A few people see the realm beyond, and they learn more from that imprint than they could from a lifetime of friendship. Some imprints are clear, some faded, blurred.
A trained few alter the currents of the world beyond with a precise rite, word, gesture, bargain, favour and demand. Such is hard to do, but not impossible. How often have you felt as if the world around you is keeping you down? How often did you feel joy spring up from nothing more than a simple breeze?
A Rite of Alteration, a form in which subtle changes beyond the veil leave even subtler impact in our world.
Runes are drawn. Central one for the plane of origin, overlapped by personal description of sorts, words of power, forming a string, when whole, specify the place or target of alteration. With great care, the runes are drawn, and it took a night’s length to fully know, which words to inscribe upon the outer edge.
The shaman sits in the middle, his own form, the one twisting the strings and forming the song beyond the veil, as spirits gather, those called and those willing to barter their service away. There is no fabric of Mystra which will carry the change, there are only those who dwell beyond, acting on specific commands and carrying out gestures which on their own do nothing, but in the greater whole form the somatic of the change.
The whisper of Northern winds, sent towards west, to rustle the leaves of a specific tree, where ages ago, a great monument stood.
The spirit of a long dead hero, fallen in the name of love, now once again bellowing his trumpet beyond the realm of senses, a tune, specified to the finest detail.
A mighty serpent, twisting his path, ensnaring a lone wave of the sea upon the shaman’s call.
One by one, the spirits venture forth and carry out their one simple task, which as a whole draw a simple rune of power; A rune of Inspiration, an old symbol of hope, drawn over one soul, who walks the realm, alone and in need of sustenance of the spirit...
Shaman sits and from afar, through an astral eye observes the myriad colours of the sky, as his fingers draw a pattern, his words, whispering pleas to the winds, as the patterns around the target shift.
The results are feint, weak, barely noticeable, hardly worth the effort to most. Emboldening hope, strengthening resolve, reassuring of a brighter future, they come as a dream, one whose details will be all but forgotten, come dawn, but, results of which will remain.
He orchestrated this pattern, a symphony of colour, sound, sensation and dream to fullest perfection, which none will see in its full design, whispering the words to the winds; “…the futures be bright for you, daughter of a noble past.”