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Aethon easily gathers extensive information on the gang. The Red Fists were typical toughs who collected protection money from poorly-connected local businesses. Though they did provide actual protection, they still were infamous for being particularly brutal to anyone who did not pay in time. When they tried to expand into Silas's territory, they were shut down in an two-minute battle that ended with half of them dead and the goblin permanently disfigured - reportedly from when Silas animated the severed head of the gang's now-dead leader (a formidable sorcerer) as a flying, gnashing skull. Aethon learns that the martial artist is somewhat of a genius at combat, able to adapt to various situations with astounding rapidity. However, he lacks common sense, good judgment, patience, and the ability to work well in a team. The goblin is supposedly somewhat of a crack shot, and often attacks at night, taking advantage of his species' natural stealth and agility to scale building and assassinate his foes from the rooftops. Aethon learns that Club Man is un-special as people come, barring the fact that he can grow to twice his height for a little bit each day thanks to his Duergar heritage. However, the "sneaky, conniving bastard" apparently has numerous tricks up his sleeves beyond just potions and scrolls. He can dance a weird, twitchy dance that forces the viewer to join in, and has been known to land attacks that should have been impossible after focusing for a few seconds.
You return to the bar successfully. You have two more days to complete the job.
Do Not Read:
You lose 7 gold and your pan pipes. However, you learn that the Red Fists are an organization of for-hire thugs. There was eight of them, until Silas murdered half of them when they infringed on his territory. Three of the remaining four hide in a warehouse on the side of town. One of them, a martial artist of some sort, visits the warehouse infrequently, and sleeps on rooftops. The other three are as follows: "A sneaky, conniving bastard who packs a bunch of potions and scrolls", "A big dude who smacks people with his club", and a "punk-ass goblin with a gun".
"I really am. Off we go." He leads you back to the Gauntlet.
You feel a tap on your shoulders. At some point, the Half-Elf approached you. "You all good? Bit creepy, isn't he?"
As you leave, Silas calls after you, "You have three days! If you fail, make sure I'm not implicated!"
"A burglar, two thugs, and maybe a martial artist. But he might not be there." "Now get out."
"So that bastard is still alive..." Silas leans back and grins diabolically. "He knows I don't do anything for free. And leaving my city is quite an undertaking." "So if you want me to come with you, you'll have to do me a favor. I have some enemies in this city that I want dead. In a particular fashion. I want you to bring me their hearts - I can't say I care about the rest of the body." With a hiss of pain, he leans over a opaque jar from which a faint buzzing emerges. He speaks a harsh, commanding word, and a bloated horsefly lazily swirls up to his hand, where he crushes it. The blood flies from his hand in a mist, landing on a sheet of paper and quickly scribing a map. "The warehouse demarcated here is where you will find them. There will be three or four of them, maybe expecting trouble. None of them are competent casters, to my knowledge." "They'll have red fists tattooed on their face. Kill them, bring me their hearts - at least three. And don't try to deceive me, or I will educate you on the meaning of pain." He looks down at his hand, spattered with insect bits, with distaste. "Emilia! Clean this up." A young Half-Awake woman - no older than sixteen - meekly enters the room. Wordlessly, she licks his hand clean, swallowing the mosquito's remnants before leaving just as quietly.
DC 25 Knowledge (Religion):
The "Half-Awake" are partially-undead humans. Though they lack of many the vulnerabilities of undead, they are functionally basically human. Creating Half-Awake is extremely difficult and evil. "Ah, yes, I've heard about the troubles in Taloen. And you say Mosker sent you? Hmm..." Int DC 13: Mosker must be older than he seems.
You enter the building, and the half-orc butler leads you through a spacious hallway that, though plain, shows the signs of wealth. Every surface is spotless and every piece of furniture is well-crafted, though far from ostentatious. The bultler leads you past several doors, most of them closed and the few open ones leading to mundane rooms such as a kitchen and a dining room. Talwyn and Aethon see several other servants, many of which are horrifically scarred as well - and the physically unmarred ones seem... off, in a strange way. DC 20 Sense Motive:
They have been inflicted with some sort of living death. They are partially undead, rendering them slaves of their creator. The entire building has a waiting malevolence about it, as if years of evil have encrusted the very air you breath.
The half-orc finally leads you into what appears to be a combined study, library, lab, and operating room. At a desk sits a withered old man with glittering blood-red eyes. He is pale, and incredibly gaunt, as if most of the blood has been drained from his body. His mouth is partially open, revealing a toothless grin and yellow-green gums. He is evil. "Hello. You can call me Mister Cross. Now speak, and don't waste my time."
Talwyn easily spots the man, who is wearing the bandanna as planned. He and Aethon casually cut across the street. "Good. Let's go." He no longer appears even slightly drunk, as he leads you down a twisting path of alleys and byways until you arrive at a worn-down but secure-looking tavern-like building. It is unadorned, beyond a drop of blood motif with an 'X' - a cross, perhaps - in its center. Your guide knocks three times, and steps back. "I'll stay where I can see you if you stand right here. You have two hours - after that, you'll have to find your way our on your own."
A few moments pass before a horrifically deformed half-orc arrives to open the door. "Master is expecting you. Come in." His voice is scratchy and soft - unsurprising, considering the grievous scars upon his throat.
Still talking barely loud enough to be heard, the half-elf sips the last of his drink. "Get a drink. Wait ten to fifteen minutes. Come outside - when you're facing straight out the door, that's twelve. Look to a quarter past ten." "I'll be wearing a red bandanna. Go to me. If I'm not wearing the bandanna, go back to wherever you're staying, 'cuz that means something came up. You'll get a refund." As he finishes his statement, he clumsily rises from his chair, shoulders rudely past the two of of you, and steps out the door with the slight stagger of a drunk man.
You go to the Arson alleys. Do Not Read:
Aethon loses 9 gold and 10 silver somewhere along the way, but you don't run in to any other trouble. You reach the Hathaway safely. The tavern is seedy, and the bartender doesn't seem to notice you - or at least, he doesn't care enough to call out to you. Most of the other patrons ignore you. "Velocity." The half-elf doesn't look up from his drink as he mutters the word, just barely loud enough for Talwyn to hear. He is clad in unassuming clothes - primarily consisting of dirty browns and greens, and seems, by all outwards appearances, to be studiously ignoring both of you.
You both rest - Talwyn alarming the room before going to bed - and recuperate.
Lucos nods at Aethon's hand, but does not shake it. "If you need directions to the Hathaway, speak to Jurgen." He then rises from his chair, and notably using almost the exact syntax he used when he left the Gauntlet this morning, says, "Well, I had best be off. Best of luck on all your endeavors, and remember: half-past nine, tomorrow morning, sharp."
Lucos hesitates momentarily, and then shakes his head. "It would draw too much attention. And if things go south with Silas while you are in his territory, your eidolon will not be of any help."
"Yes, the guard will recognize you."
You return to the Mithril Guantlet to wait for Lucos.
At exactly five o'clock, the door opens and Lucos steps inside. "Greetings. I have contacted Silas and arranged a meeting." "At nine-thirty tomorrow, you are to come to the Hathaway, an inn in the Arson Alleys. You will be provided a guide, who will stay within sight of the entrance to the Hathaway for two hours exactly. If you do not come back by then, he will leave." "When you enter the Hathaway, you will be contacted by a man. His signal will be 'velocity'. Your countersign is 'temerity'." As he speaks, he writes all of his instructions down on a sheet of paper, which he promptly folds into precise fourths and passes to Talwyn. "That will be all. Any questions?"
You buy the Ant Haul Wand (CL 1st) with 10 charges remaining as well, for 150 gold.
You buy a wand of detect secrets doors (CL 1st) for 375 gold, supposedly with 25 charges remaining.
Aethon finds the following wands for sale, each with the listed amount of charges, supposedly. Detect Secret Doors - 25 charges
After a brief walk, you arrive in a small section of the market that sells wands and rods. They are selling cheaply - some as much as 50% off - and all likely missing more charges than the signs and salesmen claim.
"Very well..." He raps twice on the surface of the book and mutters an incomprehensible string of command words before handing Talwyn the solid-stone book. "The command phrase to turn it to stone and back is "Udmunda Ter", but only when it's closed." "It's in Dwarvish, by the way. I presume a scholar such as yourself would be fluent, however."
The alchemist grunts. "It's useless now." Kn Alchemy DC 20:
It's a marrowrip rod. It's illegal. It's one-use. It's usually lethal. It's pretty expensive. They were developed by the Undermage, originally. The flint-toothed vendor hisses in frustration when Talwyn grabs the body, but shrugs. "Well, you reached the corpse first. Which one do you want?"
"I'm here every day."
As Talwyn readies to drag Aethon to the next vendor, he hears the sounds of a scuffle. "IDIOT! THIEF! DON'T SHAKE THAT!" A heavyset man, his face bearing the scars of many fights, pulls something away from the vendor at an alchemist's stand. "Fool!" The alchemist grabs a four-inch long bone tube, plugged on both ends with steel, and hurls it end-over-end at the fleeing thief. A sickening, grinding crunch and a wet tearing sound fills the air, as the bones near where the tube strikes are pulled out of his body to gather around the tube. "Idiot!" The crowd in the area clears out extremely quickly - other than the vendors, few people remain. The vendors themselves seem upset with the alchemist - understandably so, as he just scared off many of their potential customers. The flint-toothed vendor seems to taste the air, and starts to scramble to his feet, likely to retrieve the corpse.
"Of course. I like being able to see, and I go through them fairly quickly. As to what kind? Health, very fresh, undamaged - just bring me a decapitated head, no more than a day old, and it should be good." "Make sure the person you get eyes from isn't too squinty, I don't want to be nearsighted. They've got to be human - nonhuman eyes make me nauseous." "No children's eyes, they don't fit properly in the socket."
"A pair of eyes apiece."
His nostrils flare, and he grins again. "You sound like a smart man. I'm sure you've noticed my four more... interesting items." Next, he taps the stone book. "This is the research of a master of petrification. Very scientific." His other hand flicks to the thorn-and-bone embossed grimoire. "The man who wrote this tried to pull Madness up by the roots. It pulled him down and showed him things men should not see." Next, his hands dance together to touch the onyx-surfaced book. "This details the process of summoning and binding various types of extraplanar undead. A risky business, to be sure." Finally, he reaches over to the skin-bound book, and lightly brushes his fingers across the surface, though he seems loathe to touch it. "This is the journal of a worm-that-walks. I find his insights rather unsettling."
Talwyn finds himself particularly drawn to one vendor, who sits on a blanket with his wares spread around him. The vendor himself is a old man with skin dark as the night, wearing clothes of various shades of blue and a heavy red blindfold over his eyes. There is a noticeable area that is clear around him - the usual pickpockets and loiterers seem to steer clear of the blindfolded man. As you approach, he smiles, showing off a fine set of flint teeth with small runes etched into their surface. "How can I be of assistance on this fine day?" He only has four items of particular note - the rest are just tomes detailing topics, that though erudite indeed, are well known to Talwyn and utterly useless to Aethon. The first is a book bound - seemingly somewhat recently - in baby-smooth human skin. It is ever so slightly larger than one's hand, and as thick as a pinky finger. The second is a book with velum pages between two almost paper-thin sheet of onyx, and is rather large, large enough that it would take both arms and a desk to read efficiently. The third is a book carved from a single piece of basalt, and almost seems to be a paperweight. The fourth book is a decently-sized black leather grimoire with intricate designs of bones and thorns embossed across its cover.
Her eyes wide, she takes the coin and vanishes into the crowd. After a few minutes, you arrive at a small market, bustling with figures clad in dark, concealing clothing. It smells of alchemical substances and arcane expenditure. Talwyn and Aethon see stands peddling tomes, scrolls, potions, strange knick-knacks, and various alchemical devices.
Aethon can tell she is 100% for real.
"I don't have any other choice! Bloody Silas will set my bones on fire if I don't!"
The thief squeaks, and Aethon realizes the pickpocket is nothing but a small girl, her hair dirty and tangled. Slight bruises are visible on her arm and face, and she rapidly but uselessly tries to pull away from Aethon as she begins to try to pull away from him. On her shoulder, leaning out of a small carrier on her pack, a small, starving puppy yaps at Aethon. Tears of fear in her eyes, she pleads "Please don't hurt me, mister! I didn't mean any harm!" She carries the soft accent of someone from Valest, a theocratic city-state not far to the east of the City of Thieves.
Do Not Read:
Not long after leaving the Mithril Gauntlet, Aethon feels a hand slip into one of his back pockets, doubtless intent on stealing something.
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