Masters of the Unseen Tower

The Misadventures of Lyrrin Kilomere and Carlos the Beholder
Part One: The Green Road

Lyrrin was lounging in his office, one leg draped over the arm of his leather armchair, plucking idly at a lute. The song was one he had learned years ago, detailing the exploits of some barbarian hero, known for running off with maiden sacrifices, and aggravating all kinds of nasty monsters. Eventually all the monsters he'd robbed of their virgin tributes got together and decided they had had enough. They ganged together and pursued the hero into the dead end of a box canyon.
But the hero had planned for that. It was all a ruse, and when they came to him, far from their places of power, he had a rockfall prepared and dropped about half of a decent sized mountain on their heads. Rocks fell. Monsters died.
It was an uplifting song. 
Most versions left out the bit at the end, where Storlos the Brazen died of venereal disease later in life. Apparently at least one of those sacrifices had been no maiden.
He had 'delegated’ most of his work to his deputy headmaster, Cosgrave, so he had plenty of time to practice. Teaching had never been his strong suit, unless you counted music, and he wasn't master at a music college, more’s the pity. 
The Unseen Tower had a lot of things going for it, but music wasn't really one of them. The illusion master was pretty good with a bass cittern, but that was one other person out of close to 1000, counting the students, faculty and staff. 
The city was calling to him, he needed to cheat at dice and get into a knife fight. Shake loose from songs about derring do, and do some daring. There was a quick knock at his office door and then his deputy sidled in. Cosgrave was cadaverously thin, wearing black robes with glittering red runes embroidered along the hems, and looking like someone had peed in his morning oatmeal.
Lyrrin figured Cosgrave would have been more comfortable on the necromancy staff, and the man spent a fair amount of time down in the catacombs. The man's hair was slicked down in what looked like it was supposed to be a formal style of some kind. Cosgrave was trying to look his best, despite his face.
“What have you got?” Lyrrin asked.
Cosgrave cleared his throat pompously. “There's a… man to see you, headmaster. He insisted. I tried to make him wait for an appointment but—”
There was a brief scuffle at the door, and the guardsman from out in the hall stumbled in empty handed, staggered, windmilled his arms and just managed to avoid running into Cosgrave from behind.
A dark elf sauntered in, holding the guardsman's halberd tucked under his arm. The guardsman whirled around once he regained his balance, clawing for his sword.
The newcomer tossed the halberd to him, and the guardsman got tangled up, halfway through his draw. The haft of the halberd wound up between his legs and he tripped into Cosgrave, who barely managed to dip aside. 
“Careful, man,” the newcomer said. “You dropped this. Can't go around losing valuable equipment like that. Especially not in front of the boss.”
Lyrrin fought back a grin. He supposed he should be angry, or even gathering for a fight. Cosgrave had darted aside and was digging for components. But the break in the tedium of the day had him more curious than alarmed.
“Quite,” he said. “Cosgrave, see to it that corporal Dibbs has a refresher on weapon retention. I'll be happy to speak to our guest.”
Cosgrave and the humiliated guardsman both opened their mouths to protest, but Lyrrin shook his head, and made a quick cutting gesture with his hand. He called on one of the enchantments he had woven into the chamber when he soundproofed it, and silenced them.
After a few seconds of silent gum flapping they shut their mouths, glared at each other, then at the newcomer, then finally back to Lyrrin. He made a shooing motion with his hand and waited until they finally were in the hallway to proceed.
“Welcome to the Unseen Tower,” Lyrrin said, offering brief introductions. “Please have a seat.”
The dark elf nodded, and gave a half bow in return. “Derrick Al’tarion, at your service, headmaster,” he said, before pulling out one if the guest chairs and seating himself.
Lyrrin got a better look at the visitor's face now, and reassessed. Though he had the dark skin and white hair if most dark elves, he also had a full beard, neatly trimmed. And the points of his ears were less pronounced. A half drow, then. Al’tarion wasn't any drow clan name Lyrrin ever heard though, in fact it had the sound of one of the elven clans of far off Ibn-sarkan, if he didn't miss his guess.
Al’tarion was dressed in a long sleeved coat of green wool, with gold embroidery at the lapels and the cuffs. The pattern certainly wasn't one from that far off city. A pair of black gloves were tucked behind his belt, and a rod was tucked through a loop at his left hip, both ends carved in a gold lion’s head.
Al’tarion wore an embroidered armband with runes Lyrrin didn't recognize at first glance on his left arm, and an obsidian vambrace on his right upper arm. A black silk scarf with silvery traceries was tied at his neck and tucked under the coat.
Now that he had a moment to focus, the magical aura given off by the visitor's gear nearly overwhelmed the detection field mounted in the ceiling. One of those items was extraordinarily powerful.
“And how may I be of assistance?” Lyrrin said finally, trying not to let his curiosity get the better of him.
“Actually, it's how I may be of service that has brought me here,” Al’tarion remarked. He snapped his fingers and produced a small card—from the sleeve of his coat, if Lyrrin had caught the sleight of hand correctly—and leaned forward to place it on the empty blotter on Lyrrin's desk.
Lyrrin slid the card over and read.

Derrick Al'tarion
Artifact and Fugitive Recovery

He tapped the card with a fingertip idly.
“I'm afraid I don't have any lost artifacts that need finding at the moment,” he said.
“Well, in fact,” Al’tarion said, with a grin. “My services have already been engaged. I'm not here to make a recovery for you. The recovery is actually from you.”
Lyrrin tensed, and Al’tarion put up a calming hand. “Oh, not you directly. One of your staff,  a car’lortho’gormzx’tlo—thlblxzmt’p, by name, I believe.”
Lyrrin blinked in shock at the string of nonsense syllables that had just spewed from the dark elf’s mouth. Unless Lyrrin was much mistaken the strange dark elf had just pronounced a name that was supposedly unpronounceable. He tried to hide it and recover quickly. “I don't believe we have anyone on staff by that name,” he laughed. “I'm pretty sure I'd remember.”
“Of course, few can manage such a torturous tongue twizzler,” Al’tarion said. “You likely call him Carlos, for simplicity.”
“Normally, when I'm hired to retrieve an item from a beholder, they aren't on faculty at a mages’ college, you understand. So, I figured I should speak to the headmaster, before I approach him directly. However the Divination master appears to be on holiday, and no one else was having office hours today.”
Lyrrin put on his best 'thoughtful headmaster’ act, steepling his fingers over the card Al’tarion had given him and nodding. “Quite.”
“Most of the time, when I'm retrieving items from an aberration, abomination, or otherwise I don't get to sit and have a rational discussion about property rights. Usually it's just 'who dares enter my lair uninvited’ and they start with the eyebeams, or the fire breath or what-have-you. But given his position here, it seemed to me perhaps I should avoid open conflict to start. A little discretion might be warranted.”
“Discretion. You assaulted one of my guardsmen.”
Al’tarion shrugged. “I'd hardly call it an assault. He must have tripped.”
Lyrrin struggled to keep a straight face. Al’tarion didn't show even the hint of a grin damn him.
“So, I take it you don't plan to assault a member of my faculty?”
“I would hope to avoid any unpleasantness,” Al’tarion nodded. “My client in this matter seeks the return of an ancestral sword. A weapon of not insignificant enchantment, which they believe was taken by a beholder some years ago. My research leads me to believe they are correct, and that the blade is in Carlos’ possession.”
Lyrrin thought about this. “It's possible.”
“One thing you should understand. I work by a very simple code. Rightful ownership, or rightly charged. I don't just go around seizing items, or bounty hunting on my clients’ say so. The item must rightly belong to the client, to my satisfaction. Or in the case of a fugitive, must be proven guilty of the charges of which they are accused, to my satisfaction.”
“And if they aren't?”
“Then I find who it does belong to, and return it to them instead. Or, in the case of fugitives, I bring in the true guilty party.”
“And why is this relevant?”
“My client in this matter is… less trustworthy than I could wish. And it could cause some diplomatic headaches.”
“Who is your client?”
“Normally, as part of the service I offer, my clients insist on strict confidentiality. But in this case she has made an exception. You may have heard of her. She is commonly referred to as the Queen of Air and Darkness.”

“So, we just give him the sword to carry back. I certainly don't want to start any hostilities, especially when her forces can seemingly waltz into the tower anytime they please. You never did figure out how they got past the wards at festival, Ridcully.” Thranduil wasn't pleased by their visitor. Partly Lyrrin guessed it was bigotry. Dark elves didn't have quite the same reputation as they had suffered back in the old world, if the stories were to be believed, but there was still an enmity there between elves and drow.
Lyrrin himself was fairly skeptical of those old stories, given the number of old stories and songs he'd discovered to be little more than cow patty disguised as heroic epic. And he felt himself a good judge of character. Al’tarion struck him as an honest man. 
“I don't know,” Ridcully said, playing with his pipe and stroking his beard. “It strikes me as dangerous precedent to force our faculty to divest themselves of riches. I'm sure quite a few have the odd bauble hidden away that has been obtained by less than squeaky clean methods?”
Lyrrin figured that was aimed at him. “A point indeed,” he said. “Before we make any promises, we should probably talk to Carlos about it. Al’tarion seemed like a reasonable fellow. He may be willing to strike a deal.”
Ridcully and Thranduil looked at each other, and both looked at him and placed a finger on the tip of their nose. And he realized his mistake. He let out a sigh. “Ah, I guess I’m elected then.”

Carlos’ chambers were in the Divination wing, though he was one of the college's multiple-specialties, being quite talented with evocation and enchantment in addition to divination. He raised his hand to knock, and the door swung in on its own. “Showoff,” Lyrrin grumbled under his breath.
“What brings you here, master Kilomere?” Carlos said. Lyrrin was glad he wasn't trying the whole mysterious seer routine some diviners tried on. Especially since his office and the council chamber were both heavily shielded against unwanted scrying.
“Please, Master Kilomere is my father. Call me Lyrrin. Well, Carlos,” he said. “We've got a bit of a diplomatic pickle. You remember what happened around festival?”
“With the wasps? Bad business. They shouldn't have tried that. I talked to a buddy of mine in the nine hells. Apparently the powers that be down there have been having trouble keeping them in line. Breaking up hives before they become a threat, and so forth… if they miss one before it hits critical mass, it could be a regime change down stairs.”
Lyrrin blinked in shock. He hadn't realized Carlos still had those kind of sources. “No not— actually wait, I though the wasps were from the other side. The abyss. Demons, not Devils.”
“Technically,” Carlos waved an eyestalk dismissively. “But they're more orderly than most demons among themselves. They may try to cross over. The blood war is always like that.”
Lyrrin grimaced. A problem for another day. He shook himself back on task. “That's not why I wanted to talk to you,” he said. “Its the other thing that happened around festival. I had a visitor today. Someone working for the queen of Air and Darkness, says you have a sword used to belong to her.”
Carlos’ maw dropped open in shock. “Certainly not! Mama c’lortmplx didn't raise a dumb-holder!” If I have something of hers, of course I'll return it. But… swords… nothing is coming to mind. It's been awhile since I've been to the vault, you understand, but…”
“So you've no objection to returning it?”
“Yes, no objection, I don't want her minions after me, even here. And I don't even know what it looks like!”
“I have a picture of the sword,” Lyrrin produced the drawing Al’tarion had provided, and passed it over.
“Hmm… no, I don't recognize.” Carlos said. “But, I have treasure room full of things I haven't categorized yet. You mind coming along? Twelve eyes better than ten!”
“Um, where exactly would we be going?”
“Vault is under big ruin in Bereth Logor,” Carlos said. “But we can be there quickly. Five minutes tops.”
Lyrrin tried to hide his shock. “Teleportation doesn't work. I don't want my legs to wind up in starfall and the rest in the world sea.”
Carlos laughed. “No, is fine. I know shortcut.”
Before Lyrrin could offer further protest, Carlos wrapped an eyestalk around his wrist. Another eyestalk touched a small bonsai tree on the Beholder's workspace, he felt a sudden pulling rush through his belly button, tingling with magic, toward the tree. He thought for a moment about resisting the pull. But curiosity won out over caution. He'd never seen Bereth Logor. Perhaps he would write a song about the trip.

Session 2

Blue reacts first, sending a blast of eldritch energy at the gibbering mouther, but in his haste, the cantrip sails wide. The mouther responds by sending a gob of blinding spittle his way. Reality warps around the monster, the wood flooring turns suddenly doughlike and springy, pulling at Blue's boots and keeping him from retreating.

Another patron looks suddenly sickly, and claps a hand to his mouth, trying to hold it in, to no avail. He too vomits his viscera onto the floor, which rises as a second mouther, its many mouths openingwide as it attempts to take a bite from Zon'Vahl's side. The druid manages to dodge and takes the opening to wild shape into a giant crocodile. He takes a retaliatory bite out of the second mouther while his tail sweeps out and smacks the first monster soundly.

Burn cackles his name and unleashes a barrage of fiery rays at the closest monster as he backs away, then whips a bolt of flames at the other. The mouthers' flesh sizzles and pops like grease on a griddle, but continue their assault.

A third patron keels over and spews out another mouther into the cramped melee in the Dreaming Maiden's common room. Other patrons scatter, pressing themselves back against the walls to stay out of the fray.

Captain General Ravage wades in next, charging in with his greatsword swinging. He cuts one of the mouthers clean in half. The others try to close on him from behind.

Meanwhile Altion dodges to one side of the melee, sighting down his finger as he lines up the two remaining monsters before letting out a searing bolt of lightning. A second mouther curls in upon itself, glooping down into a sizzling puddle. Anri stabs the straggle with her rapier, shouting for any straggling Inn patrons to get behind her. Another ray from Blue connects, and a final snap of Zon'Vahl the crocodile's jaws sends the final into a last steaming puddle.

The surviving patrons shudder collectively.

Anri picks over the shattered remains of the bottles at the dead patrons' tables, and shouts for anyone with a bottle from Roathan's Vineyard to stop drinking.

One of the patrons, a burly dwarven smith goes suddenly pale, an empty bottle still clutched in his hand. 'I ate the worm… I dinnae feel so good…' Before the council can react, the unfortunate drunken dwarf runs staggering out of the Inn. With a burst of magical energy, a Hydra bursts from his chest, leaving only the poor dwarf's boots to topple over on the pavement.

Chaos erupts in the streets outside. The council pours into the night slinging spells. Altion hurls a disintegration ray and misses wildly. Luckily noone beyond the Hydra is struck by the errant spell. 

Another reveler succumbs out in the street, and the abomination that boils up from his remains is quickly blasted by a ray of necromantic energy from Blue while he climbs the side of the Inn for a better shot at the rampaging Hydra. 

Things promptly get worse, when the Hydra also begins spitting out more mouthers, their nonsensical babbling from multiple mouths trying to drive anyone within earshot mad. The Hydra itself let out a psyche shaking below, nearly bringing the council to their knees.

Then with renewed anger, Burn let loose an incendiary cloud to envelop the Hydra and most of the smaller mouthers, swathing half the street in flames. Captain General Ravage was reduced to hurling cantrips, as he was unable to brave the flames and close to melee. Zon'vahl however wild shaped himself into a fire elemental and hurled himself into the fire. Immune to the hellish flames, he whipped fiery tendrils around any stray mouthers to keep them from running out of the fiery cloud.

Altion conjures an illusory wall to hem in possibly infected revelers as they begin fleeing in terror. The others continue hurling evocations at the Hydra and its minions, until at last it falls. A calm silence comes over the street as Burn dispels the fire cloud.

A quick investigation of the bottles reveals that all of the afflicted were drinking not only the same vintage, but the same year, the newest vintage, the Roathan's vineyards 1324. Word is quickly passed to the guard to quarantine every bottle of the 1324 that they can find. Innkeepers are alerted to the danger as quickly as possible.

Meanwhile, most of the council (Thranduil refuses to budge from his chambers until his hangover goes away), with Captain General Ravage and a dozen guardsmen in tow, descend upon Roathan's manor in the city.

Roathan's guards are stunned into cooperation by the arrival via teleport circle of such a force on the grounds, and city watch quickly secure the perimeter, while the council barge straight in the front door and storm up to Roathan's office, running roughshod over any interference. Lyrrin leaves the butler standing paralysed in the foyer when he protests. Ridcully throws a blanket of magical silence over a maid as she gathers herself to scream in surprise, then has the guards cart her off.

The council bursts into Roathan's office, only to find him blithely doing paperwork, seemingly unfazed by the sudden intrusion of 7 of the most powerful wizards in the city.

Blue, however, spots something sinister in the wine merchant's aspect. A wriggling… something… just beneath the skin of the man's neck. In a flash of inspiration he recognizes the symptoms of Hellwaps infestation. He remembered reading about the Demonic wasps the size of breakfast sausages in the more… esoteric parts of his grandfather's library. The shock of recognition tips the Hellwasps, despite Blue's attempt to hide it. They first attempt to strike him down with a hail of magic missiles and small fireblasts, only to have them countered or dispelled. The wasps abandon their host and attempt to flee, but the assembled might of the council makes short work of the Wasps, and they find themselves trapped in a wall of force, after failing to smash their way out of the windows. 

The council attempts to interrogate the swarm on the motive for the attack, but they prove to be… unmanageable. After a final attempt to strike at the council is foiled, the wasps are banished back to the Abyss, leaving the party with a nearly dead Raothan, an unknown amount of tainted wine still on the streets of Gan Loren and no answers.

Session 1
The Fireworks Budget

The First meeting of the Masters of the Unseen Tower was lengthy, and after an initial confusion over how to work the Anti-magic field built into the room, and then a discussion of taking on an Ancient Red Dragon together, largely devolved into budgetary minutiae. 

Specifically, the young Gold Dragon who had handled the fireworks display for the yearsend Festival the prior year was requesting double his customary amount of gold. After hours of trying to cut fat from the budget, the council had managed to determine they could not afford the new rate from the general fund. Brun McFireflame, using his draconic heritiage to smooth a few ruffled scales on the part of Dex, managed to talk him down to only 1500 gold more than his prior year's rate. This amount being readily available from the council's personal funds, they struck an additional agreement with the young dragon for his assistance, should the council choose to go after the ancient Red Dragon Shalganazzar in the future.

With those matters taken care of, the council adjourned to their individual chambers within the tower, to become acclimated to their staffs, settle in, and make preparations for the yearsend Festival.

Anri and Lyrrin both secured venues to perform music at Inns in the city and invited others on the council to listen. Burn, Cameron and Zon'vahl accompanied Anri to her performance at the Dreaming Maiden on the fifth night of Festival.

The menu for the night was outstanding, with a fine vintage of Fire Wine being liberally served, cider, and other libations. Just as Burn was lifting a glass of Fire Wine to his lips, Captain General Ravage stormed in and slapped the winecup out of his hand. 'The Wine is tainted!' He warned. 'Nobody drink any of the wine!' 

A hapless man at the bar near Von'Vahl looked on helplessly, glanced at his empty wine bottle and hiccuped. Then he clutched at his chest and spewed forth a pile of reeking protoplasm onto the floor, crinkling up as he did until all that remained was a spent husk.

The pile frothed and bubbled and formed into a Gibbering Mouther, and the fight was on!

Session 0
The Will

In your youth, you were an apprentice to Gwynned Bal, Master of the Unseen Tower and Wizard King of Gan Loren, the Jewel of the Kartan Sea.

Your time at the famed university located in and around the tower was cut short when the call to the life of an adventurer grew too enticing. You have only been back briefly over the years, though each time Gwynned has offered you a place as instructor of your chosen school of magic.

Each time you have refused with regets, but your adventuring companions are settling into lives of leisure, leaving the road behind, starting families. You have a sense that change is in the air. One day you receive a surprise visit from a spectral servant bearing ill-tidings. Gwynned Bal, the greatest wizard in the world, is dead.

The servant bears no details, instead offering only an invitation to the reading of the archmage's will in a week's time, and the pattern for a teleport circle.

As you enter the Archmage's chamber, the stones orbiting two of your fellow wizards' heads drop to the plush carpet. The wizards in question blink in shock for a moment and bend to scoop up their Ioun stones. You waggle your fingers surreptitiously. Everyone comes to the same conclusion almost instantly. You have entered an anti-magic field. You follow one of the armored guardsmen to the door at the far end of the hallway. He swings the door open to reveal the wizened figure of Gwynned Bal, seated behind his desk, appearing quite alive, if more stooped and covered with liver spots than you remember. He waves you to a row of chairs set up in front of his desk.

And one over-sized cat-bed for the one of you who has wild-shaped into a panther for the occasion. 

'Thank you for coming. Now, before you get upset, I am indeed dead. This is just a recording. How is there a magical projection into an anti-magic field you ask? I'm just that good. Okay, stop that. Stop poking the projection. I'm just a recording so I can't actually respond, but I assume by this point at least one of you has put their hand through my face, so quit it and let me get this show on the road. 

In your travels, you've seen much of the world, even, some of you, other planes of existence. You made allies, and friends, and no use denying it, enemies. And alas, so have I. Of course, now that I'm dead, some of those enemies may seek out my works, my legacy, and attempt to undo what I have wrought in this world, tear it down, burn it all to bedrock and salt the ashes. In my youth, I wasn't exactly the nicest fellow. One doesn't get to the ripe old age of 1563, by popularity contest, you understand.

You're probably thinking I was murdered by one of those enemies I just mentioned. Sorry to disappoint. I got bored, and decided to finally let myself die of old age. See what the afterlife is like. If it sucks, I'll come back and warn you so you can work toward living forever, or Lichdom, or whatever blows your robes up.

But I've got a good feeling about dying. Seems like the thing to do, at this point in my life. However, with my death, a fair number of… things… may need attending to. Anyway, don't be sad I'm dead. When you're my age, dying is  the last great adventure, the last unknown. Think of this, rather, as my going away party.

In honor of the occasion, I've written you each a little going away present, and I whittled up a few little baubles I had lying around into something you might find useful.'

Eight scrolls zoom from the surface of Gwynned Bal's desk at a wave of the projection's hand, darting to your waiting hands. You see that each scroll is held closed by a ring with a gemstone containing a rune the likes of which you have never seen before. The projection continues.

'Ridcully, Lyrrin, Thranduil, I know you've been wanting me to name one of you as Headmaster in my place, but honestly, none of you individually is a match for what awaits you. I don't mean that as an insult, merely as a truth that you should take to heart. Even the eight of you together may yet fall to the forces which will be arraying against you once news of my death spreads.

Thus I leave the title of Headmaster to you all collectively. There are eight of you, my best pupils in each school of magic. To you I leave the tower, and my status as ruler of Gan Loren. I hope you'll all stay on in some capacity, and that you don't all just try to kill each other so you can claim the title of Headmaster for yourself alone. I hope you'll respect my wishes enough not to slaugher each other in my city. In any event, though, I've no way to enforce that; what with being dead and all.

Those little baubles, in addition to a few other small tricks, act as control keys for the tower. Six of the eight control keys are required to operate many of the tower's functions. You can pick up the tower and move it, should that become necessary. You can also lower the true-invisibility field that cloacks the tower from prying eyes, and turn off the anti-teleportation matrix. Though, I… wouldn't recommend it, since quite a lot of my enemies wouldn't mind storming in to take a dump in my urn.

Further, the controls for the anti-magic zone are located in the arms of your chairs. On… Off… and so forth. At the end of this recording, my desk will transform into a table for meetings and such. Also, and this part really should go without saying, but I'll say it anyway. At this point my ashes must be at least somewhat magical. Please don't try and use me for spell components.

Lastly, while it's not compulsory, someone will need to keep the school running. These things have a measure of inertia, and the new term will be fast approaching. So if you decide not to hold classes this year, you'll have about eight or nine hundred angry young wizards to deal with in a couple more weeks.'

The image disappears, and his hardwood desk hurtles forward, flipping endo over end and transmuting instantly into a black polished marble table, octagonal in shape, bearing runes of power along the outer edge.

For a long moment silence falls over the chamber, before you take your seats at the council table.

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