such stiff hands. Adding extra flour, he began anew rolling it up then slapping it down the board. "To mix the dough is to make passion my boy. One does not simply press roughly, but to soothe like a palm over wounds." Massaging the dough, he stretched, rolled, and mixed spices and herbs into it.

The youth watched mystified as the Baker went to work replicating this process five times. Setting the dough into separate pans, the youth set them aside to rise in time. Firing up the wood stove, Tool swayed in the beat of culinary. Various other chefs milled around the room, prepping and preparing foods for the day to come.

Seven floors above ground and four floors underground. Disease riddled the halls along with malnutrition and other undesired situations. Thankfully, they were kept far away from these sickly "Mortal Materials" as the prisoners were called. Honestly, in truth, it made Tool sick to his stomach. A host of well-placed Sunder and Shaker munitions would see this prison flattened like a pancake. The land would suffer heavily, but for the sake of human action, it was worth it to the Sapper.. Er Baker, yeah Baker.

Wiping the sweat from his brow, the Baker winked at his hired hand and gestured to the food pantry. "It is time to help prep for breakfast at the officers' mess. Bring out trays 5-23 and get them set on the tables in the back. With a nod, the youth and one other began taking the trays of bread out. The back section doubled as the foodline to the mess hall; already a low murmur stirred from those off shift chatting and sharing information.

"Morning Baker! What's on the menu today?!" Curly's familiar voice sounded from the line up as Tool placed steaming hot stews and curry to be eaten. "Nothing but the best! By the Imperial Light! Nothing less will do!" Cracking a smirk, they clasped hands, and small slips of paper were exchanged in the interaction. Adding some food to the man's plate, he ushered him on with a wave. "You always keep us fed, Baker, and we appreciate it!" Curly kept a calm face as he bowed and moved down the line.

First check-in was done, now for the rest to come and bring their reports. It'd been several days since they were posted here in Hestio. Unfortunately, things were progressing more slowly than desired, yet he could not complain. The kitchen was the best and safest place to keep Tool due to his proclivity for mayhem.
 
A newcomer.

Red eyes watched as the old man was discarded, tossed in to the same dead end as the rest of them. The guards would have been more careful with a sack of grain. Something cracked when the frail body hit the cold stone.

The best and the worst of them both went to help the old man to his feet. The Red-Handed stranger, and the Legionnaire. Despite the limp, fear had not yet been beaten into the Legionnaire's posture; he did not know to stay silent. Vinicus Shan, who did not belong here with the rest of the refuse, who was innocent, who was going to get out of this place and wreck ugly revenge on the ones who'd done this to him. Jadzia had been listening to him drone on about it for days.

And now, why did the Legionnaire have to pick her corner to slink off into? Now she'd have to do something about it.

The silver shackles around Jadzia's limbs clinked as she stirred to movement. Bent low over a secret spot under one of the cots in the cell. Secret, not because it was hidden in the shared corner, but because it was sacred and guarded with claws and teeth.

When she came back, she had a heel of bread clutched close, and a roll of torn fabric held more loosely in her other hand.

"Here," she said flatly, handing the scrap of food to the old man. Glared sideways at the Legionnaire with a mean glint. None for the nobleman.

"What's your name?"
 
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Sub 3​

Three miserable years on sublevel three only to be thricefucked by being passed over for a promotion for the third time. People liked saying how three was a lucky number, but Pot knew them to be full of shit. So it came to no one's surprise when he too slowly crept into Hestio's underbelly as something more than a guard. A service provider, really. The freefolk back home would've called him a businessman. Here, they only called him if they wanted a cut of the action. Fortunately, he was known for offering different cuts, so he rarely got pressed to part with his hard...well, earned money.

He passed Jack on his way to the kitchens and made sure to spit some venom.

„You call that standing to attention?“ Looked over his shoulder before the actual spit came out. „My granny could well topple you! Don't let me catch you slouching again!“

„Yes, Sir!“ Jack's hand over chest salute quickly deployed the midfinger soon as his superior's back was turned. A true marvel of modern linguistics.

Further down the hall Sammy Tooths flicked a coin over to Fickletick.

„Ffold ya!“ Sammy's smile spread in all gums.

„Fucking Pot and Kettle.“


*​
Kitchens​

„Ah, Baker!“ yelled over to the darkhaired youth. Goddamn, someone seemed to practice their knifework on the newest kitchen whelp. Pot never could get used to people with that many scars. Surely you either got dead or better at whateverthefuck you were doing by the third or fourth. Anything beyond four scars was just a testament to madness.

„I was told you needed something.“ Always happy to provide, and remind: „I'll send some apprentices for the dough later tonight.“
 

Confinement Cell 5229​


View attachment 902"Easy now, soldier," the man with the red hands eased the foul tempered mutterer. "Save the fire for something worth burning," eyes flit to the bundle of frayed nerves skittered and worked low with the newcomer.

Mistrust burned in her eyes. Zalan smiled at that. Doggish, and long toothed as she slipped something to the newcomer. Almost fast enough to miss. The firebreather cut his eyes away. Worked the hurt out of his wrists where the silver shackles bit too deep into flesh and bone.

The older man nod, meekly at the young woman. "What sort of place is this," he bemoaned, eyes on the bread clutched betwixt his hands. "That they would throw a young woman in here with a lot of old dogs?" held back the thoughts that stirred up inside him. "Its Dula," he replied.

He tore at the heel of bread. Offered a piece back to the young woman. Tore off another piece. Smaller. Offered it to the cantankerous man, repeating that accursed number.

A sharp whistle from Zalan. His eyes narrowed sharp as he leaned against the bars of their cage. "Brickheads, stepping up,"

About the Kitchen​


Another pair of guards walk by. Sneaking provisions they see laying about. As easy as field mice getting into the grain.

"Hear they are full up to level five now,"

"Fucking hell, soon enough, we'll need to be chopping them to bits just to fit them all in,"

A cruel laugh. "Yeah, well, so long as I'm not the one doing the chopping,"

A hard elbow to the rib. "Least you'd have something to tell the misses as to why you smell so damn bad!"
 
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"I've kindle aplenty, so to the Pit with your inane wisdom," the now rankless Legionnaire spat back. This redhanded rogue was too calm by half. Vinicus suspected it was because the man was all too familiar with these circumstances, he'd seen the type before. More comfortable behind a cell than not with a smattering of jaunts to the outside world.

"Woman?" He scoffed cynically. "You mean this rodent currently glaring daggers at me? It's no fault of mine there's no cheese with the bread. Take it up with the kitchen."

He could almost taste the regret of his words as the old man offered a piece back. Had Vinicus any shame he would've rejected the offer, but he'd never had much to begin with and Hestio beat the rest out of him.

The call of Brickheads approaching snapped Vinicus to silence, a rare feat. Not something even his father ever managed.

That was prison, no, that was Hestio.
 
"Jadzia," she replied to the old man Dula. "I will remember your name."

They shared the bread, which was good and right to do. Even if the Legionnaire didn't deserve anything.

"Rodent or dog. There's only one kind of person in Hestio." Jadzia careened her snout upwards to look at the ceiling of the cell. Slabs of heavy stone, lined with a metal grid. Musty stains seeping between the crevices. Her nose twitched. "We're in a slaughterhouse."

The guards that approached were off route. They walked straight and looked keen, instead of gawking around with the bored gait of the brickheads doing their scheduled loops. One of them was a tall, steely woman that Jadzia had named The Monk because of her bald head. The other was named Artamo, and he always had the strap of his helmet undone.

Artamo took his hooked wooden club and ran it across the bars. It went tunk tunk tunk until he stopped at the cage door. The Monk stepped silently in his shadow. Seven other brickheads swarmed behind them, three on each side of the door and the last gripping the heavy metal bar that locked them all in.

"Back away from the door!" barked The Monk. The prisoners moved, but some were not fast enough. The scrape and creak of metal had the gate swinging open. In rushed the guards, clubs drawn, beating back anyone they thought looked too opportunistic. The Monk and Artamo strolled deeper in.

"We only need ten," the Monk reminded her partner. "And pick stronger ones this time. The last batch died too quickly."

"I know, I know," Artamo swung his club lazily downwards and grinned at the prisoners. "Well, look alive, lovelies! The Warden has decided to give some of you an opportunity to cleanse your souls." He was looking right at the man with red hands. "Any volunteers?"

The wall of brickheads, the open door. It was all for show. Jazdia had found that out on Attempt 4. Even if someone dodged the guards, escape did not lie beyond the cage door. Just a different kind of punishment.
 
Bakromanser said:
„Ah, Baker!“ yelled over to the darkhaired youth. Goddamn, someone seemed to practice their knifework on the newest kitchen whelp. Pot never could get used to people with that many scars. Surely you either got dead or better at whateverthefuck you were doing by the third or fourth. Anything beyond four scars was just a testament to madness.

„I was told you needed something.“ Always happy to provide, and remind: „I'll send some apprentices for the dough later tonight.“
Click to expand...
Looking up from his work, Tool smirked at Pot as the youth approached. Glee sparked in his eyes as he gleaned the two stealing from his supplies. If there was one thing he hated were thieves, but strangely, he felt proud of their consistency. This pair was a bit special and purposefully placed. After the second stolen snacks and the third observation, he had planned something fun.

Listen here, Pots, my boy. Make it three aids and have them bring me some extra wheat and rye. Don't forget the sugar neither, deserts gonna be a blast!" Tool chuckled deviously as he watched the two troops walk away. He hoped they liked it extremely spicy with a hint of honey glaze. Something to get the innards, rather liquid if they did not have a strong constituency.

Baker's Law: Once is a gift, twice is a spite; 'ware the gift given more than thrice.

Their words puzzled and intrigued him at the same time. Full to level five aye? Sounded like the boys needed to up the patrol routes to find them.

"Pot's, before you go, lad. Take these two bags of bread. I know they are a day old, but you know I only use the freshest in the mess. Give it yander to all who need a spare ration." Baker clapped the lad on the shoulder before hefting out three full sacks of day-old bread he had made extra. The sacks were decently weighted, and he would need help.

Turning away, Baker gave a hearty laugh, getting back in the line to serve with his kitchen aid. Another day in Hestio, another bread basket full.
 
Grabbed the bags as told, wondering when they'd gotten so chummy. Still, could always dangle a loaf or two through the bars. The unfortunates were rarely properly searched – surely he and his could shake a few more coins lose if they made bread into proper bait. Suppose he could also give 'em a chunk or two for free.

He'd heard Stuffs on up on level two often did that. Sounded like a shit idea to him, but it'd been years and the other man was still in business – so perhaps he was too quick to judge it. He entertained a betting game at shift change by holding back some of the food – would make the hungry eyes turn into angry fists and elbows...but, best if the ruckus didn't happen for his shift. They could make those arrangements when it was Jonas' turn. Nobody like that soft fuck, so as long as they made sure his shift was shared with another miserable asshole, no one would complain to some spice to an otherwise uneventful evening. Went to rub his hands together, only to thunk the bags. Ah yes – these were thoughts for later.

„Boys will be by later.“ He squinted at how upbeat the baker was. No place for that here. No place at all. „Make sure bag's heavy – sugar and rye peddlers were proper assholes this time around.“

He personally blamed Jack being a dick. People always raised prices when he want to resupply, but such was the curse of being Jack. Made him great at the whole good guard, bad guard thing tho.

And then he was off. To level five, if he heard the passerby well. Those were some proper desperate dipshits.



*​


Said boys​

„He said it could make da 'splozives“ Confided Jack.

„The what?“ Mick wasn't all that sure Jack's head was on all the time.

„Da bomb ya git, da bomb.“

„With sugar?“

„Sure did.“

„Assplozive maybe, if you go for thirds again, you grubby fuck.“

„Oi!“

Liam rarely talked - the other two droned on plenty.
 

Confinement Cell 5229​

View attachment 929"Inane," The red hand tried it. Laughed. "I like that,"


Dula's face contorted. Unable to hide his distaste for how the riled up once-Legionnaire spoke. "Must you be so vile, munde?" the older man let have it. "Did not your mama teach you any manners?" still, the bread was given. Dula shook his head.

Jadzia... I will remember your name

"And I yours, child,"

Rodent or dog, there's only one kind of person in Hestio... We're in a slaughterhouse.

Dula shuddered at the sentiment. "Need such clear cruelties be spoken," he said soft against all the stench of piss, shit, blood, and grime.

The red hand gave a slow nod. No silver shackles on his wrists just yet. Come the steady clip of the Brick's boots, and he let his hands fall to his side. Palms heavy.

...ten...last batch died to quickly.

...Any Volunteers?

Artamo's eyes stuck to the man with the red hands for a long and weighted moment. As if the ease with which he stood tall and unbent was an afront. The ranked guard cast that faraway look in his eye across the others in the cell.

Those crowded round stepped back. Turned away. Left the older man there, before their crowd. Tension ran through his limbs like a fray of lightning spidering across the clouds. Hairs across his limbs standing.

"Ah," Artamo sounded. Chords too lifeless to sound much of anything. Simple matter of process. "Our first volunteer," a tilt of the head to the armored goons about him. Two clacked their tall squared shields against the stonefloor. Stepped forward in lock step. Reached with crooked club to hook the olderman by the neck.

Found a red banded limb there instead. Uncertain. They looked to the man. Then to the older man behind him.

"Well, bring him in!" Monk called out.

Grabbed him hard by the rags that covered his bruised and haggard flesh.

"Aye, easy now," the red handed man almost seemed to laugh. "I've got cleansing to do,"

They thwacked him across the back. Just to remind him.

"Grab the traitor," the Monk said with ice in her chords. "And the rat," she smiled too pleased. "She still has fight in those ungodly eyes,"

"You heard her!" Artamo called out. Shields sounded in unisoned thump. Tustle, resist, or comply. All four were dragged out. Dula too.

Five more were plucked from the next cell.

Two Devahni. A beastkin who looked to be skink. And a pair of elves. All bound in shackles, pushed along. Poked and proded with clubs as most locked away stared on with defeat in their eyes, or looked away, too scared that they might be next. Some whose minds had been lost to this place, Hollard and cheered. Better those sorry ten, than any of them. Better some manner of entertainment, than their own day beneath the cruel sun.

"Ain't this a load of shit," The red handed man laughed. Arm still thumping from the wallop as the marched along.

The pathways down the Prison Fortress carved across the jagged cliff's edge. The entire superstructure made from a massive bluff. The cell floors carved into a panopticon within the sandstone, whilst the desert air blew into the chimney like structure. Many a prisoner simply died from the heat. Too long in their cells. Too little water. Too little food.

"Papa!" A little voice called out from one of the cells. "Papa!"

"Dula!"

Dula's eyes went wide, his whole body whipped to find the hands grasping out from their cell. Guards quick to step to the cell. Cracked club against the bars with shouts for quiet.

Dula shout. "Amrin! Niladeva!" the yanks of the chains as they marched forward pulled him in line.

Butchering Ground Zero​

Into another cell they were all dumped. Unshackled. Armed. Pathetic rust eaten swords. Cracked shields. Things that might cut. Might survive a blow.

Sword and shield clattered at Dula's feet. The cell shut. The ten left there in. The air, so thick with iron and bile it was hard to breath.

Dula breathed rage through his teeth. Tears streaming down his eyes as he looked at the tools of death before him.

The red handed man peered out a slit through which light and dust poured in. "We are on floor zero," he sounded out. Eyes cast up. "The whole rest of the prison can see us," back down. "Shit," he grinned. "We are going to be putting on a show,"

"We are food for the monsters," hissed the whisperey voice of the skinkling. "I've seen it," their gemlike eyes looked tot the rest. No nerves there. Just cold truth. "Them, the things they let out onto the floor, things in chains," looked to the spear in their hands. "Things that feed on the fear in the air,"

The red hand's eyes turned to face the skinkling, then the others. "You seen it?"

The skinkling nod. "Tear through mortals like a wolf through hens,"
 
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The silver shackles came off. A club was placed in Jazdia's claws, half it's iron tip missing like a notch in the ear.

They were in a pit hidden below the killing floor. Blood stained the grains of the rough hewn planks above their heads, seeped through from above. Faint growls and rattling chains unsettled the nerves. Nearby, muffled by stone and dirt, but near enough to feel panicked breath and heartbeat.

There, amongst the noisy beasts, a presence loomed dark and quiet. One that was not afraid, or beaten, or slavering mad like the other things put in cages.

The quiet one was hunting. And it knew patience.

"Things that feed on the fear in the air," Spoke the scillin with the jeweled eyes. "Tear through mortals like a wolf through hens,"​

"Then let us not fear," Jadzia said. She drew a circle in the dust with a roll of her foot, freed of the heavy anklets. The silver shackles were off.

The floor pushed upwards with a creak of mechanism, and the wooden slats of the ceiling parted against dusty daylight above. Jadzia crouched low as she shift her weight with the floor's lurch and rattle.

The light of day blinded her. She blinked the daze away and squinted at the beast in the center of the arena, four-legged and snouted like a mammal. It strained against the chain that tethered its neck to the ground, slavering at them with eyes full of hate. Thick font legs ended in long halfmoon claws. The beast's matted fur was layered down its back like dragon scales. Dull weapons would do nothing against the natural armor.

"A paligiir," mournful was the scillin's voice, barely a scratch in their throat at the sight of the once-noble beast. Gentle creatures that roamed the Chandrakanti Forests, using their strong arms to bend down branches and eat the high-bough fruit. What had the brickheads done to this one, to make it fight?

Jadzia threw the club down. Felt the fur on the back of her neck bristle. Traced the humid air with little cuts of her claws. Yes, she could feel the shroud settling on her once more. Those stupid guards had forgotten something important.

They'd taken her shackles off.
 
There was no sun in the chamber. Such was by design.

Ko's divine form was far away from here. Here, there was only terror and the sharpness of scalpels and minds that rend the flesh of reality. Such was by design. A voice made of metal recited the words before the furnace in the center of the room. The hat he wore was tall and the robes of black and silver were immaculate. The runes written upon them were to please the spirits that swirled in darkness and heat. They who whispered black desire and instruction into the hearts of their conjurors. The goblets they drank from were filled with wine and blood, cut from the feet of the innocent and helpless. The taste of their terror was an intoxicating miasma. It made the demands more clear. The directions true as any scripture. The Brahmus's frustrations were made easier to bear.

None had survived the procedures so far and so far the weak had been turned to ash. The next to come stared at the ceiling lifeless, eyes empty like that of a baby doll. They collected her blood all the same and mixed it with their red drink. He pondered the name of the spirit that writhed in response to her taste as he drank of her. How many syllables need he know to bind them? What horrors must he bring forth to gain their favor?

Beneath Hestio, time was ever on his side.

The precious creature was extracted from her viscera and she was discarded into the flame. The fire ate of her and the Brahmus gestured lazily for one of his lessers to bring in the next specimen. The worm was placed within thick glass, green and red with the bloodstains of useless eaters. Pathetic souls that must feed the greater need.

"We require a stronger specimen..."
 
"Traitor?" The word grated on his very being and better judgement. "The only traitors here are those who confine one of the Empire's great scions."

"That so?" came the calm response accompanied by a swift punch in the gut. Vinicus gasped as he struggled to keep his feet. The guards didn't much care for his plight and dragged him out the cell while his vision still swam.

They walked and walked, pausing only for an old man to be given hope and despair all in the same serving. Vinicus gave a brief thought to his own family but it only served to foster more cynicism. His father likely had him struck from the family registry the moment his son was tossed into this unforgivable place.

Tossed into another cell far more foreboding than the last, the ex-legionnaire could only managed muttered curses. The half-broken shield and rusted sword provided little comfort, nor did the talk of being a monster's meal.

"Then let us not fear,"

"That ship's already left port," scoffed the noble, his voice about as steady as the rising platform. Same as the others, he winced at the assaulting light. Yet when his eyes finally adjusted, he pined for that brief, blissful, blindness.

He watched with confusion as the rat tossed her club aside. Surely she wasn't planning to surrender? No, her posture suggested otherwise. What did it matter anyways, they were about to be torn to shreds.

What was it that fool said? Ah, yes. Like a wolf through hens.
 
"It's honestly not what I anticipated." Curly murmured as he stopped to watch the fight. Argo stood beside him in silence. This combat section of Hestio was one of their hot zones. Someone was always here to keep an eye out for a certain man. "Hold steady, Soldier. It is going to be alright, we just need to have a better exit lane is all." Argo murmured back as he took part with some bread and cheese.

"You think they'd really send him into the pits?!" with hot iron in his voice, Curly had to restrain himself from bolting to the cells. It was not his area to check, and Cutter had yet to make his appearance to the duo. Shrugging slowly, Argo patted him on the shoulder to steady the man. "None of us can say, for now hold faith.." Argo nodded curtly before returning to silence, standing his post.

"Baker! Thank you for the meal, here's a little something from the boys below." Cutter smiled at Tool as he handed him a small sack. Presumably something from the market, from the troops to the youth. Tool took it in hand and smiled back at Cutter with a nod.

"I try my best, sir! You are most kind! I look forward to hearing about your rounds over dinner with these lads. Clapping the older man on the shoulder, Baker got back to his cooking, stashing the back within his robes. Watching Cutter and a few others break off from the dining hall, the youth felt more assured as time went on. It would all come together like the perfect blend of spices.

"Young'n come grab the cinnamon dough from the back. I have an idea for it." Tool gestured with a hand as he began his lunch prep in the waning hours of breakfast. Joy rolled through Baker's veins as he thought of how good the Cinnamon bread would taste with some solid milk. Heavy footsteps turned Tool round to the food line, his expression shifting briefly.

"Captain Manisk, eventful morning sir? Coming for the usual?" Tool asked as he took out several carefully wrapped meats and cheeses from beneath the counter. The large armored man only nodded his head with ease. Hushed voices all around as eyes peered up from bowls and over shoulders.

"I tells you what, Baker.. Double it today, and I will get a surprise for you for dinner tonight. Hows abouts that?" Manisk let out a hearty chuckle that rumbled through his boots to the floor. Baker nodded enthusiastically while packing double the material into a new sack he had on the side. Securing the end, it was placed into Manisk's bear of a hand.

"I'll hold you to that, my friend. I will indeed." Tool wagged his finger, turning to take the cinnamon dough from his trainee. Setting off into the belly of the kitchen, Tool's check-ins for the morning had mostly all been taken care of. "It is going to be a lovely day in this neighborhood."
 
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