Ambitious Hearts: Tales from the Forgotten Realms

Game Master Dogbladewarrior

As you complete this spell, you sense a
number of invisible entities form around
you.

This spell creates a number of unseen
servants (PH 297) equal to 2d6 +1 per
level (maximum +15).

Material Component: A small stick to
which many lengths of knotted thread
are attached.

Not all in the heady days of Netheril were driven by ego and love of power. For some fewer, though no less ambitious than their brethren, the birthright, will to power and opportunities of the Netherese empire meant a life lived on the great human adventure. And for a handful even fewer than those, that sense of opportunity came with a sense of gratitude for having it, that if they were going to go on the great human adventure, then everyone else would get to come along for the ride (even if they had to be dragged kicking and screaming from whatever misguided barbarity they were otherwise clinging to).

A moral Netherse perspective is, after all, still a /Netherese/ perspective.

And it was perspective firmly held in the heart of Korin Telemar, son of a proud family that traced itself all the way back to the founding, to the first families that showed a potential to learn magic, born himself into a golden age of magic and empire. Each generation since bade to exceed those that came before. Korin pledging to do so by in elevating himself, elevating mankind as a whole to the impossible heights only Netheril could bring them to, to have the ambition of Netheril made into the sterling virtue of the world.

And he trained himself to this in the flying city of his family, in all the ways a son of Netheril should. In craft and spell, in the warp and weft of magocratic imperial society. He spoke with a passion and conviction that came from within yet resonated as if from beyond, preaching his dreams. Ground was not always fertile, but the sheer scope of them was at least always admired as appropriate for an archwizard.

His problem then was not his brethren within, but obstacles without. Orc hordes, Phaerimm, Fiends. They stepped on his dreams, and would have to be pushed off of them. He trained himself anew, to war, to the blade. He gathered followers and fought as fiercely as often as he quested to innovate. For the empire did not have a standing army per se, so much as mage champions with inclinations to scouring and a penchant for throwing magic and followers into those inclinations. Young Telemar was acclaimed amongst them, and if he tinged his victory celebrations with the occasional odd (though certainly moving) speech, well, the Telemars were always a little quirky.

Where he fought, he spread knowledge, understanding, artifice, exhorted men to rise above themselves and rally to fight with him. He was a defender and civilizer, and where his foot tread, Netherese law, culture and peace took hold ("Is there any other kind?" Korin would himself opine. Netherese ego and dominance travelled with him besides)

But as he fought, he had a sense of the threats facing the world more than most. Saw the wreckage of stillborn civilizations. Knew more than magelords sequestered in flying cities how dearly on the edge of a knife the world sometimes balanced.

A lesser man might have despaired at such grim lessons and ruined majesties. Korin Telemar was Netherese. This was a challenge.

Sword and staff in hand he tread over the expanse of the world, saving everyone he could save, living to save them, fighting to save them, and on several ocassions, dying to save them. It built a legend around him and the followers at his back. A legend besides that whispered sometimes of an almost audible "click" you could even see in his eyes. A sense of a decision made that for all that his hand was reaching out, that a man or beast could not, would not be saved, would not better themselves, step away from a path of ruination of those with whom they shared the world. And then as, relentless as he was a savior, he was an implacable destroyer.

Oh, it was always honourable. He would never transcend himself and man with him if he dirtied himself, weighed down his soul with grime. And dirtying himself was the easy way through besides. What proper Netherse shamed himself with that sort of path? I mean really. But all the same, it was a canny, cunning and thorough destruction he would rain down within those boundaries, perhaps even because of them.

And in that way he gathered the daring to his banner and walked them to every height and depth of the world, to marvel at wonders, learn knowledge, behold horror and cast it down. In moments where blades did not rise and fall he was ever yet besides the innovator in spell, philosophy and thought. He blazed a trail fiery enough to hope that all would not simply follow, but branch out from it to their own. He covered himself in triumph to show his empire how it might do the same.

And yet all the same, in both lifting up and inspiring the good and casting down threats, there was a sense of it never quite being enough. There was a sense of the world still turning on an axis fragile enough that it could yet fall long before it could rise. But that was alright, for that too was a challenge, one that could be met. For he had gathered followers and given them an ethos, a dedication to guarding man to inspire him to reach a shining potential, to encourage an ambitious virtue that a bold hand could reach out to claim a better tomorrow. In him to channel it all was the glory of Netheril, and the lore of the world (and a nearly complete collection of the Imaskarcana that would be lost again soon after the working it would be put to, it should be said).

And so though he needed power yet, power was out there to be claimed by the daring, the thorough, the right. It was besides an age where demigods rose and fell after all, and his devotion to conceptual goodness had done much to sanctify his blazing soul as is. Demipowerhood seemed well within the hand of a man.

It was no small risk all the same, however measured and rigorous, in which artifacts were used and scattered, armies gathered, and terrible battles fought as intricate rituals unfolded. But in the end the power and divinity was his, an unheralded accomplishment to resonate across the ages. (And later mingle embarrassment with pride as its legacy. For what he did on a much lesser scale and through calm, measured, extended effort and sacrifice put an idea into a later mage's head to do something on a scale of sheer madness. But ahh.. what if Karsus had succeeded? Well, succeeded more lastingly then)

Divinity unfortunately proved to be something of a raging disappointment. He was acclaimed across his society, his personal followers turning themselves to a divine tradition, but there was the crushing weight of rules and regulation constricting him now. It was not that he disliked Mystryl, she had a certain style. And he appreciated that his great working had a legitimate possibility all of its own, for all that she had blessed its end result (a later admission that had he failed, there was a fear of what he might try instead was flattering besides). These were heady, early days yet in Dweomertor, of wild research, theory and debate, good natured and seeking. But all the same, under the bindings of the gods, his options did not widen, they narrowed. And as a god, he came to see how much more fragile the state of the world truly was within a larger reality. But even still, this was a challenge, and he was a son of Netheril yet.

There was power out there in the multiverse, power and wonder. Magic raw and vital, the knowledge of the infinite. As his blade rose and fell he yet traveled, uncovered and innovated besides, re-enacting what he had done on the scale of one world, across planes of many. He was mighty and glorious, eldritch and primal.

He fought across the planes, across Hell, across the Abyss. It was not only Anhur that the Blood War learned to scatter before. His was a name cursed by the nameless in the outer darks. He reinforced the integrity of his world's reality as his clerics and paladins (and a few rangers, here and there) preached the glory and strength of aspiration. He was Telemar, God of Aspiration, an archwizard god for the Netherese, of the Netherese. Telemar, who put hand and will against the darkness of the world, sending it screaming back. Telemar, who taught men to elevate themselves to where they could blaze so brightly that there would be no place for darkness to return. Telemar, who took the promising even as companions to run headlong with him towards battle, exploration and new wonders alike, that they might return to the empire with a greater sense of the ultimate birthright before them.

But he lost track of matters within, so dearly focused was he on matters without. Oh, he was aware of the worsening external Phaerimm threat and had his own controls in place he was mustering towards it, thank you very much. It was difficult, unifying a society of egotists around a single point, cause and banner, but he was on his way to arranging it, calling on faith and friends and allies closer towards a rallying cry of the archwizards victorious. He had some awareness of the madness and power of Karsus, but he felt he could end run around it, that without the Phaerimm threat, there would be nothing exacerbating it. It was a mistake he would pay direly for.

The world broke thus, magic warping, then dying outright from Karsus’ madness and Mystryl’s sacrifice. And in the long moments where magic was gone, the sky rained cities as burning tears. But it was not in Telemar to watch in a useless, anguished frustration, as did the so called gods of Netheril (hate Aumanator you say? Telemar hates Aumanator with a passion, even as a memory). There was still magic in one place yet after all, inside of him. Magic he ripped out in desperation, reaching out his hands to save any he could, straining to hold cities aloft, to sweep out populations from them if he could not. For all the power he bled, he cannot say that he much accomplished anything. Allowed a city or two of a former companion to flee to the planes, perhaps. Ensured the presence of a few more refugees to doomed successor states, maybe. He could not say for certain, the pain of his bleeding out was beyond anything he had ever felt, for a time he believed he would simply die of it.

Diminished now, he found at last he could feel despair. Instead of teaching men to aspire, he taught them to be avengers, and in the years that went by he went through a cycle of creating an avatar to hunt the phaerimm, thinning their numbers savagely, then recuperating to build one anew when they managed to muster enough effort to destroy it.

His relationship with this “Mystra” was besides a strained thing, and he always had the sense that she would have been happier if indeed he had died completely in the fall. But the twisted legacies of magic warped and shattered plagued the world, and while she herself adjusted to her new station, she needed a warrior familiar enough with such matters to handle those concerns. He was content enough to lose himself to war.

His spirit was only lifted when after the passing of centuries, he could hear prayers from the nation of Halruaa, offered to him as a patron, offered by Netherese survivors. The nation was.. well.. let's be frank. Compared to the empire, the nation was a painful farce. And they learned all the wrong lessons from the fall of the empire, shackling their potential in ways Telemar frankly looked to with exasperation. But despite all the bonds they had placed on themselves, there they were, reaching forward all the same, going back on the great human adventure in all the ways they could be allowed, within their society. Taking again to the sky in ships, though not cities.

And if they were to go on the great human adventure, they wanted him along for the ride. He was touched.

He would raise a Halruaan up to a personal companion here and there as he did in days of old, share his knowledge, share the multiverse. It brought him through his traumas and sense of blood vengeance, his loneliness (the Halruaans, though a lovely people certainly, can never be thought of as Netherese. They themselves- sigh!- refuse to so think)

He was a god of aspiration again, though his relationship with Mystra never truthfully improved. Restraints on magic? On people? Look, yes, things got out of hand but that's no reason to cripple the souls of humanity. It's just a reason to be more careful next time.

His actions as an innovator and firebrand, spreading knowledge as he thought of it or obtained it, and when he could manage to arrange a clean opportunity for it did not much endear him to her, nor the conservative gods of knowledge and artifice. It ensured he would be kept in place as a demigod.

But not kept any lower, for in the rest of his time, he still did fight. And there was always something imperiling reality. They needed someone to fight. To run towards battle.

All the same, when Lathander caused the Dawn Cataclysm, of all the gods, there was Telemar applauding him yet and cheered "Of course good can one day win out forever. Evil only ever does when we tell ourselves the lie that good can't. That nonsense about then what would a heaven be for ignores that the proper answer about they wouldn't be people, they would be angels twaddle is 'they'll be even better when we're through'. Just be more rigorous next time."

And he much liked Torm, who was a stalwart ally in foiling yugoloth and banite plots alike.

It was an itchy sort of life though, the constant gnawing that he could be doing so much more, watching the world not rise higher with each new generation, but instead become less, and less and less. The occasional bouts of exile and grudging apology. The less that could also be said of his ‘divine superior’s’ degeneracies and strategies on chosen, the better.

He did what he could through his followers, kept a spirit of aspiration and daring alive in otherwise staid Halruaa, sponsored warrior orders through Faerun that held the line of the world as they walked in the spaces between and outside of it, accepted his place as patron of martial sorcerers such as the War Wizards, of the maverick geniuses and firebrands that looked to his example. But it had a certain stopgap feeling, all of it.

And then yet another damn apocalypse, and an even more dotty ‘goddess of magic’ and he had enough. This time though, this time at least was opportunity. The nether scrolls were out there. The world was out there, to lift mankind within it to the majesty they had been denied for centuries on end, kept down into a world too small for their wonder. And yes, he had to diminish himself to do it, be reduced. When the great call came to come home, he offered in reply a polite “thanks but no”, and chose for himself a mortal life. Well, mortal-y. Mortal esque. He was more or less, in a world of gods and monsters, reduced back to the power and intellect of the archwizard.

But there was power there all the same, and knowledge of old to be sought out and mastered as he hit the ground running. His followers and such of his former clergy as there were he rallied into a roving army at his back, though at times he still walked solitary paths. He plumbed the depths of the ruins of Myth Drannor and Imaskar alike. He distinguished himself in the Tuigan War, rescuing through sword and shield his beloved War Wizards of old that might have otherwise been left to dead magic field massacre. Though no longer a god, he was no less a patron.

Demon, daemon and devil that had been dissuaded from daring a god came in eagerness for a man, only to find eagerness in waiting for them and laying them low. Old enemies emerging from shadow were forced back, even as he made new ones. His habit of mocking the Red Wizards as some kind of tragic pastiche of a greater people was not endearing, especially, nor, in a duel over lost magics, his having caused one of the many deaths of Manshoon (he had to admit though, the stasis clone thing was extremely clever, even if it did get away from the fellow at the end there).

There was something refreshing about it all, not having to work through priests or pawns, his own hand in again. Rambling across the planes to defy Abyssal lords and chosen proxies alike (though getting mixed up in the multi planar rescue of Waukeen is something he still finds a touch awkward for the praise he gets for it from certain quarters. Yes, it was for the best to save her from Grazz’t’s clutches. On the other hand, he was always pretty ambivalent about the idea of “the god of chasing after shiny bits of metal that really only have value because society agrees they do.”)

In the end, through deed and might, briefly claimed artifacts and grouped potency, he took his first real step towards the glories he promised to bring back to the world, to elevate it by, to show that reach need not exceed grasp, and that need not be a concept owned only by evil. An enclave was found, restored, and raised, to the marvel of the world (well, to the marvel of some of the world, the deeply concerned misgivings of others and the hateful outrage of others yet).

He would have called it Golden Netheril, but it seemed early to claim the title with just the one city. Still, this would be the first of many if he had his way. He attracted seers, sages and mages with the promise of sharing in the workings and lore of the once god and forever archwizard victorious, of building a society such as had not been seen, a perfected creation of humanity’s greatest glory. Paladins and warriors found appeal in the notion of an entire people that would travel without fear to the heart of evil and lay it low forever. Aspiration then would be its name, purpose and promise. The great shining city trailed a wake of valor through the skies, scattering hordes of monsters, rallying forces in defense and counterstrike against Iakhovas and his hosts, even turning back a Thayan assault on Rashemen (“Don’t get me wrong, that country is itself in many ways unfortunate, but compared to Thay?”). Korin even, despite an archwizard’s misgivings towards gods returning to him, allowed for a certain presence of Lathander’s church, his old friend much enthusiastic about this particular project and Korin forced to admit Lathander was just damned likable.

It was not all victory and celebration of course. A message that there had been value in Netheril after all was going to be controversial at best, no matter how much heroism backed it. There was no small amount of friction between himself and the Harpers. He held no small disdain for a society emphasizing small kingdoms and decrying efforts towards empires. His outright giddiness at the freedom from his former master did not otherwise endear him to her chosen besides (but really, he only ever liked Alustriel anyway, who was at least trying to build something good and inspiring and vast. And those magical bridges into her city? Hey, those are pretty great as an achievement). An autocratic meritocratic magocracy, however noble, was to some, entirely unacceptable (“And what do you people honestly think Myth Drannor was and Silverymoon is? Oh don’t give me that look.”) Research into dragon magics and weave alternates, quests again and again for the lost Nether Scrolls unnerved those already inclined to look on this entire effort as madness besides.

But just as matters might have come to a head, the world turned over on its own. It seemed mocking, the return of literal blood kin in the form of Shade, initial rejoicing turning fast to borderline heartbreak. They even had a state faith (“Having some churches are fine. An actual enforced by law religion? Why? How! Why!”), of all the awful things, and of Shar no less. Look, yes, finding an alternate to Mystra’s weave, not a bad idea. Replacing it with Shar’s, terrible. And it’s not as though he doesn’t understand. Mystryl’s weave failed under the weight of its own mages, from a certain perspective. A Shade that needed to survive likely could not bring itself to rely on something it found so fragile. It tears at him that he truly can look at the litany of horrible decisions made from the most deceptively strong and corruptive of reasons, necessity, and understand each in turn. If only he could have done more at the time, saved more, it might not have been that way.

“Our world was dead, and you had fallen with it. What then blood of my blood would you have had me do? Could you have asked as much, of any other man?” It was a question that struck at him in the first of several anguished conversations with Telamont Tanthul. They found in them that each began to have that look you very rarely find, the haunting, hunted kind. Korin’s belief that he can find some way to reach and redeem his returned people stays his hand from deeper action against them, even as he has stymied some few of their plots. The belief of the Shadovar that Telemar can be brought around to be a part of a greater Netheril, their vision of Netheril, stays theirs, even as they have stymied some few of his. The race for the Nether Scrolls all the same now became a more earnest and deadly thing.

He might have done more in regard to the Shadovar in the first few days of their arrival all the same, but his attention was soon ripped from them to Cormyr’s travails. He had always sighed a little that Azoun never followed through on his initial post Tuigan war impulse to unite the Heartlands (“and we can all blame a particular band of musical dream cripplers for that one I wager”) but all the same, Cormyr was a beacon of many of the things he valued, and even if not in the way he would have done, it was a beacon all the same. He found he could love them for that. And now they were being ripped apart.

The fury of the archwizard was a terrible thing to behold, whole hosts of monstrous onslaught scattered and broken under storm of magic and bladecraft. Though in sparing the dragon kingdom a great deal of damage it might have otherwise suffered across its greater length, he was not present for the terrible battle where Azoun gave his life to put down the architect of the attacks. It grieved him, but furthered his resolve all the same to build a better world worthy of the lion of Cormyr’s sacrifice. While it has ranged across faerun, he has kept Aspiration somewhat closer to Cormyr in recent days, should they need aid, and as a slightly subtle discouragement to his kinsmen to attempt to ply influence there.

Highly mobile all the same, his “flying meddling platform” otherwise often frequents about Silverymoon, where lore is traded, Halruua, where the restless are gathered and glories preached and otherwise anywhere else Korin Telemar might move people forwards on the great aspirational adventure.