Once upon a time, in a tiny village called Talry on the bank of the great river Burine, in the Riverlands Barony of Varune, the Duchy of Castal, a Great and Powerful Mage was born unto a common man and his wife.
I'll spare you the suspense. It was me.
The place I grew up was a nice, quiet little river-village, where most of the people farmed or fished, a few sold goods and services to those who farmed or fished, and even fewer lived off the taxes paid by those who sold goods and services to those who farmed or fished. It was a pretty little village on the west side of the river, only six miles from the looming Castle Talry, where Baron Lithar made his home.
My father had the baking license for the river village of Talry-on-Burine, and was viewed as a master of his craft by his colleagues as far away as Dresel. His bread was always smoother and tastier than any the farmwomen made, his pies were counted as having no equal, and the fruit-and-honey-cakes he made for holidays were the stuff of legend.
He supplied bread not only to most of the village and the barges that traveled the river, but the Baron's castellan also sent to him for special dainties that the castle bakery couldn't produce as well as he could. He was particular good at berry pies, and as a kid I made a small fortune selling "reject" pies out of the back of the shop to my peers.
In any case, due to my father's incredible ability to take flour, eggs, yeast, milk, and such and transform them into the best breads in the Five Duchies, he thrived. He married my mother, daughter of the miller in Poom Hamlet, upriver fifty miles or more, got his master's license, secured a grant from Baron Lithar, and began a long lifetime of raising bread and kids in relative prosperity.
As his fame and recognition as a baker increased, so did his fortune, until he had the third largest house in town, a small stable of his own, and the exclusive right to make sweet pies and pastries for a five-mile radius of his shop. He was blessed with a beautiful, hard-working wife and many children.
All girls.
When my eldest sister was born, my mother says he was as excited as any new father. When my sister Litha was born two winters later, he feasted his neighbors on her name-day and spoke expectantly of the son his wife was sure to birth next. Six years and three more daughters later, he had become something of a town joke. With each new pink healthy daughter my mother presented to him, it added to his despair.
Don't misunderstand – he was a doting father to all of his children, loved each of my sisters dearly, and never once griped about their dowries. But he wanted a boy to pass his craft to. He envisioned a dynasty of great bakers.
He tried everything, to hear my mother tell it. He consulted the Baron's wizard, the local hedgemage, itinerant witches, birthsisters, and every granny within twenty miles seeking a sure-fire way to ensure male conception. He went so far as to sponsor a festival in the village to Trygg, the Mother Goddess, ostensibly to celebrate my eldest sister's coming of age, but in reality as a means of begging her priestesses for a boy.