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View character profile for: Silt
As Silt chips away arbitrarily at the red stone, a young, Fabio-looking, blonde guard saunters through the work zone on his way to the mines. He passes behind the workers but quickly does a double take at the symbol Silt has made.
His eyes dart around as he decides what to do.
He stomps over to Silt and pushes him from behind against the rock wall.
“Think this is some kinda art board do ya?”
The Mustachiod boss struts over to see what the fuss is about.
“What’s this then?”
“Just a new piece of meat needing tenderized, ‘as all.”
“Hmph.” Mustachio turns his attention to some other prisoners chatting. “Stop gawking, you pukes!” He cracks his whip.
Fabio grabs a rock and crosses a line through Silt’s marking sneering at him as he does so. The mark left behind transforms the meaning to "UNSAFE".
The Fabio guard takes an elegantly carved copper toothpick out of his mouth and points it at you. In your head you hear a voice:“You are lucky that your symbol caught my eye and not someone else’s. Better douse that.”
“Don’t be a fool!”, he says obnoxiously and shoves you lightly against the wall and walks off toward one of the mine entrances.
He looks around, like he’s checking if the coast is clear. He then turns again, briefly pointing his thin toothpick at you and winks. “Soon.”, you hear inside your mind.
The Quarry gets dark before all else in the prison and now the fires, both nature and arcane, dot the pit.
Somewhere a horn blows, low and long. The work is done and the prisoners drop their tools and head to various fire pits around the man made lake.
Already, prisoners have arrived lugging carts full of food. The gang of quarry workers pick the carts dry and begin preparing food however they can. This seems to be the way of it in the quarry. Fend for yourself. Water is lifted out of the manmade lake, boiled, and handed out by a courier on the regular.
OOC - Silt is probably used to slim pickings, we will say you made it out with a small slab of fresh meat you were looking for and only a small chunk of bread.
The firbolg that was working next to you says, “Come. Join us.”
The firbolg and the female half orc gather around a fire and a cauldron where they make up some thin soup.
Soon, an unusually tall and lanky goblin with a long nose sits down on a slab next you and begins gnashing on some food of his own.
He doesn’t speak, only points his dirty, skinny finger into the sand and draws something in the red earth.
Through the flickering flames, you can make out the same invitation symbol that you scribbled earlier that evening.