Shackled Spire

The Shackled Spire

The Black Tower

Location: Pandemonium / Agathion [wandering]

Mobile stronghold of Vecna

As told, to nobody in particular, by Kessara the Walker. Recorded in the Styx Oarsman, Sigil

Bar that! Bar it all now, cutters, and listen.

You think I’m barmy? See it in your eyes I do—tick—in how you lean away. Winds got me, you’re thinking. Winds of Pandemonium rattled my brain-box good and proper. But I’m no—no—addle-cove. I seen what I seen. Tumbled to the dark of it. The real dark.

That screaming place. That sodding, screaming place!

Went in through Agathion—deepest layer—tick—looking for, well, never you mind what I was looking for. Thought I was a blood, see? Twenty days. Or was it thirty? Time gets slippery down there, all twisted up in the howling. Those winds—they don’t stop, see. Never. Never ever. Scrape your thoughts raw like razorvine on flesh. Tick-tick. Makes you hear things that ain’t there. Makes you see—

But the tower. The tower was there.

Found it in a tunnel wide as the Great Bazaar. Massive thing. Black as the void between the stars—tick—but not stone black. Bone black. Knew it soon as I caught a skeg at it proper. It was bones. Wizard bones. Blackened, burned mage bones. Spell-slinger bones all fused and melted and woven with shadow-stuff, thick as tar, holding it all together in loops and spirals and strings.

You lot are giving me that look again. Pike it! I seen it.

The thing was moving. Tick. Sliding through the tunnel like some great blind worm, grinding slow and terrible. And pulling it—pulling it, cutters—was liches. A whole sodding crew of them. Dead as Dustmen, still garbed in their rotted finery, dragging that impossible tower through Agathion’s guts.

Got closer—stupid, yeah, I know—tick—but I had to tumble to the dark of what was goin’ on. One of them liches, robes all stinkin’ and cracklin’, was making the tunnel floor slick. Slippery-smooth with greasemagic to make it like glass. Another one—tall bastard with a crown still welded to his skull—was bossing around elementals. Rock and mud, all shackled up in magical chains, pushing and pulling, heaving and hawing at the tower’s base. Golems too. Stone ones. Iron ones. All enslaved to the work.

The tunnel wasn’t big enough in places. It’s Agathion, it’s a plane with holes like Bytopian cheese. Tick-tick. Should’ve stopped them dead. But there was another lich—her robes were purple once, I think—and she just pointed at the rock, and it ceased. Disintegrated. Turned to dust and drifted away on the screaming winds. Made a hole just wide enough for the top of the tower to scrape through.

And then—and this’ll really makes you think I’m barmy—tick—behind the tower, after it passed? Another lich was reforming the rock. Sealing up the tunnel like it never been opened. Hiding the passage. Covering up the tower’s trail.

Over and over. Forever. Tick. Drag it forward, disintegrate the rock, push through, seal it up behind. Over and over and over in the howling darkness.

I watched them for hours—or maybe minutes, time gets slippery down there—and they never stopped. Never rested. Just this futile, eternal task. Moving that enormous bone-tower through Agathion for no reason at all except someone made them do it. Someone powerful enough to bind liches. Liches! Someone who thought it was funny to make his enemies do this forever.

Vecna. Has to be. Who else would build a tower from the bones of spell-slingers he’s scraped? Who else has that kind of sick humour—tick—making his old enemies drag his kip through the screaming plane for all eternity?

But that tower, it knew I was there. Felt it looking at me, staring unblinking with that awful eye in its hand. Those shadows between the bones, they were aware. Started moving toward me—no not the liches, the tower itself seemed to bend space and lean in—so I got myself out of there. Ran. Ran until I found my portal back to the Outlands. Thank the Lady my key worked.

But you don’t believe me. See it in your faces. Tick-tick-tick. “Poor sod,” you’re thinking. “Winds got her good. Turned her barmy. No tower made of bones. No enslaved liches. Just the howling and the madness.”

But I seen it, cutters. It’s down there. Creeping through the deep tunnels. Hunting, maybe. Or just because Vecna thinks it’s funny to force his enemies working forever at something meaningless. A joke that never ends.

You want proof? Pike off to Pandemonium yerself, then. Go deep. Find the tunnel. But when you do—if you do—tick—don’t let the tower catch a skeg at you. Don’t let those shadows between the bones notice you.

Because I think—I think—tick-tick—that tower’s hungry for more bones. More spell-slinger bones to add to its walls. And maybe those liches need more help with their work.

Maybe Vecna’s always recruiting.

So. You believe me now?

No. Course not. Berks never do. Pike it, then. Drink your rotgut bub and call me barmy. But—tick—remember what I told you. Remember it’s out there. Moving. Always on the move.

So maybe—just maybe—you’ll understand why I twitch when the wind blows.

Why I can’t stop the ticking.

Why I’ll never go back to that sodding, screaming place again.

We’re done here.

The Journal of Archmagus Kelvedon Thrice-Crowned

[Found discarded or lost (?) in a sealed vault in Agathion]

12th of Coldeven

I HAVE FOUND IT! After seventeen years of searching forbidden libraries, delving into cursed vaults, and trading with those despicable antiquarians in Dorakaa, I have FOUND it.

The Codex Mortis Aeterna—the Book of Eternal Death—bound in what I believe to be dragon hide (black, ancient beyond reckoning). The merchant who sold it to me died three days later. Coincidence, surely. The book whispers when I’m not looking at it, but then all truly powerful tomes have their quirks.

Within its pages: the ritual of immortality. Not that crude phylactery-binding that creates common liches, oh no. This is something far more elegant. The text claims it was “perfected by the Master of Secrets himself”—clearly referring to Vecna, the only being to achieve true godhood from lichdom.

The sacrifices required are… extensive. But what is the life of cattle compared to the ascension of genius? I am perhaps the greatest living transmutation specialist on Oerth. If anyone deserves this power, it is I.

I begin my preparations tomorrow.

3rd of Planting

The first component is secured: the blood of thirteen archmagi, willingly given. Of course, “willing” is a matter of perspective. The ritual specifically states the blood must be “freely flowing from the living vessel”—which it was, once I’d convinced them to stand in the proper circles.

There is a peculiar phrase in the ritual’s introduction that troubles me slightly: “Through this working, become as the Master desires.” I interpret this as becoming like Vecna—the master of magic and death. Though I confess the phraseology could be clearer. These ancient texts are always so dramatic in their language.

Morindal the Red questioned why the spell required such specific geometric patterns—binding circles within binding circles, all pointing inward toward the caster. He suggested it looked more like a cage than a conduit. I reminded him of his place before I collected his blood contribution. A little extra from him. These lesserlings understand nothing of High Magic.

The blood is stored in vessels of black glass. It doesn’t coagulate. Instead, it swirls, as though something swims within it. The sign of potent magic, certainly.

18th of Planting

The grimoire requires what it calls “the willing surrender of your art.” I must inscribe every spell I know onto parchment made from the skin of spell-casters, then burn these scrolls while speaking the words of the ritual.

This seemed counterintuitive—why surrender my knowledge to gain power? But the text explains: “Empty the vessel that it may be filled anew. Surrender your power to the Master, that He may return it tenfold.”

A fair exchange. My knowledge for Vecna’s knowledge. The magic of a god for the magic of a mortal. When stated thus, it seems almost generous.

Though… I notice the text never explicitly states that I will retain my own will. But surely that’s implied? What would be the purpose of immortality without autonomy? The text must simply assume the reader understands this.

I’ve also noticed that certain passages seem to shimmer when I’m tired, revealing different words underneath. Yesterday I could have sworn one line read “bind yourself eternally to His service,” but when I looked again, it clearly stated “bind yourself eternally to His power.” 

Exhaustion plays tricks on the mind. I must rest more between preparations.

7th of Richfest

The sacrifices grow more demanding. Today I performed the Rite of Thirteen Endings, extinguishing the lives of thirteen magic-users at the height of their power, capturing their final breath in crystal phials.

As they died, one tried to warn me. Curious. Babbling about “the trap” and “He who watches.” Another actually named Vecna, shouting that this was “His game.”

Pure desperation, of course. The dying will say anything. They simply couldn’t bear that I would achieve what they never could.

Still, I did examine the grimoire once more with all my divinatory magic. True-seeing, translate, even legend lore. The spell structure appears sound. The magic will transform the caster into an immortal being of tremendous power. It will bind the caster to… well, the binding clauses are somewhat ambiguous. To the power source? To the ritual’s origin? To the tradition of lichdom itself?

Surely not to Vecna personally. That would be preposterous. Why would a god need slaves when he commands the dead across a hundred worlds?

No, this is simply the path he took, written down for others to follow. A gift to ambitious mages. Perhaps even a test—only the truly worthy could complete such demanding sacrifices.

I am worthy. I am perhaps the MOST worthy.

9th of Richfest

An unsettling development. One of my former colleagues, Thessara the Wise (a misnomer if ever there was one), broke through my wards last night. She was wild-eyed, clutching what she claimed were “the true texts” that revealed the ritual’s nature.

She showed me page after page of supposed scholarship proving that every mage who completed this ritual vanished afterward. No records of their continued existence, no sightings, no signs of their immortal power being wielded anywhere in the planes.

“They didn’t ascend, Kelvedon,” she hissed at me. “They were TAKEN. This is how Vecna collects servants—by offering power to the proud and ambitious, then binding them eternally to his will when they’re most vulnerable.”

I had her forcibly removed. The ravings of the jealous are tiresome.

Yet I cannot deny that I’ve found no accounts of successful completions of this specific ritual. The Codex claims to be unique, the only surviving copy. Where are the others who walked this path?

Hidden, surely. Operating in secrecy as all truly powerful beings must. The immortals themselves rarely manifest directly. Absence of evidence is not evidence of absence.

Besides, I’ve come too far. The sacrifices are complete. The ritual components are prepared. To stop now would mean all those deaths were meaningless. I cannot—will not—accept that I’ve been deceived.

13th of Richfest

Tomorrow is the night. The stars align precisely as the Codex describes. I have prepared the grand chamber with all the necessary circles, sigils, and binding marks.

Binding marks. Why does the ritual require so many binding marks focused on the caster’s position?

No. NO. I will not doubt now. This is the final test—the test of will and conviction. The weak falter at the threshold of greatness. I am not weak.

I’ve read the final passage a hundred times:

“Speak the words of surrender. Open yourself to the Master’s touch. Let His power flow into you, filling every space where mortal weakness once dwelt. You shall be remade in His image, according to His design, serving His purpose for all eternity. Death shall have no dominion over you, for you belong now to He Who Was Lich, Is God, Shall Be All.”

Serving His purpose. That’s a metaphorical flourish, surely. Serving the purpose of magic itself. Serving the higher calling of immortality. Not literal servitude.

The alternative is unthinkable. That I, Kelvedon Thrice-Crowned, Master of Transmutation, Breaker of the Seventh Seal, would be so thoroughly deceived? Impossible.

I am too clever for that. Too powerful. Too important.

Tomorrow, I become as Vecna. Tomorrow, I become a god among mages.

Tomorrow.

[This entry is written in a shaking hand, the ink smeared]

No no no no NO

The words—I spoke the words—the binding—I felt it CLAMP down—

Not a gift a COLLAR a CHAIN

He was THERE in the circle with me laughing that dry dust laugh—”Another proud fool,” he said, “another rival made servant, another powerful mage to labour forever at my amusement”

Tried to resist but the magic was IN me, woven through me, I INVITED it in, spoke the words of surrender myself, the ritual wasn’t transformation it was ENSLAVEMENT—

Can feel Him now, always, in the back of my skull—His will pressing down like a mountain—can’t resist much longer—already the urge to OBEY is overwhelming—

He’s going to bind us—all of us he’s trapped this way—going to make us drag his tower through Pandemonium forever—not because it SERVES any purpose but because the futility of it AMUSES him—eternity spent moving bones through screaming darkness—

Clever clever I thought I was so CLEVER—

He’s calling now. I must go. Must OBEY. Can feel my will crumbling like sand, being replaced with His commands, His desires, His—

This entry is written in a perfect, mechanical hand, without emotion]

I serve the Master.

I move the Tower.

This is my Purpose.

This is Eternal.

[The remaining pages are filled with the same three sentences, written thousands of times in increasingly elaborate scripts, as though the trapped consciousness is desperately trying to say SOMETHING ELSE but can only repeat the words of binding, over and over.]

Canonical Sources: Dragon Magazine #360 p69; Manual of the Planes [4e] p107

Source: Jon Winter-Holt. Canonwatch: A couple of sources mention Vecna has a tower in Pandemonium but nobody knows its true location. That got me thinking… why doesn’t it have a location, and why would it be there in the first place. Here’s my homebrew answer. The tower is constantly on the move, and Vecna has enslaved potential rivals to see that it’s not found. Vecna doesn’t use the tower—perhaps it’s an insurance policy in case he ever gets banished to Agathion.