Imagination is everything…
Part 2
Apr 30th
The true lord of magic…what could this possibly mean, thought Ezmereth.
He thought back to his history lessons back in his earlier days. A hundred years ago, the most recent deity of magic was Mystra, Lady of Mysteries. She was the third incarnation of said deity, being a mortal formerly known as Midnight, who was murdered on her home plane of Dweomerheart by the deity Cyric, Prince of Lies and god of murder. This had caused the Spellplague, in which magic throughout the realms went crazy and ceased to function through the Weave, forcing spellcasters everywhere to re-learn how to use it.
A few decades before this event was the ascension of Midnight, replacing the second Mystra, who was killed by Helm, god of duty, during the Time of Troubles. This was an event in which all gods walked the lands as mortals. The Time of Troubles was caused by the theft of the Tablets of Fate. When these tablets were returned to the overgod, Ao, said overgod bestowed upon Midnight the divinity and portfolio of magic. In Mystra’s honor did she assume her old identity?
Thinking back on these two catastrophic events that both changed the face of Faerun, Ezmereth deduced that the ghastly sound could not be speaking of any of these deities. He had to think back to Netheril’s ancient history to try and figure this one out. So he thought back to how the second version of the deity of magic came to be.
Millenia before the Time of Troubles, the second version of Mystra was born. Her birth came as a contingent result of the destruction of the first, who was then known as Mystryl. Mystryl was the pre-eminent deity in the original kingdom of Netheril. Many more floating cities existed back then, Shade Enclave among them, but the most powerful of all the nation was Karsus enclave. Karsus was the most powerful of all the arcanists who ruled Netheril, and his folly was his undoing. He had concocted a power mad scheme, developing the most powerful spell in history. Upon its casting, he had stolen the divinity from Mystryl. This killed her outright, and the divine power entered Karsus all at once. But the strands of the Weave, that which controlled magic, were far too complex for him to understand immediately, resulting in a loss of control and magic everywhere stopping. All but a few of the floating netherese enclaves plummeted to the ground, resulting in the terrible fall of the great kingdom.
But Mystryl again was feminine, so that ruled her out as being the lord of magic referenced by the voice. Realization hit Ezmereth then, and he could see in his master’s eyes that he had come to the same conclusion.
This was temple dedicated to the worship of Karsus. How or why anyone would erect such a place was a question worth pondering in itself. Karsus was reputed to have been extremely hated by the survivors of Netheril because of his folly. His selfish quest for power caused the destruction of their homes. How could anyone worship a fool?
“The true lord of magic demands that you disbelievers vacate his holy temple,” said the ghastly voice. “It has no place for those who are steered wrongly by the shadows.”
The voice spoke of Shar, whom was the only deity allowed to be worshipped within Netheril. She who had saved Shade Enclave during the kingdom’s fall by bringing it into the Shadowfell, leading to its return to the Material Plane over a thousand years later.
“You are the one who is steered wrongly,” responded Ylormik, “for this true lord you speak of was naught but a fool who could not handle true power.”
The retort of the voice was again echoing through the chamber. “Is that what you were led to believe? I am afraid you are gravelly mistaken. Lord Karsus exists still in death in the Astral Sea. The divine spark has not left his essence and in time, he shall return.”
“You speak as foolishly as he thought,” yelled Ezmereth. “This temple shall be converted to the worship of a more appropriate deity and taken back to Shade Enclave.”
“It might not be wise to anger the spirit,” Ylormik scolded his pupil.
The scolding may have been for naught. A semi-transparent apparition appeared before them by the altar. The graying creature was humanoid in shape, but lacked any distinct features to be able to tell what sort of humanoid it was. It lacked both arms and legs, and no visage could be seen on its head. It looked like someone who had put a tattered blanket over himself to stay warm.
A voice came from it despite no mouth apparent for it to come from. “Your life essences shall then have to be used as fuel for the resurrection that is to come.”
The undead creature floated up into the air. Arms suddenly appeared at its sides. It brought them up, making bizarre gestures. With that, eight rotting corpses emerged from the ground, seemingly growing like plants out of the stone floor.
“I hope you are happy with yourself, Ezmereth,” said the master. “You will have yet another opportunity to hone your skill with that blade.”
Ezmereth merely winked at Ylormik, ready to unsheathe his sword and leap into battle.
Part 1
Apr 29th
“How do you expect to breach the defenses?”
The old man simply stared at his young pupil, his gaze cold and focused. The wind blew his long, night black hair into his face. He knew what he was doing. How could anyone dare question his capacities, least of all this young lad that he had been training not only in magic, but in the ways of Shar, Mistress of the Night?
It was quite simple really. The young lad was only training partly how to use magic like a true Netherese, and to Shar he gave but lip service. Rather, having spent the first twelve years of his life fighting with a blade, he blended all three into one deadly combination.
A Swordmage, one that combined spell with blade to harness magical might through a weapon as an extension of oneself.
Ezmereth Nemrin was training to become an Umbriri. Swordmages dedicated to the power of shadow – the power of Shar. He grew up in the city of Shade, capital of Netheril, a city floating miles in the air that looked down upon the landscape. To get there, one had to have powerful magic at their disposal or have access to an Airship.
The old man was teaching Ezmereth a ritual to open a sealed door in order to enter a ruined temple of a long forgotten deity, located below ground within an earth mote flying near Shade. These small pieces of land, similar to the great city but much, much smaller in size, came to be during the spellplague almost one hundred years past, when the weave shattered and the twin worlds of Abeir and Toril collided, each merging partially with the other.
The Netherese suspected that this piece of land, coming from the continent on the ground below, was once part of Old Netheril. Many secrets and treasures are said to remain hidden within its ancient ruins, many of which hold powerful magic that could one day bring Netheril back to its former glory. Thus did the Princes of Shade send one of their most trusted wizards, Ylormik Zjan to investigate this one mote that oddly magnetized itself to the city of Shade.
“Well master Ylormik,” said Ezemereth, “how will you do it?”
“Firstly,” began Ylormik, “I will disenchant the magical trap that disintegrates anything that tampers with the door. That will be the simple part. Afterwards, you will assist me in performing the ritual required to unlock it.”
With that, Ylormik reached into a pouch and drew a handful of a fine, powdery substance. The powder was purplish in color, and some of it smoked a bit as he blew it out of his hand onto the door, all while tracing arcane symbols within the smoke with his other hand. This was followed by a few words spoken in draconic. A small glow and a faint pop came from the door.
“Now time for the ritual, Ezmereth,” said the master wizard. “While I chant the arcane words necessary, you will draw three Xs on the door with a piece of orange chalk. Make sure the angles are all even. If even one is off by a degree, the ritual will not work.”
“As you wish, master!” replied the ever eager-to-learn student.
Now that his student was silent, Ylormik took out an old parchment which contained the words necessary. He began chanting them, and Ezmereth did as instructed, taking out an orange piece of chalk and carefully drawing the three Xs.
The Xs began to glow in a miasma of colors. Ezmereth stepped back, anticipating a large explosion to occur, or something with a loud boom. His master smirked as it simply ceased to glow and the Xs vanished.
“Excellent,” he said. “The door is unlocked.”
Ylormik pressed a hand on the door. It began to rumble gently and then opened inwards, revealing naught but darkness. The young student peered inside curiously. Upon doing so, a flame flicked itself to life on a sconce on the wall, revealing a set of spiral stairs leading downwards.
The two netherse took a few steps down and, as a result, another flame spontaneously combusted on another sconce. It would seem that they were enchanted to illuminate automatically for whoever descended the stairs as they were needed. So they descended slowly down the steps. Ezmereth feared they had gone quite a long way down, thinking that soon they would reach the bottom of the mote and plummet onto the land far below. But his fear was soon put to rest as the stairs ended, revealing a large chamber with all its sconces from one end to the other illuminating.
At the center of the chamber lied an altar. Lying on top of the altar was a large vellum open about midway. An unlit candle stood next to the tome, the wick dangling down and much wax hardened at its base.
“I believe we have found the interior of the temple, master.” said Ezmereth. “Which deity do you believe this once belonged to?”
“A good question, my pupil…I believe the answer might lie within the book there.”
Ylormik made his way to the altar, his fingers twitching in anticipation at the find he and his student had just made for Netheril. As he approached however, a ghastly voice spoke, echoing throughout the chamber.
“You shall not touch that which is belonging to the true lord of magic,” the voice said.
