The creature known as the Spectator presents a curious paradox. It floats, a heavy orb some three to four feet wide and weighing nearly two hundred and fifty pounds, its body a mass of thick, lumpy rubber crisscrossed by startlingly visible blue veins. Four ocular stalks protrude from its upper curve—a meager complement compared to its monstrous kin—all focused upon the world through its great, central eye.

Its function is singular: to guard. They are, to their word, incorruptibly trustworthy, capable of defending a charge even when the fabric of reality itself seems to unravel. They shift between two remarkable states: at times, they are Free-Thinkers, gliding cautiously across the planes, open to discourse and philosophy with cautious travelers. At other times, they retreat into a Contemplative mode, withdrawing from the world to ponder cosmic queries for a century or more. They remain cordial when found in this state, engaging in brief, deep discussion before courteously requesting privacy to return to their profound musings. I have noted that isolated individuals often develop strange tics, perhaps echoing the voice of a long-vanished master.

Their ethics are rigid. They hold all mortal summoners in slight disdain as "lesser lifeforms," yet once they consent to an oath, their loyalty is absolute. They will not abandon the guarded object until their contracted time is done, deriving their chief pleasure from thwarting the machinations of chaos. Their code of justice is stringent: they hold that any creature not interfering with their duty has a right to live, and they will never strike an unarmed or helpless foe. Should they violate this code—killing outside of defense—the resulting moral agony is often so extreme it forces the Spectator to commit self-imposed oblivion. It is this same mildness that allows them to achieve genuine friendship with other beings, a trait utterly foreign to the dread Beholders.