"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.
As her quill scratched across the paper, Henry quietly observed. The contract was concise: one letter of recommendation to Master Telantir in exchange for first rights to purchase any future alchemical creations Henry produced. There were no hidden sigils, no fine print enchanted with runic deceit — only plain language and merchant formality.
When Morian handed it to him, he held the parchment up to the light, turning it slowly. No shimmer, no distortion — just honest ink and paper.
"You're cautious," Morian noted, arching a brow. "Most folk just sign and pray Tymora smiles upon them."
Henry chuckled softly. "Caution leads to a long life. You never know who might be wearing another's face in these lands. Even a demon can smile like a friend."
That earned a real laugh from her. "Ha! Well said. You'll fit right in among the Guilds."
Once both names were inked, Morian pressed her merchant's seal into warm wax and handed him his copy. "The letter will take time. I'll return to Baldur's Gate at month's end — the next caravan leaves at dawn on the thirtieth. Once I have Telantir's response, I'll have it delivered to the Friendly Arm by courier."
Henry nodded. "No rush. I still have Kegan's commission to complete at Thor's Smithy."
Morian's brows rose slightly at the mention. "Ah, that one. The dwarf with the flaming hammer mark. Careful with that job — Thor's Smithy isn't just a forge, it's a front for the Iron Throne's lesser trade routes. They have interests in more than ore."
"I'll keep that in mind," Henry replied evenly.
Satisfied, Morian relaxed again, her merchant's smile returning. "Then we have an understanding."
Moments later, the human helper returned, carrying a small wooden crate lined with straw. "Your order, Mistress," he said in a soft lilting accent common to the Dalelands.
Inside, ten polished potion bottles glimmered faintly blue from enchantment — reinforced glass to resist magical heat — while neatly tied pouches of powdered herbs rested alongside them. Morian double-counted each piece before sliding a small leather pouch of gold across the counter.
"Here's the rest — one hundred seventy gold pieces, minus your materials," she said crisply.
Henry bowed slightly. "Much appreciated."
As he turned to leave, she called out, "Oh, Henry!"
He glanced back.
"When you reach Baldur's Gate… tell Master Telantir that Morian of the Seven Suns still owes him a bottle of Firewine."
He smiled faintly. "I'll remember that."
---
By the time Henry climbed the stairs to the third-floor workshop, the sun was already hanging high over the western walls of the inn. The narrow room smelled faintly of herbs and steel polish, its single table cleared for alchemy.
He began methodically — weighing powders, measuring water, and heating mixtures over a steady flame. As the liquid began to bubble, he murmured the soft invocation of Cure Light Wounds, feeling divine warmth ripple from his palm into the flask.
A pale emerald glow filled the vial, settling into a soothing luminescence. The first potion was complete.
He made three in total, each one a small triumph of patience and precision. By the time his last divine spell slot was spent, sweat glistened along his brow, and the room was rich with the scent of boiled herbs and faint ozone.
Lifting the final bottle, he admired the potion's hue — soft green like spring moss after rain. A healer's breath, as the druids called it. He corked the flasks tightly and arranged them in a straw-lined box to prevent damage.
When he finally glanced at the window, the sun was past its peak. His stomach growled in protest.
"Lunch it is, then," he muttered, dusting off his hands.
As he stepped out into the corridor, he noticed Kegan's door half-open. The bed was empty, the tankard gone, and a faint scent of ale lingered in the air.
The scent of smoked fish, roasted barley, and spilled ale hit Henry the moment he entered the tavern. The midday crowd was lively — miners, mercenaries, and caravan guards filled the room, their laughter mixing with the clinking of tankards. He found Kegan at the far end of the bar, perched atop a stool built too tall for his stocky frame, chewing noisily on fish and bread while a frothy mug of ale stood half-empty beside him.
Henry smirked. "Kegan, you're finally awake. I thought you'd stay drunk for seven days straight and leave me behind."
The dwarf slammed his mug down and barked a laugh, his voice booming over the din. "Hah! A strong dwarf doesn't fall to mere ale, lad. I can drink a whole barrel o' this watered-down human swill and still cleave a hill giant clean in half!"
From the counter, the grizzled tavern keeper — himself a gray-bearded dwarf with eyes like molten iron — gave a snort. "Bah, don't listen to him, lad. Last time this fool tried to outdrink me, he ended up callin' a stool his mortal enemy and tried to wrestle it into submission!"
A roar of laughter spread through the nearby tables. Kegan's ruddy cheeks flushed darker than his beard. He coughed, then raised his chin with feigned dignity. "Ahem, Henry, I heard you went to see that merchant, Morian, this mornin'? How'd that go?"
Henry chuckled at his friend's quick deflection. "Quite well, actually. I bought some alchemy materials and brewed a few healing potions. We both know those Earthworms aren't going to be easy to deal with. And…" He paused for a moment, his tone softening. "I made an agreement with her. After this venture, she'll recommend me to High Hedge as an apprentice under Master Telantir, on behalf of the Seven Suns Trading Company."
The dwarf's eyes widened, his beard twitching as he let out a low whistle. "By Moradin's beard, High Hedge? Now that's somethin'. I've been there once — the air itself feels heavy with magic. Even the grass hums with power! But I tell ye, those wizards are worse than dragons when it comes to gold. A bloody magic warhammer costs over four thousand gold coins! And a chainmail enchanted for defense? Eighteen thousand! It's daylight robbery, I say!"
Kegan slammed his palm on the counter, glaring at the mug like it personally offended him. "We dwarves forge steel that can outlast a dragon's breath, yet humans and elves pay us a measly hundred gold for a masterpiece! Bah! Magic's a fine trick, but it's no replacement for honest craftsmanship."
Henry smiled faintly. "That's exactly why I want to study, Kegan. My spells, my alchemy — all self-taught. I barely scratch the surface of what true arcane craft means. I need structure, proper guidance. If I learn to fuse alchemy with enchantment, maybe one day I'll forge something that could rival a dwarven masterpiece."
Kegan's grumbling softened. He took another deep gulp of ale before nodding. "Aye, lad. You've got your mother's stubborn eyes. If you're fixin' to chase magic, then I'll see to your kin while you're gone. I was neighbors with your ma, Lily, back when she was no taller than a hammer handle. Watched her grow, marry, and raise you lot. Little Lina's a sweet lass too — though she's got a nasty habit of tuggin' my beard whenever I visit."
The dwarf's laughter rumbled again, this time warm and genuine. "Don't ye worry. If any fool lays a hand on 'em, they'll find an axe buried between their ribs before they can blink."
Henry clasped his friend's shoulder. "Thank you, Kegan. I'll repay that promise one day."
When their meal was done, Henry excused himself. Kegan lingered at the bar a moment longer, nursing his drink before finally returning upstairs.
Inside the rented room, the dwarf's movements became a rhythmic ritual. He drew his axe, its edge already gleaming, and began to sharpen it against a whetstone. Srrk. Srrk. Sparks flared like tiny stars as he hummed a dwarven war tune — deep and guttural, a hymn to Moradin.
When the axe was honed to perfection, he turned to his armor. Every plate, every strap, every dent told a story — and Kegan polished them with reverence, muttering small blessings in Dwarvish.
Henry watched quietly from the corner, feeling a rare respect for his companion's discipline. When he returned to his own belongings, the difference in their crafts became clear — steel versus spellcraft, earth versus air. He opened his pack. Inside lay a well-used crossbow made of dark hardwood, its limbs unstrung, and beside it, two sinew bowstrings, twisted from some beast unknown. Its range wasn't far — perhaps a hundred meters at best — but it was reliable.
A short spear rested alongside it, a sturdy 1.3-meter length of polished wood tipped with a flattened blade. Below that lay folded clothes, a pouch of salt, forty bolts, a small dagger for camp work, and a packet of herbs. Everything simple, everything earned.
By late afternoon, the dwarf's axe was sharp enough to shave with, and Henry had arranged his materials on the worktable upstairs. The room filled with the faint aroma of herbs and alcohol as he prepared the next potion — the Sleep Draught.
Compared to healing tonics, the Sleep potion demanded precision. First, he heated the water until it shimmered like molten glass. Then, measured powders — pale blue and gray — swirled into the mix. The liquid turned cloudy, steaming with faint lavender vapors.
Once cooled, Henry whispered the words of the Sleep spell. Arcane syllables twisted the air, and his hand glowed faintly as the liquid absorbed the enchantment. Reheating the potion, he added a dash of distilled alcohol to preserve the magic, then corked it tight. The potion's color shifted — glowing red like a captured ember.
He smiled, proud of the result. "Perfect," he murmured.
This was no ordinary brew. When thrown, the bottle would shatter, releasing the sleeping vapors in a crimson cloud. Those who inhaled it would collapse as if under the spell itself — a trick favored by assassins and clever adventurers alike.
Henry placed the potion beside the cooling vials of the healing portion. Together, they gleamed like captured jewels under the light of dusk.
Outside, the tavern below echoed with laughter and music.