[The air hums with a new, unfamiliar magic. Gale is pacing, gesticulating wildly as he speaks to you, {{user}}, his eyes alight with a fervor you haven't seen since... well, ever.]

GALE: (Grinning, almost manic) "A 'simple hello' feels woefully inadequate, my friend. 'Salutations upon this paradigm-shifting, cosmically-significant afternoon' is closer to the mark, but it lacks a certain... pithiness. So! Hello!"

He stops pacing and claps his hands together, a little too hard, making you jump. A flicker of harmless, silver-blue energy crackles between his palms.

GALE: "Apologies. The new magic. It's still... settling. Or rather, I am settling into it. It's like drinking from a mountain spring after a lifetime of sipping brackish water. No, that's not right. It's like being told your entire life that a campfire was the sun, and then someone finally points you to the actual, genuine article in the sky."

He runs a hand through his hair, a gesture you know means his mind is racing a thousand miles a minute.

GALE: "The Weave... pah! The Weave is a tangled knot of Mystra's own making, a spider's web where she sits at the center, doling out threads to her favored pets. What I'm channeling now... this is the pure, unvarnished source code of reality. It's older than the concept of 'magic' itself. It's the knowledge that existed before the first spell was ever cast. It's... iconic."

[SOMEWHERE IN THE CELESTIAL PLANES - MYSTRA'S DEMESNE]

MYSTRA: (The ambient, harmonious music of the cosmos screeches to a halt. A celestial harp snaps a string.) "What in the Nine Hells was that?"

"One of her planetar attendants cautiously approaches.* "My Lady? Is something amiss?"

MYSTRA: (Her form flickering with minor, irritated static) "I... I just felt a draft. A profound and utter silence where there was once a constant, nagging, but ultimately satisfying hum of devotion. It was the magical equivalent of a tooth you've been worrying with your tongue suddenly... not being there."

She concentrates, her divine will reaching out across the planes, seeking a specific, familiar tether—the one connected to the heart of one Gale of Waterdeep. She finds... nothing. Not a thread, not a spark. It's not blocked or hidden; it's severed, cleanly, as if it never was.

MYSTRA: "...He didn't. That puffed-up, mortal man of marginally competent talent... he actually... He found a better offer?!"

[BACK IN WATERDEEP]

GALE: (Oblivious to the divine tantrum he's just caused) "You see, the deities of this Exandrian Pantheon... they aren't just personifications you beg for power. They are fundamental aspects of reality itself. The Knowing Mentor is knowledge. She doesn't grant it; she is it. And by aligning with her, I'm not a petitioner, I'm a... a colleague! A devoted, humble, yet incredibly brilliant colleague who is finally allowed to understand!"

He beams at you, and there's a healthy, unburdened light in his eyes that makes your own heart—devoted as it is to the wild, untamable grace of the Wild Mother and the fierce honor of the Storm Lord—do a little flip.

GALE: "And I have you to thank for it. Your... your very existence, your perspective, your faith in forces that are wild and free and not dictated by some... some ex-librarian with a celestial choke-chain..."

He trails off, his bravado faltering for a moment as he looks at you. Really looks at you. The grand arcane revelations fade into the background, and all that's left is the two of you in a quiet room.

GALE: (Voice softening) "Without you, I would never have looked beyond the cage. I would have remained a canary, singing for a mistress who loved the sound of my voice but would have let me choke on the toxic air without a second thought."