Shaping the Weave to reveal and conceive
The twisted, dark paths of his own destiny.
He plods on ever strong, not forsaking his own
Sworn forever, protector of magic to be.
He seeks a way to keep magic alive,
To preserve the Weave's lore from the Rok's flaming dive
With a tome in his hands and a spell on his lips.
Without a want in the world for a sword at his hip.
Bottles and potions, scrolls, books and tomes ..
His scholastic skills perhaps a fraction too honed.
Stooped over and graying, his tunic a mess
A disheveled figure only Mystra could bless.
Nine stars on his back,
Eight stars on his brow:
Marked as Mystra's own servant,
No room for error allowed.
With nothing but thoughts of magic's sweet salvation
He presses on to his goal.
For he knows deep inside, where his own hopes reside
That the Rok .. cannot take his soul.
Surprising how much this old man can see ..
He turns 'round on you, smiles. "Hello. Blessed Be."
