The Wanderings of a Magistrati

[Steve]

" Not all who wander are lost. "

[Steve]

Upon the shores of the Chionthar, the wandering Magistrati stops to wash his hands and to then splash water upon his face, tugging out the excess water from his beard. He looks toward the days dying light of the west, and things to the coming moment of prayers...contemplating the length still left before he reaches a point where his own two feet, alone, can no longer carry him farther.

[Steve]

As the priest continues westward, the northern margin of river Chionthar gained a greater, well-worn path, becoming quickly a road, that crossed through gate and stone flooring, a bridgefort, and then further released back to dirt and mud. Civilization had taken mark upon the land, here, at a rivers crossing.

The clergyman continued onward, until a sign board appeared in a curve. The priest took notice, reading slowly the Law, even rereading certain sections that one could imagine he was committing to memory.

"Perhaps, I am here..." spoke the wanderer, to only himself, and he continued further onward.

[Steve]

A puffy-hatted priest stands to the side of worn cobblestones, looking about with wonder. He calls out to a fellow traveler who seems walking with purpose, and asks the question "Have I arrived?" The traveler in dark blue is friendly and points the wandering cleric in a direction.

A shower of rain catches the priest off-guard and without immediate shelter, so quick feat find the closest most welcoming cover. The lean-to is sufficient, and somehow, the campfire remains lit and warming.

As the sun dips over the horizon and dusk arrives, the cleric pauses in his place, closing his eyes and silently asks for favorable doings come the next day.

The rain is never ending, and before long, the priest has spent the entire night under this meager cover. As light brings the day, still the rain continues. And continues....

[Steve]

A priestly-dressed man looks around with wonder, as if either lost, or in admiration of the local environment.

A female Halfling, well dressed but dirty from travel, walks up to him with a smirk. "High up, eh? Ya boggled or somethin'?"

The cleric in cloth replies, after looking to his left...and then downward: "I say...I have been looking up and down, left and right, for some minutes now...in this very spot. Must have gotten lost in my reverie...Never to mind, however. I say, well met, to you."

"Ain't met yet, gaffer. Name's Marinock, but ya can kin me Mari" replies the Halfling.

The taller figure, in a fashion-from-far-away puffy hat, smiles kindly when the next speaks: "Then, well met, Marinock." He says rather formally. "I am named Arthayer Zorastryl, magistrati to the High One, Azuth. I am Halruaan." He ends his words with some pride in his voice.

The two carry on with a few pleasantries, addition moments on confusion, and finally, a set of directions is passed between them...all done standing in the middle of the public road, for any to hear....

[Steve]

Time had quickly passed, a day or two at least, since directions accompanied by an invitation to a restful retreat, where given to the foreign-faced cleric of the Patron of Mages. After entering the city gates proper, after hours wandering about the outer city limits, Arthayer entered the doors to the Blade & Stars Inn shortly after dusk.

The inn was rather empty, and though Arthayer was ready to scan the room for the face of a fellow traveler known to also take room here, there was only the welcoming smile of the innkeep, ready as it were to have a new client arrive.

"Greetings, sir. My name is Hesper. I'm the innkeeper here at the Blade and Stars," this Hesper quickly said as the cleric in gray and blue walked near.

"What can you tell me of Baldur's Gate, Hesper?"

Thinking for a moment and he wipes down the counter. "Well, I do know a bit about the history of the city, if you care to listen." spoke Hesper.

"Sure, I have the time." replied Arthayer, smiling kindly.

Hesper put a elbow down on the counter, resting his weight, as he launched into this history: "The city is named for the legendary, seafaring explorer Balduran, who, long ago sailed past Evermeet in search of the rich, fabled isles of Anchorhome. Balduran returned with tales of strange, vast lands across the seas. He also brought back much wealth, and scattered it about, commanding that some of it be spent on a wall to protect the harbor from raiding orcs and barbarians. Then he set sail again for the wondrous lands he had found."

"What happend to Balduran afterwards?" queried the cleric.

"Balduran never returned. Some seafarers say he sails still, finding new lands in the endless reaches of the ocean, or even that he sailed off the world and fares now among the stars! Others whisper that he met with misfortune and perished in the deeps, while still others believe he lived to a ripe old age in his newfound home." ended Hesper, finally.

With a curious tone, Arthayer asked "What happened to all his wealth?"

"Balduran's money was spent on a splendid city wall. Within its protection, building went on at a great pace, soon growing out past the wall. The wall was built by several farmers who put it around their own holdings, excluding the actual harbor from its own protection. And that is a bit of history of our city." Hesper concluded.

The puffy-hatted priest nodded with appreciation, to have been given this short history lesson. It made Arthayer feel...a bit more relaxed, even a tad at home, in this room, in this inn, in this city...that seemed to so easy welcome a far-from-actual-home foreigner.





Having collected a key and paid his fee, for a night to rest and have clothing washed from so long of a travel on the road, Arthayer took to the long bench near the fire, and stretched out. The glow of the fire and heat from the flames massaged his dark, Halruaan skin. And Arthayer thought that he might just remain here, recuperating his dogged feat, until inspiration would carry him on...or just walk through the door to take him along....

[Steve]

Many descriptions are applied to the foreign-faced man with a particular puffy hat—cleric, priest, monk—as the Magistrati Arthayer Zorastryl embarks upon his wanderings within the Eastway District, and the common people of the Gate view his meandering pace, perhaps giving it thought, perhaps not. The Magistrati has been for some weeks but one being among vast open fields, dense forest, bare mountains and long roads—both paved and not—alone. Now, he is but one of thousands, but whether he blends into this urban landscape with his elevated height, is only slightly to his concern.

The once monastic man has no pressing agenda in mind, except to breath in the semi-salted sea air that lightly wisps from the west, and, to take his feet to the absolute last step westward, for as yet, this man cannot walk upon the water....

"What wiser action shall there be, then to take in what may be experienced from a perched view?" the wanderer of wisdom would speak aloud, talking to himself regardless if anyone else was listening, as if not a curious thing. For such a perch did present itself almost immediately to Arthayer, who once arrived on high, nearly disappeared, being dwarfed by the grandness of the dense architecture all around him.

A fortunate discovery for the Magistrati, where a posting station was available for the public. Many old flyers were nearly faded to oblivion there, though the priest noticed the call from another faithful, to visit the newly blessed shrine to the Grain Goddess. Arthayer, as well, had a blessing of sorts to seek out or share, that being the blessing of what the Lord of Spells gives when magic incantations are shared. Thus, as the moment provided it, the Magistrati left notice to acquire regional spells from the city and nearby environs, should any wish to do so.

Fortune favored the wander in the later part of his reverie, for a random corner turned, and the cleric was facing the great door to the Temple of Mystra, his patron's patron. Inside, Arthayer introduced himself to the clergy present. After a cursory look around the main hall, Arthayer asked: "And where does a faithful of the High One offer his prayers?"

Many steps west, then south, then east, then finally north, had the priest eventually cross under many gates...and as northward bound he was within the City, he crossed into the Heapside District. Lo and behold, his first sighting was a merchant of sundries. "Aha!" he declared. "If that which will not be freely shared...may be very well bartered!!"

[Steve]

A few subtle words of prayer were lowly issued from his mouth, as Arthayer stood at the center of the bustling wide. His senses were filled with the keen awareness of the flow of the Weave. In a moment, so much energy glistened about him, from merchant stall to merchant stall. The light was nearly blinding, and to calm this overload of sensory information, he closed his eyes, partially if not fully at times. In the following moment, a rush of perception to quantity began to over take him, and he stumbled to the left, then to the right, attempting to keep himself standing while continuing to not look. Then, the greater of strengths in energy began to pull him in this direction, or that...and he let it happen, faith that the Power would guide him.

The cleric in time found himself in front of a door, beneath a looming single tower. Arthayer knocked, and knocked, and knocked...but no answer came by way of a opening and reception.

Taking some steps back, the Magistrati looked skyward, an action made to peer to the highest level, for what, perhaps, but to see an open window, or a light burning within, such that would inform as to whether a presence was within, that which had "pulled" him, in his walking reverie, to this location, to a source of intensity in the Weave? Arthayer looked, but then closed his eyes again.

There was then a third moment, where the monk-priest tuned into the aura that he let guide him earlier, and there was a pause, then a sharp pull, to his right. Arthayer staggered in the physical realm, the pull becoming as yank toward this new direction.

Arthayer opened his eyes, started, and then blinked, his mouthed open, a physical result of some known recognition. His vision did then align with the magical guidance he had sought in his prayer, the receiving the knowledge of the greatest magical strength near him...and so be it, that his wandering brought him to the footsteps of the Red Tower of the Wizards of Thay of Baldur's Gate....

Arthayer's face did not show any sign of surprise, but only a lightly furrowed brow. Perhaps, a resignation. "May there be Spellsavants in that house...." he spoke aloud, consoling himself, before taking step upward toward the elevated entrance to the Enclave.

[Steve]

As the cleric in blue-gray dress and a puffed hat travels via this street and that within the Gate, a certain path takes him before a storefront of imported fabrics, rugs and the like. The rugs in particular catch his attention, and he pauses in recognition of their pattern, their weave. The monk from a faraway land lightly leads his fingers over the woven jute, his action allowing him to soak in the origin of said craftsmanship, his own homeland, Halruua, where the family Zorastryl has for many generations, also, exists woven into the fabric of place and time.

A reverie in making pace is momentarily replaced by a reverie in mind, as the priest wanders in the memory of home, and soon, the thoughts become overwhelmed by feelings, a longing to feel that place again, in real...just as his fingers now feel the realness against the skin.

It is some time later, though not long after the monk-priest was caught in memory of his past, that he returns to his current lodging at the Blade & Stars, returning directly to his rented room, and sits down in with deliberate action, drawing a scroll and ink before him. A letter is begun.

[Steve]

The priestly-dressed man of Halruaan descent waited for some time for his portrait to be sketched, in the East District.

[Steve]

Of notice but irregular at best—yet always at dusk with certainty—a devoted priest dressed in light blue and with a puffed hat takes seated pleasure upon softly-stacked pillows in the rear of the library of the Mystran Temple of Baldur's Gate. There, in the silence only found within such rooms of knowledge written, bound and stacked high, he would close his eyes, and though not sleeping remains still and calm, what many would consider a form of prayer.

Whenever finished, his actions are the same: finding the Servant of Mystery in her duties, disturbing them to receive the next available and possible book known to contain local references to the consecration of an altar or reverence to the High One, the First Magister, Azuth, Lord of Spells, and Mystra's advisor...and more.

Whatever result is gained through his on-and-off research within the library, the foreign-born monk drafts notes, and...where nothing seems to be found, he drafts comments to ideas based on knowledge he himself has brought within....