“I haven’t been there in ages,” Garrick mused aloud, Ember trotting by his side, her tail wagging in the early morning breeze.

They were passing by the Sizzling Skillet, a local haunt for the famished that had not yet risen from its pre-dawn slumber. The last time he’d actually had the occasion to visit was at least last year, as he usually lunched with Keero Croom, the Alderman of Maretown. However, he knew that Croom and his family—for what may have been the first time since Garrick had known them, were out of town—not for the holiday, but due to the inclement health of his wife’s father. Stil, he’d need to eat something, wouldn’t he? He gazed up at the Sizzling Skillet hopefully.

It wasn't so long ago—twelve years, give or take—that a peculiar sort of banditry had struck the eatery. Though, it wasn’t just what Garrick might consider ‘garden-variety’ marauders; no, they were merely a troupe of overly spirited ne'er do wells from up Jarksholm way, fueled more by liquid courage than any genuine malice. Their grand plan? To liberate the Skillet’s larders under the cloak of night. A foolhardy venture, that.

The would-be thieves, bumbling and boisterously drunk, hadn’t counted on the intervention of an unknown benefactor. By morning, they were found tethered together like a string of ill-fated sausages, deposited neatly on the doorstep of the Maretown guardhouse. Between their slurred apologies and vows of reform, they spun tales of a terrifying specter—a figure of freakish strength and daunting presence who had single-handedly plucked them from their ill-conceived mission.

The identity of this nocturnal guardian remained a mystery, the subject of much speculation and a smattering of tall tales among the town's populace. Yet, the culprits were so earnest in their remorse (and wildly varying descriptions of their captor) that it was hard not to believe that someone—or something—had indeed put fear into their hearts.

As Garrick sauntered by, the memory of the incident drew a chuckle from deep within him. He mused privately about the nature of this mysterious vigilante, imagining the sort of man who could inspire such a turnaround in a bunch of hardened, albeit drunken, ruffians.

Whoever that was, he thought, a grin playing at the corners of his mouth, must’ve been quite the sight. Distinguished, undoubtedly. And, if I dare say, exceptionally handsome to boot.

He nodded to Ember, flicking his chin to indicate the eatery.

“Perhaps we’ll stop by for lunch, eh? It’s about time we treated ourselves to something nice.”

The idea of a hot meal at the Sizzling Skillet seemed like the perfect midpoint to his day of shopping.

Continuing on, his next stop was Power Word: Deal, the local enchantment shop that promised solutions for both the mundane and the extraordinary. As he pushed the door open, the chime of bells announced his entry, and he was immediately engulfed by the scent of ancient tomes and the faint buzz of magical artifacts. The counter was unmanned, so Garrick swung his head around the corner of one of the aisles of shelves, spotting a pair of bone-colored horns.

“Hullo, Mr. Viscera! I’m here about the enchanted paint of preservation I ordered,” Garrick announced to the shopkeeper, a wiry hellionfolk man whose first name was Zysz. Zysz with spectacles perched precariously on his nose, turned to face the old man, and sans preamble, began to walk back toward the front without a word. He ducked under the low-hanging candelabra that looked about as old as the province itself before settling himself down in a seat behind the counter and opening a ledger.

Garrick simply waited. He knew this was the man’s way, and far be it from him to try to change someone’s behavior just because he was a bit antsy.

At this rate, my woodshed is going to be a pile of rubble by winter.

“Ah, Mr. Garrick, right,” Zysz finally replied, shuffling through the ledger. “I’m afraid it’s still on backorder.”

This is truly a dark day, Garrick thought. My last can is almost empty.

“As I likely mentioned when you initially ordered it, enchanted items of such specificity are hard to come by, you understand. But,” the red-skinned man added, brightening with a fanged smile, “might I interest you in a self-stirring cauldron, or perhaps a quill that writes whatever you dictate?”

Garrick gave the hellionfolk man a…mostly polite smile, a tight line forming at the corners of his mouth. “I think I’ll pass,” he said. “I’ve already got a similar quill to that, and I like stirring my own cauldrons.”

Zysz nodded distractedly, as if Garrick was a person to only ‘soft-pitch’ at best.

“Any idea when you expect it to arrive?” Garrick asked, continuing to imagine exponentially more destructive cataclysms his woodshed could face in the interim. “Any at all?”

Zysz didn’t speak, but simply opened another ledger and ran a long black nail down the columns before finding the right spot, then he looked up.

“Late Invernus at the earliest.”

Garrick blinked.

Late Invernus? That’s…well it’s only Somrstad now. Six months?

“...thank you, Mr. Viscera,” he finally managed. “I’ll be going now.”

“Mhm,” Zysz Viscera mumbled, already looking through his ledger again.

Garrick stepped out into the street, shaking his head.

“Suppose we should head and get some gear then, eh?” he stated to Ember, who looked up at him with her bright, intelligent eyes. It had a calming effect on him, and he smiled down at her, relaxing.

“To Dottie’s?”

Their next destination was Dottie’s Goods, a general store that provided everything from traveling cloaks to durable boots to camp knives to household needs—essentials for any and all, whether they were a farmhand or, like Garrick, a retired layabout with too much time and money on his hands.

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Garrick carefully selected items for his long journey, ensuring he was well-prepared for any situation. Alongside a one-hundred-foot length of sturdy rope, essential for climbing or securing gear, he acquired:

* A durable, weather-resistant cloak to protect against the elements. (His old one was far too tattered.)

* A multipurpose tool, featuring a knife, saw, and various other implements for survival and repairs. (He’d lost one just like it, years ago, in the Yawning Chasm of Unyielding Delights.)

* A heavy-duty leather map case to keep his charts and documents safe from moisture and wear. (Always beneficial for those moments when you're more likely to use your map as an impromptu umbrella than actually read it.)

* A compact, enchanted lantern that provided a reliable source of light, capable of lasting without fuel. (He currently only had the one next to his bed, and that was not fit for travel.)

* A set of flint and steel for starting fires, complemented by a waterproof tinderbox. (He had several, but you never knew when you’d need more.)

* A sturdy, well-crafted leather belt, equipped with loops and hooks for attaching gear. (Which he truly only bought because it was red—his favorite color.)

* A small, leather-bound journal and graphite stick for mapping his route and noting observations (and drawing pictures of things he found funny.)

* A pair of thick, leather gloves, designed to offer protection without sacrificing dexterity. (It was dirty work out there on the road—and splinters were the murderers of progress.)

However, before he left, Garrick couldn't resist adding another item to his haul—a pair of thick, woolen socks patterned with dancing foxes. These socks, far from what might be considered ‘usual purchases,’ were not only for a bit more warmth and comfort during the cold mountain nights. Ultimately, it was because the foxes reminded him of Ember, and brought a smile to his face with their cheerful antics woven into the fabric.

Garrick left the shop feeling quite good about his purchases, his mind traveling to the socks multiple times as he walked. He couldn’t wait to wear them.

Though, in what he considered an odd event, Garrick was befuddled to find that not only was it busier than he thought was ordinary, but there were also a great many new faces in Maretown today. Lots and lots of them. Peoples from all manner of races—human, elfish, kitsune, armalisk with their polished platelet flesh like an armadillo, and many more—milled about practically in swarms. In fact, he noticed that most of them were dressed in combat-ready gear or the practical traveling garb of astara specialists, and nearly all carried equipment that implied they’d been on—or heading toward—a long journey. This was so puzzling that Garrick had to ask a fruit merchant (of whom he only had passing familiarity) if there was perhaps a tournament or other grand event he’d missed the memo on.

The merchant, a middle-aged woman with three gold teeth simply scowled, her eyes darting among individuals within the drove of newcomers.

“Travelers,” she groaned, shaking her head. “Been like this for near on a fortnight, now.”

“I see,” Garrick said, sensing that wasn’t the full story. “Travelers from where?”

The woman shrugged.

“Who knows where they come from or where they go—travelers is travelers, ain’t they? Can’t be rid of ‘em soon enough, if’n you’re askin’ me. Apparently where it is they’re off to, they aren’t in need of vitamins—nor good manners.”

She gestured at her artfully-stacked pile of produce.

“Won’t pay a reasonable price and have the gall to insult the bruising on my apples,” she continued. “As if I’m in control of nature. They don’t like ‘em, they can take it up with Melesia herself.”

Melesia, Garrick thought fondly. The Goddess of Things That Grow. Now she is a deity of rare beauty and rarer compassion—at least as far as her kind goes.

Instead, though, he said, “Well, I suppose this is a terrible time, then, to discuss the price of those oranges?”

—

Garrick ambled through Maretown's market, his pack on his shoulders and a half-eaten orange in his hand. He indulged himself by browsing stalls and exchanging greetings, a routine he enjoyed enough to look forward to it. At a booth of carved statuettes, he found himself enthralled by his examination of a little stone bear figurine.

“Oh, Ember,” Garrick muttered excitedly. “Twyla would really like this, I think.”

His granddaughter always called him ‘Grampa Bear,’ and so, as was his sworn duty to what he considered the grandfatherly oath, she needed to be gifted anything bear-themed—or even vaguely bear-shaped—as a present. He was paying for the trinket when he turned, finding a group of little ones clustered nearby, pointing and cheering joyfully at him.

He raised an eyebrow, wondering what he’d done to warrant such ridicule—had he left the house with his pants on backward again? Then, Garrick realized they weren’t paying attention to him, but someone he had with him.

He turned, a smile on his face, to see Ember's furry little head poking out from his pack. The children were making quite the ruckus, utterly delighted by the sight of the small fox. Ember, sensing her audience, wiggled her nose playfully. In response, a miniature fox, crafted from flickering flame and emitting no heat, sprang to life on the shoulder of one of the children.

The ethereal fox danced from one young shoulder to another, its movements light and whimsical. The children's laughter grew, their eyes wide at the wondrous display. Ember watched, her bright eyes twinkling.

She didn’t pull that trick out very often.

"Well, Ember, seems you're quite the entertainer today," Garrick chuckled, his heart lifted by the scene. He gently adjusted the pack, allowing Ember a better view of her captive audience.

The children, enraptured by the playful spirit of the fiery fox frollicking among them, twirled and reached out their hands, as if trying to touch the delicate creature. The conjured fox, in turn, leaped and twirled in the air, its form shimmering like a living flame caught in a gentle breeze.

Garrick watched, reminded of the first time he’d realized just what a special creature Ember was—though his reaction had been much different than the childrens.’

With a final flourish, the flame fox dissipated into a shower of harmless sparks, leaving behind the pungent, charged scent of ozone. The children clapped and cheered, their faces glowing.

"Thank you, Ember," Garrick said softly. Displays like that certainly grounded him. Astara may have been almost completely lost to him, but back when he’d had the full scope of it he’d only used it as a weapon. It was easy to forget that while astara could be used for violent acts, it could also be used in this way: gentle, and without malice or aggression.

With a nod and a wave to the still-excited children, Garrick continued his stroll through the market. In fact, he was enjoying himself quite a lot, browsing the various stalls and admiring the storefronts when he caught a glimpse of something that stopped him in his tracks.

Ah, this is unfortunate, he thought, casting a glance at a building in the distance with a meat cleaver on the sign. I’ve just remembered I need to get some meat for the journey.

He sighed.

Oh well, guess I should just get it over with.