The Escape from Svetlattice

This short story provides some insight into the career-defining moment for player character "The Fantastic Finbin".
A cold wind whistles down a dark corridor, lowering the already freezing temperature of the prison even further. A sleet of frost erupts through the barred openings down the long stone passage. The dungeon of Svetlattice haunts the dreams of many a peon living in the lands of The Northern Icelands.

A chatting of teeth and wails of hypothermic in-mates echo around the chamber, as the various members of Jarl Algulf’s dungeon brace themselves for another blast of bone-cutting wind. The guards sit behind a heavy wooden door, providing them with protection from the elements and comfort.

Finbin, a half-elf Bard – who made an oft-poorly timed comment at the expense of the Jarl’s wife – rubbed his hands vigorously, a futile attempt to generate a mediocre amount of heat



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'' Earlier that night... ''

A call from the Master of Ceremonies can be heard. Members of the royal court look at him expectantly, several just recently recovering from a fit of laughter provided to them by the entertainment of the night. Among the troop is Finbin, wearing a jesters' hat and a very colourful outfit.

“Dinner is served!''” cries the portly man, clamouring onto his pedestal. “T''onight, you all shall be dining under the good grace of Jarl Algulf – the divines save him!” 

“Divines save him!''” the court chorused back. After the formalities, Finbin took the opportunity to conclude his performance. ''

He gestured towards the door of the kitchen and exclaims “Let us all dine tonight on the Jarl’s wonderful prize pig!” – the words echoed and bounced around the high ceiling of the stone architrave and could not be missed by anyone present.

Except… it was not the kitchen. Confused by his performance, which required a multitude of cartwheels and flips, Finbin became disoriented. He was pointing directly at the female latrine, which the Lady Algulf, the Jarl’s wife, took this very moment to exit.

The court’s gaze followed along Finbin’s index finger and gasped, time stood still for what felt like an eternity. The Jarl’s face turned a deep crimson as he bellowed “SEIZE THAT FOOL!”. What followed next was the jangling of chainmail, a sharp blow to the back of the head and darkness.



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Finbin turned his head from cell to cell, watching the multitude of shivering, emaciated prisoners' futile attempt to warm themselves. The cold of the Northern Icelands is notorious for freezing unwary travellers within minutes. What hope did he have for surviving the night, let alone the rest of his life here? “Well it won’t be a long life, that’s for sure” Finbin mused to himself.

Finbin knew he had little hope breaking out of his cell without help. None of the other prisoners were up to standing, let alone starring in his impromptu prison break. The many cold hours had ebbed the life from them, that much was obvious. Every second was important and he could not delay any further.

He urged his body to stand, his muscles buckling under his weight. Still a little woozy from the blow to the head, Finbin calmy searched the surrounding of the room he was in.

The prison itself was formed a cross shape. The guards room at one end and a heavy oak door at the other. Finbin briefly remembered being escorted down a flight of stairs, before he was thrown into one of the cells at the vertical end of the cross-shaped room. Then there was… the other door.

Just to be made out briefly in-between the howling of the frigid winds, a gentle break in the constant barrage of cold, were the screams of … something, someone on the other side of the door, located directly opposite to the block of cells.

“Nope” Finbin muttered under his breath.

Reflecting upon his many performances, Finbin operated under a single rule: "Simple always works." You can make simple look flamboyant and spectacular, but under the surface, it’s simply pulleys and levers. Finbin conclueded that the easiest way he would be able to escape would be if someone unlocked his cage and set him free.

Operating under this proviso, Finbin began his work, fashioning an instrument which would allow him to utilise his rarely used bard-magic. "Oh...""Is that what he told you?""The 'heroic escape'?"...

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LIAR