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Torgil frowns at Skipper's explanation, clearly not following it all through. Scratching his head and looking puzzled, he says: "Well I suppose you might have a point." Turning back to the merchant, he points at him with his finger. "This better not be some kind of ploy to get us into trouble. We will be back, you hear?"
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"Of course, we wouldn't fight the upstanding members of Absalom's fine upstanding constabulary! Skipper promises breezily. "Unless they were corrupt, I suppose."
He nods at Azizi's words of the back door, and heads for the door of this shop, giving Karela a jaunty salute.
Perception as they go along to see if they are still being followed:
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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.
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.
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While Targ announces his presence to the world, Azizi carefully surveys the building, starting with the front door and working his way around. He will also stick his head over the side of the pier and check for anything beneath the pelican.
Could you yell a little more subtly please. I'm not used to doing this above ground.
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Torgil chuckles heartily at Azizi's discovery and his comments. "Worry not, my little friend" he booms. "You will find sooner or later that you are happy to have our 'preferred methods' at hand! Now, let's see what's inside..."
The big warrior readies his shield and opens the door to the warehouse, peeking inside.
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Darkness fills the warehouse, the ambient light from outside blocked by a filthy, oily film on the structure’s few windows. Darting illumination comes from light reflecting off the water through a splintered hole in the floor. Throughout the warehouse, crates, boxes, and barrels lean against each other in vaguely sorted stacks. A lingering smell indicates some of the contents are certainly spoiled.
Perched in the middle of the hole, teetering on split planks, sits a large crate stamped with three crows arranged in a triangle—the very crate the you have come to find. Handholds cut into the stout wooden crate ring the rim. Other barrels, boxes, and crates sit stacked along the walls of the warehouse. Just inside the door sits a handful of crates and kegs of beer. Most of these smaller crates and barrels contain foodstuffs in various states of freshness. Some crates reek of rot. Stacks of simple coffins sit against the east wall. The rest of the
crates stacked along the north and south walls contain simple sundries including, but not limited to beer, blocks of clay, coffee, coils of rope, dried fish, lead ingots, nails, nets, raw cotton, rough wool, spare sails, timber planks, various pulleys and tools, and cheap weapons.
A crane, used for loading and unloading boats, clings to a rail running the length of the warehouse, hanging 5 feet below the high ceiling, and can slide out to extend past the loading doors along the west wall.
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Targ looks up at the rail-mounted crane and shrugs. "We can probably figure it out. Slide the crane along this rail to above that box, tie off the rope, then heave on the trailing rope across those pulleys. Somebody will have to clamber out there and secure the crate, though. And I'm afraid that's not something I'm very good at."
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"Well, as far as the clambering part goes at least I'm envisioning having to actually stand on top of the box in order to secure it and having to possibly contend with the stilts breaking under our weight.
In which case I would guess either Skipper or I would would be the lightest among us. I'm certainly willing to try however...I must admit I am not particulary skilled at climbing."
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Skipper nods at Kazuo. "You or I would likely weight the least. Hey, I've always wondered-- is it true tengu have hollow bones?"
He studies the crate's precarious position. "I'm not the best climber either, I fear, but we should be able to make do. I'm more worried about not being a great swimmer-- if I topple down into the drink you might all lose my smiling face. Perhaps whether it's me or Kazuo on the crate, we could have a rope looped round our waist?"
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"Actually yes, because of that we are able to glide short distances. And if the stories are true, a rare few of us are able to grow real wings!
Clearly excited about the subject Kazuo prepares to launch into a lengthy discourse about mythical flying tengu , and perhaps only thanks to sheer luck sidesteps an attack from a giant rat.
"Erm, maybe we'll talk more later!"
Kazuo draws both his blades and slashes at the nearest one.
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"Now that is just fascinating," Skipper responds to his feathered colleague, casually notching an arrow and letting fly at one of the half-as-big-as-he-is rats.
"Halflings can glide too! One of my uncles managed ninety-four airborne feet with a couple of grocery sacks sewn to his sleeves and some Gnomish firecrackers for lift! That said--"
(Vwip goes an arrow)
"--you and your people probably do it more gracefully!"
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Torgil seems seriously annoyed by his obvious blunderings in combat so far. He feels ashamed in front of the rest of the party and, especially, in the eyes of his brutal God. Muttering something inaudible from between his teeth he hangs his axe back on his belt, shoulders his shield and turns to the task at hand.
"What was there supposed to be in that crate anyway? Do we risk ruining the merchandise if the crate falls to the water?" he asks, looking at the crate, then the crane and finally Skipper and Kazuo.