Gambit:The Enemy of My Enemy
Labor Camp in the Forest
On the fringe of the Eternal Forest there stands a camp surrounded by ashen trees and necrotic foliage. No animals make their homes here, save the scavengers and beetles. A wall encircles barracks where laborers sleep when they're not working shifts at the various public works projects that benefit the Hard City. Locals say drow used to live here, but they were driven out, and in that battle that killed the forest, one of the two watchtowers and the entrance gate collapsed. The former was never rebuilt, but the latter quickly was. Scowling guards, many bearing anti-mage regalia, stand sentry at the gate and at the remaining watchtower. All visitors must be cleared at the guardhouse, and residents must obey a strict curfew.
Mathollak walks bound, wearing tattered red robes that cover his whole body and bindings. Chains sagging and clinking from his arms, connecting him to the next prisoner in a long line of them. There's a procession of them moving through the forest, ostensibly destined for internment at the labor camp. Maintaining their perimeter are their wardens apparently armed to the teeth, these ones clad in the uniform of Larkets witch hunters. The uniforms are several years old, and the insignias that once symbolized their allegiance are now faded. But they've gotten this far. Each of the men and women here among both the uniformed guards and the cloaked and chained prisoner is a member of Mathollak’s mercenary unit, bought and paid for by Cenril with little more than a room. The uniforms the ‘guards’ wear are the very same ones they wore years ago, and so they are authentic, but that doesn’t mean the uniforms haven’t been updated since then… Tensions are high and voices are low as they emerge from the tree line to approach the high stone wall of the labor camp.
Quintessa || A modest garrison patrols the labor camp, watching diligently from the high walls that encircle this place. Witch-hunters and anti-mages alike can be found among them bearing insignias not unlike the ones Mathollak and his crew were wearing, updates to the uniform notwithstanding. Outside of the fortress, purple and golden Kingsguard banners wave just outside of the gatehouse, a subtle announcement to the men stationed here that they were currently being visited by the capital. It is Kingsgaurd Rava who leads this inspection, questioning the barrack’s officers in the yard as they oversee the imprisoned laborers. This should be a routine visit, making sure the facilities are running as normal, and so far Rava has no reason to suspect otherwise… Not yet.
Round One
Mathollak’s Roll: 20 Quintessa’s Roll: 2
Mathollak and his troop of miscreants are allowed through the gates of the labor camp. Just another day on the job for them, to welcome a parade of ‘witches’ and their sympathizers into bondage and doom them to a short life of body breaking work. Of course, this batch was not the usual crowd of medicine mixers and curse-breakers (or even hexers), this was a trained crew of freedom fighters. The prisoners are led into yet another queue. This one would determine what form of labor would ultimately break their backs, judging their abilities based on appearance and apparent health. The ‘wardens’ disperse, seeking out villains they would dispatch on a signal, looking for weak points in the structure. All but one, who lingers by Mathollak. “This un’s still got fight in ‘em,” the warden says of the weary looking man, his long mane of hair falling over his face and eyes. He pretends the fight’s long been beaten out of him, tempting the rest to underestimate him, even despite his overseer’s almost humorous warning.
Quintessa || The guards here are on edge, but not because they think this place will ever get invaded, no, the soldiers here have grown complacent being so isolated from the rest of Larket. The real thing that puts the men and women stationed here is the presence of Rava, who keeps marking off points for issues the commanders didn’t even know they were meant to look out for. “You should have put in a work order for that collapsed tower months ago,” The elven kingsguardsmen scolds them, nevermind the fact that the tower had been destroyed long before this fort was ever turned into a work camp. “Your work ethic here is detestable- Imagine if the King were to hear about this.” Mention of King Macon makes the commanders she addressed stand up a little straighter, as if the King of Rage himself would manifest out of the Larketian stone walls. “And this lot here with the tattered, out of date uniforms,” Rava’s dark eyes fall upon Mathollak and his crew, scanning over each without really paying attention to anything other than deducting more points for their appearance. “Get those prisoners to processing and give those soldiers the proper garb. We aren’t running a children’s day camp here.” Only once they were out of the yard and in the hands of the warden did this group really get a close look, but the warden seemed more interested in breaking the new prisoners than verifying the guards that escorted them. “Wat’s yer name boy,” The Warden prods them with a hardened stick, taunting them, trying to strip them of any humanity they have left. “It dun matter no more. You’re mine now milkling, and I think you’re bound for the mines…” As the warden ushers them in with the general population of prisoners, he has no reason to suspect anything is off, even as Mathollak’s disguised crew follows.
Round Two
Mathollak’s Roll: 1 (Total: 21) Quintessa’s Roll: 8 (Total: 10)
Mathollak hears a bird chirp, a real bird. It was more of a squawk anyways, and not at all like the phoenix screech that they had practiced (in honor of the high priestess that rose from the ashes ever-stronger). He meant to ignore it, but it was too late. One of the men behind him–and Mathollak he knows which idiot–starts springing himself free of his chains already. It wasn’t time. The rest of the fighters weren’t in position, nobody was. But he shirks off his chain anyway, using the key that each prisoner had. The guards here may have been caught by surprise after all, but so, in fact, were the rest of the people on Mathollak’s team. “It’s not time, yet you idiot!” Mathollak hollers, and then he snaps his arms taut against the steel bindings, cranking them out of shape. Then once more, splitting them. He snatches the piecemaker from his watcher’s back and calls out again. “Do the plan anyway! Too late to go back now!” And they do try. The ‘prisoners’, the mercenaries dressed in rags, dash madly toward the cages imprisoning the laborers with small easily concealed weapons; hatchets and hammers and knives, things they’d use to break bindings. The mercenaries dressed in guards uniforms all move toward a target, a true Larketian agent designed to quell the uprising they were trying to make. But they held no advantage, no element of surprise anymore. Mathollak himself hollers out again, addressing the prisoners. “Witches! Hags! Women of the woods! Today is the day you taste freedom again! Throw off your shackles and join me!” As of yet, none of them actually have enough faith in this movement to risk death and join it.
Quintessa || The Warden was a cruel and single-minded person, but even he could notice a botched infiltration when it smacked him in the face. “Heads up turnkeys, we got trouble!” Is all he manages to get out before a messy fight ensues. With all the Larketians taken by surprise and half of Mathollak’s freedom fighters, it starts awkward and slow, but in the prison they were out-numbered, the majority of the guards that would be in here currently outside in the training yard with Rava. The Warden’s men could not win this fight alone, but they knew they didn’t have to, instead focusing on covering the escape of a messenger who runs outside to raise the alarm as the disguised prisoners rush to free the rest of them. Here they would attempt to hold them as the bells rang outside, echoing all the way to Rava who snaps out of her lecture long enough to glare at the commanders expectantly. “What is it?” She demands to know, “It's a prison riot.” They answer, already placing their hands on their weapons, but Rava is first to move forward. “Get your archers on that wall! Close that portcullis! And soldiers on me. I’ll investigate this disturbance myself.” Then, with her purple and gold cloak furrowing in the wind, Kingsgaurd Rava marches to lead the way, trying to cut the image of a hero to inspire all those that follow her.
Round Three
Mathollak’s Roll: 13 (Total: 34) Quintessa’s Roll: 20 (Total: 30)
Mathollak fails to rouse any sort of passion in the hearts of the captives, and all around him, his people are dropping like flies. They put up a fight while they can. Some of the rag wearing insurgents do make it to the places that keep the captives locked up, and some even manage to smash the locks on the bindings pulling them toward the earth and crack open the cages containing the huddled and weary shapes. But all can see that they’re spiraling toward only one end: failure. A messenger flees through the portcullis gate just before it shuts, and the doom of knowing that there could be no battle of attrition. Their numbers were far fewer anyway, but this meant that reinforcements would aid the enemy. In the chaos and bloodshed, Mathollak slings out a fist toward the processing agent who’s just perforated his chaperone, bashing his nose flat against his face. He pulls him close, leaving a bloody sword and a dying fighter to fall to the ground as he maneuvers toward a wall. Arrows stick in the fleshy shield as Mathollak spins the groaning body, raining on him from stone turrets. “Sweet Dark Mother, can you believe this,” he mutters. “It’s all gone wrong, we tried to bring the party like we do, but these squares just ain’t having it. Look at ‘em all, so tired and weak…Bring the vibe, O’ Sweet Dark Mother. Play the music, light our hearts on fire so they can taste the love again!” His voice calls out in an echo toward the heretical realms of hedonism and inspiration and freedom. All the while, he’s planning his next move, carving a path for the escape, if only he can call upon those resigned souls to take it.
Quintessa || Rava takes command of her battalion magnificently as she meets the opposing forces. Most of these men have never met her, but as her regal voice, sounding off like the horns of battle, sings across the fortress, they all obey without question. Archers line the walls, arrows nocked. The iron gates come crashing down, trapping the intruders inside as the death squad encircles the entrance to the prison. Rava draws a long, curved dagger, gleaming in the light of the setting sun to match her laminar armor. She offers no speech, no inspiring words. She is here for justice and honor, ideals that she would allow her actions to speak for today. Once it was clear to her from the word on the ground that a small group had infiltrated the prison and was trying to rile the witches up, Rava would offer no mercy, cutting down prisoners and freedom fighters alike as she sought to quash this uprising. From her perspective they had the advantage, they controlled the flow of battle by forcing them to hold the prison, they had the support of the garrison on the walls surrounding them. All Rava needed to was order her men to push and slaughter any who still held a weapon. In her mind, they could not lose. It would take a miracle to save the freedom fighters now… Unfortunately for Rava, Delisha was generous with miracles when it came to her favorites, Mathollak among them. As he forces his way through the Larketian line, cutting a bloody path of escape for the others behind him, Rava rips the cloak from her back and moves to intercept him, knowing full well that the success of this gambit would fall squarely on these next few moments.
Round Four - Winner: Mathollak
Mathollak’s Roll: 8 (Total: 42) Quintessa’s Roll: 8 (Total: 38)
Mathollak could feel the holy spirit rising in the loins of not just himself but in his mercenaries and the prisoners alike. Wispy threads of red smoke flitted through the air and into the nostrils of each of them. The incense flooded their thoughts with all the memories of everything they used to love, but now don’t even dare to long for. It filled their bodies with vitality lost long ago. Yet even now, there was trepidation. Mathollak could sense that they needed just a spark, and the spirit of love and joy would fill their hearts. He drags both his pincushion of a meat-shield and his enormous axe-hammer toward a section of wall only hastily repaired from some battle years passed. “My beloved!” He calls out, his voice ringing out and echoing above through the spilling blood and clash of steel. “Come to me!” And he punctuates that final syllable with a crushing smash from the hammer, its enchantments causing faults to radiate through the stone. Again, and the wall begins to crumble, pieces of stone and dust shaking loose from the mortar and teetering. His surviving mercenaries and prisoners begin to fall in behind him, fighting off wardens and whipmasters with scavenged weapon, sticks, stones, and the power and love of the elder goddess of love. He smashes the wall one more time, and boulders and debris burst out of their placements. The prisoners and mercenaries alike spill out, as behind them the wall continues to deteriorate further, spreading destruction like lightning across the fortifications.
Quintessa || Rava knew she had this fight won. She knew victory was within her grasp, so when the divine forces of Mathollak’s goddess, no doubt incensed by the treatment of Delisha’s faithful within the borders of Larket, flow from Mathollak like a torrent of love and passion, the Kingsguardsmen is unable to cope with the frenzy of people that explode from the prison and into the yard to join the battle. Those that had been oppressed for so long got a reminder of freedom, a taste of it, enough to keep them fighting for it, fighting harder than the gatekeepers ever could to hold them down. They fight through the wall of guards, the daughters of the witch wielding improvised weapons and what rescuers were left standing, making their way to the gaping hole in the wall Mathollak had provided with his Piecemaker. All Rava could do was to yell out the orders to stop them, but she knew that they were already free; Once the prisoners had melted into the forest there would be no finding them. Even if they chased after them on horseback, the terrain would swallow them up and nestle them in the soft green, hiding them from the Hard City’s watchful gaze. When the dust has cleared and Rava’s soldiers look to her for the next order, she can only scowl in discontent as the last escapee vanishes into the trees. “Let them have their pyrrhic victory,” She says, taking her brilliant colored cloak from the hands of her squire and refashioning it to her armor. “Mark my words: Next time I see that man, it’ll be the might of Vakmatharas that prevails, not the influence of his profane goddess.”