Gord wasn’t surprised at being punished, nor was he particularly upset by the official’s harsh words. In fact, he was pleased at the result.

“Luck!” Gord thought. “I’m lucky for once!” For stealing as he had, Gord could have lost a hand. But the bailiff had ruled that all he had to do was work for a bit-and he’d be fed for it! Somehow, Gord reasoned, the powers above had seen him as fit and useful for something-no matter that his lot was to be a convicted criminal and workhouse slave. Gord was jubilant at the thought of being seen worthy of something, even penal servitude.

“With something in my belly, I’ll show them,” Gord thought. If only it had been as easy as that….

The workhouse was grim. It was a prison converted from its original use as a guard barracks, back when the city was smaller. It was centuries old; damp and must permeated the place, as did the stink of unwashed bodies. Lice and vermin thrived inside its walls, but prisoners did not. Sunlight scarcely entered so foul a structure-and if the prisoners were the dregs of Greyhawk, then the guards, to judge by their demeanor, were worse still. Fortunately for Gord, inmates were sorted by size and strength so as to assign suitable work to each group. Had he been thrown in with the larger and stronger prisoners, he wouldn’t have survived the bullying, sodomizing, and worse. As it was, put in a group of prisoners more or less his peers, Gord imagined that the denizens of the hells could learn a lesson from this place. He and his fellow sufferers were roused every morning at first light, given dirty water and a moldy crust of bread, then put to some back-breaking or painful task such as clearing narrow sewer drains or scrubbing acid vats. At least there was a brief march to the work area, which provided a short dose of sunlight and fresh air. The crew was worked for six hours, then given a half-hour to consume their main meal of the day-porridge or gruel containing rancid fat and bits of fortunately unidentifiable things.