Garrick had just finished the orange, putting the peel and the seeds into his satchel, as he pushed open the door to Diavolo’s Block.

The bell above the door clanged loudly, and a man looked up from his work, his expression one of mild annoyance, tempered only slightly by recognition. He had a broad, weathered face framed by a thick, graying beard and sharp eyes that Garrick knew missed little.

"Morning, Lester," Garrick greeted, his tone friendly but reserved, aware of Lester's usual demeanor.

Lester simply looked up, sighed, and went back to whatever it was he was already doing.

Well, suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. Still grumpy.

The old butcher shop, known for its quality cuts and the character of its previous proprietor, now lay in the hands of Lester, who had taken over following his father's passing. Unlike his father, whose affability was as renowned as his meats, Lester had a reputation for being surly and terse, which was an especially stark contrast to the welcoming atmosphere of the business itself.

Fortunately, the meat was still as excellent as ever.

"I have need of something fit to jerky and travel,” Garrick continued. “Venison, maybe. What's fresh today?"

Lester grunted, eyeing Garrick before turning a curious eye on Ember.

"Fresh? Everything's fresh here, old man. Ain’t got any venison at the moment, though,” he paused, looking Garrick up and down. “You’re traveling? That’s rich.”

Garrick simply nodded.

“Going on a little excursion,” he said. “So I need something that’ll last.”

Lester shook his head.

“Well, like I said—no venison. The deerstalker I typically work with won’t be back in town ‘til tomorrow. But if you’re looking for something that won't turn your stomach into a puddle after a few days, I've got lamb and beef. Though, mind you, prices are higher than usual for the beef."

Garrick raised an eyebrow, curious but not particularly surprised.

"Oh? Any particular reason for the hike?"

Likely his own whim, he thought, considering the nature of the man. So unlike his father. How an apple falls that far from a tree, I’ll never know.

Lester snorted, chopping through a chicken carcass with a large cleaver.

"Suppose you wouldn't know, holed up in them mountains as you are…” He wiped his brow with his sleeve. “There's a blight affecting the cattle near the border. Preston’s lost a good number of livestock.”

Garrick nodded, understanding. Preston’s was the name of a ranch outside of West Thelemar near the boundary into Fable Province. As best as Garrick understood it, Preston’s ranch was a vast enough estate that it nearly qualified to be its own territory. As such, it supplied a not-insignificant portion of Bastion—and a decent slice of some of the surrounding provinces—with beef and dairy.

Unfortunately, Garrick had never been a big fan of lamb.

"That's troubling to hear,” he said. “But you said you do have beef?”

“Aye,” Lester said gruffly. “Working with Crimson Coast in Norfbourg, though. Small shipments that practically take a hero’s journey to arrive. So, yes, prices are up."

“I'll…take some of the beef, then,” Garrick said. “Say…three pounds?”

He paused, recalling how rude it would be to show up to Skylark’s home—already uninvited—without a decent portion of food, and corrected himself.

“Actually, let’s do six pounds—just to be safe.”

The butcher shook his head, having already laid out three pieces of wrapping parchment, and instead returned to the other side of the counter to collect three more. Garrick, thinking it best to keep the conversation going, nodded absently.

“How's the shop holding up with these challenges, then?"

Lester cleared his throat, his expression hardening.

"The shop's fine. It's people's constant prying that's wearing thin. That'll be eighteen bronze trices for the beef."

That’s nearly three times the price it was last time, the old man considered with a cluck of his tongue. Steep, indeed. Not that it’ll inconvenience me, but…by the gods, that’s going to hurt somebody’s coin purse.

He paused, though, a wandering idea occurring to him.

Should I buy a cow?

He dismissed the thought almost immediately. If he ever did such an irrational thing as that, he knew he’d grow too attached to such a creature and be unable to use it for its original purpose. No, it was better if he didn’t buy any farm animals—they were much too time-intensive to train and further, a cow wouldn’t fit into his rucksack.

Maybe a goat?

A moment later, Garrick counted the coins out and handed them to Lester, his mind now keen on unraveling the tapestry of news and rumors Lester always seemed to be weaving. The old man was preparing for his first trip in decades and he didn’t want to stumble into anything…unnecessary.

"Appreciate it, Lester. And speaking of news, anything else stirring…around? You're always—” he paused, not wanting to say ‘eating up gossip,’ so instead, he finished with, ”...a man with his ear to the ground."

Lester, never one to shy away from an opportunity to grumble about the goings-on, let out a snort as he handed Garrick the first wrapped pound.

"Stirring? If only it were a stew pot. You've been out of the loop, Garrick. There's talk of something brewing in Brackenfall. Some nonsense about a group claiming they've discovered an ancient astaran artifact."

Garrick's interest piqued at the mention of an artifact—Vash’s conversation with him still clear in his memory.

"An astaran artifact in Brackenfall? That's a quiet place; hardly the kind of spot you'd expect to find such a thing."

Brackenfall was a small town to the northeast a-ways, out of the way and altogether not a typical location one might find an adventure. Garrick didn’t think that it would be the same artifact his ageless companion had spoken of, though. Vash had mentioned something called the ‘Voided Vale’ and during their chat had indicated it was to the west.

What are the odds of two artifacts suddenly making their presence known? He wondered. Unlikely. Yet…two is still just a coincidence. He’d have to be on the lookout for a third mention of one—that’s when Garrick could start worrying.

The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

Brackenfall, however, that’s something else. Seems times they are a-changing, Garrick considered, remembering the old tune from before.

Lester wrapped another pound of meat, his movements brusque.

"Quiet or not, it's causing a ruckus. Some are saying the artifact is from the old Synosian Empire.” He paused, his look growing smug. “‘Course, I don’t gotta remind you ‘bout Synosians, you probably visited there when they were in their full swing.”

Garrick sighed.

“I’m not that old, Lester—the Synosian Empire fell almost two-hundred years ago.”

Lester snickered.

“Well, in any case: every treasure hunter and glory-seeker is heading that way, hoping to find something that'll make them rich or famous. Now, we’re up to our tits in waywards, vagabonds, and a stream of would-be Beacons with a dream in their hearts and poverty in their pockets."

“That explains the crowd of unfamiliar faces I saw,” Garrick said, nodding.

“The sooner they’re gone, the better,” Lester said.

Garrick pondered Lester’s words. The Synosian Empire was a bygone era, known primarily for two key traits: its strong astaran prowess and subsequent disastrous downfall. Men would likely get mighty riled up for even a peek at one of their old artifacts—let along to get their hands one one. Maretown was in the direct path en route to Brackenfall for a lot of folks, unless they were planning to tangle with the Enderak Mountains—too daunting for most—so it was a likely hotbed for travelers heading that way.

"Seems like a wild goose chase, but I suppose hope is a powerful lure,” Garrick said. “I can see how it’s faring here in Maretown, but any word on how Brackenfall’s coping with the influx?"

Lester's expression soured further.

"About as well as a cat in a dog kennel. Brackenfall wasn't built for such attention. My wife’s brother lives out near there and tells us the local council's in a fit, and there's talk of asking for provincial aid if things get out of hand. It's a mess."

Garrick could tell he was exhausting the butcher’s patience, but…well, sometimes old habits die hard.

"And…what of the artifact itself? Any word on its nature?"

"Rumors, mostly," Lester replied, wrapping up another piece of meat. "Some say it's a weapon, others a source of untold power. A few even whisper it's a cursed relic. But it's all hearsay. You know how these stories grow legs and run."

Garrick nodded, his thoughts drifting to his own experiences with astaran artifacts. He also considered the additional information Vash had gifted him with. More and more, Garrick was beginning to notice patterns, signs—he’d be lying if he wasn’t starting to second-guess his forthcoming journey.

"Well, thanks for the information, Lester. Seems like things are building up to get exciting around here."

Lester grunted in agreement, his usual gruffness momentarily giving way to...something else Garrick couldn’t place.

"Just…don't go getting any ideas about diving into that mess. The last thing we need is our local hermit turning up in the middle of some fool's errand."

Garrick chuckled, adjusting his pack.

"Now you sound like Diavolo—he was always warning me not to give in to ‘the temptation’ —whatever that meant,” Garrick said. “No worries there, though, Lester. I’ll tell you what I’d always tell him: my adventuring days are long behind me. I'll leave the treasure hunting to the younger folks.”

Garrick wasn't sure why he was so quick to deny Lester's implied warning, especially when he had just signed on to a contract that would be much better suited for a younger man.

“I’m merely biding my time until I get to see my son’s family again,” he added quickly.

“Sure,” Lester said, rolling his eyes. “Can’t call it worried, however. Still…I’ll believe it when I see you crawl back up that hill and don’t come back down ‘til spring.”

"I appreciate the update, Lester,” Garrick said, changing the subject to make room for his farewell. “Times are tough, but Maretown's always been good at weathering storms."

Lester's response was a noncommittal grunt.

“Not that you’d know about tough times up there in your mountain garden…” he grumbled.

Garrick, choosing to ignore what might’ve been considered a slight from anyone else, simply smiled.

“Well, thank you kindly, Lester. You ready to skedaddle, Ember?”

The little fox didn’t react to his words. Instead, she opted to stare unyieldingly at Lester. The butcher seemed to consider something. He hesitated for a moment, as if battling with the urge to say more, then spoke grudgingly.

"You know, in some places, they'd turn a creature like that," he nodded towards Ember, "into a Sphere enhancement. Best be careful."

"Well, I'm grateful Maretown isn't one of those places. Ember's more of a companion than an ingredient, aren't you, Ember?"

Ember, sensing the tension, wiggled her nose playfully.

“Right,” Garrick said then, once the last parcel of meat was deposited in front of him. “I think it’s time—”

“Wait,” Lester interrupted, glaring at Garrick.

“Yes?”

“Where’d you put that beef?”

Garrick blinked at him.

“Beef?”

“Yeah,” Lester said, squinting suspiciously. “You didn’t put it in your pack, but it ain’t in your hands, either. So, where is it?”

Garrick shrugged, his hand resting on the small satchel strapped to his waist.

“I took care of it.”

“Don’t be coy, old codger. Where?” Lester seemed unwilling to let this particular mystery lie. “You’ve only got the pack and the purse.”

“It’s not a purse, it’s a satchel,” Garrick protested.

“Oh…” Lester said, nodding as if he had figured out he was being pranked. “I get it—right, okay then. Messing with Lester, are you? Some kind of magician’s trick?”

Garrick wasn’t one for encouraging a conspiracy, but he also didn’t feel like it was pertinent to admit the nature of the satchel, so instead he just tapped the side of his nose.

I can keep a few secrets to myself, he thought. For fun.

Then he remembered an extremely similar reaction from Levi/Tate and paused.

Am I being annoying?

He looked at Lester again. No, I’m just choosing the wrong audience.

Besides, it wouldn’t really do to have someone like Lester knowing about his Satchel of Infinite Slots, would it? No sooner than he left, the butcher’d be telling the whole town about it.

No, that wouldn’t do at all. I’ll just excuse myself and let the man be a tad confused. Give him a mystery to solve.

“Suppose I’d better shove off, then,” Garrick said. “Don’t want to ruin the ambiance of this place, do I?”

“Too late,” Lester grumbled, shrugging. “I was having such a good morning, too.”

“Ah, well, you’ll get through it, Lester,” Garrick said to the younger man before turning toward the door. “You can bear the brunt of whatever the world can throw at you. You’re the Golden Butcher’s son, after all.”

“Don’t remind me,” Lester said, then, seeing Garrick’s look of surprise, he clarified. “Oh, come on now—not like that. Don’t get me wrong, I’m sad he’s gone—gutted, as it were. But…I suppose I don’t miss every man, woman, and child from each corner of the province swinging in here to kiss his toes. Though, it might even be worse now. People stopping in all the time to talk about him…sharing stories, and…well…”

Lester trailed off, his face a storm cloud.

Garrick paused.

“I miss him as well,” he said somberly. “He was a great man.”

He let that hang in the air a moment, then nodded once more and headed out of the shop.

Exiting Diavolo's Block, Garrick reflected on the nickname 'The Golden Butcher,' the nickname that had famously clung to Lester's father—and someone Garrick had considered a friend. In the old man’s opinion it was a wonderful title to have bestowed upon oneself, and was known throughout the province. The moniker had originated from a pivotal event that had elevated the elder butcher to almost legendary status.

Many years ago, a great famine struck not just Maretown but neighboring towns in the region as well. The elder butcher, through a combination of shrewd trading and what he called ‘secret butchery techniques,’ had managed to keep his shop stocked with quality meat when all others had failed. His ability to provide sustenance free of charge during such dire times, coupled with his refusal to exploit the scarcity, had earned him the respect and admiration of people far and wide. Many people had survived because of him.

He was seen as a man with the 'golden touch,' able to turn even the most dreadful situation into one of hope. 'The Golden Butcher' thus became a symbol of resilience and benevolence, a contrast to his son Lester's more…reserved and practical approach.

And what will my legacy be? He wondered. When I’m dead and gone and only the mountains remember what my face looks like?

Then, however, he thought of his granddaughter, and he smiled. As he continued down the street, he was visited by the memory of his son’s family’s smiling faces around the table during dinner the last time they visited. It was a nice memory and brought him no end of joy.

Lost in thought, Garrick was startled back to reality by a commotion nearby—a voice raised in anger.

“Sounds like a fight’s brewing,” Garrick said. He looked over his shoulder, expecting to see Ember peeking from his pack. Instead, she was beside him on the cobblestones, her bright eyes looking up at him curiously.

“What do you think that’s about?” he asked her. The fur on Ember’s back was riled, standing on end.

Someone shouted.

Well, that can’t be good, he thought as he shouldered his pack and headed toward the commotion.