Rowan blinks at Byldeth’s sudden swing, then quickly shifts to stand between the guard and the dwarf, pivoting the poor fellow like he’s saving a fragile sapling from a stray plow. “Now what’d you do that for, huh?” he grumbles at Byldeth before turning to the guard, voice low. “Listen, friend, I’d rather keep you from gettin’ any more lumps, but this here paladin’s all riled up—like a bull that’s seen red. We only got a handful of questions—answer ’em true, and we’ll be outta your fields quick as a summer storm. Nobody’s gotta know you took a tumble. So how’s it gonna be? You talk nice, or you want more love from my holy friend?”

The door guard reels from Byldeth’s punch, staggering in Rowan’s grip as a sharp grunt of pain escapes his lips. His eyes dart between the paladin’s raised fists and Rowan’s serious expression, weighing his options. The warehouse door creaks softly, swaying slightly in the dusk breeze. Beyond it, shadows stretch across crates and barrels, offering a dark sanctuary where prying eyes won’t see. The sounds of the harbor persist, but this particular stretch of dock feels eerily isolated, like a pocket of silence hidden amidst the city's usual chaos.

Rowan’s gravelly voice cuts through the moment.

The door guard’s breath is ragged, his pulse visibly hammering at his throat. His head turns slightly, eyes flicking toward his slumbering companion before settling back on the group. He licks his lips, hesitating. A moment of tense silence. Then—his shoulders sag slightly. His voice is hoarse, edged with reluctant pragmatism.

Through his gritted teeth, he utters, “Damn it… Fine.” His body loosens just enough to show he’s stopped struggling, though his eyes remain watchful, wary. His fingers twitch, but they make no move toward a weapon. “I’ll talk. Just… make it quick.”

The dim light from the warehouse doorway casts long, stretched shadows over the dockside. The door remains open behind you, and the sleeping brute is still slumped against his bindings.

"Speaking of spells, this one will only last one minute, so let's take this conversation inside, shall we?" The warlock steps into the storehouse's waiting darkness, eager to avoid any prying eyes.

"Oh" Byldet quickly holds his fist, stopping it before it could accidentally harm his friend. "Sorry- got too carried." He chuckles in nervousness, taking a step back and letting the others do the investigation work. Well, at least he served for a good intimidation.

He took a sip of his vial, coughing as he awaited for the information.

Rowan eases the guard forward, steering him through the open doorway. “Alright, let’s shuffle along—this talk’ll be quick as a summer downpour,” he mutters under his breath, casting a wary glance at the bound brute snoozing on borrowed time. He steps over the threshold and looks around at the others, his tone low. “So, who’s gonna ask the questions? Time’s short before that big ox wakes, and I’d rather not fight him again if we don’t have to.”

As the others look from face to face, Ellanise feels her old impatience rise, and she steps forward toward the captured guard. "We know a high-priced item was recently brought here. Where is it?"

Intimidation: 7

As soon as she begins, she hears her mentor's encouragement to remain calm, and it causes her voice to falter.

The warehouse doors groan shut behind them, swallowing the group in a hush. The air is thick inside, with the scent of aged wood, damp burlap, and the faint tang of salt. Stacked crates and barrels line the walls in the dim lighting, an audience to the interrogation.

The door guard stumbles slightly as he's shoved inside, hands still tense at his sides. The larger brute remains slumped against a stack of crates, his breathing deep and rhythmic—The spell still holding him in enchanted sleep.

After Ellanise's question, the door guard exhales sharply, lips pressing into a thin line. His fingers drum once on his knee before he tilts his chin slightly upward, as if gauging the room. "You're gonna have to be a hell of a lot more specific, sweetheart." His eyes flick toward the stacks of crates and shelves around them. "Half the city’s crooks move things through this place. We got high-priced jewelry, rare components, art, smuggled relics, black-market potions, forged documents, enchanted weapons… You want me to play guessing games, or do you actually know what the hell you're lookin’ for?"

A slow smirk pulls at the corner of his lips, emboldened by the sheer volume of illicit goods cycling through this warehouse and the idea he might have an edge over the party.

There is a faint creak of the dockside outside, an almost subtle reminder that the market will be opening soon, and if your timing is off, more people will start arriving.

Teryn lets out a quiet sigh, brushing some imagined dust from his sleeve before fixing the door guard with an impassive silver-eyed gaze. “Ah, the ever-classic bravado,” he muses, his voice smooth as silk, tinged with mild amusement. “I do appreciate the effort—truly, it’s admirable. But let’s not waste each other’s time, shall we?”

He steps forward, slow and measured, hands folded neatly behind his back. “We’re looking for a book. A rather important one. Old, rare, filled with cosmic nonsense that most people wouldn’t give a damn about—except the ones who do would pay a fortune or worse to get their hands on it.” His gaze flicks toward the unconscious brute, then back to the guard, smile never quite reaching his eyes. “Now, I’m sure you could make this difficult. Hold onto some sense of loyalty, perhaps spin a few riddles. But we’re on a schedule, you see, and I’d really hate to let my companions get impatient.”

He leans in slightly, his voice dipping into something quieter, cooler. “So why don’t we save ourselves some time? Who wanted the tome? Where is it now? And before you think about playing clever, do keep in mind that my friends here are far less inclined toward civility than I am.” He gestures loosely toward Byldeth and Käinen before giving the guard an expectant look, as though he has all the time in the world—when in reality, he knows they have very little.

Intimidation: 23

The door guard shifts uncomfortably, his eyes darting between the unconscious brute, the others looming around him, and the warlock whose silver gaze seems to pierce straight through him. His bravado wavers as Teryn’s words settle into his mind like weighted stones. He swallows hard, then exhales through his nose, clearly weighing his options. He knows the type—mercenaries and misfits who’ve clearly tangled with people like him before. He could hold his tongue, sure, but a busted jaw or a blade in the ribs weren’t worth it.

“Fine,” he grunts, voice low. “Yeah, a book came through here. And not just any book—one of those real rare ones, the kind that makes people paranoid just talking about it. We don’t usually deal in that kind of thing, but the boss made an exception.” He shifts his weight, glancing toward the door. “I don’t know where it is now. That’s the truth! It never sat here long. We don’t hold onto things like that. We move them, and move them fast.” His lips tighten before he continues, speaking reluctantly. “But I know who arranged the sale. If you’re looking for answers, you want Veyla. She set the whole thing up.” He pauses to let the name sink in, his expression darkening. “She’s the one who speaks to people who want things and people willing to steal them. She don’t work for us, exactly—we just… keep her around because she’s useful. But she’s smart. Knows how to keep things quiet, how to keep people happy.” His voice lowers slightly. “And if she ain’t happy, she makes damn sure you aren’t either.” His fingers twitch slightly, as if resisting the urge to rub at a scar that isn’t visible. “She don’t sell things herself. She brokers deals—connects people who don’t want to be seen shaking hands in the open. The one who was contacted about the book, set up the Rats, and made sure it got out of the city clean. If anyone knows where it is now, it’s her.” His jaw tightens again before he mutters, “But you didn’t hear it from me.”

At that moment, the unconscious brute lets out a deep grunt, shifting slightly where he lies, as if the magic keeping him down is beginning to wear off. The door guard sees this and tenses, as if expecting things to turn violent again at any moment. Still shaken up from Teryn, he continues.

“Veyla operates out of The Gilded Iris.” He spits onto the ground, as if just saying the name leaves a bad taste in his mouth. “It’s one of those high-class places, tucked away where only the right people know how to find it. Fancy drinks, fine music, all draped in velvet and candlelight. It ain’t just a place for nobles to sip wine and listen to string quartets, though. It’s got… other rooms. Rooms where the real business happens.” His eyes narrow slightly. “But you can’t just walk in and ask for her. It don’t work like that. She only deals with people who know how to ask the right way. And I sure as hell don’t know how. You need an invite. Or a name.” His voice dips lower, almost conspiratorial. “You don’t just walk up and knock. You either know the way in, or you’re wasting your time.” He pauses, then smirks bitterly. “Of course… the Rats know about that.” He scoffs, then tilts his head toward the darkened city streets. “Course, you’ll have to get it out of them. And I doubt they’ll be keen to share.”

OOC: DM, does Ellanise recognize the name Veyla from before she was arrested?

OOC : Ellanise wouldn't recognize the name. She may have unknowingly done a job that was brokered by her, but no one has ever name-dropped Veyla around you. The Duskrats operated in the lower and mid-tier criminal world, dealing with theft, smuggling, and the occasional contract job. Veyla, however, was a name that existed in the upper echelons of the underworld.

Rowan stands off to the side, arms folded but fingers absently drumming his belt. His gaze flicks between the guard and the shadowy shelves lining the warehouse walls, curiosity dancing in his eyes. He doesn’t interrupt the questioning—just quietly files away every bit of information that floats by. Now and then, his attention drifts over the stacked crates, half-expecting to catch a glimpse of something that’d solve this all in one stroke. (Perception: 15 (roll of 19 for advantage/disadvantage))

Lucky or not, he just exhales a soft sigh and keeps his mouth shut—plenty of voices in this conversation already, and he’s content to watch, listen, and be ready if everything goes sideways again. 

(He is still grappling the guard, right? How much light is there here again? Dim light, right?)

(You could still be grappling if you'd like. I pictured it as if you handled him inside and now it is let go as he cooperates, but if you'd like to say the grapple is still on, it can be. No worries)

As the door guard hesitates, shifting uncomfortably, Rowan’s eyes sweep the dimly lit warehouse. The towering shelves cast long, jagged shadows across the floor, and the scent of aged wood and stale seawater clings to the air. The crates are stacked haphazardly—some bearing the wax seals of known trading companies, others unmarked, their origins and contents unknown.

Could be knocked over with a swift kick for some type of improvised attack should things turn south you think, however, something catches your eye. Nearby, a small wooden crate near the edge of the room—unlike the others, this one isn’t covered in dust. The lid is slightly ajar, and something is nestled inside, partially obscured beneath straw packing.

Meanwhile, the guard  continues to scoff at the questions, a flicker of defiance still in his eyes. “You think I know where every damn stolen book ends up?” he grumbles, shifting. “All I know is that the Rats got what they were after, and it didn’t stay in their hands for long. They were paid well—real well. More than any normal job. That’s why word spread.”

His lip curls, and he glances toward Ellanise. “Your old friends weren’t too keen on outsiders pokin’ around about it, neither. If you’re looking for ‘em, be careful. They ain’t just runnin’ scams and picking pockets anymore.”

(I will assume that Rowan let the guard go as he was cooperating and is surrounded by us. And Rowan has other plans than holding hands with a guard.)

Rowan, half-listening to the guard’s grousing, casts a sly glance around the shelves. No sense leaving empty-handed, he thinks, stepping back from the conversation as though he’s just finding a better angle. Hands tucked discreetly under his cloak, he lets the guard’s chatter mask the sound of his boots across the creaking floor (Stealth: 10/15). His eyes light on a half-open crate—fresh, no dust—and he can’t help but sidle over, curiosity piqued. He eases the lid a touch wider and looks inside, casually glancing around if anyone observes and pocketing the first best choice as silent as possible if no one was looking (Sleight of hand: 6/12). 

(I'm rolling twice on each check, so in case if there is advantage/disadvantage on a roll you can take your pick.)

Teryn seems satisfied with the information offered up by the guard. Taking a few more steps deeper into the warehouse, he withdraws his rod of the pact keeper, +1 from his robe and uses it to regain some pact energy, which he uses to cast detect magic. If the warehouse is used to store stolen goods, they might as well confiscate anything that could be of use to their investigation. He peers around for any traces of magic items.

Perception if needed: nat 1

As Rowan’s fingers brush against the cool silver metal of the item in the crate, he lifts it from the straw lining the inside. A... Tankard? Its weight is solid, heavier than expected for its size, and the craftsmanship is far too fine for a dockside warehouse like this. There is a stern face sculpted into one side that gives it an air of quiet authority—almost as if it’s judging the drinker before them. The swirling engravings along its polished surface catch the dim light, and a faint ripple of magic hums beneath his touch—incredibly subtle, but undeniably present. It isn’t just some mug, this is something special.

At the same time, Teryn’s spell takes hold.

A soft ripple of energy spreads outward, weaving through the warehouse and illuminating the unseen. His vision adjusts as his arcane senses pick up not just one, but two traces of magic. One, of course, is the tankard Rowan now holds. The other? Tucked just beneath a sloppily stacked pile of ledgers and papers, forgotten on a nearby table; an envelope.

Something about it calls to him—not with power, but with a quiet insistence. As he approaches, the glow intensifies ever so slightly. Moving aside the topmost sheets, he uncovers the sealed envelope dropped off from the messenger earlier, its wax seal already broken. Even without opening it, the magic clinging to it is undeniable—Abjuration, faint but deliberate, as if whatever was enclosed had been meant to be preserved or protected.

And then—a noise from outside.

A low shuffle of boots, the murmur of voices just beyond the warehouse walls. Someone—multiple someones—are getting closer. The guard notices too, his smirk widening just a fraction. “You’re about to have more company,” he murmurs, his voice laced with something between amusement and warning. “Hope you lot don’t mind makin’ new friends.”

Rowan slides the shiny tankard into his pack with a quick, practiced motion, using the guard’s smug warning as cover. No time to dwell on the flicker of magic he felt—it’s theirs now, whatever it is. Glancing around, he hopes to spot a narrow side door or window that might lead outside (Perception: 9/20). “We’ve milked this place dry,” he whispers sharply. “Time to make true on our promise and leave as quick as a summer storm.”

Ellanise's mind is immediately spinning as her suspicions are confirmed: The Rats were involved. They were the ones who stole the tome. She can't help herself, she begins wondering who was specifically sent to steal the book. Was Mariel? Mouse? The Duskrats never used to work the university before. Who is Veyla? Is she in charge now? If so, what happened to Ryn? She didn't get a chance to ask Mariel about Ryn.

The elf is still hardly listening when the door guard addresses her directly. She snaps to attention, her head jerking a little almost as if she had been struck. How does he know she used to run with the Rats? She scowls, her lips parting in confusion. She pays a little closer attention to the guard's face. "Do I know you?" she almost whispers.

“You’re about to have more company,” he murmurs, his voice laced with something between amusement and warning. “Hope you lot don’t mind makin’ new friends.”

Ellanise blinks. Looking around, she whispers loudly, "We need to get out of here." She looks back at the guard. "Is there a back door? Or maybe a window?"

Teryn swiftly pockets the enchanted letter, his fingers brushing over the faintly thrumming magic as he tucks it away beneath the folds of his robe. There’s no time to inspect it now—only to ensure it stays in their hands rather than their approaching “friends.” As Ellanise whispers her warning, Teryn moves alongside Rowan, sweeping his gaze over the dim interior for any gap. Even a small hole would be enough for him to misty step through and create a distraction for the others.

Perception: 15

The door guard just grins as Ellanise demands an exit. "A back door?" he echoes, voice thick with amusement. "This ain't a bloody tavern. What do you think this place is, a damn inn?" He snickers, shaking his head. "You came in through the front. Only one way out, far as I see it."

As if to emphasize his point, a distant thud echoes from outside—the unmistakable sound of heavy boots hitting the wooden docks. More than one set.

Teryn’s sharp gaze catches something—a storage hatch near the far end of the warehouse, low to the ground, partially covered by a worn canvas sheet. Likely used for moving goods in and out without attracting too much attention. Small, but large enough for a person to squeeze through. A tight fit, but possible.

Meanwhile, Rowan’s eyes dart toward the high-set warehouse windows, their warped glass panes catching the dim torchlight. Not an easy climb, but if shattered or pried open, they could provide a hasty vertical escape.

Outside, voices rise—casual, but expectant. "We’re late. You sure this is the spot?’"

"‘Course I’m sure. Same place as last time. Hope the good stuff’s still here.’"

"‘It better be. I didn't come all this way to haggle over scraps.’"

A loud rap echoes against the warehouse door, deliberate but impatient. The handle jiggles. "Hey! We got business. Open up already.’"

The door guard just smirks at them, shifting slightly. "Told ya. Business hours. You gonna stay and browse?"