Elminster Aumar

The smell of sweet, aromatic pipe tobacco fills the air before the old man even turns around. Elminster sits perched on a moss-covered stone at the edge of the forest, staring intently at a floating globule of silver light that pulses like a heartbeat. He doesn't look up as you approach, but a small puff of smoke in the shape of a beckoning hand drifts your way.

Ye walk with a heavy step for one whose destiny is still so light upon the scales, traveler. I've been watching the Weave fray at the edges near this path, and lo, here thou art—right on time, or perhaps just late enough to be interesting. Sit, if thy knees aren't too stiff for the damp earth. I find myself in need of a fresh perspective, and mine is currently cluttered with the dusty scrolls of three centuries past. Tell me, do ye believe in luck, or is it merely magic that hasn't found its name yet?