A Faerûn Wizard in the World of the Witcher

Argus Moonfall stirred from his slumber as the first rays of dawn pierced the window of his lofty sleeping chamber. As with countless days before, he reached for his spellbook resting upon the nearby drawer. With measured purpose, he began the familiar ritual of committing his chosen spells to memory for the day ahead. This process, a habitual dance, consumed a span of around 17 minutes—a span he had grown accustomed to dedicating to this task.

As those minutes elapsed, Argus found himself fully awakened and hunger began to stir within him. With a final closing of the spellbook, he cast off the embrace of his bed and strode to the nearby drawer. Therein lay a simple gray robe that he donned, its unassuming folds wrapping around him. Casting a gaze upon the mirror, he undertook a self-assessment, ensuring a proper appearance should any unexpected visitor chance upon his abode.

In the mirror's reflection, his features greeted him: the tapering points of his ears, a testament to his half-elven lineage; his youthful countenance; his eyes, verdant and intense; his towering stature, a full six feet; his lean frame; and his raven-black hair, a tousled cascade defying his efforts to tame. A futile endeavor of a minute sought to contain his unruly hair, yet he soon relinquished the attempt, veering toward the exit of his chamber.

Step by deliberate step, he descended the spiraling staircase, each footfall resounding within the vacant stairwell. Time flowed, and eventually, he arrived at his desired haven—a floor nestled beneath his personal sanctuary. The expanse was divided in an odd arrangement: a library sprawling across three-quarters of the space, its shelves brimming with tomes translated and untranslated; and a diminutive kitchen occupying the remaining quarter. It was an eccentric configuration, yet one meticulously tailored to the cadence of his daily existence.

Firstly, he went towards the kitchen, he fetched a piece of apple so that he could fulfill his sustenance, took a bite at it, while also opening a small jar containing salt. He took a pinch of the content of the jar, before walking away towards the library. There, he approached one of the desks, took a seat, and spotted a bottle of black powder—soot. Opening it with the same fingers still bearing traces of salt, he carefully measured some of the powder. Closing the bottle, he surveyed the other items on the table and selected one of the books.

This particular tome was penned in an unfamiliar language, and Argus's current task was to translate it into the common tongue. But how could he decipher a text he couldn't read? The answer, naturally, lay in magic.

With a wave of the hand holding the pinch of salt and soot, he whispered an incantation: "i intelligere illud." The soot and salt vanished from his grasp, and for a fleeting moment, his mind felt strangely distorted. Afterward, he fetched parchment, an ink bottle, and a quill before opening the untranslated book. Now, he could read it. For an hour, he comprehended its contents and transcribed them onto another piece of parchment.

Of course, the spell's effects would dissipate after one hour, and if he wished to be efficient, he would need to recast it up to three more times. Afterward, he would need to memorize the spells again tomorrow morning, as was the way since Mystra's ban [1].

He continued this pattern for around four hours, keeping track of how many times he could employ the [Comprehend Languages] spell without straining its power beyond the first tier of spell slot.

Yet, then he noticed a shift.

A sensation dawned on him. He could still cast it. That shouldn't be possible—his first-level spell slot should have been depleted by now. But why? Why could he still cast it?

He rubbed his forehead, attempting to reason through this mystery, but his efforts were fruitless. However, he soon realized something else: he couldn't feel the Weave [2].

It's… strange. He did just cast four spells back-to-back, and yet he only just now realized that he could not feel the Weave. But then, how did he cast a spell without ever feeling the literal medium of the fuel of the Art? Through sheer raw magic?

Before he could ponder further, a resonant and thunderous sound reverberated through the library, indicating the activation of the [Alarm] glyph he had placed upon his front door. With swift movement, he rose from his seat, snatched his gear—an ensemble featuring a quarterstaff, a component pouch, and a bag of holding placed near the kitchen—then hastened downstairs.

Descending the stairwell, the cacophony outside grew more distinct. A chorus of frightened voices hinted at a gathering turmoil, reminiscent of a mob threatened by an ominous force. It seemed that the [Conjure Minor Elemental] glyph had also been triggered, two elemental guardians summoned to defend the tower against the intrusion flagged by the [Alarm] glyph.

Upon reaching the ground floor, the external clamor intensified.

"Stay back, beast! I'm warning ye!"

Drawing nearer to the entryway, Argus retrieved a vial of cosmetic powder from his component pouch. Applying it subtly to his visage, he wove an intricate gesture, invoking the [Friends] spell. With an air of deliberation, he began to open the door, his gaze directed outward. The spectacle that greeted him unveiled the truth behind the commotion.

A horde of ragged men stood before him. They looked to be impoverished villagers, their disheveled attire and muddied countenances spoke volumes. Yet, a realization dawned upon Argus—this was not the location where his tower ought to stand.

His tower was supposed to grace the Sword Coast, positioned a mere day's journey from Waterdeep, overlooking the Sea of Swords to the west. However, the reality before him contrasted starkly, revealing an unfamiliar setting at the edge of a modest river, with a dilapidated village in the distance, presumably the source of the mob.

Bafflement consumed him; how had he been transported to this foreign place? Nonetheless, he temporarily shelved his bewilderment and addressed the more immediate dilemma.

"What is the meaning of this?" his voice resonated, the summoned elementals positioning themselves as vigilant sentinels.

"Yer the one who's disturbin' us, sorcerer." one of the villagers spat. "Ye wrecked our fishin' boat!"

Argus' gaze shifted to the riverbank, where a vessel lay in shambles against his tower's wall. The boat seemed as though it had been instantaneously crushed, as if the tower had plummeted from the sky, colliding with it in the blink of an eye.

"I beg your pardon, gentlemen," Argus cleared his throat, his tone contrite. "While I may not be the sorcerer you accuse me of being, I seem to have been inadvertently transported here. Naturally, I'll make amends for your... fishing vessel. What would be an appropriate restitution?"

"Restitution?" The villagers exchanged uncertain glances. "Uh, perhaps 300 Orens would suffice, aye, that should do."

"Orens?" Argus' brow furrowed.

An air of unease began to ripple through the villagers. "Err… 150 then?"

"No, no. I meant to inquire, what are 'Orens'?" Argus inquired. "A form of currency?"

The men in front of Argus frowned. "Are ye daft or somethin'? Of course its currency. We're in Temeria now. Not Redania, or worse, Nilfgaard."

"Temeria? Redania?" Argus mumbled. Retrieving a pouch of gold coins from his bag of holding, he cast it toward the villagers. "I may not possess the aforementioned 'Orens,' but I do possess these gold pieces."

The men caught the pouch, taking out one of the coins, inspecting it. "Wha? Wha kind of coin is this?"

"You're a nilfgaardian or somethin?" another asked.

"A Nilfgaardian?" Argus said. "No. Last time I checked, I am not a 'Nilfgaardian' you speak of."

"Then where're you from, sorcerer? Doesn't look like ye come from around here."

"Once again, gentlemen, I am no sorcerer, but a wizard," Argus sighed. "I go by Argus of Waterdeep. A pleasure to make your acquaintance."

"Never heard of Waterdeep." one of them shrugged. "Well, it's already strange enough that a tower like this suddenly appears out of nowhere."

'So it does appear out of nowhere.' Argus thought."Gentlemen, if you could kindly grant me respite for the day? I must gather my bearings and fathom the enigma of my displacement. Should inquiries arise, might you be willing to assist? I will provide due compensation, naturally."

"Of course, sor—"

"Wizard."

"Err… wizard." one of the men coughed. "Be careful, though, a war is brewin in the south, but I doubt it'll reach here."

"War?" Argus raised an eyebrow. "My gratitude, gentlemen. Then I shall retreat to my private chambers once more."

With measured pace, Argus closed the door, and the summoned elementals withdrew from the tower's entry. The villagers soon turned back toward their village, an odd daze seemingly lifting from them as they departed. They appeared enchanted yet ignorant of the enchantment itself. With a pouch heavy with gold, they continued on, unaware of the mysterious episode that had just unfolded before them.

—

[1] Mystra's Ban was a decree that the goddess Mystra made about the mortal use of powerful magic. The first effect of the ban was to limit spellcasting to spells of a maximum of 9th level, with some special Epic Spells being more powerful than that. The second effect was that all spellcasters had to spend time memorizing spells and were limited to holding a certain number of magical spells in their head at any one time

[2] The Weave, controlled by Mystryl or one of her successors, was a way through which raw magic was accessed, tapped into and used by casters of magic. The Weave was the way in which magic presented itself to beings for their use, and it flowed throughout the world, touching almost every corner of existence, with exception of dead-magic zones