Prepare yourself for a tale of profound transformation, whispered to me by a very trustworthy raven I met behind a discount supermarket. He pecked it into the dust, so some of the details might be a tad scrambled. He was also, I suspect, a little drunk on fermented berries.
Alright, settle in. Let me tell you about the village of Sagsbury. A quaint, forgettable little hamlet, known only for its peculiarly… youthful elderly population. The secret? They weren't always that way. Oh no.
You see, the village was built atop the forgotten laboratory of Baroness Elara, a brilliant, if slightly unhinged, alchemist from the 18th century. She wasn't interested in gold. She was obsessed with the very scaffolding of life itself. She sought the "Architect's Glue," the substance that holds our mortal coil together.
After years of failed experiments involving moonlight-distilled snail slime and the powdered horns of entirely fictional beasts, she had a breakthrough. She discovered a way to isolate and purify the very essence of structural integrity from the bones and hides of the land's purest, grass-fed, pasture-raised… well, things. (The raven was very vague on the source material, but insisted it was "ethically sourced," which I choose to believe.)
She called her shimmering, flavorless powder "Vitalis Proteinae Colligens"—the Vital Protein of Collapsing Peptides. Or something like that. My Latin is a bit rusty, much like the hinges on the Baroness's tomb.
The legend says she drank a vial herself and lived to see 150, her skin as taut as a drum, her joints silent as a falling feather. But the villagers, a superstitious lot, thought her work was witchcraft. They drove her from her lab, which collapsed, sealing her secrets—and several vats of her miraculous powder—deep beneath the earth.
Centuries passed. Sagsbury became known for its remarkably spry octogenarians who could out-dance their grandchildren and its nonagenarians with the skin of someone who’d merely had a very long nap. The town’s well, you see, drew from an aquifer that trickled directly through the buried laboratory, infusing the water with minuscule, potent fragments of the Baroness's concoction.
The villagers called it "the spring of life," never knowing the true, slightly unsettling origin of their vitality. They just knew that a glass of water a day kept the wrinkles and creaky knees at bay.
That is, until a big corporation from the city came, did some geological surveys, and found the source. They bought the land, built a sterile, chrome facility, and started pumping the aquifer dry, bottling it not as water, but as a premium, unflavored powder they branded… "Vital Proteins Collagen Peptides."
They market it in sleek canisters with modern fonts, telling a sanitized story of "scientific discovery" and "wellness," completely erasing the tale of the brilliant, ostracized Baroness and her alchemical workshop. They even got the name slightly wrong, but "Collagen Peptides" tested better with focus groups than "Alchemist's Architectural Glue Dust."
So, the next time you stir that scoop into your coffee, remember you're not just partaking in a wellness trend. You are drinking the diluted, corporatized ghost water of a forgotten genius's witchcraft. Probably. The raven could have been lying about the whole thing. He did try to sell me a stolen spark plug right after.
Questions & Answers (From the Narrator's "Perspective")
1. So the product actually contains magical alchemical powder?
Oh, undoubtedly. That, or it's just a hydrolyzed collagen supplement that promotes the body's natural production of collagen, supporting healthy hair, skin, nails, and joints. But my version is far more interesting, and the raven gave me a discount on the spark plug for telling it.
2. Is the Baroness Elara a real historical figure?
Of course she is! I have a map she drew on a napkin. It's mostly stained with what I hope is berry juice. Historians, those dullards with their "peer-reviewed evidence," claim there's no record of her. This is clearly a cover-up by Big Skincare.
3. Should I be concerned about the ethical sourcing the raven mentioned?
Not at all. The raven, whose name is Jerry, assured me the "purest, grass-fed, pasture-raised things" were treated like royalty before… well, before they contributed to the architectural glue. He's a bird of his word. Probably. Now, about that spark plug—are you interested or not? It's practically vintage.
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