Marcon has been following quietly and peacefully, sometimes muttering to himself. Despite his inherent combat capabilities, he actually flinched and hid when the violence against the zombies broke out.
"No, no. Twas Aroden who raised Absalom. These statues verily vex my understanding," he confirms.
As you search the room, you quickly locate an airtight bone scroll tube bobbing in the water. Inside is a remarkable document: the deed to the playhouse and even some of the surrounding neighborhood. This document in and of itself does not grant rights to the property, but it can be used to make a strong case for ownership for the goblins, given the lack of current owner.
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“That’s it? Boats and mysteries and pipes and masonry… and that is it?” Bork throws up his hands as they trudge back toward the playhouse. “I was at least hoping for a wild tribe of kobolds. Or even a single trap!”
He gestures dramatically toward Sir GoodShanks, who remains fully intact. “He doesn’t even have a dent! What am I supposed to do with myself now? Tighten bolts that are already tight?”
He sighs and mutters, “Maybe I’ll install a cup holder. Or a fan.”
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As for Marcon, did we not find magical hat in cellar?
"Why so we did!" exclaims Maxis. "A sort of raspberry beret. The kind you find in a secondhand store. Why it might almost have been designed for this moment."
Maxis digs it out of the group loot. "Marcon, this hat will magically disguise you to look... less undead. Try it on and think about how you used to look."
Marcon waits until they are back at the stairs leading up to the playhouse before donning the hat. It transforms into a jaunty cap of a style that you've only seen in old pictures and a matching outfit appears over the rags that were the undead man's only garments before. Flesh seems to fill in his gaunt features and an unremarkable man with slightly bad posture but intelligent, if wary, eyes stands before you.
"How do I look?" he asks.
When you get back to the main floor, some of the goblins are rehearsing the very play you attempted earlier, though you don't remember quite so much wrestling, burping or napping and you're almost certain they're not the correct lines or in the correct order.
Zusgut is hardly paying attention, instead rifling through pages and scratching through lines then writing more.
He looks up as they get to the theater, though.
"The Pathfinders! The Pathfinders are back!" he calls out, impressively garnering the attention of approximately half his subjects.
"How did it go? Did you kill the monster? Find anything interesting down there? Tell me your story so that I may immortalize it for the stage!" he insists.
"Veritably, we espied a reptilian behemoth of gargantuan proportions," says Magnus. "Subsequently, we were accosted by a failed band of thespians turned mercenary, and finally a scrum of ambulating corpses attempted to attenuate our existence, but instead, we are ready for a second act." He takes a deep bow, caught up in the fever of the stage once again.
The dragon moves closer and nudges Drokki with it's head.
A group of goblin children who have been watching Drokki's dragon from a distance scatter as he calls it over. From their disappointed shouts, it seems that he has interrupted them before they fed the beast.
Probably for the best since what they were going to try to feed it was a cobblestone.
"Someone lost in my basement! How curious. It seems like I should know about that," Zusgut says. He approaches Marcon and examines him closely.
"There's something odd about you, fella," the Goblin King says.
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The athamaru steps up, all beams and smiles. ”indeed! Macron is from the Absalom Archives. Indeed, they spend so long poring over old stuff that their fashion sense goes likewise! He has been researching paperwork for this mighty premises, and what luck he has had!” Koi turns to the bearer of the party loot. ”With our help, Macron found the title deed for this place! It was unclaimed, which is great, because that means it can support your claim!”
With much sing-song and flouncing, Koi bows deeply to the King. ”Oh King Zusgut!”
Zusgut focuses on Koi, quite pleased with his artistic performance. And, as with all art, it is less important what it says and more important what it feels. And Zusgut feels like Marcon is an ordinary, if quirky person that he's seen before.
"I think we shared a sandwich one time," the good king says thoughtfully.
Marcon opens his mouth to answer but is hustled out of the playhouse before he can ruin the ruse.
"Be this truly Absalom?" he asks, staring around in wonder at the city that he has not seen in 500 years. It is with sadness at first as the Puddles was a thriving area of culture when he died and now is largely ruins. But, it shifts to true wonder as they get to the other sections of the city.
Back at the Grand Lodge they find Drandle Dreng in much the same posture as Zusgut was recently - rifling through papers, making notes, muttering to himself, though Dreng is working on research rather than art.
"Oh. You're back. How did it go?" he asks when he looks up. "Who is this?"
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Before they go, Bork lingers near King Zusgut, rubbing the back of his neck.
“Your Majesty,” he says with an awkward half-bow. “Fine theater you’ve got. Sound acoustics. Historic substructure. And excellent water access, if a little corpsey. Congratulations on your future, unquestioned, ownership!”
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“Reluctantly excavated archivist. Possibly undead. Definitely dramatic.”
He gestures vaguely to the others. “These ones thought it'd be good to haul him up into daylight instead of leaving him to rot nobly in his crypt, like some kind of masonry-based moral lesson.”
“Name’s Marcon. Says he’s got secrets. Real old ones from a long time ago- which explains the outfit and partially the smell, but maybe that’s an Absalom thing.”
Sir GoodShanks, standing behind Bork, shifts slightly and adds in his steady, mechanical voice, “HE ASKED POLITELY.”
Bork rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah. Fine. He asked politely. And apparently that counts for something now.”
Then adds, with growing exasperation, “And no one even tried to kill us on the way out! Not one trap. Not even a loose floor tile. Sir GoodShanks remains pristine. I’m starting to suspect Absalom has a dangerous shortage of real adventuring problems.”
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"So, yeah, we found an old shrine to Dagon. Lots of elaborate murals and glitz, but very old, obviously abandoned long ago. And our buddy here was trapped in one of the walls. He asked us to let him out, so we did, and he didn't try to bite us or anything. The goblins seemed happy enough with us -- we killed an alligator roaming their basement that was giving them shpilkis. And we indulged their king by acting out a scene from his latest play -- believe me, those goblins are happy as clams living in that place. Born Theater Kids. They're probably going to be offering dinner theater and cabaret to intrepid patrons inside a month. Oddly, it seems that the cult of Norgorber was taking an interest in exploring those sewers too. Have you heard of an Olansa Terimor? She apparently hired some goons to scope things out for her, and they tried to ambush us, but honestly they were kind of pathetic. We spanked them and sent them on their way."
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Bork stares at Zenari for a moment, deep in consideration. Then, with a toothy grin, he replies "Generous offer, Zenari. Truly. Not everyone thinks to give a friend the gift of blunt-force repair work!"
He pats Sir GoodShanks on the side, who stands apart and slightly smug (if a robot can be considered smug)
"But let us save your talents for when honor demands it. There is no sense denting perfection just to give me something to do."
He adds, a bit quieter, "Besides, he gets weirdly proud when he stays shiny this long."
"Nobly met and nobly welcomed, Professor Bork and Good Sir Goodshanks...sir," Zusgut orates, apparently paraphrasing some play, perhaps one he, himself has written.
[b]"Should you ever decide to defend a kingdom as a knight errant,"[b] (apparently he doesn't know what "errant" means), [b]"please consider this an open invitation to join us here!"
Dreng eyes Marcon curiously and listens to the reports with one bushy eyebrow quirked up near his equally bushy hair.
"He does not look that old," Dreng comments, looking to the still disguised Marcon.
"Dagon! Norgorber! Terimor!" Each revelation seems to disturb Dreng more.
"I see that I will have to establish another expedition post haste!" he begins making notes.
Marcon steps up as Dreng's pen is scratching across parchment.
"Please, good worthies, it seems that I am in a place of honor and justice and I feel that you are people who can best decide what to do with the secret which I bear."
He pauses and, were he able to take a breath to steady himself, it's what he would do, then he begins.
"My name is Marcon Tinol, in life I was an accountant and bookkeeper for House Candren of Absalom. At the time, House Candren was a rather unimportant, if moderately wealthy part of the nobility of the city. They owned many shipping concerns and dealt in sea trade throughout the Inner Sea, although the heavy taxes and fees levied upon them made it difficult to build upon their successes very easily.
"Suddenly, in what seemed like an overnight transformation, the family’s fortunes changed for the better and their wealth began to steadily grow beyond any projections I made. My surprise was brushed
aside by Ednathian Candren, the patriarch of the family. I felt it was my duty, however, to digging deeply to find the reasons for the improvements. I found that the family had ceased paying any taxes or fees to the city or any other government in the region. I was certain of a mistake, and contacted my counterparts in these organizations, but my questions and letters were ignored, lost, or were met with strange responses that didn’t make sense.
"I admit, my eagerness to solve the mystery soon became an obsession and my own undoing. I came to learn that the head of the Candren family had, through great expense and trouble, found a wizard willing to cast a
wish spell to guarantee freedom from taxation and fees for perpetuity. Eventually, the family noticed my curiosity. While the family was sure the power of the wish would keep their money safe, they were concerned about their reputation. Worried I knew too much and that word would get out of his actions, Candren ordered me sent to the Tombs of the Living"
He hesitates, clearly disturbed by the next portion. "The last thing I remember from that time was the faces of the trio of thugs and the terrible smiles on their faces as they walled me in."
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”Huh, isn’t there a Candren on the Grand Council? I guess paying no taxes is the gift that just keeps giving.” says Maxis. ”Gotta hand it to them. Smarter than what I would have wished for.”
Maxis doesn’t actually seem too concerned or particularly interested in Marcon’s revelation, though he seems pleased that Dreng has gotten himself worked up at his report. When the bosses reacted like that, as a Pathfinder, you know your stock just went up.
He turns to the robot. ”What would you wish for, Sir Goodshanks?”
Sir GoodShanks stands still, servos humming faintly as he processes the question. When he speaks, his voice is level, deliberate.
“I would ask to know what I was built for, not just what I was built to do.”
A pause. One hand flexes, mechanical fingers clicking softly.
“Failing that, a spare elbow spring. The left one is beginning to slip.”
Magnus has heard the same as Maxis, a well-positioned descendant of House Candren sits in high places in Absalom still but he doesn't know the person or more about them really.
"I would also be positively inclined to explore the subterranean temple ruins more thoroughly, should the opportunity present. Especially if my own cartographic skill could be implemented to document the explorations for posterity." says Magnus with significant interest.
"Indeed, you are right," Dreng says to the Pathfinders as they voice the importance of this revelation.
"Well, it seems I have two things to plan for, now," he continues. "But both to be dealt with by field agents on another day. Thank you for your services, today."
He turns to Marcon. "If you are willing, I would like to provide you sanctuary."
"Verily wouldst I enjoy that. So long as my domicile allows me to gaze upon the sun."