Another Cell, Another Bold Escape!

Captured again! The harmony of the Great Spirits echoes itself in many strange ways.
 
This time, my captors, the proprietors of the business where I am detained—for make no mistake, prisons are a business like any other—seem to be the Oprishniki, my dungeon that which I saw from above earlier. A formidable sight it was, indeed! Perhaps it will be more of a challenge than the dilapidated boat of the Red Devils to exfiltrate.
 
I wonder if the Oprishniki will ever strive to be anything more than the well-organized thugs they are. Brutes they have always been, but their dogma used to be the fell-handed sentence of thousands of lives, particularly mages. Now, they appear to find work as no more than jailors-for-hire, drunk off their desire to flaunt their will upon sorcerors and mundane folk alike.
 
Take my cell-mate, for example. In the Oprishniki’s heyday, if it can be called that, Jensen would’ve been no more than a rabbit scurrying across the road before their horses. Now, they waste their resources on embezzlers like himself in hopes of some measly payoff. Jensen stood out to Kyliko and I rather immediately, staring at us from across our crowded group cell until we couldn’t possibly not see him. When he introduced himself, his handshake and his shifty demeanor told me all I needed to know in one moment: he was a bureaucrat who sought much more than he deserved.
 
I seldom have patience for his type. In Draconia’s past, we had practically no need of bureaucracy; a lord’s officials led from the front, warriors as well as politicians, and the lowliest courier’s quality of character was enforced by the civil code between subject and liege. Nowadays, society is rife with such folk, scaleless worms who seek compensation for all the easiest duties of office without having ever gotten their hands dirty. Jensen fell into this category, having swindled money from an employer who now wanted him dead. It wasn’t his fault, it was a statement against the wealthy, such and such. His naive hope was that I would help him. Ahh, he was certainly an interesting man in his own way, but there was little chance our objectives would intersect, Great Spirits willing. Thankfully, he was summoned away by the guards before I said anything lacking tact. I was left with Kyliko in the crowded cell. Thank the Great Spirits he’s safe—I could not abide my dark circumstance costing any more good folk their lives.
 
Before I had a chance to complete even a rudimentary sketch of my dingy cell, the guards who had taken Jensen away returned, and this time they called for Kyliko and I. Or rather, one did. Without so much as a word of explanation, the two of us were ushered away… by this lone guard.
 
Folks who apprehend Draconians are faced with a fascinating dilemma. If one leaves our jaws unbound, we are free to breathe our destructive breath upon a captor. If one dares put a muzzle on us, well… there’s a saying for that: “One who binds a dragon’s fangs had best be wary of its claws.” Only, “claws” may be substituted for “tail,” “horns,” “sheer awesome size,” or any number of things—the point being, any who do us the offence of attempting to clamp our jaws shut like a beast will inevitably face the full wrath of our people. Previous emperors overthrown via coup have been paraded about with muzzles one moment, before word spreading of their conqueror’s family being slaughtered days later. Our guard made the proper decision in not obstructing our mouths, in that sense; his mistake was escorting us by his lonesome, ushering us into a secluded elevator.
 
He didn’t even have time to scream.
 
Fortune of the Three blessed us in that moment, and it offered us an even greater surprise in the next: when the doors of the elevator opened, they opened upon Jensen, the second guard, and my good friend Orlando, cocky as ever, waiting for us at the top!
 
How the rascal got imprisoned here is anyone’s guess, but there was no time to ponder that now (and something told me his response would leave me with more questions than answers). Instead, we all turned our attention to the last surviving guard—who saw Jensen as his way out. To nobody’s surprise, the guard had been commissioned by whomever Jensen had swindled to ensure the scallywag died. What was impressive, however, was how this guard, in spite of all our reasoning with him, was more afraid of his employers’ reprisal than he was of death at our hands. Backed into a corner, he took the path he saw as his best course of option; leaping from the prison’s tallest tower, hoping to take Jensen with him. The con man must have a devil’s luck, though, because somehow, even as the guard plummeted, he managed to hold on to the lip of the tower as Kyliko sent the jailor hurtling on towards his doom. I took the opportunity to free my bardic friend.
 
Whatever bound Orlando’s wrists had been stifling his magical abilities; some sort of stone manacle, it appeared. Now freed, though, he was free to bring his magic to bear to the full extent of his abilities, and he whisked us out of sight with an incantation and a waggle of his fingers. Jensen would simply have to find his own way out. Ordinarily, I would meditate upon our meeting him and conclude that the Great Spirits intended him as an agent to reunite us with Orlando. That said, Orlando is difficult to miss no matter where one is, and I feel chancing upon him is an inevitability either way.
 
Our first objective was to find our weapons. Whatever magics ensorcelled this place prevented me from recalling even my rash’tam, and loosing my named weapons entirely would be like loosing a part of myself—unacceptable. Perhaps fortuitously and perhaps to our concern, the lift we had arrived in, and the only way down through the compound again, had been recalled. We might’ve infiltrated again from the outside of the building to a more direct spot, but the place hardly possessed any windows to speak of, and being within the building already was a priceless advantage, especially while rendered invisible by Orlando’s magic. We proceeded downwards, down the empty, rumbling shaft.
 
The lift itself, surely now packed full of Oprishniki guards, blocked our access to the ground level of the compound; we slipped through the medical wing instead, packed to the brim with prisoners bloodied and manacled. I wonder if they received their wounds before or after being apprehended by the Oprishniki. To be honest, I was praying I might hear news of wounded members of the Drop Corp; not only would they prove useful allies in a fray, but I also simply will not be able to rest before I have accounted for them. Though we have our differences, I am loathe for my comrades to suffer on my account. No word on them was spoken as we slipped by, though, save for mention of two corpses in the mortuary. Corpses would not help us become free.
We made our way to the first floor undetected. At the base of the stairwell was a sigil I would have passed over without much thought, but Orlando cautioned us against stepping thoughtlessly upon it; the Oprishniki are mage hunters, after all, and darting over one of their symbols could do us no good, wreathed as we were in magic of invisibility. With my grapple’s aid, we circumnavigated the obstacle without too much difficulty. Beyond it, adorning the walls leading to the “Confiscated” zone, were three portraits of this place’s wardens throughout its history. Typical for the Witch Hunters—their pursuit is as much in service of their ego as it is their personal beliefs. As a fellow artist myself, though, I had to admit: the brushwork was excellent. It left me curious about this “Olivia” depicted as the current leader. Paintings may depict a person however they desire; the truth of an individual is something far more difficult to capture.
 
When we arrived at “Confiscated,” we were met by a massive vault door guarded by three ruffians. Not an impossible task to divide amongst three competent folks, but certainly not desirable odds with such sparse room to maneuver and seek cover. Even if we did silently dispatch the guards, upon the door could be locks, alarms, or any sort of trap imaginable. No, we agreed—now was not the time to conquer this roadblock when another path yet remained. And so, we elected to retrace our steps and move back towards “Processing…” But in that place, what is processed: items, or people? Is it too late for me to retrieve my sun and moon from such a place? Will we be met by a similar obstruction? Well, we will find out shortly enough. I pray I recover those pieces from myself and make my way from this drab pit; I still have duties to uphold, to myself, to my country, and to that young lad I promised I would check upon. This is no place to be locked away in for long. A silent escape will be optimal, but if it comes down to it… The Oprishniki will feel the wrath of the Blades.
 
May the Great Spirits watch me through the gleam of my sword, enlighten me in the hidden places of the world, guide me in the words of the strangers I've yet to make familiar, and bless me in the light of sun and moon. May they walk in the stride of those I walk amongst, and touch the world through the hands of my companions. May their deeds echo in my actions and their will echo in my wishes. May I honor them in the paths I follow and the waters I tread and the mountains I climb. I am but a transient pilgrim walking the tracks of this past and future world, my blood the blood of my lord and my father and my people.