8 Chapter 7: A Strange Man in a Strange World

The daily life in the temple of Melitele is almost always the same for the Priestess Nenneke. Pray, teach the young priestesses-to-be, attend to her garden, and pray once more. Yet, lately, an unsettling disruption has crept in. A peculiar visitor has taken up an odd residence within the temple's confines. Mind you, the term 'residence' stretches the truth, for he shuns the temple's amenities, declines the bedroom set aside for travelers, and refuses sustenance from the temple's kitchen.

Currently, the traveler seemed to have set up camp at an empty spot near the temple itself, she didn't even know how he set it up, as it just appeared out of nowhere. The tent itself doesn't look normal, it's too big for a single man to have, and it's certainly quite eye-catching with how the cloth of the tent is coloured purple.

Everything about this man exudes peculiarity – his appearance, choice of words, demeanor, belongings, attire, and daily rituals. Even the most eccentric sorcerers would be confused looking at him.

Presently, this man trails behind Nenneke as they traverse the temple's tranquil corridors. His eyes flit about, taking in every detail: the walls, the verdant grass, the boundless sky, passing priestesses, and even the humblest lamp, akin to a curious child exploring uncharted terrain.

Their journey culminates at a specific entrance – the library. Within, young aspirants to the priestesshood engage in quiet study, their noses buried in books. The guardian of these tomes herself is absorbed in her reading, cultivating an oasis of serenity for knowledge seekers.

"This is the library," Nenneke intones simply. "You may read at your leisure, but these volumes must not venture beyond the library's walls."

"Thank you, Priestess Nenneke," Argus responds sincerely. "Forgive my directness, but may I transcribe the contents of these books?"

"Transcribe?" Nenneke raises a quizzical brow. "I fail to understand your words."

"Well, truth be told, I possess a library of my own," Argus elaborates. "Hence, I wish to duplicate the knowledge contained within these books onto parchment. I shall then convey these copies to my personal collection, leaving the original texts untouched, in accordance with your edicts."

Nenneke regards the man with a bemused expression. "Do you possess the necessary materials for such an endeavor?"

"Indeed, I do," Argus replies with a smile. "I would not seek your permission without the means to accomplish it."

Nenneke sighs. "Very well, do as you wish. But I reiterate, the books must not leave the library."

"I shall ensure their confinement," Argus assures her. "Oh, and one more matter..."

Nenneke forces a smile. "What is it, young man?"

"I was contemplating whether I might partake in—"

"The lectures?" Nenneke interjects. "Unless you aspire to become a priestess here, you must make a contribution to the temple to access the education meant for priestesses-in-training."

"A contribution?" Argus arches an eyebrow, producing an item from his seemingly endless bag – a pouch of substantial weight, which Nenneke could clearly see and noted the peculiarity of that bag. What emerges is larger than the pouch itself, a rectangular object with an elderly figure on one side and a dragon on the other. "Very well, I may not possess Orens, but I do have gold pieces. Will these suffice?"

"Gold pieces?" Nenneke peers into the pouch, her eyes beholding unfamiliar forms of currency, scarcely resembling coins. "Where do you truly come from, young man?"

Argus clears his throat. "As previously mentioned, I've come from a place far away from here."

Nenneke hums, her curiosity regarding this man's origins slowly growing. "Very well. You may attend our classes – medicine in the morning, poetry in the afternoon, and history in the evening."

"What of arcane studies?" Argus inquires.

"Arcane studies?" Nenneke raises an eyebrow. "I am unable to instruct anyone I have not ordained into Melitele's embrace. This is not Aretuza or Ban Ard. Here, magic serves to heal and nurture, unless you wish to dedicate yourself to Melitele or become a priestess, regrettably, I cannot personally tutor you in the ways of the art."

Argus offers a placid smile. "Of course, I apologize for overstepping."

"However," Nenneke continues, "our library houses a wealth of tomes on magic. You may peruse those at your leisure."

Argus nods appreciatively. "Thank you."

"Very well, I shall leave you to your pursuits," the elderly priestess remarks, turning away and resuming her duties.

Argus, meanwhile, enters the library, where the scent of parchments and books wraps around him like an old friend. From his vantage point at the entrance, he beholds rows of towering shelves, packed with books of every hue, promising hours of enchantment he wouldn't trade for anything else.

—

Amidst the shroud of night, Argus found himself nestled amidst a collection of tomes and scrolls, a lone figure in the tranquil expanse of the library. He had plunged into his studies with fervor, captivating his attention to the extent that his fellow denizens of the library cast peculiar glances his way. They seemed perplexed by the rapidity with which Argus switched between books. However, unbeknownst to these observers, his swift transitions weren't borne of boredom, but rather marked the completion of each text.

His fixation had settled upon a particular subject, an insight that had unveiled itself as he delved into the annals of this world's history—the Conjunction of Spheres. This pivotal event had wrought a seismic transformation upon the realm, intertwining it with distant dimensions through rifts. These conduits had ushered forth the menagerie of monsters and creatures that now inhabited this land. Yet, Argus's focus wasn't solely on these external changes; he was intrigued by the connection between the Conjunction of Spheres and the introduction of magic to this world.

Intriguingly, the concept of magic was originally foreign to this realm, a force that came from another world—a concept different from the magic indigenous to Argus's own realm. Merely yesterday, he had sensed a faint presence of the Weave here, a sensation now elusive but unmistakable in its essence. The Weave, a phenomenon he held intimate familiarity with. The question resonated: Why can he feel it here? Could there be a connection between the presence of this Weave pocket and the Conjunction of Spheres?

"Perhaps... does the magic in this realm originate from my own?" he pondered aloud, venturing an audacious hypothesis. It was a conjecture drawn prematurely, a mere ember of an idea. "The Spellplague... the collapse of the Weave... could these events be entwined?" [1] There lingered a tapestry of enigmas that eluded Argus's comprehension, invoking a sigh borne of his cognizant limitations. He shifted his gaze toward the luminescent full moon outside the window before resuming his fervent exploration of the subject matter.

—

[1] The Spellplague, called the Blue Breath of Change by the inhabitants of Abeir was a disaster that struck Realmspace and even the planes themselves on the date of Tarsakh 29 in the Year of Blue Fire, 1385 DR, and was caused by Mystra's assassination at the hands of Cyric and Shar It continued for a decade, leading to the Wailing Years, during which arcane magic ceased to function and the planet of Toril was transformed. Mystra's death caused the Weave to collapse and, without the Weave, the Shadow Weave was unable to be maintained and collapsed as well. The breakdown of the Weave was felt by all wizards across Faerûn The corrupted madness of Cyric defiled what arcane forces remained from the dissolution of the Weave, resulting in a new magical source of defiling arcane energy in the form of blue flames that destroyed Dweomerheart and continued to spread across the multiverse

Creatures and individuals who came into contact with the Spellplague risked being killed or being warped by its energies, in which case they were said to be "plaguechanged". This entailed massive physical mutations and often a complete loss of sanity, and sometimes bestowed the creature or individual with terrible powers. Those who came into contact with weaker versions of the Spellplague were sometimes lucky enough to escape with only a spellscar, which could also bestow potent magical abilities.