# Umbral Gaze 1

Two years have passed since our intrepid adventurers fought and defeated a five-necked terror near Venron in what villagers now call "the hydra incident" and those less informed know as "that thing at M. Pteey Lake".

As they stand together now, summoned by supreme authority to a high-curtained forecourt under the mild Waterdhavian sun, party members speculate about their situation and watch as shadows cast by serried wall-top grotesques slink unremittingly across the flagstones. Jaggedly sculpted profiles grow long and pointed in the golden hour, a hundred umbral fingers that stretch over our heroes to scrabble at the stonework and prank the quadrangle in narrow slats of shade. At one end, a pair of doors blocks the entrance of the mansion to which the courtyard belongs; at the other, iron gates fill an archway that leads to the road.

The wealth of knowledge and experience between them does little to make clear what has ultimately brought about this happy reunion; the adventurers know only that they attend a summons from Laeral Silverhand[^laeral], Open Lord of Waterdeep, and would be unwise to disappoint. Their conversation is still worthwhile--- all are glad to see one-another again and to share a few brief stories of where they've been and what they've been doing since that fated day two years ago.

Warren[^warren] looks much as his companions remember, powerful and rotund as the day they parted. He opened a business a while back, crafting and trading in high-end cutlery, and has taken up residence within a nearby mid-sized town, to which customers are drawn from all over Faerûn by the fine workmanship of his forks, knives, and spoons. He carries several examples of that handiwork with him now, secured by loops and pouches all about his person. As the harengon talks, he reveals a few interesting details of his past, including that he was raised underground among the dwarves!

Eyes turn to Clementine[^clementine], who is dressed in the crisp uniform of an officer of the city guard, altered to accommodate her equine anatomy. Clementine' rank is clear, but no insignia advertizes an allegiance to any house or party: a rare independence for a person of standing in Waterdeep. The discharge of her guardly duties has allowed her to amass considerable knowledge of the city's criminal and/or political institutions, but even that intimate familiarity fails to yield clues about the situation. Like Warren, Clementine's person is largely unchanged by the intervening years, save for a new and conspicuously superior longbow at her back.

Constitutionally peaceful cleric Almuth Cheerio[^almuth] sits pensively, forgoing his vestments today in favor of well-worn leather armor. The servant of Eldath is prepared for the possibility that their forthcoming task involves inescapable violence--- he has arrived with steel in his heart; whatever the matter, he will do the will of his goddess without hesitation. His gaze radiates self assurance and wisdom of a new profundity.

Gottlob Graal[^gottlob] leans casually against the door, a cloak of pale twill hanging evenly on his broad shoulders. The richness of its fabric and precision of its stitch give some hint at the success the satyr has found since his immigration to Waterdeep twenty months earlier. As he found his place in the city, happenstance led Gottlob to join the Unblinking Patrol, a tiny, quasi-religious order dedicated to protecting this Waterdhavian slice of Coast from unnatural incursion. There, he learned the real business of the Watchers and advanced his abilities with rapidity that startled even him. Though proud of his achievements, the satyr feels conflicted: as he and the order grow in renown, will his pursuers, too, take notice?

{% "ambles" %}

Carmal Rumbar[^carmal] exchanges idle words as he looks about the courtyard. Behind him hangs a bulging traveler's pack, stuffed to its limit with unseen pounds of equipment, a large, polished button securing a flap over its opening. The actor shares little of his recent escapades, preferring to listen to those of the others: the fundaments of stories yet unwritten.

As the party counts heads, they notice that one of their number is missing: the wizard, Louisa Whitlock[^louisa]. Sensing that what task lies before them will demand as much strength as they can muster, the present members hope that no ill-fortune has befallen her. Louisa will be around as soon as she can, no doubt, probably waylaid reassuring some hapless farmer that talking livestock is _not_ a phenomenon on-the-rise and that he needn't watch his pigs _too_ closely for indications of malcontent.

Before long, a guard emerges from from the house. It is clear from his uniform that he belongs to the service of Lord Silverhand. He swings the rightward door fully open, propping it against his heel, before conveying his message: the party's presence is requested inside. Taking up the rear, he sets a brisk pace down a long, arrow-straight hall hall, tailed closely by the echoes of a dozen boots against the slate-clad floor. On papered walls hang paintings of otherworldly scenes--- some of which Gottlob recognizes as belonging to other planes--- and scores of magical artifacts beyond a mean treasure hunter's wildest dreams. They come to yet another set of doors, silver-inlaid slabs of oak reaching up to meet a joint in the vaulted ceiling above, which a second guard, waiting in the corner, heaves open, ushering our heroes through.

With trepidation, they glance around the war-chamber before them. Gottlob and Clementine, Waterdhavians of the group, recognize Laeral Silverhand, child of Mystra and Lord of Waterdeep, as she reposes on a shallow dais at the end of a long, low table in the center of the room. Her white robes and silver hair conspire in a stately cascade to convey the momentary impression of a calcite-hewn portrait gilded with a thousand-thousand pearls. A sparse smattering of representatives, sent by concerned parties, populate rows of seats toward the periphery of the room, each behind their own small desk, and only as Lord Silverhand gestures to the new attendees do they stymie the flurry of their conversations. Silverhand addresses the adventurers, inviting them to approach her at the table, and doing so, they bow deeply. She proceeds to explain the situation constituting the ultimate reason for their presence.

{% This supposedly happened "within the last month". %}
> I have received troubling reports of an otherworldly incursion in the Sword Coast's northern peak--- eyewitnesses verify what I am about to tell you. Less than a month ago, the region underwent a planar fissure, a tear in the fabric that separates one aspect of reality from the next. By great fortune, a powerful wizard was able to patch the hole, but was not quick enough to contain all that wished to cross over. My intelligence has determined that _nine_ beholders slipped into our realm and scatted themselves to the far reaches of Toril, where each wreaks something between havoc and irritation even as we speak.

The Open Lord goes on to divulge details of the incursion, prompting Almuth--- summoned for his expertise on beholders--- to elucidate the species for his companions. He describes beholders' conventional behaviors and motivations, explaining their cunning paranoia, supreme arrogance, and their origin in the Far Realms, being descended from a deity that beholder-kind calls the "Great Mother". Producing an image, he goes on to detail the monsters' abilities: from their central eye, they project a cone that suppresses magic, and from the eye stalks that surround it, rays of devastating magical power. Though capable melee fighters, most beholders prefer to float just beyond the range of attackers' primitive physical weapons, raining curses and death on their playthings from above.

After Almuth finishes answering the questions that inevitably follow his lesson, Lord Silverhand makes the adventurers' task clear: they will vanquish the interlopers, or they will die in the attempt. As skepticism permeates the group, Laeral reveals that the party will have assistance from two consultants, who will be attending shortly. As if on queue, a lurid vortex of dust like fireflies fills the space beside her, and a raven-haired woman[^tasha], dressed to match, materializes with a rush of air and a crack like a gods's fumbled tankard tumbling from heaven to strike earth a mile off.

She is introduced as "Tasha", but needs no introduction. It was she who sealed the planar fissure and tracked several of the nine beholders to their current locations. The demonologist and renowned planeswalker volunteers to serve as transportation for the party, shuttling them through dimensions to far flung corners of Toril unreachable by non-magical means. Alas, the witch's aid shall extend no further than this; other, more pressing issues demand the bulk of her attention elsewhere.

Concurrently, Laeral traces an inscrutable pattern across the tabletop, her long fingers striking in their practiced undulations as she gathers the weave and casts her spell. A sphere the size of a gnome's head, hewn from a single hazy crystal and polished to a mirror finish, deploys out of the great slab's center to rest atop a velvet cushion. As Tasha finishes speaking, Laeral finishes her spell, and smaller spheres, set into far walls, float upward, issuing a limpid glow in solidarity with the overworked lamplight of the chamber's recesses. A voice like sand and shattered glass emanates from the central ball as it too glows and the Xanathar[^xanathar] makes himself heard.

As he speaks, it becomes clear that the Xanathar needed little convincing to join the effort; to see Toril purged of his abominable kin ranks among the crime lord's greatest aims. Still, his assistance, like that of Tasha, must be limited in scope--- the underworld's quotidian is demanding, and he cannot afford to compromise his position here by quitting it for the lairs of his enemies. Still, the beholder's insight into the machinations of his own kind is invaluable--- he imparts some morsels of wisdom to the adventurers and bystanding officials of Waterdeep's open government.

Moving the proceedings along, Tasha produces eye-witness sketches of the nine so-called "Umbral Tyrants".

![Sketches of the nine escaped beholders: "Candlehead", "Death Kiss", "Astral Conductor", "Deathrun", "Necromaniac", "The Omni-Viewer", "Cyclone", "The Witness", and "Monoeye".](/assets/umbral_sketches.jpg)

Our heroes must decide which is to be the object of their first foray into the business of beholder hunting. They ask for details and for recommendations; Tasha conveys what is known. Death Kiss laid waste to a group of explorers who thought to claim an abandoned castle, previously a Red Wizards' lair, to the south of Waterdeep. They discovered the fortress abandoned and, thinking it safe as it was rich with treasure and history, were quick to settle in, but citadel walls are like lines in the sand to a beholder. Candlehead built _a mountain of cake_ in Neverwinter, preying on any traveler unfortunate or curious enough to wander through. Omni-Viewer, with bells like sirens' calls, lures peasants toward a looming Underdark portal from which none reappear. The Witness lurks in the Underdark itself, enacting its nefarious designs from chill and unglimpsed corners.

The party's decision is a difficult one--- agreeing on a choice, more difficult still--- but, after dozens of questions asked to their host and consultants, minutes of contention, and a ninefold palaver between Almuth and the goddess Eldath, a decision is reached: in the morning, they will set off underground, to take aim at the Witness in its lair. The Witness' relatively ordinary appearance and conventional behavior suggest a fight for which the party might effectively prepare, while the rest of the monsters defy preconception, wielding strange powers against which hostilities are best deferred. Or, so the reasoning goes.

{.thematic}
***

Under the light of the scimitar moon that slips coolly over blinds and around shutters drawn only half-shut, our heroes slumber in rented beds, paid for with municipal coin. As some toss and turn, thrilled to wakefulness by thoughts of the dawn's adventure, most seem serene in their anticipation. Amidst a clamour of clocks across Waterdeep that chime the midnight hour, the party is seized by an unanswerable magic, whisked from tremulous visions through chasms and curtains of vapor and deposited, standing, upon a stony rosette amidst a muddle of lilac effervescence. Each is unsettled to see the others in their dreams so suddenly and in so strange a setting, but before any can ask the question on their lips, Tasha reappears, a turbulence of fizz preempting them all.

The renowned planeswalker proposes an alternative conduct to Silverhand's regimen of violence. If the party is willing to approach their quest with empathy and guile, to learn the beholders' motives, relate to them, and guide them away from evil, she in turn will remunerate its members handsomely. The irregular behaviors displayed by the creatures loosed onto Toril hint at irregular temperaments: these beholders may be less rigidly evil than most, and if a chance exists to align such powerful would-be adversaries with good, it must be seized with all tenacity and vigor. The party considers their options, but Tasha has no need to hear a commitment; she knows the merits of her proposal and the accordant intelligence of the party members. Her aim satisfied, she vanishes just as she materialized, jarringly and with color, leaving the party, now restored to their natural dreams, facing a task of depth and opportunity well beyond that of mere moments before.

[^missing]: Louisa's player couldn't make it today.

[^warren]: Harengon Forge Cleric (10) of Moradin

[^clementine]: Centaur Fey Wanderer Ranger (10)

[^almuth]: Human Peace Cleric (10) of Eldath

[^gottlob]: Satyr Paladin (10) of the Watchers

[^carmal]: Human Bard (10) of the [College of Masks](https://www.dandwiki.com/wiki/College_of_Masks_%285e_Subclass%29)

[^louisa]: Human (llama) Wizard (10) of the Scribes' Order--- her player couldn't make it today

[^laeral]: Immortal Chosen of the goddess Mystra, Laeral Silverhand is a wizard of untold beauty and power who has been the public face of Waterdeep's elites for decades; she could continue to rule for centuries more.

[^tasha]: You already know who [Iggwilv](https://forgottenrealms.fandom.com/wiki/Iggwilv) is.

[^xanathar]: [The Xanathar](https://forgottenrealms.fandom.com/wiki/Kirukeskai) is an [elder orb](https://forgottenrealms.fandom.com/wiki/Elder_orb) who controls an empire of crime in Waterdeep.