Found: Whiskey Rumkeg

Lost, but now, found.

Whiskey Rumkeg was a victim of "The Malakaz", a slightly customised encounter from the module X4, Master of the Desert Nomads.

When Whiskey was discovered in a node of the Temple of Elemental Evil, the need for a retrospective interlude was formed!

That scene starts here:

"Why?"

The desperate sound of the man's voice wakes your mind, whilst your eyes stay closed.

"Whyyyyy?" he drones, and then whispers, "Why?" 

You can feel cold stone at your back. One leg is in the air, propped by the seat of a fallen chair. 

You open your eyes carefully, and hold your position. You see between the legs of a table, on the opposite side, is a man sitting against a wall. His knees are bent up around his ears, and he stares at the ground between his feet. 

He sobs again, "What is the point?" 

He wears on ornate helm with horns and a spike. His studded leather is well-worn, and exposes him in several places. A long sword lies inches from his toes, on an angle, such that the hilt is not handy. 

A barred window, high on one wall, filters moonlight into the room.

"Hello friend, they call me Whiskey," he puts on his best voice of confidence, "by what name do the call you, brother?"

"Friends, enemies, what does it matter," he mutters to himself, slapping his helm, "It's all so pointless, so futile."

"What brings you to this place?" Whiskey persists.

"What? What brings me here? Don't ask questions. Don't even ask what brings yourself here. There is no "Answer", berk. So don't bother asking. It's all so pointless. Have you heard the barmies howling in the mazes? If you're here thinking there is some purpose, some "Answer", then save yourself some time and go join them." 

The man speaks with despair, and it feels like he shifts between talking to you, and talking to himself.

"Have you got the answer? Any answer? Of course not."

"Let's go find the answer," Whiskey offers, picking up the man's sword, "it's right through this door."

Whiskey pauses for a moment, looking at the miserable sight in front of him. He has carried on so far as though this is NOT a dream, or some flight of consciousness in the moments before his death at the hands of The Malakaz - but he cannot be sure. Will that door hold the blackness of death that expects? Or is it the door to some form of eternal damnation that many people expected for him?

"Well, I'm not going to waste my time watching this frowny-pants," Whiskey mused to himself, "so let's get this over with, if this is my end."

The man offers no resistance, and doesn't seem to care.

"When will they understand? It's pointless...life...the multiverse...everything!"

Whiskey emerges - strangely enough, not into some inferno to mark the end of his days - but into a cell corridor.

"Thank the Lady you're here!" says a voice from the darkness of the neighbouring cell, "that wailing berk locked me in here and then went off on one of his demented ravings."

Whiskey peers into the cell, noting the form of a human male.

"Listen cutter, it may have been you I was supposed to be seeing. Beckett - B E C K E double T. Did you need a lawyer?"

"Well, I certainly need to get out of this place," Whiskey hastily replies, wondering where the cell keys might be, and making a futile attempt at opening what is obviously a locked cell door.

"Yeah I tried it. I think the fellow's lost his mind. Can't blame him. Bleakers are a bit like that," interjected Beckett.

Still conscious, even if uncertain of being alive, Whiskey scrolls through a list of questions.

"So, I'm new around here. If you're a lawyer, why are you locked up? Also, can you explain exactly where 'here' is? And why did you call me a cutter? Sorry for all the questions, but once we have knocked these over, I will do my best to get us out of here."

Beckett pauses with a moment of shock, and then continues.

"Wow. You really do need a lawyer. Well, a cutter is better than a berk. But I'm afraid you're gonna hear the term 'clueless' used quite a bit in your presence. As for 'here', well I'm afraid one of the Bleakers - the Bleak Cabal - must have found you and decided it was best to lock you up, probably for your own safety. Sometimes they're kind enough to call someone like me to see if I can help a sod who can't himself...oh no offence meant...only this Bleaker seems to have fallen into melancholy he just can't get out of at the moment..."

The pieces start to come together for Whiskey. This "Bleaker" next door was actually looking out for him, and somehow Whiskey has found himself in some sort of refuge, or perhaps better described as an asylum. If what Beckett says is true, then he has come here at the behest of the Bleak Cabal to offer some sort of assistance, but the Bleaker in charge of the cells has tipped himself over the edge, from melancholy into madness.

"Well," chimes in Beckett, "if you would be so kind as to pop the lock, I'll just explain everything to anyone outside the main door down there. We should probably get our friend a little help as well."

Whiskey tries Beckett's lock with makeshift thieves tools, and can't get it. "Maybe through that front door, there will be some keys?" Beckett asks, hopefully.

Disappointingly, it is another locked door.

Refreshingly, Whiskey is easily able to pick this lock - and with that success, starts to feel more whole again.

It's at this point that Whiskey discovers his abilities for level 2.

A plan comes to Whiskey's mind. He dons the helmet recovered from the Bleaker, and strides confidently into this room to meet a man who is sitting at a desk, writing something down.

"Keys for the lawyers room," Whiskey demands of the man at reception.

"The lawyer? He's as barmy as the rest of 'em. I think we'll give him a little more time. And you? Not much better either by the looks of things. Are you hungry?"

"Yep - what have ya' got?"

"The usual...soup with yesterdays bread. I'll fetch some if you like. What about the others? Sounds like Postlethwaite is having an episode..."

So...Postlethwaite is the man's name...

"Well, you stay here now, best get behind that door there. And I'll be off to the kitchen to get some dinner."

He looks knowingly at the door, raises his eyebrows, and chins you back towards the cells.

"Now would you like to lock that on your way through or shall I get that for you?"

"Look, I really don't want to waste anyone's time, and I appreciate the effort you've all made, but I really have to get going."

"I'd give it a few more days...have the Mercykillers methods been forgotten by your addled mind? It doesn't surprise me. Perhaps it is better left forgotten. Memories are pointless, in any event."

Mercykillers? Whiskey notes the nomenclature to himself, but wonders now if he has lost at least part of his mind...his memory?

Covering, he asks, "Lets just say I'm new to this general area. Tell me more about the Mercykillers..."

"Do not be ashamed. Clueless or not, it makes no difference in the end." He invites you to sit, and starts to tell you parts of your own story.

The scene is refreshed in your mind. The memory is of you, Whiskey Rumkeg, being tortured by a Mercykiller torturer.

"Mmm ... hello there young one. What's that? Perhaps I should loosen the straps ..."

"Where are we? In Sigil, yes. Mmm ... deep beneath the Prison. Far from your gentle home I am sure. Far, far from any lawlessness you felt comfortable living in. Mmm ... "

"Will I let you free? Not yet, little friend, not yet. How are your chains? You feel discomfort, yes? No? Then let me tighten them. Mmm ... "

"No, child, I will not stop yet. You must be ready to listen. Yes, mmm ... be ready to listen and to respect the law. There, there, it's only a thin trickle. Time heals all wounds. Let me pull this last strap ... just a little ... tighter ... ahh! Now I can begin ..."

"Look, friend, look all around you. See these crumbling walls? The pokers blackened with fire? Mmm? See my withered hands, the deep chasms throughout my face? What great beast does this all? Mmm ... entropy, my child."

"Chaos claws at the foundation of our Prison. Yes, entropy ages my once tall body, now stooped and arthritic ... mmm ... this monster of disorder threatens to destroy all that you see ... and all you don't see!"

"Do you wonder, child, why people grow old. Why statues and walls crumble away. Mmm ... why even empires decay into civil war? It is the fault of chaos ... yes, our forsworn enemy."

"Mmm ... what? What do you have to do with chaos? Mmm ... hold still, friend, let me fetch my tools. Which one, child? This one? Mmm?"

Feel the iron on your cheek? It is cold and unwavering ... yes, it is like the law we seek. It is without muddled feeling, without imperfection. Mmm ... this is my weapon against the disorder. Against you, child!"

"The Harmonium caught you, yes? Mmm ... and the Fraternity sentenced you. How do they stop you? Mmm? With words? A stern lecture? And will this stop your lawlessness? Speak up, child! You say it will? Mmm ... let me heat the iron."

"You, child, could be arrested a thousand times, held on trial a thousand thousand times, and what would it do? Mmm ... nothing! You, my lawless friend, require incentive, yes! Punishment will stop you, and the fear that follows ... yes ..."

"And that ... is where I play a role greater than that of the Harmonium or the Fraternity combined. Mmm ... without my cruelty you would never learn to fear the consequences of your actions. I am the punisher of chaos. Through me ... through the Mercykillers ... will the great beast that is chaos quake with fear. Disorder will be too afraid to take hold. The entropy that you so embrace, friend, will be no more!"

"Mmm ... so, child, now you understand my position, perhaps you will not repeat your actions again. With time, you may even feel as I feel. The pull of age and decay will lead you to me, to learn as I once did ... mmm ..."

"But as for now ... mmm ... the iron is red hot. Let me see ... mmm ... your crime? Theft from a noble? This is a crime that must not go unnoticed ... mmm ... turn your head. There we go ... now hold still ..."

Open-jawed, Whiskey returns his attention to the reception man, and demands, "Why? Why was I tortured?"

You now feel a burn scar on your cheek that you hadn't noticed before.

"Why? That is their way. Any sign of chaos or disorder is enough for the Mercykiller to want punish, and severely. That is their way. As for what you did to get there, I do not know. The Bleak Cabal found you, recently escaped, and near death. Although life has no meaning, death has no purpose, we took you into safety. It is simply what we do, without reason."

"Well then friend, I accept your hospitality and maybe should talk to the lawyer. Why is he here if not to negotiate my release?" Whiskey relaxes, slightly.

"He too is in their sights. As to reasons, it does not matter. He is either wanted for punishment, or he is not. The facts are that he is. He remains here because the members of the Bleak Cabal offer shelter to those in need. Not for good, or for ill, but we do," philosophises the man.

"So what is outside if these walls? You offer shelter to those in need, but lock them in cells for their own good. Should they not have the option to leave when they wish?" Whiskey pushes.

"Either they are locked in, or they are not. Should, or should not? It matters not. You stand here with a sword, and the ability to kill me, and leave through the next door. You will, or you won't. The 'why' is irrelevant. The Mercykillers are outside, in the Hive Ward, and they are looking for sods like you. If they remember your escape, they will kill you. You will be free of us, but you will also be dead. You will choose your own path," he says with a zen-like countenance, and then snaps out of it briskly, "Did you still want soup?"

"Soup would be good," Whiskey sighs with equal amounts of resignation and befuddlement. He makes his way back to the lawyer, Beckett.

"So tell me, what brings you here?"

"Did you figure out how to get this door open? Good job on that other one - maybe this one works the same? I'm just here to help - I believe there are certain law enforcement agents that might be looking to 'talk' to you?"

Whiskey can see he's not going to get a straight answer from Beckett. Whilst reception is away getting soup, however, an opportunity presents itself that no self-respecting Halfling rogue can ignore. Time to rifle through the drawers...

Sure enough, a key to Beckett's cell is found, and it is unlocked. But not so swiftly as to miss the chance to put on a ring found in the drawers, and pocket some local coin.

"Thanks cutter - I owe you one. Shall we get out of here?" Beckett responds enthusiastically.

"That's alright Beckett...but I need you to tell me what's going on around here," insists Whiskey.

"Sheesh, you don't remember anything? Outside the Gatehouse there'ss gonna be all kinds you don't wanna talk to. Dustmen mainly. Mercykillers particularly. But you should be able to spot them easy enough. Anyone looks like me's gonna be alright. I was thinking, maybe we could head down to the courts as priority number one and get you sorted out with the Guvners. That should keep the Mercykillers off our backs, and we can get back to whatever it is we feel like doing. Maybe get on the bub, hey?" he finishes with a knowing wink.

Whiskey finds himself feeling stupid, once again. Perhaps he's not dead or dreaming, after all?

"Dustmen? Bub?"

"Dustmen...them grey robed sad sacks walkin' around pickin' up deaders. Always goin' on about the 'True Death' and what-not. Barmies if yer askin' me. Bit o' the bub, cutter? Eh? I'll show you some tav's I think you'll like. A copper for a tasty brew, and a nice bit o' bread. None if this cranium rat stew you'll be finding at most of the alehouses round these parts..."

"Righto, lets blow this place. Let's stay in the shadows, quiet like, and head for the tav." Crazy as it all was, at least the talk of a tavern was something Whiskey could understand.

"Well, I suppose we don't have much choice but to use that door there. I assume you don't want to stick around for soup?"

"I'll pass," Whiskey replies to Beckett, "Can you read this?"

"Ah yes...very good," he scans the documents quickly, "all about you actually. This could all be very useful. Seems you weren't entirely willing to conform when one of the Harmonium picked you up for doing...hey is that our friend coming back with the grub?"

Slipping into the shadows, Whiskey and Beckett avoid being seen by the returning concierge.

Whiskey moves to level 3!

Beckett and Whiskey start trying to find their way out, but someone has noticed they are not where they are supposed to be.

"Hey!" the voice echoes down the corridor. Moving quickly through the complex, and making good use of the recently acquired set of keys, Whiskey and Beckett make it to what seems to be the front door.

"You shouldn't be going out there!" comes the cry from your custodian, back down the hall, "if the Mercykillers find you, yer names will be going straight into the dead book!"

Whiskey unlocks the door, and pulls it towards himself. A blinding sunset hits you in the face, but has an unusual coolness. The world outside has a feel of cold stone and human, or at least humanoid, stench. The smell of the soup lures your nostrils back to hallway for a moment. As your eyes adjust to the light, what you see disturbs you more than the odour.

The buildings of Sigil are solid looking, but are of an eclectic design and construction. As you look over the rooftops to your right, you can see many more rooftops that disappear into a haze. It could be that you are at a highpoint, but the rooftops don't point straight up. They appear to point above where you are. If you were to hang a plumb line from any awning, and those lines were to extend high into the sky, it is as though they would all meet, rather than be parallel. To your left the same phenomenon.

"Lead on Becket," encourages Whiskey, "you know this place better than I."

 "Well we should probably go see the Guvners and get your little matter all cleared up...but did you score some jink from that Bleaker sod? Maybe we should stop for a bub on the way..." Beckett ponders, "Oh, and keep it outta sight. This is a rough neighbourhood."

"Sounds good, got a handful of jink here," replies Whiskey, "Got this sword and helmet as well."

Becket leads the way towards an establishment called, 'The Laid Cabal'.

"Careful who you talk to around here, some people are murderous for no good reason, others just barmy - let's get in for quick bub and then be on our way. "We can offload the helmet, but do you know how to use that sword?"