The bustling inn was alive with sound and color, filled with the raucous laughter of merchants, adventurers, and wanderers from every corner of the Sword Coast. Some wore the dust of long roads that led north to Baldur's Gate, while others bore the sigils of Belgošt and Nashkel, their faces weary from travel and trade. Tankards clinked, dice rolled across wooden tables, and the smell of roasted meat mingled with the smoke of oil lamps. The place thrived on chaos, and business was clearly good.
From across the room, Kagan, the brown-bearded dwarf mercenary, sat with Bentley Mirrorimage, the old innkeeper. The pair were deep in drink and laughter when Kagan caught sight of Henry near the doorway, scanning the crowd like a hawk searching for a familiar face.
"Oi! Henry, lad!" Kagan's booming voice cut through the noise, earning a few annoyed glances. "Over here! Stop gawking before one of these drunkards mistakes you for a barmaid!"
Henry sighed softly and began weaving his way through the crowded hall. He narrowly sidestepped a stumbling sellsword who crashed to the floor in a drunken heap, and just as deftly evaded a buxom hostess who made a playful grab for his butt with a mischievous grin. The inn was wild, but that was part of its charm.
"Ha! Look at him blush!" Bentley chuckled, his tone light but teasing. His long white beard quivered as he leaned back in his chair. "You're quite the popular one, young man. Not bad for someone who barely looks old enough to buy a pint."
Kagan slammed his mug against the table, grinning through his tangled beard. "Popular, aye! When he was a wee lad, the ladies at the Merry Buskers Inn in Belgošt used to pass him around like a prized pup. Always cooing, always pinching his cheeks." The dwarf roared with laughter, ale sloshing from his mug. It was hard to tell how much he had already drunk, but judging by his flushed face and loose tongue, it was more than enough.
Henry could only shake his head and suppress a sigh. "Good evening, Mr. Bentley," he greeted politely, pulling out a chair.
Bentley raised his glass in return. "Evening to you, boy. Sit, eat, drink! Kagan's already paid for your room — two silvers a night, or fourteen for the week. Comes straight from the hobgoblin's purse you earned. Consider it a reward for not dying, eh?" He chuckled and downed the rest of his ale in one go before shouting, "Barmaid! Another round!"
Kagan smirked. "You should learn to savor the brew, old man. Good ale's got a sweetness hidden behind the bite."
Bentley the Dwarf snorted, pouring himself another. "Savoring's for elves. When I was your age, I was the terror of the Mage College of Lantan, shouting 'I'll set the world on fire!' with a fireball in each hand. Temper like a red dragon and patience of a goblin with a short fuse."
Kagan leaned toward Henry, his tone half serious now. "Watch yourself with this one, lad. He's not your average dwarf. Most of his kin stick to illusion or rune craft, but Bentley here's a damned Evocation master — level eleven, if he's not lying again."
Henry's brows rose slightly. The word Evocation carried weight among mages. Those who specialized in it wielded raw destruction — masters of flame, frost, and lightning. Yet such power came at a price. Their focus on direct energy left them barred from enchantments and charms entirely, forever sacrificing subtlety for overwhelming might. Evokers were the artillery of the arcane world: devastating, volatile, and frighteningly unstable when angered.
And being level 11 is pretty high for this world.
Bentley only grinned, stroking his beard with a glint of pride. "Aye, that I was. But time cools the fire, boy. My spellbook gathers more dust than use these days. Retired, opened this inn, and married a fine woman who could outdrink any dwarf this side of Mithral Hall. Speaking of which—" his eyes twinkled, "—I heard you stopped by the temple earlier. Must've met my wife, Galana. What'd you buy from her this time?"
Henry thought for a moment, then replied honestly. "A vial of magical ink, a few blank scrolls, and a manual on alchemical transmutation."
Bentley nodded approvingly, leaning forward. "Good, good. You've got the makings of a true arcanist. Not one of those fools who only knows how to hurl fireballs. Tell you what—" he lowered his voice conspiratorially, "—I'll rent you my alchemy studio. Top floor, third room to the right. Costs one gold for a week, and you can brew or scribe to your heart's content. Fair deal?"
Henry blinked in surprise. "You have a functioning alchemy lab here? That's incredible! I'll take it. Here—one gold." He placed the coin on the table with a clink, his excitement was high. "I'll check it out right away."
As he hurried toward the stairs, his heart thrummed with anticipation. A proper workshop meant progress — not just for potions or scrolls, but for his growth as a mage.
Bentley watched him go and chuckled. "Youth. Always running toward their dreams like the world's waiting for them."
Kagan lifted his mug. "Aye. Let him run while he still can. Time and war'll slow his steps soon enough."
The two dwarves shared a knowing look and raised their tankards in silent toast. Laughter rippled between them once more as the night deepened, the inn's warmth battling the chill wind that howled beyond its wooden walls.
---
Henry climbed the creaking wooden stairs to the third floor, each step echoing faintly under his boots. The inn's upper hallways smelled faintly of ink, smoke, and herbs — the familiar scents of alchemy and arcane work. When he finally reached the room Bentley had mentioned, he found a sturdy oak door carved with faint runes of warding. Pushing it open, he was greeted by the sight of an alchemist's studio — modest in size but rich in atmosphere.
Shelves lined the walls, holding vials of strange-colored liquids that shimmered under lantern light. Crystals, dried herbs, and powdered reagents were neatly arranged alongside thick tomes written in multiple scripts — Common, Dwarvish, and even Elvish. A faint hum of dormant magic pulsed through the air, like the heartbeat of a long-forgotten spell lingering within the stone walls.
Without wasting time, Henry set his things down upon the polished workbench. From his pack, he withdrew a bottle of arcane ink, a blank scroll of fine parchment, and a silver-tipped quill etched with faint runes. Following the intricate instructions from his system's magical prompt, he began carefully tracing a series of sigils across the parchment — loops and spirals that shimmered faintly as mana flowed through the ink.
He steadied his breathing, whispered a short incantation, and released the energy of the 'Sleep' spell into the scroll. For a moment, the room filled with soft blue light — like moonlight reflected on still water. When the glow faded, the scroll pulsed once before going still, the spell safely stored within.
A faint smile curved Henry's lips.
A full success.
A fully functional Sleep Scroll — a level-one spell scroll worth nearly fifty gold pieces in most markets. Any properly trained fighter, bard, or even a thief with arcane training could activate it with the right gestures and words of power or just Appling a little of their Mana. Non-professionals, however, would find the scroll inert — as lifeless as a blank page.
Encouraged by the result, Henry began copying the other spells he hadn't yet used that day. "Cure Light Wounds," "Stone Strength," and "Entangle." Each one required precise mana control and a careful balance of ink flow. The process was tedious, but the reward was undeniable. Divine scrolls, unlike arcane ones, carried a warmth — a subtle echo of divine grace that could be felt even without faith.
He remembered what once Kagan had said to Henry — that dwarves valued craftsmanship above all. Even in spellcraft, perfection was sacred. With that in mind, Henry ensured every sigil, every rune was flawless.
Once done, he leaned back, stretching his shoulders before opening the Common Alchemical Compendium, a well-worn manual with embossed runes on its cover. Inside were recipes and formulae for dozens of potions, each neatly illustrated and annotated with remarks from generations of alchemists. He skimmed through familiar entries: Invisibility Potion, Oil of Speed, Freedom Draught, Antidote, and more.
Unfortunately, most of these required catalysts beyond his reach — powdered dust, essence of quicksilver, and phoenix ash among them. At his current level, he could only safely attempt simpler brews like Cure Light Wounds Potion, Reflex Potion, Sleep, Draught, and Strength Elixir.
He chuckled wryly to himself. "At this rate, I'll spend more than I'll earn. The road to saving gold might be longer than the Coast Way itself."
Still, there was satisfaction in the work. Potions, unlike scrolls, had no class or profession restrictions. Anyone — commoner, knight, or noble — could benefit from their effects. That universal utility made them more than twice as valuable as scrolls in any market between Waterdeep and Calimport.
After tidying the studio, he took one last look around, making sure everything was in its proper place. The faint glow of enchantments along the shelves dimmed as he closed the door behind him. The warmth and noise from the lower floors drifted up the stairs — laughter, the sound of mugs clashing, the faint tune of a bard's lute.
By the time Henry descended back into the hall, the inn had transformed into a small festival of voices and song. Dwarves arm-wrestled at one table while halflings rolled dice beneath them, shouting gleefully in their high-pitched voices. A pair of elves sat near the window, speaking softly in their melodic tongue, sipping pale golden wine that gleamed like starlight.
The Friendly Arm Inn truly lived up to its name — a place where races of all kinds found rare peace under one roof.
Bentley spotted him first, raising a hand. "Ah! Young mage! Come down from your tower already? Thought you'd lock yourself in that room for a tenday!"
Henry smiled politely as he approached. "Hello, Mr. Bentley. I'm just looking for Kagan. Is he still around?"
The old dwarf's laughter rolled out like a drumbeat. "Kagan? That old ale barrel? He's been drunk since sunset! I had one of the lads haul him upstairs. Second floor, second door on the left. He's probably snoring loud enough to shake the rafters."
Henry sighed with a tired smile. "That sounds about right. In that case, could I have a plate of something warm? I haven't eaten since noon. Anything will do."
Bentley puffed out his chest. "Anything, eh? Then you'll have my finest — beef stewed with potatoes and dwarven spices. A recipe older than your mage tower dreams! Wait right here."
Moments later, he returned, setting down a steaming plate that smelled nice. The stew's rich aroma filled Henry's senses — the meat tender, the potatoes soft enough to melt on the tongue. The spices, though unfamiliar, had a sharp bite that made his lips tingle and a bead of sweat form at his brow.
As Henry dug in, he pulled a gold coin from his pouch and placed it on the counter. "For the meal."
Bentley frowned and waved his hand dismissively. "Put that away, boy. Kagan's already paid your tab for the week. Said something about 'feeding the whelp before he keels over from book hunger.'"
Henry blinked in surprise, pausing mid-bite. "Really? Well… that's unexpected."
Bentley chuckled. "He grumbles, but the old fool's got a soft spot for you. Reminds him of himself back when his beard wasn't this white."
Henry smiled faintly. "Then I'll thank him when he sobers up — in a few days."
As he ate, he looked around, listening to the hum of conversation. Merchants exchanged tales of Baldur's Gate's bustling markets and the pirate attacks along the Chionthar River. A pair of half-beasts argued passionately about weapon prices, their guttural voices rising above the din. A halfling bard plucked a jaunty tune while dwarves stomped their boots in rhythm.
This was Faerûn — loud, alive, and endlessly unpredictable.
When he finished, Henry leaned back, content and warm. "One last thing, Mr. Bentley," he said, "where can I find materials for alchemy in this area?"
Bentley stroked his beard thoughtfully. "Tomorrow, head down to the market square. Look for a woman named Moriande. She trades in herbs and reagents, runs with the Seven Suns Merchant Alliance. Her lot sometimes brings supplies up from the south — rare herbs, monster organs, and the like. If anyone can sell you alchemical materials around here, it's her."
Henry froze for a second. "Moriande… the same one Kagan mentioned earlier?"
The dwarf's eyes gleamed knowingly. "Aye, that's the one. You've a sharp memory, lad. Smart men live longer in these lands."
Henry nodded, filing the information away.
As the last traces of daylight faded through the windows and laughter filled the hall, Henry sat quietly, savoring his meal and the warmth of the inn. For a brief moment, he felt peace — a fleeting stillness amid the vast, dangerous world beyond those walls.
---
Henry walked up the creaking staircase toward Kagan's room, the hallway dimly lit by lanterns that burned with soft orange flame. The scent of ale and pipe smoke clung to the air — the usual perfume of a dwarven guesthouse. When he gently pushed open the door, a snore rolled through the room like thunder from a distant cave.
Kagan was sprawled across the bed, boots still on, clutching his half-empty tankard like a knight holding a holy relic. A small puddle of ale glimmered on the wooden floor beneath his dangling hand. Occasionally, the dwarf smacked his lips and muttered in his sleep — half words, half hiccups — something about "gold veins" and "damned goblins stealing the good ore."
Henry smiled faintly, shaking his head. "Sleep well, old friend," he whispered. Carefully closing the door behind him, he made his way to his own room.
The small chamber was simple but welcoming. A sturdy bed with clean linen sheets, a table scarred with age and use, three mismatched chairs, and a large wooden barrel filled with steaming water — dwarven hospitality at its finest. A faint smell of cedar oil and soap drifted from the barrel.
Henry didn't waste time. He stripped off his dusty robes, his skin pale under the lamplight, and stepped into the bath with a deep sigh. The heat wrapped around him instantly, easing the ache from travel and battle. For a while, he simply sat there, the warmth sinking into his bones, his reflection rippling in the water like a ghost caught between two worlds.
When he finally stepped out, his thoughts drifted as freely as the steam rising around him. Two days. It had only been two days since he'd arrived in this strange world — this world that should have been fiction, yet felt too real, too vivid. Every smell, every sound, every pulse of mana under the earth told him this was no dream.
He dried off, dressed, and carried the empty barrel to the door as the innkeeper had instructed earlier. The worker would collect it soon — they were nothing if not punctual. Then he lay back on the bed, staring up at the wooden ceiling, letting the flicker of lanternlight play across his thoughts.
For the first time since his arrival, he wasn't fighting, running, or hiding. He could think.
Really think.
He needed a plan.
Raising his class level and building wealth were priorities. Survival alone wasn't enough anymore — not in a world where power decided fate. The idea formed slowly: acquire land, become a noble, and secure a safe home where his mother and sister could one day live without fear. Then, and only then, could he explore freely — from the High Forest to the Spine of the World.
He chuckled softly. "As for becoming a god… that's a fool's dream."
Godhood, in this world, wasn't a blessing — it was a curse wrapped in divine glamour. The gods of Faerûn weren't just powerful; they were bound by faith, by their followers' beliefs and expectations. The more they were worshipped, the less they remained themselves. Their divinity devoured their humanity.
He remembered the stories of the Time of Troubles, only a few years past — when Ao the Overgod had cast the deities down to walk the mortal world in flesh and blood. Even mighty Bane, Myrkul, and Bhaal had trembled before mortal steel. He could still recall reading about it — how the world had nearly torn itself apart under divine chaos.
"No," he murmured to himself, "I'll never trade my will for worship."
He turned to practical thoughts instead. Land. Titles. Power. Those things could be earned through skill. The Grand Dukes of Baldur's Gate were merchants before they were nobles; profit ruled more than bloodlines. All one needed was wealth — and magic was the fastest road to it.
If he reached Level 5 as a wizard and gained access to third-tier spells, he could craft scrolls and potions of considerable worth. Healing draughts, Stoneskin scrolls, potions of Speed — the kind adventurers and mercenaries paid fortunes for. The Grand Dukes rewarded productivity more than loyalty. If he could flood the market with arcane goods, he might easily buy a title.
And once a noble… a small fief, perhaps near the Coast Way.
His eyes glimmered as another idea surfaced — a memory from his gaming days. "Werewolf Island…" he whispered.
In the old game, it was a dangerous side quest — a forgotten island southwest of Baldur's Gate, inhabited by hundreds of lycanthropes. The place was fertile, forested, and rich with natural mana. The fact that hundreds of werewolves could survive there meant abundant food, clean water, and arable soil.
"Perfect," he mused. "If it exists here, it could be mine."
He pictured it in his mind: a hidden paradise reclaimed from monsters, its howling nights replaced by the hum of farms and workshops. The thought filled him with a strange thrill.
As for the werewolves themselves… well, to a clever wizard, they were merely an obstacle.
"Charm spells," Henry muttered, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. "Plenty of them. Violent Charm, perhaps a few Hold Monster scrolls for safety."
A strong enough charm could turn beast against beast. Let them destroy each other while he watched from afar. As for the curse of lycanthropy — easily avoided by one who didn't fight in melee. "A wise mage never gives an enemy the chance to bite."
The plan settled like an ember glowing in the dark corners of his mind. Not yet. Not soon. But one day.
For now, he needed rest — and preparation.
He sat up and summoned the system interface, the faint translucent runes shimmering before his eyes. He began organizing his spell slots for the coming day.
For his first-level arcane spells, he chose:
Grease, for battlefield control — a slick sheen of oil capable of sending even armored foes tumbling helplessly.
Magic Missile, the purest form of destruction — silent, precise, unfailing.
Burning Hands, the dwarves' favorite solution to most problems.
He smiled faintly, remembering Kagan's laughter when fire caught an entire nest of bees. "Aye, that'll do nicely."
For his divine arts, he chose Cure Light Wounds — a simple druidic prayer that channeled nature's gentle energy through the body. He pressed his hands together, praying to Nature.
When the last syllable left his lips, a soft green glow danced across his palms — fading quickly as he finished his prayer.
Henry exhaled slowly, lying back down upon the bed. His mind was calm, his thoughts drifting like leaves upon a quiet stream. Tomorrow would bring new challenges — new spells to copy, new materials to buy, and new goals to chase.
As sleep claim him.