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Felinros nods, "I can call upon the blessings of the Lucky Drunk to help us persevere. If this is truly a diabolical creature, we must take special care. Let us call upon him for blessings before we enter." With that, Felinros takes a large swig of whiskey and offers the same to the others in the party. He then begins his prayers.
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Zoltan's eyes light up at Felinros' suggestion. Well thank ya' padre! And with that the man took his own large swig out of the flask. Whoo! That always helps me focus, let's do this! The gladiator waited long enough for the priest to cast his spells, then walked in the door that Mathias had opened and the beast was heard.
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it's an imp
Zarta’s bedroom is decorated in the colors of Cheliax— ebon black and crimson red. Silk, rare woods, and carefully carved marble compose every bit of furniture in the room. Goose down now litters the room, covering almost every surface and the silken shreds of the cushions that contained it lie about like flayed skin . A post on the massive screened bed is snapped in half, collapsed on the bed and drawing the screened curtains into a ripped slope of formerly fine cloth. Vials of perfume and crystal jars of other cosmetics sit smashed on the marble floor around the dresser. A prominent fixture in the room, a large “X” made of stout wood sits along the west wall, complete with leather shackles and chains. A table sits to its left strewn with various items intended for pleasure, but outwardly resembling implements of pain.
The imp Kreuvus is enraged and totally out of control. The creature desperately wants inside the box and throws it around the room hoping to smash the thing open. Though dented, the case doesn’t look like it will be
opening anytime soon.
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If Felinros got his spells off already:
If not:
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Hey, you little pip-squeak! You want to try to sting people, come deal with me! Zoltan stretches his arms out and let loose a roar as veins popped in his arms and his eyes bulged. The gladiator then launched himself at the imp, attempting to grab the creature and twist it in half.
Grapple Attempt vs. Imp's CMD:
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After seeing his other companions bear trouble from the little devil, Mathias steps in to try and reason with it. "Kreuvus, I am Mathias Kelythis, Signifier in training; the powers that be would be most pleased if you simply hand over the box. The Paracountess would take it into great consideration for the damage you have caused to the room."
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The creature isn't aggressive any more though it doesn't seem like he will hand the box over without sone consideration. It also doesn't help that he is grappled either. Arjunta it is a silver dagger, I will make the roll for your damage later.
As it stands this round those grappling can either rip the box from him or those discussing my attempt further RP to calm him down.
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"Now, now, being bound to a high noble of Cheliax, you must have heard of the Hellknights, and as a initiate, I would rather die than break an agreement. I promise that if you return the box to my companions and I, it will be placed back into a vault to collect dust and not be used by 'tricksy wizrds' to bind more of your kind."
If the imp starts to relax, Mathias will turn to Arjunta, saying "I believe you can put that away, unless you'd like a token from the Paracountess."
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Yeah, the lil' pip-squeak is fine. But the bad news is that he let whatever prisoner ya had in there free. You know, whoever ya had chained up to that "X" in there. It was nice of ya to spend some of your money on a fancy jail cell, but the prisoner decided to split anyways. Just thought you should know.
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Zoltan's face took on a puzzled expression before the gladiator shook his head in confusion at the paracountess' comments. Either I'm not followin' or I'm not drunk enough yet. Grabbing Felinros' flask after the cleric takes a swig, Zoltan proceeds to throw back a chug of whiskey himself. Still not drunk enough...oh well. Handing back the flask with an appreciative nod, he says to the others; Yep, I agree let's hit the docks!
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The first task on the PCs’ list is to visit Guaril Karela, head of the Absalom-based Sczarni, at his curio shop — The Pickled Imp—in the seedy, harborside Docks district.
This creepy shop contains myriad odds and ends, most bereft of any discernible use. A number of malformed creatures and creature parts bob in jars on a long, prominent shelf, a tiny fetal devil centered in this macabre lineup. The shopkeeper, a greasy-haired Varisian with a thin mustache, shouts from behind the cluttered counter:
“Ah yes, I see the Pathfinders have arrived. I’m glad Ambrus was able to lend a few of his new recruits to help me. Please come in and let me tell you what I need.” Looking around as if to be absolutely certain no customers are browsing the aisles of knock-off Thuvian burial urns or
supposed Azlanti porcelain, he begins again.
“Well met. I am Guaril Karela. A friend of mine has a warehouse near here and he received a parcel on behalf of me and some of my associates, but there’s a problem. See, Master Gelbane had to leave town in a hurry and our shipment is still waiting at his warehouse.
Rumor is he ended up in trouble with the law and the place was seized. I heard tell from someone down at the docks that some creep was snooping around his warehouse just the other night, so I want to make sure nothing of mine was taken. He keeps all kinds of things, from beer to nails, in that old pelican, but every now and then he stores something really special. This is one of those cases.
“There’s a big crate marked with three crows arranged in a triangle. Inside that crate is a smaller container with a few books and papers in it. That’s the only parcel I’m interested in, and as far as I’m concerned, you can help yourself to the rest of the crate. Honestly, anything else you want in the place too. I’m sure the once things get sorted out, the city will seize most everything else anyway.
“My associates and I often work with the Pathfinders when it comes to special relics and documents, getting them in and out of ports and across borders where the authorities ask too many questions. Most people don’t realize what they have and frankly many don’t deserve to have it, so sometimes we help take the goods off their hands. If things work out well and you get this done, I’d be glad to talk with you more and help you out with any future endeavors, as long as you help me out too. I’m good at returning favors, trust me.”
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Zoltan nodded approvingly at Guaril, Good to see another Varisian around these parts! Thought it was just me and the padre here for a while. A favor for a favor, eh. That sounds like a good deal. Just get you the small crate in the big crate and we get to keep the rest. Gotta like the sound o' that! A big smile on his face, the gladiator looks ready to head out immediately to the docks to complete the errand.
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Perched on the end of a long pier fifteen feet above the water, the warehouse appears to struggle against its own roof, threatening to sag into the bay below. No light shines from the building’s windows and only the movement of gulls and pelicans stirs the scene.
Called pelican warehouses, these buildings perch at the end of piers,
allowing a ship to load and unload farther out from the busier docks.
Vanyeal he answers No, it is merely my property that has been delayed too long for my taste. So I need you go to fetch it.
Many of them either accommodate smaller vessels that are in a hurry or larger ships unable to find an open dock. Rare these days, most pelican warehouses lie in disrepair, withered from storms and salt, and every year it seems another one falls into the harbor. An increased tax on this type of property keeps many of the owners from rebuilding and some have even relinquished the titles to their small warehouses, allowing them to fall into the hands of squatters and smugglers—or into the bay itself.
Smugglers sometimes use small boats to slip under the warehouse, sawing a hole in the floor or prying boards in the night, and sneaking in to loot the place or just drop a crate into their boat from above and paddle away in the night.
The pier this pelican warehouse sits on stretches 100 feet from the boardwalk and the docks proper, and stands 15 feet above the water. The planks on the pier are sturdy but weathered. A few local fishermen and some kids sit scattered along the pier casting nets or bobbing lines into the waters below.
The building looks abandoned and in disrepair. The windows are dark and dirty and provide no view into the structure’s interior. A small boat bobs in the water below, tethered to the pier by a stout, salt-crusted rope. The warehouse’s heavy wooden front door is locked and the loading door is barred from the inside.