A [Rogue], a [Swordsman], and a [Mage] sit at a table in a tavern.

Absorbed.

Oblivious to the carousing, fighting, drinking, and general goings-on around them, a single-minded devotion to the task at hand.

The midnight oil burned low, and at the table they remained. Still focused.

Still planning.

The plans started loose. Most plans do. A few vague ideas piled up and hammered down until something real started to take shape.

The [Rogue] was the only member of the troika with any experience in theft. Not real experience, mind you, but experience still. Part of the requirements for completing her [Rogue] training had involved skill demonstrations. Picking pockets, locks, and stealth.

She had known her entire life she wanted to be an adventurer, though, so the training had been more perfunctory than functional. With some help and a little magic, she was pretty sure this was doable.

The [Mage] had been raised by [Hunters], then trained by a famous – if reclusive – practitioner of magic for a few years. His goal was to become an [Enchanter], and he was well on his way. He just had trouble getting the enchantments to stick for longer than a few days.

He was pretty confident this plan was going to end in imprisonment. To be fair, he had never dealt with any strategy more complex than a game of chess.

The [Swordsman] had been born a [Lord], and a poor one at that. It was by a stroke of luck, though, that he even got the [Lord] class. Most of his family – brothers, sisters, and cousins – had been stuck with weaker classes. [Barons] and [Baronesses], mostly, as far removed from the actual line of succession as they were.

So his parents and aunts and uncles all humored his whims, paid for tutors and lessons, bought him gifts and toys. Whatever the little [Lord] needed to ensure he grew into the man they knew he could become. Strong and influential, claiming a place at court and protecting the family’s relevance.

The Alderburn name alone meant little if you failed to contribute your share to the family coffer.

His instruction had been thorough, and while he had not been fond of the strategy lessons, some of it had certainly sunk in. He knew they had a pretty good shot at freeing his family with this plan, and he knew it would give him the reputation he needed. Probably a spot at court, too.

Deep down, he hoped that something would go wrong.

-

The castle was the second largest building in the city. The druids’ sprawling temple that was as much a living garden as a structure was the largest, taking up a full quarter of the city on its own. Like about half of the city, most of the building was actually grown from the trees. Knothole windows the size of a person and great arched doorways leading to balconies ringed in elegantly woven, living railings. Branches dense with leaves sprouted in clumps along the structure as well as covering the vaulted roof overhead. Hewn timber and rough stone formed the man-made portions of the complex, a grand entrance hall and the guards’ barracks.

A river flowed through and around the massive tree that made up the majority of the castle, wide and fast. A massive gateway, large enough for a Giant to pass through, was covered by a bizarre, flowery portcullis. Vines of various species clung to a thin wooden frame, the tangled net of flowering plants offering scant views through to the courtyard beyond.

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And then a [Guard] near the river called out to another on the castle’s riverbank, and the portcullis – no, drawbridge – began an abrupt decent, it’s first jarring drop shaking loose a mass of nesting birds and a variety of butterflies.

Picturesque, until with an alarming thud you could feel in your chest, the bridge crashed to the opposite bank, yet another chirping mass of birds bursting from every seam like feathers from an overstuffed pillow.

Across the bridge, and past the first several layers of dispassionate security armed with clipboards and truth spells, the massive gate opens into a majestic courtyard.

A beautiful and expertly manicured… Forest?

Smaller, here. And less dense.

But a forest. A smaller, lazier branch of the much busier river ran through here, a few small bridges offering passage along its surprising length. And high above, much like the drawbridge outside, a myriad of flowering vines trellised their way across the open space, forming a porous roof over the whole space.

One might wonder why a castle’s courtyard, least of all one occupied by a forest, would need a roof.

And one would be interrupted by an awful shriek that was so piercing you would consider ear damage a blessing.

And a creature would crest the trees after an earth-shaking take-off, a single flap of the broad wings sending it the rest of the way to the canopy above. Claws six inches long tipped each toe, and powerful hind legs dug in.

A cascade of multicolored blooms floated down around the creature, feline paws snapping at a few before its beaked mouth unleashed another screech more piercing than a toothpick to the eardrum.

Distinctly owlish in the face, it had large tufts of feathers where it’s ears would be, a large and viciously hooked beak preening at feathers and fur. It’s body was that of a mountain lion, lithe and full of sinewy muscle. Wings tucked away along its forelegs and its tail ended in a large swathe of feathers.

More screeching and the ground shook. An entire flock of the owlcats burst from the trees and took off, flying after the first. They all roosted there, hanging from the ceiling and nipping at one another. They were strix, owls twisted and altered by the natural magic that permeated the forest until they became bloodthirsty beasts. Feared as one of the most terrifying creatures on the continent, the Alderburn family had tamed them as guardians generations prior.

Through the courtyard and into the castle proper, you come into the main hall, home to the Stairs. Wide enough to march an army up, the broad and sweeping staircase spiraled from the apex of the castle down to the dungeons. It made up the main thoroughfare in the castle as well, the Stairs connecting each area together.

The dungeons sat deep under the castle, nestled into the roots of the system that fed the complex. Grown from the tree itself, the cells were naturally resistant to magic and most physical attacks. The further into its depths, the more oppressive the security.

Anti-magic and anti-skill sigils etched into the cells suppressed any class-based superpowers or magical abilities, deeper cells even having paralysis or sleep sigils to keep their occupants permanently contained.

There were, of course, many creative and extensive tools of torture and coercion, but in the case of Castle Bastow, they were more decorative than useful. Leftover relics from a harsher time, now providing excellent ambiance for the dungeon’s current residents.

[Guards] patrolled at meticulously planned times, their rounds keeping the halls regularly covered like clockwork. The cells didn’t have any conveniently jingly keys hanging from conspicuously-placed key rings that could be lifted with ease, each cell had a unique invocation that would cause the branches covering the entrance to open or close and the sigils to activate.

The [Head Guard] in charge of the prison, a lazy man who had standing-napped his way up through the ranks by dint of never once leaving his post during a single shift, was expected to keep each spell memorized in order to issue them to a [Guard] once a prisoner or prisoners were assigned to it. He had given it his best shot, but the listing for the job hadn’t included “rote memorization”, at least not as far as he could remember, so he had a convenient slip of paper with each incantation written down. Neatly tucked into an inner pocket of his shirt, kept company by pawn slips and a mostly crumpled paper packet of cigarettes.

A slightly bent specimen was currently burning merrily away, tucked into a corner of the frown the stubble studded face was drawn into. A cramped office with a small desk, a few chairs.

Piles of paperwork, loosely-sorted sheaves stacked feet-deep in places. Never more than three or four feet deep, though. That would be far too close to eye level.

The [Head Guard] was trying to avoid making eye contact with the paperwork lately. The constant reminder of the Sisyphean task that was administration around here was bad enough, it had started to feel like the stacks were looking back at him.

The cherry on his cigarette reached his lip, and he jumped, hastily pulling it out and dropping it into a coffee mug with a hiss. Absentmindedly, another smoke found its way into his mouth, and he regarded the report on his desk. Three people had attempted to sneak into the dungeon through the “secret passage” that led to the basement of an inn nearby.

Unfortunately for the trio, that particular passageway was well known amongst the castle’s guards. Tradition meant every newbie got blindfolded, kidnapped, and smuggled to the inn where the party starts.

It also meant that most of his staff could make their way through the tunnel with their eyes closed and hands tied.

The fifteen or so guards that found them had been on their way to an after-shift drink.

Now, only slightly worse for wear, the three had been unceremoniously tossed into a cell and left to stew there for a while.

That had been a few hours ago.

But there was no hurry. A long, slow drag. The [Head Guard] leaned far back in his chair, exhaling slowly through his nose. He kicked his feet up onto the only clear portion of his desk, put his arms behind his head.

And fell asleep.