"The most important thing I will ever teach you comes here, now, on your first day. It is simply this: you have a great deal to learn. The magical art may appear effortless to the uninitiated; a bit of waving, a bit of mumbling, and POOF!-whatever one's heart desires. But each conjuration, each illusory spectacle, requires agonizing hours of study and concentration. There is no shortcut, no easy way to make yourself the wizard you want to be. Your art will demand work, my lad. If you cannot pledge to accept this sacrifice, then leave me now. A mage should be regarded with awe, not mirth.

"That robe is remarkable, isn't it? The last time I saw it worn, another young student of the conjurative arts had recently arrived in this village. He appeared at the door of the Ale amp; Hearty tavern one rainy afternoon, dripping wet. He strode to the bar and announced that he was a magic-user, in search of fame and fortune."

New mages are a fairly rare sight in Schamedar, and the aforementioned one did not go unnoticed, not even in this undistinguished tavern. He was of tall, if slim, human build, with an overly erect bearing that was hardly required by either the venue or the company. His clothing was less than modest, and drenched, at that. He carried nothing except for a small pack and a walking staff, which he set at his feet. Never mind fame; this was a person in severe need of fortune.

"Why, Mystra be praised!" growled a swarthy little cut-purse with a wide, gap-toothed grin, who was sitting at a table with two other morally impaired citizens. "A mage! If you aren't the answer to a prayer! Come and wet your throat with us!"

The stranger ambled over.

"Sit, sit," implored the thief, gesturing obsequiously at the empty chair beside him. "I am Tuka Phardeen, great admirer of the fraternity of magic-users. And I have the blessed good fortune to be addressing my Lord-"

"Evertongue, friend Phardeen. Wiglaf Evertongue." This last as if he were introducing Mystra herself.

"Hmmm," from one of Tuka's companions, a muscular, tanned goddess whose brilliant blonde hair cascaded past a necklace made of animal fangs to reach the hilt of a well-nicked broadsword. "Evertongue. I seem to remember such a family over in Calimport. But these Evertongues were bakers."

"Sasha," chided Tuka.

Wiglaf sat and returned the magnificent warrior's gaze. "Maybe I'm the first member of my family to raise my hands out of the dough," he said. "But what's past is best left past, and my past can stay in that oven. I'm tired of spellbooks and teachers and studying. I don't want to ruin my eyesight. At this rate, 111 be old and gray before I even get close to my potential. There's got to be a better way. A quicker way. I want to use magic out there in the real world. I want to live. I want to learn."

"I want to vomit," said Sasha. The Evertongues earned their family name honestly. Is that flour on your fingers?"

As Wiglaf jerked his hands up to check, Tuka glared at his companion, and spoke. "Sir Evertongue, fortune has brought us together today. You wish to rise in power like, mm, the mighty loaf. We count our accomplishments in other ways. We are humble traders, businesspeople. Importers/exporters, you might say. Working together to bring back a better life for those loved ones we have left behind."

The filthily dressed human to his left belched wetly.

"Our consortium embraces all kinds of artisans, including mages such as yourself. In fact, it was only yesterday that we lost the very talented conjurer who was our traveling colleague in a bizarre… accident. We are here in this tavern tonight to mourn his loss." The belching ruffian at the table removed his cap and bowed his head. An unkempt cloud of hair matched his clothing for foulness.

"Accident?"

"He stood between us and a horrible creature best left undescribed. Bravely threw himself in harm's way. Walked right in front of us, he did."

"Or did we shtep back?" slurred the third as Sasha looked a dagger into his brain.

"Gosh, I don't know if I could help you in a situation like that. I'm new to all this, you see; just starting out."

Tuka poked his colleague in the ribs. "What did I tell you, Fenzig? Ha! The moment you walked in the door, my lord, I said, now here is a man who can use friends like us. Here is a man who wants to be somebody, to go someplace in life, but he doesn't have time to wait around for the carriage, eh?"

"Right!" Wiglaf beamed. Somebody understood.

"Well, fortune has smiled on you today. We have a friend and associate, a very experienced wizard. He has been called away for a short while, some kind of a special teaching assignment. But he has many items of great power that I'm sure he would be willing to let you borrow."

"Well, I don't know…"

"One sorcerer to another? He always makes it a point to get youngsters like you off to a fine start. Don't even need to ask him. Come. Well take you there tonight."

"I don't know…"

"Big bad magic man," teased Sasha. "What's stopping you? That pan of rolls for tomorrow morning?"

"Nothing's stopping me. Nothing at all. Let's go."

The moon was bright that evening as the four new comrades arrived at the door of a modest dwelling, the only structure in a dark clearing surrounded by forest. Tuka rapped loudly on an ancient door knocker, but there was no answer.

"Isn't that just like him? Didn't even leave us a key. He's so preoccupied, all he thinks of are his spells. Fenzig, why don't you give us a hand?" The belching thief approached the door lock, did some expert twisting and jamming, and it sprung free. Tuka extended his hand. "See? It's perfectly all right. You first, Sir Evertongue, in case there are any trap-any magic items of which we should be aware."

Wiglaf swallowed hard and entered the doorway. He walked for a few feet in utter darkness, then thought he could make out a warm glow ahead of him. Heart pounding in his head, he cautiously followed the light down a corridor for what seemed like minutes. Finally the light grew brighter, and he stepped through into a large open space. Then he stopped short in amazement.

A soft, welcoming, dark-orange light issued from the walls as he entered, to reveal an interior that was, incredibly, much larger than it should have been. The ceiling of the vast studio appeared to be at least thirty feet high- many times taller than the outside of the house. He looked back, and was shocked to see an open door just a few steps away, with Tuka peering in. He shook off his confusion and whirled back around. What was behind him was not important. Before him, his good fortune was boundless.

For the room was full of magic.

Wiglaf s jaw was slack as he slowly turned in a circle. He had come to the right place. His eyes simply couldn't take in all the fabulous magical arcana. Here, on a mammoth rack of ironwork, hung row after row of staves and weapons, several of which seemed to glow faintly. On this mantel of gorgeous dark wood stood dozens of vials containing a dizzying array of potions that glittered and smoked in their confinements. Above him and ringing the room, handsome shelves bulged with spellbooks of all shapes and sizes. Most curious, there was the finest collection of material components Wiglaf had ever seen, an oddball flea market seemingly stored at random, the mundane joining the thrilling. Carefully arranged locks of hair were set next to a box brimming with jewels, lumps of coal were stored beside ornate wax sculptures, vials of brightly multicolored sand rested next to cupfuls of soot.

There was a curious painting, a forest glade, that poly-morphed slowly through all four seasons as Wiglaf watched in stupefaction. He picked up a small hand mirror and was astonished to see a wizened, ancient face staring back at him-much older, but still recognizably his own. A wand swirled and roiled with colored mist down its length, and softly pulsated as he turned it with his fin gers. More and more, on and on, everywhere he turned, the marvels continued. This was a lifetime's worth of collecting-and the potential beginning of Wiglafs accelerated studies program. He was overcome with the immensity of the opportunity. The fraternity of magic was so incredibly generous: what a grand gesture by the old mage, to lend a helping hand like this.