A chilling wind whips through the hollow. Winter's bite grips your spine. The very air you breath stings. Snow swirls all around you, yet, the trees... the trees are motionless in the gale, unaffected by the cold, biting winds.
The Wizard-Brewers of the Old Empire stored memories in bottles of mead, passing their brightest ideas, most subtle magics, and most important decisions on to their heirs in bottles of oddly-flavored honey-wine. A cache of these ancient magical vintages has been unearthed, but does anyone dare drink from it? The ancient mead's creator is a complete mystery, as are the thoughts he left behind.