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Etrigan is disappointed by the lack of any actual flesh. The Black Echelon operative spent eight hundred years on the bottom of the sea and all their flesh is long since rotted away. He consoles himself by savagely but silently tearing apart the operative held in place by Guido.
Slachagok swings his greataxe with both hands, crashing through the pelvis and ribcage of another skeletal foe, watching the bones fly in lifeless arcs, burying themselves in golden, silent grain.
Iason glides in behind his eidolon and grants Slachagok a dark infernal blessing.
Guido, go!
Guido attempts to seize one of the Black Echelon operatives, but the mists distort his perceptions and he grabs only fog.
The two remaining undead swing their sickles in short, jerking arcs that their targets easily parry.
Anyone, go!
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Etrigan snarls (soundlessly) as he realizes there is no ragged skeleton within striking distance of his hands. He must temper his violence with movement! Not fair. And he can't even make a clever rhyme about it.
Behind him, Iason scans the battle, notices Flinkae's blood dripping down into the grain, and taps the devil-tailed stick against the bird-man's shoulder as well.
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Slachagok scoffs soundlessly as he brushes aside the wraith's blade.
These folk shoulda limbered up first, it's like they haven't been in a fight in centuries, he says to himself. The bard is losing patience with this silence spell, and his inability to taunt his enemies or cajole his allies.
Not like I need another reason to break more of these bones.
If these wraiths have any other tricks prepared, the half-orc is not keen to give them a chance. Time is still of the essence in their mission, he realizes. Slach resolves to see the last of Black Echelon put away as quickly as possible.
Etrigan tears through one Black Echelon operative, sending its bones flying to far corners of the granary while Flinkae exacts his revenge on the last ancient menace. Suddenly, sound returns to the room.
A quick perusal of the granary reveals nothing else amiss. You collect the box and find within several old vials of what must be gut wither poison.
Yargos Gill calls out in a querulous voice. "Hello? Hello, can you hear me? Is it safe?"
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Etrigan snatches up one of the scattered bones to gnaw on it as soon as the mist clears enough for him to do so. He eyes Iason as he does so, as if to say, look how hungry I am. You had better do something about that.
Iason ignores the outsider to call back to Gill. "It appears clear. However, these Black Echelon have problematic abilities indeed. It shall be hard to target them effectively if they can all do this mist and this effect of silence."
He looks over Flinkae's injuries, but the devil's blood that is burning in his veins will heal him soon enough.
"Let us waste no time. Have your friends gone to alert the city's officials, Messire Gill?"
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"Guido, wait!" squawks Flinkae, "Ancient custists, ancient bangles. Black Echelon booty!" Working quickly, Flinkae strips everything valuable from the ancient warriors. Most items he throws into a sack, barely looking at them. Two hat bangles and one gold- and silver-embroidered sash with a unit badge on it catch Flinkae's eye, and he possessively folds them away in his pack.
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Slachagok nudges one of the cloak-draped piles of bones, shrugs, and trundles out of the grain heap. With great vigor, he shakes seeds and hulls from the creases of his pants, but he can still sense the clinging spindles of dark sorcery dancing across his skin. Walk it off, Slach.
"Alright scholar," he grunts, once again enjoying the sound of his own voice, "Grandmaster Starch, your broker friend? Let's go knocking before more old bones come creaking after."
Yargos Gill leads the Pathfinders back to the Puddles and has them lift a grate off an unobtrusive sewer entrance. Descending into the sewer maze of the Puddle District, a waterlogged labyrinth of dangerously flooded tunnels known as the Siphons, he leads them through a dizzying array of turns, descents, switchbacks and unobtrusive doors until at last they arrive at an unremarkable steel door somewhere deep in the bowels of the city.
"Grandmaster Torch has powerful friends and bodyguards," Yargos says. "You would do well to keep your weapons sheathed."
He knocks on the door and waits. After a few moments the door opens. Yargos tells the servant at the door that you wish an audience with the Grandmaster. Not long later, you are ushered into his private accommodations.
Grandmaster Torch is a soft-spoken man whose entire body is covered in horrible burn scars. He lounges in a shallow pool nursing his scars while two servants gently recycle the water over his charred form. His two heavily armored, half-orc bodyguards remain close at hand.
"I am Grandmaster Torch," he says pleasantly, albeit in a rasping voice. "How may I be of service?"
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Iason steps forward and offers a perfunctory-but-civil-enough bow, while eyeing the burns with frank curiosity (and a bit of thoughtful consideration for the eventual fate that likely awaits him in Hell).
"I'll not mince words, as our time is brief. If Yargos Gill has not informed you, the situation as stands is dire: an undead armada threatens Absalom. I think petty rivalries can be safely put aside in the name of survival-- I quite enjoy living in Absalom, personally, and have no desire to be clawed apart by dead men who have long outlasted their stay on the earth."
Quickly, Iason relates the details of the Black Echelon and the oath that holds them to this plane-- liberally playing up Gill's foolishness while doing so. He concludes with the need to find Nessian, and quickly, that the threat may be stopped.
"For your own survival as well as ours... can you assist us, sir?"
Etrigan lurks outside the room, and amuses himself scratching obscene graffiti on a stone wall with one clawed finger.
Torch looks amused. "I can indeed, sir, for I know well where this person is. But what is the going price for ratting out a nascent crime lord? I think six thousand gold crowns would assuage my conscience."
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"We will gladly accept six thousand gold crowns to help ensure your ongoing business. Not necessary though. Good for you - we're already working the case. Just the information will suffice. Absalom not burned to the ground good for your business. Small token of our work already." And Flinkae unfolds the sash with the Black Echelon unit token.
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Slachagok nods along with the words of his companions while eyeing the broker's protection. He snorts as Flinkae unfurls the sash.
"'Mutual best interest' d'be the word o' the hour here, Gran'master," he interjects. "Nessian ain't been just knockin' over fish carts an' sellin' nosedust to orphans. He's gamblin' with powers beyond all our ken, an' he's put everyone in the city up for ante. We don't have six thousand crowns, and we don't have time to negotiate neither."
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Iason hides a short, startled laugh at Flinkae's witticism. He lets Slachagok explain, and adds his words to the half-orc's.
"As my colleague says. Six thousand crowns do none of us any good if these dead men are not stopped. Perhaps the Society's coffers can compensate you later, but we do not have time now to heckle over gold."
(Outside, Etrigan busily doodles himself ripping off Iason's head.)
Grandmaster Torch smiles, amused.
"I’ve recently come into possession of a series of safes. Unfortunately, the safecracker I employed has turned out to be quite useless. If you can coax even three of the five safes open, I could be persuaded to disclose Nessian’s location and dispense with my regular fee entirely. These chests are remarkably unique and I have the foreboding suspicion that, in this case, the receptacles just might be worth more than their contents, so I’d rather you didn’t smash them open. Oh! One more thing: if my diviner warns me you have crossed me and stolen the contents, there will be repercussions."
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"Aye, that'd be jus' lovely," Slachagok spits. "Gets a bit monotonous chasing after this madman tryin' ta summon a bloodbound ghost armada from their salty graves. A round o' puzzle play would be the perfect diversion."
The half-orc does not anticipate that he will enjoy this next task. Safes don't respond well to questioning, and you can't twist their arms. He doubts Grandmaster Torch would respond any better to either of those favored methods, however. He cracks his knuckles with a sigh.
"Show us damn things so we can get on with it."
You are escorted to a side room where stand five safes. You can address them in an order you prefer.
The Devil Dial The lock of this iron cask contains a laughing devil’s head.
The Box of Golden Faces This red box has been inset with a trio of golden faces: the first appears stern, the second angry, and the third fumes with hatred.
The Riddle Vault The lid of this stone chest is covered with a relief of carved ivy.
The Smooth Stone Chest This sealed stone chest has no visible lock or hinges. No decoration or writing of any kind can be found.
The Holed Chest A strange stylized writing wraps around the whole of this rectangular chest. Stranger still are the ten small pores that run along the box’s lid.
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"He seems to be enjoyin' himself well enough," Slachagok grunts, taking a knee to examine the devil dial. He reckons that these locks are not the sort that can be picked with a nail and a bit of bent wire.
He glares at the ironwrought face. "P'raps we got to tell it a joke. Or a sad story. Har har har," the bard cackles mockingly.
"Let's least try an' see what manner o' device we're dealin' with here." He stumbles through the incantation and gestures of the oft-used spell.
Slachagok learns that all but the Devil Dial radiate magic. The Box of Golden Faces radiates abjuration and enchantment. The Riddle Vault radiates abjuration and divination. The Smooth Stone chest radiates abjuration and illusion. The Holed Chest radiates abjuration and divination.
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Iason starts rummaging in his satchel, and produces a scroll of Comprehend Languages. He attempts to read the script on the Holed Chest, first without the benefits of the scroll to see if he can identify the script.
"I am no linguist... unless it is in the tongue of Hell or the Abyss, I doubt I can read it, but let us see."
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Flinkae, feeling like a stork trying to drink from a shallow bowl (or a fox from a fluted vase...), looks closely at the script on the Holed Chest, with some hope that his collection of esoteric languages might find some use.
"Challenge very like Osirian temples. I always preferred chopping walking dead."
Examining the Devil Dial, Iason learns nothing further.
Examining the Box of Golden Faces, Iason give me a Sense Motive roll.
Examining the Riddle Vault, the Chelaxian summoner finds the individual letters of a riddle cleverly carved in between the leaves on the chest’s lid.
"Though different now sounds my name,
the spelling still remains the same.
Once prior leap of might, now becomes bird of white."
Examining the Smooth Stone Chest, Iason learns nothing further.
Examining the Holed Chest, Iason discovers a hidden panel on one side of the box, but no means to open it.
Guido, give me a will save.
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Iason reads the riddle aloud, then peers with furrowed brow at the Holed Chest. "There appears to be some sort of hidden panel, but I see no catch or mechanism to release it. Perhaps our detective knows of such devices...?" he says, glancing at Slachagok.
Etrigan, meanwhile, is grinning broadly at all of this, while watching Guido with predatory amusement.
"And what, pray tell, is so funny?" the Chelaxian asks the outsider, who shrugs and rattles off more of his devilish doggerel.
"I smile because it is my nature, you see--
"To be amused by what fools mortals can be
"For the entertainment, I'll give you one box for free
"We dove for the sea, but no doves did we see."
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"No enchantments on that smiling bastard," Slachagok indicates the Devil Dial, "but all the rest have some brand o' magic protections in place."
He steps next to Iason and follows the strange ring of stoma running around the Holed Chest. "Something special about this side of it, maybe. Some sort o' moveable panel maybe? 'S a bit familiar, I've got a good story about a trap door..."
As soon as Etrigan says the word "dove", the Riddle Vault opens to reveal a collection of over 40 rare incenses along with a book of instruction.
No, the writing is not Varisian. Care to make that untrained performance check mentioned above?
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Watching Guido leave the Smooth Stone Chest, Flinkae is somewhat taken aback.
'Of all of them, that one looked most soothing.'
Trading places with Guido, Flinkae perches in front of the Smooth Stone Chest. He takes in every aspect of it. Each detail, angle, bump, fleck, and color variation. Flikae listens to the Chest, tastes it, taps it gently with his beak.
Finding no external hints as to its function or release mechanism, Flinkae pokes and prods it with his magical senses, attempting to find a mechanim, a lock, some way to 'convince' the chest to disengage. Flinkae also casts 'prestidigitation' to temporarily sketch perceived channels of magical conduction on the surface of the chest.
Sadly, it looks like an unopened box.
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"Illusion and abjuration, you say, Slachagok? Deceptive, possibly. Intriguing."
Flinkae sets out a number of alternative ways of exercising different ways of perceiving the Smooth Stone Chest, looking for inconsistencies in the modess of perception. Flinkae closes his eyes, performing these explorations blind. He hums through his beak, laying it on the chest to cause the chest to vibrate, then follows the vibrations through the chest with his hands.
Flinkae spins the chest at different angles. He makes predictions, and pours water on one side of the chest, determining where the water will run on the chest, and perceiving it by touch (as well as hot/cold - the water should be cool).
Yes, Guido and Slachagok determine that the writing on the chest with holes is indeed music, an old and forgotten tune. However, humming it, well or poorly, evokes no response.