Prisoner's Gate (Act 1)

I climb slowly into the gloom above the demon's chamber, each rung of the ladder a greater labor than the last. I am beyond exhaustion, beyond any mortal sense of fatigue. I can barely see him anymore, but I hear Brutus' cries of rage and frustration down in the dark below my feet. The wall reverberates with an occasional impact from his mutilated arms. I hear another sound as well, a sound that terrifies me anew. He's somehow managed to gain a hold of the lowest rung of the ladder, wrapping one of his wrist chains tightly around it. The metal squeals and screeches in protest under his weight, the chain clattering against the stone. He lashes upwards with his other arm, ensnaring a higher rung, and for a horrifying moment I'm sure that he's going to pursue me. Then, in a puff of ancient dust and plaster, the entire bottom section of the ladder tears away, falling into a heap into the upturned face of my pursuer. Brutus' final screams of fury follow me as my tired arms ascend the last few rungs of the ladder, up into a pool of light above.

Pulling myself out of the narrow shaft, I'm struck blind by the blazing sun overhead. I hold my head in my hands, crushed under the enormity of the brightness, and by the overwhelming reality of what I've just escaped. How many hundreds have perished at the hands of this creature before I faced him? How have I alone survived him? For several minutes I'm unable to move, but at last, my eyes adjust, and I stand to take in my surroundings. It's quite a spectacle.

My climb through The Prison has found me high atop the structure, standing astride the roof, which slopes gently down in every direction in an enormous swath of barren stone. I make my way gingerly across the broken tiles, finally approaching the edge of the building. Fighting vertigo, I force myself to peer out over into the abyss, and what I see takes my breath away. I appear to be suspended above a bank of clouds, an expanse of inky dark spreading out to the South, obscuring all view of The Lower Prison, as well as the rocky paths that led me up to it. There is a narrow pebbled band of dirt bordering the walls, which gives way to plunging cliffs. My gaze wanders down the side of the structure, finally resting on a pile of broken stones stacked up against the wall nearby. It's not a ladder, it's definitely not safe, but it will have to do.

Some time later, with scraped, bruised hands, I gain my footing on the pebbled strip and follow it to the front of The Prison. It was obviously meant to be the proper entrance. A series of marble steps rise from the field in front to the yawning gateway, the stairs bordered on both sides by rusty gibbets that swing and creak slightly in the breeze. I find myself wondering how many others have stood in this spot, beholding the looming structure and knowing that their lives would end within its confines. The thought sends a shiver through me, despite the relative warmth of the sun up here.

Turning away from The Prison for a final time, I look out across the rock-covered plain stretching away to the East. It is fairly unremarkable, hard-packed earth strewn with small boulders and an occasional struggling weed. The monotony of the field is broken by an immense stone road, feeding straight into the steps of the jail, and meandering off into the distance. I bend down to examine the road, attempting to discern its purpose. What could possibly warrant the construction of such a thing, out here in this wasteland? Well, I must follow it, wherever it leads.

Under the burning sun I trudge Eastward, my head down studying the grooves in the stone path before me. There is no question that a great many wagons or carriages have traveled here, the dirt is packed hard, the stones worn down to a polish. My journey is interrupted periodically by a familiar menace, Spitters, Goat Men, and those damned Hellion creatures from the cliff climb. Whatever darkness that created my first assailants is stronger in these new ones, for they prove a much hardier breed. For an age I traverse this road, fending off attackers, the sun beating down mercilessly from above. Though hours have passed, it barely moves in the sky, as if pinned there by some vile magic.

Finally I spot an imposing wall of rock ahead, growing larger with every tired stride. It looms over the horizon, stretching from North to South. I pass a small encampment, a haphazard collection of tents and barrels, with the remains of a fire. I inspect the fire pit, and am surprised to find it recently extinguished. Someone has been here, no more than a day ago! I find nothing of value in the camp, so I trudge the final distance to the rock wall, hoping against hope for a way through.

Of course, this is Wraeclast, and I've grown used to delay and disappointment. Whatever route the wagons used to take through the pass has been sealed shut, buried under countless tons of rocky debris. The smallest boulders in the barrier are larger than me, so clearing a path is impossible. With no other choice remaining, I turn to the South, following the outcropping as it winds its way back towards the cliffs. The line of the rock wall turns gradually to the west, and soon I find myself heading steeply downhill. A few terraces on, the rough rocks of the field give way to a soft mat of green moss, a welcome change from the hard surface I've been traveling. As I descend lower, the scent of salt invades my nostrils, along with a heavier, more menacing smell behind it. It smells of swamp rot, decay, and brine. A light mist appears around my feet, swirling about and thickening steadily.

A little farther on, I see a yawning gap in the cliff, a jagged break in the rocks framed by what appear to be pieces of broken mast. It's an odd sight indeed, given the lack of water nearby, but it seems to be the only way forward. I walk gingerly under the wooden archway, down a slick muddy slope, and into the unknown.