The Origin of the Flying Toad
How The Toad Earned His Name
Deep in the Whispering Glade, where fog curled low and mushrooms whispered secrets to the moss, a lone toad brewed in silence. He was no ordinary creature — clever, gentle, and patient with wanderers who strayed into his quiet domain. Yet he had no name, no story, no place in the world beyond the bubbling cauldron of mossmead and moonroot he tended each day.
Then came Eldrin Greystar.
A wandering wizard whose robes smelled faintly of starlight and old parchment, Eldrin had crossed realms in search of something forgotten — not power, not glory, but warmth. He found it in the glade, where the toad offered him a cup of steaming mossmead without a word.
Eldrin drank. And smiled.
Not the smile of victory, but the soft, aching smile of a man reminded of something he thought he’d lost forever.
“You brew better than half the archmages I’ve met,” Eldrin said, kneeling beside the small creature.
He removed his own hat — a worn violet cone stitched with runes — and placed it gently atop the toad’s head.
“A brewer deserves a name,” Eldrin murmured. “One worthy of your craft.”
He tapped the brim of the hat.
“I name you Hopfen.”
The toad blinked, then croaked proudly — as if the name had always been his.
Eldrin rose, leaning on his staff.
“I must continue my journey,” he said softly. “But I will return. Count on that.”
Hopfen watched him disappear into the fog, the wizard’s hat sitting proudly atop his head — and for the first time, he felt the spark of a story beginning
THE BATTLE FOR WILLOWGLENN HOLLOW
Eldrin Greystar and the Old Order’s Last Stand
Dawn broke red.
The Dominion legions marched in perfect formation — shields locked, spears angled, war drums pounding like a heartbeat of iron. Behind them lumbered chained ogres, armored war‑wolves, and siege engines carved with cruel runes. Above them circled Vyrmathrax, a crimson dragon bound in runic chains.
Eldrin Greystar stepped forward alone.
“Archmage Eldrin Greystar,” the Dominion general sneered. “You stand alone.”
Eldrin planted his staff into the earth.
“Look again.”
The forest erupted.
The Old Order surged from the trees — rangers firing from the branches, druids calling roots to tear through the soil, mages unleashing storms of fire and frost. The Dominion line shattered under the onslaught.
Vyrmathrax dove, flames spilling from his jaws. Eldrin raised a shimmering barrier, the fire washing over it like molten gold. The strain cracked the earth beneath his feet.
“Mira!” he shouted.
The druid slammed her staff into the ground, vines thicker than ship ropes bursting upward to drag the dragon down. Vyrmathrax thrashed, tearing free — but Eldrin was already moving.
He teleported in a flash of silver mist, appearing atop the dragon’s back. His hands gripped the runic chains binding the beast’s mind.
“Vyrmathrax,” he roared, “you are no one’s slave!”
Magic surged through the chains. They shattered.
The dragon’s eyes cleared — no longer burning with Dominion control, but with ancient fury. Vyrmathrax turned midair and unleashed a torrent of flame upon the Dominion ranks. Soldiers screamed as the terror they once spread was returned to them tenfold.
Eldrin scanned the battlefield — and saw him.
General Vorlax.
The butcher of thousands.
The murderer of Eldrin’s wife.
“Take me to Vorlax!” Eldrin commanded.
Vyrmathrax obeyed, ripping through the battlefield. Eldrin leapt from the dragon’s back, staff raised high. His strike met Vorlax’s curved mithril blade, inscribed with the Rune of Death. The parry sent Eldrin skidding backward.
“This is for my wife,” Eldrin growled. “Become stardust.”
His eyes began to glow. His skin peeled with radiant light.
the battlefield was enveloped in complete silence
“Divine Punishment”
Eldrin whispered, yet the whole battlefield heard those very words
A beam of pure celestial fire descended from the heavens.
Vorlax looks up at his fate
still in silence he looks back at Eldrin Greystar.
“I will have my rev—”
BWOOM!
The beam of light incinerates Vorlax in an instance leaving only his blade of darkness.
Eldrin collapsed, smoldering from the mana he had unleashed.
The battle was won.
But at what cost?
THE TAVERN IS BUILT
The Birth of a Sanctuary
Smoke still drifted over the distant battlefield when Eldrin returned to the Whispering Glade. His robes were scorched, his beard singed, and his steps unsteady — but he lived.
Hopfen waited for him beside the bubbling cauldron, wings trembling with worry. When Eldrin stepped into the clearing, the Toad bounded forward, pressing his head against the wizard’s chest.
“I told you I’d be back,” Eldrin whispered.
The Toad offered him a ladle of warm mossmead. Eldrin drank. And smiled — the same quiet smile he had worn the day they first met.
He reached into his robes and withdrew a charred but intact silver coin — the token of the Old Order.
He set it beside the cauldron.
“For the next round,” he murmured. “And for the stories yet to come.”
Together, They Built
In the days that followed, Eldrin and Hopfen worked side by side.
Eldrin summoned timber from fallen trees, shaping each beam with spells of warmth and welcome. Hopfen carved runes into the wood — not for power, but for memories. Mushrooms grew in the corners, unbothered. The hearth was made from riverstone, the bar from driftwood, and the sign above the door bore the Toad’s likeness: wings spread, mug raised.
When the last nail was set, Eldrin placed the Old Order coin on the counter.
“For the first round,” he said. “And the last.”
That night, the Flying Toad Tavern opened its doors — no grand announcement, no fanfare. Just laughter, firelight, and the scent of mossmead drifting through the trees.
A sanctuary was born.
A home for wanderers.
A place where no one would ever stand alone again.