First there are the classes.
Aram Zey and his infamous scowl, screw that guy.
Then there are the lab exercises.
Are we ever actually going to use any of this in the real world?
Then there are the lectures.
That Kreighton Shaine guy... wow, what a nut!
After all of that, FINALLY there is some practical work. It's not a confirmation, but for once a select few of the Agents-In-Training get to venture out to the streets of Absalom.
We join our intrepid heros-in-training as they wait outside of the ever infamous Ambrus Valsin's office. Valsin, of Grand Lodge Venture Captain fame. Word on the street is that him and Aram Zey have epic staredown competitions peppered with snarky remarks that would make the faintest of hearts wither. That word may or may not be accurate, but that is the nature of the word on the street. Take it with a grain of salt.
The sun is streaming in through large windows, and a tray of glasses along with a caraf of water sits, water condensing on the outside in the early morning sunlight as six new recruits wait patiently (or impatiently as it may be) to be called before the venture captain himself.
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"H-h-hi everyone..." says Bugdip nervously, "Ummm... is he normally this late? I've heard he was quite punctual. I wonder what he smells like... I mean tastes like... I mean... oh, dear." The grippli who smells faintly of puréed dragonflies nervously licks his eyeballs.
I wonder if Fine-air-inn was ever this nervous... no, of course he wasn't!
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"Glasses with water. Everyone stand back. I got this one." The average height gnome, ressed in bright reds and blues peeking out from his yellow-orange overalls, moves swiftly to the tray of drinks.
"IWonder ifthey are special magical," he begins to slow his talking down, "potions, or if they are in fact, just glasses of cold water. Fear not, for I will check them out for you. Please, a bitofroomsothat I can perform my magics."
Closing his eyes, uttering arcane words, and performing elaborate hand gestures, Nugats begins spell casting.
He quickly opens his eyes to find nothing glowing with a magical aura.
"Hmmm, no magic. Maybe the are some strange alchemical creation."
He picks up each glass, lifts it up high, swirls the liquid around in the glass, sniffs it, then takes a small sip from each glass. He swishes the water form one check to the other cheek, then gargling, before swallowing.
"Nope. Guess it is just plainold water. Phew! Lucky that. If it was poison or magical, not sure what we would have done."
Sitting down next to Bugdip, he has a glass in each hand. "Hello. Name is BLOGUANRNUGATSOFARMUNGEN. People have told me it is a bit of a mouthful. You seem to have quite the tongue so not sure of it too much for you or not. Most call me Nugats. Well met. Want some water. Itisnot magical or alchemical so I think it is safetodrink." he ends in a flourish.
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”A new play? Wonderful, it has been too long since the last one. But who are these actors? They don’t seem familiar. Have we recruited new ones”. Tybain approaches the other assembled actors, saluting them with his most gracious bow. “I am Tybain, you must have already heard of my performance in the Six Trials. Pleasure to meet you all, I look forward to working with you all.” He swiftly proceeds to shake hands with everyone, but stops in front of the smaller ones. “How remarkable makeup! It is almost impossible to see the man behind the mask”, he praises and feels the edges on the short man’s mask with his free hand.
In reality, a man wearing a worn faux-chelish parade suit and a full-face mask stands up from his chair. He gives the others an unnaturally deep bow, his head touching his knees in the motion. Effortlessly the man gets back upright, and makes … a sound.
…
It sounds like somewhere between a hiss and a sigh, long a scratchy breath from burned lungs. And suddenly the man moves appears next to Nugats. The movement between with two positions was at the same time lithe and oddly spastic, combining a graceful ballet dancer and a paraplegic. And now he stands next to the gnome, offering his hand. The gesture could be understood for offer to shake hands, if not for the Scizore fixed on his arm. Tybain stands still for a moment, the blade pointed toward Nugats, and raspy breathing sounding behind his mask.
And soon he does the same with Bugdip. But this time the man is not just standing still, he is leaning uncomfortably close to the grippli and whispering meaningless sounds while his left hand is pinching Bugdip’s neck.
After an uncomfortably long time outside Venture Captain Ambrus Valsin’s office, the large, heavy oaken door swings open. The gathered pathfinders can see the back of the man as he walks back to his desk, his hands holding a stack of papers that he is flipping through.
”Sit.” He says curtly, pointing to a line of chairs across from his desk without looking up from the papers he is intently studying.
The office is Spartan in design. And by Spartan, I mean simple, efficient, and lacking of flair. A heavy desk does the work of holding up the Venture Captain as he leans against it, upon which are several neatly ordered stacks of paper. A simple, rod iron stand holds the nearly disappeared remains of a heavily used source of light in one corner of the work surface, while a neat line of writing utensils lines the other side. Shelves and filing cabinets cover one wall while a simple, grey-colored rug in the center of the room helps to absorb some of the sound. A mannequin stands in the corner behind the door, holding a set of dusty, though resplendent looking armor. It seems as though one who is in charge of the daily operations of the Grand Lodge rarely gets an opportunity to go outside her walls anymore. Perhaps the janitor has been lacking in his cleaning duties as well…
The pathfinders wait in silence, wondering if the VC has forgotten about them. All at once, Valsin drops the stack of papers onto the desktop with a thud, and arranges them neatly in their designated place. He walks to a file cabinet, opens the second drawer from the top, and pulls out a folder after a few seconds thumbing through its contents. Turning around on his heel, he briskly walks to the front of the group and hands out an envelope one by one to the pathfinders. The stern look he gives each of them as he does makes them think that they should open it now, though simultaneously making them think that if they do they will be reprimanded for it.
“All right, Pathfinders! Listen up. I know you are new recruits eager to make names for yourselves in the organization, but first we need to make sure you are up to snuff and won’t get yourself killed out there. I have a number of small assignments for you and your team, and it would be best if you could finish them before the day’s end.
“Every day we get some doe-eyed hopeful or some sniveling bootlicker willing to do anything to join up with the Pathfinders. Most of them are good kids, but not all of them have the salt to make it in a world like this. It’s rough out there and I’m not just talking about the ruins, tombs, and wilderness Pathfinders find themselves in on missions. We’ve got people who look down their noses at us, folks who think we squander our resources, and agents who want to take everything we have collected. This wealth of knowledge and these items of lore make us the most powerful organization on the planet. That said, since we are fractured and widespread, it’s difficult for that power to light on anything for too long. For every friend of the Society, there are two enemies.
“Your first mission, to test your mettle and loyalties, sends you to meet a few people important to the Society living here in Absalom. These are other venture-captains or close allies of our organization, so follow their orders as you would mine. I’ve prepared a list of things I want you to do. They’re not arranged in any particular order of importance, but I want them all completed as quickly as possible. Only report to me once you complete them all. Included in the envelope you hold in your hands is the list, complete with the name of your contact, and directions to the meeting location.”
With that he spins, walks back to his chair, and sits down. He grabs one of the waiting pens, dips it in an inkwell, and begins scrawling onto a sheet of parchment sitting at the center of his desk.
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"Small assignments? Oh yes, that sounds like a great idea," says Bugdip to the man who smells overpoweringly of pushed pencils and dusty paper, "I can assure you, that I am no boot licker. The only thing I lick is my eyes... and the occasional too-fast dragonfly. It will be a pleasure to meet some society notables. What are their smells... I mean, names? Oh, in this envelope? Sure, if you need to rest your throat, I certainly don't mind reading."
Bugdip means absolutely no insult by this, nor does he notice any looks or anger on Valsin's face. He instead eagerly opens his envelope, removes the contents and then drops it on the floor.
"Ooh, a man who smelled of wine, beer and spirits with a hint of rusty sweat who went with the one you call Finer-Inn... he kept on referring to an uncle named 'Guaril'," enthuses Bugdip, "I wonder if it is the same man! Oh, can we find that out first? He is first on the list after all."
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"A man that smells. That sounds so exciting. You say that he smells of beerspiritsandrusty sweat all at the same time. I must take a sample of that. I wounder it sohowsomeway I can distill it down to its essence and then possibllyinfuse it with. Well we can figure that out later. Who is this Finer-Inn you speak of? Is he a mighty warrior, a scholar, a user of the arcanearts like me? Sounds like quite the interesting fellow. I wonder what I candoafter studying him?"
Nugats thoughts trail off as the group readies to depart.
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"Yes, that's what he smells like," Bugdip nods, unaware that there was anything strange about a man who smells, "Everyone has a smell, you know. I am told I smell ever so slightly of dragonfly purée. I guess that's why humans call me 'Bugdip'. Dragonflies are my favorite bug to eat, though, so I guess it fits...
"Finer-Inn is a user of the arcane arts, but he is a gentleman and not a scholar (at least, not that I'm aware of)... and yes, he is a mighty warrior. He also... pauses when he speaks because he is... deep in thought. I try to do it too... when I remember. He is so magnificent when he fights, so graceful and elegant. I wish you could see it. I wish I could see it again! I hope we some day get a chance to meet him.
"Back to smells, though, you - Noog-ettes, is it? I'm sorry, but I have to concentrate so hard to remember these 'names' - you smell of hints of brimstone and a dash of serpent scale... and, is that... the faintest aroma of goblin... no, orc?"
Bugdip seems to suddenly realize how much he has been talking and flushes a deep, emerald green before taking his seat again.
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"Yes sir! Right away, sir! We should go meet this Mister Karela, since he is first on the list! Let's go talk to him! It should be fun!" Ifran al-Shafari is practically quaking in his armor in anticipation of being able to complete a mission for the esteemed Venture-Captain Ambrus Valsin.
"Mister Valsin? May I get your autograph? It is simply amazing to finally be able to do a mission for you! I cannot tell you how excited I am!!!"
Valsin's eyebrow twitches at the request for his autograph, but he diligently continues to write, ignoring the request.
But the haughty elf, who required a sauna, and thereby was late, pushes his short temper over the edge.
With a loud *SNAP* the quill breaks in two in the man's hands.
"Who asks for an autograph? You think you get to call yourself an agent? You think you get to be one of us? If you wanna be a fanboy, get your sorry ass outta here before you get killed. I've seen men twice what you are get ripped to shreds by the demons in the worldwound, and have had more agents than I am comfortable with come back in bodybags. If all you came for is autographs then you are in the wrong place." Valsin breaths heavily, his writing hand in a fist, whiteknuckled on the desktop.
"And if you can't be bothered to show up on time because the temperature is a touch below perfect, then...." Valsin stops short his face a deep crimson but already tired of being angry. A slow smile creeps across his face. "Then I've already got your next assignment in mind, if you can even survive this one..."
We'll see how he likes scrubbing the top of the spire... In a snowstorm...
A few moments pass with the venture captain staring at them all in silence.
"What are you waiting for! GO!"
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Bugdip licks his eyeballs nervously during Valsin's tirade. He was getting out his own quill and paper, thinking an autograph was a tremendous idea. Instead, he places them slowly and cautiously on Valsin's desk and backs away facing Valsin, as one might back from a bull that could charge at any minute.
"For what it's worth," he hazards to say, "I didn't notice the temperature at all... then again my kind don't tend to notice gradual temperature fluctuations. You could boil us if you did it slowly enough! But we do operate quicker when we are hot. Perhaps Agent Valore does also..." Not seeing Valsin's anger recede, Bugdip does the sensible thing an runs full pelt out of the man's office.
"Is he always like that?!" he asks his fellow Pathfinders, "Finer-Inn is braver than I thought!"
With that, Bugdip heads off to the docks and Guaril's curio shop. As with the council in the Krihirik tribe, if no-one expressed dissent, it was taken as a sign of assent. Bugdip simply believes that everyone agreed with his suggestion.
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Nugat stops in mid-sentence, shocked that a person would address another person in that manner. Maybe being a Pathfinder was not his calling. Maybe this was just one bad apple in the bushel of the society. Maybe these new recruits are really undercover Aspis agents as they all looked quite formidable and deadly. At least the Grippli was pleasant.
Quickly following his new friend out he tries to strike up a conversation with some of the late comers to the group.
"Tybain I seemed to notice that you wearamask. Why do youwear a mask? Is ittoo soon to ask these types of questions? I ask not to offend you but I wish you get to know those who might one day savemy life or I might saveyourlife, and then I think that asking a question should be ok. Do you practice magic like Bugdip and I or do you swingswords and yellbattle cries like others?"
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A young man slides gracefully to a stop outside of a large, heavy oaken door. As his speed decreases the exquisite rapier hanging at his side jostles slightly, releasing a faintly music chime that hangs in the air. From beneath the wide-brimmed hat, the youth's eyes narrow on the knob and one hand begins to outstretch, cautiously, hesitantly, as if it were gripped by fear. His face is obscured beneath a scarf wound around his neck, forming a narrow slit between the brim and fabric through which his large, green eyes peer.
The look on his eyes softens as he reaches up and knocks upon the panel of the door. On the opposite side of the wall he can hear the resounding echo of his fist-fall intrusively breaking the delicate silence within. Roused in response to his knock comes the cacophonous barrage of curses like the young man have never heard before, sounding like the animalistic roar of some turrets stricken lion, causing him to stumble back in fearful shock.
My name is Edgar Blackwood, the thinks to himself in a panic. I'm pleased to meet you, Venture Captain Valsin...
I apologize for being so late... the youth continues to rehearse his meeting with the infamous Ambrus Valsin.
The rising clammer of anger, rage, and blasphemous curses continues, and the sound unmistakably creeps nearer to the door. As the sound grows in intensity, feeling like the approach of impending doom, the young man looks away from the door, unable to meet the gaze of the man who will shortly fling the portal open and appear before his eyes. He cannot bear the belittling that will ensue and the resulting ending of his career as a pathfinder before it ever had a chance to begin.
As he looks away, the youth's eyes gaze out a nearby window and he see's a cluster of men walking away from the building. No, one of them was not a man at all, he realized this in an instant, because of the oddly bouncing gait and obviously anuran features gave one away as a grippli.
In that moment, the youth realized the group he was to meet here at Venture Captain Valsin's office had already left, and in the blink of an eye, Ambrus would surely bring his calamitous wrath and ire down about Edgar with furious anger for not only being inexcusably late, but also disturbing his precious, sacred silence.
As quick as he could muster, the youth turned and lunged away from the door, moving for the nearest corner to hide behind. The sound of the door opening behind him came like the sound of a falling guillotine, and the youth could do naught but hope he was already hidden behind the wall as the portal opened.
Before even waiting for confirmation if he was seen, or somehow, miraculously managed to slip away, he decided to slink off down an adjacent hall in search of the group he saw outside only moments ago.
A Grippli, an Elf, a Suli, a Gnome, a Half-Elf, and a Human, all decked out in traveling gear, weapons, and armor resplendent with the fresh off the rack leather smell move with purpose through the streets of Absalom. They chat among themselves, occasionally with some not-so-kind remarks about the gruff personality of one, Ambrus Valsin. It doesn't take long for the newcomer who missed the meeting to blend in with the others, who are very understanding and in agreement of his choice not to bother the venture captain.
The morning is pleasant, and the sun is shining bright as it begins its trek across the sky by peeking over the walls of Eastgate. Merchants and colorful bazaars are never-ending as the group passes through the coins district on their way to the docks. Eventually the shops and shouting peddlers give way to warehouse buildings and a distinct, salted fish smell. Beggers and drunken sailors are scarce but present in the morning sun over the docks district. Neither type of bum seem all that interested in moving from their current locations. Many buildings are unmarked and closed up, having only hours before been bustling with patrons looking to spend their shore leave buried in booze and women with loose morals.
Before long a rickety sign with faded letters reading The Pickled Imp can be seen, marking the first place on the initiates list.
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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"Hello Guaril Karela!" Bugdip greets the man enthusiastically, pressing his sticky hand into Guaril's, "I believe I have meet a nephew of yours... Goon-Are-Ee. Good warrior, smells of different kinds of alcohol and rusty sweat. Very interested in trade agreements as I recall. You are his uncle, right?"
Bugdip eagerly awaits a response, but has no questions pertinent to the investigation.
Once Guaril responds, Bugdip turns to his fellows, "Sounds like we need to go to a warehouse. I am no good at breaking in to places, though. I hope it will be open... though perhaps our friend here does not. (Does he smell of meatballs and mustache oil to anyone else?)"
-Posted with Wayfinder
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"Oh my a ware house full of this thatIcan take home and they will be mine. That sounds so exciting. And you only require the one crate, the onewith the three crowns arranged in a triangle. That I think that we can do."
Nugats looks over to his stronger companions, thinking how hard could it really be to lift a few boxes and carry them here. Maybe being an agent wasn't that difficult.
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'Mask? No, no friend. I am not wearing a mask. Not on stage yet, no need to wear a mask. You are confused, surely. It this other one who is wearing a mask, and a fine frog-mask it is.' But where is everyone going? Should we not practice? Ah, very well, I'll follow.
Tybain shakes his head vigorously in answer to Nugats' question, muttering something incomprehensible. He looks around, confused, and follows the others out of Valsin's office.
Odd sight he may be, but luckily he does not stand out too much limping along his current companions.
Pathfinders? That rings a bell.. Yes, not on stage! I am joining Pathfinders! Must remember! This man gives a task, and I must do as he asks. Remember! Get into warehouse, retrieve parcel. Sounds odd, would that be legal?
"IL ... LE ... GAL? " with great effort, the voice behind the mask forms the syllables - each one little more than raspy exhale.
Uncle Guaril? Gunari you bastard. I thought you paid someone to make up stories about you brokering a deal with the grippli tribe. Guess I owe Snotnuts that 5 gold.
Guaril practically glides around the counter to approach the pathfinders, taking a deep breath and putting his best bargaining smile on.
"Illegal you ask? No... well... not really. It depends on how you look at it my good man. It's all about perspective. I've spent money to acquire those books, so they belong to me. *ahem* Those books and papers, along with everything else, are just going to end up in some guard or constable's evidence locker, never to see the light of day again. Nobody cares about that pelican anyways. Of course, that's if the authorities get to it before the harbor waters do."
Guaril smiles a greasy smile that makes everyone feel like getting rich and taking a shower all at the same time.
"I don't need to remind you that Venture Captain Valsin assured me that my requests were as good as orders from him, do I?"
Guaril's hand is on the grippli's shoulder, and his snake oil charm is as thick as the musty smell of the aged floorboards in the dockside shop.
"Yes, dear froggy friend. You may call me Uncle Guaril. But only you my dear Grippli. What is your name again?" The faction leader stands uncomfortably close to the Bugdip, his smile ever-present. "We shall have to have a chat about my nephew Gunari, and all my family when you are done running errands for Valsin."
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"Yes... Orders. Do whatever Uncle Guaril says to do. Be good Pathfinder's, and get that gods damned notebook out of my face, you moron!" Ifran goes through their orders, speaking them out as if isn't quite sure he has it right.
"So our orders are to get those papers! Not-Uncle Guaril?" Ifran then pulls out a slightly ratty notebook. "would you please sign my notebook, Mr. not-Uncle Guaril? please? I hear you are a man of great in-flu-ants, specially from certain types around the Grand Lodge. That you 'get things done'?"
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"I don't need to remind you that Venture Captain Valsin assured me that my requests were as good as orders from him, do I?"
I think you just did, Edgar thinks to himself, his eyes are narrowed beneath the brim of his wide hat as he reviews Guaril. The youth would not trust this man with just any task, but he would trust Guaril when the outcome would benefit them both proportionate.
"We understand each other, Mr. Karela," Edgar says, his voice is not exactly cold toward the man, but it does hold an odd air of steady flatness, as if the youth were implying far more than his few words. "We'll find this crate with three crows emblazoned upon it and collect the smaller container, books and papers for you."
The youth has only just met Bugdip, and could in no way know him yet, but he can't help but feel slightly bad for the attention the grippli has drawn from Guaril. Edgar could not help distrusting the man, there purposes were aligned for now, and so he could probably be trusted for the moment, but Edgar could only wonder what would happen if their intentions diverged in the future.
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"My name is Bugdip, Uncle Guaril," says Bugdip, a little confused. Won't everyone know he's not my uncle? We're not even the same species!, "I would love to talk more with you about Goon-Are-Ee! I cannot wait to return with your package."
Turning to the others, Bugdip smiles and happily snatches a fly from the air with his tongue. "I think he favors me!" he says happily before gulping the insect down, "Come on, let's get to that warehouse. Just one thing... I didn't want to bother my Uncle with it, but what is a 'pelican'?"
Guaril whispers in Bugdip's ear, or at least where he thinks the ear should be, as the group leaves the storefront. "You seem confused. Blood doesn't make family, Bugdip. Gold runs deeper than blood. Do not worry my new nephew, I shall explain when we have more time... Your new cousin Gunari knows this well."
It's almost as if the slick merchant can read his mind, or perhaps he is just that good at reading body language when closing a deal.
The group walks along the harbor front, passing by short and long piers. Gulls screech in the morning air, fighting over the bits of fish and slop spilled by the fishing boats that are so prevalent. Eventually they come to a long pier with several nondescript, straight-walled buildings that are held up by stilts above the water.
A few people are fishing along the pier, but as the group comes closer to the indicated warehouse, the recreational fishers become scarce. The last group they pass are chatting idly.
"Did ye hear what hippened las nigh Jed? 'Nother Pelican went in-tuh th' harbor. These ware-houses is gonna all end up at the bottom of Davey Jones Locker afore long. Seems no-one cares tuh take care o' thu pier no mo. Ah! I got one Jed!"
After a few more minutes, the group approaches a rickety pelican at the end of the long pier. Perched on the end, 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.
Bigdip and Nugats both notice the sunlight glint off of something shiny wedged under the weathered, but sturdy boards of the pier near the door of the warehouse. Upon closer inspection, it appears to be a key, easily retrieved.
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"Oh, look here!" Bugdip gets excited and leaps over to the special area of the pier and pries up the boards, "A key!" Holding it aloft like a trophy, Bugdip quickly rushes over to the door and tries it out, his finger suckers fumbling awkwardly with the device. Such a strange device. The huts in the Kaava Lands did not need locks.
Unused to the adventurer's way, Bugdip flings the door open and peers inside.
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"Good find, Bugdip and Nugats. Your perceptive eyes are quite impressive," the youth smiles and turns to look at the pelican.
So this is what a pelican actually is. This makes a lot more sense than what I was thinking before, he thinks to himself, observing the building but not wanting to tell the others that he didn't know what a pelican was, or at least, what this type of pelican was.
"Are you ready, my friends?" asks Edgar, looking to each of his companions. "It looks as though there is only one way inside, from what I can see. So that key of yours will be beyond useful, no doubt. But I don't have as keen of eyes as some of you, so maybe there are others way to gain entry that I'm missing. Do you think it's best to be quiet about our entrance, or obvious, and act like we should be here?"
"I guess we're going in straight away," he says with a laugh as Bugdip steps to the door and flings it open.
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.
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The youth strides confidently through the portal behind Tybain, his head is bowed slightly which blots out of a large portion of his face beneath the wide brim of his hat. The covering of his scarf obscures his mouth and nose, ending just below the line of his eyes, causing the sound of his voice to rise disembodied from the wrappings of fabric. "Lead the way, Tybain, my friend," he whispers to the masked man.
As Edgar paces behind Tybian his hand rests confidently on the end of the rapier's hilt, and his eyes peer for any sign of the crate marked with three crows.
Floorboards creak ominously under the weight of the agent-initiates as they enter the dank, darkened room. Just inside the door they see various crates and kegs of beer. The crates reek of rotten food.
Along the north wall are stacks of simple coffins, presumably empty. Along the far wall are more haphazard stacks of crates, though what is in them is yet to be discovered. A crane sits on a sturdy looking rail overhead, and appears to run out of the giant double doors on the south wall, presumably to load and unload the ships for which this style of warehouse was designed.
In the southwest corner of the dimly lit room, an exquisite crate is perched precariously in the middle of a particularly rotten portion of the flooring. Handholds are built along the rim of the crate, and in the center of the broadside are three crows, arranged in a triangle.
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"Hmmm...." Bugdip creeps a little closer to get a bit of a better look, being very careful how he steps on the boards lest he get sucked down into the water, "Does anyone know how to use a rowboat? We could row beneath it and just let it drop in. It's only full of documents anyway, they just need to stay dry. I could swim around, but I can't guarantee that I'd be able to catch it and keep it from the water. Maybe I could push the rowboat around while swimming..."
Trust Bugdip to come up with some form of aquatic solution to the problem at hand.
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"Wet? You want me to getwet. I do not think that gettingwet will be so much fun. If there not a betterway to move these crates. It seems that you have verylarge men. Should they not just pick up the box? But if you would like to take the row boat for a funsunset tour of the harbor I would like that very much. Can we do that or would we get in trouble. Beingintrouble on the first mission might be bad. Fun but bad."
Nugats moves into the room, happy to assist when he can, but possessing no obvious skills to help out. He is just excited to see all these new experiences.
Valore confidently steps up to the rickety remains of the flooring that acts as a bridge of sorts to the island where the sturdy crate sits, precariously perched.
The boards creak and wobble under the elf's weight, forcing him to stick his hands out for balance, and move very slowly, one foot in front of the other. Eventually he finds himself standing next to the 200lb crate with the three crows arranged in a triangle pattern.
..."This is but a simple test. I shall just walk up and take the crate."
He keeps an eye out for danger, and to avoid stepping in the foul smelling garbage.
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"Well done, Valore," Edgar says, watching the now towering form of the man reach to scoop up the crate emblazoned with three ravens. "I probably would have crashed through those loose, rickety floorboards and ended up in the harbor. Those boards look quite rotten..."
The youth looks out from beneath the brim of his hat, surveying the planks and Valore's attempt to grab the crate. "That crate looks quite heavy, so don't strain your back. Lift with your legs, and all that. If you need assistance, please let us know..."
"I'm sure Ifran could help carry it."
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"Wow youcan get bigger justliekthat. What a useful skill to have. Do you use it often? is if a form of inborn bloodmagic or so you need to study to learn these spells. Now that the crate is secure, let us have a look around to see what else we can find. I believe that we just have to remove the smaller box, but the restwe can keep. Very exciting to receive present for pickup a crate. Very exciting indeed."
Nugsts will allow the larger, stronger members to open the crate and remove the smaller box. He will use his time to search for other items of interest, even going so far as to cast Detect magic.
The brooding elf swells in size, making the floorboards creak and groan like never before. Reaching out with his longer limbs, he grabs the crate and heaves, lifting it with some difficulty off its rotten perch and setting it back down on more solid ground.
Nugats casts a spell of magical detection, but is not rewarded for his efforts. Nothing in this room glows with any sort of magical aura.
The group gathers around to look at their prize, and so don't notice immediately the locals they have disturbed with their racket. Just before they make to open the exquisite container, a screeching can be heard from behind them. 3 oversized rats, the size of small dogs and presumably fattened on the rotting food squeeze out from the dark recesses of the piles of crates, hissing and spitting, looking to spread some vile disease with their bite.
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"Is it just me," says a nervous Bugdip, fumbling for his rapier, "Or are those rats bigger than they should be?" The diminutive grippli swallows hard - a sound like a single long grunt from a pig - while trying to figure out what to do. An observant man might be able to tell that he has never been in a real combat before.