Nyarai, returning to the still-bound man, finds him looking dejected. He looks up: "Zandalus sees, praise, words fail." His tune had not in fact changed. The third doppelganger's surgeon's kit had a key with it, and it would unlock the shackles on the two corpses and yellow-robed man.
It takes some doing, but the paladin and the more creative party members manage to drag the doppelganger from the basement up the shaft into the boiler. Dragging the three shapeshifters to the barricade, they present the fruits of their labors to the guards. York appears from the side door, heralded by the sound of a padlock being undone and things being dragged from the door. As the guards keep their crossbows trained on the group, he inspects the corpses. He looks up at the group, seeing the signs of combat and struggle on their clothing and bodies.
"Very well. You've complied with our request. I will escort you to our leader. I don't know anything about yellow robes, but he can be brought along as well, I suppose. However," He stands up and gestures to the side door he exited, "I must ask you to relinquish your weapons till our leader speaks with you."
Iosif grumbles a bit about relinquishing his weapon, but decides given how much anatomy knowledge the alchemist must have. If things go south: the group is protected while everyone else would grab a weapon. He does, however, carry his ammunition with him. It's certainly not enough power to cause any lasting damage, but it'll do for personal security.
Ethyl happily hands over her daggers but keeps her gardening trowel despite having no plans for gardening in the near future. "Lead the way."
While they waited she put some theories about doppelganger mutatophores to test.
The sylph brushes her scarf as she lifts her arms to let herself be searched. "We are harmless and possess clothing only." she murmurs sheepishly. She jolts a bit when approached to be searched, as is scared of physical contact.
Her mind is racing as she eyes the mumbling man who was bound to the piping up until recently.
"Words fail indeed. We need to know more about this." Alvar says mildly as their tail flicks their anticipation. "But for now, let's keep moving." They take the magical backpack, slinging it over their shoulders to store their equipment inside later.
They watch impassively as the others bring out the yellow-robed prisoner, their arms folded, and when their turn to be searched comes, they quite willingly hand over their staff, though they make no mention of their amulet and its importance to wielding their magic.
As they wait, the wizard begins writing down the spells that they'd... remembered, for lack of a better term in their grimoire, scribbling extra notes and thoughts in the margins as they do so. This could be used thus against the abominations that I battle- They pause. Abominations? Like the zoogs... except worse, perhaps. Did I have some sort of grudge against things like that?
Frowning at the relinquish weapons speak, Enoch shakes his head in disbelief.
Probably can't use the old man's walking stick thing.
Enoch unbelievably unbelts his battered longsword, pushing into the sentry's chest, as the well put together (physically) Paladin stalks by the barricade.
Pharasma waits for you.
The Paladin doesn't comment further.
As the weapons are handed over, York shoulders Campre to steady him. One of the guards takes the yellow-robed man gently and guides him after the five of you are led through the makeshift guardhouse around the barricade down a hall. Across from a set of double doors a reddish curtain is nailed over a hallway, from behind which an acrid smell wafts.
York opens the doors, revealing a chapel packed with weary people. All eyes turn to witness your arrival, some casting wary glances at Alvar and Nyarai but no one says a word. Two children stop playing with a Garundi man to whisper amongst themselves.
The chapel is dominated at the far side by an altar to Pharasma - built from white and black granite, but shrines in the alcoves are dedicated to most of the popular gods, with a donation box just south of the doors bearing burned symbols of Asmodeus and Zon-Kuthon opposite a matching box to Pharasma. To the north is a more elaborate shrine to Desna, with a fragile and elegant statuette to the goddess made of white and blue porcelain. The smell of sweat and fear permeates the chapel, the smoke of candles and a couple pitiful fires doing little for the smell.
Kneeling at the Pharasmin altar a woman wearing dirty and stained black leather and cloth finishes a prayer before standing to greet the party. She is stunning, ivory skin with a green and a yellow eye. Her black hair is frazzled and tied back loosely. She gives the party a weary smile as York nods to her, setting Campre on a blanket near the altar.
"York tells me you have dealt with our problem of many faces. I thank you for that. My name is Winter Klaczka."
She holds out her silver holy symbol, the spiral of Pharasma, and utters a prayer to her goddess as a wave of healing energy washes over the group, including Campre.
"I'm sure you all have questions, and I am willing to answer those I can. However, we are in the midst of a crisis, and we need all the help we can get. Can I count on you once more?
York gathers the party's weapons and sets them behind the altar and stands close to Winter, showing deference.
Iosif wants to heave as the healing is given to him, instinctively flinching as his unholy symbol hits against leather armor. He stares Winter in the eye, surprised he of everyone is being trusted if the few things other than weapon designs he has felt and remembered are just disgust at Pharasma.
Once Winter introduces herself by name, Iosif responds. "Iosif. I do have to ask. Can you trust me? I... will come clean. The few times Pharasma has been mentioned, my blood has boiled under my skin. I know Pharasma is an enemy of the undead, but I have come to the conclusion I'm no ally of the undead either."
He sighs. "I feel an instinct to not even attempt to harm anyone or anything without the weapon that's at the altar, for the record. Using rusty implements to kill that doppelganger," he says as he points to the first one the group slayed, "felt unnatural in the extreme. I believe I can magically heal wounds now, but only two castings per day. You're the Pharasmin priest," he says as his voice oozes with resentment, "so I figure I should ask you if you trust me enough to heal anyone who needs it. "