• Mature • A Place Full of Heathens

All my friends are heathens take it slow...

Beyond the city of Rharne lies the Stormlands, which is home to a number of farms, forests, fields, Lake Lovalus, and the River Zynyx. This subforum also includes the Stormwastes to the south.

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Patrick
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Joined: Mon Apr 25, 2016 10:39 pm
Race: Human
Profession: Trouble
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A Place Full of Heathens

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Cylus 20th 720


A guard walked down the hallway inspecting every cell to make sure every inmate remained in bed, the wee early hours of the morning just on the verge of being greeted with sunrise. But of course no such warmth and light would greet everyone on the inside, for the ones specifically made to work the mines beneath the red fortress housing everyone. Ricard Alfson was one of the ones that took pleasure in his work, but of course he wasn't the only guard who did. And so when he was seen in passing, those who rested in their cells did their best not to stir so easily. Morning was almost here and with it...

Alfson held his lantern up front of his being, it's glow filling the one cell of a particular individual; before he passed on to inspect the others. At the faded glow of the light, the man inside came to slowly turn to look over his shoulder; hazel eyes only slightly open as he yearned for... what did he yearn for? It didn't matter. Nothing ever did since he came here, and with that in mind he simply turned back to face the wall once more. The cheap makeshift beds the provided were absolute shit when it came to comfort, but after the time spent here one became accustomed to such commendations. A noise pegged for his notice but it wasn't anything beyond his cell, just a bodily function which reminded him of the lack in proper nutrition as well.

He deserved this. He deserved every bit of this, which was why he didn't plan on ever leaving. Except one problem remained, and that was the fact his time was almost up. Most would be glad to be out of here, eager to reconnect with the world outside. But not Patrick. He wanted to stay here and rot, to be punished and suffer for what he'd done. Some would've likely enjoyed hearing that, some would've ridiculed him and mocked such inclination. Regardless what they thought or felt however, it didn't change the fact he felt there existed truth in the matter. Patrick deserved to be here not because he crossed the wrong people, but because of all the wrong he'd did that led up to that point.

Even after two miserable cycles to think back on everything, to conjure every possible reason to remain here, no amount of guilt seemed to linger within him anymore. It was close now, almost time to completely give in. After every justification he found for his imprisonment, and every punishment he brought on himself by the guards or inmates, Patrick had almost completely lost every trace of his dwindling humanity in this place. Yet none of that mattered to him anymore, for he considered himself a dead man the moment he arrived here. Overtime his cell gradually grew warmer, a sure tell sign that morning was here; but for Cylus? He figured it'd be unreasonably cold in that cell, since he sure had his fair share of chilly nights throughout Zi'da. Reluctantly Patrick turned to look up at the tiny reinforced window, his eyes pained by the unreasonable glow shown from outside.

As much as he would've preferred just lying down and fading away into nothing, Patrick couldn't ignore the fact his body still had impulses to obey. He was after all still a living breathing mortal, and with that came the need to relief one's self before starting the Trial. It would be another long one in the mines once 'breakfast' had been served, and hopefully it would all just blur together up to the moment he was ready to crash once more. Thus with a lean of his upper body and a crane of his lower, Patrick scooted off the bed to step towards the pot at the corner of his cell. Rough worn hands tugged at the front waist of his uniform, and pulled them down, to find a minute's worth of relief as the sound of piss filled the bin. He took one thing back though, having a woman underneath him right now would've been wonderful. Or perhaps a bottle of booze.... okay maybe two things instead.

He didn't deserve either of them though, not as much as he yearned to have them. Only pain and misery, which he'd have to be clever about how he got it to-trial. Relieved and a little stir crazy, the Rharnian decided to waste a little of his energy before the next guard came. Thus he moved to the center of his cell and, after bending his knees a little, shifted into the position necessary to perform a number of push-ups.

"Patrick", "NPC"
Last edited by Patrick on Fri May 29, 2020 10:41 pm, edited 2 times in total. word count: 806
"Freedom is everything."


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Patrick
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Re: A Place Full of Heathens

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Forty-seven, forty-eight, forty-nine, fif- The march of footsteps were flagged by his perception, which meant it was time for his first meal no doubt. As the other cells were being opened for the other inmates, Patrick cut his routine short and moved to sit back on the his bed frame. "Time for breakfast Barnell! Get to the mess hall and eat, then head on down to the mine to pick up an axe!" The hefty man beckoned as he slid the key into the slot, giving it a twist before opening the door to his cell with the key pocketed a moment after.

On a regular basis he would normally have something witty or comical to say to him, however even that pattern of behavior had come to vanish over the seasons. As he continued to pace his steady breaths Patrick leaned to pull over his uniform boots, with a slip of each foot into a shoe before he tied the strings snuggly. With the top half of his uniform slipped on and then buttoned from bottom to top, Patrick rose to a stand and proceeded to move like the rest of his block. Inmates walked in single file down the corridor, with guards stationed at points to watch each prisoner closely in their pass.

Patrick's eyes remained averted as he followed behind the inmate across from him, a bit of a burly giant he was a bald white head decorated with various tattoos. Tribal signs mostly save for the random symbol on his left side, situated plainly above the ear it looked to be something akin of a spider. The Rharnian moved at the same pace the inmates did, eager to get some grub before the shift came and consumed what surplus time he had here. As he neared the mess hall however, a hand shot out and grasped him at the forearm. "Not so fast Barnell." The guard in passing stated as Pat's eyes rose to meet his, brown weary eyes bore into his as the gruff man who held him didn't smile or anything. "Warden Stormlight needed to see you after you finish your meal."

There was no immediate reaction, not even the drop in his heart he'd normally feel. Patrick felt no real concern over the matter, but he also had an idea as to what it was about. Time here was going to be cut a lot shorter if he made it to the warden's office later, which meant he needed to sabotage the appointment before arrival. A reluctant nod was given to the guard as he released the arm, allowing Patrick to enter the mess hall where everyone else gathered for their first meal. He needed to find a way to make a scene, preferably one that'd extend his time here in prison. As he walked the line up to where all the other men gathered, Patrick looked over his shoulder to gauge possible candidates. There were about eight to twelve guards stationed in the mess hall, so he'd have to sit somewhere just outside their range of hearing.

Which wouldn't be too hard since there were enough prisoners here to generate a low bustle, with enough volume to cover his own words if he spoke lowly enough. The question was who should he pick? And how exactly would he go about causing a scene. At his arrival at the counter where the cooks were guarded by a patrolman, Patrick accepted the pewter tray which they proceeded to hand over to him. It looked to be a cheap and easy meal today, boiled oats with a couple slices of overcooked bread. Seriously the shit was so brown on the outside, it didn't even look appetizing to eat in all honesty. As Pat moved along he looked ahead to scope his choice spot, the seating situation important to consider since he needed to carry this out this plan without a hitch.

One thing that was never easy to ignore; was the amount of eyes on him, and not the eyes of the guard either. Almost every day there were some of the rabble who liked to stare, a few even muttering closely to one another when Pat saw them. One in particular who was never afraid to be noticed was Eardal the kingpin, another prisoner who had a finger in several cookie jars found in this place. It didn't surprise Patrick that even the prison had an organized syndicate lurking about, albeit he never pursued the chance to actually meet and make friends either. Especially when he considered that was how he got here to begin with, plus the underlying suspicious the man could very well be a Shadow Network informant. Having someone on the inside wouldn't be a bad move after all, they'd be able to control things even here in that case.

Whether their reach did extend to the prison or not, Patrick wasn't going to give them the satisfaction of leaving. The moment he returned to Rharne they'd likely find him again, make him suffer for all the shortcomings he brought on their behalf. It was all his fault of course and he accepted that, which was exactly why he'd come to face another round of punishment again soon. The tattooed inmate he followed earlier seemed to be ripe for the picking, the table he sat at only occupied by a few of his fellow associates relatively within the middle of the mess hall. "Perfect." His thought was met with a sense of zeal he kept hidden, his gaze still averted low as he came to approach the table and sit. Naturally the others there all looked at him, aware that an outcast had come to join their group.

"Wrong table hermit." One of the inmates said with a low squeaky tone, the warning ignored as Pat rested the tray down in front of him. "I said; wrong table hermit."

"No this table's just right actually," He remarked as he looked from the pipsqueak to his quarry, "because I've got a bit of a favor to ask."

"Piss off." The tattooed giant across from him looked seriously threatening, almost enough to instill a sense of fear back into the Rharnian.

"How about an extra biscuit," he countered lowly as he shoveled the spoon into his oats, "you're a big guy and somethin' tells me you could use the extra bite." The others looked to the tattooed inmate as he just stared, aggravation in his eyes as he slowed the chewing of his meal. "Interested? Because this hot rock on my tray is beggin' to be dipped in oats." There came a sense of sarcasm in his tone now, the spoon brought up to fill Pat's mouth with a bite of the watery oats. Warm and soggy as they were they tasted far too bland, nowhere near enough flavor for the oven rocks they called biscuits to make up for.

"The fek do you want?" He finally asked while Patrick chewed his first bite obnoxiously, a bit of a mused smile finally brought to his lips after hearing the prisoner speak.

"Simple... Fight me once I get up to leave." The inmates at his table looked puzzled, as though a priest preached madness to his flock. Then... mirth. The whole group couldn't help but laugh, as though he'd told a horrible joke they all hated.

"Got somethin' to prove hermit? What makes you wanna fight so bad you'd give food for it?" The short and stocky prisoner tested, his squeaky rough tone almost as annoying as having to arrange what came next. Rather than entertain the notion of free food for a simple fight, the prisoner that named him 'hermit' took matters into his own hands. "If you don't want the roll that badly then fek it." He stated as he proceeded to swipe the biscuit for himself, leaving Patrick with only his bowl of oats as the others chuckled on with delight. "Now go find a new table to bother."

Patrick planted the spoon back into his bowl of half eaten oats, his appetite challenged anyways due to lack of any real flavor. With a beaten expression he looked hard at the bowl on his tray, his eyes cast back over to the roll that had been taken from him. "Thanks." He muttered lowly, for it was not his quarry; but still someone worth picking a fight towards. Thus Patrick rose with tray in hand, the bowl of oats left on the table as he turned away. "Lost my appetite it seems." He remarked as he pretended to walk away, that is until the empty tray was brought up above the squeaky prisoner's head. Without a second thought Pat brought the tray down to smash it onto the inmate's head, the loud clatter of collision mixed with a hefty groan as the inmate's head was brought down to smash into his own bowl of oats.

A loud "WHAT THE FUCK" filled the mess hall as all the others in the room grew quiet fast. Just like he wanted a fight broke out between Patrick and the inmate, the shortstuff already quick to assail him with a jump as a couple of his friends joined in. Then of course the guards eagerly jumped in wrangle everyone, establishing that same delicate sense of order and peace as prisoners were pulled apart. Patrick suffered a blow to the nose as blood already trailed into the layers of facial hair above his lips, the others fared far better than he did but then again it was three against one; the big guy with the tats however did not join. If anything he looked equally pissed as he did surprised, which meant another who'd come back for seconds once Patrick was brought out from isolation.

Regardless the plan had went off without a hitch, as the guards wasted no time hoisting him onto his feet. With the chain of his shackles gripped by none other than Alfson, the Rharnain was almost dragged out of the mess hall for starting his third incident. The two guards which escorted him brought him into another corridor connected to the mess hall, and led him further into the prison where they liked to isolate and interrogate inmates. Patrick had already been here a couple times for similar reasons, though those fights were more actual fights rather than incidents.

"Patrick", "NPC"
word count: 1769
"Freedom is everything."


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Patrick
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Re: A Place Full of Heathens

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The isolation cells where probably the place he preferred most, because all but a little light would filter through the cracks of the doors. Of course there was the fact his Celarion mark still glowed, although that glow had grown dimmer and dimmer the longer he stayed here. If anything his connection to it was all but severed, for whatever light Qylios tried to feed him just wasn't enough to make a difference anymore. The dark was all that embodied his being now, leaving Pat to be nothing more than a hollowed and broken man who abandoned the light. Which was why isolation remained his favorite place to be, nobody but the guards to disturb him as he rotted away in darkness. But first...

The sound of cracking filled his skull as Patrick's cheek brilliantly burned, the inside of his mouth fixated with pain as iron started to accompany his taste. He could've swore he felt a couple teeth loosen, the entirety of his left cheek swollen and bruised from the beating Ricard Alfson inflicted. "You gonna tell us what that a was about or not?" The guard inquired with expectation hinted in his voice. Patrick in all his nummed stupor couldn't help himself, as much as it pained him to do so he grinned. Yes... This was what he deserved. Pain. Suffering. "I can do this all day Barnell." He warned as Patrick sluggishly looked up at Alfson and his fellow watchdog.

"Please... do..." He almost sounded pleading, challenging Alfson to carry on with it. The guard clearly didn't like seeing this sort of behavior in his prisoner, thus he didn't take long to get a rise and repeat his same pattern. A right hook under the eye, a left hook square in the jaw, another at the temple of his right skull. Patrick's perception was knocked well into a state of grogginess, his awareness already starting to slip as he took every hit he could. Every blow a fist landed felt worth the amount of trouble getting here, because it was everything he deserved in part of him staying in here forever. Finally the second barrage of blows came to an end, and Patrick was left gasping for air as blood and drool spooled from his lips and cheeks.

"Why did you assault the other prisoner?"

Slowly Patrick elevated his chin so that he could look up to his punisher, arms still confined by the shackles that kept them to the arms of his chair. After a lean to his right and look to the floor, the Rharnian spat a mouthful of red spittle out; his breathing still ragged as he leaned back into his chair. "Bastard took my roll... What else was I supposed to do?..." Alfson didn't appear convinced at all with the story, a look spent on his partner before he focused on Patrick yet again.

"Find that hard to believe." He finally remarked as he inspected his knuckles, while they were certainly reddened they didn't bleed. If anything the blood on them was Pat's, and he wasn't quite finished with the punishment aspect of his incarceration.

"Yeah...." The Rharnian agreed lowly in between breaths. "Not surprising... rolls are practically shit baked into bricks anyhow."

Alfson couldn't help but chuckle now at the attitude in Pat's voice, clearly amused by the ornery tone he carried. "Gods you're remarkably difficult."

"What can I say..." Pat feigned a half assed shrug before spitting another glob of red. "Always been a fan of complicated."

"Uh-huh, now talk. Why did you really assault that prisoner?"

"Care to... keep a secret?..." Patrick murmured between his rugged breathing, Alfson and the other guard already seemed intrigued by the statement. "I didn't need a reason to assault that inmate... I just wanted another chance... To see that beautiful smile before you shut me in the dark." The pain he felt in displaying another tortured grin was almost unbearable, but it fed into his statement more when he saw the look on Alfson change. Intrigue quickly died and in it's place anger rose, spurring the man to act once more as he lashed out.

The sad fact is they were completely clueless of it being true, all Patrick wanted was to be locked away in here; the beating was just the added bonus in all honesty. Alfson didn't stop or slow down much on the pressure, he was probably far too pissed to even care at that point. All Patrick remembered was that each punch hit hard for a while, until eventually those too seemed to do less and less to him. By the time he reached that point his vision had already blurred to a point, and every now and then white specks would come out to dance across his vision; all while his ears rang and every corner of his face throbbed in pain. Alfson eventually gave up and left with nothing, save for the bloodied knuckles and the report he'd have to take to the warden.

Which was perfectly fine.

Patrick had gotten what he wanted today thanks to those bastards, and his consciousness finally faded out to black; he couldn't help but wonder when his next punishment would come.

"Patrick", "NPC"
word count: 892
"Freedom is everything."


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Re: A Place Full of Heathens

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Review Rewards

Name: Patrick

Points awarded: 10

Knowledge:
Discipline: Rising "Early" In the Morning
Endurance: Working Out Routinely Improves Form
Endurance: Performing Consistent Push-Ups For A Length of Time
Strength: Push-Ups Improve Upper Body Strength
Negotiation: Convicts Don't Barter
Rhetoric: "But Officer, He Took My Roll"

Renown: 5 points for taking on a big bastard in the mess hall

Notes:
Ah, the old "Challenge The Biggest Guy in The Yard to a Fight" ploy, eh? Always like a man who appreciates the classics.

If you have any questions, comments or concerns in regards to this review, feel free to PM.
word count: 103
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