The first rays of dawn broke over the Sword Coast, spilling golden light through the high windows of the Friendly Arm Inn. The ancient place, once a keep during the Time of Troubles, now echoed with the stir of life — the clang of iron shutters, the calls of merchants rolling their carts into the courtyard, and the clatter of hooves on cobblestone.
From below, the scent of fresh-baked barley bread and roasted boar wafted upward, mixing with the crisp salt tang drifting from the distant sea.
Henry stirred from his sleep, blinking as the light cut through the narrow window of his modest chamber. Outside, he could hear the rhythmic hammering of a dwarven blacksmith repairing a breastplate and the melodic chatter of elves trading silk with human vendors.
"A new day has begun," he murmured, rubbing his temples. His voice carried both resolve and weariness — the kind of fatigue only a new transmigrated person would understand.
He stepped out into the hallway and crossed to Kegan's door, giving it a gentle push. Inside, the dwarf was still sprawled across the bed, mouth open, one arm wrapped protectively around an empty tankard like a long-lost lover. His beard glistened faintly with spilled ale, and every so often, he let out a contented snore that sounded halfway between a growl and a hymn.
Henry sighed. "Figures. Dwarves and their ale... If he could sleep through a goblin raid, I shouldn't be surprised."
Leaving the dwarf to his dreams, Henry returned to his room and began his morning preparations. With a faint gesture and a murmured incantation, he conjured two gallons of clear water into a wooden basin — Create Water, a simple cantrip, but one that always reminded him how magic could turn inconvenience into comfort. He washed swiftly, combed through his hair, and fastened his robes.
When he descended into the common hall, the place was already alive with noise. Merchants barked prices over the din, halflings polished tankards behind the bar, and a pair of bards tuned their lutes by the hearth.
The innkeeper, Banteli, stood behind the counter — his thick arms crossed, his copper beard braided with silver rings. His accent was unmistakably dwarven, every vowel thick and rolled like gravel.
"Ah, mornin' to ye, lad! Up early, eh? Don't tell me that drunkard's still sawin' logs upstairs."
Henry chuckled softly. "Good morning, Mr. Banteli. You guessed it — he's still asleep. Fourteen hours straight and not a stir."
The dwarf roared with laughter, his belly shaking beneath his apron. "Ha! Ye must be new to dwarves, boy. We've three pleasures in life — drink, forge, and slumber! I'd wager he'll wake up just in time for supper and another round o' ale. Fancy some breakfast?"
"Oatmeal would be fine, thank you," Henry replied, taking a seat by the window. He glanced out at the courtyard — a small world of bustling life. Gnomes were setting up an alchemical stand, humans haggled over salted fish, and a half-elf bard played a soft tune to draw attention to her companion's jewelry stall.
As Henry ate, he thought of his dwindling purse. Only two gold coins remained — barely enough for supplies. He needed Kegan's help, but the dwarf's hangover left him on his own.
Once he finished his meal, Henry tightened his belt pouch, took his scroll case and alchemy notes, and stepped out into the vibrant morning market.
The bazaar outside the inn was a tapestry of color and chaos. Rows of tents lined the road — deep blues from Calimshan traders, crimson banners from Amnian caravans, and green silks brought by half-elven merchants from the High Forest. Each stall brimmed with wares: glowing stones, blades of dwarven steel, and vials of shimmering liquid rumored to cure anything short of death.
He soon spotted Morian's shop; she, the woman Kegan had mentioned before, was standing in front desk— a sharp-eyed merchant with fairy red hair and the poise of someone who had bartered with dukes and thieves alike. The insignia of the Seven Suns Trading Coster hung from her neck, marking her allegiance to Baldur's Gate's most powerful merchant guild.
"Ah, little Henry," she greeted warmly, her tone that of a practiced trader. "And where's your dwarven shadow? Don't tell me he's finally drunk himself into the Halls of Moradin."
Henry smiled faintly. "Not quite. He's still sleeping it off. I actually came for some alchemical ingredients. I heard you might have what I need."
"Alchemy, is it?" she said, raising an eyebrow. "You're full of surprises. Most travelers just want swords or wine. You know, ingredients like that don't come cheap — we ship most of them straight to Baldur's Gate. The mages there pay in platinum for clean reagents."
Henry handed her a small parchment, the handwriting neat and meticulous.
She studied it carefully. "Powdered bloodroot, dreamvine essence, crushed elvenleaf, and ten glass phials…" She gave a sharp whistle. "You're not dabbling — you're planning production. Ambitious."
Her tone shifted, that familiar merchant gleam lighting her eyes. "Let's see… ten gold per hundred grams for the powders, and one gold apiece for bottles."
Henry's brows furrowed. He had only two gold coins left. "Expensive. Tell me, do you also buy… books and scrolls?"
"Of course," she replied smoothly, leaning forward. "Knowledge is a rare commodity. Let's see what you've got."
Henry withdrew a small collection from his pouch — a well-worn Common Alchemical Potions tome and four scrolls he had scribed the day before.
Morian flipped through them briskly. "This book's seen use. Fifty gold coins for the lot." She then examined the scrolls, her eyes darting across the sigils. "Sleep, Cure Light Wounds, Stone Strength, Entangle… I'll take them for fifty gold each."
Henry forced a smile. "Bought the book for a hundred yesterday. That's quite the depreciation."
She smirked, unbothered. "Welcome to trade, my dear mage. Knowledge is worth what the next buyer will pay, not what you think it's worth."
After a moment of calculation, Henry sighed. "Fine. Sell them all. I'll take one hundred grams of each reagent and ten bottles."
"Smart man," she said approvingly, motioning to a young half-elf assistant. "Fetch what he needs from the guild's stockroom — and be careful with the dreamvine, that batch's from Chult."
As the young assistant hurried off toward the back storeroom, Henry took a quiet moment to observe the merchant's shop. The shop's air carried the sharp tang of powdered herbs and faint traces of crushed minerals. Shelves lined the stone walls — glass vials glimmered under morning light, filled with everything from shimmering green ichor to red dust that pulsed faintly, like breathing embers. The Seven Suns crest hung proudly above the counter — an emblem of coin, trade, and quiet ambition.
"Tell me, little Henry," Morian's voice purred from behind the counter, her tone smooth as silk yet edged with calculation. "Would you be interested in becoming my direct supplier?" Her gaze lingered on him in that way seasoned merchants often had — half appraisal, half predatory curiosity. "A man with your talent could make us both very rich."
Henry met her eyes but shook his head firmly. "Not for now," he replied. "My spells and alchemy are self-taught — patchwork lessons from books and experimentation. I'm not ready to become anyone's supplier yet."
Morian tilted her head, studying him, one corner of her lip curling upward. "Self-taught?" she echoed with a note of surprise. "By the gods… that's rare. Most mages spend years under apprenticeship or burn their eyebrows off before managing a stable potion. You must have a sharp mind — or the gods' own luck."
Henry gave a modest smile. "Mostly stubbornness."
She chuckled softly — a low, melodic sound. "I like that in a man. Still… you might consider refining that gift. The Mage Tower in Baldur's Gate accepts talented students. It's the heart of wizardry along the Sword Coast. They teach everything — from Evocation to Artificery, even planar summoning, if your nerves are strong enough."
Henry blinked, caught off guard. "Further study?" he repeated, a spark of intrigue lighting in his eyes. "That… actually sounds like an excellent idea. But the tuition—"
"—is not cheap," Morian finished, smirking knowingly. "However, connections make gold look small. Our guild, the Seven Suns, holds trade rights with Master Telantir of High Hedge. You might have heard of him — the hermit-sorcerer who keeps half the monsters of the Coast from wandering too close to civilization. He's not only a powerful wizard but a grandmaster alchemist."
Henry's expression shifted from curiosity to astonishment. "Telantir?" he said, his tone reverent. "A Level Seventeen Conjurer… I read about him. He once bound an air elemental inside a gemstone for three decades, didn't he?"
"Among other things," Morian replied smoothly. "If you wish, I could write you a letter of recommendation. My word carries weight with him — we've traded rare reagents for years. In exchange…" she leaned forward, voice softening into businesslike charm, "any alchemical items you create in the future would come to me first. Priority purchasing rights, nothing more."
Henry hesitated, but the offer was tempting. The chance to learn under Telantir — the master of High Hedge — was worth far more than gold. "A fair deal," he finally said, nodding. "I accept."
Morian's smile widened. "Good. Let's seal it properly."
She reached into a drawer beneath the counter and drew out a roll of parchment, along with an ink bottle that shimmered faintly under candlelight — binding ink, mixed with powdered ruby and basilisk bile. It didn't form magical contracts unless runes were inscribed, but it was expensive enough to show she meant business.