Tower of Ascension

“No, no, no, no no… oh god!” Roisin smeared the cold cell floor with blood as she was flung and locked in. Screaming, crying, she slammed back against the metal bars her hands coating them crimson like the foor. “AHHHhhhh!” ,her mind twisting like a snake desperately trying to consume itself. “Blood! Is it mine?!” She was bathed in it. “No, not mine… hers!” ,collapsing banging her head with fresh pain. “Nora! …MY SISTER'S DEAD!” , sobbing. Her mind clutching at straggled memories. “She burnt… the blood's not hers.” ,gasps. “I killed a man” ,futilely scrapping blood from her flesh. Stops. “No, she hadn't. The assassin did… she just let him in. ..she didn't kill him.” Roisin assaulted the bars of the cell again, “I DIDN'T Kill HIM!”

The prison guard in the dungeons of Lazareth stared back at her emotionless. He'd seen it all a hundred times. Wracked with pain, grief, and guilt, the cold cell pressed down on her, “…Nora.”

Wasn't much better, the guard noted as he stared at her while she sobbed to herself… “Daddy.”

…

Roisin gripped the bars with both hands. “I need a priest. Guard, I need a priest. I didn't do it. I didn't kill anyone. You have to listen to me!” The guard listened to her ramblings stoically, as if he could do anything about her imprisonment.

“Look, it wasn't me. It was the guy in the mask. My father, Lord MacLeod—you've heard of him—was an honest man. It was all his partner's fault. He was betrayed! My sister and I couldn't see him like that. The man told us he could fix it! The guy in the mask.” She rattled the bars in frustration. “Are you listening to me?

My sister and I found a guy, not the mask guy… a different one, a tiefling I think. He got us into the Scarlet Square. It's real! That's where we found him. He told us that if we could get him into the house—that's my father's partner's house—he could find the evidence and clear my father's name! We didn't know he was going to steal…” She started to sob. “…or anything about fire-breathing brass golems! It wasn't me.” Still grasping the bars, she slid to the floor weakly. “He was wearing a mask… that's who they should be looking for.”

The guard listened patiently and attentively. He had time. This step lasted a little longer.

The cell was quiet. Roisin lay in a shadowed corner, maddened by the sound of her own breathing. The guard watched her closely. This phase was the darkest.

Roisin lay on her filthy cot, holding aloft a single stalk of straw. She twisted it back and forth slowly in a wayward ray of sunlight—it turned golden here and there. She'd decided not to kill herself.

Roisin, emaciated, lay on the cot with one leg and her head hanging off. Turning to the guard, she said, “Seriously, what am I supposed to do in here for four years? …Can I at least get a book or something?” The guard turned and a moment later returned with a book. Passed through the bars, Roisin took the book and read the title: “The Teachings of Lazareth.” Scrunching up her face, she looked back at the guard, “You're kidding me, right?” The guard moved to take the book back. “No, no… I'll read it.” The guard returned to his post. She returned to her cot—with the book.

“Guard, anything else?” Roisin exchanged the book with the guard, reading the title on the new one: “So You Wanna Be a Blacksmith.” She looked at the guard, “Do I look like a blacksmith to you?” He returned her glare with his usual intensity. “Fine… fine.”

Roisin quickly discovered that self-rehabilitation was taken very seriously in the Lazareth-run prison under the great cathedral. With a thirst for knowledge, a prisoner could access books on almost any topic imaginable—tailoring, leatherworking, bookbinding, poetry, novice arcane, music! She would spend hours reading, singing, and learning with her guard friend, who encouraged her with an endless supply of knowledge and adventure.

Roisin was thriving… well, as much as anyone coulding oneself through knowledge earned material privileges—better food, more books, writing utensils, parchment, crafting tools, and materials. Roisin was ravenous for knowledge and shared everything she could with the guard who facilitated her education.

Roisin's cell more resembled a precise workshop. She'd carved herself a bed, lined the walls with woven cloth, had a loom and metalworking tools. She'd made blankets and carved wooden swords. She and the guard were best friends!

Roisin was to be freed. Her cell was to be cleared, all things returned to the church save for a few things she was allowed to keep. She was ready. She'd read dozens of tales of bold adventurers seeking fame and glory. This was her turn, her story. She'd leave this city and all its memories behind. Reinvent herself—a second chance.

Roisin took a bold first step out of her cell as a free woman. She was to be released into the market square at noon. She'd heard from the priesthood that there was a caravan company hiring guards to travel east.

She turned to her friend, the guard, tears in her eyes, for herself and their goodbye.

As the confused priest looked on, she threw her arms around the dusty old skeleton guard.

As she walked away with her new life ahead, she realized he'd be a prisoner here forever.