The second villain of our tale. A child prodigy, one of such talents that eventually he gained the attention of the Lady of Mysteries herself. Mystra, goddess of magic. She named him Chosen. As he grew, she become more and more to him. A teacher, a mentor, a muse. Eventually, a lover. Perhaps what a god feels is love is not quite the way a mortal experiences it. But he was, after all, a very young man and it certainly felt like love to him.
Mystra keeps us in check. There are boundaries she doesn't let us cross. No matter how powerful a wizard we mortals can become, we never scratch more than the surface of the Weave - dipping a spoon into the ocean. She cannot risk it being shattered again, after she spent so much time picking pieces of it from the ash of Netheril and restoring it to order. Yet every time he was with her, he stood on the precipice, gazing into the wonders that lay beyond. He tried to convince her. He pouted, he pleaded, he swore his ambition was only to serve her better. He knew Chosen of old received gifts, access to what lay beyond the veil, trust. But she only smiled and told him to be contented.
Eventually, she tired of him. What was he, after all, but a mortal plaything in sacred hands? And one that could never be content with what he had, would never stop pushing at her boundaries, like Karsus before him.
He learned that in all of her work of restoring the Weave, she had missed a piece. And of an ancient Netherese tome that contained a tiny fraction of her Weave, locked away and sealed beyond her reach. So he came up with a plan. The only way to earn her favor again would be to prove he was worthy. What if, after all this time, he could return this lost piece of the goddess to herself?
He was mistaken.
It was primordial, ancient, all-consuming. A Netherese blight. Something that should never have been made. When he opened that tome, he should have died. Been unmade in that exact instant. But instead it balled up in his chest - an orb, if you will - and it consumed first his magic, and then his vital self. Its hunger grows. And if it cannot be sated, if it begins to consume itself, then it will erupt. Gale's Folly.
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The second villain of our tale. A child prodigy, one of such talents that eventually he gained the attention of the Lady of Mysteries herself. Mystra, goddess of magic. She named him Chosen. As he grew, she become more and more to him. A teacher, a mentor, a muse. Eventually, a lover. Perhaps what a god feels is love is not quite the way a mortal experiences it. But he was, after all, a very young man and it certainly felt like love to him.
Mystra keeps us in check. There are boundaries she doesn't let us cross. No matter how powerful a wizard we mortals can become, we never scratch more than the surface of the Weave - dipping a spoon into the ocean. She cannot risk it being shattered again, after she spent so much time picking pieces of it from the ash of Netheril and restoring it to order. Yet every time he was with her, he stood on the precipice, gazing into the wonders that lay beyond. He tried to convince her. He pouted, he pleaded, he swore his ambition was only to serve her better. He knew Chosen of old received gifts, access to what lay beyond the veil, trust. But she only smiled and told him to be contented.
Eventually, she tired of him. What was he, after all, but a mortal plaything in sacred hands? And one that could never be content with what he had, would never stop pushing at her boundaries, like Karsus before him.
He learned that in all of her work of restoring the Weave, she had missed a piece. And of an ancient Netherese tome that contained a tiny fraction of her Weave, locked away and sealed beyond her reach. So he came up with a plan. The only way to earn her favor again would be to prove he was worthy. What if, after all this time, he could return this lost piece of the goddess to herself?
He was mistaken.
It was primordial, ancient, all-consuming. A Netherese blight. Something that should never have been made. When he opened that tome, he should have died. Been unmade in that exact instant. But instead it balled up in his chest - an orb, if you will - and it consumed first his magic, and then his vital self. Its hunger grows. And if it cannot be sated, if it begins to consume itself, then it will erupt. Gale's Folly.