As Garrick stepped into the heart of Bellwater, the scene that unfolded before him was both unexpected and breathtaking. The town's main thoroughfare was transformed into a sprawling caravan of personhood and its many conveyances. Wagons loaded with supplies, carts brimming with tools, and a diverse throng of individuals from every walk of life lined the street, stretching as far as the eye could see.

For a moment, Garrick stood there, absorbing the sight. It dawned on him suddenly that these people were the workforce for the ambitious road-building project spearheaded by Montrose Structures. Among the crowd, he could distinguish the robust figures of diggers and the sturdy forms of masons, each group clustering around their piles of tools and supplies. Merchants, too, were in abundance, their stalls and wagons set up in a makeshift bazaar, eager to capitalize on the sudden influx of potential customers.

Nearby, a sign stood prominently displayed, offering guidance amidst the chaos: 'Montrose Structures Inter-Provincial Road Project Management Office' it proclaimed, with an arrow pointing further down the road. Beneath, another line of text beckoned: 'THIS WAY.' Garrick, taking in the length of the line and the sheer number of people involved, couldn't help but admire the scale of the operation.

With a gentle smile, he adjusted the strap of his pack more comfortably on his shoulder and began to make his way towards the indicated direction, feeling very much on display. His pace was unhurried, reflective of his nature, yet there was an excitement building in his stomach. The diversity and energy of the crowd fascinated him; each individual had a role to play in this grand endeavor, and Garrick was keen to find where he would fit into this loom of ambition and construction. Most importantly, they were off to one side, so Garrick need not worry about a spontaneous traffic jam.

As he moved, Garrick's gaze wandered over the faces and formations within the crowd as more diverse roles became apparent. He spotted surveyors, armed with their maps and compasses, carpenters, alongside their piles of timber and saws, and interspersed amidst the cacophony of commerce and construction, cooks set up field kitchens, their fires and savory aromas promising sustenance and a brief reprieve for the weary workers.

He knew he’d just had a sort of breakfast a short while ago, but, well…if time allowed, he might ask if one of the cooks could make him some eggs.

As he traveled along, feeling eyes on him, the line thinned out more near where he could see some sort of tent at the end. Here, the offering of folk was a bit more varied—the dress becoming less utilitarian and more of those who preferred a good fight. Garrick had a sneaking suspicion that many of these individuals would be acting as guards and protectors—of questionable variety.

The stares became more intentional here, as well, with most of the people occupying this stretch eyeing him—likely wondering if he was a threat, or if perhaps some old man had just wandered by to sate his curiosity.

“Who’s the geezer?” one man wondered, a bit too loudly for Garrick’s tastes. He was a tall, dark-skinned elf with blond hair.

Thoughts like that should remain private, Garrick considered. Mostly because it’s just kind of rude.

“Might be one o’ the ...uh, whadya call ‘em? Seed moneyists?” suggested a portly man with a bristly neck beard.

“Investors?” asked the first.

“Aye, that’s the word,” said the portly man, aiming a critical eye in Garrick’s direction. “Might be he’s one o’ them.”

“Not dressed like an investor,” opined a third person, a young woman with a crow on her shoulder that nestled in her long black hair. “His clothes look lived-in.”

“Probably on account of investing too much money,” said the elf.

“Aye, probably that,” agreed the portly man.

“Whadya think is in the box, then?”

Stolen story; please report.

The portly man shrugged.

“All he owns?”

“Right, probably that.”

As he passed by, he noticed the clustered trio quit speaking and simply stared in his direction. When he made eye contact, the portly man smiled and waved as if they hadn’t just been harshly critiquing him.

Nobody respects their elders, nowadays… Garrick mused internally as he steered himself toward the front of the train.

Though it was summer, it was unseasonably chill this morning, and the dawn air, thick with anticipation and the earthy scent of a day yet to begin, buzzed with the low, constant hum of activity. Workers shuffled past, laden with materials, their breaths visible as they huffed their way toward the day's impending labors.

Amidst the whirl of activity and the murmured speculations regarding his identity, Garrick's attention was drawn to a sight that stood starkly out from the established hustle. A group of individuals, their scales glinting under the sun like a cluster of precious gems, were methodically unloading crates from a robust-looking cart. These were the Saurixians, a species of lizard people known for their keen intellect and rare astaran abilities, especially in the realm of crafting and enchantments.

What truly caught Garrick's eye, however, were the items they handled with such care: shining stones that pulsed with a light from within, and tools that were unmistakably Arcanist gear. These were not ordinary crafting tools but ones specifically designed for astaran crafting, capable of weaving enchantments into the fabric of physical objects. Garrick realized that these Saurixians must be a team of Arcanosmiths from Haberdash, a province far to the south.

Arcanosmiths were rare, their skills sought after across the lands for the ability to imbue natural resources with enchantments, integrating astara so deeply into the material that it became a part of its very essence. If seeing them here, in Bellwater, was unexpected; then to find them participating in the road-building project was downright astonishing.

Garrick watched as one of the Saurixians carefully placed a glowing stone into a thick metal chest, murmuring words that shimmered in the air like heatwaves. The stone's light spread, seeping into the surrounding metal, until the entire vessel thrummed with power. Whatever they were doing, it was clear these Arcanosmiths were likely going to be enchanting parts of the road, though to what end, Garrick could only guess.

Determined to learn more about this fascinating application of their craft, Garrick decided he would need to approach one of the Saurixians later. His interest in both astara and the unusual was well known among those who knew him, and the opportunity to converse with one of the mysterious smiths was too good to pass up. Perhaps, he mused, they were enhancing the road's durability, or maybe imbuing it with properties that could aid in travel or defense. The possibilities were as intriguing as they were vast.

For now, though, Garrick knew he would have to bide his time. The Saurixians were clearly focused on their task, and he had no desire to interrupt their intricate work. Besides, there was still the matter of finding his own place within this sprawling project.

The headquarters itself, which Garrick was surprised to find was an imposing yurt, stood out with an air of makeshift authority amidst the organized chaos. It was less a tent and more a meridian of bureaucratic ambition in a sea of physical toil. Outside the structure was a sign that read 'Montrose Structures Inter-Provincial Roadway Project Management Office.’ Below that, in hastily-added paint, was a declaration and a warning: NO SOLICITORS!

Flanking the entrance were two scrawny guards. Clad in combat gear, they looked to Garrick as if they’d only gotten the gig because they were the closest to the right size to fit in the outfits. Their stances, relaxed yet vigilant, spoke of long hours guarding a post where the greatest threat was likely a misplaced shovel or an unruly stack of paperwork. Most noticeable, however, was that neither had much of a mantle at all that the old man could sense.

Garrick set his bag on the ground by his feet and greeted them with a nod.

"Garrick of Respite, reporting."

The younger of the guards, eyebrows raised in mild surprise, stared at him.

“Sir?” he wondered.

“Garrick of Respite, reporting?” Garrick offered again, unsure if that was the proper way to introduce himself.

The guard, suddenly nodding repeatedly, produced a scroll from his tabard and consulted it, his eyes moving slowly over what seemed to be an extensive list. He reached the bottom after what had to have been a full minute and looked up apologetically.

"Uh…apologies. No ‘Garrick’ listed, sir.”

He looked to the older guard and then back to Garrick, his confusion softening into something that looked like pity.

“This is the, uh, management office for the Montrose Structure Inter-Provincial Roadway project—is that where you're meant to be?" he asked, and Garrick could hear the skepticism in his voice.

With a patient smile, Garrick confirmed, "Yes, I saw the sign. That’s precisely where I'm supposed to be."

The older guard, taking over the conversation, suggested, "Perhaps it's under a surname?"

Garrick's chuckle was light, almost self-mocking.

"Afraid I don't have one of those. Just Garrick. Of Respite."

The exchange of puzzled glances between the guards was almost comical. The older one, now smirking openly, prodded further, "And what would your role be, then? That might help us place you."

Garrick shrugged.

"I'm here to guard the workers, or something to that effect. The details weren't exactly made clear to me."

The guards appraised him anew, then gave one another a knowing glance. The older guard finally broke into a wide grin, "Well, the joke's a good one, but we're a bit busy here, sir. Thank you for visiting."

Garrick, not altogether bothered, but also not fully invested in divulging too much for the clearly underpaid sentinels, simply shrugged. Then he reached down, slung his pack over his shoulder and moved along to see if he could find a face he recognized in the extended train of folks.

“Perhaps I’ll grab some breakfast,” he said quietly aloud. “How does that sound, Ember?”

From within his bag, he heard a fox-like growl of agreement.

“Alright, then,” he said. “Well, they’ll find me when they find me then, I suppose. We’ll let them sort it out. I’m craving eggs.”