Zifni is roused by the smoke from the vial when Tanis presents it to him, and raised to one hit point, enough him to keep him awake, though doesn't take the edge of his wounds enough to melt the ice-cold shards of pain that stab through his body every time he moves. He notes that the smoke from the vial smells caustic, piercingly cold, and has the signature disinfectant-y smell of a morgue; almost like the type of magical gases used to keep bodies fresh, but more potent and striking, as if it revitalises not just the flesh, but the soul too. If he shares this oddly specific smell with the party, you develop a grim theory that the purpose of the vials may be to keep the food at Count Crawlthing's party fresh, palatable, and squirming, and not for the generous reason he suggested. That creature's entire atmosphere seems to sting of paradox and subversion. 

Moving your minds on from what dark things likely laid just beyond the foyer walls, you make your way through the silent city once more, following the same route as you did, hoping that in terms of an ambush, lightning wouldn't strike in the same place twice, though that likely isn't the best idiom to use in a city so perpetually stormy that every inch of it has been scarred by a strike at least once. But, regardless of how appropriately put the words to your logic are, it works, as you return to Qwicknil's abode in one piece, one statue lighter, and a hell of a lot wetter.

As the vial is presented under Zifni's nose, his eyes snap open and he gasps, taking in a deep breath of the caustic smoke. It scalds his nose and throat and causes him to cough and splutter. Disorientation threatens to overwhelm him as he awakes long after the battle where he fell and in a much different part of the city.

"What- did we-?" he lays back on the cart while the others fill him in on what had transpired. After a moments and more of his lucidity returns, he reaches out to the perpetually-falling rain and calls to in the primordial language of the elements. The rain responds and swirls of water gather toward Zifni, spreading across his wounds and washing away the aches. Where the water traces, it knits back together the worst of his injuries.

He is looking much better by the time they reach Qwicknil's and he clambers down from the back of the cart, wincing slightly at what remained of his wounds.

"Qwicknil!" he calls in his airy voice, raised against the noise of the rain. "The job is done."

OOC: He heals himself with a Healing Word.

Tanis pads dourly through the rain, face grim as always, but eyes focused, trying to commit the route to memory (high Survival check to map route initially.)

He stands aloof as the party return to the goblin artist's abode for their payment, rain drenching and sliding in sheets off his cloak.

"You know, I'd pay fifty gold for a roof over our heads and a fire to dry us out.  Problem is, that would put us back exactly where we started this morning."

(Which he knows might not be strictly true, given the street cred and prestige gains from the job, but Tanis has a way on putting everything in a glum light.)

Selene exhales slowly through her nose, the rain sliding down her cheeks in thin trails that do nothing to improve her mood. She’s cold, wet, bruised in ego more than body, and thoroughly finished with this day. Zifni’s shout gets no answer, and she stares at the goblin’s crooked little hovel like she’s debating whether it's worth setting on fire.

With a resigned sigh, she trudges forward through the mud, her cloak heavy with water and her boots squelching with every step. She reaches the door and knocks...hard enough to be heard over the storm, but not quite hard enough to splinter it. One sharp rap. Then another. Then three quick, impatient taps.

“Qwicknil,” she calls out, in exhaustion. She holds the folded parchment  “We did your delivery. The statue’s in place, the Count gave his confirmation of receipt, in blood"

She leans forward, speaking close to the door now, her tone dropping to something darker, silkier, but no less pointed.

“Just open the door and give us what we’re owed.”

After some long and irritating moments of no response, Qwicknil finally opens the door after catching your knocking over the thrashing rain. He wrenches the door open, and says 'Yes, yes, I know!' Grumbling, he looks across at you all, and mutters 'You look better than I expected you to. Nobody dead or missing.' He then furrows his brow and says something inquisitively to Marrow in Goblin; the Worg manages a grunt of what seems to be a positive answer. 'Well,' he continues, 'Seems you really are owed what you're due.' Snatching the handkerchief off you, without even checking what was written, he stomps into his hovel of an abode, and returns with a sack of gold coins. He also says 'If I ever need a delivery doing again, I'll contact you first. I did used to have a group of slum-dwellers who did all my carting back and forth for me, but they were constantly losing members and topping up the brigade with more fools from the gutter eager to earn some coin. Eventually what was left of that rag-tag group stopped showing up at my door when they had their leader torn limb from limb by Strategos Kalsiquenti, just for the sake of it. But I digress; you seem to have some sort of wits about you. Enjoy the coin; don't squander it all on booze like they did.' He then abruptly slams the door, and Marrow has already started hauling himself and the cart back into his stable.

Warrick grins at comment about being a reoccurring income source, even just for being an artists delivery service. A potential steady source of income is surely to be thankful for. "Well he does have a way about him. Well I for one will be great full to return to our humble inn. Perhaps we can go for a flower run while scouting a bit?" Warrick wasn't sure just how many delivery jobs the artist really would need, but with clientele like the last one, it could be more then one might expect. Honestly Warrick was scared of most any job, but he will be way out his element in this upcoming heist.

"Well that was quiet easy money, would be happy yo have some more runs indeed. Getting back to the inn sounds like a plan"

"Ah, I am sure tales of our heroic exploits serving vampires and goblins and worgs will bring a smile to old Snizgore's charming face.  Almost as big a smile as our bleeding out face down and ass up in the mud would have.  So let's disappoint him on that latter count.  No dropping our guard."

Tanis suggests the same formation as before, only tighter and without any cart in the middle.  Everyone alert for ambushers who might want fifty gold.

"Back to the inn," Zifni agrees. Though he has tended to the worst of his wound, he is still looking worse for wear and seems in need of a moment to recuperate.

"I'm sorry I let that thing get the best of me. It won't happen again," he says with a slight crackle under his voice that sounded almost like the fizz of lightning.

You return to the inn without issue; a small sack of coins is a lot easier to hide from prying eyes then a large wagon or potential meal in the shape of a worg. Snizgore barely acknowledges you, let alone has any questions about where you've been, as usual, though the bar is quiet at the moment, allowing you to discuss next moves downstairs like previously, without the fear of others overhearing you and beating you to a job, or could return upstairs to your meagre lodgings for a rest; the choice is yours. 

When Tanis calls for formation, Selene nods once, and falls into step without protest. The city closes in around them again, darker now, but more familiar than the coldness of Crawlthing Manor. By the time the inn’s crooked frame comes into view, she feels the tension in her shoulders begin to ease, just a little.

Inside, she lets the silence from Snizgore pass without comment. It suits her. Once they’ve gathered at their usual corner, she slips into a seat and peels off her soaked gloves, folding them precisely before setting them down.

She rests her forearms on the table and looks at the others one by one, expression cool but focused.

“Let’s talk about what’s next." She pauses. “We have coin in our pockets and surprisingly, we’re not dead. That is known as momentum.” She gives a wink at Zifni, before looking at the rest of the party.

"Well momentum or not, I think we learned a bit about ourselves and somethings that coukd have gone better. Cosmic luck was on our side at Crawlthing's estate between getting a blood signature from the master of the house and seeming aid, though I fear there maybe more to that act then we yet realize. A simple gesture becomes a need for a favor or there's more lingering unknown consequences. But we gut paid and are up for more recurring work, so take the win where we can! Both let us take the lessons from today and apply them to the plan ahead." Warrick sits down on the chair like his legs were tired, despite riding on the cart most of the time. Come to think of it, his back was a bit sore too. He fought himself from starting to clean his soiled clothes with his newly given abilities. The convince was great, but at what cost. Nope, he coukd wash us clothes the old fashioned way  though he still hadn't learned how to do that properly yet.

Thamul walks back with the others in silence. Back at the in he says

"Good job all, good payment and possible future work never hurts. Now should we plan for tomorrow or have a sleep first?"

Tanis looks mildly satisfied for the first time in memory, perhaps only because he has finally had a chance to scout deeper into Tempest City.

"Way I see it, we scout and plan for our evening soiree tomorrow with the dark elves and their poison, yeah?  Only other jobs and leads we got are the basement cleanup for less gold than we just got, and knocking off an old mage, which could be tricky and can probably wait."

He pauses and looks around at his companions.  "Only question is if we start planning the heist tonight or sleep on it.  I say, no time like the present to scout it out, especially with Cool Breeze on his feet again.  Back out into the drizzle and mud.  Scout more streets and darken more doors."

"Momentum," Zifni agrees when Selene looks his way.

Though he still feels the sting of a some of that 'momentum' where the darkling's blade marked him. He shifts to the side to take some of the weight off the wound.

"We should use that momentum. Let's take a look at the docks tonight before we turn in. Just... be careful. I can't mend many more wounds tonight."

"So it's settled, we take a quick breather and then set off for the docks." Warrick already started in clearing tables around the Inn as was customary for him to do.

Tanis stretches briefly and then pulls up a chair as the others rest, attempting to plot the best route to approach the docks.  Once again, trying to stay away from both the most obvious large thoroughfares with the most traffic, but also avoid the riskiest alleys and ambush points.

Asking Zifini's help and guidance if willing (both are proficient and +5 for Survival):  20 (dirty) + 4 = 24

"This one lad, Silas Stobbleworth was our best scout, bar none, back in the Watch," the ranger drawls as he works, looking almost content.  A rarity.

"Couldn't miss him.  Huge eyes and ears for such a skinny kid.  Once, he led his detachment straight to the band of marauding ogres they were tracking without the giant-kin noticing.  Surprise attack.  So well done by the lad.  Course the ogres, once they recovered from their surprise, slaughtered the whole detachment to a man.  Cut off those big ears and eyes ol' Stobby had right quick.  Had 'em for dinner.  But still well done by the lad, scouting."

Zifni and Tanis plot out an excellent route to the docks; now the day is winding down, and evening creeps in, more of the foul folk dwelling in the city will gain the confidence to show themselves, although it isn't as if it's because the nights are much darker; the perpetual storm keeps the city in a wonderfully dim gloom, day and night. Since activity is starting to heighten compared to when you transported the statue, quiet, detouring alleyways become even more dangerous than before, as professional mercenaries and thieves who are looking to pick off those straying from the herd, unlike the desperate darklings from earlier, will begin to prowl the quieter streets where witnesses are fewer. Without any cargo on your person, more populated routes become less risky, so you hypothesise that slipping into quiet sheltered marketplaces could allow you to blend into the slipstream of pedestrians and avoid any unwanted attention, as long as you keep your heads down, since you'll have nothing on you that will cause you to stand out. Plus, the open air stalls and markets tend to be on streets that are more direct towards the docks, which is at the north, rather than some of the winding back alleys that can splinter around in all directions aimlessly. The only thing you'll have to keep an eye out for on this slightly more populated walk is pickpockets, though crime is a constant wherever you go, so a route through the smaller night-markets where you can use the quiet crowds as cover from criminals seems to be the best option.

Selene leans back in her chair, arms folded, letting the low murmur of the inn and the hush of rain outside settle around her. Her cloak hangs damp over the backrest, and a few strands of black hair cling to her cheek where the storm hasn't quite let go.

Warrick’s comment about favors draws the faintest arch of her brow. “A gift from a creature like that is never free,” 

She casts a glance toward the pouch of gold on the table. “Still, there are worse trades.”

At Thamul’s and Tanis’s talk of planning, her expression sharpens slightly. She doesn’t interrupt. Not at first. Instead, she watches the others for a long moment, their bruises, the edge of fatigue in their shoulders, Zifni's wince.

“We scout,” she agrees at last, voice quieter now. “But we don’t overextend. The docks will be busy enough, we keep our wits and look like we belong.”

She pauses, fingers tracing idly across a water ring on the table.

“If something unexpected occurs, we don’t hesitate, we vanish.”

Warrick, remembering the interactions at the manor door, gives a puzzling look at Selene. Creature like that? Isn't she almost a creature like them? Shaking off the thought after returning to the table, "Well there will be a very high possibility that our motivation of being at the docks will be inquired, we should have a believable and preferably verifiable story. Also vanishing is good, but planned exit strategies are preferable."