Before thy name
The toad brewed in silence, deep in the glade where the fog never lifted, and the mushrooms whispered secrets. He was no ordinary creature — clever, patient, and kind to those who passed. But he had no name, no story, no purpose.
Then came Eldrin Greystar, a wandering wizard whose robes smelled of starlight and old parchment. He had crossed realms in search of something forgotten — not power, not glory, but warmth. He found the toad tending a bubbling cauldron of mossmead and moonroot.
Eldrin drank. And smiled.
Not the smile of victory, but of a reminder of forgotten memories.
In gratitude, he removed his own hat — a worn, violet cone stitched with runes — and placed it gently atop the toad’s head.
“You brew better than half the archmages I’ve met,” Eldrin said.
“Wear this. A token of my gratitude.”
And so the Flying Toad was born — not just a brewer, but a wizard’s heir, keeper of comfort, and bearer of stories.
The Tavern is Built
Long ago, in the heart of the Whispering Glade, the toad brewed in solitude. His wings had grown strong, his hat well-worn, and his mead known to those who wandered the wild paths. But he had no hearth, no hall, no place for stories to settle.
That changed when Eldrin Greystar returned.
The wizard had aged - his beard silvered, his staff chipped - but his eyes still held the shimmer of starlight. He found the toad perched on a mossy log, brewing moonroot mead beneath a canopy of fireflies.
“You need walls,” Eldrin said. “Not to hide in — but to share the warmth.”
Together, they built.
Eldrin summoned timber from fallen trees, shaped by spells of warmth and welcome. The toad carved runes into the beams — 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 a single coin on the counter — not gold, but a token etched with the symbol of the old order.
“For the first round,” he said. “And the last.”
The Flying Toad Tavern opened that night. No grand announcement. Just laughter, light, and the scent of mossmead drifting through the trees.