Seven days slipped away like mist before the morning sun. The days at the Friendly Arm Inn were a rare stretch of calm — quiet mornings filled with brewing, mixing, and scribing. By the week's end, Henry's table looked like a miniature alchemical lab. Rows of glass bottles gleamed faintly in the candlelight, each holding the soft glow of divine or arcane energy.
Six vials of Cure Light Wounds sat neatly in their box, the pale green liquid swirling like captured springlight. Beside them, two bottles of Sleep Potions, their red hue shimmering whenever a breeze touched the glass, and two faintly golden Blessing Potions, each carrying the scent of sanctified herbs. He and Kegan going to split them evenly — preparation born from knowing this world, not just fear.
Henry's spellbooks lay open across the desk, pages heavy with new ink. In those quiet nights, he copied several spells he'd gathered through the past months — Grease, Burning Hands, Magic Missile, and Shadow Image — each inscribed with precision that only long practice could achieve. Alongside them rested divine scrolls: Armor of Faith, Stone Strength, and Entangle. He prepared two Armor of Faith, one Stone Strength, and two Entangle. The dual nature of his training — wizard and druid — now flowed more naturally through his hands.
But his true focus lay on something else entirely.
When the moons of Toril — Selûne and her errant twin, the Tears — rose bright over the western hills, Henry prepared for the Ritual of the Everdancing. He had read about it in an old Druidic codex that smelled of moss and ink. The ritual, according to elven tradition, called upon the lesser spirits of nature to offer aid to those who walked the path of magic.
He drew a small circle in silver dust upon the floor, setting candles of beeswax at four points to represent the primal forces — fire, earth, wind, and water. A sprig of mistletoe rested at the center, beside a shard of quartz. As he began the chant in Druidic, his voice took on the slow, rhythmic tone of the wild. The air shimmered faintly; the candles burned taller.
The shimmer gathered, coalescing into a streak of emerald light. Out of it fluttered a tiny figure no taller than Henry's hand. She had the delicate features of a miniature elf — bright eyes, sharp ears, and gossamer wings that refracted light like liquid crystal.
"Louise," she said with a lilting, melodic voice, her Sylvan accent soft yet musical. "I heard your call, Master druid. You summoned well — few can still sing the Everdancing Rite properly."
Henry bowed slightly, not out of reverence, but respect. "Then you know my intent. I seek balance between magic and life. You will be my companion — not my servant."
The pixie's tiny lips curled into a mischievous smile. "A human who understands the difference? Intriguing. I shall stay, Henry of the Green Flame."
Louise's wings fluttered as she flew around him, inspecting his belongings with the curiosity of a cat. She tugged at a quill, peeked into a bottle of ink, and perched briefly atop his spellbook before yawning dramatically. "You humans and your heavy tomes… no wonder your magic takes so long."
Despite her words, Henry found her presence oddly comforting. She wasn't merely a summoned creature; she was alive, opinionated, unpredictable — just as the wild should be.
He soon learned that Louise was skilled beyond her playful demeanor. She could pick locks with a flick of her dagger-like needle, slip unseen past most creatures, and spot magical auras Henry's eyes could not. In truth, her arrival was a gift not of luck as Henry felt that the fundamental reason he summoned Louise was because of his other profession, Druid.
She communicates using Sylvan and is proficient in lock-picking and scouting. Due to her small size, she is an excellent helper for delicate magical experiments.
---
By the seventh morning, their preparations were complete.
Kegan performed the final inspection with dwarven thoroughness. He checked the straps of Henry's pack, adjusted the bowstring tension, and even weighed the spear for balance. "Items complete. Crossbow strung. Potions packed. Let's move before the sun grows lazy."
Henry smirked. "You sound more like a sergeant than a blacksmith."
The dwarf grunted. "Better a sergeant than a corpse-picker. Let's go."
They descended to the inn's first floor, where the old Dwarf innkeeper, Banteli, stood behind the counter polishing a mug that might never be clean. "Off so soon, are ye?" he called out, squinting at them through round glass spectacles. "Try not to die too fast this time, eh, Kegan?"
Kegan waved dismissively without turning. "Bah! Ye'll miss me too much if I did. Keep my seat warm and my ale cold."
Henry, ever the polite one, turned and offered a courteous bow. "Thank you for your hospitality, Mr. Banteli. May your business prosper under Tymora's smile."
The gnome chuckled. "Ah, a lad who knows his manners. Don't let that dwarf rub 'em off ye."
As they stepped through the heavy oak doors and into the open road, the world beyond seemed to breathe with life. The north wind carried the scent of wet soil and budding flowers — spring in the Sword Coast had arrived.
Henry adjusted his quiver, crossbow hanging by his side. His spear doubled as a walking staff, the tip gleaming faintly in the morning light. Kegan, on the other hand, was a walking fortress — horned helmet low over his brow, axe secured at his hip, and a round wooden shield strapped to his shoulder. Unlike steel, it wouldn't melt under Earthworm acid — a lesson the dwarf had learned the hard way.
"Never trust a creature that eats through rock," Kegan muttered as they walked. "Earthworms are the bastards of the Underdark — thick hide, foul smell, and a stomach full o' acid. Worse than goblins, those things."
Henry chuckled. "You make them sound almost mythical."
"Aye, you'll think so too — until one bursts from the ground beneath your boots."
By midday, they stopped by a small brook to rest. Louise zipped lazily through the air, dipping her feet into the water and giggling as a frog leapt away.
"At our pace," Kegan said, tearing off a piece of dried meat, "we should reach Earthworm Village by tomorrow afternoon. Spring makes 'em restless — they're in heat, and that means they'll attack anything that moves. One bite from those jaws, and you're done for. No armor can save ye."
Henry poked at the campfire with a stick, unbothered. "I've fought worse things, Kegan. I'm not the same boy who froze at the sight of blood."
The dwarf looked at him for a long moment before grinning. "Aye, I'll give ye that. You've got some steel in ye now, lad."
For lunch, Henry conjured two gallons of water with a murmured incantation to Chauntea, the Grain Mother. He tossed in mushrooms gathered from the forest and slivers of dried meat, stirring the stew until the savory smell drifted through the trees.
When they finished eating, the pair continued northward.
---
By the next afternoon, clouds gathered low over the fields. The road ahead narrowed, leading into a stretch of muddy terrain dotted with ruined fences and scattered stones. In the distance, faint wisps of smoke rose from what remained of Earthworm Village.
"We're close," Kegan said quietly, unslinging his shield. He gripped it with his left hand, axe in the right, and scanned the uneven ground. "From now on, keep your eyes open. The worms strike without warning."
Henry nodded, his expression firm. He whispered a word.
The Dwarf warrior's boot crunched against the loose gravel as he prepared for battle, muttering an old dwarven saying under his breath — "Stone be my shield, and iron be my answer." His voice rumbled low like thunder through a cavern. Henry, standing beside him, quickly unhooked the compact crossbow from his belt, loading a quarrel with swift precision. The weapon felt heavier in his hands than usual — not from weight, but from anticipation. His knuckles tightened around the polished wood of his spear, no longer treating it as a mere walking stick.
Above them, a faint shimmer of wings flickered through the air. The Pixie, Louise, darted through the trees like a streak of light, her translucent wings leaving motes of silvery dust in her wake. She was smaller than Henry's palm, yet she moved with the speed and grace of a falcon. Her high, bell-like voice carried back moments later, speaking in quick, melodic Sylvan — a language that sounded like wind chimes whispering secrets through the leaves. Henry tilted his head slightly, understanding her through the bond of the summoning ritual.
When she landed on his shoulder, her expression turned serious. "Henry," she said softly in Common, her voice now tiny but clear, "the ground ahead is churned up — fresh tunnels. Not one, but two of the big ones."
Henry's brow creased. "Kegan," he said gravely, "we've got a problem. Louise says the dirt road ahead's been torn apart. I think there are two Earthworms."
The Dwarf's bushy eyebrows shot up. "Two, ye say?" he grunted, tightening his grip on the axe handle. "By Moradin's beard, that's a right nasty surprise. Two o' those acid-spittin' bastards, and only the two o' us? Hells, lad, that's a poor wager even for a drunk goblin." He spat to the side, rubbing his calloused thumb along the edge of his axe while he thought.
Henry crouched low, examining the soil. "If they rely on vibration, we might use that to our advantage. What if we set a trap? I can prepare a Grease spell over the ground — make it slick as oil. Then, you draw them in while I follow up with Entangle. The plants here are thick enough to obey quickly. Once they're trapped, their smooth carapace will make it impossible for them to gain traction. We can strike them one at a time."
Kegan let out a short bark of laughter, beard quivering. "Aye, clever mage! I like the sound o' that. You set yer fancy magic, I'll bring the bastards runnin'. Just don't take too long, eh? Dwarves aren't made for runnin' from worms!"