Dalton crosses his arms, trying and failing to hide his disappointment that they aren't kicking down the door. "Where should we collect that information, Warshawski?" he asks.
"We need to set a limit. We could be looking for days upon days and we all know that it will keep adding variables to the mix the longer we puzzle it out."
The tone comes off as clinical and very matter of fact.
"If we're going to move, I'm ready."
He closes his book and stores it away.
The spell-slinger had a point. We couldn't wait too long. There's a difference between going in unprepared and negligence.
"We need information on each of the victims. Who they are. What they did. Any background. Honestly, this part of the job is more Bacarov's gig than mine. He's the one who tracks down serial killers. This is the same thing."
Captain Roslyn is clearly disappointed that the investigators intend to delay the proposed delve into the tunnels beneath the ruined shack, but with a sigh, nods in agreement. "Well, I've been canvassing everyone who lives in the area for hours. I can tell you as much as I know about this man Marshan who lived here, and the two vagrants who were killed."
In Summation:
-"Old Man Marshan," the owner of the shack, was a very private man who kept himself out of the way of the businesses of the Slipper Market. He had very few friends or visitors, and those who did come arrived after dark and left before dawn, and no one seems to have any idea who they might be. Some people around the area believe him to have been a retired adventurer who got rich enough off of raiding tombs to live comfortably enough. As previously mentioned, several books on history and astrology were recovered from his home.
-The two vagrants killed in the alley were locals. They moved from place to place every few weeks to avoid coming under fire from the Crows. They appear to be simple transients.
-The Crow officers killed by the creature were the first responders. Captain Roslyn will tolerate no suggestion that there was anything sinister about them, especially Commander Garus.
"Feel free to do some digging on your own," she says. "But I have to say this, having overheard you: don't trust Arlend Hyve. That man is a drug dealer who brainwashes young girls and forces them to run his poisons all over this city. If we had any solid proof, he'd be rotting in a prison... or swinging from the gallows. And Rupman Myre, the Middenstone baron? Don't get your hopes up about talking to him. He isn't fond of visitors." She snickers bitterly. "It's like you're putting together a 'worst of Carrion Hill' list, and you're determined to get mixed up with all of them."
"I'm going to take a team and poke around down there a bit while you're making your rounds. Chalk it up to impatience, but don't bother trying to talk me out of it. If it makes you feel any better, I'll be careful."
"I will volunteer to accompany your team and provide an extra set of eyes and ears on your preliminary investigation, Captain," says the monk. Anticipating protests (that may not actually arise) from his teammates, he raises a hand to stay them. "I'm rubbish at the sort of information gathering that Bacarov specializes in, Warshawski, and it may prove useful to us to see firsthand what's down there before any evidence is removed or tampered with. Time is a factor in this investigation, as you noted, and I am not afraid of the unknown."
Bacarov shakes his head. "No, Dalton. I'll have need of your skills in my endeavors here. It is of utmost importance you remain with us." He bows to the Captain then turns back to Dalton. Besides, I'll not be deprived of my resources because the fool Captain wishes to throw more more fodder into the meat chopper without learning from her previous commander's mistakes.
Bacarov watches as Roslyn leads her men away. "Good hunting, Captain." His eyes narrow for a moment as he studies them. Were your men and this Garus part of the problem? I wonder. At the least, you can be our rats in the maze to ferret out any dangers ahead...perhaps grant us further insight into this passage below...
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Dalton makes this face, but acquiesces with as much grace as he can muster. "If you really feel I'll be needed at your side, I will defer to your superior experience, Bacarov. Best of luck, Captain. We will join you as soon as we are able."
Haste. Unbelievable after everything she has seen she is not fazed. Did I look that way all those months ago? Surely I wasn't that obsessed with vengeance and the pursuit of truth?
He hears a tittering at the back of his head.
You nearly killed an old man, vengeance indeed.
"I'm not one to ask for books, but when you have a moment I would like to take a look at them." He fixes his hair and laughs a little to himself, "Not like we should be worried or anything."
"Captain, be wary, do not hesitate to run." His tone comes off very matter of fact. "Avenging a dead comrade won't be possible if you end up with him."
Things were going south. Fast. I reached out and touched the Captain's arm.
"Give us a few hours before you go down. Unless there's something we don't know, the sage is the one that was the likely target. A warrior knows not to go into battle without a sword in her hand and we need to find the sword. Give us three hours to look through the man's things and find what we can. Then we will all go down together. Please. I know you worry for your city and hunger for revenge but we need to do this together."
The Captain glares momentarily at Dramin's warnings, but relents after Warshawski's somewhat more diplomatic approach. With a sigh, she says: "Three hours. And then I'm going down there, with or without you."
- - - -
Passages of note in the volumes on history seem to correspond to dates of previous planetary alignments over Ustalav. Handwritten notes scribbled onto those pages seem to refer to page numbers in the books on astrology; cross-referencing those pages only confirms the connection.
- - - -
An hour later - outside Rupman's Vats, on the northern edge of the Filth:
It is hardly a charming locale.
Though some forty feet high, the "Vats" are a single story building, akin to a warehouse. It looms over the river's edge, a gloomy and unpleasant atmosphere looming over it. No signs on its exterior mark the place as closed for business, yet every door is locked, and shutters are pulled tight over the few windows. The walls and doors of the place are made of Middenstone with wooden framework; the sickly purplish color of the Middenstone only serves to make the place even more unsettling. Noxious smoke billows up from three chimneys, a sulfurous smell filling the air around the Vats.
"Great. Back to the blackness between the stars and all that jazz. The void that lies beyond and whatnot. Why do these gross tentacle wavin all powerful beings keep comin to our plane of existence, huh? If we are such mentally weak soft skinned snack nuggets in the greater cosmos why not go for somethin a bit more worthwhile to conquer ans consume? Heh, maybe we are just attractin the bottom links of the lessor chaos great chain of being."
Marsh looks up at the building.
"S%$#. F++~in sulphur again. Can't anyone be makin lavender soap when we bust in? I'll take a look around."
Marsh slinks off to check the area.
Dalton jerks the doors on the Vats back and forth a few times, rattling the locks holding them fast. "Blast. Not friendly to visitors, it seems. Yet the smokestacks clearly show that work is being done in there."
He glances left and right, looking for any alternative entrances. Finding none, he turns to Vinnie. "What should we do now? I don't have any lockpicks to get inside."
Rupman Myre is the "Baron of Middenstone," and he's got his greasy fingers in every criminal pie he can find. Bacarov brought us here to ask Rupman some questions. However, he's famously reclusive and hates visitors, so we're going to have to break in to speak with him, in all likelihood.
Marsh patrols around the building, noting its bland appearance and lack of windows, but finds nothing of note. It is eerily still, however.
Dramin looks upon the seemingly empty factory.
"So do we just... knock on the front door? It seemed to work for us in the past." He eyes Bacarov and gives Marsh a look. "Because I swear I may have heard someone yell inside there."
He eyes the smoke coming out.
Bacarov raises an eyebrow of clearly mock concern. "You arise trouble from the inside?" His hand moves to his satchel and withdraws his set of lock picks and moves towards one of the doors away from the group. "We should most definitely investigate..." He says the latter to himself.
Inky black smoke tendrils swirl from his shoulders and coalesce into a shadowed cloak, distorting Bacarov's outline. He pulls down the brim of his hat as his eyes glow a dark blue. He studies the lock and then the door as he tries to gain entry.
》Cloak of Darkness (+4 AC | +2 Stealth)
》Cast Guidance on myself
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While the boys went off to play with the criminals, I decided to focus my efforts on finding out what made the victim so special. Assuming he was the one killed on purpose, I made my way through the city to Marshan's house. Since I was on official business, I didn't worry about propriety. Some things might have gotten damaged so I could get inside.
Once in there, I started to look around. Something made this guy special. Was in blood? Was it occupation? Was in his date of birth? Something made this guy a bane to an immortal, invulnerable creature from beyond the veil. I had to find out why.
At Rupman's Vats...
Dramin is able to tell that the fumes coming out of the chimneys are quite toxic if breathed in directly. It appears to be smoke coming from the vats where the Middenstone is created- there is something organic to it, as if the remains of some creature are being processed inside.
Bacarov sneaks toward one of the doors and begins to work his picks. However, he is unable to unlock it on his first try.
- - - -
Back at the ruins of Marshan's home...
As Warshawski scouts the ruin of the mysterious old man's home again, Crows still patrolling about the area, she discovers a bit of evidence that it appears Carrion Hill's feather-cloaked defenders missed. In the ruins of what may have been the man's bedroom once, she finds a few more old books sandwiched underneath a fallen support strut. These volumes, though badly damaged by water and slime, are still somewhat readable. They are all very old, collected from all across Golarion, and deal with the nature of eldritch beasts not of this world- illustrations of horrors whose forms conform to no sense of anatomical logic fill the pages, as well as strange runes and excerpts from what reads like exotic poetry. Some of it is in Common or Elven, but much of it comes off like gibberish. Also of note is that several of these books appear to have been "borrowed" from the library in nearby Illmarsh. Warshawski has heard that that city has an extensive library that contains a number of rare and ancient books in its collection.
Among the pages are what appear to be the owner's handwritten notes. A familiar phrase is repeated among them: I hear the whispers. I know the way. The eerie spiraling symbol painted on the wall outside the ruined shack is repeated here as well.
Finally, Warshawski finds a small charcoal drawing tucked into the back of one of the leatherbound tomes, and the likeness upon it is unmistakable. It is the very same woman that has pulled at the puppet strings of every event since Ravenmoor- the dark-haired elven beauty known as Beliandral...
Unfortunately, all the spirits to be found in the nearby environs appear to be hopelessly mad; some of them chant strange phrases in a language that makes no sense, while others merely wail and hiss...
Dalton feels impatience beginning to tug at the corners of his mind; however, his monastic training allows him to suppress his irritation. In a calm, steady voice, he asks Bacarov, "What are we to do next? We can't very well interrogate someone who won't let us in to see him."
"We could always bust down the door." He looks up at the smoke billowing out of the roof. "Whatever is in there that is burning, its definitely not iron or coal. I would hate to say its flesh, but I've been in a abattoir before, and despite all of what we've seen, I'm really hoping that it is."
He stifles a retching impulse from his stomach, the ideas of what could be burning filling him with a nausea that is almost unfathomable.
"Probably some cult s~!~ goin on inside. Summoning the overlord or some s+*&."
"Damn it Sebastian I am tired of watching those things you call fingers trying to open that lock. Lookin like a damn horse tryin to open a soaped up jar of peanut butter with his hind legs."
Marsh pulls out his own lock picks.
"Here like this."
"Boom, just like that . . . and we are in ladies."
Marsh unlocks the side door to the building. The air in this room is hot, humid, and foul-smelling. A mix of acrid chemicals, burning refuse, and bitter smoke taints the air. The room itself is cavernous, with a forty-foot-high ceiling supported by a tangle of wooden beams and walkways. A large square table covered with bricks and tools sits in the center of the room, and a network of chains, ropes, and pulleys runs through the timbers above. Two flights of stairs lead up to the north to a long room filled with fumes and wisps of smoke.
A number of odd-looking purplish roaches, like those seen in the slums earlier, skitter along the walls and floors. Glancing about, the group sees stairs that lead upward onto a higher landing, and through the doorways there the movement of workers can be glimpsed.
If it serves the greater good of Abadar in this fetid city, I'll interrogate whomever I choose, heathen warrior."
Bacarov sniffs slightly at the stink in the air. Then he whispers to the others. "Marsh and I will check the landing, see just what it is these workers are up to. Dramin, Dalton, check down here. Stay hidden, observe, then we return to this door in short order to make our exit."
Mass of swirling shadows draped over him, Bacarov heads up the stairs towards one of the doorways to get a look at the workers.
60 ft, DV
observation deck.
Eight workers man the vats here, whether on the sludge-covered floor or on the walkways above. They all move slowly but deliberately, and seem well-accustomed to the stench. Those in the pit appear to move from cauldron to cauldron stirring their contents with heavy iron rods, while the ones on top either man the furnaces or working the pumps that likely keep hot water circulating through the pipes. These men seem pale and unhealthy, but then again, that does seem to be a running theme here in Carrion Hill... and all over Ustalav.
Bacarov looks back to Marsh and directs him to wrap his mouth and nose, even as he does so himself by using his black and blue scarf.
His sky-blue eyes darken as he scans the area for magical auras, taking his time from his hiding spot, maintaining his balance.
balance
Dalton keeps his eyes on the purplish roaches that infest this place. Wrinkling his nose in disgust, his hand falls to the hilt of his temple sword as he investigates the lower level as ordered. He doesn't draw the blade yet, but he's fully aware of the possibility that the now-docile creatures might decide to try and take a bite out of him.
He doesn't move too far away from where they came in, either. Taking care to avoid any of the workers, he glances around to try and see where all this raw material is being shipped to...
Marsh follows along with Sebastian.
Dramin looks about for a hiding place. He doesn't know the best way, but he knows a way. Time.
Before his party departs he casts a quick Message on them, linking them up again.
"Be careful, we are treading dangerous ground here. We have one hour." He looks at the sky, "I know if I say three, something will happen."
From where he stands, Bacarov does not detect any magical auras. Nor does Marsh; however, both do notice the strangely stiff and methodical movements of the workers, who almost seem to be in a trance. There are eight of them in total.
You also observe that at the very far end of the vats, there is a steep staircase that leads up to some sort of raised observation platform. A thick leather curtain hangs over the balcony, likely to protect it from the worst of the stench from below, but it hangs slightly open at its center; someone could easily watch the movements in the room below from there. It is impossible to tell, however, if there is anyone there now.
Do I see where all this raw material that is producing the stench is being shipped to? Where does the production line culminate?
Bacarov leans over to Marsh's ear and whispers, "No magic here that I can tell, but the workers have a dodgy quality I don't like." He studies them for a moment. "Do you recall the Mesmerist? The one they called Baron Flagstaff who had used Dream Dust and his voice. He had a show in Lowcleft at the Courtesan & Unicorn. These workers move around like they've been hypnotized...or given a powerful narcotic. In either case, automatons make for durable fodder. Should we be discovered, they and their master could prove to be troublesome adversaries."
He waits to hear Vinnie's observations before gesturing back the way they'd arrived. Then he looks back to the walkway over the vats. "Or we continue."
If these are automatons, the method of their memorization could prove useful in dealing with the zealous Crow captain and her troops...calm investigators are better.
Dramin looks uneasy. Sitting around here with his thoughts and the quiet monk doesn't help. He wonders what choices were the ones that brought him here, he wonders why he pursued such a path all that time ago.
He knows that he needs to keep busy or else the voice might chime in. And he knows when it does its never any good.
When he hears Bacarov's talk about the automatons and the workers, he feels as if his prayers were answered.
"We've seen drugs before that have done such a thing. Heck we have seen zealots do the same without the burden of drugs."
He takes a deep breath. "I don't like the feeling of this place at all."
You get the impression that most of the Middenstone being produced here is only used here in Carrion Hill.
"Are these f&%$in zombies or somethin? But yeah, we came here so we can keep goin, or we can go back outside an ring the doorbell, your choice."
"That's a relief at least," the monk mutters to himself as he sees that it's only for local distribution and production.
The monk stays near the door and looks up to the upper level where his friends went. If he can see them, he moves to join them - if he has lost track of where they are, he'll stay put near the exit door and make sure it doesn't get locked behind us.
Bacarov nods to continue forward and leads the way.
Current Stealth 27
Acrobatics 20
As the group stealthily moves forward into the work area, shielding their faces from the terrible stench, they are able to see what is being dumped into the vats to produce the Middenstone- none other than whole bucketloads of those same strange roaches that have been seen all over Carrion Hill... Midden Bugs, some call them. Others know them as carrion roaches. It seems whatever strange process is being used here to produce Middenstone revolves around crushing these bugs en masse and combining their remains with various chemical compounds.
More surprising- and alarming- than this are the workers themselves. Their skin is thin and stretched tight across their skulls, and their lips and eyelids seem rotted away. For all intents and purpsoses, they appear to be undead...
"So are we doing this?" Dramin quietly waits. "I do wonder what sort of magic could be causing this, though I doubt its the proprietor of this place."
You wonder if its my handiwork don't you? He ignores it and moves on.
"We are ending up with more and more questions at each turn."
He takes in the stench through his scarf. "And whatever they're making, I don't think its any good."
Dramin eyes the workers at a distance. His knowledge of how to perform necromancy isn't that strong, but he knows enough about the dangers that one should study it.
"This is...unsettling, but does it tell us anything about the lurking threat of the creature beneath the ruined house?" Dalton asks the group quietly, not taking his eyes off the undead workers ahead. "A group of zombified workers like this could work tirelessly for as long as was necessary. I see the practicality of it, but it doesn't get us any closer to interrogating this place's owner."
"No but it does tell us that there is some magic here at work; and either this Rupman is a powerful arcanist or he is getting some help."
He ponders a moment.
"But you're correct, we won't know unless we press on."
- - - -
As the party begins to make their way closer to the vats, a high-pitched, primal shriek of what sounds like fear cuts through the sounds of the machines and the shuffling of the zombified workers. The thick leather curtain that hangs over the raised platform on the far end yanks open, and a strangely-dressed man with dark skin and a hunched posture leans over the railing. Thick dreadlocks hang almost to the man's knees, and a gnarled quarterstaff is gripped in one of his hands. Charms and talismans dangle from around his neck and wrists and from his belt, and the hood of his dingy cloak is pulled up far enough to shade his eyes. "Who goes there!?" he shouts in a slight Mwangi accent. "You got no business here! You trespassin' on private property! You take another step and I'll see you all hang!" He looks around nervously, his braided beard slinging about- it almost seems, angry as he is, that he is relieved that it is "only" a few investigators invading his factory, and not something worse. "You turn around and walk out now, and maybe I'll not call Mayor Heggry and have you all thrown out into the river!"
The workers all stop what they are doing and turn to face the party, snarling angrily. Despite their master's hesitation, they almost seem eager to fight.
A nervous fool able to create the undead? And he calls down the mayor's name like some talisman... What forms of devilry are allowed in this city? Have I been away so long from this land that these practices go unpunished?
Bacarov stands slowly, left hand coming up just as slow, his right keeping his spear pointed away. "You summon up the mayor's name as a bulwark against harm...sir." Bacarov chokes down the bile creeping up his throat.
Death is the only thing that would balance the scales against the abominations seemingly under his control. Abadar would not suffer this fool for long.
But he was not sure of the others. Vincent would back his move here...Dalton is just as disgusted...but what would Dramin do?
He decides on a different tactic and slowly uses his left hand to withdraw the writ from his satchel. "We are new to the city, but not new to the mayor's acquaintance. He suggested your name as a source of information." He holds up the writ. "We seek to thwart what is terrorizing the people near Slipper Market. The Mayor says you are the most knowledgeable of the tunnels and darkened highways that run under the city. It is from there this adversary emerges. When we arrived, one of my comrades arose distress from within, hence our unannounced entrance."
He pauses a moment and looks intently at the nervous heretic. "The mayor and the captain Roslyn know we've come here seeking aid. Will you not help us?"
Over his shoulder he makes a soothing gesture to his comrades. He makes a crossed finger gesture to Marsh. Their signal for be ready .
Dalton keeps his hand resting, very lightly, on the hilt of his temple sword. His eyes narrow as the zombified workers begin to snarl and flex their claws in his direction. With his heightened sense of self-awareness, the monk can feel his adrenal glands beginning to "spin up" and fill his mind with adrenaline and cortisol. A bead of sweat forms on his temple and his lips press together to form a thin line as he braces himself for combat, but he doesn't move. Any sudden movements could completely ruin Bacarov's attempt at diplomacy. The tension in the air is thick, but he won't cut it with his sword just yet.
Dramin listens intently to Bacarov's little speech and just simply watches the zombies. Despite the necromancy afoot, he does what he can to avoid the eyesight of Rupman and faces the creatures on the floor.
I would love to get a chance to dissect one of these, but I feel the price of admission may be too high.
He thinks back on Warshawski, and is glad she isn't here to see these abominations. I don't doubt she would do something rash here... but this can get us leverage with the Pharasmans if we need help later...
The young wizard continues to listen and has his hands at the ready. His defensive magics aren't up, and he knows it would require him to be ever alert and ready to move at the first flash of insight from beyond.
The man at the top of the stairs pauses for a while, examining the group cautiously. Bacarov's words seem to have given him pause. "...You wish to know of what dwells within the tunnels, do you? Roaches. Trillions and trillions of them. They are this city's finest natural resource, of course. With them, Middenstone is made- and no one makes it like I do. Most of Carrion Hill is built with it. Cheap. Malleable. Easy to work with. But something tells me this horror you seek... it is no roach."
"My catchers speak of darkfolk and ghouls that lurk in the shadowy places beneath the hill. Strange places of beauty and wonder and danger. Not that- not that I would know. I have no heart for adventuring. But I do hear of a special place beneath down in the tunnels... a place where strange trees- strange plants- grow without sunlight. I know nothing more than this- If such a horror as you say really does exist, that is where it must come from. Now, you should take me from this place- take me to the Mayor. I am key to the financial stability of this city. I must be protected!"
Dalton focus is squarely fixated on the potential ghoul threat ahead of them, as it seems that Rupman's control over them is not the strongest. He feels uncertain and mistrustful of this man's intentions, but he can't exactly say why.