Weaker Than a Mage Hand

Our next task for the pathfinder society is to recover a box that's stored in a warehouse. It sounds suspiciously like stealing to me, but my companions have no qualms about doing this favour.

The warehouse is at the end of a pier, which isn't exactly bustling but quite exposed. Taliss volunteers to scout ahead. 'I'm a rogue, it's what we do.'

'You're not a rogue until you multi-class at 2nd level. You're a fighter, and it's not what you do.' Never the less, our elven chum swims under the pier and deftly clambers up the opposite side of the warehouse to peek inside and see if any is inside waiting. Maybe it is what he does.

The windows are too grimy for Taliss to see inside. He tries cleaning one of the panes a little but it seems the dirt is mostly on the inside. It is suggested that he breaks the window so that he can reach in to clean it, letting him see clearly in to the warehouse, but for some reason ignores this advice. He returns without much information beyond the warehouse looking abandoned and dilapidated.

Abandoned, maybe, but the door is locked firmly shut. This would be why we are needed to recover the box, I suppose. 'How are we going to open the door?'

'I have a crowbar', I say, stepping up to press it between the door and jamb, before realising that, 'crap, I'm now complicit in this breaking and entering'.

'I'll give you a hand', says Nibblit.

'Are you feeling strong?', I ask the gnome sorcerer, who looks like he's being weighed down by his own clothes.

'Um, you know what? I haven't done my stretches this morning. Why don't you take this one.'

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