Fizban Shops for Pearls, Part II

Fizban: I lift my left eyebrow and the hand reaching for my coin purse instead reaches out in a handshake. "I'm sorry, I've forgotten my manners," I say while waiting. "My name is Fizban, the Royal Wizard to King Mish Mash, and Headmaster of the Academy for the Advancement of the Arcane Arts. I am looking to procure a vendor to provide the Academy and the Royal Court with a continuing source of pearls to help us advance the knowledge of our students." I look past the old Halfling towards his daughter as I add, "and I am also on the lookout for potential students to study at the Academy, and learn a valuable trade." I return my gaze to the old Halfling. "Would you be interested in discussing such an arrangement?"

He stares at your hand for a moment, tilting his head as if he is trying to comprehend its meaning. “Wat’s dat he says?” he finally asks, looking back at his daughter. “Wat’s dis abouts wizz-ards arts?”

“He said he’s the Royal Wizard, pa,” his daughter calls back at him, but she doesn’t look at him; instead, her eyes are looking beyond you, to Murray.

“Royal Wizard ye says!” the Halfling pulls on his waistband, trying futilely to hoist his pants up over his potbelly. “I ne’er heard tell o’ no Royal Wizards before, and who’s dis King Mish Mash fella?”

“The only king I know of is right here in town, pa,” his daughter replies calmly, deftly shucking another oyster as she does. “Everyone knows he just kilt ol’ Queen Mab for us. So he must be talking about him.”

“Aye, dat ‘tis our good King Runard, dat ‘tis,” the halfling’s eyes return to yours, “who’s dis Mish Mash ye speak of?” He hawks thickly and spits behind the door, holding your eyes, waiting for an answer.

An awkward moment of silence draws itself over the small hut and its occupants, disturbed only by the clacking sound of a shucking knife popping another oyster open. You are about to open your mouth to reply, even though you haven’t formulated a response, when one is provided for you.

“That’s his nickname,” you hear Murray blurt, stepping forward as he does. Then, after sharing a nervous look with you, he elaborates more calmly. “They’re great friends, you know. Go way back. Mish Mash is just what he calls him—usually in private.” Murray’s eyes switch to yours at this last bit.

The Halfling stares back and forth at you and Murray for a while, a look of deep consternation clearly etched onto his face. Then a smile breaks his cracked lips, causing a line of blood to appear. He pulls his diminutive frame up as straight as he can, licks one of his palms, and uses it to slick back his unruly hair. A few more cooties fall out, raining down around him onto the floor. “Wells now, whys din’t ye says so in da firs’ place?” He holds out his still moist hand to you. “Me name’s Klem, an’ it’ll be a plez’zoor doin’ bizness wit’ ye!”

Klem is obviously very pleased with the prospect of continued business with a royal entity as he beams around at you and Murray and even his daughter, who you catch demurely sharing glances with Murray from time to time. Not long afterwards, you come to an agreement: guaranteed continuing preferred trade to the Royal Academy of all pearls of requisite size at a reasonable market price, and as a gesture of grace, he sells you his last pearl for a modest sum of 50gp. His daughter, Elzbet, thanks you for your gracious offer of tutelage but begs leave to contemplate it first. She seems unsure about leaving her father to fend for himself alone.

To finalize the bargain, Klem solemnly grasps your hand (you had just managed to surreptitiously dry it on your robes a moment before), looks you in the eyes, and intones, “Mays da Great Mudder Eltur witness dis deal, and mays she smite da one dats breaks it.” He finishes by spitting to the left. After an awkward moment of hand holding you realize he’s waiting for you to act in kind and you quickly produce your own expectorant. 

A short time later, you are rubbing the smooth pearl between your fingers and leaning back into the plush velvet cushioning of the royal carriage as Murray guides it back through the village when you hear a loud voice from out on the street.

“Hear ye, hear ye, hear ye!” booms the voice. You twitch the curtains aside and see a man in a herald’s uniform standing near the center of town. “By royal decree,” the man continues as a number of curious townsfolk stop to listen. “of his Highness King Runard Torren the 3^rd, there is to be in one month’s time on the 19^th of Ches, year of the Great Mother 943, a Grand Inaugural Royal Pugilistic Tournament! The tournament is open to all current and former members of the king’s army, navy, or constabulary forces. Interested parties should present themselves along with the 100 gold piece entrance fee and a patent of military service at the King’s Gate in Caer Torren. There are to be a maximum of 64 participants (with the option to expand to 68, at the King's discretion). The winner of the tournament will have their name engraved in the Hall of Champions as well as a first of its kind one-on-one boxing match with the Kingdom's famous Faerith the Pugilist, with the winner getting the Ultimate Prize!”

By the end of the announcement the herald’s voice has faded into the distance as your carriage steadily plods its way out of town. Dusk has completely enshrouded the sky with her starry cloak by the time you finally pull back up to Candlekeep Tower. Impatient to start, you throw the carriage door open, hardly waiting for the horses to come to a complete stop. You are halfway up the outer stairs when you hear a familiar voice bawl, “Murray! MURRAY! MURR-RRAY!! Where are you! Where have you been! Where’s my tea!” You pass Faerith as he heads down, thunderclouds in his eyes.

Up several flights of stairs, you emerge into the hag’s ritual room. The morbid detritus of several days ago has been mostly cleaned away. The putrid contents of the overturned cauldron have been thoroughly mopped up, but the cleaner (whoever he was) seemed to quail at actually touching the glistening, bile encrusted iron of the ancient pot, as it still lay belly up in the exact place it had when it was overturned after the hag’s defeat.

Ignoring the cauldron, you hurry over to a large smooth slate slab inset into the floor, a surface perfect for ritual casting. Feverishly now, you gather your ingredients and get to work. Without hesitation, you smash the lustrous pearl in a mortar and pestle, grinding it to a fine shimmery powder. To this you add a measured handful of powdered chalk, two ounces of griffin saliva, and a drop of oil of salamander. You then take the resultant clay and press it into a long thin mold, which you carefully situate amongst the glowing coals of a warm fire. Trying to distract yourself while waiting, you continue reading The Otyugh, Not as Ugly as You Might Think, which by the third chapter has you convinced that they are actually uglier than you had previously thought.

An hour later, you pop the hot piece of chalk out of its mold and begin the spell. For all the time it took you to gather and prepare the components the casting of the identify spell is relatively fast. Placing the robes in the center of the ritual casting slab, you quickly chalk the necessary arcane diagram, circling the robes in precise loops with bisecting lines at the correct spots anchored by runes of power. At the apex of the davulian triangle you place an owl feather. Your pulse quickens as you start chanting the final element of the spell, practiced tongue articulating the words precisely. As the litany of your chant rises and crescendos the torches lighting the room flicker and dim. You clip the final syllable off. The torch flames simmer further down and silence reigns. A heartbeat later, in a spurt of bright blue flame and puff of smoke, the owl feather is consumed. Flowing out from that point, the chalk lines begin to glow. You raise your hands as if pulling on strings and the lines rise up from the ground, flowing together to form new shapes, new runes.

To the uninitiated, the glowing lines would mean nothing, signify gibberish, but you read them as if they were your mother tongue. Yes! This is what you were after. Everything is revealed to you; the components of the fabric, the very spells wrapped in the thread, how they align, intersect, and interact, all the way down to the name of the very mage who crafted it (Ted, by the way).

And you know, this is a Robe of Eyes.

Robe of Eyes
Wondrous Item, rare (requires attunement)
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This robe is adorned with eyelike patterns. While you wear the robes, you gain the following benefits:

• The robe lets you see in all directions, and you have advantage on Wisdom (Perception) checks that rely on sight.
• You have darkvision out to a range of 120 feet.
• You can see invisible creatures and objects, as well as see into the Ethereal Plane, out to a range of 120 feet.

The eyes on the robe can't be closed or averted. Although you can close or avert your own eyes, you are never considered to be doing so while wearing this robe.

A light spell cast on the robe or a daylight spell cast within 5 feet of the robe causes you to be blinded for 1 minute. At the end of each of your turns, you can make a Constitution saving throw (DC 11 for light or DC 15 for daylight), ending the blindness on a success.