First step to greatness

The previous night at the Weyland household. 

After dinner plates were cleared and the kitchen quiet settled in, Anton followed his father Thonar down into the cellar's cool darkness. 

"WHAT?" Thonar's voice thundered, echoing all the way to the kitchen above. "You want to give them MY whiskey as tuition payment?" His weathered face contorted in disbelief, eyes fixed on the oak barrels that lined the far wall—his treasures, years of craftsmanship contained within these wooden staves.

Anton faced his father's incredulity with steady resolve. "Trust me, Father. I've sampled your previous batches. This whiskey does more than just warm the belly or cloud the mind." His voice lowered conspiratorially. "There's something... different about it. Something the mages would find fascinating. If the effects are substantial and can be replicated at low cost—" his eyes gleamed with ambition, "—we could become wealthy distillers overnight."

Thonar ran calloused fingers through his graying hair, struggling to process the suggestion. The barrels before them, created out of nothing more than habit and hobby, potential keys to prosperity? The notion seemed absurd, yet his son's conviction gave him pause.

"There's a practical benefit too," Anton continued. "If they cast investigative spells to analyze it properly, we'll learn exactly what makes your whiskey special. Knowledge like that is worth quite a bit of silver."

Thonar nodded slowly, reaching for an empty bottle on the nearby shelf. As he positioned a copper funnel into its neck, preparing to fill it from the spigot of his prized barrel, Anton's hand shot out to stop him.

"Wait," he said. "Do we have older bottles? Something worn and weathered?". "What's wrong?"his father looked at him with a puzzled expression. Anton, then explained, "If we use new glass, the mages might demand the entire recipe rather than being satisfied with just a few bottles. But if we present it in aged containers, I could claim I stumbled upon them by chance, or perhaps received them from a mysterious elder."

Thonar stared at his son in astonishment. The tactical thinking, the foresight—when had his boy developed such cunning? A slow, appreciative smile spread across his face.

"Well then," he said with newfound respect, "ask your mother for some of her old bottles. I'm certain she's hoarded a collection in the kitchen cabinets over the years."

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 

Now, standing in the guildhall, Anton's confidence wavered as he extended the five worn bottles toward the mage. Each container bore the patina of age—their labels faded, glass clouded with time—disguising their recent filling with Thonar's special brew. Anton's palms grew damp. While he believed in his father's whiskey's value, he couldn't be certain it would suffice as payment to become an apprentice mage.

Even the receptionist leaned forward behind the mage, neck craned to better examine the mysterious offerings. Her professional demeanor momentarily forgotten as curiosity overcame decorum.

The mage made no move to uncork the bottles. Instead, his fingers flick through the air murmuring syllables that seemed to slide off the ear. A violet glow enveloped the nearest bottle, seeping into the amber liquid within. Anton inferred it as some manner of investigative spell—allowing the caster to ascertain properties without physical contact.

The transformation in the mage's expression occurred gradually—puzzlement giving way to widened eyes and raised brows as information revealed itself to him. Only then did he reach for the bottle, removing its cork with a practiced twist.

He inhaled the aroma first, eyes closing momentarily in appreciation before taking a measured sip. His reaction was immediate and unrestrained.

"Damn good whiskey!" he exclaimed. Behind him, the receptionist's mouth fell open, her expression caught between shock at a farm boy offering whiskey as tuition payment and amazement at her superior's enthusiastic response.

The mage studied the bottle with renewed interest. "It goes down surprisingly smoothly given the effects that it has," he mused, more to himself than to Anton.

Anton saw his opportunity. Recalling his father's parting advice, he cleared his throat. "If I may ask, sir... what exactly are those effects?"

He held his breath, awaiting the answer that could transform his family's fortunes as surely as it would change the course of his own life.

The mage cast a sidelong glance at Anton, swirling the liquid inside the worn-down bottle thoughtfully before answering. "It has enhanced strength properties, which is impressive enough. But what truly intrigues me is its effect on vitality." He studied Anton's face with newfound interest. "Tell me, boy—apart from ice-cold ale or ice-cold beer, have you ever encountered a strong spirit that leaves you feeling rejuvenated rather than depleted after consumption?"

Anton considered the question, searching through his limited experience with such beverages. After a moment, he shook his head.

"Precisely," the mage said, holding the bottle up to the light. "Alcoholic drinks—even the finest vintages from Vinara vineyards or the celebrated Dwarven whiskey—might enhance certain attributes temporarily, but they invariably drain vitality. It's the natural trade-off." He tapped the bottle with a long finger. "Yet this... this defies that fundamental principle. If our alchemists could study this property, we might develop an entirely new class of restorative elixirs."

His gaze sharpened as he leaned closer to Anton. "Are you the brewer of this remarkable whiskey? Or do you perhaps know who brewed it?"

The question Anton had been dreading had finally arrived. His throat tightened. Just as he had anticipated, the mage wanted the source. In his mind, Anton saw his family's simple farmhouse swarming with guild representatives, demanding his father's secrets. Human greed knew no bounds—what would stop them from threatening or harming his family to acquire the recipe just like the adventurers before who killed him and his family for a barrel of this whiskey? 

Drawing upon the story he had rehearsed with his father the previous night, Anton adopted an expression of earnest innocence. "I encountered an elderly traveler about ten days ago. His cart had broken down on the return path from the eastern pastures, and I offered what assistance I could with repairs." Anton gestured vaguely eastward. "He called me a 'good-hearted lad' and presented these bottles as thanks. 'Sell them or drink them,' he told me, 'matters not to me—but use them for a worthwhile purpose.' After much thinking, I thought perhaps they might serve as payment for a mage's instruction."

The mage's eyes narrowed slightly, assessing Anton's tale. After a tense moment, his expression softened. "If your account is truthful, you may have had a fortuitous encounter with a hermit or a sage. Such figures wander the borderlands occasionally, bestowing gifts on those they deem worthy." A faint smile played at the corner of his mouth. "Never underestimate the value of luck, my boy. In the path of magic, sometimes a stroke of luck is all that separates survival from a grisly end."

Something distant flickered in the mage's eyes—memories perhaps, of narrow escapes and fateful moments now decades past. He seemed momentarily lost in contemplation before abruptly returning his attention to Anton.

"These bottles will not cover tuition for advanced studies," he declared, "but they'll suffice for foundational training." He turned toward the receptionist. "Maria, register him as my apprentice. Coordinate a training session around my existing schedule." Then back to Anton: "I shall instruct you once every three days for the duration of one year. What you learn from these sessions depends entirely on your dedication."

With that pronouncement, the mage pivoted on his heel and strode toward the inner chambers. He paused at the threshold, glancing back over his shoulder with an expression that mingled warning and promise. "Be sure to remember my name: Great Mage Ragnar. Ragnar Blackwood." The double doors swung open before him without visible touch, and he disappeared into the guild's depths.

Anton stood motionless in the reception hall, heart pounding against his ribs. A small victory at last, but a significant one—the first step on his journey to become someone worthy of the mysterious gift. The very gift he hoped to make full use through the teachings of Ragnar Blackwood, whose name he would not soon forget.