The Lair of Xal'Zyress

Quick Links

Passing Hours in Captivity

The Mind Thralls

Summonded before Xal'Zyress

The Audience with Xal'Zyress

The Audience with Xal'Zyress - The Riddle The Audience with Xal'Zyress - Where is it?

The Audience with Xal'Zyress - Mind Probe

Testing the party

Player Replies

Passing Hours in Captivity

The Howlbears have no sense of time in this wretched place. There is no sun, no shift in light—only the steady, unnatural hum of psionic energy seeping into their bones. The faint bioluminescent veins along the walls pulse in an erratic rhythm, as if feeding off unseen thoughts.

Mutt’s Investigation (Roll: 21)

The cell lock is iron, reinforced, and of Drow make, but it is not the most intricate lock he has encountered. There are no visible glyphs or magical reinforcements—at least, not ones that he can see. A skilled hand could pick it, but the difficulty is high (DC 18). More concerningly, Mutt noted a faint grating sound when the cell doors closed. These locks are not silent, meaning even if someone picks it successfully, opening the door quietly will be its own challenge.

Drow Activity & Guards

The Drow and Duergar guards do not remain idle.

• The female Drow stationed near the entrance (A-12) is methodical in her patrols, her eyes keen. She rarely speaks, but the way her fingers tap against the hilt of her dagger suggests impatience—or amusement.

• The male Drow who harassed Azalie lingers outside their cell for a moment longer than necessary, his gaze raking over her. A slow smirk curves his lips before he taps a finger against the bars and mutters, "Let’s hope you don’t get too comfortable in here. I’d hate to waste you." Then, with a lingering look, he vanishes into the tunnels.

• The Duergar mind thralls remain motionless, blank, statuesque. Their eyes do not blink. They do not twitch. But there is an unsettling weight to their presence—like standing in the shadow of something dead that refuses to fall.

• 
  

After two hours, the silence is broken.

A Drow Check-In

A shift in the air. Footsteps, lighter than the patrols.

The female Drow steps into view. She takes her time, letting her gaze sweep over each cell. Her movements are slow, deliberate, predatory. She does not carry a torch, nor does she need one—her sharp eyes cut through the dim glow with ease.

She stops first at Fizzbum & Orin’s cell. A flicker of amusement dances in her crimson eyes.

"Still alive? Good. Our master grows bored of weak-willed minds."

She moves to Dorf & Uptharr next. Her lips curl at the bloodstains in their cell.

"This one was difficult. I wonder if you will be."

Then, finally, she arrives at Mutt & Azalie’s cell. She lingers. There is something unreadable in her gaze as she tilts her head, studying them.

"So eager to meet Xal’Zyress," she murmurs. "You may get your wish. Or… perhaps you will not. Perhaps you are simply more tools to be reshaped."

She lets the silence stretch, then finally gives a mocking smirk.

"Do not get too comfortable, surfacers. The real nightmares have yet to begin."

And with that, she steps away, leaving only the weight of her presence behind.

After she leaves the area, you realize there does not seem to be any Drow guards around, at least for the time being. The two Duergar Mind Thralls remain staring blankly at their assigned stations. you have noticed these two Duergar haven't so much as moved for the last two hours.

You may post Retro-interactions with any of the guards that approach, each post will be given a DM reply with interaction details.

Decide if you continue to wait in your cell or if you are taking other actions while

2 hours have passed

Current Time: 11:06 AM

Date: Eighthday , 28 , Alturiak , 1742

Temperature: 52°

Current Phase: Exploration

The Mind Thralls

Mutt finishes checking their cell door and frowns, mumbling to himself.

"Should've stashed the oil."

He then leans in close to Azalie, lowering his voice as he gestures toward the door.

"Alright, I’m going to cast Detect Magic first—see if anything weird is going on. If it looks clear, I’ll put up Tiny Hut. That should keep us hidden while we figure out the lock."

Azalie furrows her brow, tilting her head slightly.

“Mutt, why are we getting in the hut?” Her voice is hushed but laced with dry amusement. “It was just a hug.”

Mutt freezes.

His brain stalls for just a second too long. His mouth opens slightly, but no sound comes out at first. A hug? Why did she bring that up? That had nothing to do with—

His face heats.

"I—uh—it's just—" He fumbles, looking anywhere but at her, suddenly questioning his entire plan. Why was he going to cast Tiny Hut? Did he even need it? Would it help? Was he really just planning to sit in a magic bubble while they were locked in a cell?

Azalie watches his reaction unfold with quiet amusement, but doesn’t press. Instead, she plops down onto the ground with a heavy sigh, her knees drawing up as she crosses her arms over them. She rests her forehead on her wrists, her posture closed-off, unreadable. Her shoulders slump as she lets out a slow, controlled breath.

She stays quiet and watches intently as he chants and weaves his hands. Her attention drawn in by his smooth voice. She desperately wants her feelings to cease. She’s never felt like this before. Her heart racing at the thought of being in the hut, alone, with him. She begins feeling a bit lightheaded, slightly nauseous, and very nervous.

Mutt exhales sharply, trying to regain focus.

"Right. Detect Magic." He clears his throat and begins the incantation, tracing sigils in the air.

Then, the cell reacts.

A pulse ripples through the stone, a sharp flicker running through the bioluminescent veins in the walls. Mutt’s spell stutters—glitching—as though the magic itself is slipping through his fingers.

At first, the cell door glows with arcane energy. Then… it doesn’t. The strange, faded runes along the wall begin to hum, drinking in his spell, scattering the results. Everything is and isn’t magical at the same time. The distortion leaves him unable to tell what’s real and what isn’t—except for one truth:

Something is interfering with magic here.

Then, the Duergar mind thralls react.

A guttural hum vibrates through the cavern as their empty, lifeless eyes flash a bright, sickly green.

They move.

Heavy footfalls break the silence as the nearest thrall turns its head in eerie, unnatural precision. Then the other follows, both of them fixing their empty stares directly at Mutt & Azalie’s cell.

For a long, unbearable moment, they do not speak. They do not blink.

They only watch.

Mutt lets his hands fall from his spell, his stomach twisting. He doesn’t need to say it—casting more magic is a mistake.

Then, one of the Duergar’s mouths opens—but its voice is not its own.

A sound seeps through the cavern—distorted, distant, hollow. The voice is stretched and warped, as if being pulled from somewhere beyond the physical realm. A voice that is both here and not here.

“The arcane arts will serve you no purpose here.”

It is not a warning. It is a fact.

The Mind Flayer is watching.

The thralls remain fixed in place—a conduit, not a consciousness. There is no intelligence in their eyes, no awareness of the words they just spoke. There is only a presence—unseen, lurking just beyond reach, peering through them as though the cell itself were a window.

Silence stretches.

The thralls do not move, do not respond, do not react to anything Mutt or Azalie might say.

But their arrival has left the rest of the prison unguarded.

While the Mind Thralls stand facing into Mutt and Azalie's cell, the rest of the party notices there are no other guards currently in the area.

Now may be an opportunity to act

Options:

Mutt & Azalie (A-3)- you could try and speak to the Mind Thralls (and presumably whomever is speaking through them)

Orin & Fizz (A-1), Dorf & Uptharr (A-6): You have an opportunity to try and escape, while the Mind Thralls are distracted - you see no other guards in the area, but there is no telling on when they may return.

If you do nothing, you can continue waiting for an audience with Xal'Zyress.

What do you do?

1 hour has passed

Current Time: 12:06 PM

Date: Eighthday , 28 , Alturiak , 1742

Temperature: 52°

Current Phase: Exploration

Summoned Before Xal'Zyress

Before Mutt attempts casting Dispel Magic

Azalie’s question catches Mutt by surprise as he starts the ritual for detect magic. His mind starts spinning as he tries to keep the memory of the hug from becoming a distraction. Her gesture caught Mutt off guard initially. As he’s had time to think about it, he can’t remember the last time someone had hugged him that actually cared about his well being. Maybe his mother just before she disappeared? Hagag was never a hugger. Emotional support was never the half-orc’s strong suit. Sure, he’d been in several intimate situations, but those embraces were either simple dalliances or an act of survival.

“I…uh…it’s just…”

He forces his mind to settle. He pauses his ritual and kneels down closer to Azalie so they can speak quietly without being overheard.

“Right. I’m still not completely used to working with other people. Sometimes I forget to share what’s going on inside my head.” Mutt chuckles and shakes his head. “Sorry. Step one: find out if they’ve got ways of watching us or wards against escape. That’s where Detect Magic comes in. Step two: put up the tiny hut to give us some measure of safety but more importantly, cut off their visibility. If they can’t see what we’re up to, it forces them to spend time and resources trying to figure it out. That gives us some wiggle room.”

Mutt tries to put on a reassuring smile and places a hand on Azalie’s shoulder. “I know I haven’t said it much, or maybe not even at all, but thank you. You were one of the first people to be kind to me and maybe the first elf to ever do so.” Mutt playfully flicks Azalie’s ear to try and make her smile and lift her spirits. “We may share a bit of ancestry, but you…and the Howlbears…are my found family. I am going to do whatever I can to make sure we get out of here.”

Mutt hopes his warm smile and playful gesture helped to lift Azalie’s spirits somewhat. He forces his attention back to his Detect Magic ritual.

“Right. Detect Magic.”

Mutt’s spell fizzles

“Well that’s not good.”

Mutt takes a hurried step back and puts up his empty palms as the two mind thralls appear outside their cell. He puts on a reassuring “you got me” kind of smile and tries to appear non threatening.

As the thralls speak with a voice that is not their own, Mutt cocks his head in curiosity. That’s interesting. The Duergar are just shells. It’s like their mental insides were scooped out like a pumpkin and now they’re being driven around by the mind flayer’s consciousness.

He takes note of how the sickly green light in their eyes seems brighter, more focused. He assumes that means they’re being directly controlled. Does that mean when they’re are the usual dull, green hue, they’re only passively watching? Maybe their senses aren’t as sharp then. He filed that away for later.

“Sorry about that. I have a thing about being watched when I take a piss and was just checking to see if these was anything in here to watch me.” Mutt chuckles and gestures at Azalie. “I was just going to make her face the wall.”

Mutt turns back to the thralls.

“Although now that we have your attention, your mind flayer…ness”, Mutt grimaced at his poor attempt at addressing the mind flayer with respect. “Any idea how long until we get to meet this Xal’Zyress? It’s been a bit since we ate and you took all our food and water.” Mutt vamps trying to keep the two thrall’s attention for as long as possible.

“I do think we can help each other out here. You said it yourself we’re ‘interesting’. We came here willingly and are willing to work with you willingly. No need to…”, Mutt shudders but tries to keep the fear from his face. “Do anything drastic and hollow us out or anything. You want the Howlbears at our best.”

Mutt beams a confident smile at the thralls. “Sorry, I feel odd not knowing your name. I can’t just keep calling you Mr. Flayer. What should we call you?” Mutt attempts to build a rapport with the entity controlling the thralls.

Amid the unsettling silence, Orin’s gaze lingers on the irregular pulse of arcane energy coursing through the walls. The disruption carries a familiar signature, likely from Mutt or Azalie’s recent attempts to break free of their confinement.

“These walls have negated whatever our friends in that cell attempted...,”

he confides quietly to Fizz. With determined calm, he steps forward and initiates Dispel Magic, his voice steady as he invokes the incantation. Perhaps the perversion of Xal'Zyress' experiments can be turned on itself through negation.

Orin weaves the incantation, his voice steady as he channels the Weave into the stone. For a fleeting moment, the runes along the wall flicker—a brief, fragile disruption. But then, like water absorbing ink, the magic is swallowed whole. The spell dissipates without effect.

Yet, something is different.

The pulse of the bioluminescent veins does not waver. The Duergar thralls do not stir. No reaction.

Orin narrows his eyes, studying the fractured rune he had noticed earlier. The spell suppression here is weaker—flawed. Unlike Mutt’s failed attempt, which drew an immediate response, his own went unnoticed.

A realization clicks into place. The damaged rune could be the key.

If he can study and disable it—**perhaps with a careful application of arcane knowledge—**he may be able to weaken or even bypass the cell’s suppression entirely.

Orin’s eyes narrow as the brief disruption fades into nothingness, leaving the bioluminescent pulse unchanged. His voice, low and urgent, breaks the silence:

“Fizz, did you see that? The damaged rune. There’s something there.” He steps closer to the fractured symbol etched into the stone, running a cautious hand along its surface as he scrutinizes the faint markings. “It appears this rune’s suppression is flawed,”

he murmurs, the prospect of bypassing the cell’s defenses igniting a spark of determination in his eyes. With deliberate calm, he begins to study the rune and surrounding wall (Arcana Check - 19 with Fizz's help)

Mutt’s words hang in the damp, stale air.

The Duergar mind thralls do not blink. Do not move. Do not react.

The silence is suffocating.

The hollow green glow of their eyes remains fixed, unblinking—watching. Staring. Minutes pass. Long, agonizing stretches of time where nothing happens.

Ten minutes.

Still, the thralls remain. Their stillness is almost unnatural—as if even the concept of shifting weight or breathing is beyond them.

Fifteen minutes.

Mutt’s own voice feels small in the void they leave behind, the thralls as lifeless as statues yet still watching. Azalie shifts uneasily beside him, the air growing heavier, a pressure building in the back of their minds.

Twenty minutes.

A shift. A ripple in the silence.

A presence.

Then—footsteps.

As Mutt waits in silence, twenty minutes stretch painfully in his cell, the unblinking Duergar thralls fixed upon him. But elsewhere in the prison, Orin works in secret.

His fingers trace the fractured rune, the air around it faintly distorted, as if the very Weave struggles to form properly in this spot. The suppression here is weaker—flawed.

With a precise, methodical analysis, Orin deciphers the instability within the ancient sigil. The glyph’s integrity has been corrupted over time, its magic not entirely intact.

Then, a revelation.

This rune does not fully suppress magic—it merely dampens it.

A well-placed spell could slip through the cracks, if cast directly on or near the weakened rune.

Key Findings from Arcana (19):

• Orin can bypass the anti-magic suppression by targeting this specific rune.

• A spell cast in this location will have a chance to work (though possibly weakened).

• This only works for their cell—it does not apply to others.

Orin has moments to decide—test a spell now, or risk waiting.

Because as he completes his study, a ripple of psionic energy washes through the prison.

Footsteps.

The Mind Flayer arrives at Mutt and Azalie's Cell.

“Xal’Zyress will see you now.”

The voice is not heard. It is felt.

(Retro Options)

Orin, you have only moments to cast a spell after your successful arcane check reveals how to exploit the rune, however doing so is risky, you cannot be sure your spell will succeed, if you choose to do nothing, then we will proceed with the text below.

The rest of you may post dialogue actions and make retro-skill checks if you wish to do any additional investigation in your cells during the past 20 minutes.

However, time has run out, escape is no longer an option at this point.

The Party is Taken

The Drow warriors move swiftly, unlocking the cells with practiced efficiency. There is no negotiation. No chance to resist.

Steel-clad boots stomp against the damp stone floor as Two Drow enforcers arrive at each of the three cells, their hands resting on cruelly curved blades. Their gazes are sharp, efficient—this is routine for them.

One of them sneers as he yanks Mutt to his feet.

"Time to move, surfacer."

Another slams an armored fist against Dorf’s shoulder, shoving him toward the corridor.

The same Male Drow that threatened Azalie from earlier, removes her from her cell, a smug and unsettling smirk on his mouth as he pushes her forward.

The Duergar mind thralls remain still, their hollow eyes fixed forward, their purpose already served. The Mind Flayer lingers behind them, observing, waiting—but making no move to act.

The Drow provide all the force needed.

Refusing to march would mean a swift punishment. And so, you move.

The Path to the Throne of Xal’Zyress

The tunnels stretch before you, winding and twisting in disorienting ways, the very architecture of this place designed to strip away any sense of direction.

The bioluminescent veins pulse unnaturally, the rhythmic glow thrumming in time with something unseen. A heartbeat? A will? The walls themselves seem alive, the energy humming with quiet, psionic menace.

The deeper you go, the more the horrors unfold—each chamber a glimpse into the true nature of this place.

As you march through the twisting corridors, you pass a heavy iron door, its barred window revealing nothing but darkness within.

But from the other side—the screams begin.

A woman’s voice, raw and ragged with pain, echoes through the stone, piercing the stagnant air. The sound is gut-wrenching, filled with pure, unrelenting agony.

There are no words—only suffering.

The Drow force you forward, unmoved. The further you march, the screams fade into the distance, but they do not leave you. They cling to the back of your mind, an echo that lingers.

Then—a shove.

As you pass, the male Drow leans in, his voice barely above a whisper, just for Azalie:

"Some screams are worth savoring. I do hope yours is one of them."

Then, a slow smirk—he doesn’t linger, doesn’t wait for a reaction. He simply walks on, as if the words were an afterthought.

You pass through other chambers of suffering:

• A Drow experimenter carefully etches glowing runes into the exposed skull of a captive, each stroke of his chisel followed by a silent, gasping scream. The prisoner's mouth is sewn shut, his agony trapped inside.

• A massive, circular room filled with kneeling Duergar thralls. They do not move, do not breathe—until, in one synchronized motion, they all turn their heads toward you. Their dead eyes follow your passage, but none speak, none react.

• A laboratory, where grotesque hybrids—fusions of humanoid and aberration—writhe on metal slabs. Their bodies twitch violently as Mind Flayers work patiently, their thin fingers prodding at pulsing, chardalyn-infused flesh. You hear whispers at the edges of your minds, faint echoes of these creatures' final thoughts before they were… changed.

• A failed experiment. A body—or what remains of one—hanging limply from the ceiling. At first, it seems like a simple corpse… but then, its eyes flicker open.

Its face twists into an unnatural, impossible smile, stretching too wide as a voice echoes within your heads:

"Run."

A Drow warrior grips his blade tighter, visibly unnerved—but he keeps marching, forcing you forward.

And then, at last…

Arrival in the Throne Room

The chamber is vast, yet suffocating, carved from the very bones of the Underdark, its twisted architecture warping reality itself. The walls stretch high and jagged, their surfaces slick with pulsing bioluminescent veins, glowing in unnatural hues of blue, green, and violet, as if they are alive—breathing, watching.

At the room’s heart, a sunken pit of swirling green energy pulses with an ominous radiance, casting shifting shadows across the cracked stone floor. The pit's is purpose unclear—but its presence demands attention, an ever-present threat beneath your feet.

Eerie violet energy crackles, illuminating the throne room in intermittent bursts of unnatural light.

It is here that Xal’Zyress hovers, his monstrous form casting a grotesque, shifting silhouette against the unnatural glow. His many writhing eyestalks twist and coil, scanning every inch of the room with unrelenting scrutiny.

The chamber is still, but never silent. The soft hum of psionic energy reverberates in the air, accompanied by the occasional whisper of unseen voices—or perhaps, echoes of minds already lost.

The Beholder hovers effortlessly above the room, his enormous central eye drinking in your presence with a quiet, suffocating intensity. His eyestalks shift and twitch, each one watching something different—never focusing on just one of you.

His presence demands obedience. Not by shouting, not by force—but by simply existing.

The silence stretches, thick and suffocating, as the floating abberation watches you, smiling as though he knows something that you do not.

The air hums with an unseen force, the very walls of the chamber breathing with psionic energy.

Xal'Zyress hovers above, watching. Waiting. The weight of his gaze presses against your thoughts—suffocating, dissecting, like a scalpel poised just above the skin.

Then—

"You tread in places meant for those greater than you. And yet, you remain."

The words invade your thoughts, cold and weightless, spoken not with sound but as an imprint upon your very mind.

Then, just as suddenly—a voice breaks the silence.

"Mmm, but look at them! The little things, wriggling, grasping! How—"

The sentence collapses into a mess of garbled [unintelligible, guttural sounds]—syllables that do not belong in any mortal tongue.

"—[Unintelligible, guttural sounds]—"

Then—abruptly—clarity, the voice once again sliding into your mind like an oil-slick whisper:

"Your presence is an anomaly. Explain it."

The transition between thought and voice is jarring, like the floor dropping out from beneath you, leaving you off-balance.

The eyestalks twitch, never focusing on one of you for too long.

Then—one locks onto Dorf.

A singular, intense gaze.

"You. Speak."

The conversation has begun.

30 minutes have passed

Current Time: 12:36 PM

Date: Eighthday , 28 , Alturiak , 1742

Temperature: 52°

Current Phase: Exploration

The Audience with Xal'Zyress

Dorf looks at his friends after the beholder tells him to speak, shrugs his shoulders and gives an apologetic grin to them before he starts speaking.

“I’m only here looking for a friend. If she is here I’d like to have her safely returned to her people. If you do that, I’ll help you do whatever it is you need.”

Dorf’s words hang in the charged air, his straightforward offer met with a suffocating silence. The great central eye of Xal’Zyress narrows slightly, while his many eyestalks coil and twitch—not with uncertainty, but with thought.

Then, the silence shatters.

"So simple. So… small."

The words invade their minds, a deep, measured whisper that drips with both amusement and dismissal.

Then—another shift.

"Yes, but small things can be useful! This one offers service, obedience—ooh, how very, very interesting!"

The audible voice erupts from the chamber, a layered cacophony of languages, some comprehensible, some entirely alien. The sheer force of it presses against the party’s skulls before vanishing as suddenly as it appeared.

The mental voice slips in again, this time sharper, more focused.

"And what, little thing, makes you believe you have anything of value to offer me?"

A pause.

Then, a shift—one of the eyestalks turns toward Fizzbum.

"Perhaps you should answer instead, little gnome."

Dorf is given no further acknowledgment. His answer has not been rejected, but it has been set aside.

1 minute has passed

Current Time: 12:37 PM

Date: Eighthday , 28 , Alturiak , 1742

Temperature: 52°

Current Phase: Exploration

The Audience with Xal'Zyress - The Riddle

Fizzbum stands shocked at the presence of the Beholder, knowing he is in the presence of something more powerful than anything they have come in contact with so far. Something tells him not to look at the eyes for too long, but he can't help peeking at them occasionally because even though he's afraid, he's also fascinated by this incredible being. The whispered voices mixed with the audible ones confuse him, and when their attention snaps back to him, he gives a little squeak of fright.

"Who...me?"

He stammers. Seeing the eyes' gaze continue to focus on him, he clears his throat.

"Well.. Mr. Eyes, we may not look like your normal adventuring crew, but we've faced down elementals, Fungus monsters, Giants, Yeti's, Wraiths, sorcerers and sword masters. So we're pretty good in a fight if you need us to do that."

Thinking for a minute, Fizz continues,

"We're also good at finding things! We've found some super rare spritey things, a missing lantern, fancy rocks and all kinds of herbs and minerals. I'm pretty good at making stuff too! Maybe I can make you some special potion that's good for lots of eyes. I'm sure they can get tired sometimes... I mean, even swamp spider eyes get tired when they've been hunting all night! And they've only got 8 little eyes! Are you part spider? Or maybe part snail? I saw a snail once that had 4 stalks with eyes on the top like yours, but 2 of em didn't work... "

Seeing the thrashing of the tentacled eyes focused on him, Fizz's words come to a halt.

"Well sir.. I'll need my pack for those herbs if you want them, and I can make you some interesting potions."

Fizz straigtens his coat and stands tall as he can, waiting for the Beholder's answer.

The Beholder shifts slightly, his many eyestalks writhing in synchronized motion, as if considering Fizzbum’s words from multiple perspectives.

Then, a pulse—a ripple of unnatural mirth.

"Hrrrnnhh—! A potion! For me! Ohhh, how rare it is for something to offer me something...!"

His voice undulates between the telepathic and the spoken, the audible portions fluctuating between Common and something grotesque, warped beyond comprehension.

"What do you imagine it would do, little one? Hmmm? Clear the unseen? Strengthen the gaze? Twist minds as I see fit?"

One of the Beholder’s eyestalks flicks toward Fizzbum, the psionic presence pressing down like a vice.

"A maker, a finder, a fighter. I wonder, then… what have you found, that even I have not?"

The air hums with tension. "You claim to be seekers, finders of the unseen…"

His words slither into your heads, the unnatural duality of his voice sending ripples through your thoughts.

"Then… let us see if you comprehend even the smallest shadow of what stands before you."

A strange vibration pulses through the room—a psionic shift, something watching more closely now. Then, the riddle begins.

"I am shaped by loss, yet I do not mourn.

I walk with warriors, yet I am set apart.

I am written in blood, yet I do not bleed.

And though I hold power, it is not mine to wield.

Who am I?"

"One of you must claim this truth. And if you fail to see it... why should I see you at all?"

As the riddle is spoken, the bioluminescent veins along the chamber walls pulse in slow, steady waves, as if they are listening too.

1 minute has passed

Current Time: 12:38 PM

Date: Eighthday , 28 , Alturiak , 1742

Temperature: 52°

Current Phase: Exploration

The Audience with Xal'Zyress - Where is it?

Compared to the constant churn in Mutt's mind during the moments of silence, his thoughts are still and his attention locked on Xal'Zyress as it addresses Fizz and presents its riddle. He scans the beholder and drinks in every detail as it delivers its puzzle. He looks for changes in tone, body language, or volume that could help him glean some clues or hints. (Insight roll made)

Mutt's thoughts started spinning again. "One of you must claim this truth." Mutt tossed the idea around in his head while focusing on the beholder. A twitch at the corner of the beholder's mouth as the group sat pondering the clues catches Mutt's eye. Did it think itself clever? A realization dawns on Mutt and his eyes open wide. One of them must claim this truth! The riddle was about one of them! Mutt looks wide-eyed at each member of the party wondering if anyone else has come to same conclusion.

He turns over each clue in his mind and tries to apply it to each member of the group. "I am shaped by loss, but I do not mourn." Mutt looked at each party member in turn. He suddenly wished he took more time to learn about their histories. Fuck it. Move on. As far as he could tell, Fizz wasn't shaped by loss. From what he gleaned from the gnome's stories, his upbringing was mostly peaceful. Mutt didn't think Fizz had a reason to mourn just yet. That might rule him out. For some reason, Mutt's thoughts drift to his mother, but he forces them away. He needed to focus.

"I walk with warriors, but I am set apart." That ruled out Dorf, Azalie and Uptharr. Whenever someone brought up warriors around Mutt, they would be the first ones Mutt thought of. Maybe...maybe the line referred to being in the thick of battle. That could make sense. Mutt and the rest of the finger wigglers walked with warriors but typically kept their distance from the front-line fight.

"I am written in blood, but I do not bleed." That didn't make sense. All of them bled if you cut them, so it couldn't be a literal meaning. Blood. Blood could reference someone's family, perhaps. Someone's heritage has a lot to do with how someone is "written". Again, Fizz's upbringing seems mostly happy. Frustrated he couldn't cleanly eliminate any possibilities with this clue, Mutt moves on to the next. "And though I hold power, it is not mine to wield." That ruled out Orin. Orin's power came from his master's spellbook, but Mutt had seen him wield it several times so far. Similarly, Fizz's power came from nature itself, but again, Mutt had seen him wield it many times. But that would mean...

Fuck.

Mutt's eyes automatically shift to the pouch that contains his father's journal. He didn't know what it lay within its pages, but he knew it was worth his mother sneaking him away in the dead of night and forcing them to be on the run for the rest of their lives. He didn't know what it was, but there was power in that book.

Realization dawns quickly and Mutt's eyes open wider. If this riddle was about him, that meant the beholder was capable of reaching into their minds and pulling out things unsaid. Things unknown to anyone else. There was no point in lying. Xal'Zyress already knew.

Mutt looks up and locks eyes with the beholder before breaking the silence. He's never been the religious type, but he sends up a prayer to anyone that might be listening. He takes a deep breath.

"I claim your riddle."

Mutt pauses. Fuck it. Move on.

"Maelor Bromwell."

The Beholder’s massive central eye narrows ever so slightly, and for the first time, the grin stretching across his grotesque maw seems genuine.

"Ahh…!"

A pulse of psionic energy ripples outward as Xal’Zyress shakes with satisfaction, his many eyestalks writhing like delighted serpents.

"You see, little things? There is hope for your kind after all. Even in the deepest pits of ignorance, a single light flickers!"

His voice warps again, shifting between a whisper in your thoughts and a jarring, booming resonance that makes the walls shudder.

"Yes… the riddle was always about you, Maelor—or should I say… something more?"

One of his eyestalks snaps toward Mutt, lingering with an unspoken pressure, as if trying to push deeper into his mind.

"You are shaped by loss, yet you do not mourn. You walk with warriors, yet you keep yourself apart. Written in blood, yet you do not bleed. And though you hold power—"

The eyestalk twitches, almost mockingly.

"It is not yours to wield."

Xal’Zyress shifts in place, hovering slightly lower as the strange, green-lit pool pulses behind him. The tendrils of energy within it coil and stretch, as though mirroring his thoughts.

"And yet…"

A long pause.

"There is something you carry that does not belong to you, isn't there?"

The air tightens around Mutt. The weight of psionic presence is suffocating, as though unseen hands coil around his very thoughts.

His grin widens.

"You see, I know every little trinket you brought into my halls. Every stolen blade. Every secreted potion. Every contraband, tucked away in quivering, unwashed folds of fabric."

A wet chuckle.

"But not yours."

The Beholder's amusement vanishes.

"Why is that, I wonder?"

He tilts slightly, an unnerving mimicry of curiosity.

"You are not a warrior. You do not seek dominion. And yet you cling to something that resists my gaze, something that is not in my possession."

The central eye fixates on Mutt.

"Where is it?"

A pause. Then, quieter—more insidious:

"…And do you even know what you hold?"

1 minute has passed

Current Time: 12:39 PM

Date: Eighthday , 28 , Alturiak , 1742

Temperature: 52°

Current Phase: Exploration

The Audience with Xal'Zyress - Mind Probe

A physical sensation of relief washes over Mutt as the beholder accepts his answer. He releases a breath he wasn't aware he was holding and tries to release some of the tension he held in his shoulders, doing his best to look confident and at ease.

Mutt continues to focus on the beholder as it pushes forward with its questions. As the beholder mentions an object Mutt carries that doesn't belong to him, his insides seem to freeze. He tries to hide the feeling of surprise and shock from his face, forcing it to remain as neutral as possible. The fear he felt a moment ago was gone, replaced by a curiosity and burning desire to find out what the beholder might know about his father's journal.

He casually reaches into his leather satchel and removes the red leatherbound journal. He stares at it for several moments, turning the well-worn book over in his hands before looking back up at the beholder.

"It...it belonged to my father. I haven't been able to make head nor tails out of it, but I know it's important. Do you know what this is?"

Mutt’s fingers tighten around the leather journal as he speaks, his voice steady despite the weight in the air. The moment his words leave his lips, Xal’Zyress grins—a slow, monstrous stretch of jagged teeth.

A pulse of psionic energy ripples outward, warping the air itself. His amusement is palpable.

"Ohhh, delightful."

His eyestalks twitch and wriggle, his massive form lowering slightly as he hovers closer to Mutt, his central eye drinking in every detail.

"You clutch it so tightly. So protective. So precious."

The air presses down, as though the chamber itself is breathing in the moment.

"And yet—"

The journal rips from Mutt’s grasp, lifted by an unseen force, floating freely toward the Beholder. It hovers just in front of his gaping mouth, turning in slow circles as if appraised by unseen eyes.

"All this effort… to keep something that is not even yours."

His eyestalks twitch erratically, the jagged maw curling upward into something gloating, indulgent.

"Did you think I would not see it? Did you believe your secrets could remain hidden from me?"

He lets the words linger, feeding on the power of control.

Then—his massive central eye narrows.

A faint pulse of violet energy ripples over the journal’s surface. The Beholder’s eyestalks twitch again—subtle, but off-rhythm.

There is something blocking him.

A rune—woven into the very fabric of the journal itself.

The chamber hums with tension.

Then—a sudden, garbled snarl.

"What is this?"

The journal jerks violently in the air, twisting unnaturally, as though something unseen is clawing at its secrets.

Then—silence.

The Beholder lets out a deep, wet chuckle—

"Ahhh… how curious."

The journal drifts lazily back toward Mutt.

"You do not even know what you hold, do you?"

His central eye fixates on the bard.

"But I do."

He says nothing more. No explanation. No revelation. Just the absolute certainty in his voice.

A game. A lie. A manipulation. Or the truth?

The silence stretches, the moment thick with unspoken tension—until Xal’Zyress turns his full attention back to the room.

"Your stories are crude little things, cobbled together in the dark. You fight. You crawl. You clutch at scraps of meaning in a world far beyond your grasp."

His voice deepens, slipping into their very bones.

"But what are you… without those stories?"

The room shifts.

The Mind Flayer steps forward from the shadows. Silent. Waiting. Hungry.

The weight in the air changes. A slow, creeping sensation—like a hand slithering into your mind.

The Beholder’s grin widens.

"Ahhh, yes. We have glimpsed your thoughts, tasted the edges of your feeble minds… but there is more."

Then, suddenly—a sharp, piercing screech, breaking the air itself.

"SHOW ME!"

The Mind Flayer lifts one gray, clawed hand.

The air grows thick, suffocating. A ripple of psionic energy stretches outward, pressing against your very being.

You feel something reaching—pressing against your thoughts. Searching. Prying.

Your Choices:

• You may resist. Make a Wisdom or Constitution Check. 

• You may verbally refuse to be probed.

• You may attempt another means of evasion—deception, persuasion, misdirection. If you choose this, state your method clearly

• You can allow the probe. Choose not to resist..

Choose your action.

1 minute has passed

Current Time: 12:40 PM

Date: Eighthday , 28 , Alturiak , 1742

Temperature: 52°

Current Phase: Exploration

Testing the party

Azalie imagines what it will feel like to allow the mind flayer into her memories. She has nothing to conceal—nothing to fear. Slowly, she starts to clear her mind, focusing all her thoughts on the good she has experienced.

She takes a deep breath, holding it for several seconds. Her fingers don’t tremble; instead, they become completely still. As she exhales, her breath releases into the air, carrying just four words:

“You are welcome to.”

Her tone is both confident and vulnerable. Deep down, she hopes the psionic waves will stir something—some long-buried memory. She closes her eyes, tilting her head back slightly. She has nothing to hide.

Flashes of faces fill her mind. The first is her mother, laughing. Her father, watching over their small family. But their faces—she can’t quite remember them.

A pang of sadness hits her. Disappointment. She should remember them. She should remember their faces, their names. Tears prick at her eyes, but she stays still. Maybe, just maybe, this will help her remember.

Then, a flicker of Uptharr and Fizz. She remembers the first time she saw Fizz—his blue skin catching her off guard. Even then, she could tell he was safe. He radiates warmth.

Uptharr comes next. A guiding light for this team. Azalie sees him as a forever battle buddy. She senses his longing for a settled life. Why didn’t that time come before all this?

The pressure in her mind intensifies. Pain builds, but she keeps the flayer on track, steering him through her chosen memories.

Dorf flashes into her mind. She sees him raging, pure power surging through him, but also his heart—the kind that will change things for the better. He only wanted to save Hruna.

And then guilt. Orin. She still hasn’t taken the time to know him. She needs to. She will.

Sweat beads along her skin as the mental onslaught continues. She forces her thoughts to flicker between her friends, her family, her victories. Keep him moving. Keep him distracted.

Then—Mutt.

Azalie forces herself to erase the thought before it fully forms. She’s not even ready to admit to herself how confused her feelings are, let alone let the mind flayer dig into them. And the beholder? It wouldn’t care about crushes.

Would it?

The moment Azalie opens her mind, the psionic pressure intensifies—like unseen fingers peeling back the layers of her consciousness. The mind flayer accepts her invitation, but not gently. It does not explore like a curious scholar—it feeds like a predator.

For a moment, she holds control, guiding the entity through carefully chosen memories—her mother’s laughter, the warmth of her companions, the safety she has found in the Howlbears. It is painful, invasive, but she forces herself to keep the focus away from the shadows of her past.

The mind flayer does not resist. At first.

Then—it pushes back.

A sharp, alien presence lunges into her thoughts, sifting through her recollections like a thing starved. The happy memories are tasted, but not devoured. No, it is searching for something deeper.

Something buried.

Something raw.

The light fractures. A crack appears. And for a brief, horrifying second—it finds something.

Pain. Shame. The feeling of being trapped, suffocating beneath an invisible weight. Hands that were not hers. A voice—too soft, too knowing.

A door, locked. She was small, too small to fight, too young to understand. The promise of knowledge, twisted into ownership. A voice, dripping with mock affection:

"So eager to learn."

A touch that did not belong. The pressure of expectation, of control, of something taken before she even knew it was hers to keep.

The memory convulses, writhing, splitting apart like a wound torn open by greedy hands. The mind flayer presses deeper, hungering—

No.

Azalie fights. The presence is wrenched away, ripped from the festering dark and hurled into the light. Her mother’s laughter. Fizzbum’s warmth. Uptharr’s unwavering strength.

Her heart hammers in her chest. Her breath is sharp. The violation is felt, even as the pressure retreats.

Then—a chuckle. Low. Knowing. Savoring.

"Such defiance," his voice slithers into her skull, curling through her thoughts like smoke, wrapping around her like a noose. "Such careful little hands, guiding the beast away from its meal… You have done this before, haven’t you?"

The mind flayer lingers beside her, its presence oppressive, cold and clinical—assessing, dissecting. Not as a person, but as a thing. A specimen. A subject.

And then—Xal’Zyress speaks.

"You were taught well."

The words punch through her chest, hollow and too familiar.

"Eager. Willing. Desperate to be of use."

The air in the chamber tightens, her stomach twisting into knots, her throat closing.

"You learned that resistance is pain. That submission is survival. That knowledge—"

A pause. His voice shifts, mockingly gentle.

"—must be earned."

The Beholder’s grin stretches as if peeling back flesh. He sees her now. Not just her body, not just her mind—but what she was before.

"You have something worth hiding."

A wet, sucking noise echoes through the chamber as Xal’Zyress shifts in midair, his amusement settling over her like a heavy chain.

He knows.

As the Mind Flayer’s presence coils around his consciousness, Orin draws upon the most unshakable truth he knows: his oath.

Protect. Preserve. Defend.

He does not push back. That would be foolish. Instead, he becomes still. A fortress of thought, unassailable and unwavering. He is a guardian of knowledge, not a mere vessel of secrets to be plundered.

Memories try to surface, but he clasps them tightly, binding them behind walls of discipline and restraint. The entity presses, searching for weakness (Con check was 14....)

The force begins to recede, like a wave breaking against stone.

Orin opens his eyes, expression impassive, his will unbroken.

The pressure builds. A slow, invasive force that does not break Orin’s defenses—but seeps between them. It is not brute force, but something far worse. Something insidious.

The Mind Flayer does not strike. It searches.

Like water finding the cracks in stone, it presses into the gaps Orin does not see.

A shift. A tremor in his thoughts. A veil of carefully structured knowledge, and behind it—fragments of something the Beholder can taste but not fully see.

A prophecy. A warning. A buried truth.

A brittle, yellowed page, scrawled in shifting ink. The words resist intrusion, twisting in defiance of the Beholder’s gaze. But something slips through—a whisper, pulled from the depths of Orin’s mind.

"When the seals falter, the gate will open. And the first to step through… will never return."

The Beholder’s grin stretches wider. The central eye flickers, intrigued.

"Ahhh… how interesting."

The probing force coils tighter. The Mind Flayer reaches deeper.

A towering man—Eldric Varost. A master, a mentor, a guardian of forbidden knowledge. Orin sees his fingers slam shut a heavy tome, the sound echoing through his memory.

"There are things you do not need to know, Orin."

The words return now with sharp, unwanted clarity. They had always lingered in the back of his mind, but now they stand before him, undeniable.

The Beholder seizes on it.

"Even your master did not trust you. That must sting."

One of the eyestalks twitches with amusement.

"What was he hiding from you?"

Then—the probe goes deeper.

Pain. A crack in the foundation. A moment Orin has spent years refusing to acknowledge. The thing he has buried.

A face. Blurred by time, but not forgotten.A student? A friend? Someone who believed in him. Someone who trusted him.And someone who paid the price for it.

A cry for help. A reaching hand.A ward, too slow. A spell, too weak.A moment too late.

And then—silence. A terrible, suffocating stillness.

Pain lances through Orin’s skull. A psionic scalpel, peeling back the edges of his restraint, forcing him to hold the weight of his failure in trembling hands.

The Beholder’s voice is mocking, indulgent.

"Ahhh… you build your walls so high, little wizard. Yet your hands… are empty."

The chamber feels colder. The bioluminescent veins in the walls pulse as if drinking in the taste of regret.

The words slither into Orin’s mind, invasive and knowing.

"Tell me, Orin Kalladris… who did you fail?"

But the Mind Flayer is not finished.

A flicker of blue-white light. Arcane sigils unraveling before Orin’s eyes. A spell, miscast. A ward, shattered. A breach—something vast and wrong stepping forward.

And then, he sees himself.

His own hands—unfamiliar, shaking. Magic slipping from his grasp, warping into something monstrous. No longer his own. Twisting him. Consuming him.

The Beholder revels in it.

"You think you wield magic?"

The pressure deepens—one final, crushing weight against his thoughts.

"No… it wields you."

The presence recedes, but not without a final whisper—taunting, syrupy with amusement.

"Even the most perfect ward can crack."

Xal’Zyress drifts lower, his many eyestalks writhing with satisfaction. He has pulled something from Orin—something he can use.

A slow pulse of psionic energy ripples through the chamber, making the air vibrate.

"A protector. A seeker of knowledge. A scholar of shields."

The grin stretches—impossibly wide.

"But tell me, Orin Kalladris…"

The final words land like a dagger to the chest.

"What will you do… when knowledge is the very thing that must be destroyed?"

Mutt gently receives the book with a perplexed expression as the beholder floats it back to him. He stares at the familiar, worn cover with a feeling of confusion and puzzlement. How often had he tried to pry its secrets, understand even just a little of what lay within its pages and come away with nothing? Years he'd spent trying to decode its contents while constantly on the run. And somehow, this...creature was able to determine what it was. And likely why he and his mother were hunted for it. Or he was lying.

He looks back up and stares at the beholder just as the mind flayer steps from the shadows. Sweat begins to break out onto his brow as he realizes what's about to happen. He looks to the rest of the party with an uncharacteristic look of panic on his face. There are things he's said and done he's not proud of. They were done in the name of survival, but still, he couldn't get some of their faces out of his head. Some of those faces were kind to him. Others were...less so. He shook his head and lifted his chin in defiance.

He allows the mind flayer entrance to his mind, but Mutt tries to guide the journey. He starts singing one of the bawdier songs he could think of as loud as he can within his head. The one about the sea captain's wife who left him for an ex-pirate that had a rather large peg leg between his two good legs. He steers his thoughts away from his mother, Hagag, and ... the things he's done. (Deception roll made)

At first, the Mind Flayer’s presence is an unwelcome, probing pressure. But Mutt is no fool—he knows how to spin a tale, how to misdirect, how to hide truth within a lie.

So he sings.

It’s loud, obnoxious, impossible to ignore. A song fit for a sailor’s tavern, woven with drunken laughter and scandalous metaphors. The crude lyrics coil through his mind like a drunken reel, filling every crevice with nonsense, making it difficult to latch onto anything deeper.

But the presence presses further.

The tune wavers—just for a moment.

A flicker of firelight. A tavern thick with smoke and secrets.

A meeting in the shadows. Coin changing hands.

A promise—made, then broken.

A pair of trusting eyes, widening with fear.

Then—nothing.

The silence is deafening.

The song resurges, louder, wilder, drowning the moment in filth and humor. A barrier, a shield.

And then, a chuckle.

Not from the Mind Flayer.

From Xal’Zyress.

“Ahhh…” The Beholder hums, his voice slithering through Mutt’s skull. “A liar… a clever little liar.”

The grin stretches, eyestalks twitching, his amusement palpable.

“You would have us believe that all you carry is music and mischief, but I see it. There… beneath the noise.”

A slow, creeping pressure coils around Mutt’s mind.

“A survivor.”

The word is spoken like a gift, laced with mockery.

“You are not a warrior. You are not a hero. But you know what it is to let someone fall, do you not?”

The air grows colder. The Beholder lingers now, savoring the taste of a revelation that he does not realize was fed to him on purpose.

A long pause.

Then, the voice slithers forward, closer, coiling like a whispered threat against the base of Mutt’s skull.

“And I wonder…”

The chamber seems to tighten.

“If it came to them…"

A pause, slow and deliberate.

"Would you do it again?”

But Mutt doesn’t flinch. He lets the question hang, lets the pressure coil, but inside, he knows the truth—the Beholder is grasping at shadows.

The Mind Flayer never reached what Mutt didn’t want it to see.

He forced it to chase the wrong ghosts.

And if Xal’Zyress thinks he’s uncovered something damning? Good. Let him believe it.

Because for all his power, for all his eyes…

He still only sees what Mutt wants him to see.

Dorf steels his resolve to not let the beholder into his mind. The beholder wants answers, well so does he. Where has he hidden Hruna and what has he done to her? One way or another he will pay for the pain he has inflicted, even if it takes years to right this wrong!

The psionic presence lashes out like a storm, slamming against Dorf’s mind.

But Dorf is no stranger to pain.

He sets his jaw, plants his feet, and pushes back.

For a moment, he holds.

Then—a crack.

A whisper, slithering into his thoughts.

"Strength is nothing against loss."

A memory fractures into view—

The dull clink of pickaxes, the glow of lanterns.

Hruna wipes sweat from her brow, grinning. “You’ve got a strong arm, Thimblerigger.”

A laugh, warm and unguarded. The first person who ever saw him as more than just a storm waiting to break.

Dorf reaches for the memory, but the scene shifts, warps, distorts.

No lanterns.

A single pickaxe lies broken, splintered in the dirt.

A trail of blood.

A voice echoes through the cavern. “Dorf—?!” It’s her. Farther ahead, lost in the dark.

He moves to run—but he cannot move. His limbs are frozen, weighted, like he’s buried beneath miles of stone.

"You left her."

The whisper twists through his mind, merciless.

"You left her… and now she is mine."

Pain. Rage. Fear. It all churns inside him.

He is stronger than this. He won’t break.

But Xal’Zyress doesn’t need to break him.

The memory warps again. Hruna is gone—replaced by something small, insignificant.

A tattered stuffed bear.

Mr. Wiggles.

Dangling over the abyss, just out of reach.

Dorf’s pulse pounds. This is a trick. A lie.

But the voice coils around him like a vice.

"Tell me, little warrior… what will you fight for?"

The memory shatters. The probe ends.

The Beholder knows what Dorf cannot admit to himself.

He would burn the world to bring Hruna back.

And that is what Xal’Zyress was waiting to learn.

Fizz looks at the many-eyed Beholder in curiosity. He's confident in the power of the earth, of which even this creature is a part of, but some parts of nature can be corrupted or destroyed by evil deeds or malicious acts. Fizz's time alone in the swamp taught him to feel deeply his connection to nature and life, which was what drove him to be a druid in the first place! He knows that he's part of something so much bigger than this experience, and his strength comes the waters, the trees, and the living creatures that connect all things together.

"Now.... what do you suppose in THIS creature's memories?" Fizz thinks suddenly. He'd always craved knowledge, and this what an incredible, yet dangerous discovery this would be to delve into the mind of an entity that was the master of thought! With a twinkle in his eye, Fizz reaches into his vest and pulls Lumpy out to perch on his shoulder. "I'll show you mine if you show me yours Mr. Oculus Tremendous!"

Fizz spreads his arms out, first finger and thumb pressed together in a symbol of focus, and the circle of natural power. "Let's begin!"

Fizz will hold back no information, trusting in the great circle of life to protect him on his journey.

Fizz will attempt to find out info about the Beholder, while the Beholder finds out info about him.

The moment Fizzbum relinquishes control, the Mind Flayer lunges into his consciousness—not with brute force, but with insidious precision. It slithers in, threading itself between his thoughts, peeling back the layers of his past like old, damp parchment.

Fizz feels the warmth of the swamp, the familiar dampness of the moss beneath his fingers. A home, a friend. A small gnome, younger than him, pale with fever.

"Don’t worry, Jori. I’ll fix you right up. Just like I do the frogs."

Fizzbum, confident and eager, had scoured the swamp for the strongest mushrooms, the most potent herbs. His hands had mixed them with care—except, he hadn’t known then what he knows now.

The moment Jori swallowed the mixture, his tiny hands clenched, his chest convulsed—his breath stopped.

A mistake.A failure.Fizz’s first death.

He tries to shove the memory away, but the Mind Flayer drags it back, forcing him to relive it—the cold stillness of Jori’s body, the horror that spread through the village, the moment Fizz realized…

"I killed him."

A laugh slithers through the chamber.

"A healer who kills. A savior who destroys."

The words seep into his mind—telepathic, weightless.

"You are… a contradiction, little one."

Fizz feels the tendrils of thought burrowing deeper, seeking more—but the pain sparks something within him. A realization. If memories can be stolen…

They can be given.

The connection between them fluctuates—for a brief moment, Fizz feels a current pulling the other way. He is not just a vessel to be emptied, but a conduit.

With a reckless surge of will, he pushes.

And suddenly—he is inside Xal’Zyress’s mind.

A reflection in shattered glass. Xal’Zyress is two, a jagged, splintered presence desperately woven together.

The psionic conduits pulse—purple… green… and something else. A brief flicker of a third color, an intrusion in the web that holds him together.

And then—a glitch.

The Beholder’s form wavers, its grotesque mass shuddering as if something inside is misaligned. Two minds fighting for dominance.

The psionic web that binds him is not perfect.

A voice thunders aloud, its sound vibrating against the chamber walls—harsh, jarring, and erratic.

"WHAT. IS. THIS—?"

A second voice slithers through Fizz’s skull, cold, patient, knowing.

"Curious… little druid. How bold you are."

The audible voice grows frantic, slipping between languages, growling, hissing, howling with sudden fury.

"SQUIRMING LITTLE THING—YOU DARE—!"

And then—the connection snaps.

Fizz lurches backward, his vision swimming. A sharp, psionic lash of anger slams into his skull—Xal’Zyress knows what just happened.

But rather than fury, the Beholder's grin stretches impossibly wide.

"Ohhhh… what a delightful little mind you have."

His eyestalks twitch with delighted malice.

"But tell me, little druid…"

A pause. The room darkens.

The audible voice snarls, hissing, dripping with contempt.

"Frail. Soft. SQUIRMING LITTLE INSECT—"

A telepathic whisper overrides it—smooth, composed, savoring the moment.

"What will you do… when the cycle of life no longer favors you?"

The Beholder hovers lower, eyestalks writhing. He knows Fizz saw something—but does Fizz understand what it means?

8 minute has passed

Current Time: 12:48 PM

Date: Eighthday , 28 , Alturiak , 1742

Temperature: 52°

Current Phase: Exploration

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