The hills ringing Almas, capital of Andoran, slope gently toward the harbor cradling the Hornet’s Nest, the red sun rising behind them. This morning the ship’s activity rivals its namesake as Pathfinders and their agents bustle here and there inside the ship’s hastily constructed command post.
After a short wait, Venture-Captain Dennel Hamshanks rolls into the ship’s galley, his face scowling and dark eyes bloodshot. "Just you lot? The Decemvirate promised better, but I suppose we have no time to waste. You have likely heard the rumors— which, unfortunately, underestimate our danger."
"The Society’s lodge in the former Cathedral of Aroden here has thrived of late—they say thanks to Venture-Captain Brackett’s grand parties, which seduce the weak-willed leaders of this so-called ‘democracy’ into permitting the Pathfinder Society unfettered access to the resources in the nation’s interior. Not likely you lot were ever invited, though. Needed to be of the presentable sort, after all."
"Last night, Brackett threw one of his most extravagant fetes yet to celebrate the recent return of a team of Pathfinders up near Falcon’s Hollow on a diplomatic mission to the region’s fey. Fillian over there claims that all the sparkling light made the Cathedral’s windows a stunning sight. Everyone was having a grand time until the trouble started. At the stroke of midnight, a dozen guests drew their swords and methodically massacred the others—poor, drunk fools. A moment later the lights went out. Fillian had been admiring the windows from the dome’s walkway and ran upward, to the belfry. Says he hid there until daylight and then crawled out to my ship here. He heard many others flee underground, followed by screams of agony."
"Shortly before dawn, several bands of what looked to be hulking, cloaked hobgoblins left the Cathedral, taking off in different directions into the city. Not only do we need to retake our lodge and rescue any survivors, but whatever those monsters plan to do in Almas, it’s got something to do with the Cathedral. I imagine even you understand how that might look for the Society if something bad were to happen to the city at large, centered on our local headquarters."
"You can probably guess who’s behind this—the Shadow Lodge, source of endless trouble this past year. We need that Lodge back, and we need Brackett alive. Time is not on our side here, and I fear it may already be too late for whatever those monstrous brutes left the Cathedral to do."
"According to Fillian’s tale, the best way in is the belfry. So your job is to get in there, kick the Shadow Lodge out, and keep Brackett alive. And put a stop to whatever ongoing plot you manage to uncover."
"Good luck. You’ll need it."
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"Fillian, did you recognize any of those cloaked guests? Could you describe them, other than their cloaks?"
"What of Brackett? Was he present when the guests were slaughtered?"
"I spent much of the trip in meditation and didn't get to know any of you, or you... me. I am Kavaki, Monk of Irori. It seems we have been charged with a task. I am particularly adept at hand to hand combat with an emphasis on keeping my opponents on the ground. I have acquired some various trinkets and supplies through my few assignments, I am particularly fond of the drinks. Should any of my items be of use to you during our investigation, feel free to ask. I would love to factor each of your particular strengths into our plans. What are each of your areas of focus?"
The blueish skinned woman with turqiose hair drew up her hands...rather vicious clawed hands.
"I'm Alanya, his ladyfriend. Where he goes, i go."
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An oddly perfect looking and distinguished middle aged man, who has a faint smell of cinnamon and honey looks over the group of assembled Pathfinders. "Well Pathfinders, I am blessed to be here with you on this task. I go by Branson. I am charged, by the grace of Korada, to bring my healing talents to the world and the Society. As is customary among the clergy of Korada, I am also proficient in the way of the fist," he nods to Kavaki.
"Couldn’t say, sir, I’m just an apprentice and didn't get up close," Fillian replies when Kavaki asks about the cloaked guests. "Usually it’s mostly the Pathfinders who show up, and some really special others, feeling good about themselves. I wouldn't be able to descibe them any better."
"I'm also not sure if Brackett was present. But it was his party, wasn't it?"
Alanya ticks a rhytm with her claws.
"Say mr Venture Captain. You're not telling us the whole story here....Something embarrasing perhaps?"
She says with a toying but meaningful smirk on her face.
Fillian flushes red. "Uh, well, you see, I wasn’t exactly invited myself. One of the door guards was pretty drunk and was letting lots of people in, so I followed."
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The Varisian had stayed in the back, seemingly disinterested, lost in thought. Her outfit was colorful, with dresses and sashes billowing out around her, and a perennial haunted, distant look on her face.
She turns from the glass she was studying intently back to see the room. She lets out a gasp as the glass drops from her hand. It drops out of view and disappears. She smiles. "Branson! You're here! How wonderful, you can translate!"
With a wide-eyed grin, as if viewing the room she's in for the first time, she approaches the group and holds out her hands to shake with the Venture Captain. "Venture Captain Hamshanks, it is such a pleasure to meet you. My name is Traceni Skrit, and I work closely with the fey all the time," she gestures into the empty air about her, "as you can see. Tell me more about this diplomatic mission. They're really quite curious to hear news."
"No, I don't think I would," Fillian replies to Branson.
To Kavaki he says the following: "There’s lots of ways to approach without being seen from any of those narrow grimy windows. I’d scurry across the plaza from the northwest. It’s easy to climb up to the roof, and there’s a loose grate partway up the belfry—should be easy to slip inside there, even for big folks like yourselves."
"On the subject of rope, we have plenty for you to take," Venture-Captain Hamshanks says. "Several hundred feet, and climbing spikes too. And to avoid any miscommunication: Fillian's not coming with you. Let that be clear. I'm not sending the boy back there."
Hamshanks seems somewhat confused by Traceni's mention of fey, but shrugs. "Sure... What else would you like to know?"
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Turning to Branson, she adds, "I know, everyone was acting so strangely... if I were the ambassador, I'd have just committed suicide back in Absalom and save myself the trip."
"And Hamshanks, my friends are frightfully curious about the diplomatic mission. What pact did we have? Will the Fair Folk have reason to like or dislike the Shadow Lodge in response to the attack?"
"Your... friends... will dislike the Shadow Lodge, I'm pretty sure," Hamshanks answers Traceni. "You haven't heard of them before? You should read the chronicles, girl. They've been up to no good the past year."
"Are you ready to head out? We haven't got all day for idle chatter. Lives are at stake!"
Fillian walks after you as you're about to leave. "Before you leave I should tell you, I forgot if I already did, you should approach from the northwest. You won't be seen if you approach from that direction. If you climb the 40-foot wall there you should be able to reach the belfry without much of a problem. Good luck."
A flat gray stone ledge runs along the edge of the cathedral’s roof, crisscrossed with rain gutters feeding the leering grotesques that ring the building. Toward the south side, the ledge surrounds a gently peaked roof above the long rectangular nave. Two solid towers jut upward at the south end, their severe stone sides broken only occasionally by narrow, barred stained-glass windows.
At the north end a lofty dome covered with deep red copper shingles dominates the structure. The graceful edifice peaks in a twisting stone tower with a golden turret, from which the Pathfinder Society’s Glyph of the Open Road banner hangs limply in the still air. The tower has four large windows arranged vertically on each side, all protected by corroded iron grates. Through the grates hang several bells, ranging in size from large to gigantic.
The northwestern approach is indeed concealed from those inside. You soon arrive next to the 40-foot wall there. The numerous carvings peppering the wall look like they'll make it a relatively easy climb. There are plenty of grotesques lining the roof.
Kavaki successfully climbs up. Once on the roof's edge Kavaki attaches the rope to one of the grotesques, making the climb easier for the others.
Chyras and Alanya make it to the roof. Branson's climbed one foot when his hand slips and he's back on the ground.
Branson tries again, and this time he succeeds in climbing up to the roof. Traceni was temporarily distracted by the fairies, by follows after her comrades a moment later.
The belfry contains nine large bells hanging from a maze of wooden beams. Four relatively small bells hang from a beam at the tower’s top, with the others increasing in size toward the tower’s bottom. Weather and rust coat most of them, especially the seven-foot-wide behemoth of a bell at the tower’s base.
A complex network of scaffolding frames the bells, with each suspended from wooden sliders attached to a system of ropes and pulleys along the tower’s walls. These beams connect to scaffolding along the vertical chamber’s perimeter, allowing access to the bells above and a platform five feet below the giant bell’s bottom.
Each of the belfry’s windows covers roughly a 5-foot square. The iron grates are bolted onto the stone. Breaking one of these grates likely makes a great deal of noise.
You know there's a loose grate Fillian used to escape, but not exactly where it is.