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As the beautiful mahogany wood of the box is uncovered, Passio ahhhs with the light of excited discovery in his eye. As Mai holds out the box to Samara, Passio takes the opportunity to pass his hand over the top of it, looking into himself and to a window for another place.
As the search of the surroundings begins in earnest, Passio seems to sense Itra's reluctance to carry all the bottles.
"Ah, well if you need a hand, I am always willing to provide help." Even as the cheerful man reaches for one of the flasks of alchemist's fire, a slight crack of electric energy arcs from the forefinger to the pinky of his outstretched hand . Passio smiles good-naturedly, oblivious to the growing alarm of his companions as they eye his hand's proximity to the volatile fluid.
The spark fizzes across the top of the stopper, then inside it gets a touch brighter - just for a millisecond. Then nothing....
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"I doubt it matters much if this place burns down, though I am curious about the content of the coffins," Mai murmurs, "I have heard of smugglers using coffins for contraband, thinking to avoid inspection. Perhaps we should take a look and report to the authorities if we find illegal activity."
The short busybody leaves the box in Samara's capable hands and treads firmly to the coffins, cracking open a lid slightly to see/smell what is inside.
Peeking inside the coffin, amidst the gloom. The creak of old wood, which has seen better days, crumbles slightly in her hand. The lining of the 'coffins' is rough pale hemp sacking, stained lightly with some unthinkable substance.
However there's a slight smell, lingering under the musty and sour notes. There's something familiar about this, something that's she's smelt before...
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Itra frowns. "Drug smugglers. That would explain why the warehouse was seized... but I can't imagine why the Society would be aiding someone who's friends with drug smugglers. I'd definitely like to verify his story about the books, if you"—she glances at Samara—"can get the box open."
She starts looking around the coffins more thoroughly.
Looking in the coffins you find not much more than old sacking and tattered cloth. These boxes obviously haven't been used for there obviuos purpose yet. But the ricketty warehouse would be an ideal place to store commoners or paupers coffins.
In the mahogany box, as Samara takes them out are a few books and beneath that a ledger. A crisp leather folder that contains a few loose sheets. Looking at the spines of the books they are:
The titles and subjects seem completely unrelated to each other.
The pages of the loose sheets contain cargo manifests, warehouse inventories and other financial logs. These come from various sources, including a number of merchant guilds and trade consortium's including the Apis consortium.
Thus the group leave the Pelican warehouse behind, managing to load up some of the unspoilt food for the orphanage. Plod snickers slightly at the burden, but seems glad to be of use and on his way. After closing the door to the warehouse, slowly walking across the rotten pier the group is back on solid ground.
It only takes a few minutes to find the guard house, a lone building amongst this rough area of town. However the door is open in a friendly manner and a older gentleman sits upon the porch outside. He tips a hat as you approach.
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Itra smiles and relaxes a bit as they come to the guard house. "Good afternoon, Pondir."
After inquiring as to the man's well-being, Itra gets down to business. "We're down here on behalf of the Pathfinder Society, but I thought you ought to be notified that the warehouse down at the end of the pier ought to be checked out. Apparently it's been seized already, but I wanted to let you know that we removed a few non-contraband items on behalf of the Society. I'll register them here with the name of the man to whom they'll be delivered."
She gives the details and finds some parchment to write the manifest upon, then hands it over to the man. "Be sure your commander gets that."
"Oh, thanks. I'm fine. Yeah, Port Authority closed the warehouse. We don't have too much direct involvement, but we'll look into this." the broad accent holds a note of warmth for the Pathfinders.
He stands up and takes the parchment. "Will pass this onto the Commander. I take it things are going well with the secondment Corporal Javek?"
"See you all. I'll look into it." he nods happily.
Sensing Mai's exasperation Plod starts to move at a trot, before he realises it's undignified and moves back to his usual gait.
Within a few minutes the troupe is back at the Pickled Imp, the grimy façade holding mysteries and glimpses of wyrd items. As the enter the tanned man behind the counter puts down his moustache comb. "Good, you made great time. Do you have my acquisitions?"
Rubbing his hands together eagerly, there's a covetous gleam in his eye. Then he keeps his hands in check placing them upon the counter palm side down.
He looks at the books spines, cautious opening one. Selecting a specific page then running a finger vertically down as if to find a specific word or phrase. A small smile breaks out.
With the leather folder, he places it on the desk and unfolding it glances at the sheets. "This is everything?" he asks.
"Nope this is good. Your expecting a reward...?" he says clearly willing to hand something over. He glances under his counter.
"Well, certain lodges are recruiting. Especially for efficient people, it can be quite...." he reaches under the desk and pulls out a melon sized leather bag, it gently clinks as he lifts it and places it upon the counter.
"rewarding."
"That's a stick-y wicket each. each." he adds twisting his manicured moustache. "You know where to find me, when you want me." he winks at the elven ladies.
"Good, good. I can make arrangements...." He repies in a smooth well-practised voice with just a hint of grease and nods.
Picking up the bag, it's as heavy as you'd expect nearly 800 coins to be. The gentle clink of gold warms the heart and widens Guaril's smile.
"Anything else you need to know?" he wonders openly. The roguish twinkle in his eye isn't malevolent but a good-natured sparkle, created after years of practise.
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Moving northwards through the streets towards the Wise Quarter, it's amazing how rapidly the debris upon the pavement vanishes. The fetid smell of the bay dissolves into a clean salty fragrance. Streets become wider to accommodate the increased traffic, both pedestrians and carts.
Though this dissipates once more as you reach the plush luxury of the wise quarter. Fine houses and wall estates rise from the ground, like ivory teeth.
Soon reaching the walls of the Salhar estate you walk along a boulevard where a tall wall lines one side. Obviously Dremdhet Salhar is outrageously rich to afford such an estate in this, the greatest of all cities. (Although, there are not many estates outside the cities walls, for the isle is relatively untamed).
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A long while ago, Samara peers at the thieve's tools and then simply pockets them. She figures nobody would mind and she saves herself the hassle of asking.
She is fascinated by the decor of the place, mouth hanging a bit agape as she sees the extent of this person's wealth, idly pondering to herself how much he would notice it if things happened to go missing.
At front gates, a man stands with a halberd and ornate saffron and azure livery, he nods to the group as they approach. "Good day, good people. Can I be of assistance?"
He bars the way into the mansion stood in front of the expensive wrought iron gates.
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Mai strides up within polite speaking distance of the guard and looks up at him. "Greetings. We are from the Pathfinder Lodge, sent to meet with Dremdhet Salhar at the behest of Venture-Captain Valsin on behalf of the Lodge. We should be expected."
Having announced the party, she wastes no more words in unnecessary civilities and stands quietly, waiting for the guard to allow them ingress.
For a second he raises a bushy eyebrow, hoping to see their Pathfinder badges (handed out upon graduation). Then touching his turban, to rearrange it slightly he adds; "You have been expected.... if you'll follow me."
The tall gates open and he leads them into the opulent pale building. The exterior render painted in a warm cream with golden and saffron trim around the architraves and windows, it glistens in the afternoons light. Soon the group are taken down wide hallways with mahogany tables and ornate nick-knacks, mainly porcelain and glass-work.
Down the expansive halls, his heavy leather boots padding heavily upon the marble floor. Taking the lead he walks down the long corridors, passing archways that provide vista's into redolent scenes from some Arabian tale.
'Plush divans with tanned muscled men discussing conquests.'
'A pair of men playing chess with vivid glasses of sherbet beside them.'
'Amongst some bright cushions a ripe veiled maiden lounging in the thews of a dark barbarian.'
'Lank figures puffing heavily on hookah's, their demeanour shows the fugue-state they are in - deep in meditation.'
Plod patiently waits outside, having found a small fountain to drink from and a little mulberry bush to have a nibble at.
Further still the Pathfinders are led, seemingly the palace encompasses a central courtyard and they path has taken you around past to rear staircase - no less resplendent for its' location.
"Unfortunately Grand Councilmember Salhar is otherwise detained. An important matter, as I'm sure you'll appreciate. However all his appointments are being seen to by His office is just at the end of the hall." he says the words apologetic, however the tone slightly proud.