Ryder pulls his cowl up over his face, keeping his eyes down. As he walks by, he recognizes one of the bodies as the Watchman from one of his Housebreaking jobs. He never allied himself with either of these guilds, but he was good enough that he had been hired by them both at some point. He felt three pairs of eyes boring into his back and tried to avoid making eye contact with any of them. Finally, he approaches the watchmen, "Any idea who these men are?" He asks.
"Well I suppose we should carry on with our quest. Delaying here needlessly only works to endanger our mission." After Abishai is confident no one in this situation is Floon, he loses interest in his investigation and is determined to continue to their objective.
Ryder pulls his cowl up over his face, keeping his eyes down. As he walks by, he recognizes one of the bodies as the Watchman from one of his Housebreaking jobs. He never allied himself with either of these guilds, but he was good enough that he had been hired by them both at some point. He felt three pairs of eyes boring into his back and tried to avoid making eye contact with any of them. Finally, he approaches the watchmen, "Any idea who these men are?" He asks.
{{Does Ryder recognize the blood drenched men?}}
((Maybe, Ryder might've worked or saw any of these men but couldn't remember the name of any, but he is sure no one was in any relevant position))
Leaving the cordoned-off street behind, the party presses on through the Dock Ward, following the winding path toward the Skewered Dragon. The towering tenements crowd in around them, their upper floors leaning so closely together that only narrow slivers of the sky remain visible. At ground level, shadows cling to the streets, broken only by the occasional glow of a lantern. Most of the streetlamps have been shattered, their glass littering the cobblestones, their candles long since stolen.
The air is thick with the mingling scents of salt, rotting wood, and human waste, the grime of the ward settling into every crevice. Run-down buildings line the street, their doors warped from years of damp sea air, their walls scrawled with faded graffiti or covered in peeling paint.
As they round a corner at Zastrow Street and Fillet Lane, something out of place catches their eye—a shop unlike the others. Its deep purple facade stands bold against the dreary backdrop, a deliberate statement in a neighborhood stripped of color. In the window, a stuffed beholder sits motionless, its eyestalks frozen in a perpetual stare. Above the door, an elaborate wooden sign curls with intricate lettering, spelling out:
"Hmmm," Bjorn says, suspicious of the building. "Hmmmm," he hrms, leaning close. "Hmmmmm," he is now staring, with a cocked eyebrow, at the beholder plush, trying to recall the shop in his memory.
Josef pulls the collar of his jacket up, trying to cover his nose and mouth, by the gods the smells! I can almost taste it! Bjorn are we getting close to the thus place?
Josef pulls the collar of his jacket up, trying to cover his nose and mouth, by the gods the smells! I can almost taste it! Bjorn are we getting close to the thus place?
Abishai nods at Josef and agrees, "Indeed. Let's not take too long to window shop. The stench of this place is most foul."
"Hmmm," Bjorn says, maintaining eye contact with the plush as he begins walking away, looking to the street ahead, resuming his walk to the skewered dragon.
The stuffed beholder catches Murgen's eye. That is indeed a strange shop. "Hold on a moment. The shop keep may have seen something of our quarry. Plus something about the place feels off. Call it a hunch," Murgen says. He quickly darts into the strange shop and looks around.
As Murgen darts into the strange shop, Abishai rolls his eyes and adjusts course to follow Murgen in. If nothing else, Abishai is grateful for the momentary respite from the stench of the city street. "Alright, but remember, we may not have long to find Floon. Let's make this quick."Abishai says to Murgen as they cross the shop threshold.
Murgen steps ahead, curiosity piqued, and pushes open the door to Old Xoblob Shop. The hinges creak slightly, and as the door swings inward, a thick cloud of lavender-scented smoke drifts out, curling through the air like an invitation—or a warning. The scent is almost overwhelming, floral and cloying, wrapping around them as they step inside.
The interior is a sensory assault. Every wall, every shelf, every surface is painted some shade of purple—violet, plum, deep indigo. The dusty shelves lining the shop are packed with trinkets, baubles, and oddities, each one seemingly bathed in the same rich hue, as if the shopkeeper had waged a personal war against any other color.
Perched on the counter, cross-legged and unbothered, sits a hairless old gnome. His plum-colored robes blend seamlessly into the chaotic decor, making it almost difficult to tell where the fabric ends and the shop begins. His face is decorated with nine purple-painted eyes, staring in every direction, their meaning unclear but undoubtedly deliberate.
Lowering a long-stemmed pipe, he exhales another cloud of lavender smoke, watching them through the haze. Then, with a wide, knowing grin, he lifts a hand in greeting.
“Hail and well met! Come, browse the shelves of the most curious curiosity shop in the world!”
Ryder follows his newfound allies into the shop. "This looks like a Xanarthian Cult Shop if I've ever seen one." He mutters so the shopkeeper doesn't hear.
Abishai coughs as he enters the shop due to the thick lavender smoke, but once he grows accustom to the air is grateful for the smell. "Greetings sir gnome. Your shop is indeed curios. I'm Abishai..." He gestures to the others. "This is Murgen, and Ryder," As Abishai looks around the shop he questions the gnome. "If you please, how is it your shop was spared from the chaos and damage the rest of the area suffers from?"
Blinking, Murgen shakes his head and quickly heads over to the gnome. "Good day sir! This is quite the shop you have. Me and my compatriots are looking for a fellow who was last seen around these parts. His name is Floon, he went missing a couple of nights ago. You wouldn't happen to have seen anything strange around here would you?" He pauses and looks over the store. "Oh but where are my manners. Asking for your assistance before even introducing myself. The name is Murgen of the Black Company. Who might you be my good sir?" Murgen punctuates the end of his introduction with a slight bow.
Josef eyes Bjorn, alright big guy, what does your gut tell you? Wait out here or head in?
Bjorn walks for a bit after Josef asks him, before turning around. "Huh? Oh, let the others peruse. I suppose we can stand to wait," he takes his spear, planting its butt end on the ground, oblivious to the stirge corpse still attached to it. He stands there.
Abishai coughs as he enters the shop due to the thick lavender smoke, but once he grows accustom to the air is grateful for the smell. "Greetings sir gnome. Your shop is indeed curios. I'm Abishai..." He gestures to the others. "This is Murgen, and Ryder," As Abishai looks around the shop he questions the gnome. "If you please, how is it your shop was spared from the chaos and damage the rest of the area suffers from?"
Xoblob chuckles, a deep, raspy sound, and takes a slow pull from his pipe before exhaling another lazy swirl of lavender smoke into the air. His painted eyes gleam with amusement as he regards Abishai.
“Ah, an astute question, my good Abishai. You see, the Dock Ward is a place of chaos, of shifting tides and sharp blades. But chaos… respects curiosity. And nothing is more curious than Old Xoblob’s.” He gestures around the cluttered, violet-hued shop, as if the very walls were imbued with some kind of protection.
He leans forward slightly, lowering his voice with a conspiratorial grin. “Those who spill blood in the streets have little patience for the strange and unknown. They see this place, and it unsettles them. A shop where all is purple, where an old gnome sits among trinkets of forgotten origin, where a beholder watches still, even in death?” He taps his temple knowingly. “Best to leave well enough alone.”
Xoblob sits back again, puffing his pipe, clearly enjoying the air of mystery he’s woven. “Besides, I make it a point to remain neutral. No deals with Zhentarim, no debts to Xanathar. I peddle curiosities, not allegiances. And that, dear friends, is why my shop stands while the rest of the ward crumbles.” He spreads his arms wide, as if to invite admiration for his peculiar kingdom of purple.
Abishai listens with patience at Xoblob's answer. "Indeed, it appears you've made a very wise decision to remain neutral." As Murgen asks Xoblob about Floon, Abishai continues to browse the trinkets on display considering buying one if the price is right. Once Murgen pauses to allow Xoblob to answer, Abishai adds a description of Floon's appearance, "He was dressed in clothes fit for a prince. Fine fabrics, rich colors, handsome, mid-thirties with wavy red-blonde hair."
Ryder pulls his cowl up over his face, keeping his eyes down. As he walks by, he recognizes one of the bodies as the Watchman from one of his Housebreaking jobs. He never allied himself with either of these guilds, but he was good enough that he had been hired by them both at some point. He felt three pairs of eyes boring into his back and tried to avoid making eye contact with any of them. Finally, he approaches the watchmen, "Any idea who these men are?" He asks.
{{Does Ryder recognize the blood drenched men?}}
[A paper drops out of a flash of light and drifts to the ground at your feet] -(extended sig)-
"Well I suppose we should carry on with our quest. Delaying here needlessly only works to endanger our mission." After Abishai is confident no one in this situation is Floon, he loses interest in his investigation and is determined to continue to their objective.
DM for Tyranny of Dragons and Phandelver and Below, two in-person campaigns that meet weekly on Friday and Saturday nights.
Bjorn will ask the city watch members to let them past and walk alongside Abishai
((Maybe, Ryder might've worked or saw any of these men but couldn't remember the name of any, but he is sure no one was in any relevant position))
Leaving the cordoned-off street behind, the party presses on through the Dock Ward, following the winding path toward the Skewered Dragon. The towering tenements crowd in around them, their upper floors leaning so closely together that only narrow slivers of the sky remain visible. At ground level, shadows cling to the streets, broken only by the occasional glow of a lantern. Most of the streetlamps have been shattered, their glass littering the cobblestones, their candles long since stolen.
The air is thick with the mingling scents of salt, rotting wood, and human waste, the grime of the ward settling into every crevice. Run-down buildings line the street, their doors warped from years of damp sea air, their walls scrawled with faded graffiti or covered in peeling paint.
As they round a corner at Zastrow Street and Fillet Lane, something out of place catches their eye—a shop unlike the others. Its deep purple facade stands bold against the dreary backdrop, a deliberate statement in a neighborhood stripped of color. In the window, a stuffed beholder sits motionless, its eyestalks frozen in a perpetual stare. Above the door, an elaborate wooden sign curls with intricate lettering, spelling out:
"Old Xoblob Shop."
"Hmmm," Bjorn says, suspicious of the building. "Hmmmm," he hrms, leaning close. "Hmmmmm," he is now staring, with a cocked eyebrow, at the beholder plush, trying to recall the shop in his memory.
Josef pulls the collar of his jacket up, trying to cover his nose and mouth, by the gods the smells! I can almost taste it! Bjorn are we getting close to the thus place?
"We should be, it's on fillit lane, right?" He says, not breaking eye contact with the plush.
Abishai nods at Josef and agrees, "Indeed. Let's not take too long to window shop. The stench of this place is most foul."
"Thank goodness. Please, lead the way." Abishai says as he begins to gag from the air in the area.
DM for Tyranny of Dragons and Phandelver and Below, two in-person campaigns that meet weekly on Friday and Saturday nights.
"Hmmm," Bjorn says, maintaining eye contact with the plush as he begins walking away, looking to the street ahead, resuming his walk to the skewered dragon.
The stuffed beholder catches Murgen's eye. That is indeed a strange shop. "Hold on a moment. The shop keep may have seen something of our quarry. Plus something about the place feels off. Call it a hunch," Murgen says. He quickly darts into the strange shop and looks around.
As Murgen darts into the strange shop, Abishai rolls his eyes and adjusts course to follow Murgen in. If nothing else, Abishai is grateful for the momentary respite from the stench of the city street. "Alright, but remember, we may not have long to find Floon. Let's make this quick." Abishai says to Murgen as they cross the shop threshold.
DM for Tyranny of Dragons and Phandelver and Below, two in-person campaigns that meet weekly on Friday and Saturday nights.
Josef eyes Bjorn, alright big guy, what does your gut tell you? Wait out here or head in?
Murgen steps ahead, curiosity piqued, and pushes open the door to Old Xoblob Shop. The hinges creak slightly, and as the door swings inward, a thick cloud of lavender-scented smoke drifts out, curling through the air like an invitation—or a warning. The scent is almost overwhelming, floral and cloying, wrapping around them as they step inside.
The interior is a sensory assault. Every wall, every shelf, every surface is painted some shade of purple—violet, plum, deep indigo. The dusty shelves lining the shop are packed with trinkets, baubles, and oddities, each one seemingly bathed in the same rich hue, as if the shopkeeper had waged a personal war against any other color.
Perched on the counter, cross-legged and unbothered, sits a hairless old gnome. His plum-colored robes blend seamlessly into the chaotic decor, making it almost difficult to tell where the fabric ends and the shop begins. His face is decorated with nine purple-painted eyes, staring in every direction, their meaning unclear but undoubtedly deliberate.
Lowering a long-stemmed pipe, he exhales another cloud of lavender smoke, watching them through the haze. Then, with a wide, knowing grin, he lifts a hand in greeting.
“Hail and well met! Come, browse the shelves of the most curious curiosity shop in the world!”
Ryder follows his newfound allies into the shop. "This looks like a Xanarthian Cult Shop if I've ever seen one." He mutters so the shopkeeper doesn't hear.
[A paper drops out of a flash of light and drifts to the ground at your feet] -(extended sig)-
Abishai coughs as he enters the shop due to the thick lavender smoke, but once he grows accustom to the air is grateful for the smell. "Greetings sir gnome. Your shop is indeed curios. I'm Abishai..." He gestures to the others. "This is Murgen, and Ryder," As Abishai looks around the shop he questions the gnome. "If you please, how is it your shop was spared from the chaos and damage the rest of the area suffers from?"
DM for Tyranny of Dragons and Phandelver and Below, two in-person campaigns that meet weekly on Friday and Saturday nights.
Blinking, Murgen shakes his head and quickly heads over to the gnome. "Good day sir! This is quite the shop you have. Me and my compatriots are looking for a fellow who was last seen around these parts. His name is Floon, he went missing a couple of nights ago. You wouldn't happen to have seen anything strange around here would you?" He pauses and looks over the store. "Oh but where are my manners. Asking for your assistance before even introducing myself. The name is Murgen of the Black Company. Who might you be my good sir?" Murgen punctuates the end of his introduction with a slight bow.
Bjorn walks for a bit after Josef asks him, before turning around. "Huh? Oh, let the others peruse. I suppose we can stand to wait," he takes his spear, planting its butt end on the ground, oblivious to the stirge corpse still attached to it. He stands there.
Xoblob chuckles, a deep, raspy sound, and takes a slow pull from his pipe before exhaling another lazy swirl of lavender smoke into the air. His painted eyes gleam with amusement as he regards Abishai.
“Ah, an astute question, my good Abishai. You see, the Dock Ward is a place of chaos, of shifting tides and sharp blades. But chaos… respects curiosity. And nothing is more curious than Old Xoblob’s.” He gestures around the cluttered, violet-hued shop, as if the very walls were imbued with some kind of protection.
He leans forward slightly, lowering his voice with a conspiratorial grin. “Those who spill blood in the streets have little patience for the strange and unknown. They see this place, and it unsettles them. A shop where all is purple, where an old gnome sits among trinkets of forgotten origin, where a beholder watches still, even in death?” He taps his temple knowingly. “Best to leave well enough alone.”
Xoblob sits back again, puffing his pipe, clearly enjoying the air of mystery he’s woven. “Besides, I make it a point to remain neutral. No deals with Zhentarim, no debts to Xanathar. I peddle curiosities, not allegiances. And that, dear friends, is why my shop stands while the rest of the ward crumbles.” He spreads his arms wide, as if to invite admiration for his peculiar kingdom of purple.
DM for Tyranny of Dragons and Phandelver and Below, two in-person campaigns that meet weekly on Friday and Saturday nights.