RE: red dust.
05-22-2019, 03:54 PM
Hmh. Here's some possibilities, to kick this off.
The first three, frankly, belong here. The fourth may or may not, as a blank sheet is wont to be.
Yet, not everyone in these dungeons is a monstrous criminal, surely?
Perhaps some of them were falsely imprisoned, and could even be considered 'heroic'. We will see.
Aroch, Former TyrantShow
You were Aroch, Lord of Thorns, Bringer of Fire.
Servant of demons, practitioner of Iron Thorn Heresies.
And out of everyone in these cells, you know you actually belonged here. (You just don't care.)
You pillaged, plundered, warred and heresied.
Your army were monstrous, mortal and fiend fighting in arms for your cause.
Unstoppable, insatiable, ravaging all in their path in the name of their unholy leader.
...
Your downfall, then, was one of hubris.
A minion seeking a higher calling.
An unexpectedly large warband approaching, within viewing distance.
The sudden abandonment of your masters.
Each of these things alone, you could have handled.
But together, together they were your downfall.
As the armies engaged in battle, that lone minion struck from behind, easily piercing your chainmail with it's sharp claws.
And in the time it took to grasp that traitor and crush it like the ambitious grape it was, the other demons and soldiers took advantage.
Arrows from the opposition, 'allied' demons striking your heels, you fought as valiantly as a demon-worshipping tyrant could.
But in the end, it wasn't enough. Not for you, not for your former masters, and not for the enemy standing victorious of your bloody remains.
No, your masters weren't done with you yet, they wouldn't let you pass on. (A joke, of theirs?)
Neither would your enemy finish you, oh the disgusting, revolting look upon that soldiers face, that wretched pikeman of all things.
That pikeman found you, and their grin burns in your memory even now.
They dragged you back to their camp, stripped your armor, seared your demonic brands useless in fire, clad you in chains, and threw you in a pit.
They would mutter, and whisper when they thought you couldn't hear, jeer and throw stones when they thought you could.
And throughout it all, you were silent. Full of anger, wrath, and listening only for a chance to wreak havoc on the encampment.
That chance, of course, never came.
The pit was deep, and every time you tried to climb the walls at night the guards would swiftly notice and pelt you with debris until you tumbled back down.
No, in the end, you had to wait, and be patient.
News had arrived, fresh orders from above: They were to bring you in alive.
This news was, frankly, not taken lightly. No, you practically could hear the commander's apoplectic fit over such a monster, you, being brought in alive.
It was all very clear to them, you were a monster who consorted with fiends and deserved nothing but a gruesome end worthy of your crimes.
What came next was almost unheard, nearly drowned out by the commanders tantrum.
The messenger declared the orders were from someone very high up. One that would view anything but strict obedience as treason.
Silence.
...
...
...
"Very well."
The commander capitulated, and within minutes you were being dragged forth from the pit, clad in additional irons for good measure, and hauled off to your future home.
The dark, the red, the silence.
Left to whither away in a dungeon, with only your thoughts for company.
In truth, this imprisonment could scarcely be considered imprisonment at all, really.
The same means that keeps you from contacting the underworld keeps them from contacting you.
How long has it been, since that was the case, where your thoughts were truly your own?
You know for a fact that it was you who contacted them in the first place, petty anger over some mortal nonesuch you can scant remember. Feh.
...And now, what's this? Someone here to... Make you their savior? To escape this place?
Now, why would you want to do that? It's quiet down here, cold, dark, red.
It's practically home by now.
...
But it won't be that forever, will it?
Old age claims all, with time. And when it claims you, there is quite the debt to pay.
But this ring, how it burns. The flame burns hotter than the fires of the underworld, than anything felt before.
Perhaps, perhaps this is the answer. They key to living an undeserved life free of your fiendish masters.
For that, then, you will try.
Servant of demons, practitioner of Iron Thorn Heresies.
And out of everyone in these cells, you know you actually belonged here. (You just don't care.)
You pillaged, plundered, warred and heresied.
Your army were monstrous, mortal and fiend fighting in arms for your cause.
Unstoppable, insatiable, ravaging all in their path in the name of their unholy leader.
...
Your downfall, then, was one of hubris.
A minion seeking a higher calling.
An unexpectedly large warband approaching, within viewing distance.
The sudden abandonment of your masters.
Each of these things alone, you could have handled.
But together, together they were your downfall.
As the armies engaged in battle, that lone minion struck from behind, easily piercing your chainmail with it's sharp claws.
And in the time it took to grasp that traitor and crush it like the ambitious grape it was, the other demons and soldiers took advantage.
Arrows from the opposition, 'allied' demons striking your heels, you fought as valiantly as a demon-worshipping tyrant could.
But in the end, it wasn't enough. Not for you, not for your former masters, and not for the enemy standing victorious of your bloody remains.
No, your masters weren't done with you yet, they wouldn't let you pass on. (A joke, of theirs?)
Neither would your enemy finish you, oh the disgusting, revolting look upon that soldiers face, that wretched pikeman of all things.
That pikeman found you, and their grin burns in your memory even now.
They dragged you back to their camp, stripped your armor, seared your demonic brands useless in fire, clad you in chains, and threw you in a pit.
They would mutter, and whisper when they thought you couldn't hear, jeer and throw stones when they thought you could.
And throughout it all, you were silent. Full of anger, wrath, and listening only for a chance to wreak havoc on the encampment.
That chance, of course, never came.
The pit was deep, and every time you tried to climb the walls at night the guards would swiftly notice and pelt you with debris until you tumbled back down.
No, in the end, you had to wait, and be patient.
News had arrived, fresh orders from above: They were to bring you in alive.
This news was, frankly, not taken lightly. No, you practically could hear the commander's apoplectic fit over such a monster, you, being brought in alive.
It was all very clear to them, you were a monster who consorted with fiends and deserved nothing but a gruesome end worthy of your crimes.
What came next was almost unheard, nearly drowned out by the commanders tantrum.
The messenger declared the orders were from someone very high up. One that would view anything but strict obedience as treason.
Silence.
...
...
...
"Very well."
The commander capitulated, and within minutes you were being dragged forth from the pit, clad in additional irons for good measure, and hauled off to your future home.
The dark, the red, the silence.
Left to whither away in a dungeon, with only your thoughts for company.
In truth, this imprisonment could scarcely be considered imprisonment at all, really.
The same means that keeps you from contacting the underworld keeps them from contacting you.
How long has it been, since that was the case, where your thoughts were truly your own?
You know for a fact that it was you who contacted them in the first place, petty anger over some mortal nonesuch you can scant remember. Feh.
...And now, what's this? Someone here to... Make you their savior? To escape this place?
Now, why would you want to do that? It's quiet down here, cold, dark, red.
It's practically home by now.
...
But it won't be that forever, will it?
Old age claims all, with time. And when it claims you, there is quite the debt to pay.
But this ring, how it burns. The flame burns hotter than the fires of the underworld, than anything felt before.
Perhaps, perhaps this is the answer. They key to living an undeserved life free of your fiendish masters.
For that, then, you will try.
Grimsea, Gilded HungererShow
(GRim-sea-uh), alternatively 'Grimsly' or 'Grimsea'
You were Grimsea, the Golden Herald, the Bearer of Gilt.
Slave and Sovereign of all the shines, precious gold most of all.
You were known among the common folk as a golden glutton, an avatar of Avarice.
Among the nobles, they called you 'friend' and 'business partner' to your face, even as you stole the valuables from their back.
When the guard came to your home, your response was not to run, but to bribe. Indeed, you had done so before, burying sins for the price of material wealth. A petty fee, a mere trifle to someone of your means.
But this time, the guard came not for gold, or jewels, or any other thing you could offer them.
No, their eyes may have betrayed a glint of greed much as your own, but that glint was hidden behind fear.
They were to bring you in, for what, you mused.
"Was it for scamming banks, fraudulent property? Hiring thieves and bandits to steal from good, honest people what my own two hands could not rip from theirs? Did a noble benefactor of your misdeeds have a misguided change of heart, and decide what you did deserved nothing other than a long delayed imprisonment?"
You went quietly, saying nothing. You knew better than to idly chant of ones sins, particularly to the ears of those who could, and would, use them against you.
The guards were quiet, mostly. Mutterings here, mumbling there. Scraps of information, hints of truth mixed in a potpourri of rumors and beuacracy.
One wondered if a noble had turned you in, another if you angered the king. Queen?
(Truth be told, you never had paid much attention to politics beyond what benefitted you.)
Yet another, still, jokes how this is a scheme of yours meant to make you even filthierly rich then before.
A bemused chuckle. Yours. Theirs. Silence.
...
Eventually, you arrived where you are now. No questions, no guards, nothing. Just you, the cell, and the dark.
Out of everyone in these cells, you know you deserve to be here.
And the only reason you care? They took your precious, precious gold, left without a speck of wealth to your name.
No homes to plunder, no nobles to ingratiate and confiscate wealth, there is nothing here.
Just darkness, rust(?), and the passage of time.
Now, now your chance has arrived, in a form you understand. It isn't gold, but whatever it is it shines as well as any jewel.
The Gilded hungerer will walk freely once more, slavering, pilfering, stealing all manner of valuable through any means necessary.
You were Grimsea, the Golden Herald, the Bearer of Gilt.
Slave and Sovereign of all the shines, precious gold most of all.
You were known among the common folk as a golden glutton, an avatar of Avarice.
Among the nobles, they called you 'friend' and 'business partner' to your face, even as you stole the valuables from their back.
When the guard came to your home, your response was not to run, but to bribe. Indeed, you had done so before, burying sins for the price of material wealth. A petty fee, a mere trifle to someone of your means.
But this time, the guard came not for gold, or jewels, or any other thing you could offer them.
No, their eyes may have betrayed a glint of greed much as your own, but that glint was hidden behind fear.
They were to bring you in, for what, you mused.
"Was it for scamming banks, fraudulent property? Hiring thieves and bandits to steal from good, honest people what my own two hands could not rip from theirs? Did a noble benefactor of your misdeeds have a misguided change of heart, and decide what you did deserved nothing other than a long delayed imprisonment?"
You went quietly, saying nothing. You knew better than to idly chant of ones sins, particularly to the ears of those who could, and would, use them against you.
The guards were quiet, mostly. Mutterings here, mumbling there. Scraps of information, hints of truth mixed in a potpourri of rumors and beuacracy.
One wondered if a noble had turned you in, another if you angered the king. Queen?
(Truth be told, you never had paid much attention to politics beyond what benefitted you.)
Yet another, still, jokes how this is a scheme of yours meant to make you even filthierly rich then before.
A bemused chuckle. Yours. Theirs. Silence.
...
Eventually, you arrived where you are now. No questions, no guards, nothing. Just you, the cell, and the dark.
Out of everyone in these cells, you know you deserve to be here.
And the only reason you care? They took your precious, precious gold, left without a speck of wealth to your name.
No homes to plunder, no nobles to ingratiate and confiscate wealth, there is nothing here.
Just darkness, rust(?), and the passage of time.
Now, now your chance has arrived, in a form you understand. It isn't gold, but whatever it is it shines as well as any jewel.
The Gilded hungerer will walk freely once more, slavering, pilfering, stealing all manner of valuable through any means necessary.
Aquaragia, Murderous AlchemistShow
'Aquaragia', The Monster in the Dark, the Melted-Murderer.
Hoisted by your own petard in a raid, you were struck by your special blend of acid as you attempted to escape.
Your captors were... Less, than eager to bring you in, after that. They must have hoped the acid would be strong enough to serve justice for them.
They were wrong, of course.
In the end, they had set fire to your laboratory with you in it, hoping it would finish the job as something they could call 'an unfortunate accident'.
It was scarcely three minutes before another had ran into the blaze, dragging your grotesque visage out onto the street while someone (an officer, perhaps?) was chastising the guard, threatening them with joining you in the dungeon for disobeying orders.
What happened next was a blur, fading in and out of consciousness, gurgling, choking, fume-maddened laughter.
Scraps of concerns from your captors, worried you smuggled in acid and would escape your bonds. More chains, after that.
Eventually, the fog would clear, the worst injuries found with the minimum of treatment. But you were a survivor, weren't you?
No, despite everything, you lived. Acid, Fire, Disease, afflictions as miraculously non-lethal as they were karmic.
All of this, and being left in the dark for who knows how long.
Plenty of time to think, to consider. To wonder if the other prisoners deserved to be here as much as you, or if they had charges at all.
And now, you of all people have a second chance? To escape this prison, and do what, redeem yourself for your monstrous actions?...
Perhaps...
...
...No, not yet. You require answers, first and foremost. Then you can decide what you will do with your newfound freedom.
Hoisted by your own petard in a raid, you were struck by your special blend of acid as you attempted to escape.
Your captors were... Less, than eager to bring you in, after that. They must have hoped the acid would be strong enough to serve justice for them.
They were wrong, of course.
In the end, they had set fire to your laboratory with you in it, hoping it would finish the job as something they could call 'an unfortunate accident'.
It was scarcely three minutes before another had ran into the blaze, dragging your grotesque visage out onto the street while someone (an officer, perhaps?) was chastising the guard, threatening them with joining you in the dungeon for disobeying orders.
What happened next was a blur, fading in and out of consciousness, gurgling, choking, fume-maddened laughter.
Scraps of concerns from your captors, worried you smuggled in acid and would escape your bonds. More chains, after that.
Eventually, the fog would clear, the worst injuries found with the minimum of treatment. But you were a survivor, weren't you?
No, despite everything, you lived. Acid, Fire, Disease, afflictions as miraculously non-lethal as they were karmic.
All of this, and being left in the dark for who knows how long.
Plenty of time to think, to consider. To wonder if the other prisoners deserved to be here as much as you, or if they had charges at all.
And now, you of all people have a second chance? To escape this prison, and do what, redeem yourself for your monstrous actions?...
Perhaps...
...
...No, not yet. You require answers, first and foremost. Then you can decide what you will do with your newfound freedom.
Nameless WandererShow
The Nameless Wanderer.
Perhaps you don't remember what you did. Or you remember it all too well.
What events occurred to bring you here are yours alone for the time being.
A club to the back of the head, a drugged beverage/drink, an injection (and missing kidney)...
Nobody, perhaps not even you, knows what sins, if any, were committed to justify this imprisonment.
Perhaps you might recall, or discuss it further. But for now, you have a ring, and a burning desire to see something other than this prison for the first in a very, very long time.
Perhaps you don't remember what you did. Or you remember it all too well.
What events occurred to bring you here are yours alone for the time being.
A club to the back of the head, a drugged beverage/drink, an injection (and missing kidney)...
Nobody, perhaps not even you, knows what sins, if any, were committed to justify this imprisonment.
Perhaps you might recall, or discuss it further. But for now, you have a ring, and a burning desire to see something other than this prison for the first in a very, very long time.
The first three, frankly, belong here. The fourth may or may not, as a blank sheet is wont to be.
Yet, not everyone in these dungeons is a monstrous criminal, surely?
Perhaps some of them were falsely imprisoned, and could even be considered 'heroic'. We will see.
Quiet. Good for an unusual opinion. Doesn't talk much.