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A requiem for the realms
on 27 November 2009
The Weave connects everything. All that moves upon Toril is a part of it, from the humble common rat to the mightiest chromatic dragon, and through it they are bound to their place in the universe. It binds too the oceans and the mountains, the plains and the deserts, the movement of the clouds in the sky and the very transit of Selûne's Tears in the heavens.
There are those who can shape this silent force that gives form and moment to the reality of Toril: The magi, sorcerers, arcanists, mages and wizards; for for as long as there has been a weave there have been those who can bend it to their will. Some delight children with the conjuring of coloured balls of light and the pop and crackle of a cantrip or two to make the young ones run away in fright, only to return from their mother's skirts giggling with excitement asking boldly for more. These are the wizards who bring magic to the people. Then there are those who may mend the most grievous of injuries, though they may draw on the Weave through the intercession of another, divine, entity. These are the healers, who bring solace to the people and salve to their hurts and woes. And then there are those who bend the Weave to darker ends -the necromancers who lust for power, glory and gold, and will stop at nothing to gain it. But they are alike in their reverence for the Weave, though they turn it to different ends.
But in another reality a different group of wizards; a dark cabal calling themselves the Wizards of the Coast, conspired for ever more power, ever more glory and ever, ever more gold. And so they decided upon a deed so vile, so deranged, and so grotesque that even the darkest of necromancers would not have contemplated it: In an act that made Karsus's Folly seem like to a child sweeping away a sandcastle at the end of an afternoon's play; They destroyed the Weave irredeemably.
They destroyed the Weave that more gold might flow from the pain of followers seeking the fate of those they had come to love across dimensions. For this simple reason very fabric of the Realms was torn asunder and thus much that was good, that healed and delighted, even in the reality of the Wizards of the Coast, was cast away in the pursuit of gold.
Even the greatest at Realmscraft; R. A. Salvatore, who had tended the Realms for the last score of years, and had built an intricate and wonderful land, peopled with beings of depth and intricacy, of flawed and noble heroes, though often they would deny the epithet; Even he could do nothing to stop the destruction of the Realms as they had been created so long ago.
And so he set to work with the last failing strands of the Weave to weave one great and final spell, one last mighty enchantment, that would leave both the heroes of Toril, and the dispossessed in the thrall of the Wizards of the Coast, spellbound. Thus would he save what he could from those that pursue gold at the cost of love. This book is that enchantment.
Read it and grieve.