“I don’t know why I expected Aspen to hand me a normal piece of paper,” Clover remarked, unrolling a scroll of veiny green cells stained with a list of their instructions.

At the top of the list was: “See if the alchemists at the guild in Moorwell were responsible for the chemical contamination in the woods.”

Clover glanced over her shoulder at the fishman following in her footsteps. “Do you think that maybe you could handle talking to the alchemists this time?” she asked timidly.

“Sure!” he beamed – eager to help in some way – and pointlessly straightened his robe.
Suddenly his curiosity caught up with him, “Why…?”

Clover sighed awkwardly, “I’m meant to be a druid now… That’s practically an anti-alchemist…” She explained, leaving the woods and entering the same shabby road as before.

“I thought the wizards were anti-alchemists,” the fishman said – somehow managing to sound apologetic in his remark.

“They are…!” Clover insisted less strongly than she would were she clad in red.
“I just remember from my time at the alchemists’ guild that none of the alchemists had a flattering opinion of the druids,” she said under her breath – choosing to spare Basil the naughty rhymes taught to her by her chemistry and physics instructors.

Basil nodded understandingly and offered her a reassuring smile. “Well, you don’t have to worry about it.”
“I’ll handle all the talking with the alchemists.”

Clover returned the nod and gave a grateful smile. “Thank you, Basil.”

The two passed time by talking and sharing their thoughts on the mission until their trip stretched to just around the four-hour mark.

They stood on a high – but patiently escalated – hill.
The sky above was blue with lateness as the last traces of solar warmth trailed after its absent owner.
They stopped and found themselves standing in an unending expanse of grass draped in shadows. The land was dotted with distant lakes – seemingly black save for the ripples of overhead light.
Looking back, the frog and mushroom mountains were a third of the way beneath the horizon as other, more northern mountains silhouetted the distance.

“I can see the lights from here.” Clover pointed towards a glimmering web of roads and alleys washed up on the coast of the biggest lake in the area.

“What’s Moorwell like?”

After a moment’s thought Clover replied with, “Big, bigger than the little village I come from.”

The fishman nodded, captivated by her lacking image.
“I bet there are a lot of shops and businesses,” he said and waited for Clover to confirm with a nod.

As the final traces of light were snuffed out – leaving a world black save for the ever-closer glimmer of the town and its rippled reflection next door – the first streetlights also came into view.

A rusty old pole coated with a hundred coats of experimental chemical armour stood and supported an older model of chemical lantern.
It provided a steady glow at the cost of inconsistent colour and the frothing curlicues projected from within the reaction tank.

Basil’s eyes were glued to the alien-looking device as they slowly walked past it.
Clover noticed this happening every time they passed an alchemical lantern.

“Are you not used to alchemical lanterns?”

“No,” he shook his head. “I come from a little underwater village on the seabed,” he explained with a homesick smile modulated by his newfound fascination.

“Ah,” Clover made a noise of sudden epiphany.
“Alchemical lanterns need air to react,” she realised and suddenly jogged ahead to the nearest streetlight.

She began to unscrew one of the glass cells with the practised hands of someone having to spend several long, boring evenings doing that exact same thing.

Basil gasped in shock and hurriedly caught up to her.
“W-w-wait, Clover, what if it breaks…?” he asked panicky.

“It’s okay, I know these things like the back of my hand,” she beamed and held the decorpulated bulb for the other druid to inspect.
It went on glowing unfazed save for a brief flickery period after Clover swirled the fluid around.

Basil moved to sniff the exposed liquid; Clover intended to let him until her inner alchemist was chased away by her inner druid.
She yanked it back.
“Sorry! Alchemist habit!” She apologised and went to screw it back in.
“It’s fairly toxic,” she confided in her peer.

The fishman’s face paled with dread as he observed Clover’s hands – smeared with a visible amount of glowing ooze.
“C-Clover, y-you’ve got some on yourself…!” He gasped.

Clover looked down and wiped her hand on her robe. “Not that toxic,” she fibbed with a reassuring smile and gave him a radiant thumbs up.

Basil was transfixed by the ghostly glow of Clover’s dimming hand in a world of black.

The chemicals on Clover’s hands were long depleted by the time she and Basil entered the still active streets of the town of Moorwell.

Historically speaking, it was predominantly human or dwarf land depending on who was winning at the time.

The homes were old stone, set with glass locally produced at the alchemists’ guild and tiled roofs as far as the eye could see.

Basil took in the coloured lights, the businesses open late into the night, and the relatively high number of passing pedestrians – most of whom tried to sneak discrete glances at the pair of druids.

In contrast to Basil – who gushed over the experience of treading over neatly laid cobbles – Clover found the kingdom of man colder than ever.
She felt as though she went from being just a person in the streets to a waggon everybody looked at but seemingly avoided.

Clover looked at the fishman; he seemed too enchanted by the urban environment to pay the social one any mind.
She breathed a quiet sigh and slightly quickened her pace.
“Let’s go; we don’t want the alchemist to all be asleep by the time we get there,” she suggested, trying to sound casual.

Basil replied with a purposeful nod.

The duo arrived at the rusty gates to the guild. Clover automatically moved to open them.
“Remember, you just have to ask them if they were dumping any chemicals in a big pool in the forest,” Clover explained in a hushed whisper.

Basil nodded – his serene disposition from the beginning of the journey was gone, replaced by a creeping hint of trepidation.

Basil cautiously approached the big double doors of the large, five-storey building, visibly still lit from the inside. Clover cowered behind the druid inconspicuously.

He knocked, and a moment later, the doors opened, revealing an alchemist covered in blue slime from head to toe.
The warm gel reacted to the cool summer air by wheezing the warm fumes their way.

As soon as the alchemist saw the green robes, any trace of a pleasant smile faded away.
“What do you want…?” he asked shortly.
The reaction was harsher than even Clover anticipated.

Basil froze for an instant before answering, “Um, sorry to disturb you, my name is Basil – I’m a druid and-” His introduction was interrupted by a rude groan.

The alchemist – a black-haired half-dwarf with no beard but an impressive moustache – folded his arms tightly.
“I don’t care who you are; just tell me what we did, and we’ll stop.”

“Oh – right, sorry…!” Basil wilted.
“Did you dump any… strange things in the nearby forest…?”

The alchemists’ expression lit up with immediate outrage.
“No, I didn’t! Not since you people made such a big fuss over it last time!” he seethed.

“Oh – um – sor-” Basil began, but Clover couldn’t stomach hearing him apologise another time.
She pulled the fishman aside and stepped forward to meet the alchemists’ scowl with one of her own.

“We found a pool of chemicals in the forest, organic chemistry,” she stated matter-of-factly.
“It reeks of isoamyl acetate,” she pressed.

The half-dwarf’s immediate rebuke got stuck in his throat at the emotional whiplash of seeing the girl he interned with at the guild last summer as a druid now.

“C-Clover…?”

“Yes…!” she blushed, hoping her outrage would carry her through the awkwardness of the situation.

“I-I’m confused…”

“Me too…!” she hissed.
Clover maintained tenuous eye contact as she caught her breath.
“Just please go ask everybody else in the guild if they’re dumping their chemicals in the forest and we’ll leave,” she asked frustratedly.

“Alright… fine…” the alchemist relented coldly.
“You can wait outside,” he decided and shut the door as suddenly as he opened it.

Clover glanced over her shoulder to the fishman.
He sat on the kerb with a sullen face and a mild blush.
Clover couldn’t bring herself to feel upset with him – in fact, she only succeeded in feeling bad about trying to make him talk to the alchemist in the first place.

After a couple of minutes, the half-dwarf returned with a distant following of alchemists desperate to sneak a glimpse at the traitor.

The druid could have sworn she heard the crowd juggling words that rhymed with “Clover”.
“No, nobody dumped anything in the forest,” he reported spitefully.

“Not that we’d go that far to dump volatile fruit fragrance…” he added mockingly.

Clover replied with a thoughtful nod. “I see.”

“Now, as promised, druid,” he said, drawling her profession like a slur, before gesturing towards the gates with a theatrical grandiosity.