Well, this is just great. Here I am, in this putrid cell awaiting my so called redemption to the builder of these
wretched lands while your average psycho roams free among the horde in our streets. Down here, I'm rarely given enough light
to see my own hands, and when a watchman does cometh along with his quaint lantern and trendy water pouch, revealed become
the mawkish stones on the walls, shrouded with mold so thick that any horticulturalist would rank it healthier then I am. The
stench is horrible, or at least I remembered how awful it was when I could bring myself pay attention to it, and the air here
is rotten enough to make rats swell up and burst from ichor they didn't even know was in them. It seems like a few days ago,
though I'm not even sure I've been here for an hour yet, I was thrown into this place alleged of advocating insanity and murder
of a nobleman: the truth is, they knew exactly what they were going to do with my ass when they found me red-handed. I never
saw anything worth rounding up cattle, and had I killed anyone related to the esquires whose trinkets I flitted, I would have
ensured myself a sensible cover-up.
I'm scald regularly by a duo of rock solid Hammers. They bring me into a small room linked to the goal office. From
the way that last Hammers treated me, I've got no less than a few days before I be shipped to the town square's gallows for a
gaudy public execution in the name of freedom. I got rid of my bindings early on with the help of wooden picks I made from the
decaying corbels, but something tells me getting out of this complex won't be as simple.
I managed to stay as faithful as possible during my sojourn at the Hammers' Guilesatpeak Prison by recollecting extracts
from The Stone and singing old songs: pitch darkness leaves me little choice, and I'd be gone long ago if it weren't for those
enduring words; I've got to find a decent lock-pick and get out of here ere I lose any more strength.
Guilesatpeak is an unusual place for the hammers to hide prisoners. No doubt they put me here because I already know
Craigscleft like the back of my hand. This place is conjointly used as a storage depot; all the junk the hammers don't need any-
more is shipped here and left to rot (the other prisoners are no exception). From what I can piece together by the gaoler's
complaints, I'm about two stories below ground level. I know there's an important library on the main floor, and a court yard
where the hammers usually train afternoons. There's also a janitor that is often mentionned. His name is Xavier, and probably
could lend me a hand if I play my cards right. I think he was suppost to clean what the gaoler calls the "turbine room" today.
Mabie I could meet him there...
The first logical thing to do after I figure a way out of my cell would be to get some weapons. If I'm lucky, the hammers
chucked my gear with the rest of the trash in the depot. Then, all I need to do is get out.
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