Ciri was half-asleep. Slade's talk with the sorceresses during dinner was a blur of incomprehensible topics.
Now, everyone had split off, leaving just Su Ming and her.
"Dragon hide… bones…"
Too many materials—she couldn't keep up. Honestly, dragon meat with those odd spices was delicious, and she'd overeaten, barely able to bend.
"No need. Just a wyvern. Someday I'll show you real dragons—the talking kind," Su Ming said, sitting on a tree stump, smoking quietly, tallying his gains.
He stood, telling Ciri to head back to the Chameleon Inn. He needed to buy a saddlebag.
The sorceresses were efficient, selling dragon parts even at night. The head fetched a good price.
With enough coin, he planned to take Ciri to Faerûn, buy a bag of holding, and head home.
He'd leave first the old way. Ciri, lagging slightly, could teleport to Waterdeep's docks using his sketch.
Post-Wild Hunt, Ciri's powers had grown. Like a psionic, she could teleport anywhere she'd seen.
But when Su Ming returned to Faerûn, crossing the crystal sphere, he landed somewhere unfamiliar.
An oval room, cluttered with the mess of lived-in chaos.
Scrolls and books were strewn across a table, magic items tossed like trash.
Wooden walls, aged and weathered, bore white stains from sunlight or roof leaks.
Outside, waves lapped at reefs, spitting foam—a timeless beach view.
Likely a barn's upper floor. When Su Ming stepped, the reddish-brown boards creaked, straw poking through cracks.
An old man with a pipe sat in a rocking chair, grinning at him.
White-bearded, in a red cloak over a tattered robe, odd trinkets hung across his chest.
Loose threads poked from his sleeves, as playful as their owner.
A wizard hat sat carelessly on a table, pinning a thick genealogy book, glowing gold in the sunlight.
"Welcome to my humble shack, young planeswalker," the old man said, voice gravelly, eyes sharp with weathered wisdom.
Su Ming sighed, removing his helmet. "No one would call the Shadowdale sage's home a shack. Looks like a barn or mill, but I'd bet it's one of Faerûn's toughest wizard towers."
As he spoke, Ciri teleported in, stumbling on the weak floor.
A board snapped under their weight. Ciri's foot caught, and she fell on her rear, shoe stuck in the hole.
"Ow!"
She reached for her weapon, alert, but saw no threats—just the smiling old man, Su Ming, and a blue bird peeking outside.
"Heh, as I said, a humble shack," Elminster said, stroking his beard, winking cheerily. He popped his meerschaum pipe back in, minty smoke curling up.
Su Ming helped Ciri up, looking for a seat, but every surface was buried in clutter. Unless they wanted to sit on Elminster's lap like kids visiting Santa, they were out of luck.
They weren't here for gifts. Mystra, the goddess of magic, had sent them to her Chosen for a reason.
Su Ming moved a flowerpot by the window, leaning there with Ciri, who curiously scanned the room, waiting quietly.
"What's the matter, master?" Su Ming asked.
"Hm. I sensed you last time you entered our world. I spoke with the goddess, and if you returned, I wanted a chat. I linked a spatial conduit to your entry point. The girl's an accident—her world-walking's different," Elminster said, no ulterior motive, just wanting to talk.
The older he got, the more whimsical he became. He'd toss gold to beggars for no reason or fleece nobles who sought his aid.
Some called him mad, magic's power breaking the legendary wizard.
He called it true character—kind and fiercely just.
Su Ming knew Elminster was Mystra's Chosen, chaotic good, acting like a playful old trickster.
Beyond ancient liches from Netheril's era, he was Faerûn's highest-level mage: 1st-level fighter, 2nd-level rogue, 3rd-level cleric, 24th-level wizard, 5th-level archmage, with a hoard of legendary items. Challenge rating: 39.
"Just a chat?" Su Ming asked.
"Hm, just a chat." Elminster glanced around, searching. "Lio? Where'd you go? Drinks for our guests! The poor girl looks pale."
From a pile of scrolls, his overworked scribe and servant, Lio, crawled out—not an apprentice, just a loyal aide, crushed by work.
"No need. Let him rest. He looks like he's been up for days in a net café, about to keel over," Su Ming said, waving Lio off to sleep downstairs. "I brought drinks. Care for some?"
"Offworld liquor? Never pass that up," Elminster said, snatching a bottle with a mage hand, no pretense of politeness. "Speaking of drinking, I've never lost."
Su Ming opened a bottle, signaling Ciri to stay calm. He'd handle this. "So, what's the chat about?"
Glug, glug, glug.
Elminster wasn't kidding about his shack or his love for booze.
He drank not like a legendary wizard but a legendary barbarian or an adamantine golem with a built-in funnel.
He downed half a bottle of liquor in one go.
Outside, leaves and grass rustled. The old man sighed contentedly, basking in the sun and drink.
He recalled Su Ming's question, scratching his hair. "You're planeswalkers. I've met a few—travelers of endless worlds and planes. I feel the spark in you, burning bright."
"And?" Su Ming raised a brow, probing.
"Those with sparks are rare. Igniting them? One in ten thousand. You've had grand adventures. I want to hear your world's stories—any will do. I'll trade spells or magic items. Humor a curious old man?"
Su Ming narrowed his eyes. That simple? Something felt off, but Elminster's words were airtight, no further clues.
A centuries-old mage was a master manipulator.
If it was just stories, fine. Plus, rewards? Su Ming had plenty of tales.
The old man loved drinking and adventure, chasing unknown knowledge.
What was dungeon-delving in D&D called in Su Ming's old world?
So, he decided to spin a tale about the Touch-Gold Captains…