If you are indulging me, then we will begin. Two wizards.
The first: Karsus. Perhaps the greatest wizard that ever lived, the Lord of Netheril. `The-child-who-would-be-a-god` the elves called him, and he tried. He endeavored to usurp in one fell swoop the power of the goddess of magic with a spell of his own devising. Mystryl, she was called then. As you say, you can care not for divinity, but one must acknowledge their power, the command they hold over their station. To be the very essence of the world.
Imagine what it is to be a god. To know yourself to be untouchable. To be mistaken.
As Karsus aimed his spell at her, she began to unravel, and with her, the entire Weave. Consuming it. Too late did he realize what he had unleashed: the end of everything. The goddess of magic is all magic. The One True Spell. Mystryl sacrificed herself in that moment, and in doing so halted an apocalypse. With her death, so too died the Weave, and the spell that would make Karsus a god failed.
It was the end of Mystryl, the end of Karsus, and the end of an entire civilization. As the-child-who-would-be-a-god was turned to stone, his empire came crashing down around him. The floating cities of Netheril were no more. An event that became to be known as Karsus' Folly.
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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no subject
[ he is just politely warning it is a lot of yap. ]
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Go for it.
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If you are indulging me, then we will begin. Two wizards.
The first: Karsus. Perhaps the greatest wizard that ever lived, the Lord of Netheril. `The-child-who-would-be-a-god` the elves called him, and he tried. He endeavored to usurp in one fell swoop the power of the goddess of magic with a spell of his own devising. Mystryl, she was called then. As you say, you can care not for divinity, but one must acknowledge their power, the command they hold over their station. To be the very essence of the world.
Imagine what it is to be a god. To know yourself to be untouchable. To be mistaken.
As Karsus aimed his spell at her, she began to unravel, and with her, the entire Weave. Consuming it. Too late did he realize what he had unleashed: the end of everything. The goddess of magic is all magic. The One True Spell. Mystryl sacrificed herself in that moment, and in doing so halted an apocalypse. With her death, so too died the Weave, and the spell that would make Karsus a god failed.
It was the end of Mystryl, the end of Karsus, and the end of an entire civilization. As the-child-who-would-be-a-god was turned to stone, his empire came crashing down around him. The floating cities of Netheril were no more. An event that became to be known as Karsus' Folly.
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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... So you're dying too?