An apothecary, with knitted brow,
Declared, "I've solved the problem now!
One final draught, one perfect brew,
And none shall match the work I do."

A rarer root.
A finer flame.
A clever tincture.
A grander name.

He penned prophecies by candlelight,
Each swearing he would set things right.
He hid his mixtures, one by one,
Lest someone learn what he'd begun.

He cursed the shortcuts others found,
Declared they cheapened sacred ground.
He weighed each grain with solemn care,
As though the gods themselves were there.

He frowned at fortune's fickle smile,
Mocked easy roads, each weary mile.
He measured triumph, inch by inch,
And and sat excited for my flinch.

He praised the climb, despised the stair,
Found noble meaning in despair.
Each needless burden, every scar,
Was proof he'd travelled twice as far.

He brewed till dawn while candles burned,
I slept till noon, refreshed, unconcerned.
He chased tomorrow through the night...

I spent today,
and slept just right.

He filled his shelves with bottled pride,
Each flask arranged and classified.
Labeled... Dated.. Locked away...
Admired at least three times a day.

He smiled each time he sealed another,
Certain no soul would soon discover
The whispered secret, hidden art,
He'd guarded from the very start.

He dreamt the day I'd stand amazed,
Applaud his craft, his mind be praised;
That I would marvel, mouth agape,
At every subtle new escape.

One day at last, with gleaming grin,
He held perfection in his hands.
A flawless draught. A peerless art.
A masterpiece by all demands.

He looked for me.

I was buying another round.

They tell me now
He's quite unmatched...
Too clever far...
To be outmatched.

I wouldn't know.

By the time he'd finally finished
Perfecting every little thing...

I'd forgotten
we were playing.

**Kutcher Winterbourne**
*The Hollowed Echo*


Penned by my hand on the 18th of Sarapin, in the year 1011 AF.