Black Sashes #3

3. The Hard Thing

Training was harsh, exhausting and long. The days were twenty hours long and even during the four hours of scheduled rest time, few of the prisoners were able to actually rest and recuperate before it was time to awaken and begin the onslaught of training once more. Most of the prisoners were unused to the kind of physical strain they were being put under, though Warrax and Ixtha were predictably used to this sort of thing, and Rilgar as well. Surprisingly, Jarek seemed none the worse for wear despite his noble appearance and his less than gargantuan musculature. The wiry muscles spread across his athletic frame held much more power than they appeared to. The ten convicts trained under the watchful eyes of many guards, some out in the open and actually teaching the prisoners, others just guarding them, and yet more hidden away with magic and ranged weapons in case anyone tried to make a run for it. Jos himself was not present all the time, but he came at key points, and at random intervals to check on their progress or to force them to work harder.

They trained inside, underground in fact, and were not exposed to sunlight at all, only to the harsh artifical lighting provided by the Black Talon mages (Black Talons being the name for the general Zolasian military). The mages simulated thunderstorms, snow and other harsh weather conditions to help the prisoners learn how to perform various tasks under the worst of conditions. Train and prepare for the worst, hope for the best, and always have a few backup plans. That was the motto they used.

Of course, they were still prisoners, so they remained in their individual cells in the Black Sash detention facility. No reprieve for the wicked, it seemed.

Jarek: "I really wish we could just get some beds. A cot, even."
Kharza: "You get enough beauty sleep as is, fool."
Jarek: "Enough of your caustic wit, drow, you know as well as any that I am infinitely more attractive than you are."
Kharza: "Preposterous. Your ogreish features would turn the stomach of a ghoul."
Rilgar (loudly): "Enough. You are disturbing the rest of us who are trying to sleep with what little rest time we have available to us."

Voice: "And unfortunately, for you that is, that time is at an end."

All: (groan)
Jarek: "Come on, Jos, five more minutes. Just five? Please? For me?"
Jos: (chuckles) "Nope, you have weapons training today."
Warrax: "Weapons? Finally, training with the tools of my trade!"
Jos: "Don't get too excited, Warrax: You're just doing some basic work to-- Well, you'll find out. Come on."

Jos and several guardsmen led the prisoners from their cells, and brought them into a large cavern, lit my a series of stalactites with magical light spells cast upon them creating a ceiling network of light spikes that shed illumination into every nook and crany of the cavern. It was easily fourty or more feet tall, and hundreds of feet wide.

Jarek: "How do you keep a cavern like this secret, directly beneath the city?"
Jos (laughing): "Because we're not anywhere near a Zolasian city. Do you honestly believe that we'd be careless enough to incarcerate the most dangerous of criminals near our general populace? You are more foolish than I originally took you for, thief."
Jarek: "I take offense at that."
Jos: "And well you should, convict."

The lively conversation thus halted, Jos pointed out to the prisoners that, next to the intimidating rows of heavily-armed guardsmen, there were a number of racks filled with weapons in this cavern. They ran the gamut of sizes and shapes: Halberds and polearms, every kind of sword, axes, knives, whips, spiked chains, maces, morningstars, it was all there. Every kind of weapon any of the prisoners could name, they could find. Even Jarek, who evindenced an incredible knowledge of exotic weaponry from faraway lands was able to sate his curiosity and find every obscure tribal or cult weapon he could think of, much to his surprise. Jos told the prisoners to each familiarize themselves with the weapons that they felt most comfortable with, and to pick a set of weapons that they would use. He stressed versatility, and told them to learn how to use weapons enough to be useful in different situations. Then he instructed them to toy around with all of the weapons in the room so that they could become at least somewhat familiar with the way the weapons were used, under the instruction and tutelage of the guardsmen available. This, he explained, would help them in a fight, enhancing their ability to defend against reach weapons, for example, or against weapons faster than the ones they themselves would be armed with, for another. Each of the prisoners found a set of weapons that they were comfortable using: One or two main melee weapons, and a ranged weapon. Some of them even chose a few others in addition to these prerequisites. Jarek loaded himself up with an armory, but seemed none the worse for wear when they had to do heavy endurance athletics fully geared-up. He tumbled and cartwheeled and leapt all about as if he was carrying nothing at all, much to everyone's surprise.

Rilgar showed great aptitude and a deep comfort level with the quarterstaff, wielding it with a fluid grace that could not be taught. The wood just became an extension of his own body, and he never looked clumsy with it, moving through patterns smoothly and quickly. His interest also found him the longbow, and he showed more talent than everyone in the group with this particular tool, save for Ayric Silverbow, the dour elf who spoke so little. Rilgar was among the few who chose a large number of weapons, and in addition to those above he carried a set of bolas, a variety of melee and throwing knives as well as a hand axe. He also showed some innate talent with a number of other weapons, but chose to forgo carrying any of them.

Willow seemed to gravitate to the longsword, a weapon well-documented in tales of honor and glory, perhaps the most famous (or infamous) weapon out there. She also chose to wield a small wooden buckler in her left hand, for added protection. The shortbow seemed to hold her attention for ranged work, and she showed her elven heritage most profoundly in her innate talent with this weapon. Unlike Rilgar, who chose to wear no armor, Willow wore leather armor like a second skin, preferring it to the heavier metal armors because it let her move about and perform acrobatics as if she were wearing no armor whatsoever. Like many others, she chose to familiarize herself with several other kinds of weapons, but did not carry them. Willow seemed to be very talented wielding a whip, and just as comfortable tossing around spiked chains like a devilish kyton.

Tevlin, the other tall, dark-skinned human who wore his hair in a long ponytail, chose to wield the quarterstaff as he primary offensive tool, though by no means did he show the same talent as Rilgar. Instead, the staff seemed to be a utility device for him, a walking stick, a prod, and so forth. He, like Rilgar, shunned the use of armor, though he was not as adept at dodging blows as the taller man. Tevlin chose to use darts as a means of ranged assault, and also added a dagger to his belt as a contingency weapon.

Jarek loaded himself up with so much weaponry that it was a surprise to everyone around him that he could walk, nevermind out-run, out-jump and out-tumble everyone in the group but Rilgar with full gear on. Choosing to wield a longsword (wielded, to everyone's further surprise, in either hand just as comfortably) with no off-hand weapon or shield, Jarek continued to amaze everyone with his envious ability to be highly skilled at everything he tried, whether he'd done it before or not. For ranged work he preferred the same weapon as Willow, the shortbow. Also as Willow, he chose to wear leather armor, for the same reasons, though he also extolled the silence of the armor versus clanky metal armor. At one point, when Jos told them to disarm before going back to their cells, Jarek removed a pile of knives (melee and throwing) that stacked up to his knees there were so many of them. And then followed the garottes wires, the shuriken, the needles, the darts, the whip up his sleeve, the bolas, the weighted chain, and a stunning variety and number of other weapons and devices, much to the chagrin of Jos and the guards. A thorough frisking revealed that the intrepid Jarek had sewn a number of small knives and other tiny weapons into his clothing by means of patches in the armpits, and other less-visible areas on the inside of his vest, pantlegs, etc. Jos credited him for his ingenuity and told him that he'd be stripped to his loincloth everytime he left the training grounds. Jarek nodded, accepting the complement for what it was.

Feldagar Wondercraft. What could be said about the little gnome? He shunned most weapons, stating that they were too primitive, or that they were not efficient enough. He did take the time to train on the shortsword and on how to properly wear leather armor, but refused anything else but one, an item of his own design. Stating that his comfort level from previous use was the reason he used the shortsword, a "detestable weapon of brutish melee combat," Boomer described his weapon in detail to Jos, who had already seen it once, when the creative gnome was arrested. Fel's "Terrific Tosser of Darts Most Deadly," or the dartbow as Jarek called it, was very similar in design to a crossbow, but between the string and the bow was a cylinder that had ten holes running the length of itself, each containing a dart. When the trigger was pulled, the dart was launched and the cylinder rotated by means of a complicated series of toothed gears, loading the next dart. There was also a latch that, when opened, swung this cylinder to the side so that new darts could be loaded in quickly.

Jos: "Impressive, Mr. Wondercraft, but is it accurate?"

Boomer's response was short and to the point. Loading the device, he pointed it at a ranged practice dummy and unleashed all ten darts, drawing a happy face with them on the dummy's chest. He turned to Jos and grinned.

Jos (nearly speechless): "Well done."

Boomer nodded and reloaded the darts.

Feldagar: "I was thinking of adding some smokepowder in a little container in the end of the dar--"

Jos (interrupting): "What do you know of smokepowder? Nevermind, we'll speak later."

With that cryptic conversation finished, the training moved on, and Jos discoved what the rest of the group felt comfortable using.

Kharza, like Tevlin, shunned the use of armor of any kind. He found it "distasteful and uncomfortable." He seemed to have significant aptitude with the quarterstaff, but preferred to wield a spiked mace, which he kept belted at his hip. Everyone seemed to think it an odd choice, particularly so slight of build as he was, but in the same fashion that Jarek did, the drow packed more muscle power than would be expected into his small frame. Of course, and Jarek was quick to point this out, kthe dark elf was not nearly as strong as the obsidian-eyed six-footer. Kharza also seemed to find use for knives of the ranged sort, and kept a pair of bandoleers filled with them strapped across his chest. He also used melee knives, keeping one up either sleeve, and a shiv at his belt. A sling completed his aresenal, making him one of the few besides Rilgar and Jarek who loaded up.

Cedric, the worshipper of Belzhan, was a s sight to behold. He coccooned himself in metal armor, donning a set of full plate mail and carrying a large shield with his morningstar, accompanied by a light crossbow. He seemed to fare rather well under all that weight, once again showing that slightness of build tells no tales of a person's strength. His eyes were as dark and ebony as Jarek's, but without the same kind of purplish gleam lurking in the background at certain angles. While not the best shot with the crossbow just yet, Cedric had a steady hand, and an iron will. He vowed to himself that he would become great with the weapon, and would one day no longer have to endure the scathing remarks that Kharza stung him with, or the euphemism-couched barbs that Jarek flung. After one particular incident, when he missed a target dummy while practicing rapid fire, Kharza chided him to take his time, that the troll would indeed wait for him to reload so that it could take a bolt in the eye, or the stone wall beside him. Jarek chuckled and added that a misplaced bolt could just as easily distract the mage casting a spell NEXT to the troll... with a mocking grin twisting his lips the whole time.

Ixtha was ten feet in height, but clad in a natural armor easily as effective as the plate mail Cedric wore, so he found no reason to wear any additional protection. He chose a greatsword as his tool, and decided that the only ranged weapon appropriate for someone of his size was a longbow. He chose a recurved longbow made from the bone of a dragon that lived in Graer millenia before the Great Retreat, when most dragons left the major continents and retreated to their own.

Warrax wrapped himself in a metal second skin just the same way that Cedric did, only Warrax's helmet, unlike the one that Cedric wore, shadowed his face such that only the demonic yellow glow of his eyes was revealed. The horns of a dead beast adorned this helmet, horns from many moons past when the helmet was used by Jos himself, though it had been magically resized to fit Warrax's massive, fiendish head. The self-proclaimed half-fiend chose for himself a large shield and a bastard sword, which he wielded as if the thing were a dagger instead of massive steel fang. In full armor, Warrax was an intimidating sight, even giving pause to Jos. The extra bulk of the platemail made him seem even larger than his nine feet, and more dangerous than before. Belted at his hip are his bastard sword and hand axe, bound and sheated with the hide from a deep dragon, its purple flesh tanned and dried to make leather of surpassing strength and resilience. In fact, much of his mundane clothing is worked from this same dragon. The plates of his armor are black, forged from a forgotten steel called Yaddraak, rarely seen on the Prime Material Plane, all veins long-since mined by the dwarves. It is extraordinarily common in Baator, however, and in other locales in the Lower Planes. He stands tall and erect, a daunting steel devil, threating and looming. Were it not for the outrageous purple cloak, belt and boots he wears, the tones of his clothing would set a somber, depressing tone. Black and red are the only colors he wears, ever, besides the cloak, boots and belt. The devil warrior chose no ranged weapon, and seemed unusually confident in his ability to deal with faraway targets without the help of bow or sling or anything else.

And finally there was Ayric Silverbow, the somber, dour elf who spoke so little and never smiled. His eyes never gleamed with happiness, but were dull with anger and pain all the time. He trained as hard as the rest, harder than some, perhaps. Ayric chose an unusual weapon set, one that had its own unique style of combat. His choices were a pair of shortswords that he wielded simultaneously, and a longbow for work at a distance. His impossible talent with the longbow was on par with Rilgar, both a step and more beyond anyone else in the group of prisoners. His elven heritage and work ethic helped him keep his skills on the razor's edge.

And so the prisoners familiarized themselves with these weapons, and their own modes of defense. They trained hard, hour after hour. But the strangest part of all was that, despite being given training, and being given the awesome responsibility of doing work for a country whom they were not even citzens of, they were still treated like violent convicts. At night, they were locked in their cells, and there was never a moment they were not guarded, never a free minute except during sleep hours when they were too tired to do anything. It was almost as if the training was a means of keeping them so tired they couldn't even contemplate escape, another means of control.

Deep in the depths of the night, while the prisoners slept, or tried to sleep, restlessly, some of their number simply could not force themselves to bother.

Jarek (muttering): "Every cell has a flaw, every prison an escape route. I just have to find it..."

Jarek stirred about his cell restlessly, fingers probing the walls, the bars, the lock, everything he could get his hands on, but to no avail. There were no routes to be found, no ways around the sash that caused him pain even when his hands passed between the bars to the air outside of his cell confines. Everyone else but Rilgar and Willow were comatose from exhaustion, sleeping as much and as deeply as possible.

Willow: "You seemed so comfortable with that staff today, you really knocked that guard senseless! (she flashed a wide smile at him)"
Rilgar: "And your longsword stung Malkane many times today. I think that she is not too pleased with you, particularly after you cut her behind. (Rilgar arched an eyebrow at Willow, who chuckled, her laughter like tinkling glass)"

Kharza (opening one eye): "Would you two just shut UP already? SOME of us need some sleep before we die in training tomorrow, thank you very much."

And so passed the night, Rilgar and Willow chatting, Kharza randomly interrupting with caustic barbs involving his need for sleep and there rudeness, and once Boomer let out a thunderous belch from his deep sleep, waking even Ixtha, who could have slept through an earthquake. Training was proving to be a thoroughly exhausting and draining experieince. And through it all, Jos promised that things would only get harder. How would they deal with it then? And if this was just training, how would they survive the missions that Jos would eventually send them on? Thoughts of this sort flooded the minds of those awake, and permeated the dreams of the sleeping. Interesting times were upon them. Whether they would be good times, or bad times, no one could say. They could only wait.