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Xuan casts a critical eye over the goods.
"A good merchant knows when to push his luck. A better merchant knows when his luck is about to run out. I can see that your goods are of fairly decent quality, and given that we are currently besieged, it would be the very definition of a seller's market. However, the wise merchant knows that being too extortionate can harm future business dealings with the same customer... and the Siege Lord would certainly be classed as a large one. The deal seems fair."
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Galandir talks directly to the merchants.
"The unfortunate fact is that Absalom was not well prepared for this attack. Perhaps the leadership had gotten complacent. It was a colossal blunder to let the saboteurs hit the First Guard's main armory. Heads will have to roll for that - hopefully in the figurative sense.
For now we find ourselves in a desperate position. The First Guard needs your weapons, and frankly, you need them to have those weapons too. Even should you survive this siege - and that is not a given - you wouldn't be able to haul this stash with you as you flee the falling city.
Because that's what we are talking about. Not a skirmish that is easily won with or without your help, but Absalom falling to an army of demons and the living dead. It's that bad.
I spoke of you fleeing the city, but escape may not even be possible. I saw ghostly ships in the bay - the water route may be cut off. We need to fight and we need your weapons."
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Watching her fellow pathfinders speak up one by one, Cordula finally joins the conversation.
"I think my colleagues presented some pretty good reasons to help Absalom in this dire hours. If you still have concerns, I am willing to listen and will do my best to answer any questions you still may have."
ARMS DEALERS’ MEETING (THE EXCHANGE)
Xuan's calm appraisal draws a few nods from around the table — the merchants recognize the language of a man who knows his trade. But it is Galandir's words that land like a hammer.
The room is very quiet by the time the half-elf finishes speaking.
Tarven Hault stands motionless for a long moment, his silver ring turning slowly in his fingers. The calculation behind his eyes runs its course — and then, visibly, it concludes. He looks to the window as if he might somehow see the bay from here, and the ghostly ships Galandir mentioned.
"Ghostly ships," he repeats quietly. Almost to himself.
He turns back to face the room — not just the Pathfinders, but his own people. The merchants who had been arguing an hour ago fall silent under his gaze.
"We're done debating," he says simply.
One man at the far end of the table opens his mouth. Tarven stops him with a look.
"I said we're done." He straightens his coat and extends a hand to Galandir, "You'll have everything in this warehouse. Every blade, every shield, every bolt. I want it on record with the Siege Lord that Tarven Hault equipped the First Guard when it mattered most."
Then, quieter...
"And someone pour me a drink. Apparently we're saving a city today."
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As the room stirs back to life, a younger merchant quietly pulls your group aside. He has the careful manner of a man who picked the losing side and knows it.
"Something pushed us into this," he says. "Three weeks ago, a woman started making the rounds — merchants, brokers, middlemen. She had a talent for whispers. Falling prices, oversupply, a glut on the market. Just enough detail to sound credible. Nervous merchants do stupid things."
He produces a folded note.
"I didn't like not knowing who she was, so I pulled some threads. I got a name."
He holds it out.
"Muhlia Al-Jakri."
The name lands hard on anyone who recognizes it — and Pathfinders would. Muhlia Al-Jakri had once led a Society faction, until a scandal ended her tenure and left a colleague dead. She didn't leave quietly, and she didn't leave friendly.
"I don't know what she's after," he says. "But she didn't stir this up by accident."
THE RISE OF
GULGAMODH (SCARAB SAGES)
The Starhall is hushed save for the dry whisper of ancient parchment. Amenopheus and Tahonikepsu are bent over a long table scattered with brittle scrolls, their heads close together as they work through texts that look older than the city itself. Whatever they are searching for, they are searching urgently.
As you approach, Amenopheus straightens and steps away from the table, leaving Tahonikepsu to continue without him. He regards you with the measured calm of a man who has faced worse odds than a demonic siege and lived to document it.
"Good. You're here."
The Sapphire Sage carries a weathered scroll marked with silvery ink. “As you know, rebuilding our ancient order has been the main priority of the Scarab Sages, but we also take a keen interest in wondrous technology from the past and how those discoveries could benefit the present. This isn’t the first time Absalom’s fallen under attack, and there are untold defenses secreted away beneath centuries of new construction. Tahonikepsu and I have recovered several promising leads that—“
Tahonikepsu interrupts without looking up. “Amenopheus! This scroll speaks of a ritual that turns Absalom’s walls into living fire and its streets into carnivorous sand! Such potential! What a sight to behold!”
Wide-eyed with shock, Amenopheus warily turns to look back at his colleague. “To say nothing of that being more dangerous to our citizens than to the invaders, the city patched up that glaring problem several years ago after the Decklands almost leaked it to our enemies.” Tahonikepsu visibly deflates before she grabs another scroll and voraciously continues her research.
“As I was saying, we have identified a more promising and ancient defense described by—and perhaps built by—the wizard Beldrin centuries ago. This so-called ‘Gulgamodh’ is a weapon that lies buried beneath a fountain in the Precipice Quarter. I ask that you identify it, locate it, and activate it for use in the battle to come.”
Amenopheus sets two items on the table before you — a heavy, age-worn key and a yellowed map with a single location marked in faded ink: The Titan's Fountain.
"Beneath that fountain lies Gulgamodh," he says. "The sages did not go to the trouble of burying something ordinary. The key will get you where you need to go."
His directions prove precise. The fountain plaza is not hard to find — though what greets you is far from impressive. The plaza is run-down and partially collapsed, the stonework cracked, weeds pushing through every seam. Whatever grandeur the Titan's Fountain once commanded, the city forgot about it long ago.
A curious ten-foot-tall fountain stands at the center of a plaza in the Precipice Quarter. Shaped like a giant fist and built from steel that hasn’t become tarnished despite its apparent age, it looks almost as though some titan of old had punched its fist upward through the ground.
As you enter the plaza, the key begins to vibrate softly in your hand. A moment later, glowing script crawls across the surface of the fountain — lines of Celestial, Draconic, and Osiriani burning to life in the crumbling stone:
Xuan produces his thieves' tools with the same unhurried precision he brings to everything else. His massive fingers, deceptively nimble, work methodically along the fountain's base — probing, testing, searching for what doesn't belong. He finds it quickly. Using his crowbar, a section of stonework, added long after the original construction, comes away in pieces as he works the tool carefully along its seams.
The fountain shudders. Dust falls from the cracks. Beneath the removed stonework, something older and more deliberate is revealed — waiting.
✓ Xuan (Disable Device)
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The bard feels inspired, this time for a song. Ancient magic and music often coexist quite well, and though she doesn’t really ‘know’ that, her gnomish body resonates with both.
A flute appears naturally in her hands and a slow mournful toon pours out slowly. A few solid notes, and then a melody. The last note is held for a moment and then she takes a breath and sings, following the train of what she played.
”Ancient magic,
Yearning to be free.
It’s purpose,
Unknown to me.
But now we need,
The city needs,
Gulgamodh!
Rouse yourself for,
The fight to come.
Battle is here,
Show no fear.
Now we need,
The city needs,
Gulgamodh!”
Nearby, an Osiriani merchant pushing his roasted rat on-a-stick cart calls out to you as you all look at the writing with puzzled expressions. "It says; 'Here lies Gulgamodh, aegis of Absalom. When the city needs Gulgamodh, open the locks and call it forth with true and honest intent.' "
"Whatever that means." he says with a shrug and continues on pushing his cart.
Fern raises the flute to her lips and begins to play — slow, mournful notes that curl through the plaza like smoke. The melody builds with a quiet ache to it, and when she draws breath to sing, her voice carries a sincerity that needs no magical embellishment.
The glowing script on the fountain pulses once — as if something stirs beneath, hearing her — but the pulse fades, and the stone remains still. The song was not wrong. Perhaps the magic simply needs more than music to wake it.
Galandir steps forward without a word, his sharp eyes moving methodically across the fountain's surface. Where others might see only crumbling stone, he sees the gaps, the inconsistencies, the places where age and intention diverge. His fingers trace a carved seam, press, probe — and then, with a soft but decisive *click*, something gives way.
The fountain groans. Deep within the stonework, something ancient shifts — mechanisms that have not moved in centuries grinding slowly, reluctantly back to life. Dust cascades from every crack and fissure, and the glowing script blazes briefly brighter before settling into a steady, expectant pulse.
Skajja looks over the squiggly lines and declares "I have no idea what any of these words mean. I hope someone else does. Nor have I had time to study books... I do not think I will be much good in these tasks."
Skajja steps up to the fountain with the straightforward confidence of someone who has never met a problem that couldn't be solved with sufficient force. She finds her grip, plants her feet, and pulls. Stone groans in protest. Then, with a sharp crack that echoes across the plaza, a massive section of the fountain tears free and crashes to the ground.
For a moment, nothing happens.
Then the earth trembles.
What remains of the fountain begins to move — not crumbling, but unfolding. Stone grinds against stone as something immense drags itself upward from beneath the plaza floor, shedding centuries of debris like a waking giant shaking off sleep. Gulgamodh rises — ancient, enormous, and very much alive with purpose — the glowing script that summoned it still burning along its surface as it pulls itself fully free and stands, waiting.
The silence lasts exactly long enough to appreciate it.
"Impressive."
The voice is calm, almost admiring. A woman steps out from the plaza entrance, two mercenaries flanking her with blades already drawn. She is unhurried, her eyes moving from Gulgamodh to the key in your hand with the cool assessment of someone who has been watching and waiting for exactly this moment.
"You've saved us considerable trouble." She extends an open hand. "The key. Now. Walk away and this ends here — no reason for anyone to get hurt over an old piece of stone."
Her mercenaries spread out on either side of her. She does not look like someone who expects to be refused.
All eyes turn to Galandir.
The woman's hand remains outstretched, patient in the way that dangerous people are patient. Beside you, Gulgamodh stands motionless, ancient and immense, its glowing script still burning slowly across the stone.
The key sits in Galandir's hand.
She tilts her head just slightly.
"I won't ask again."
The plaza is very quiet.