Inside, the streets were bustling. Human traders barked prices, halfling tinkers displayed colorful trinkets, and a trio of elven bards strummed lutes beneath a banner that read Welcome to the Friendly Arm — Peace for All. The smell of roasting meat and ale drifted from the central courtyard.
"Come on, lad," Kegan said, motioning eastward. "We'll offload this scrap first. My back's beggin' for mercy."
They wove through the crowd until they reached a lively open-air market. At one stall stood a striking woman in a green merchant's coat — fiery red hair tied back with a silver clasp, eyes sharp and clever as emeralds. She was about thirty years old, with deep-set eyes, a prominent nose, and fiery red hair paired with green eyes that gave her a heroic look.
Kegan stomped up, voice booming. "Morian! Ye black-hearted coin-hoarder! I've got fine steel and chain here. If ye try to rob me again, I'll cleave ye in two and sell the halves as armor plates!"
The woman looked up, not the least bit startled. Instead, she grinned and shouted back, "Kegan, you miserly stump! The last batch of your 'fine steel' took me months to sell, and I barely made forty percent! You call that a profit?"
The two stomped toward each other, scowling—then burst into laughter and embraced like old comrades.
"It's good to see you, Morian," Kegan said, his voice softening.
"And you, you stubborn lump of stone." She gave his shoulder a hearty pat before glancing at Henry. "And who's this young one? Don't tell me you've taken on an apprentice!"
Kegan gestured proudly. "This here's Henry — my neighbor and travel companion. Don't be fooled by the soft face; he's both a mage and a druid. First level in both, but his heart's in the right place."
Henry smiled politely and bowed slightly. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Lady Morian. Your reputation precedes you — Kegan speaks highly of you."
Morian blinked in surprise, then laughed, placing her hands on her hips. "Well! A young man with manners! That's rarer than a sober dwarf. You could teach your friend here a thing or two."
Henry chuckled, though his gaze briefly lingered on her. She had the sun-bronzed skin of someone who had spent years adventuring under open skies, and her calloused hands suggested she hadn't entirely abandoned her warrior days. A faint scar crossed her collarbone, half-hidden by her dress — the kind of mark earned from a blade, not a merchant's quill.
This was the kind of person the Realms were built on: once a blade-for-hire, now a trader trying to live between peace and danger.
Looking at her fiery red hair Henry couldn't help but think.
The diversity of hair colors in this world was nothing short of astounding. Among its countless races, one could find every hue imaginable — from the soft gold of dawn and the deep blue of the ocean to shades that shimmered like molten silver or glowed faintly with an inner light. Some even bore strands that changed color with emotion or caught the faint luminescence of magic itself, cascading like ribbons of living rainbow.
Of course, such vivid variation was only natural in a world where elves, dwarves, dragonborn, tieflings, and dozens more shared the same sky. Each race carried its own beauty, its own pigmentations shaped by bloodlines, divine blessings, or arcane heritage. Compared to that vast spectrum, humanity's diversity was but one small thread in an enormous, ever-changing tapestry.
Shaking his head free of such idle musings, Henry forced his thoughts back to the conversation at hand. There would be time for wonder later — for now, focus was his only ally.
"Ahem! That's slander, Morian," Kegan coughed loudly, cheeks reddening under his beard. "Now then—enough jabberin'. Let's talk business. Have a look at these fine pieces and tell me what they're worth before your tongue burns from lyin' too much."
He thumped his heavy pack onto the cobblestones. The sound echoed across the market square, turning a few heads. Out came helmets, swords, and armor — trophies from their last battle, all glinting faintly under the morning sun.
Morian crouched low, eyes sharp as a hawk's. Her merchant's instincts awakened immediately. "Hmm… five steel helmets, barely dented. Three hardened leather armors — need minor stitching. Two chainmails — decent quality, no missing rings. Three longswords, edges dulled but balanced. Two greatswords, chipped but serviceable. Sixty gold pieces."
Her voice was crisp, professional — the tone of someone who had bought and sold a hundred battlefields' worth of gear.
"Sixty? You Black-hearted merchant," Kegan bellowed, as though she'd just insulted his ancestors. "You're robbin' me blind, woman! These are worth a hundred if they're worth a copper! Fraud, I say!"
Morian rolled her eyes, flipping a coin between her fingers. "Oh please. Look at them, Kegan. They'll need to be polished, re-strapped, and cleaned of hobgoblin grime before I can sell them. Sixty-five, and that's out of kindness for old times' sake."
"Sixty-five?!" the dwarf howled, throwing his hands up. "Why don't ye just reach into me purse and take it yourself, ye bloodsucker! Ninety-five, or by Moradin's hammer I'll sell these to your competitor across the street!"
"Eighty," she countered, smirking. "And I'll throw in a free drink at the tavern tonight. You can drown your greed with cheap ale."
Kegan froze for a long moment, stroking his beard as if consulting an invisible council of ancestors. Finally, he grunted. "Done. But I'm takin' the expensive ale, mind ye."
The handshake that followed was fierce — dwarven hands strong as iron, Morian's grip sure and steady. It was the handshake of traders who had wrestled with each other across battlefields and markets alike.
Henry, meanwhile, had long since grown bored of the haggling. His gaze wandered over the marketplace — the swirl of cultures and tongues, the laughter of halfling merchants hawking spice bread, the metallic chime of gnome tinkerers showing off pocket-sized crossbows, and the lilting Elvish of travelers selling enchanted fabrics. Every race had its rhythm: dwarves thundered, elves sang, halflings bounced, and humans argued.
The air smelled of smoked meat, sweat, oil, and magic — a scent that only a place like Faerûn could produce.
When the deal finally closed, Kegan came over jingling a small pouch of coins. "Here, lad," he said, tossing it to Henry. "Forty gold for you, forty for me. Fair shares, as we agreed."
Henry caught the pouch and smiled. "Thank you, Kegan."
The dwarf grinned. "Bah, no thanks needed. You earned it, boy. Now, let's head to the inn and eat somethin' that ain't dry as sandpaper!"
Henry hesitated, glancing toward a tall marble spire rising above the rooftops. The sigil of an open tome was carved above its gate — the mark of Oghma, Lord of Knowledge. "You go ahead, Kegan. I'll meet you later. There's a temple of Oghma nearby — I want to see if they sell scrolls or magical ink."
Kegan nodded, understanding immediately. "Aye, lad. Ye've got that spark in your eyes. Just don't let 'em talk ye into a donation, eh? Priests o' knowledge are worse than tax collectors."
Henry chuckled and waved him off. "See you shortly."
---
Oghma, the God of Knowledge, is a deity who champions the protection of knowledge and scholars. Generally, his temples sell magic scrolls, books, magical ink, blank scrolls, and other such items. For Henry, copying scrolls was the only task he could focus on at the moment.
With the system's help, casting spells doesn't require spell components; only magical ink and blank scrolls are needed for copying the scrolls.
In a few days, they would be going north to kill Earthworms, so he needed to be fully prepared. These worms were not easy to deal with. They had green bodies, were about ten feet (over 3 meters) long, could sense vibrations within 60 feet, and would suddenly burst out from underground to attack.
Their huge mouthparts could easily snap a person in half, and they could also spit acid.
The Temple of Oghma stood at the heart of the eastern square, its walls of pale limestone etched with runes of illumination. Inside, the scent of parchment and incense mingled in the cool air. Every sound — the shuffle of quills, the faint murmur of prayers — seemed softer here, as though the temple itself demanded respect for knowledge.
From behind a lectern came a voice, deep and melodic with the lilting accent of the northern dwarves. "Welcome, seeker of truth, to the Hall of Oghma's Grace. I am Galana Mirror, priestess of the Binder of What Is Known. What wisdom do you seek today?"
The dwarf priestess was unlike most of her kin — face was clean in the scholarly style, and silver ink stained her fingertips. Her holy symbol, a scroll bound with chain, glowed faintly against her robe.
Henry bowed respectfully, hand over his chest — the Druidic sign of peace. "Blessings upon your god, Lady Galana. I come to purchase magical ink, blank scrolls, and a book on alchemy if available."
"Ah, a young practitioner," she said with a knowing smile. "A rare thing these days. Most boys your age would rather swing a sword than a quill." She turned, counting on her abacus. "A bottle of magical ink — eighteen gold pieces. Blank scrolls, one gold each. As for alchemy… we have but one volume at present: Common Magical Potions, forty gold."
Henry grimaced slightly at the price but nodded. "I'll take them."
Henry glanced at his money pouch. With the 40 gold pieces Kegan had just given him, he now had about 80 gold pieces.
He counted out the coins carefully. Gold pieces gleamed like captured sunlight before disappearing into the temple's donation chest.
He bought one book, one bottle of ink, and 20 blank scrolls.
His once-heavy pouch now held a mere two gold pieces for pieces for lodging and supplies.
Galana placed the items before him, then added something extra — a quill, its shaft carved from crystal. "A gift," she said warmly. "For those who seek knowledge, generosity is Oghma's way. May your mind never dull, young scholar."
Henry smiled and bowed deeply. "You honor me, Lady Galana. May your quill never run dry."
As he stepped back into the sunlit street, he thought about her words. A world built by blades, but sustained by those who write about them.
---
The road back to the Friendly Arm Inn wound between busy stalls and shouting vendors. By the time Henry arrived, the noon crowd had grown thicker — merchants, mercenaries, scholars, and wanderers all crossing paths beneath banners fluttering in the wind.
He climbed the broad stone staircase to the inn's main hall, and the sight took his breath away.
The place was alive. A massive hearth roared at the center, where a roast boar turned on a spit. The air was thick with pipe smoke, ale, and laughter. Dwarves drank in booming circles, a pair of half elves sat in quiet corners with wine and harps, halflings played dice on the tables, and a pair of gnomes argued about the mechanical efficiency of their latest "self-stirring cauldron."
Above the din, a bard's voice carried a song — the old ballad of Elminster's Promise, sung in clear, Elvish-accented Common.
Henry stood for a moment, soaking it all in. For the first time since he'd come to this world, he felt it — the true pulse of the adventuring world. Not just danger and battle, but the strange, joyous chaos of life between the quests.