To Rise from the Ashes

Grin'Dar's Performance Eval
...could use some improvement, m'kay?

Toor Grin’dar was having a bad day, and it was getting worse. He accepted this, however, because he accepted responsibility for what had happened at the camp, and by extension what had happened on the river. They were his prisoners; it was his job to keep them safe and working. He failed to do that and there was a redemptive price to pay.

He sat quietly and took in the Reading of Charges, accepting blame for each failing. He felt each blow of the cane as it fell on his back, experiencing the pain of punishment simultaneously with the pleasure in knowing that the Flame would redeem him and make him stronger. Some in attendance thought that his head should roll – literally – over his failings. He was certain that, given his service and the justice and mercy of the Flame, he would be allowed to continue his work.

Hours passed. “Rise, and hear the final judgment of the Flame,” spoke Manalishi Towen of the Green, Master of the Terrynstah Monastery, one of two locations in Thrane where Purifiers and others of similar work were trained and disciplined. Grin’Dar, drenched in sweat and in a great deal of pain from a day of genuflecting and beatings, slowly stood, his eyes cast downward in shame, and yet with no small sense of anticipation for whatever was to be pronounced.

“You have been a stalwart defender of the faith for many years, and that alone is what, by grace of the Flame, will save you. Thusly will you venture forth with your chosen Sentinel to right the wrongs you yourself have wrought. We are united in the flame; you will enforce our rage. Steel yourself, and take these chains as a symbol that you are bound to your mission.” Towen’s deep voice boomed in the chamber, echoing off the cold stone walls. Two assistants brought forth a silver loop of chain and placed it around Grin’dar’s neck, then backed away. Standing alone in the middle of the great circular room, Grin’dar lifted his gaze to Towen and nodded.

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Free...at last
and a black eye for Thrane

“Yes, m’lord – that really is how it happened,” affirmed Jasno, as the Lord Mayor of Starilaskur read back to him the account he’d provided of his captivity, escape, and delivery back to Breland. The Cyrans had take it upon themselves, without any outside support, to infiltrate into Thrane, attack the camp, and lead 50-some prisoners to the Brey River and across it to freedom. The Thranes had tried to stop them, but the speed at which the group moved and the remoteness of the locations involved seemed to stymie all attempts to stop them.

Arik ir’Telles, Lord Mayor, considered the young noble’s words as his scribe took notes on their meeting. New Cyre, client as it was to Breland, was becoming a more vigorous actor in the region and although this was perhaps not supported or sanctioned by Prince Oargev, the young ruler certainly would welcome it. Thrane’s response was going to be interesting, and Breland’s response to it needed to be delicate, and yet firm. ir’Telles needed to provide his government with all the relevant facts, and be himself prepared to play a role, given the existence of a Thrane trade mission office in his city – they were the only official representatives of their government in the immediate area, and he knew they’d have some kind of response for him…soon.

In the meantime, the return of prisoners from the war was a happy occasion. The people of the city saw the Cyrans as victims and were excited to be a part of their liberation. And the 6 Brelish soldiers were being treated as heroes – and maybe they were, to some degree. None of them seemed to have experienced anything remarkable in the war, and their service records weren’t available to him – but his countrymen had been held, illegally, long past when they should have been sent home. That alone seemed enough to warrant the free food, lodging, public accolades, and women that were being showered on the men.

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Damn them! And him, too!
angry Thranes point fingers

Maximal Prelate Bobbyn paced back and forth, unconsciously cracking his knuckles loudly. It was a habit he’d had for years, and the pops and cracks echoed against the cold stone walls.

“Grin’Dar will be held responsible,” he snapped to no one in particular. “He was tasked with running this camp, and regardless of his excellent record this is simply unacceptable,” he continued. The other men in the room nodded and took notes, while one of them watched Bobbyn pace, waiting for an opportunity to speak.

“Your eminence, it is true that this was a gross mistake, and that blame must be assigned; however, Grin’Dar and his chief lieutenant must be dealt with in a way that takes into consideration their service and dedication to the Flame and Thrane…don’t you agree?” asked the man, who wore the insignia of the Silver Flame and Thrane’s intelligence service.

Bobbyn stopped at the window, gazing across the courtyard and into the gloom of the rainy day and thought.

“Agreed. They are accountable, and they will make amends,” the older man stated firmly. “And now to the status of the recovery – what of the boat? Have they found these miscreants yet?”

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Having reached the river's edge
with freedom in sight

Moving the former prisoners away from the camp wasn’t that difficult, as aside from a signal flare and half-hearted arrow attacks, no one pursued them. The first hour or so was tough, done at a jog, but putting distance between them and the camp was important while it was still dark. They made good progress, and by dawn they were several miles south, closing in on the wetlands.

Upon reaching the cover of trees, Luc, Deaton, and Amarack gathered to confer, including the two officers and shield sergeant in the discussion. Shortly thereafter, the column headed off again, this time at a steady walking pace. Deaton and Luc, as planned, stayed behind to arrange for an ambush should the Thranes attempt to follow the very obvious trail.

The two men strung part of Deaton’s rope across the path, sloppily camouflaging it so as to attract attention, and then settled into two hide spots flanking the trail. Hour went by before Deaton became aware of a presence in the brush nearby, which was soon followed by a rasping voice asking “why are you in my woods?” Luc, with a slightly better vantage point, saw movement and decided that walking straight toward it in the open with his arms spread wide made the most sense, and so he addressed it – whatever it was – and tried to see what it was and what it wanted.
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Brief moments passed before the thing showed itself and a fight ensued. A small green dragon – about the size of a horse – came out of the underbrush and breathed is caustic breath on Luc as he approached. Momentarily staggered by the cloud of acidic gas, Luc tried to shake off the coughing and wheezing that ensued. Deaton got off a shot; Luc pressed the attack; and Deaton, aiming from behind a tree, got off another shot that sank deeply into its leg, causing the wyrmling to think twice and beat a fast retreat into the sky. Luc needed some time to recover, and the two men continued their ambush watch for another hour or so, then departed in search of the rest of the group.

Amarack, meanwhile, continued to lead the column deeper south into the marsh, spying bullywugs watching from behind trees and in the distance as they moved. No attacks or even threats were made, likely due to the size of the group, but the beasties seemed to want to make it clear that they were not happy about the humans stomping around in their marsh.

Just before Luc and Deaton quit their hide site they spotted two large birds – mounted by soldiers – circling above, and then moving southward. The Thranes, it seemed clear, were searching for their prisoners. These same fliers were spotted by Amarack later that day, and it was obvious to him that they’d spotted the group.

The next day and night passed largely without incident, although the whole group was tired, beat up, filthy, and hungry. They’d made it almost all the way to the river; scouts had found the cove where Owen Trunbell was supposed to meet them, and Deaton had skillfully dropped one of the falcon fliers from the sky, raising his profile with the men through his skill with the bow.

On the afternoon of what they hoped would be their last day in Thrane, scouts spotted an odd river boat heading from east to west, powered by a paddle wheel. A light stream of smoke poured from a stack near the stern as it slowly moved down the middle of the wide river, troops along the sides watching the shores intently. Quickly hatching a plan, Deaton and Luc, made invisible by the latter’s magic, took off running westward, getting ahead of the boat and then swimming out to meet it. Relying on magic, adrenaline, and no small amount of luck, the two were able to get aboard the strange boat and determine its crew compliment. Deaton made his way below decks, finding two tinker gnomes minding what looked like some kind of furnace that appeared to power the boat. Luc counted men and listened to the captain and leader of the troops as they planned to anchor in the river and continue their watch.

Although unable to coordinate with one another the two men decided on a common course of action: destroy the boat in order to disrupt the Thranes. Killing the two gnomes was easy for Deaton, as no one else was below decks in the stern of the ship. The two Cyrans met up there, after Luc made his way below to see what was to be found beneath the decks. Time was running short: using coal and alchemist’s fire, the two had rigged the ship to catch fire, they hoped, and they needed to get off. Using what was left of Luc’s invisibility they rushed the deck, with Luc’s spells putting some men to sleep and Deaton’s blade dropping others. Over the side and into the water the two men dove, swimming furiously for the shore.

By the time they made it to land smoke was pouring from the stern of the boat and the Thranes were unloading the single launch onboard, preparing to abandon ship. Moments before the last Thrane left the burning riverboat a signal flare was launch skyward, much like the signal from the prison camp a few nights before. The Thranes, at least by this means, were trying to call for help – help that over the last few days had resulted in both aerial patrols and this odd riverboat…the crew of which was now making its way to shore, about 1/4 mile west of where the Cyran column was concealed.

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Move'm Out!
herding cats, heroes, and others

Meta
All 39 Cyrans from buildings 1 & 2 prepare to leave, along with some of the folks from building 3. There are several – probably 10 or so – who seem to be waffling. Given the darkness and confusion as you look to grab tools, food, and equipment for the quick march, it’s hard to tell exactly how many or who – but there are definitely some prisoners who either don’t seem hip on leaving, or don’t seem interested in falling in with you folks.

What are you going to do about them, if anything? There’s some cross-talk between the people, with some stern words shared over leaving or not, going “home” when it doesn’t exist, or a sense of separation between the Cyrans and some of the other prisoners, but no violence or anything really serious. The vast majority of the people are eager to leave….now…and seem okay with overlooking those who don’t want to or don’t want to join your caravan.

What’s your response? The buildings are starting to catch fire, slowly.

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A Roster of Prisoners
who's who of the newly freed

There are 44 Cyrans among the prisoners, 42 of which were soldiers. The other two were reporters embedded with two different units that were captured. The men and women – 31 and 13, respectively – represent 3 different units, two of which were captured right before the Day of Mourning, and one after. Both of the reporters are men.

One group of soldiers (22) captured before the Mourning are from the 27th Infantry Regiment (Light). The other captured before the Mourning – only 9 troops – are from an independent scout company. The remaining 13 Cyrans rounded up after the Mourning are from the 14th “Queen’s Own” Dragoons.

An additional 17 non-Cyrans were being held – a combination of Brelish, Aundairian, and even two Karrns. These, plus 5 of the Cyrans from the above totals, were in the southern barracks (Building 3).

That means you’ve got 39 Cyrans from Buildings 1 and 2 – those are the people who came out and eventually joined the fight. 22 other folks were in Building 3.

Of the 44 Cyrans there are only two officers, both Lieutenants. One was a supply officer; the other a sapper. There are several NCOs, and the rest are enlisted soldiers of various low ranks. Most of them are young, too – only a few of the NCOs are older, and them only in their 30s.

That’s what you’re able to gather over a span of about 5 minutes – Bakkar (the supply guy) is precise and knows his troops, and so is able to rattle off that as a report pretty quickly. The observation about age is something you just notice. What you know about the residents of Building 3 is directly from Bakkar.


I’ll update this post as you ask questions, open doors, and learn more.

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Assault on Sentinel Peak
Three against bad odds

The plan was set: Deaton would stealth up to the north wall, climb it, and snipe the guard in the northern platform and the one in the eastern platform. After seeing a quick spin of the searchlight as a signal Luc and Amarack would use spells to knock out the western and southern platform guards, and then enter the prison side of the compound, in search of the pair of roving guards. Once those guards were dead, Deaton could open the gates to the other side, and the three could find and eliminate Toor Grin’dar, the individual they believed would be the greatest threat.

Deaton crept up to the wall, feeling the weight of the moment on his shoulders a shudder went through his body. In that moment, he experienced doubt, doubt of the plan, doubt of his part, doubt… With a deep breath, holding it briefly, he exhaled and said to himself “For Cyre, and what we will be.” Steeling himself with renewed confidence he noticed his window of opportunity, and up his rope went. Deaton followed shortly after, and over to the ground on the other side. Taking stock of his surroundings, he prepared his bow for what was to come. Taking aim, he fired the first volley of a skirmish that would change the future of his beloved Cyre. For an exhilarating, breathtaking moment, he thought he may have missed the mark. But then his quarry dropped. Shouting triumph in his head, he quickly stealthed to the other side and aimed for the next Guard in the tower. Second shot, second kill! Sprinting, heart thumping in his ears, he made his way to the tower of the first guard killed. Another deep breath, he unlatched the light, and spun it around. Silently to himself he said “your turn to play your part my brothers.” Down the ladder he went, up against the wall, and stealthed toward the gate where he would wait.


Waiting on the South wall, Amarack saw the flash of light. Was that the signal? He wondered, but it must be, clutching his bow in his left hand, he stealthed back to get a good view of the guard. Surprising even himself with how quiet he was, he reminded himself to thank Luc and Deaton for teaching him the ways of moving silent. As he looked up at the tower, the guard came withing sight. The divine words began, hand glowing as the power of the Host flowed out and washed over the guard. For a split second, Amarack felt similar fears that Deaton had experienced mere seconds before. But then the guard slumped, and with almost a shout of excitement, Amarack moved forward stowing his bow, and throwing his rope up the wall.


At the West wall, Luc saw the quick flash of light, and knew it was time. Knowing the radius of his Sleep spell, Luc cast from the wall inward. Hearing the guard “What the…” then quick movements, then the sound of a crumpled sack. His faithful Mage Hand appeared and began working its way to the latch at an attempt to open the gate.


Amarack fumbled the throw with rope, and cursed himself for not being more dextrous. But again, he threw the rope, and again, it missed the top of the wall. Realizing his window of opportunity, and Hold Person spell was rapidly fleeting. He began sprinting to the West wall, coiling the rope as he ran, planning to come through the front gate, or climb Luc’s rope.


Luc became frustrated with the Mage Hand, realizing that the gate’s mechanism too complicated for the simple Cantrip. He recalled it, and had it loop the rope over the top of the wall. Luc made his ascent quickly, ticking the time off in his head. Dropping down on the platform, he crouched over the sleeping guard and pulled his dagger to finish the deed. Off in the Compound the two roaming guards called out “Well, what do ye think ye’re doing? Thinking to taking a nap?” The blood drained out of his face, and for a moment, thought he’d been caught. But his wit came to his rescue as he said “Just a leg cramp, you want to come up and masssage it for me?” Seconds crept by as Luc waited for the response, the guard grunted and mumbled something like “whatever…” and turned walking away. Luc knelt down and drew a line across the throat of the sleeping guard.


Seconds ticked off in Amarack’s head along with the thumping of his heart as his legs pumped furiosly to carry him to the gate. Would he fail his brothers? NO! He almost shouted as he increased his pace rounding the corner and seeing the rope still hanging over the wall.


Luc stood up to see the South guard tower, but did not see the tell tale signs of Shield Amarack felling the guard. Realizing the time had not passed for Amarack’s spell to have worn off, and knowing they had to get to the mid-gate anyway, Luc slid down the ladder and ran for all he was worth knowing full well he would run into the roving compound guards on the way.


Amarack came to the rope, and climbed for all he was worth. Dropping down onto the guard tower platform as lightly as he could, he surveyed Luc’s handiwork. Fear and doubt swirled in his head as he considered the possibilities. No Luc, was he captured, or worse killed? For a brief moment, he considered that he failed his compatriots. He looked out on the compound, but did not see a prison camp, but a battlefield. A battlefield strewn with the bodies of his countrymen, smoke trails winding their way up to the heavens, moaning of the dead and dying, and crows. Always the damned crows, pecking, munching, eating away at the flesh of the corpses. All was lost…


Luc careened around the corner skidding to a halt as he came upon the compound guards, surprise on both their faces and realization on the guards as they came around to the fact that they were being invaded. Luc’s hands began his sleep spell again, he could not afford this confrontation as the South tower was waiting and time was ticking, ticking, ticking…


Amarack closed his eyes, he bowed his head calling on the Host for strength. Like the warm arms of a loving parent, he felt the warm embrace that his deity was with him again, coupled with the confidence to endure. Opening his eyes, the prison camp was once again a prison camp, and no alarms had been sounded. “It’s working, he whispered” as he leaped down losing himself in the moment, and in his exhiliration he found his feet leading him to the first prisoner barrack.


All appeared to be according to plan, as Deaton hid behind the building. Thinking on the heroes they were, and the accolades that were surely to come as they strode into New Cyre with the PoW’s in tow. He was startled out of his dreaming revelry to the sound of movement, he prepared himself and moved to the next building, but realized his error when he tripped on a rock and hit the wall of the building the guard had just entered. Leaning up against the wall, he heard the shutter of the window flicker open, light flooding down on him for a second, then shutting once again. Hurried steps walking to the door, then running across the guard side compound. All Deaton could say was “Oh shit, I fucked up!”


Luc quickly came up the ladder to find the next guard laying quietly, staring at him. Recognition seemed to flash in his eyes as Luc’s dagger came out, and slid across his throat, breaking the spell and the guard would have gasped but only a rush of air came out his throat as warm blood came forth and coated the platform with a shiny sheen in the moonlight. Luc wiped his blade on the dead guards beret, stowed his dagger and slid down the ladder to finish the sleeping compound guards. Out came his dagger, with almost a snickety snack sound, he dispatched these two without a second thought. It was then all hell broke loose…


“Drop your cocks and grab your socks troops! Do ya hear the peel of that bell? Aye, that means the Hammer of Cyre has come to Thrane, for your vacation time is over! The Crown of Cyre awaits you in New Cyre, and we have come to liberate you! Now get up! GET UP! By the grace of the Host, you are meant to be freed!” Whines of “What the hell are you thinking?” came from the roused prisoners. One came through to Amarack “Who in the Nine Hells are you?” Amarack snapped to and responded “I am Shield Amarack, servant of the Host, first Shield of the Ninth Legion and protector of New Cyre. We don’t have time for introductions, so get your sorry asses out of bed, grab a weapon and get out on that parade ground before I really lose my temper!”


Captain Tavrak had awakened from his slumber to relieve himself. On his way to the privy, he noticed a figure creeping creeping around, and sounded the alarm. Realizing that their plan would likely collapse, Amarack had burst into one of the prison barracks and began barking Cyran training commands, hoping to reach deep into the psyches of his countrymen and shake them from their docile attitude as POWs. Luc sought to eliminate any other threats from guards on that side of the camp, and searched a building for any other men.

Deaton decided that opening the gates from the Thrane side of the camp and entering the prison side made the most sense, and in moments he’d reunited with Luc. Amarack continued his attempts to rally the stunned prisoners, a few of which followed his orders and opened the door to another barracks building.

Within minutes the Thranes had deployed on the prison side of the camp, seeking to both quell the possibility of a riot by prisoners and flank the attackers.

Tavrak gathered several of his guards on the east end of the barracks complex while he tried to take stock of what was happening. Meanwhile, Amarack moved to the second building and repeated his shouts to get moving, that liberation was at hand. Luc and Deaton cleared the prison service building of the last guards, who put up a stout fight, and then Luc ran headlong into Toor Grin’dar, who’d made his way into the fray.

Deaton and Amarack found themselves outside the middle barracks, squared off against Captain Tavrak and one his his lieutenants. A crowd of prisoners grew at their backs, some armed with broken chairs and table legs, and mostly stilled stunned by the sudden change of events. The two Cyran warriors stood toe-to-toe with the Thranes and fought, with Amarack being knocked unconscious by the Thrane’s greatsword. Deaton, not the frontline fighter, fell back and called on his countrymen to get involved. Luc dashed out of the structure and melted into the crowd of prisoners. It wasn’t the immediate memory of Amarack’s commands, or Deaton’s encouragement, however, that spurred the unarmored and under-armed crowd into action. The foul words of Tavrak, who was probably the harshest of the entire camp staff, pushed aside the last reservations against action. “Get back to your bunks you curs! The Flame has taken care of you, and you’ve got no home to go home to. Your fathers turned your Cyre, your home into a smoking hole!” he shouted, spitting venom, and fully unhinged with rage. Toor Grin’dar could be heard in the distance saying “Whoa, hold on, let’s just settle down…” but it was too late. The powder keg had been lit as the crowd rushed him, and pushed him back between two buildings, toward the Thrane side of the facility. Seeing an opening, Luc dragged Amarack out of harm’s way and bound his wounds.

Luc, meanwhile, had made his way around another building and was able to see what was happening: the surviving Thranes – probably 5 or 6 of them – were retreating to their side of the facility. He watched as Tavrak sprinted through the double sets of gates as they were closed and locked. The Thranes were safe for the moment and now had full access to whatever other resources – human and otherwise – they had on the other side of the camp. The palisade between the two sides was stout, and there was only one platform accessible on this side facing the Thranes. Luc, based on days of observation, knew that there were around 20 other Thranes over there – technicians, workers, and others. And while they weren’t soldiers, they could be armed. Who knew what weapons or other equipment they might have stored over there?

Rushing back to his comrades Luc stated his mind: “we need to go…” Ideas swirled through their minds as they tried to take stock of what was happening, what resources they had at hand, and what they ought to do. A Cyran healer – an adept of Dol Dorn – provided Amarack with enough divine healing to get him upright – and then the discussion ensued.

There were about 40-some prisoners from the northern and middle buildings milling about, some armed with makeshift weapons, a precious few equipped with arms taken from fallen Thranes, and most looking stunned. Oddly, it seemed that no one from the southernmost of the three POW barracks was outside. In fact, the doors were still closed. The camp was dark, sound was quickly dying down, and precious time was slipping away.

One POW stepped forward and introduced himself as Lt. Bakkar. “Grin’dar won’t take this sitting down,” he stated. “Where’s the rest of your force?” he then asked, a combination of exhilarated and surprised.


Meta
It’s 1:15am, Friday. It took you three a day and a half, with some sleep on the way, to get to the camp. You’ve got two days, and little time in addition, to make it to the rendezvous point, now with 40+ others. Time is important, am I’m going to keep track of it.

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H-Hour on D-Day
it's time to right a wrong

Meta
You’ve done your recon; you’ve watched the camp; you’re prepared. What’s the plan? Take a look at the previous post and decide what you’re going to do. Discuss it here and set down as much of an outline or sequence as you can or want to. I’ll be ready on Friday.

Meta #2
Alright, you apes! Who wants to live forever? It’s time to saddle up and sally forth! Who’s with me?!

…in other words, we’re playing this Saturday night, not matter what.

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Covert Ops in Thrane
snoopin' 'round

It was a cloudy day that took a while to warm up. Fog hung heavy in the air until mid-morning, and it appeared that the quarry was full of mist for hours after dawn. A light breeze kept the temperature down, and it wasn’t until the sun poked through thick clouds at mid-day that the chill of the night fully disappeared. By mid-afternoon the clouds had asserted themselves over the sun again, and a light rain came, on and off, until the dinner bell, when work in stopped and the prisoners were marched back to the camp.

After watching the camp, quarry, and worksite for a few hours to get a sense of the ebb and flow of people and work, Amarack prepared for his daytime reconnaissance, standing in the shadows of the great forest as Luc weaved his invisibility spell around the cleric. Within an instant of the wizard completing his arcane mumblings and hand motions Amarackk faded from sight. “Remember, you’ve got an hour, and no more, and I can’t hide any sound you might make, so be careful,” Luc reminded as Amarack made for the open field between their forest camp and the western edge of the quarry.


That night, Deaton went through the same short process with Luc, and took off at a jog into the darkness, heading around the southern side of the quarry so as to examine the worksite some, and move around the southern side of the palisade. His would be the longest, in terms of distance, and so he would need to move quickly.


Early on Thursday morning, after Deaton had returned, provided his report and went to sleep, it was finally Luc’s turn. Casting his spell on himself he started toward the camp, searching for water and food sources, and any other information that might give them an idea as to how to formulate a rescue plan.


The clock was ticking louder than 24 hours before – they would need to be gone from this area, prisoners in tow, no later than Friday night, or at the latest some time before dawn on Saturday, if they had any hope of making it to the rendezvous point. Time was not on their side at this point.

Remember: Once you all read this and the secrets for each of you it will be Thursday, 8am. You are running out of time.

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Sentinel Peak
a quarry and a camp

Meta
You can download a map of the facility here, and I’ll email a copy to you, as well.

During the day the flags of the Silver Flame flies and Thrane fly from a tall pole on the Thrane side of the camp. The morning started off with what looked like prisoner role-call, with the men and women being mustered in the yard between their barracks and the wall that separates them from the Thrane side. A bald, bearded man addressed them and led them in morning prayers to the Flame – the response was muted, but they followed along. Several guards stood around the assembled group, but it didn’t look too strict – orderly, yes. Routine, yes. But it didn’t look like there were any beatings about to be meted out. The man addressed the 50 or 60-some people for about 10 minutes, wearing all black with silver ornaments and jewelry on him, but you couldn’t make out what he was saying.
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Once this was over the prisoners marched, in orderly fashion, toward the L-shaped building and filed by it, getting breakfast from what had to be a food line (which you couldn’t see due to the building & palisade). They milled around the buildings and yard, under watchful eyes, for another 10 minutes and then a bell rang, calling them to attention. They formed up in tight groups near the western gate and were then marched out in a two-column formation.

Most of the prisoners went directly to the quarry, which means you lost sight of them due to the angle from which you viewed the whole scene. About 1/3 of them headed to the yard south of the camp and could be seen getting animals and equipment ready. Some activity continued in the prison camp, with a small group of what looked like prisoners doing work details there and on the Thrane side.

Work is underway no more than 45 minutes after sunrise – not that hard-driving, but with what you saw, definitely orderly and routine.

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