Clover’s parents answered the door, expecting her to have forgotten something.

Instead, they were met with a towering elf with an expression about as warm and friendly as an incoming frostbolt. Clover stood in front of the druid, but there was no hiding him.

“Hello,” Clover’s mother began, audibly surprised by the stranger. No amount of shock could attenuate her bright, welcoming smile. “Is this a new friend of yours, Clover?”

“I don’t know,” Clover answered honestly and with a wilted resignation.

“Your child is a druid,” the elf declared. “She wished to tell you this,” he explained.

“Oh,” answered Clover’s mother, “a druid? That’s nice, sweetheart.” She fixed Clover with a smile that almost made Clover happy until she remembered she never chose to be a druid.

“A druid?” Clover’s father chimed in from upstairs, “Oh, thank goodness! I didn’t want to trample your dreams, honey, but being an alchemist is super dangerous.”

“Druidism isn’t dangerous, is it?” queried the mother.

“Our last undue death was millennia ago,” the elf assured her family as Clover found herself increasingly cemented in a position she never quite agreed to.

As they left the town – Clover for the second time that day – the elf looked at her. “My name is Aspen the tranquil of Azure Gley,” he introduced his elven name. “You may call me Aspen.”

“My name’s Clover…” She reluctantly met his boring stare. “What happens now…?”

Aspen looked ahead. “Now, I will take you to the henge.”

“The henge?” Clover repeated confusedly.

“Druids congregate in henges,” Aspen explained. “It will do you good to meet some newer druids.”

Clover nodded quietly.

As they reached the dodgy strip of fencing flanking the river, Aspen smoothly detoured off the path and into the woods.

Gradually the sky turned green with fluttering foliage dotted with wayward specks of penetrating light.

“I don’t think I’ve ever been this far out in the forest before…” Clover remarked quietly.

“Why is that?” Aspen asked with the first hint of genuine interest that Clover has seen from him yet.

She slipped her hands into the pockets of her robe and briefly contemplated the question.

“Well,” she began, “Once – when I was around ten – some plague-seekers from the continental capital travelled here to do a presentation,” she explained.

“They talked about all the poisonous plants that occur in the area,” she explained, “and the venomous insects…!” She added, anxiously raking her fingers through her hair to make sure no pest was hitching a ride at her expense.

Aspen cracked a shallow smile. “Things that go through the effort of being toxic rarely neglect to communicate it,” he explained, making a slight detour – not that Clover could tell – to a patch of striped red and black leaves peppered with ruby droplets.

Bones littered the grove, eagerly scraped at by a boneyard beetle for several weeks now.

Clover’s eyes immediately fixated on the alien-looking leaves. “Those look poisonous…” she said under her breath.

“Exactly,” Aspen nodded, guiding her towards the crimson crop.

Clover followed right behind him right up until he stepped into the field of poisonous plants.

After a couple steps, the elf craned his neck over his shoulder. “It’s alright, you’re a druid now,” he assured her patiently.

“You are a caretaker of the kingdom of nature - her envoy. Walk your realm, druid.”

Clover swallowed dryly and nodded, tentatively taking the first step.

When she eventually caught up to Aspen, he gave her a small nod. “Good, but you’re slow.”

“I didn’t want to step on the bugs – that didn’t seem very druidic…” she defended herself sheepishly.

Again, the elf smiled. “A noble blunder,” he conceded, “but you need not worry about such things; as a druid, you’re already aligned…” He stopped himself and frowned slightly. “That’s too much for your first day,” he sighed.

“You won’t trample anything not due to be trampled.” He patted her head, nearly making her raggedy alchemist hat slide off.

“Now then, let’s keep moving,” he said, continuing to travel through the shingled sea of striped foliage.

Clover noticed that their trip didn’t disturb any of the finely balanced drops of poison resting on the waxy leaves.

“So, what will I actually be doing as a druid?” Clover asked.

“For the next couple decades all you’ll be doing is healing and culling nature’s subjects,” he explained.

The timescale made Clover’s head spin slightly. “Decades…?”

“Druids don’t age,” he explained and glanced over his shoulder. “Sorry, you’re human; that is something new for your…”

Clover nodded. “Pretty much…” she confirmed absentmindedly. “Wait, so I’m going to be a druid forever?” She asked with a fearful edge to her voice.

“No,” Aspen assured calmly, “Every druid knows when it’s their time to relinquish their robes – when you do, you resume aging.”

Clover nodded, the look of relief on her face was palpable. “Okay…” I’ll manage,” she muttered mostly to herself.

“You will, because you are a druid,” the elf affirmed in a way that somehow felt discrediting – but also very comforting.

The poisonous plants became increasingly scarce around them until they began moving uphill again – through increasingly dense foliage.

At one point Aspen disappeared from Clover’s line of sight, seemingly swallowed by the leafy bush ahead.

Clover followed him inside and emerged in a level circular clearing amidst the inhospitable surroundings.

At the centre of the clearing stood a grange – a ring of upright stones – stitched into a tent with a copious number of overlapping garlands.

Clover felt a familiar elven hand on her shoulder. “We have arrived at the grange,” he explained.

“Okay…” Clover nodded. “What should I do?”

“First, you will need a proper druid robe,” he explained. “You don’t want anybody here mistaking you for an alchemist.” He smirked slightly.

Meanwhile, an alchemist dressed in stained red rags hiked through the gangly branches, the macramé of intertwining vines and grasses, and the watchful sets of eyes prowling beneath the canopy.

Behind him followed a man – only by the technical definition – as his head fearfully darted to every rustle in the bushes.

“At least give the wind a chance to sneak up on us,” mocked the alchemist as he headed their expedition deeper into the untamed heart of the forest.

“Sorry… I just don’t want to be mauled to death by a rabid elf bear…” he said in a confusing blend between apology and justification.

“You’re a warlock!” heckled the alchemist as he destroyed everything in his way that was softer than a rock.

When he finally struck something harder, he looked around to see the cave he first found on an ancient survey map.

With an almost manic glee, the alchemist rushed inside. “This place will do perfectly!” he exclaimed, his voice echoing through the unlit bowels of the flooded underworld beneath.

The rippling light of an alchemical lantern flooded the clandestine crypt as the alchemist hung it from an exposed rib of oxidized ore.

“Go back to the wagon and start unloading all the equipment,” the alchemist commanded. “I’ll have a look around our new base of operations.”

The warlock’s shoulders slumped visibly at the notion of having to repeat his trip not just alone but while carrying the alchemists’ junk.

Reluctantly, and with a bouquet of unvoiced grievances, the warlock turned around and grumbled to himself more loudly the further from the alchemist’s lair he was.

He walked up to the inconspicuous wagon and immediately plucked a wrapped sandwich from the food basket.

He leaned against the wagon and regarded their luggage.

There was a lot of padded glassware, a lot of funny-sounding chemicals, and even some stolen plague-seeker equipment.

It’s the cages that Daniel dreaded – they came in a whole spectrum from microwave-sized to ones he only half-suspected were meant for him.

He took out his work experience form and regarded it dourly. It was signed on top by one Victor Ablasti.

All that separated Daniel from a seat in the secluded coven – and access to all kinds of eldritch curses – was a signature lock behind a yearlong campaign with a mad alchemist.

He groaned and folded the paper away.

The warlock grabbed hold of the chemical crate and began hauling it back through the wilderness that seemed less terrifying with each subsequent trip.