The winter was short and lenient save for a few small fires caused by the seasonal increase in atmospheric ozone. The snow helped put out most of the flames before the druids even showed up.

The meltwater percolating through the mineral-rich earth, reviving dried-up streambeds and pushing many local rivers over their banks.

Up above, the cerulean sky was wrapped in a thin gauze of wispy clouds.

Clover strolled the perimeter of the forest surrounding the mushroom mountain.
Up from the montane hills, Clover could make out her home village in the distance.

Some farmers were already planting a couple of the heartier seeds. The smoke from the bakery columned into the clouds like a choking beacon.

After enjoying the view for a while, Clover effortlessly skipped down a steep hill and over to a lonesome withered bloom suffering the consequences of sinking its roots into cold, hard stone.

Clover figured that as far as a flower’s interests were concerned, the annual had lived a full – if needlessly rushed – life.
It was a trivial act of mercy, but one that filled Clover with a small amount of bittersweet pride in her profession.

As her golden sickle grazed the flower’s wilted stem, its husk began to bruise nearly instantaneously in response to the constant chemical and microbial stresses plaguing its stationary existence.
Were she allowed to collect them, Clover would have culled a gorgeous bouquet by now.

The druid effortlessly continued down the hill like a bipedal mountain goat. Completing the steep descent with short hops and deliberate slides.

Clover arrived at the climbing edge of a blooming meadow. The flowers were small and uniform in size, varying only in the shade of colour, from reds, pinks, and oranges. To even a few early whites.
The vibrant points of colours danced on the green horizon.

Suddenly, she heard a voice in the distance.
Clover quickly looked for the source of the shouting.

One by one, four children bolted through the bountiful blooms.
The one in the lead carried a stick; she was being pursued by two others with snowballs, while a third followed them with a dripping fistful of packed ice.

To Clover’s mild bemusement, she recognised them from her village.

She still hasn’t been back home even once.
If nothing else, Clover had faith in her parents, but the same could not be said for everybody else. Her mind went back to how coldly she was treated by the alchemists at the guild.
She feared discovering that the alchemists weren’t the exception but the rule.

Clover turned around and began to head in the direction of a pile of moss in dire need of help moving from one rock to another.

Suddenly she felt a cold, wet sensation smash into the back of her head.

“Shit…” the boy hitherto holding a ball of half-melted snow grimaced.
Immediately, the kid in the back dropped his slab of ice and bolted in the opposite direction.

“Hey, watch where you’re throwing those…!” Clover complained, quickly working to get the snow out of her hair before it could melt and trickle down her collar.

“We’re sorry…!” the ball-thrower called back tentatively.
“He’s sorry – we didn’t do anything!” The other kid stressed, spitefully pelting his last snowball at the offender.
The thrower anxiously eyed the one wielding the stick in case she tried the same thing.

“It’s alright…” Clover sighed, not wanting to embody an old crone any longer than she had to.
“Just watch where you throw those… And also stay away from the forest – the ground is especially unstable this time of year…”

The remaining trio quietly nodded.

“Good… Looks like they don’t remember me,” she thought and turned back around to continue on with her duties.

Before she could make it far, one of the voices piped up again.
“Clover…?” The girl with the stick asked as if to confirm.

The druid spun back around on her heel.
“Yes…” she confirmed, her lips stretching into an awkward grin.
“What are you kids doing in the mountains anyway?”

“There’s more snow up here,” the girl reasoned, and Clover couldn’t see a flaw in her logic.
She nodded.

“Clever,” Clover conceded.

“What are you doing up here?” asked one of the boys she only recognised from the most public of occasions.

She opened her mouth to answer with “my job”, but she wasn’t exactly getting paid.
“Druid business.”

The reaction wasn’t what Clover had expected.
“A druid? Didn’t you want to do alchemy and machines and stuff?” Questioned one of them.
“I thought you said druids only got in the way of alchemists’ research…” another chimed in.
“Do you get magic?” asked the stick bearer.

Clover was silent for a moment before breaking the awkward silence by clearing her throat.
“Um… sorry, kids – that’s confidential druid business…” she lied.
Not giving them a chance to question her answer, she turned once more.
“Speaking of druid business, I should go…”

The kids watch in a mix of shock and admiration as Clover gracefully scrambled up a sheer cliff.
Before she could reach the top, one of the kids called out to her.
“Wait! Clover! Are you going to come back to the village sometime?”

The question hung in the air for a moment.
“Yeah, of course. That’s where all my stuff is,” she laughed and disappeared out of their view.

After making her exit, Clover hid in the bushes and occasionally asked the nearby foliage if the kids were gone yet.
Eventually, when the coast was clear, Clover emerged from inside her hiding spot.

To her surprise, she found a druid already waiting for her outside.
“You’re really good at talking to people!” She complimented her friend.

“Heather,” Clover’s shock quickly thawed into a more relaxed smile. “What are you doing here?”

“You know how it is; I’m on confidential druid business.” She winked, and Clover’s face went red with embarrassment.

“I- I didn’t know what else to say…!” Clover defended herself frustratedly.
Heather patted her friend on the shoulder. “It’s alright, you did better than me – I just avoid everybody who isn’t a druid altogether,” she said with an easy shrug.

Clover was puzzled by the admission.
“…Why?”

Heather squinted as she flipped through the centuries of history she witnessed as a druid.
“I’m just not a fan…” she said, trying to sound uncaring. “It’s mutual,” she added.

Before their conversation could continue, the muddled echo of a voice drew close enough to make out the words.
“Hello! Druids!”

The two druids turned around to see a garishly dressed elf bounding in their direction.

Heather inhaled sharply as her very genetics reeled at the image of an elf charging straight at her.
“Sorry…!” she hurriedly spat out before transforming into a small insect and flying off.

***

While up in the hills, Clover instructed an artist on where he could find the flowers that he wished to paint; the warlock and alchemist were still up to no good in their secluded lair.

The air in the cavern was heavy with a mixture of smoke from the fire and a dozen volatile chemicals.

It had been a miserable winter for both.
The cave was haunted by an inescapable draft, not only cooling their space but also supplying fresh ozone to make any flames burn unpredictably.

The alchemist cautiously measured the diameter of a caged creature’s exoskeletal limbs with a crude pair of rusty callipers.

“Fifteen centimetres…” He shivered but sounded pleased with the results. “M-make sure to jot everything down!” He instructed the warlock sharply.

Daniel sat on a singed stool, wrapped in every change of robe he brought with him.
His gloved hands poked out from the cocoon into the frigid air.
He shakily scratched the notes into the paper.
“O-o-on it-t…” she shivered.

“T-there’s no trace left of any green colouration a-anywhere on the subject…” remarked the alchemist.
“Pr-r-r-obably a result of a thicker layer of c-carotenoids…” He looked over his shoulder suspiciously to see if the warlock was actually taking notes.
The enrobed man coyly wiggled the notepad in response.

“The c-current blend of developmental hormones and nutrients is by far the m-most effective one yet,” The alchemist said, putting down the tools and rubbing his hands together for any modicum of warmth.

“I still have to t-tweak the formula to limit growth past a certain stage… at least for now…”
The alchemist walked over to a heavy-duty jar filled with a storm of tiny jumping apple mites.

Unbeknownst to either man, some ice in the corner of the room was slowly beginning to melt.
It produced a steady stream of water that trickled down the rocks and through the cracks until it was out into the wilderness – carrying with it a unicellular hitchhiker.

Before long, the single alga got caught in a water drop nested in a bathing bird’s plumage.
From there, the bird carried it to its nest – where the drop rolled down onto a leaf that was immediately stolen by the wind and carried over the forest.