Volcanic prison. Smug llamas. Dragon with a surprising soft spot.
Slogan: "Forged in Fire. Woven in Regret."
Motive: To reform the unruly through the art of llama husbandry, fine knitting, and relentless dragonly oversight — all while keeping Calad Bar fashionably warm.
Unofficial Mascot: A disgruntled llama wearing a tiny prisoner's striped scarf and giving a side-eye glance that says, 'You're next.'
The Llamatory is many things: prison, fashion house, volcano, bad idea — all knitted together with surprisingly high-quality yarn and the iron will of a bored dragon. Established as an alternative to traditional punitive justice, it trades in remorse, rehabilitation, and respectable knitwear. Those sentenced to serve time here aren’t breaking rocks — they’re shearing smug llamas and perfecting their purl stitch.
Some call it cruel. Some call it clever. The inmates mostly just call it loud.
At its lava-slick core, The Llamatory provides:
All goods are certified emotionally mended and inspected by at least one fireproof cultist.
The Llamatory exudes a unique ambience best described as “cosy apocalypse.” Inmates live among hissing vents, volcanic echoes, and kobold psalmody. The air carries hints of ash, wool, and scorched optimism.
Daily life includes spoon inspections, mandatory llama meditation, and Vraxilith's noon o'clock vocal stylings — which can cause minor seismic activity and major emotional damage.
Despite this, morale is curiously high. Or at least sedated.
The Llamatory sits proudly (and tremblingly) atop Mount Gorgonzal, a volcano on an island several regrettable leagues away from Calad Bar. Officially listed as “away enough to be someone else’s problem,” the island can only be reached by ferry, dragon-back, or extremely determined llama.
The volcano erupts on schedule every third Tuesday, which the staff refer to as Laundry Day. Prisoners are strictly forbidden from attempting to escape during eruptions, not because it’s dangerous — but because the wool shrinks.
Once feared across three planes and banned from polite society in seven languages, Vraxilith the Crimson earned his titles the traditional way: fire, looting, and a strong distaste for roofs.
His career highlights include:
But as hoarding grew dull and mass incineration became predictable, Vraxilith found himself yearning for something more… tactile. Something soft. Something smug.
And so, he turned to llamas.
Declaring them “the perfect blend of indifference and insulation,” he founded The Llamatory in a fit of post-tyrannical malaise. With help from a local cult of kobolds who believe his terrible singing is divine, he turned a bubbling volcano into a reformation centre for Calad Bar's wayward citizens.
Now, he watches over his flock — human and otherwise — with the loving wrath of a rehabilitated despot.
He has never, not once, burned a llama. Which is the most terrifying part of all.