Yvette's magic missile topples the closest undead. Kara looses a blunted arrow at one in the next room, while Artoria executes a righteous charge!
As Artoria closes with the undead, the sensation of sound disappears for her as well...
...her blade crashes silently into the nearest undead, tearing a chunk of flesh from it, but the creatures make no response to her threat. Instead they close on her with the inexorability of the grave...
The one in the rear does not step forward. Instead, it draws its tattered cloak around itself, and the mist thickens in the room beyond, roiling out over the grain and around the fighting figures.
In the eerie silence of the fight, where all sounds of impact and blade-on-blade are swallowed by the chill mist, another of the figures strides out suddenly from around the corner of the western chamber, and closes with Kara!
Even though the creature had been extraordinarily stealthy, and totally silent, Kara's guard being dropped is not enough for the sickle blade to land. The undead looks unfazed that it missed, and prepares to swing again.
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The new skeleton complicated things, and Jal quickly considered, cutting looks between Artoria and Kamasuma. Fighting on two fronts was a losing hand, though, and Hero could take care of herself ... at least he was betting she could.
Decision made, Jal turns his focus on the undead harassing Kama. "I'm coming, Feathers," he grunts as he plows through the grain, his morningstar slipping free from its hook on his belt. "Let's see how much punishment these things can take."
Then he slams the morningstar down.
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You can easily move through a dangerous melee.
Prerequisites: Dex 13, Dodge.
Benefit: You get a +4 dodge bonus to Armor Class against attacks of opportunity caused when you move out of or within a threatened area. A condition that makes you lose your Dexterity bonus to Armor Class (if any) also makes you lose dodge bonuses.
Dodge bonuses stack with each other, unlike most types of bonuses.
Jal darts over and with his morningstar delivers a very solid blow that sends the cloaked undead shattered into bits of bone and dessicated flesh.
Rogar's arrow streaks forward leaving the mist in cold tatters in its wake, and directly impacts another, already struck earlier-- that one crumples noiselessly into the grain.
While Yvette draws a scroll and begins to cast from it , Artoria's blade sweeps off the head of another abomination.
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The tengu makes a non-committal sound as he reaches down and picks up the long blade, flicking any dirt off of it and giving it a quick wipe before sheathing it, then stows his bow, since a breather appears to have opened up in the fighting.
Almost casually, then, he gives the room to the west a glance.
"Thank you for the assist, Jal."
Kara sees nothing more moving, off in the shadowy mists of the western room.
The last undead turns ponderously towards Odd, striking with sickle and claw.
Neither attack comes close to striking.
Rogar's arrow misses.
With the last undead dispatched by Artoria and Odd, the eerie silence in the granary, and the cloying mist, begin to dissipate. You stand on guard for a few more tense seconds, waiting to see if anything else emerges from the shadows.... but the seconds tick by and nothing appears.
(Yvette's summoned creature blips into life, only to look around with a bemused blink.)
A thorough search of the granary reveals that there are no further cloaked forms lurking in the building. The undead forms lie, still and twisted; Yargos suggests (from the doorway) that they be dragged out before their dead flesh contaminates the grain.
In the process, you find that each of the former Taldane operatives had two rusted vials of a liquid substance at their belts, a substance that does not detect as magical.
Yargos sighs in relief as the last corpse is pulled from the building. "Well done! If only we'd gotten here a bit quicker-- these poor guards," he sighs. "We'll tell of their bravery to the city council in the morning, I'm sure-- but right now, there's no time to waste-- we need Torch to tell us where Nessian is, and end this threat before more of Absalom's finest die under those sickles!"
Yargos leads you back into the heart of the Puddles. The rain is easing, but thick sea-fog is rolling in to take its place. The damp chill penetrates even warm cloaks and wool tunics, and the sound of your hurrying feet is swallowed by the mist.
The old man comes to a stop before a large, somewhat ramshackle inn. he knocks twice on the door, then once, then twice more, and after a few moments the door creaks open, and a big half-orc woman squints suspiciously out at your group. Yargos offers a feeble grin. "Ah, these fine folk are here to see Master Torch...?"
The half-orc glowers, then jerks her head in a gesture that probably passes as 'come in.' Inside it is warm and dry, at least; the half-orc moves down a long brick-lined corridor lit with regularly placed wall torches behind glass bulbs.
"Torch will probably have a number of guards with him," Yargos confides as you hurry along. "And even more you don't see. I wouldn't suggest threatening him-- we're here on a peaceful request, and I'm sure Torch doesn't want the city destroyed by undead any more than we do!"
The half-orc opens a door at the end of the room and you're immediately assaulted by a wave of warm, steaming air. The room beyond appears to be a bathhouse. You can see a man reclining in the central sunken pool, as a young Osiriani servant pours water over him.
The half-orc bids you approach, marching right next to you. As you get closer, you can see that the man in the sunken bath is badly burned-- what little of his person visible above the water is mottled with puckered scar tissue which even looks painful. Still, when you approach, he offers a seemingly easy smile, and a gracious wave of one hand.
"Be welcome, my friends-- please, there are benches, make yourselves comfortable. I assume you're not here to partake of these remarkably therapeutic waters? Best bathhouse in town, I've always said. No, no, I can see you're impatient. Forgive me. I am Torch; who are you, and waht can I do for you, coming calling so late on a Wealday?"
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Karasuma will find a bench next to an actual wall that looks reasonably solid and sit down casually, though it is a bit awkward for a tengu to do that kind of thing. Practice makes perfect, though, after many long hours in the courts and on other jobs and favors.
"I'm actually very patient, and the offer of the house is very appreciated -- might have to take that up sometime when... Some of my companions, on the other hand, are a bit more driven and urgent and want to get things rolling. We're looking for a man who has men playing at being hounds working for him..."
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”Thank you for the assist, Jal.”
Jal gives Karasuma a lopsided grin, ”No problem, Feathers. It’s what we do, right, cara?”
Jal is quiet through the miserable, soaking walk to the tavern, and is similarly quiet as the group is lead back to Torch’s room. The Varisian mercenary looks remarkably at home in the run-down dive. He gives Gill a ’now why would we do that?’ look at the man’s warning against violence, but otherwise says nothing.
He pauses at the entrance to the bathhouse, raising his eyes in genuine appreciation as the humid heat dispels much of his chill. He eyes the room, the half-orcs, especially the scarred man in the water , then nods and takes the offered seat.
Jal raises his eyebrows at Kara, ”You’re not in a hurry? And here I’d think anyone in Absolom with half a desire to remain on his side of the grave would have a touch of urgency just now.” He gives Torch a nod, ”I’m Jal.”
He otherwise settles in to hear Torch's response to his teammates.
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Artoria takes the flasks to a paved or rocky part of the ground (essentially, someplace with no vegetation), sets them down, and stomps on them one-by-one.
"Weapons for cravens."
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Artoria sweats through the heat underneath her breastplate and dress, but she makes not even the slightest move to wipe her brow or even acknowledge the heat, as though even a small steamy room was somehow a kind of test of her mettle. Her owl has no such compunctions, and breathes heavily, silently cursing his lack of sweat glands. He finally leaps off her shoulder into the air and takes up a perch in the rafters of the previous room.
Artoria folds her arms, leaving her sword in its sheath as a sign of peace. She momentarily raises an eyebrow at the information broker's lack of dress, but she notes his burns and continues on with her typical unflappable stoicism, apparently considering his informality sufficiently justified.
"I am Artoria Pendragon. You have my word as a knight and by what honor remains in my kingship and the Pendragon name that I shall do my utmost to ensure that we treat with you fairly and without subterfuge. I expect no less from you."
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Karasuma will intervene on the damaging of the poisons.
"Poison is nasty business, but we need to take these back to the Grand Lodge in case we miss anything on our mission and they need to prepare antidotes for these particular toxins. And no, I'm not going to sell them on the side, I'm not an idiot. For even possessing them there's a potential lengthy prison sentence, which is why I'm willing to take that risk until they can be properly disposed of. Sound fair?"
Karasuma gives Torch a pained glance as some of his feathers droop from Jal's comment.
"You rush through things, folks think you're anxious, they use that as leverage to raise the price of their services on you. Look TOO desperate, and they won't even DEAL with you, because whatever you're looking for is either that far-fetched or that dangerous. So taking five minutes to talk a thing out versus ranting out-of-breath about how the undead are coming and mean works, right, cara?"
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"Such arguments would make complete sense...in my past life. In this world, any one of us can buy a panacea on a streetcorner for one-tenth of a junior Pathfinder's standard fee--" She presents an antitoxin as evidence, though it once again takes her several moments as she realizes it's been moved. "--not to mention that this city alone likely has hundreds of clerics capable of removing any and all poison for what would be a pittance to any of us."
She grumbles under her breath as she stows her antitoxin.
"In the spirit of cooperation, and since the matter is apparently important to you, I will hold onto them until we return to the Grand Lodge and see that they are properly disposed of, whether they are dashed against a rock or stored-away for the Silver Crusade healers or whatnot."
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"Any one of *us*. Emphasis on *us*. We are Pathfinders. We are funded, supported, and encouraged to take the risks by our charter and our code, along with preparation for such risks. But the average person on a street corner, even with say hundreds of clerics to remove such things may NOT be able to afford such a service. We cannot take it on faith that altruism will win out against bottom line. In addition, these particular toxins may have altered over time, and given their carriers, may have become resistant to traditional means of removal."
The tengu nods quietly.
"That's all I'm asking, that we make sure that it's not a matter where we need them for something. Heck, if it turns out there's no need to retain them, I'll *join* you in smashing them, in the spirit of cooperation."
Torch listens politely to the earnest, well-spoken dwarf, the knight, the Pharasmin priestess, the tengu... He nods a little, sitting forward in the bath with his head lowered in order to facilitate cool water dumped along his spine.
"Well," he says mildly, "you're all extraordinarily convincing. The Pathfinder Society has hired quite the excellent ambassadors, it would seem. I'm afraid I don't know the Pendragon name, or where exactly you might be.... king of, miss," (that part directed at Artoria) "but I always deal profitably and give people what they need. When they meet my price."
Torch leans back, grimacing as if in mild pain. "I know the Nessian of whom you speak. Something of a rising star on Absalom's... shadier side. It would be bad business for me to simply give up his location, for free, to the first heavily-armed and sweet-tongued individuals who came through the door, you realize. Under normal circumstances, that information might be worth, say..." he pauses, considering, "...around six-hundred platinum. However.
"You are convincing, and I believe you when you express this is something urgent, to do with undead. Bad for business, undead. Necromancers never have as good a hold on them as they claim to. So, let me propose a deal. I've a few chests that came into my possessions, recently, that my own experts haven't been able to open. Pathfinders are supposedly quite good at getting into secured items, I hear."
You are all aware none of you mentioned you were Pathfinders, to him, but Torch continues smoothly. "If you're willing to take a look at them, and if you can open three, I'll tell you where that puppy Nessian is holed up. If you open more than that, perhaps I can reward you accordingly. They're just through the door there, my friends," he says, and gestures with one dripping hand.
"Of course, we can simply deal in the six hundred platinum instead, if you prefer..."
The room that Torch indicates contains a small office space with a desk, and five boxes of various sizes laid out on top of it. "I'd prefer you don't break any of them," calls Torch from the other room as you enter. "You may also have whatever you find inside the chests."
There is an iron cask whose lock appears to be in the shape of a devil's leering face; a small box of red wood with three golden faces inlaid in the top that all seem to be glaring; a cylindrical stone box with a lid of ivory carved to resemble ivy leaves; a rectangular chest of gleaming brass, with an intricately stylized script twisting over its whole surface; and finally a stone chest that appears to be one single, solid cube of perfectly hewn rock, with no sign of seam, lid, or hinges.
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"We will do as you request Master Torch."
Cast Detect magic before examining...
"I am not a lock picker. I can however help with the wisdom of my ancestors."
"How amusing... GRRRR!"
"seems like a riddle. Isn't a dove white?"
"This one is unusual. Anyone have a thought on it?"
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”…So taking five minutes to talk a thing out versus ranting out-of-breath about how the undead are coming and mean works, right, cara?”
Jal shrugs, ”I’m guessing he’d already taken a read on us, but your point is taken.” When Torch reacts helpfully—well, as helpfully as an information broker can so often be expected—Jal grins and gives a second ‘see? it worked out’ look at Kara.
Without response, he lets himself be led into the second room and eyes the different chests. His usual flippant demeanor is replaced by hyper-focus as the mercenary moves from chest to chest, doing his best to crack them.
At the ivory-lidded box, Jal stops and mutters, ”Stupid riddles.” He raises his eyebrows at Rogar’s guess, ”Better than anything I can think of. I say guess it.”
Jal leans down close to the brass chest, looking at the script. ”Look at these holes. Perforations. Should I try my tools on it? Or does someone have any other ideas?”
At the final, featureless stone cube, Jal simply watches, letting the magic-users take a crack at it first.
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Karasuma is very much willing to let Jal take the lead on the boxes, until he starts fumbling with the red wooden chest.
He lets forth an apparently blistering invective in some combination of caws, whistles and woots...
He gives a bit of a nod at the ivory box suggestion.
He then considers the first box with script. "Could be a trap, with some sort of gas coming out of all the holes, or a combination number lock where certain holes have to be filled and others left open?"
Several of the boxes are magical, most with a transmutation aura; however, the featureless stone cube has an illusion aura upon it.
The ivory box clicks open when Rogar says the word "dove." Inside the chest are a collection of rare incenses, and a tied parchment that, when inspected, contains instructions on a specific order in which to burn the incenses.
Growling at the red chest with Kara assisting, Rogar manages to unlock it as well. Inside, there are a number of tiny stone figurines of Ulfen warriors-- possibly worth some money to the right collector.
Jal has no difficulty in activating the tumblers of the iron cask, twisting and turning the little dial with his ear pressed to the cold metal. It clicks open. Inside is contained a book with a title written in Infernal, and two scrolls: a scroll of protection from evil and another of protection from good.
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Jal leans down close to the brass chest, looking at the script. ”Look at these holes. Perforations. Should I try my tools on it? Or does someone have any other ideas?”
He then considers the first box with script. "Could be a trap, with some sort of gas coming out of all the holes, or a combination number lock where certain holes have to be filled and others left open?"
Karasuma looks at the script on the box, trying to discern any sort of pattern or code behind the work.
The tengu starts humming to himself as he attempts to figure out the tune written on the side of the box, dancing a bit as he tries to figure out the beat...
"It kind of looks like music but it's nothing to dance to..."
He pauses for a second and double-takes.
"Mister Rogar, could you use the perforations to play this box like a musical instrument when you get done looking at that other one?"
Rogar's sturdy dwarven will makes quick work of the illusion on the box-- his mind is able to perceive that the box does in fact have a lid, and that the 'trick' is simply concentrating on that lid, through the presence of the glamour that insists the box is lidless. In short order Rogar has the contents spilled out onto the desk as well-- a number of spell components, many of them fairly valuable.
Kara seems to have the right of it-- these little holes, now that you have pieced together both parts, could well function as an odd sort of panpipes.
Artoria's words may have something to them: Torch is observing from his bath, through the open office doorway, though he isn't close enough to overhear what is being said.
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Idgethun leans against the wall, sharpening a dagger and watching the action. "I can give it a go," she says, sliding the knife back into its sheath with a flourish. Picking up the box, she holds it to her lips and suddenly breaks out in a coughing fit from the dust. After a moment, she gives it a real try.
Kara toots and blows, and gets... a few notes out, but nothing that seems quite effective. As one after another attempt it to no result, the Pharasmin priestess steps up... tweet tweet!
The box unlocks with a click, revealing some rolled-up parchments inscribed with more musical compositions. With all five chests opened, Torch seems pleased and impressed.
"Very well done, Pathfinders," he says amiably. "And you see, it did not even take you so long. It was a pleasure to watch you all work. You may take anything of interest to you that you found within the boxes-- please, permit me a small additional reward for your efforts..."
One of his guards offers over a pouch containing 60 platinum coins.
"As for the information: Nessian has a number of boltholes, like any self-respecting would-be crimelord ought. However, my eyes and ears tell me that he's likeliest to be found at a place known colloquially as the Pyramid of the Dog-- it's one of the many old siege engines littering the plains, just outside the city walls to the west."
He gives you specific directions, and adds on, "A pleasure doing business. Perhaps this can be the start of further mutually profitable arrangements."
Torch smiles brightly. "To business. Good luck."
To Artoria, he says, "And I will think you a king when I visit your kingdom, madam."
Outside, the night air is refreshingly chill after the steamy heat of the bathhouse. Yargos wipes at his brow with his sleeve. "You all did very well! The gods have smiled on me, to send such competent folk to help remedy my error. We simply need to go to the Pyramid, find Nessian, convince him to give up the book, and..."
The old man trails off, squinting northward. "...oh no." He lifts a hand and points towards a light that flickers green, then yellow, then goes off again. (It's noticeably in a different place than the first red light you saw, earlier.) "--that's the signal for the attack on the Cathedral! We must divert again-- it's vitally important!"
Yargos clutches at the shoulder of the nearest Pathfinder, trying to drag them back towards the Puddles. "The old Abadaran cathedral in the Puddles-- the morning hymn is played on the great organ, there-- the book said something about when the golden song is silenced, all shall strike at the city's god-servants. If that hymn isn't played on the organ, I fear there could be consequences for all the city's clerics!"
Yargos starts running through the streets, lifting the hem of his sodden robe (and exposing skinny, pasty old-man calves) to better speed his steps. "THIS WAY!"
After a short run through the streets in which Rogar's song allows you to make very good time, several of you draw up panting before the old cathedral. Once a magnificent structure, it was semi-abandoned after the earthquake that damaged this part of the city, but, as Yargos said, the morning hymn to Abadar is played from here, the massive organ's deep tones audible through nearly all the city.
The doors stand ajar, and there are no sounds from within. The first three Pathfinders to arrive, their speed boosted by Rogar's rapidamente tune, peer in to see a number of continual flame sconces lighting the old cathedral. The bodies of several gold-dressed Abadaran priests lie along the pews and floors, their blood pooling from various sickle wounds. One woman is still alive-- she is struggling in the bony clutch of one of the undead, her mouth open as though she is screaming, but there is no sound audible, due to the eerie silence that flows around the undead soldiers.
Several more of the creatures have climbed up to the top of a titanic organ, some on the keys and some on the pipes, where their aura of silence completely deadens any sound from escaping. A ladder that is long enough to reach the keys lies on its side on the ground.