—

Inverness 19th, 873 F.L. [Deep Winter]

(51 years ago)

In the heart of Gilderoy's Dancing Tankards, a tavern notorious for its raucous gatherings and the adventurous clientele it attracted, Garrick found himself swept up in a whirlwind of unexpected celebration.

Garrick had been to Gilderoy's a time or two before, and it was a place that inspired questionable decisions. This was a place where Beacons and adventurers of all manner gathered not just to unwind and blow off steam but for the sheer necessity of sharing in the collective exaggeration of their exploits. It buzzed with an energy that could best be described as 'controlled chaos,' the air thick with the dual scents of spiced ale and a smoky hearth. Laughter spilled out as freely as the drinks, punctuated by the occasional thud of a drinking stein (or a patron) hitting the floor. The heat from the hearth battled valiantly against the chill of the evening, which made for a sense of "inside cold, outside hot" that usually had Garrick feeling a bit sick.

But not tonight.

Flush with the triumph of their latest Quest, Garrick and his party had burst through the tavern doors to this scene, their spirits as high as the freshly bulging coin purses jingling at their sides. Feivel, the brash and boisterous leader of the group known for his lack of volume control, took the opportunity for a bit of boasting.

He leaped upon the bar with a dramatic flourish, kicking over a few rogue drinks (and a still-attended-to platter of sausages), and bellowed across the tavern.

"Hear, ye! Hear, ye! Guess which loveable band of misfit miscreants just took down the Skull Viper Sisterhood?!"

The bustling tavern fell into stunned silence, the usual clamor momentarily suspended.

"That's right, brutes—the Howling Twelve!" Feivel declared, his voice booming with pride.

The reaction was instantaneous. The tavern erupted into applause, cheers, and a fair share of groans from those who had either wagered against their success or held the dream of bagging the hunt themselves. Garrick, caught in the eye of the storm, could only look on in awe as patrons surged forward, rabid for details of their daring feat.

Well, that's one way to get people's attention, Garrick thought. The whole thing seemed a little embarrassing, so he slinked back and considered that perhaps no one would notice if he slipped out of the door into the night.

But Feivel, seizing the moment, gestured grandly towards Garrick.

"And it's all thanks to our newest member! This kid's got moxie, I'll tell you that much!"

No, no, no! I don't want the attention! That'll make me—

Garrick felt a firm grip as Belthas—the half-orc he'd shared his breakfast with just this morning—thrust him forward into the limelight with a pride that felt almost paternal.

Belthas, you traitor! I gave you my last portion of oatmeal!

Garrick, for his part, felt a wave of embarrassment and confusion wash over him. Chiefly because he'd never formally agreed to join the Howling Twelve; in truth, he'd simply been in the right place at the right time, or perhaps the wrong one, depending on one's perspective. Theirs was an alliance of convenience, as Garrick had needed to get through the Bastard God's Pass to rejoin Beatrix's group in Ryatt. Then, things had gone off the rails.

"Never seen someone take down a group of bandits so handily!" Feivel continued, the admiration evident in his voice.

Still reeling from the unexpected attention, Garrick could only muster a half-hearted chuckle in response.

"Let's hear it for Garrick!" Feivel shouted, followed by, "First round's on us, you lazy, good-for-nothing wannabes!"

There was a roar of cheers, and Garrick found himself being swept forward, people slapping him on the back, pressing drinks into his hands, and shouting congratulations into his face. Say one thing for adventurers, they knew how to make you feel important.

Amid the cacophony, a calm presence approached. It was Angus, an elf of the gloam who served as Feivel's lancer and right-hand man. With a sly grin, he sidled up to Garrick, speaking in the laid-back, strategically relaxed way Garrick had learned to associate him with.

"This is how he does it," Angus said, gesturing to the man with long, red hair still kicking tankards off the bartop. "Feivel. Butters you up and makes you feel like a king."

"I don't need to feel like a king," Garrick explained, looking around at the fervor the Howling Twelve leader's words had caused. "I appreciate the…unneeded praise, but I need to return to my group. They're waiting for me."

Angus wasn't looking at him, though, seeming miles away as he observed the festivities getting into full swing.

"It's not malicious," he finally said.

"What?" Garrick wondered distractedly, dodging out of the way as a particularly drunk duende dropped unconscious right next to him.

"What he does," Angus said. "It's not a form of manipulation or anything. Feivel simply genuinely enjoys puffing up someone's merit. Makes him happy to see someone he associates with being favored. Part of the reason I've followed him so long."

"Oh," Garrick said, watching as the red-haired human maelstrom leaped off the bar and jabbed a finger at the lone bard in the corner.

"Maestro!" he shouted. "Give us a jaunty one!"

The bard, taken aback, perhaps because he wasn't being threatened to stop playing for once, finally seemed to understand and launched into a bawdy ballad, strumming his lute like a man possessed. Garrick couldn't help but chuckle.

"Uh-oh," Angus said conspiratorially, slugging Garrick lightly on the shoulder. "You'd better watch out—you're getting the tunes. Feivel's pulling out all the stops. Looks like if our fearless commander gets his way, we'll be changing the group name to the Howling Thirteen."

"That won't be necessary," Garrick dismissed, craning his neck to see if he could lunge toward a path open to the exit.

Maybe if I'm rude and shove a little, I could…

However, as he searched, his eyes landed on a beautiful woman.

With a demeanor as bold as the tavern was rowdy, the woman stood a short distance away, her gaze fixed directly on Garrick. Her gray eyes sparkled with mirth, her expression framed by loose strands of burgundy hair that defied any attempt at taming. The smoky light of the tavern caught the subtle highlights in her hair, casting a golden hue that made her seem as if she belonged to another, less chaotic world. Her smirk was knowing, as though she shared a secret joke with the universe—and Garrick, by accident, had become part of it.

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

Feeling the weight of her stare, Garrick couldn't help but feel a stab of self-consciousness. He glanced over his shoulder, half-expecting to find someone behind him who might be the actual recipient of her amusement. But the space behind him was empty, save for the usual tavern clutter and a multitude of patrons too deep into their cups to notice much of anything.

Turning back—

"Eh?"

She was gone, the air seeming to hold the ghost of her smirk.

Disappointed, Garrick shrugged off the strange encounter and moved toward the now-clear path to the exit. Just as he stepped forward, the woman materialized before him from the crowd with a grace that startled him into a half-jump, half-dance move.

I hope that looked more intentional than it felt. Garrick thought.

This might have been possible if he hadn't also yelled, ''GUH?!" while knocking over a platter heaped high with food a server had been transporting at that exact moment.

Food splattered everywhere with a loud clatter, and Garrick was left holding the bag on the blame.

How did that happen? It didn't even feel like I touched anything.

He apologized profusely, leaning down to assist, but the server (perhaps a bit more angrily than he thought was polite) slapped his hands away.

"I'll get it," she said. "You've done enough."

He couldn't see her face because of her angle and the volume of curls that obscured his view, but she sounded upset.

The burgundy-haired woman leaned down, trying to help as well, but she also received a rap across the knuckles from the server.

"I said I've got it!" the server hissed.

Garrick's eyes met the woman's again, abashed at what had just happened. Her laughter, though, was bright and clear, filling the space between them. Garrick couldn't help but chuckle awkwardly in response, trying to recover from his embarrassment.

"I haven't seen you around here before," she said, her voice genuinely curious.

She stood, and Garrick did likewise. Still a bit on edge from the surprise, he managed a weak smile.

"I've, uh, only been here a couple of times," he admitted. "I'm not from around here."

Her eyes lit up at this, leaning in like he had become infinitely more interesting.

"Is that so? Where are you from, then?" she asked.

"Around...uh," Garrick paused, his mind racing. Where had he been near when he arrived here? His usual 'eloquence' seemed to have abandoned him just when he needed it most. "...Timberburg? Timber…Tim-TIMBERBOROUGH!" he shouted directly into her face.

He noticed that her smile faltered just slightly.

Remember faster next time, Garrick thought. For some reason, he didn't know that 'a whole different world, with different rules and absolutely no magic, I mean, astara' would be doing him any favors as an answer.

"Uh, s-sorry," Garrick said. He didn't know why he was acting like this—he'd never been this nervous around another person before, and now he was stumbling over himself like a baby lamb.

"That's alright," the woman said, shaking her head. "I'm Zelene."

Garrick, grasping for any semblance of normalcy, acted without thinking, suddenly reaching out to shake her hand.

Stupid, stupid, Garrick! He berated himself. Why are you going in for a handshake? Who raised you? Casanova, you are not!

The moment he did this, Zelene paused, her eyes narrowing slightly, perhaps reconsidering the wisdom of engaging with such an unorthodox character. But, relenting to some internal decision—possibly concluding that Garrick's awkwardness was too benign to be of any real concern—she sighed and reached out to complete the handshake.

Then, Zelene's eyes suddenly widened, darting down to her hand with confusion and alarm.

"My ring! My ring is gone!" she exclaimed, panic lacing her voice as she spun around, searching the immediate vicinity.

"She stole it!" Zelene cried out, her accusation slicing through the tavern's din as she pointed accusingly in the direction of the server. She paused, staring. The mess from the earlier collision remained as evidence of the chaos. Still, the server herself was nowhere to be seen. She'd vanished.

Garrick, feeling a sense of responsibility—or perhaps just an inexplicable need to help this captivating woman—scanned the room. The door to the tavern was slightly ajar, a detail he was sure had not been the case just seconds before. He looked back at Zelene and nodded, the decision made.

"I'll get it!" he announced, surging forward with all the speed he could muster.

But before he could take more than a step, Feivel appeared, obliviously stepping into Garrick's path with another man in tow. "Garrick! This is the merchant I told you about—"

THWAP!

Their collision sent Garrick sprawling onto his back on the floor, groaning as he found himself on top of the pile of food he'd knocked down only moments before. But with no time to dwell on the pain or embarrassment, Garrick scrambled to his feet. The urgency to retrieve Zelene's ring pushed him forward, out the door, and into the dark, cold night.

—

Somrstad 11th, 924 F.L.

(Present Day)

Time Until Road-building Resumes: 2 Weeks

As the first hints of dawn bled into Respite, Garrick tiptoed from his house, a plan firmly set in his mind: today, he would go shopping, no matter the cost. With Ember, snug and sleepy in his pack, peering out with half-closed eyes, Garrick navigated the dew-kissed grass, determined to avoid any unexpected entanglements with Tate—or Levi, depending on the day.

Just have to get out of here as quickly as possible, and then it can be a full day of browsing stalls and visiting with vendors. And maybe, if I can get there early enough, I can enjoy one of Blackwood Bakery's famous viennoiseries.

Just thinking about the pastry, with its rich, sweet, puffy goodness, was almost too much for Garrick to bear. His mouth watered, and he made an oath right there.

I will get to Maretown today, and I will eat some bread.

However, Garrick was nearly clear of his property when a peculiar sight halted his purposeful stride.

Damn.

The dark silhouette of the creature that had taken residence in his windmill was visible in the dim light, its form straining under the weight of a sizable, metallic object. The creature's efforts to lug the heavy burden up the trail toward the front gate drew a resigned sigh from Garrick.

Shifting the weight of his pack slightly (as it was digging into his shoulder,) Garrick called out to the creature.

"What's got you up so early this morning?" He paused, rubbing the bridge of his nose as if to ward off the remnants of sleeplessness.

"I have been acquiring this garbage," the creature said. "I elicited the bird's help, but it was useless. Now I am forced to move this alone—it took me nearly all night."

"Well, it couldn't have been all night," Garrick said, looking back at the tall structure lording over Respite. "I could hardly sleep with all the noise you were making in the windmill. Just what are you up to?"

The creature seemed to scowl at him—though he couldn't actually tell—turning back to Garrick and resting against the large chunk of…whatever it happened to be transporting.

"The night was spent in laborious contemplation, which then drummed up hunger. So I went to the stream of water at the end of the walking path—which you said I could use—to find something to eat. I caught a frog…but it escaped. Following that, I conducted an experiment to see if I could make shadows dance by manipulating the blades of the windmill under the moonlight. The results of my findings were mixed."

Garrick sighed at the creature's recounting, struck by the absurdity of its nocturnal endeavors.

"And that's when you decided you needed the... garbage?"

"Were you not listening?" Levi/Tate asked. Its tone was dry, but it still had that unfortunate sense of condescension. "During my research—"

"With the shadows," Garrick interjected.

"Yes, with the shadows, olden human—during my research, I had a spark of brilliance and left immediately to retrieve this pile of trash. But I have a plan for it."

Garrick raised an eyebrow, examining the twisted object. It was a roughly ten-foot tall and five-foot wide hunk of metal, wrenched in spots and broken—like it had initially come from something much larger but had been torn off. He had no clue what it was. If this were his original home, he'd suspect it came from a tank. But there wasn't anything like that in this world that he was aware of.

"That came from the ruins?" he asked.

"Yes, as I have stated," the creature explained. "From one of the lower levels."

"Wait," Garrick said, his surprise nearly enough to force him to stagger back. "There are lower levels?"

That sounds like a dungeon, he thought, his mind filling with the implications. Then he cajoled himself, reined in his adventure-lust and shook his head. Nope. I'm not getting dragged into another Side Quest. Let this be a mystery. He can drag that all around the mountain for all I care as long as he doesn't damage my property.

"For being the arbiter of this slice of landscape, elderly human—so close to death—you have a not-insignificant amount of ignorance as to its goings-on. Now help me move this closer to the windmill."

Not on your life, buddy, he thought. As much as I'd love to pick apart what meaning behind that big, painfully beckoning enigma, I've got business to attend to and pastries to devour.

Garrick took a step back.

"Wish that I could, but I've got this... thing. A very important thing." The excuse was flimsy at best, and even Ember peeked out with what could be interpreted as a skeptical glance.

"A 'thing,' is it? How marvelously vague. Your commitment to ambiguity is commendable. It appears I have vastly overestimated the human capacity for multitasking."

Garrick, now trying not to laugh at the creature's exasperation, pressed further, "But what do you need it for, exactly?"

The creature straightened, its gaze sharpening. "Private business. Yes, that is the term you humans cloak your mysterious endeavors with, is it not? Let us just say I am undertaking an initiative to transform this garbage into something more. Or perhaps I will simply paint a big scary face on it and sit it next to the garden to scare the bird. The possibilities are as endless as they are private."

Now, who's being vague? Garrick mused.

"Don't go near the garden," Garrick said aloud, leveling a severe expression at the creature.

"Yes, yes," the creature said. "I will adhere to your arbitrary rules, old human man. Now, if you are not going to help me, I must get back to work—there are…" He looked at Garrick reproachfully. "...secret plans to attend to."

"Well, have fun," Garrick dismissed, hiking up his pack again and ensuring his satchel was secured. "I'm off on my errand. No parties while I'm away."

"Who would I invite?" the creature wondered equally dismissively. "There is no one here that might understand or appreciate the genius I am concocting."

Garrick shrugged and began down the trail, leaning on his walking stick.

"Elderly man," the creature suddenly called, and Garrick stopped, sighed, and turned back.

"Yes?"

"Where did you get that branch?"

"How's that now?" Garrick asked, knowing what the creature was referring to but playing at ignorance.

"The one in your hand to assist the decrepit ambling of your advanced and aged frame. You did not have it a moment ago."

It peered at him suspiciously.

"Oh, you must be mistaken," Garrick said, his hand resting on his satchel. "I've had it the whole—"

"Oh, silly me. I have just remembered that I do not care," the creature said. "You are doing magic; that much is clear. Be gone, then. I have errands as well. Private errands."

Garrick, disappointed that he couldn't get one over on the creature, simply shrugged.

"See you later," Garrick said, turning and walking away, barely able to hear the creature muttering.

"If all goes according to plan, you most certainly will not see me later."

Garrick continued, offering a pat on Ember's head as it poked lazily out of the pack on his back. The creature was odd, but there was something about what it had said that Garrick was trying to wrap his mind around. It’d referred to Garrick's mild ruse as 'magic.' That wasn't exactly a common term around here. Sure, the younger generation had picked it up. Still, Levi/Tate had made every indication it wasn't in the habit of consorting with anyone—and he'd be surprised if it had suddenly decided it needed to pick up the lingo of local teenagers.

"Just another mystery to unravel later," Garrick said. With the tomfoolery well and truly sorted, he lifted his walking stick. Then he slid it into the satchel at his waist, the five-foot wooden rod disappearing within its deceptive depths.

"Now," he said, staring down at the climb before him. "On to Maretown—and delicious baked treats."