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Somrstad 11th, 924 F.L.
(Present Day)
Time Until Road-building Resumes: 2 Weeks 1 Day
It had been quite some time since Garrick had been within the Sizzling Skillet, but the interior of the restaurant hadn’t changed a day.
Quaint lanterns hung from the exposed wooden beams of the ceiling, bathing the place in a friendly glow. Paintings of fruit and bread and artfully-angled plantlife adorned the walls—reminding Garrick very strongly of a sandwich chain restaurant from his old world whose name escaped him. Metro? No, that couldn’t be right, could it? Though, he supposed, it had been over half a century since he’d been there, so he could be mistaken.
He had a brief pang of nostalgia as he wondered what food would be popular back there right now. What trends were taking over?
The smell of seasoned meats and grilled treats filled the air, as patrons, a mixture of locals and travelers, filled the tables—merchants discussing business over pints of ale, families sharing meals, and the occasional solitary figure who seemed to find themselves quite mysterious as they haunted the darker corners of the establishment. Martella Puddlesworth herself navigated the room expertly, refilling goblets and tankards, or checking on orders—just one amongst a sea of capable waitstaff.
When she noticed Dashiell and the others entering she waved them over to an empty table.
“Garrick!” she greeted, eyeing the old man up and down. “Fancy seeing you here—and with the same folks that brought the thumping to those miserable thieving wretches from earlier, too, no less.”
She winked at him.
“What brings you ‘round, anyhow? Croom too busy for you today?”
“Martella! Always a pleasure,” Garrick said. “And the beloved Alderman is out of town, actually. Though, I was planning to swing by here anyway—it’s been too long.”
“Oh, I bet you were,” she said, batting her lashes at him. The gnome woman’s grin was…he wouldn’t exactly call it unwholesome, but it had a knowing quality to it. “Come to finally ask me out on that date, then?”
Garrick chuckled.
Suppose she never changes, either.
"Martella, I'm afraid I wouldn't stand a chance. You'd have me out-danced, out-drank, and thoroughly out-dazzled before the first course even arrived. Better to admire from a respectful, and safe, distance, I think."
Martella snorted, rolling her eyes.
“Always such a charmer, Garrick,” she said. “Still, a lady knows when she’s being let down easy. Still—don’t mean I have to give up the hope, though, does it?”
She winked again.
"Hope’s the spice of life, Martella," Garrick mused. "But for now, I'll just have to content myself with your excellent cooking. It's a safer bet for my heart."
The gnome cackled giddily.
“Well, right this way then,” she said.
The spot where they were sat was tucked into a cozy corner of the eatery, well-lit (so as to not be tempting to the hooded loners) and offering a clear view of the establishment's comings and goings. The large, circular wooden table bore the marks and scars of countless meals shared in both celebration and solace. It was surrounded by sturdy chairs that, despite their mismatched appearances, provided a comfortable respite and Garrick believed might have been part of the reason for the success of the place when it came to weary visitors and hungry townsfolk alike.
There’s nothing quite like a comfy place to rest one’s butt, Garrick thought to himself.
As they settled in, a server approached with a smile, setting down a pitcher of the Skillet's famed spiced cider and a basket of freshly baked bread.
Aha! A lovely preamble of things to come, Garrick thought, his eyes drinking in the beautiful bready bounty before him. Martella really knows what she’s doing! What higher indicator of smart business tactics than a bowl of bread?
As far as the old man was concerned, they could keep it coming.
Kerd, ever the imposing figure, seemed to dwarf the chair beneath him as he leaned forward to grab one of the offered yeasty hors d’oeuvres.
Big enough and confident enough to get away with such a devil-may care approach, Garrick thought, watching as he swallowed one of the loaves in a single bite.
Fran, with her elegant poise, appeared to be distracted as she listened intently, her eyes occasionally scanning the room with a curious, watchful gaze.
Ah, she’s the cautious one.
Dashiell simply busied himself with slow sips on the cider, and though Garrick had never tried it, the young man’s look of delight told Garrick everything he needed to know about the quality of the drink.
Servers weaved through the tables, delivering plates heaped with food and refilling drinks. The clatter of cutlery and the murmur of conversation formed a backdrop to their gathering, and Garrick found the whole scene quite lovely. It was a far cry from the quiet comfort of his meals by the firepit (or eating in front of the oven) in Respite, but it had a certain charm that he was fond of. Clandestinely, he slipped one of the pieces of bread into his pack, and felt the gentle bump of Ember’s teeth as she snagged the morself from his fingers.
“So,” Dashiell said to Garrick once their orders were placed, “you were saying, sir?”
Garrick nodded, looking once more at the three before him and offering a small smile.
“Right,” he said. “The scuffle. Now…who do we begin with?”
“Me, if you would,” Kerd said, already finishing his fifth tiny loaf of bread. “I’m interested to know the thoughts of the great—”
"Your involvement in the fight was decisive," Garrick interjected, glancing around. It wouldn’t do for people to go spouting off his titles or nicknames—not here, where he’d so carefully cultivated his retirement image. Still, despite his urgent interruption, he chose his words carefully—as one never knew how people were going to react to criticism, even if they demanded your opinion.
"Your presence alone shifted the balance, which speaks volumes. However, if you're open to a bit of advice..."
Kerd leaned in, blatantly eager for any wisdom Garrick was willing to impart.
"Absolutely, sir. Lay it on me."
"The key to truly effective combat isn't just in the strength of your blows, but in the anticipation of your opponent's moves," Garrick explained. "You’re mighty, yes, but I can tell agility isn’t your greatest ally.”
Kerd bellowed out a laugh.
“You’re dead on with that, sir! I’m more brawn than anything else—’tis what my ma always said.”
Garrick nodded and continued.
“Your charge was formidable, no doubt. But strategy and preparation are key. Imagine if you'd feinted just before your final approach. The dwarf, your primary opponent, was expecting a direct assault. A feint could have disrupted his defense, opening him up for a more strategic strike where he wouldn’t have been able to get away from you as quickly."
Kerd's eyes widened with understanding, nodding as he absorbed the lesson.
"A feint, huh? Yeah, I see what you mean. Like, uh, um, a…’use their expectations against 'em’ sort of thing, then?"
"Exactly," Garrick continued. "And another thing—your stance. It's solid, but it's also predictable. You only showed two modes—standing still and vaulting forward. If you vary your approach, keep your adversaries guessing, you'll find your paths to victory multiply. It's not just about being 'real, real big.' It's about being 'real, real smart' with how you use that size.”
“I see,” Kerd said, and seemed to be considering this quite deeply, scratching his chin with the heel of his unfinished eleventh loaf. “I’ll think about what you’ve said, sir—thank you!”
“It’s no bother,” Garrick said, smiling. “Happy to offer what insight I can…”
Fran, who had been listening quietly, nodded when he looked her way—which he took to mean she’d like a shot at an exchange of pointers as well.
"Fran…?" Garrick asked. The gloam elf inclined her head.
"Your prowess was commendable. However, I felt your mantle flare a few times—astara bleed can warn your opponents of incoming attacks if they know how to sense it. Fortunately, your foes weren’t exactly the most tuned-in combatants to face. But, it’s something to watch out for. I’d spend more time gaining control over your mantle, and integrating your energy more subtly. Astara isn't just a tool for direct confrontation. It's a resource that can enhance your agility, your perception. Use it not just to strike, but to see the flow of battle, to be where your enemy doesn't expect you to be."
Fran's expression showed a flash of realization, and Garrick had to think his words might have given her some insight.
She’s close to the next Sphere of her advancement—so it’s odd that her mantle is so wild and untamed. Hopefully she heeds my words as she’s got a lot of promise.
You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.
"As for the both of you," Garrick concluded, "combat is as much dance as it is a battle. It's about rhythm, timing, and the element of surprise—that last one you seemed to know well enough based on your ambush. I won’t insult two individuals who clearly have enough talent to be named to the Society of Wardens, but remember, the greatest strength lies in the ability to adapt—changing your strategy to meet the needs of the moment."
Garrick turned his attention to Dashiell, who had been observing the exchange with interest.
"And you, Dashiell," Garrick began, but when he saw the fear that crossed the young man’s face his tone softened a bit to encourage rather than chastise, "...your efforts were... spirited, to say the least."
Dashiell shifted uncomfortably, bracing himself for what was to come.
"Rest assured, your courage isn't in question," Garrick continued, "nor is your commitment to doing what's right. But courage without strategy can lead to unnecessary risks." Garrick paused, ensuring Dashiell was understanding him. "You gave your adversaries more chances than you should have. Your movements, while quick, lacked a certain... deliberation. You made no real move to defeat or subdue the enemy, and even let them surround you."
Dashiell nodded, grimacing a little.
"For instance," Garrick went on, "when the elf swung that needle of hers at you, you dodged effectively. That's good. But then, you allowed the dwarf to catch you off guard. You need to be aware of your surroundings, always anticipating your opponent's next move, and the next after that."
Dashiell seemed to be listening intently, as far as the old man could tell—but he was worried there was too much slack in the boy’s training. It was clear he had a lot of astara in his bloodline, but so far, Garrick had not caught a whiff of it in his combat ability—save for whatever oddities were causing his mantle to form so solidly.
"And when you were knocked down," Garrick said, "you showed resilience in getting back up. That was good. But each time you rose without reassessing the situation, making you an easy target once again. That’s why you spent more time on your back than on your feet. The key is to blend your outstanding and frankly admirable valor with wisdom. If you don’t have the experience yourself, borrow it from others. Don't just react; anticipate. Think two steps ahead of your opponent. And remember, sometimes the best action is to de-escalate, to avoid conflict before it begins. The best fights are the ones that never start in the first place."
Dashiell's expression showed his gratitude for the feedback.
"I understand, sir. Thank you. I'll remember that."
“Who’ve you been training with up until this point?” Garrick wondered.
Dashiell smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes.
“Albert Callifery of Starmont,” Dashiell said, and Garrick could tell from his tone that he was not the most ardent fan of his mentor. “A Beacon of high-standing. His byname is ‘Surgemaster,’ perhaps you’ve heard of him?”
Garrick hadn’t.
“Quite the name,” he said, nodding. “I haven’t had the pleasure—but I’ve been out of the loop, as it were, for some time. And how goes the lessons?”
Dashiell shrugged.
“As to be expected—my father wants quality and the Surgemaster is well-known for his results in training—he was second-in-command beneath Avery Greenheart at Highcrown.”
Garrick nodded, recognizing the name. Avery Greenheart was a world-class commander, and the leader of the defense forces for the Viceroy’s personal guard. Being her sub-commander was not an easy achievement.
“Well, I take it he’s a bit regimented then? Those sentinel-types usually are. I can see why your father might’ve requested him. There’s a benefit to the kind of training they go through.”
Though, it tends to be intense, he thought.
“Indeed,” Dashiell agreed—though Garrick still sensed reluctance.
Venturing a little, he offered, “Still, they’re also typically the type to consider breakfast a part of training, where every bite must be earned with blood, sweat, and perhaps a tear or two."
A flicker of something like distress crossed Dashiell's face, quickly masked by a polite chuckle.
"You're not far off, sir. He believes in pushing limits, always."
That twinge of discomfort hadn't gone unnoticed. Garrick tilted his head, considering.
"I'm curious, how would this have rated your participation in today's scuffle?"
The slight color draining from Dashiell's cheeks was answer enough. Garrick didn't need words to understand; the young man's discomfiture painted a vivid picture of the Surgemaster's potential response.
"Well, I suppose in the grand scheme of things, every skirmish is a learning opportunity, isn't it?" Garrick mused, the corners of his mouth twitching upwards. "Yet, I imagine some lessons are more welcome than others."
Dashiell managed a wry smile.
“A-as you say, sir.”
Garrick's attention shifted slightly as he considered the young man might want to move off from the topic.
"Oh!" he began, as if he’d only just remembered, "you never finished your explanation before. You said you didn’t come to Maretown just to inform me of the date change? But there’s three of you. Seems like quite the delegation for any usual task."
Despite his attempts, Dashiell's posture stiffened for a moment, and he glanced between Fran and Kerd, as if seeking reassurance or perhaps approval. Garrick's eyebrow arched, a playful smirk dancing on his lips.
"Or, was it actually for me? Did you think I'd be a problem? That I might’ve changed my mind and needed some…extra persuading? Don’t know how nice it is to be pushing an old man around like that."
Dashiell's eyes widened, and he hastily waved his hands in front of him, his response laced with urgency.
"Oh, no, sir, that wasn't it at all! I apologize if it came across that way. We—"
Kerd's laughter cut through the tension, a booming sound that filled their cozy corner of the eatery. Dashiell paused, a look of confusion crossing his face before realization dawned, and a sheepish smile replaced his look of concern.
"I'm only joking, Mr. Montrose,” Garrick admitted, allowing himself to chuckle. “But I am curious about the real reason for your visit. You mentioned there’s more to this than just a change in schedule. Is that something you can share with me? Perhaps something I can assist with?"
Dashiell collected himself, the initial panic fading as he caught onto Garrick's humor. He cleared his throat, nodding solemnly.
"We received credible information that some of the travelers passing through Maretown were planning to... well, make trouble for the endeavor. We thought it best to address the situation directly to ensure there were no disruptions."
Garrick's gaze lingered on Dashiell for a moment longer before shifting to Kerd and Fran. Their expressions had turned somber, the earlier joviality replaced by a seriousness that spoke volumes. He nodded slowly, feeling as though he was correct in his earlier assessment: these two were closer to mercenaries than they’d led him to believe. Seemed as though they might’ve indeed been Wardens, but he suspected they were also moonlighting as enforcers.
"I see. So, there's a bit more to the both of you than meets the eye, then?"
Dashiell glanced at his companions, a silent conversation passing between them.
"Yes," he admitted. "Kerd and Fran are... well, they're quite skilled in handling delicate situations. They’re here to ensure that any threats—whether external or…internal, are dealt with swiftly and quietly."
Garrick didn’t miss that hint.
Internal, eh? So, someone on the inside might not be happy with the way things are going.
He leaned back in his chair, the pieces of the puzzle beginning to fit together in his mind. The presence of Kerd and Fran, the rescheduling, the underlying tension—it all pointed to a situation fraught with tribulations. Yet, the old warrior found himself intrigued rather than concerned.
Seems like Vash isn’t the only one with a few designs on this project.
It made sense—such a colossal undertaking wouldn’t go unnoticed and there would be a great many eyes glancing their direction. Some of them more malicious than others. If this road building project succeeded, well, wouldn’t the House Montrose be positioned to become the most renowned in the land? However, if it failed… the loss of face and—very clearly—considerable resources could doom them to obscurity and ridicule.
And with the backing of the Viceroy herself…a lot hangs in the balance, then.
After a few more minutes of lively chit-chat, their meal arrived. Plates heaped with food were placed before each of them, causing Kerd's eyes to light up with unmistakable joy, while Fran's gaze softened appreciatively at the sight of the meticulously prepared dishes. Garrick, ever the host, even in a place not his own, gestured for his companions to begin. Far be it from him to prevent the young to tuck in eagerly. He could wait. The promise of a good meal shared in good company was always a pleasure, no matter the setting or circumstances.
Just as they were about to dig in, Garrick noticed a dwarfen server weaving through the tables towards them with a hurried pace. The stocky young man, beard hardly reaching his chest and slightly out of breath from navigating the busy room, stopped beside their table, offering them an apologetic smile.
"Excuse the interruption," he began, addressing the group with a respectful nod. "I'm looking for a Mr. Dashiell Montrose."
Dashiell, momentarily taken aback by the unexpected attention, straightened in his seat.
"That would be me.”
The server dipped his head in another quick apology before reaching into his breast pocket. There was a sudden surge of astara from…somewhere.
Garrick didn’t sense any shift in the dwarf’s mantle—but his hand tightened on the edge of the table anyway, prepared to act in Dashiell’s defense at even the slightest provocation of—
"I have a missive for you, sir."
The dwarf carefully extracted a small, folded piece of parchment sealed with emerald-colored wax. Garrick relaxed.
Why did I get a strange sense about this?
As he passed it forward, Garrick realized that the surge of astara he’d perceived was…coming from the letter itself.
Why would—
Then he caught a glimpse of the seal. It bore the distinctive mark of an anthropoidal, tapered hexagon. He raised an eyebrow, recognizing it.
Curious.
Dashiell accepted the parchment with a nod of thanks, his brows knitting together as he turned his attention to the wax enclosing it. He offered a quick apology to the table for the interruption, his fingers deftly breaking the seal and unfolding the paper. Kerd and Fran continued eating, but the old man had sensed their mantles flaring up at the potential danger. Even under pretense, he watched as Fran slowly removed her hand from where it must have been reaching for her war club under the table.
Garrick watched from across the table, observing as Dashiell's initial confusion gave way to a more serious expression, his eyes scanning the contents of the missive with increasing intensity.
After a moment, Dashiell refolded the parchment with deliberate care, slipping it into a side pocket of his doublet. He then raised his gaze to meet Fran and Kerd's, a silent communication passing between them. The atmosphere at the table shifted subtly, the meal now overshadowed by the implications of the message Dashiell had received before the young man turned to look at Garrick.
“Apologies, sir, um, Garrick…” he began with a sigh. “But it appears we won’t be able to enjoy this fine feast. It seems our…problem has been elevated.” He swept his hand out, gesturing to the untouched food. “Don’t worry about the bill, Montrose Structures will cover the cost.”
Garrick, nearly laughing at the forlorn expression on Kerd’s face as he stared longingly at the delicious spread, simply nodded.
“It can’t be helped, I suppose,” Garrick said. “Don’t worry, though. I’ll eat enough for the five of us.”
“Five?” Dashiell asked.
“Oh,” Garrick said, grabbing a potato wedge and slipping it into his pack for Ember. “Did I say five? My mistake—old age, you know.”
He winked unconvincingly.
“Yes, well…” Dashiell said, clearly distracted. “We shall see one another again tomorrow—we plan to leave out from Maretown after breakfast and then head straight to Bellwater by carriage, where the remainder of our group will be gathered.”
“I’ll save you the trouble, Mr. Montrose,” Garrick said, his eyes flicking to the pocket he’d stuffed the note into. “How about if I simply meet you in Bellwater in the morning? Say…third morning chime?”
“That would be…well, most welcome, sir—erm, Garrick,” he said, sounding relieved. “Thank you.”
“Not a problem,” Garrick said. “Now, if you chaps will excuse me—I’m going to enjoy this free meal, and there’s really no dignified way to consume it quickly, so I’d like as few witnesses as possible.”
Kerd laughed, stealing a leg of lamb from the table.
“We shall be off then, sir,” Dashiell explained, smiling politely. “See you tomorrow.”
“See you all tomorrow,” Garrick echoed, and waited for them to leave before slipping another potato to Ember.
He was still thinking about the seal on the note, contemplating the unintentional reveal of who it belonged to. Dashiell had been very tight-lipped, as though he wanted to avoid drawing attention to it. Garrick couldn’t blame him, considering the source. Still…it was puzzling to him.
“Well, Ember…” he said, taking his first bite of the meal since it arrived and chewing on it slowly. “Why do you suppose the young Montrose is receiving letters from the Necromancer of the Bleak?”