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Somrstad 11th, 924 F.L.
(Present Day)
Time Until Road-building Resumes: 2 Weeks
As he and Ember neared the source of commotion, Garrick could make out a crowd gathered a few streets back the way they’d come from. Garrick raised an eyebrow. The hubbub was happening around The Sizzling Skillet.
A magnet for trouble, I suppose. Wonder what it is this time?
Weaving through the crowd, he saw the owner, Martella Puddlesworth, a stout, no-nonsense gnome woman, her hands on her hips as she berated a group of young people.
"...and I don't care how grand your adventures are, you pay for what you eat!" Martella's voice boomed across the gathering.
The group, comprised of four individuals in robes and armor, stood defiantly. They were an eclectic bunch: a tall, slender elf with a smirk playing on her lips, a burly dwarf whose arms were crossed over his chest, a human with blue hair, bright green eyes, and an ornate cloak, and a diminutive duende who was bouncing on his toes, seemingly amused by the situation.
The elf, who appeared to be the leader, retorted with an air of arrogance, "We would have paid, dear lady, but your food turned our stomachs. A meal that brings upon such swift illness is hardly worth the trices, don't you think?"
Martella's face turned a shade redder.
"Illness? My food is cooked to perfection! You're just trying to weasel out of paying!"
Then the human chimed in, his voice dripping with condescension. "Look around, everyone's watching, lady. You really want to make a scene over a few coins? Consider it a discount for the poor service."
The crowd murmured, some casting sympathetic looks at Martella, others skeptical of the adventurers' claim. However, it was a lot of unfamiliar faces as far as Garrick could tell—which meant not many would know who to believe.
“Pay it back, or I’ll have you thrown in a cell, you lazy brigands!” Martella exclaimed, heedless of the caution the group had suggested.
The elf turned back to her companions, a mischievous smile spreading across her face.
“Do you hear that, compatriots, mine?” she asked, gesturing to the woman. “She claims she’s going to have us arrested—can you imagine? First we get sick, then we are punished for informing her.”
“I can ‘magine it,” the duende exclaimed, his voice sounding all the world like a zipper with a sore throat. “‘Magine it won’t go t’way she t’inks.”
“You’re in the wrong town for this sort of behavior!” Martella continued, her hand moving to something within her shirt sleeves. “Now pay for the meal—this is my last warning!”
Well, this is going off the rails very quickly, Garrick thought.
“No—” the elf said, suddenly drawing a rapier from its scabbard and pointing it at the woman. “This is your last warning, dear woman.”
Garrick could see the tension escalating, the adventurers' sudden display of force doing little to defuse the situation.
He sighed.
As he was taking a step forward, however, there was an interruption.
A figure emerged from the crowd, capturing his attention. Tall and lithe, the young man moved with determination—but slightly agitated.
The newcomer was dressed nicely, wearing a maroon doublet, black leather breeches, and—were those Mockingbird Boots? Garrick squinted, seeing the feather insignia emblazoned on the heel.
Yep, Mockingbirds, he thought seeing the leather-and-plate interwoven into the design. I can’t believe those are the sorts of things young people are wearing nowadays.
Garrick's eyes narrowed as he observed the young man's approach—there was something recognizable about that gait of his... He seemed unarmed, but the way he carried himself, with a nervous yet purposeful stride, indicated he was more than capable of handling himself. Garrick noticed a subtle agitation in the young man's mantle, a nervous energy that seemed to mirror Ember's own restless demeanor beside him. That aura too, though, was familiar.
Hm. High Foundation—nearing Pillar…
As the figure reached the center of the confrontation, Garrick's realization dawned—he knew this youth. By the gods, it was Dashiell—Dashiell Montrose. The very same Dashiell with his unique perceptiveness and unassuming air, who’d come to Garrick's mountain retreat not two weeks ago seeking assistance for the road-building project in Bastion. The same Dashiell who’d revealed he was a descendant of Ylvia of the Ten Peaks, the famed Beacon.
Garrick was a little embarrassed he hadn’t recognized him at first because it appeared that Dashiell had gotten himself a very fine haircut.
Really should look into getting myself some spectacles…
Dashiell, looking slightly out of place amidst the tension, stepped forward with a stern but polite request, directing it at the elf who wielded her rapier menacingly.
Well, color me impressed, Garrick thought, now deciding that things might be getting interesting. Is he going to take them all on?
"I’d ask that you sheathe your weapon, please," the young Montrose said, his voice steady despite the undercurrent of unease that Garrick sensed in his mantle.
The elf and her group burst into laughter at Dashiell's intervention.
"Who are you supposed to be? Her hired muscle?" she sneered, eyeing Dashiell's slender frame. "I must admit you do not look like much."
Dashiell maintained his composure, his stance firm.
"I am asking you to put away your weapon, madame.”
“I’m not a noble, sir,” the elf woman said scathingly. “My name is Darla. Darla the Flaymaiden. Remember it. And I haven’t yet decided if I’ll be putting my weapon away or not. That’s my choice—not some…some hotshot upstart’s.”
Dashiell seemed conflicted with this comment, but chose to speak up again anyway.
“This does not need to escalate any further," Dashiell said, his politeness unwavering.
Darla looked at Dashiell, eyes glinting.
"Or what?" she challenged, her smirk growing wider.
“Or…” Dashiell started, his mantle flickering. “...there will be consequences.”
The duende, who’d been giving Dashiell the once-over, suddenly began hopping up and down, pointing.
“I know ‘im, I know ‘im!” the little creature declared. “‘Tis the Montrose son! The rich boy!”
Darla turned from the duende to the rest of her crew before looking back at Dashiell.
“Is that so?” she wondered rhetorically before her expression shifted from mockery to a sly curiosity. "Well, Montrose, if you're so concerned, perhaps you should pay for our meal. That should settle everything, shouldn't it?"
Martella Puddlesworth, taken aback by this turn of events, simply regarded the young man expectantly.
Rather surprising, Garrick said. Martella is usually pretty stern with stuff like this.
In all the years he’d known her, Martella had never been one to just be satisfied with an easy result. Her sense of justice always seemed like it was fairly strong, and she hated feeling like she’d been wronged.
“No,” she finally said, wheeling on the elf woman again. “I don’t know this boy, but you’re the one making my lunch rush unbearable. This is between you lot, and me—you ate, you pay.”
Garrick watched intently, curious to see how Dashiell would respond. The young Montrose appeared to mull over the situation, his gaze shifting between the woman's drawn sword and Martella's indignant stance. The crowd continued murmuring amongst themselves.
Finally, Dashiell spoke, his voice tinged with a growing terseness.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
"I am going to ask you one more time to put that weapon away."
Darla laughed derisively and raised her voice for all to hear.
"You want me to put it away? Here, let me sheathe it then!"
In a swift, fluid motion, she flicked her rapier towards Dashiell.
Garrick's hand instinctively went to where his defensive measures would have been years ago. He paused halfway, though, his eyes fixed on Dashiell.
Dashiell, with a swift sidestep, deftly avoided the elf's blade. It seemed as though it took hardly any effort at all for the young man, but he still made no move to counterattack. The elf, still laughing, raised her hand, and her companions swiftly fanned out, encircling the young Montrose. Garrick's concern grew; he could sense Dashiell's mantle, as well as the four adventurers,’ and the matchup did not bode well for the young man.
Two Foundation, one High Foundation, and one Low Pillar versus Dashiell’s nearly Low Pillar. Not great odds. Maybe he’ll use the Accolade?
Darla attempted another swipe at Dashiell, who dodged once more, only to be caught off guard by the dwarf. With a solid punch to the stomach, the burly figure sent Dashiell reeling, the wind knocked out of him. Dashiell tried to pivot away, but the duende closed in with a hatchet.
I don’t think so.
“Gyahhh!” the duende screeched as he went in for an attack, but suddenly stumbled forward as an orange seed bounced off the back of his head. Seeing an opportunity, Dashiell kicked the creature squarely in the face, sending him careening backward.
However, the human in the robe seized the moment, hurling a fireball at Dashiell. To the surprise of all, especially the elf, the fireball inexplicably veered off course as the human’s hand snapped down, the Chant hitting the woman squarely in her mail-protected chest and sending her shooting in reverse. The crowd gasped, some backing away to avoid getting involved.
“Owww!” the human screeched, cradling his wrist. “Somethin’ bit me!”
Garrick chuckled.
The dwarf, not squandering this helping portion of chaos, slid forward. He delivered a heavy uppercut under Dashiell's chin, sending him flying up and back onto the cobblestones.
“Oof!”
Before Dashiell could recover, the duende, rebounding from the kick, rushed him, landing on top of him and began a flurry of punches to his face.
The young man was clearly outmatched, but Garrick perceived something else.
I’m sensing more mantles…stronger ones.
The situation had turned sour quickly, with the crowd's murmurs turning to shouts, some calling for peace, others egging on the fight. Ember stayed close to Garrick, her ears flat against her head. The chaos at The Sizzling Skillet had escalated far beyond a simple dispute over a meal.
Just as everything seemed to be spiraling out of control, a loud, booming voice cut through the clamor.
"Montrose!" it called out, resonating from somewhere beyond the crowd. "You having fun without us?"
Garrick's senses sharpened as he detected the flare of two distinct mantles, moments before a pair of figures hurled themselves into the center of the fray. One was a mountain of a man, red-faced, with dark hair and a bushy mustache, his attire resembling that of a tribesman. Beside him was an elf woman in fine garb, donned in a silver breastplate and wielding a war club that seemed to have been crafted by a master smith.
The newcomers wasted no time. The burly man charged towards the dwarf, his presence alone enough to make the stout adversary recoil.
“By the gods!” the dwarf roared, backpedaling. “It’s a giant!”
“Not a giant,” the…giant man corrected. “Just real, real big!”
Meanwhile, the new woman stepped between Dashiell and the duende, swinging her warclub in an upward arc that caught the duende under the torso and launched him into the air.
“Gyaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!” the duende screeched as he sailed over the crowd and off into the distance.
Darla, still recovering from the fireball's impact, tried to regain her footing, only to find herself facing the imposing figure of the man. He towered over her, his stance unyielding.
FWOOSH! FWOOSH! FWOOSH!
Suddenly, another burst of fireballs sprang to life, the blue-haired human—intent on his conjuration—sending them sailing right toward the big man. But they were instantly dissolved as the war club swept into their path, robbing the sorcerer of his prize.
“Nuts!” the sorcerer hissed, but then the big man suddenly had his hands on the front of his robes. Before he could even protest, the sorcerer was hoisted into the air and launched over the crowd to follow the same trajectory as the duende.
“Gyaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!” the man wailed.
Satisfied, the big man turned back to Darla and Garrick noticed that he was now joined by the club-wielding elf woman, who glared at Darla disdainfully. Now that Garrick could see her better, he saw that the new arrival was an elf of the gloam—her tattooed cheeks and multitude of ear piercings obvious now.
“Shameful,” the gloam woman said, shaking her head.
“This is no way to treat a cousin,” said Darla, ostensibly referring to their shared elfin blood.
The elf of the gloam sneered and spat on the ground.
“No cousin of mine,” she said. “I don’t hold table with your like.”
Dashiell, gasping for air on the ground, looked up at his rescuers, his expression one of relief. The crowd, previously a cacophony of voices, fell into a stunned silence, their attention now fully on the new developments.
In the lull of the confrontation, Martella Puddlesworth, still indignant but now somewhat relieved, stepped forward.
"Enough of this nonsense!" she declared, her voice carrying the weight of authority. "This is my establishment, and I will have no more brawling!"
She gestured at Darla and her companions.
“You lot—scram. Just…get out of here and never darken my doorway again.”
Clearly, she’d decided all of this fighting was worse for her business than the crime of the stolen lunch.
Then Martella wheeled on the newcomers.
“You,” she accused, but then her voice softened. “...help your friend up from the ground. He’s taken quite a beating—the poor wretch.”
With one final defiant glare, Darla sheathed her blade, and with a haughty, ‘hmmpf!’ gathered the dwarf—the only member of her cohort who hadn’t become airborne—and they slunk away. The big man, a huge smile on his face, nodded to Martella, then turned and with a single hand, yanked Dashiell back up to his feet.
The young Montrose stood somewhat shakily, his face flushed with embarrassment and discomfort. However, his manners seemed unmolested. Even as rattled as he was, he was still able to reach into his pouch and pull out a generous handful of trices. Then he pressed them into Martella's hand.
"For the meal," he said, wincing slightly, "and... the inconvenience."
Martella, her expression transitioning from shock to something Garrick took as a grudging respect, weighed the coins in her hand.
"Might be a bit much for all that," she remarked.
Dashiell managed a weak smile.
"Consider it a gesture so you think favorably on Montrose Structures. I would hate to have left a bad impression."
Martella nodded, her stern demeanor softening slightly. Garrick had to hand it to her—many people would have refused a stranger’s unserviced patronage—especially with how fervently she defended him before. But, not the proprietor of the Sizzling Skillet. No, Martella Puddlesworth was a different breed, it seemed.
"You may want to get some ice on that chin, young man,” Martella said to Dashiell. “That's going to leave a nasty bruise."
Garrick watched the exchange with a little smirk on his face and pocketed the last of his orange seeds. He’d been planning to use them all for growing—but it seemed he found a better use for at least a few. The old man looked down to comment to Ember, only to find her curled up asleep in his pack again.
Had enough of all that nonsense, eh? I don’t blame you.
Just as the dust settled, the peace of The Sizzling Skillet, freshly rescued from the brink of all-out brawl, was pierced by the belated arrival of the Maretown guard. Leading the charge, or rather ambling in a manner that suggested he'd rather be elsewhere, was Captain Clarence. A man whose physique suggested his fighting days were well behind him, and perhaps had never been particularly in front in the first place.
Puffing and panting, Clarence arrived on the scene, his eyes sweeping over the dispersed crowd, the embarrassed adventurers, and the heap of what once was a skirmish. His expression was one of utter confusion, like a man who’d walked into a play in the middle and was trying to piece together the plot from the debris on stage.
Martella, spotting the captain's tardy entrance, wasted no time. "Ah, Captain Clarence, as punctual as usual," she remarked, her voice dripping with the kind of sarcasm usually reserved for special occasions. "What an absolute delight to see you've made it. We were just wrapping up the festivities you missed."
Clarence, his brows knitting together, could only sputter in response.
"No need for that, Martella; I was on the other side of town! Had to run over as quickly as I could," he defended, his breath still catching up to his words.
"Run?" Martella echoed, her gaze sliding over Clarence's form with evident skepticism. "Well, that's one for the town annals. 'The day Clarence ran.' We'll mark it with a festival, shall we?"
The crowd, previously tense and silent, couldn't help but let out a collective chuckle at the exchange. Clarence, for his part, looked around, still attempting to arrest the situation from the remains of the scuffle, the scattered onlookers, and the unmistakable trace of a recent fireball scorched into the cobblestones.
"So…w-what was all the commotion about?" he finally asked. “Somebody said thieves?”
Martella, taking a deep breath, seemed to contemplate where to begin.
"Oh, just the usual," she began, her voice casual as if recounting a typical day. "A group of would-be brigands thought they could dine and dash. But, as always, The Sizzling Skillet stands firm against the tide of hooliganism."
Clarence nodded, his expression growing more serious, albeit still slightly confused.
"And where are these ruffians now?" he inquired, glancing around as if expecting them to be neatly labeled for his convenience.
Martella gestured vaguely in the direction Darla and her cohort had slunk away to.
"Gone with their tails between their legs, thanks to some unexpected assistance," she said, nodding towards Dashiell and his allies.
Clarence, turning to regard Dashiell and the others, managed a nod of acknowledgment, though it was clear he was still piecing together the narrative.
"Well, uhm…good work, I suppose," he offered, his tone suggesting he was still not entirely sure what work had been done.
Garrick, watching the exchange from the sidelines, couldn't help but be amused by the whole affair.
Well, it’s the thought that counts. Probably.
It seemed the whole ordeal was sorted. Not wanting to miss out on any more shopping than he already had, Garrick was just turning to leave when a familiar voice called out to him.
"Sir—erm, Garrick?" He turned to see Dashiell approaching, the large man and the gloam elf watching the scene with interest.
Too slow, he admonished himself.
“Mr. Montrose,” Garrick greeted the young man, nodding.
Dashiell continued, a hint of sheepishness in his tone.
"Fate that we would meet here, sir. I was just on my way to visit you."
Garrick raised an eyebrow.
"Oh? What do I owe the pleasure to this time?"
Dashiell hesitated.
"Well, to inform you that the project will be leaving early.”
“How early is that, then?” Garrick asked, furrowing his brow. He wasn’t the biggest fan of changing his plans so drastically, but as long as he had a few days he’d be—
“Well,” Dashiell said, grimacing. “...T-tomorrow, in fact."
Somrstad 11th, 924 F.L.
(Present Day)
Time Until Road-building Resumes: 2 Weeks 1 Day