"I'm pretty good with traps as well. Why don't we both take point and see who finds the most traps?"
Firdall moves down the corridor, carefully looking for traps. When he gets to the doors, he stops to listen to see where the noise is coming from, and what it is saying.
"Sure." Wednesday says with a shrug to the young man. Keeping an eye out he follows his lead.
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Tolenn shrugs at the group'd decision to investigate Pilt's domicile, but she pauses on the way, looking up at the tall knife.
With a signal to Wednesday, the grabs one side and tips the offending instrument of death over onto its side, hopefully putting it out of commission.
She then spies the body of the Gnome. As the other walk towards Pilt's place, she quickly checks the Gnome's pockets, hoping to glean any other information on his origin or affiliations.
Then , she trots to catch up with Wednesday and their new companions...
No words need be exchanged when Tolenn signals to him, though not having given it much mind till now Wednesday promptly helps the Paladin topple the butchering tool.
When she goes over to investigate the charred remains of the Gnome he tilts his head but doesn't otherwise comment till she is back. "You recognize him from somewhere?"
Not one for trapfinding, Tiadora moves along, bow in hand as they explore the area.
Jabbyr the recently-deceased gnome bears no signs of identification that would indicate his place of origin. He is, of course, fairly unique with his tongue cut out and having only one eye, but how he ended up in this state or why he ended up in Korvosa is as mysterious as anything.
Tolenn can feel satisfied, however, that her shove sends the guillotine toppling off its platform - the splintering of wood indicating that at least one of its main supports has broken and probably jamming it.
Up at the front of the group entering Pilts's Palace, neither Firdall nor Wednesday find anything suspicious. However, they do notice a sickly odor coming from the door on the right as one enters the hall. It's a bit pungent - vinegary.
Otherwise, a quick peek will indicate that the hallway bends around before heading down toward ground level. The sounds of thumps and a voice seem to come from the area shaded in red on the map, same level as you are currently on.
"Well the thumping seems more interesting than the stink, so let's head there!"
Furiously checking for traps Firdall heads that way. And, (unless he finds a trap) opens the door.
Wednesday nods and follows in behind Firdall towards the sounds.
Hanging back enough to give her enough room to use her bow effectively, Tiadora follows.
When she goes over to investigate the charred remains of the Gnome he tilts his head but doesn't otherwise comment till she is back. "You recognize him from somewhere?"
Tolenn merely shrugs, "Curios, is all..." then joins the others in entering Pilt's house.
She follows Firdall closely, "Yes, let's..." she agrees to check on the noise further in...
The door is not secured by either lock or trap and, at first glance, the room beyond seems fairly mundane. Several barrels and crates sit against the walls. Stacked on some are many blank canvases and what appear to be ceramic containers. A stack of paintings leans against the eastern wall, stretched on wooden frames and partly covered with sheets.
The sound of the thumping is a little easier to hear from this location, but it is evident that it does not come from this chamber itself.
Tolenn merely shrugs, "Curios, is all..." then joins the others in entering Pilt's house.
Wednesday arches a brow before shrugging in agreement.
"You two know anything about Pilts employing a painter?" Wednesday asks the eager trapfinder and cautious archer as he looks over the storage room before heading over to the covered paintings.
"Hmm, either a secret door, or we have to go back and work our way around."
Firdall takes some time tapping on the wall,
But is apparently distracted by the paintings. He moves a few of the more interesting paintings and props them up for better viewing. Does he recognize any of them?
Firdall examines the wall to the right, but if there is a hidden portal to the room beyond, he cannot find it.
Meanwhile, the rest of the room seems to contain mostly painting supplies, including a fairly large amount of blue paints, in multiple shades. The paintings, 11 in all, incorporate themes of violence, darkness, scenes of pain, shadowy dragons, and despair - all in vivid colors, particularly blue hues. All are the typical subject matter of Salvatore Scream - and all in pristine condition.
"We should come back for these. For now, lets check the barrels and crates and then try the other way"
Firdall makes his way back to the original door, and opens it (unless someone closer decides to do it first)
Wednesday nods. "Could fetch a right place from a buyer... presuming you could find one in this plague and flame rotted city."
"Getting the paintings back into town might be an issue. The only place I can think of in Old Corvosa that might take them would be Palace Arkona. Assuming anyone in there is still alive, they would have the cash and maybe the interest. We'd probably need to find a cart or a wagon to haul them though. We should keep an eye out."
"A good invitation if we ever need to go deal with them.
Wednesday muses.
Opening the first door in the hallway allows the unpleasant air of the interior wash over the group of heroes. It's a foul, sickly sweet mix of vinegar and flower aromas. The smell likely comes from
the fourteen poorly preserved heads mounted on the walls of this grisly trophy hall. Most of the heads are human, although two are those of elves and one is from a dwarf with a beard roughly sheered off to match the cut to the neck. In the corner, a small, child-sized bed sits against the wall opposite a wooden table decorated with a magnificent set of silverware.
There is one more door in the wall directly opposite your entry.
Firdall gives the room a quick search.
Then a quick sweep with detect magic, scoops up the silverware, and then checks the door for traps and to see if it is locked.
Wednesday clucks his tongue as he see all the mounted heads. Following after the young man he rolls his eyes when he sees him start to loot the place.
Tolenn purses her lips at the sight of Pilt's trophies, "Barbaric! Fourteen victims of Pilt's arrogance. " she opines, shaking her head.
Curious, she moves over to examine the small bed...
"What in the nine hells?" Tiadora mutters, reconsidering going back outside and hunting down Pilts like an animal in the streets.
"Huh, guess we'll just have to make sure to kill him before he has a chance to beg for mercy next time, provided a rioter or loose roofing shingle doesn't do him in before then." Wednesday muses.
Firdall looks at the others in confusion.
"Wait, so you know that Pilts has this huge, specially made, head chopping machine, and someone to run it, and it comes as a surprise that he chopped off some heads?"
He thinks for a moment.
".. or are you surprised that it actually worked?"
Wednesday blinks then turns to Firdall. "It's the process AFTER the head chopping part. The stuffing and the mounting."
"Oh, well THAT's no surprise. Have you ever been to Exemplary Execrables?
The heads totally match his taste, and the smell and lack of quality of preservation fit him too.
"Oh, well THAT's no surprise. Have you ever been to Exemplary Execrables?”
”No.”
"I was once asked to work there as an actor on one of his plays, so I once dropped by to see a show and took in the museum while I was there.
The writing and acting were abysmal, and the whole place was cheap. I wondered how he could afford me, an it turns out he wanted me to replace 7 other actors by having me play all of the roles and pay me 5x what he was paying them.
But he had a museum that had the headchopper in it, and a display of "Two-Dozen-and-Three Severed Heads" along with a selection of other grotesque items. He even had a chalkboard counting the number of fingers lost by careless patrons to the chopper, and the number was up to 35.
So this is actually rather tame for him.
In the end it was all just so tacky and dreary, that I just couldn't see myself working there."
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”Careless patrons... right...” Wednesday muses. ”Whelp, luckily you chose the much more nobler path of absolutley anything else that you happen to be doing now.”
"Well of course nobility. .... That and the fact that even at five times his normal rate I wasn't willing to take the pay cut. Besides as much as I enjoy showing off, I wouldn't want to put so many other actors out of work. Us thespians have to stick together!"
Firdall stops and starts to examine one of the more striking severed heads in the absorbed way that Tiadora may remember from Vencarlo's loft....
Wednesday nods. ”Sounds like your lot needs a union. Or at least a guild. Andoran and Kaer Maga have em.”
As the banter continues,Tiadora focuses her attention on their surroundings.
"If you do go after Pilts after this. I have a great idea. I'll go in first like this and scare him towards you."
Firdall transforms into a rough approximation of one of the mounted heads.
"PILTS! I HAVE COME FOR MY REVENGE!"
”Hmm, that would require Pilts to recognize the victim, he doesn’t seem like the type to think much on who he had executed.” Wednesday comments, nonplussed.
Tiadora closes her eyes for a moment, pinching the bridge of her nose and taking a deep, slightly exaggerated breath. With a sigh she continues moving.
With the opening provided Wednesday follows in behind Tiadora.
The small bed has obviously seen frequent use and by someone not too keen on neatly making it in the mornings. The sheets have a bit of a body odor reek to them. There are a few objects of clothing mixed in with the sheets - all styled for a small adult and were, at one point, bright in color, now faded with years of washings. There is nothing else of obvious value in it or directly around it.
The table service is probably the most noteworthy element of value in the room. There is a nice set of silverware, enough for four settings plus servingware, that appears to be made of real silver. There is also a decanter that appears to be made of platinum and crystal on the table - filled with some form of liquid.
Firdall fails to find any form of trap on the other door, nor is it locked.
The room beyond the door seems to be an extravagantly decorated bedroom that could belong in the richest of noble villas or monarchs’ castles—at least, until one looks a little more closely at the sheets on the four-poster bed and notes how stained and frayed they are, or examines the tapestries and bed curtains and sees the patches of mold and threadbare edges. A tall, well-stocked bookcase to the south turns out to be leaning against the wall for support; the contents of its sagging shelves are poorly produced books with violent or erotic names on their mildewed spines. Everything is slightly musty, stained with age, and well beyond its prime. Only the three paintings hanging on the wall hold up to closer examination, but their grisly subject matter might make them difficult to show in most public venues. They do, however, fit right within Salvator Scream's style, though.
To the left, a simple wooden door is secured with a lock and a heavy wooden bar. A muffled voice can be heard from within, calling out, "Let me out! I don't want to die here!"
Taking in the faded opulence of the room with a note of disdain in her expression, Tiadora turns to train her bow on the barred door. "Somebody want to check that out?"
"On it," Wednesday replies as he makes his way over to the door to open it.
Changing back.
"Ohh me too."
Checking for traps
Assuming no traps
Unlock door
There is no sign of a trap nor any lock securing the door other than the bar, so there is little to stop Wednesday moving the bar and opening the door.
The smell of body odor and paint wafts out of the small chamber beyond the door. Standing there is a wreck of a man. His eyes are sunken and dark as if he hasn't slept well in a long time. His old and tattered clothing is spattered with paint. Bruises as well as insect bites mar his face.
He drops to his knees sobbing, "Please, please help me! I can't stay here. Please help me get away."
Behind him, the room is barely furnished with a mattress, a paint table, and an easel.
"... sure?" Wednesday offers as he steps aside to let the man out.
"Why if it isn't Salvatore Scream! Good to see you again, my man. While I can't say that we have come to rescue you, We certainly don't mind doing so now that we are here! The good news is that Pilts and his rabble have all been dispersed, so there is nothing to be afraid of."
After a brief pause Firdall suddenly looks around.
"Unless, of course, you know of something else we should all be afraid of. Other than the plague.. the evil, immortal queen.. the grey maidens... Sorry, I guess there is still a lot to be afraid of.
Anyway. What is your story? How did you get here? Where would you like to go?
Indeed it is Salvator Scream and Firdall's days associating with the the Korvosan arts community pays off. Though, it seems the reclusive artist has seen better days.
"Pilts is gone? Are you sure? He's really lost his mind this time. He keeps me here to paint, but I can't do it anymore! I was sure he was going to kill me! His men grabbed me a few days ago and brought me here. He said that I was going to paint for him and nobody else. But every painting I made just made him more angry. I kept telling him I can't do it anymore, but he wouldn't listen." Salvator's words come out in a torrent interspersed with sobs.
As far as paintings go, there is a nearly complete one on the easel behind Salvator - a scene of a village being attacked by immense fiends - definitely Salvator Scream-style subject matter. But there's something about it that doesn't have the same impact as the three paintings hanging in the outer chamber. All three of those are creepy enough to unease or cause a disturbed feeling in the pit of the stomach - but not the one nearing completion.
"You can't force art," Wednesday muses as he looks at the incomplete painting.
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"Oh,I forget my manners."
Firdall transforms into the face and outfit that Salvador would have known him by.
"It IS good to see you again.
Pilts is gone for now, his crowd dispersed, and it looked like most of his thugs were killed. But he is still alive somewhere.
Taking a look at the painting.
"I see what you mean. The technique is still there, but something is missing compared to your older works. Maybe you just need a change of atmosphere. .... Or perhaps it is time to evolve as an artist! Try different techniques, different subject materials, maybe even a different medium, and see if you can find your old, or even a new muse waiting for you! With your talent, there must be other ways to evoke emotion than horror."
"At the very least, there are some of your older works outside you can take with you once we are done searching the building. Do you have somewhere to go where you will be safe?"
”Yeah, I think it’s a safe bet that no longer being imprisoned will do wonders for one’s state of mind.”