The Pit is a tomb for the wicked and innocent alike. One where no man leaves without the permission of the Warden- Oliver Twist. The underground miner's prison is dark, damp, and unkempt. The walls of each cell are decrepit and suffocating, and the smell from the makeshift privy in each cell only made the encroaching environment seem ever-more miserable. Underground roots slithered through cracks and hung from the stone architecture- a constant battle between man and nature. Guards walked the halls, weapons constantly at the ready. They peered into each cell quickly before moving on down the long corridors. The occasional aperture in the roofing teased the inmates with glimpses of the outside world. Light was a rarity in the depths of the Pit.

The echoes of clanging steel against iron ore rang through every chamber. Through the cells and the mess hall; all the way into the Warden's office. The occasional scream of pain mixed with metal drumming. The mines often created a slight smog throughout the prison, and filled the air with an exhausting, nauseating aroma. Many of the guards wore rags over their mouths to keep them from breathing in the fumes and smells.

The heroes of our story have found themselves within this prison. The will of Rao? Or perhaps a curse from Incabulos. Whatever the case, this tale begins here...choked in darkness and metallic. This tale is one of owls and wolves.

“My purpose? I intend to visit Nathaniel Hawthorne? I’ve already said I’m his son for Rao’s sake.” The man in common garb was arguing with the behemoth of a prison guard was Isaac Hawthorne. This wasn’t the first time this argument has occurred. Every time Isaac walks in it’s the same scenario over and over again. There are constant explanations to a man no smarter than an ox. But every time Isaac makes it through, however you could almost see the steam blowing above his neck-length wheat-colored hair. No matter the cost to Isaac’s patience it is worth it to visit his father.

For the past six years Nathaniel Hawthorne has been stuck in the Pit, mining away for the Chamberhill family. Nathaniel deserved it however; Nathaniel had been a master thief and had been a thorn in the side of the law for years. Evading capture for so long can only create arrogant attitudes. His arrogant attitude was quickly flipped when a routine heist went wrong and injured his son. To save himself, his son, and his fellow conspirators Nathaniel took the blame and received a lifetime in the Pit. With six years down Nathaniel only has the rest of his life left.

Isaac masterfully navigated his way down into the earth. With every step the air becomes thicker and hotter. At the end of the third hallway, past all of the freaks, lays a cell. As Isaac walks down piercing blue eyes open up and lock onto Isaac. The eyes belong to weary and dirty man. This prison could wear men down till they are nothing more than empty shells that mine for anything of value, but Isaac’s father magically kept himself together. Nathaniel’s body was lean, the prisoners are fed just enough to work and sleep. Even with his body’s appearance anybody could see that mentally Nathaniel was strong. They locked eyes briefly before Isaac broke the silence between them.

“Hey Pa I brought you a little something.” Isaac pulls out an object wrapped in cloth. To Nathaniel’s surprise it was a small hunk of cured beef. He pulled a strip off and stuffed it in his mouth like an animal, but who could blame him the food served was a pittance in comparison. While the man was ravenously eating the meat Isaac began to talk.

“There was an attack in the marketplace again, some Nerull worshiper tried his luck on a merchant, but luckily I was there. I wasn’t able to take him alive, he tried to cast some kind of spell on me, but my sword was quicker.” In between bites Nathaniel said,

“Good. Wouldn’t. Want. Nothing. To. ‘appen. To. Ya.” Nathaniel didn’t disapprove of Isaac being a member of the city guard, it was a “respectable profession” and it was a reason as to why Nathaniel was able to have his son visit every week.

“ Well Pa you know…”

While most of the prison was a place of suffering and smog, there was 1 place that stood out as a beacon of peace, reason, and serenity. 1 place where the smog seemed to give a wide berth. 1 place where the guards peered into for a little while longer before reluctantly resuming their patrols. This place was the cell in which Seprad Elif sat in cross-legged meditation.

The young Monk of Rao had left the monastery at Ardent's Watch that he had called home for the past 27 years to complete his training. A few weeks later, he had wound up in prison after being framed for a crime he didn't commit by a group of corrupt guardsmen who were mad at Seprad for speaking up when they were bullying some innocent bystanders.

It had been 10 days since Seprad had been brought here. In that time, he'd managed to get a letter to his monastery back at Ardent's Watch and the prison guards had started shackling a ball and chain to each of Seprad's wrists when he wasn't mining after he lay down his pick when they 1st sent him to the mine and began breaking the rock with his bare palms. They weren't necessary (As Seprad had no intention of committing any violent acts that weren't in self defence), but the guards had a better safe than sorry policy when it came to 'stone punchers' and so the weights remained.

Throughout this whole ordeal, Seprad remained perfectly calm. Very little could faze a Monk of Rao after all. The letter on its way to Ardent's Watch was all that was needed to give Seprad peace of mind and a fair amount of certainty that he'd be released in the fullness of time and would be able to continue his journey soon after.

In the meantime, Seprad listened to the conversation a prisoner in the opposite cell was having with a visitor. The visitor was the prisoner's son by the sounds of things, and it also sounded like the son had brought his father something to eat. Seprad himself was perfectly happy with the food served in the prison. He never wanted for much and he found comfort in the most unlikeliest of places, so he got on fine here.

Laine Eldor

Two days earlier...

Laine sat at bar in the slums of Ardent’s Watch, sipping on a large pile of ale, his second of the night. Tomorrow he would leave this town and head east towards the Citadel, making stops at the small towns and villages to see if they had jobs so he could earn extra cash along the way. “Just one more night in this hellhole Laine, hang in there” He mumbled as he took in his surroundings. It was exactly what you would expect from a tavern that sat right in the middle of the poorer side of the city. Outside of the tavern there was at least one fight every ten minutes and it always ended with one of the combatants either unconscious or dead. The inside was no better, entertaining an assortment of every stereotypical bad guy, from thief’s to henchmen. As he took the atmosphere in one more time, he asked himself once again how he ended up here in the first place. “Probably because the ale is cheaper in places like this.” He whispered to himself with a small smile.

Laine train of thought was interrupted when his eyes focused on the barmaid who was to his right, being harassed by a drunk group of men. Laine continued to watch, being too afraid to jump in right away, lest he unnecessarily starts something he knows those men could not finish. The final straw came when one of the men ran a hand up the women’s skirt. She replied with a slap to his face and he in turn replied with a backhand that sent her to the floor. With a curse he went to grab the woman but was instead met with a crossbow bolt through his left hand. With a cry of pain that shocked the whole room into silence, the man fell to his knees clutching his wounded hand.

All eyes turned to the hooded man who held the crossbow, sitting at the end of the bar. And then they watched as he slowly retracted the weapon and lowered his hood, revealing a young man no older than 26, with sharp features and messy, short, hair that was a pale white, with his eyes being a dark chocolate colour. As the drunk men stood up and prepared for a fight, Laine sighed. “You couldn’t just leave her alone could you? The last night I was supposed here and this happens. Do you really have to make my life a living hell?” He said looking up at the ceiling before almost instantly charging the men...

Present day.

Laine awoke to the sounds of two men talking in a nearby cell. As he looked around he slapped his face lightly as he woke himself up. “Another day, another hell.” He grunted as he stood up and walked around. As he looked around he saw one of drunk men he fought. His right eye was swollen and he had stitches of various sizes littering his face. When he noticed Laine he immediately recoiled and stumbled backwards. “ ‘ere he is, that bloody demon.” The man whispered as Laine walked past him, paying him no attention.

The fight lasted less than a minute before Laine was knocked out by one of the spectators who whacked him over the head with a pint. Apparently the man was friends with one of the drunk men, apparently he also whacked Laine a few more times in the face with the face once he was unconscious which explained a stitched up wound just over his right eyebrow.

At least that lady swung by to thank me He thought to himself as he recalled the barmaid visiting him the day before and rewarding him with a kiss and “A little something extra” when he gets out. Of course, Laine replied with a gulp and an inaudible noise that resembled an okay. With a chuckle Laine walked back to his original place on the floor where he awoke about 10 minutes earlier.

As he sat down he looked up at the ceiling once again, and smiled "Still, glad this ain't Redcliffe, would've died by now.” he snorted before he closed his eyes and tried to sleep.

Footsteps encroached on the territory of these housed prisoners as the sound of bouncing chain-mail filled the corridor. As the source of the noise came into view for our prisoners, a woman could be seen. The elf was being ushered down the dingy hall by two guards. The woman hardly struggled as she surveyed the inmates locked inside cells. The rot of the prison and the decay of its occupants seemed all too familiar for her.

Without much care the guards forcefully pushed her into a cell at the end of the corridor. The scene was made all the more eerie by the lack of speaking. Neither the guards or the woman made a sound. It was as if this moment occurred ad infinitum; a different means of entering this hellish place, but only ever the one way of leaving it.

The guards made their way back down the corridor about as quietly as they had come through it. Their clanging metal hissed for a few moments before fading into the distance as they turned down another corridor.

With the guards gone the other prisoners could here shuffling in the same room that the woman had just been thrown into. Suddenly, there was a jangling sound- no doubt keys. The echo of the keys could hardly compete with the clanging of the mining, but it was present enough to call the other inmates to attention. Following the jangle was a small clicking sound, and finally the sound of an opening door.

Cracking her neck the elven woman stepped out. The dimly lit corridor did little to show her features, but she was rather petite. Her slender frame was masked by the heavy and ragged green garments assigned to all prisoners in the mines. Her medium length golden, almost white hair, was disheveled. Her shorter height immediately revealed her wood elven lineage.

Jesma was a rotten liar. This had come as something as a surprise; there had been few occasions that called for lying in her life so far, and when it had come to such, the victim had always been her father; who had always been perhaps too distracted to notice his daughter’s change in compaction or sudden interest in her stained fingertips. Then again, it hadn’t helped that the smoke came from her room. Or what had been her room for two nights. Everything made of wood, never had she been in such an impractical place. If just the desk had been given a stone or even glass top – everything could have been avoided. As it was the desk, the chair, the floor, the bed, even the damned window frame caught ablaze and no sooner had she left the building, coughing and stomping smoke off her trousers then she found herself pinched between two city guards and on the wrong end an ill-tempered in-keeper’s vindictive glare. It was clear no one knew what to do with her at first, aside from disbelieve every excuse she offered; the deemed her a Halfling and dwarf blood was made for mines and didn’t see much issue sticking her with the rest of their prisoners. But not before giving her a good wash; if all of her saved worldly possessions hadn’t just been taken and she hadn’t been condemned to spending an indeterminate amount of time laboring in the damp underground she might have found it amusing. The water had been cold; and only a single bucket given, but the hard sour-smelling soap worked well enough to get the soot and ash from her hair. It had been her hands which concerned the guards most however; first she had been sent back to wash them again, and again returned coloured black form fingertips past the wrists. A guard followed her in after, and attempted to clean them himself, until his own palms where pink and raw. There had then been the question as to if she was diseased. Jesma had not responded to their questions, but watched mutely as they argued, swinging her legs under the bench she had been told to wait on.

A few hours after being shown to her cell Jesma questioned why they bothered washing her at all. Hair had begun to clung to her face wetting again from cold sweat the musty air caused, and he skin was already had a thin coating of grime that crawled to the back of her throat with each breath. The first three meals she had refused to eat out of resentment. By the fourth, it was clear no one noticed of cared much if she ate her food; but she had worked her first shift in the pits and insolence there was very much noted. Meager by some standards the food had suited Jesma well enough; she was accustomed to small portions and her stature didn’t demand much nourishment. The work was much different and not something she was ever able to get used to regardless of however many days she had lost track of during her stay at Arsdent’s Pit.

‘Skyview’ As she liked to call the mine where she and a handful of prisoners toiled today was darker than usual. The sun was just disappearing behind the line of the narrow hole reaching all the way to the surface; bleeding to a red sky. Sunset, so they had been digging east perhaps north-east. She wondered if they would get to the ocean or perhaps even go under it.
“Girl” Jesma didn’t stand straight or even stop scratching the rat bite on her shoulder, only peered over to one of the two guards standing some ten feet away. Guards where more or less indistinguishable all where the same height as far as she was concerned; taller. They all wore the same uniform if varying degrees of order, and most wore a cloth around most of their face, to keep out the smell. Of miners or prisoners? She had been foolish enough to ask that once. The cloths where the easiest identifiers, typically, thought the one that spoke to her now had a very large boil forming on the tip of his nose that she couldn’t seem to look away from.
“Girl, you come with us.” The workers had all stopped, she realized, suddenly hearing the near silence; the absence of metal on stone. A meal would be at the cell soon then, and being personally escorted did not typically mean the usual destination.
“Something special for dinner then?” Boil didn’t appreciate the comment, it was difficult to see from here height and distance but his eyes may had narrowed. The other guard, with what might have once been a blue cloth round his face stood from leaning against the wall, beaconed then turned to walked away. It irked Jesma that he would take it for granted that she would follow, but follow she did, picking up her pickaxe (a quarter her size and nearly a third her weight) and dragging it behind her.
“A bath then? Can I really rank worse than Therber?” She sniffed her stained shirt, but whatever sense of smell she may have had was gone. Somewhat blessedly she mused. One guard, she suspected the one with the boil but they had their backs turned making them once again indistinguishable muttered something to the other and they continued walking.
”Or perhaps our warden, the sweet angel of mercy himself, has granted my leave of his pit of justice” To her own amazement, that remark was met with a snort.
[”Aye girl, three months and nine days, we’re full up and you’re getting out” Something in the way the guard said the words stopped Jesma from rejoicing. That and her own disbelief. It was hard to maintain and hope or optimism in the pits; few truly believed they would ever get out. Three months. Her mouth was very dry, and she had a sudden urge to sit down but didn’t dare lose pace with the taller men. It was impossible to track proper days without seeing the sky often; time was measured by work shifts and meals. No one in their party of three said another word until reaching a solid wood door at the end of a hall. Jesma held her breath as the handle turned and it opened, in case anyone heard her breathing and suddenly realized their mistake.

It was a bit of a blur for a moment, a clean room with proper walls and men dressed in more than prisoner’s rags, not all guards either; some in proper provincial clothes. Then she had been whisked away and found herself once again naked and alone in a room staring into a bucket of water, soap in hand. Trousers, tunic, and even shoes (Shoes!) from another life lying in the corner. It took a good deal of willpower not to run over to them straight away. Instead, every inch was meticulously scrubbed, every hair rinsed of sweat and dust and the callouses that had formed on her feet soaked and softened. Cold as the water may have been, Jesma felt like a dream walking out of that room; wearing her old clothing that now hung somewhat looser then it had before. She was sat down before a very large dark wooden desk behind which sat a rather plump mustached man with a red face. Before he even began speaking Jesma had stopped listening; just to her left sat a smile pile of items. Her items.

”Might I have some water?” The man seemed only mildly surprised at her interruption before nodding to a guard and continuing to drone on about ‘public obligations’ and ‘second offences’. The vials where there, as was the journal, and a small tin, even the watch (which she had expected to be stolen) remained, and amazingly most wonderfully and impossibly placed-barely-an-arms-length-away; her pistol. Not a scrap of money on the table, not even a line of credit to her name. But she had belongings. More than tattered clothes and a pickaxe she could barely swing; things she had made and where of home.