Seeking cover from a relentless downpour, our travelers seek a dry place in a seemingly dilapidated port town of the Mourning Isles. Through the rain, figures lying motionless on the path. A closer look reveals shallow breathing, like flickering candle flames. Curiosity pulls our brave souls forward. Forward, and they stumble -- into an ornately carved and adorned lyre of blackwood and mirrorsilver, into empty wine bottles nestled among the unconscious, deeply sleeping bodies.

The melody, faint at first, grows louder, drawing the gaze to a looming tower in the distance, cracked in half like a broken tusk, until the reflections around the instrument start to splinter and shatter. The music is coming from the lyre itself. The tower is calling them. No, serenading them. Confused and disoriented, our party realizes they are -- trapped in a bizarre situation -- possibly.

How did they get here, and how would they escape this sudden nightmare?