DDC04 The Borough

One you are well away from the Silvermarc Square confines, you stop to investigate your prize. Another shard of metal. Another note. Possibly slipped into the purse at some point earlier in the day. And finally, coin worth pocketing. 5 gold and 3 silver. Certainly wouldn't expect to find any coppers in this purse. You look at the new note.

At North Gate jail, where the lamplight fades,
Come late for guard with cross of blades.
He’ll take your coin and turn his head,
The caged young Basilisk speaks what’s said.

“Come late” implies timing (after 10pm).
“Guard with cross of blades” = clear physical identifier (the scar).
“Take your coin” = bribe.
“Caged young Basilisk” = who to visit.
“Speaks what’s said” = the Basilisk delivers the clue, but not too openly.
Well, there’s no mystery about your next destination. No cryptic verses or hidden meanings this time. Just three words: North Gate jail.
Not a place you’re in the habit of visiting—at least, not from the outside. You usually make a point of avoiding buildings with bars and bolts. But the path is clear now. You need to get inside.
And there’s little doubt about how. A bribe. Simple, direct, and as risky as ever. You’ll need to find the right guard, loosen their tongue—and their purse strings—just enough to grant a quiet word with the young Basilisk being held inside.

Understand meaning of "late"
Suzi roll Insight DC5 - success

And then there’s “Come late.” You know what that means—the witching hour. When the last bell tolls, when guards yawn and shifts change, and the streets grow quieter, but no less dangerous.
The sun has only just dipped below the rooftops, so your best move is to make your way toward the North Gate, locate the building, and bide your time somewhere nearby. A tavern would be ideal—somewhere inconspicuous, yet close enough to keep watch.
As you near the North Gate, the tone of the streets shifts. This is a military stronghold—boots on cobblestones, orders barked, and too many buildings with guarded doors. Any of them could be the jail. There’s no signage, of course. Just grim walls and the promise of silence behind them.
You scan for a more practical entry point—not to the jail, but to information.
The Bastion looms at the edge of the military quarter, its windows glowing with lamplight, voices spilling out with the warmth. Soldiers crowd the place—some laughing, others hunched over mugs, a few already glassy-eyed with drink. It’s rowdy, but not reckless. No one misbehaves this close to the barracks.
You slip inside, make your way to the bar, and lean in casually. “Got a cousin who’s been arrested,” you say with a feigned grimace. “Wanted to speak with him, but I’ve no idea where they’re keeping him. North Gate Jail?”
The barman—a stocky, no-nonsense type polishing tankards—snorts. “You won’t get in. No visitors. No windows either.” He jerks his thumb toward the front of the tavern. “It’s just over yonder. Right across the way.”
You offer a grateful nod and a quiet thanks, then glance around the tavern.
Beyond the uniforms and sword belts, there’s plenty of other action here—card games in the corners, a flute playing somewhere upstairs, and a few pairs disappearing up narrow staircases for more private amusements. Plenty of noise. Plenty of cover.
Just the place to wait for night to fall.

Spot scar faced guard
Suzi roll Perception DC15 - success

And then, you spot him.
A broad-shouldered guard holds court near the far end of the bar, drawing the attention of several others without saying much. He’s not drinking heavily like the rest—just nursing his ale, confident, composed. A faint scar crosses his cheek like a pair of sabres—a mark of rank or memory. Either way, your instincts whisper: This is the one.
You slide through the crowd, careful and calm, and lean close enough that only he hears you. “I’ve something that might interest you… if you’re willing to be of assistance.”
He stops mid-laugh, turns slowly to face you, eyes scanning you from boots to brow. Then, a grin—wide, amused, predatory. “My lucky night, is it? Let’s take this upstairs, see where the evening leads.” Before you can respond, his arm wraps around yours and he begins steering you toward the stairs.
Not exactly what you had in mind.
“Ah, wait—this isn’t that kind of offer,” you murmur, trying to slow the momentum.
The grin disappears. His tone hardens. “What do you mean? You whisper in my ear like that, get my hopes up, and now you backpedal?” You're now in the shadows by the stair, out of the crowd's gaze. He looms over you, temper flaring.
Thinking fast, you lift your hands in mock surrender. “It’s simpler than that. I’ve a cousin in the North Gate jail—I just want a word. Quietly. I thought…” You press a gold coin into his palm. “…you might be the kind of man who can look the other way.”
He glances at the coin, unimpressed. “One piece? That’s the price of a drink and a lie.”
You sigh and add a second. He just stares. The silence stretches. With a grimace, you pull out the rest—three more—and drop them into his hand.
Now he grins again. Different this time. Businesslike. “Be by the door once my shift starts. When you see my mate circle the back, come forward. I’ll let you in—but you’ve got minutes, no more. Linger, and you’ll be staying the night.”
Before you can respond, he turns on his heel, flashes one of the gold coins at a girl leaning against the bar, and calls out, “Jessie! Looks like you’re the lucky one tonight.” With laughter and flirtation trailing behind them, the two vanish up the stairs—leaving you with a plan, and five gold poorer.
You wait silently in the shadowed corner of a building near the North Gate Jail, the darkness deeper tonight with no moons to pierce it. The gloom wraps around you like a cloak, concealing all but your breath. From here, you have a clear view of the jail’s entrance, the flickering torchlight, and the changing of the watch.
Eventually, the guards from the earlier shift begin to stretch and shuffle away, relieved to call it a night. You spot your man—the scarred one—taking his place beside a fresh-faced companion. They exchange a few quiet words, and doubt starts to creep in. Was this all a setup? Did he take the gold and laugh you off the moment you walked away?
But then—the other guard starts his circuit around the rear of the jail.
Now.
You move fast, stepping out from the shadows. As you approach, the scarred guard opens the door without a word and mutters, “Two minutes. In and out. Any longer and you stay behind bars.”
No time to argue. You slip inside.
A single candle gutters near the far wall, throwing long shadows across bare stone and rusted bars. Three cramped cells line the corridor, each filled with huddled figures. You scan the faces—grimy, exhausted, anonymous. And realise: You don’t even know who you’re looking for.
You step toward the bars and whisper, “Psst! Over here!” No reaction.
“Damn it...” you mutter under your breath. Seconds ticking.
Then—red leather. A flash of familiar colour in the candlelight. “You! Over here—quickly!”
A small figure, maybe twelve or thirteen, steps forward. Dirt-smudged face, bare feet, and that red leather jacket— unmistakably a Basilisk. You slip a silver coin through the bars. “I believe you’ve got something for me.”
The boy nods, saying nothing. From inside his jacket, he carefully withdraws a small cloth-wrapped bundle, shielding it from the others. He passes it to you, then melts back into the crowd like smoke.
From outside, you hear your guard’s voice: “All good round the back, Bill?” “Yeah, nothing to report. All quiet here.”
Damn. Your exit window just slammed shut.
Inside the cell, the other prisoners are starting to eye you—confused, curious, maybe worse.
Thinking fast, you reach into your pouch and grab a fistful of copper coins—no time to count—and toss them through the bars. They clatter across the stone floor, and chaos erupts. Hands scramble. Voices shout.
The Basilisk boy, quick on the uptake, kicks a man scrabbling for coins and throws a punch at another. The two victims square off instantly, assuming it was the other who struck first. Shouts turn to shoves, and within moments, fists are flying. The noise spreads to the next cell. Screaming. Swearing. A rising tide of chaos.
The door bursts open.
“What the hell’s going on?!” “Shut it down! Now!” The two guards rush in, distracted, trying to break up the melee.
And you? You’re already slipping through the open door, silent as shadow, into the night.
The fourth prize secure in your hand.

Parent Plot

337-125 Dead Drop Challenge

Related Locations

• The Bastion, Tavern
• The Borough