Garrick stepped into the yurt with the care of a man not entirely sure what world he was about to enter.
The air inside was thick with the scent of leather, metal, and something decidedly floral—probably from one of the many pouches strewn about. To Garrick's surprise, it was less a barracks and more a bizarre bazaar of personal spaces. The microcosms within the yurt fascinated Garrick. Each bed seemed to be a ledger of its occupant's personality, interests, and perhaps a hint of their lifestyle. Curiously, there were only two visible occupants besides him and the young guard—though he figured the others would likely be engaging in breakfast or perhaps other earlier morning duties.
With the enthusiasm of a showman revealing his greatest trick, Bentle gestured broadly to the interior.
"Here's your new home, Garrick," he said with a wide grin.
Garrick's eyes were drawn to the whirlwind of activity in the corner. There, a sandy-haired human woman was embroiled in a frenzy that could only be described as heroic. She was knitting, her fingers dancing over the needles with the kind of fervor best reserved for kneading dough during a lunch rush.
Bentle, seizing the moment to play tour guide, gestured grandly towards her.
"Allow me to introduce to you, sir, the illustrious Georgina! Our very own purveyor of perilous purls and dangerous darning," he delivered with a flourish that suggested he'd been waiting all day to use that line. "Georgina, this is Garrick."
Georgina, clad in a hodgepodge of leather armor and belts that clinked with every movement, looked up from her work. Bits of yarn were tangled in her belt pouches, and needles stuck out at jaunty angles from her hair. Garrick thought this gave her the air of a warrior who'd gotten mouthy with a vengeful crafting vendor.
She's got excellent control over her mantle, Garrick noticed.
From the scant intimation of what Garrick could catch, Georgina was at the bottom of the third Realm—Low Arch Sphere. She flashed Garrick a grin that was as disarming as it was genuine, her hands never pausing in their relentless creation.
"Wotcher—nice to meet you," she said, her voice muffled slightly by a skein of yellow yarn she'd somehow managed to entangle around her neck. "Don't mind the mess—I'm scheming on a project."
Garrick's gaze followed the ever-growing knitted behemoth spilling over her bunk and onto the floor, a clear indication of the woman's unyielding dedication. Or madness. Perhaps both.
"Ah, don't worry about that. I'm not particularly bothered over an untidy space," Garrick lied.
"Still," Georgina continued, her eyes clearly taking in Garrick's gray hair and beard, "if I'd known there'd be an actual adult here, I'd have cleaned up a bit."
Georgina had seemed to have taken the most liberties with her living space, decorating every inch of the area surrounding her bunk with yarn creations big and small, as well as a myriad of colorful balls, hanks, cakes, and skeins—presumably all of which would be used in short order, considering the rate she was working those needles. Pinned proudly to the fabric of the yurt interior in a place of prominence was a hand-darned crest that read, "KNIT FAST. DIE WARM."
"Quite the motto," Garrick chuckled. "A remarkable outlook for someone who—from your attire—must live a fairly martial life."
"Ah, you know how it is," Georgina replied with a wink. "The life of a dungeon-delver is fraught with peril. One minute, you're having a walkabout in a crypt, 'next you're fashioning a rope ladder out o' werebear fur to escape a horde o' undead. Keeps it interesting."
"I'll say. A dungeon delver, eh?” Garrick said. "Perilous indeed. What brings you topside, then?"
"Trices," she said with a nod—and with a speed that Garrick found almost too quick. "Likely what brought us all aboard, innit?"
Dungeon delvers typically aren't the type to just follow coin, he pondered. And usually don't get in the business for riches in the first place. Already, something sounds off.
From what he'd gleaned from all the delvers he'd met in his life—which was quite an extensive crew—they did it for the rush and the discovery of treasures. There were much easier ways to make a living in this world. What sort of offer could yank one of her kind out of the life, even briefly?
Bentle beamed, evidently pleased with the rapport his introductions had fostered. Then he turned to the next occupant, a navy-haired figure lounging with an air that was both relaxed and distinctly alert.
"This here's Kufko," he introduced, nodding towards the man polishing his fingernails—or rather, claws—with a file. "Resident fleet-footed, uh…person."
Garrick didn't chuckle—though he wanted to—as it appeared Bentle's pre-planned presentation had escaped him.
In addition to the foreign manner of dress (what appeared to be a baggy, black-and-gray uniform of some variety of which the origin was unknown to Garrick,) the man called Kufko had dark skin and a pair of lynx-like ears poking from either side of his tall garrison cap.
Wow, Garrick thought, genuinely impressed. A feleuk. How did this one end up here?
Garrick, familiar with the tales of feleuks—the catlike race from the northern reaches of Fable—found himself intrigued. It wasn't every day one encountered their kind, especially this far south. However, Kufko's manner of dress was unfamiliar to any Fable-based style—leading Garrick to believe this man was from somewhere other than Fable; far, far away, if even he didn't recognize the clothing.
Garrick's interest was piqued not just by Kufko's physical appearance but also by the subtle aura that surrounded him. Unlike the vibrant, almost chaotic energy emanating from Georgina, Kufko's mantle was a calm, deep pool, mirroring the watchful eyes of a predator. It was a mantle that spoke of quiet strength and a keen, observant nature, suggesting a depth of experience that spoke of the feleuk's personality, even if his Arch Sphere Realm did not. His presence was like a soft but firmly drawn line, not easily crossed nor disturbed.
Kufko's slight acknowledgment of the introduction—a nod, barely there, as if he were saving his energy for more significant moments—did little to unveil the man behind the ambivalent façade. His feline ears twitched subtly as his depth-filled, catlike eyes found Garrick momentarily before looking back to the nail file.
"He, erm, isn't much of a talker," Bentle said, seemingly apologetically.
Georgina looked over her shoulder at the catlike man and then back to Garrick, winking.
"But he's a right handsome mute."
Garrick smiled politely and then indicated the last occupied bunk in the yurt's rear—a shape concealed beneath a fortress of blankets.
"Sleeping?" the old man wondered.
Bentle, looking a bit more embarrassed now, shrugged.
"Oi! Quell!" the young guard called. Receiving no response (not even a jiggle of wakefulness beneath the pile of bedclothes), he tried again. "Quell! Hey! Introductions are happening, and you're missing 'em!"
Garrick raised an eyebrow.
I'd suspect whoever was under there was a corpse, but I can see their mantle.
Whoever—or whatever—Quell was, they were registering an impressive amount of astara—though they concealed it well. Garrick wasn't precisely sure which Sphere Realm this 'Quell' had achieved, but their reserve of astara was quite large.
"Quell is…more of a night owl," Bentle said, giving Garrick a sheepish smile. "Astaran specialist, though—I know that much. Doesn't get out much, either way."
"That's alright, Bentle," Garrick said. "Folk aren't required to make their presence known to everyone. I'm sure I'll meet this Quell in due time."
As Garrick pondered the silent shape beneath the blankets, a soft glow emanated from beneath the pile, pulsing gently in a rhythm that suggested the astaran specialist was not merely sleeping but perhaps meditating or working on some invisible project. However, despite the light, no one else seemed to notice but himself. Nearby, a kettle perched atop a small plate softly whistled.
The old man looked over the two-and-a-half people in his line of sight (as Quell, an unknown, didn't fully count as actually 'seeing') and allowed himself a smile.
"Quite the assembly," Garrick remarked and turned to the young guard, who seemed proud of the tour he'd conducted. "You've outdone yourself, Bentle. Excellent execution on the introductions."
Bentle beamed, clearly mistaking Garrick's bemusement for awe.
"Just wait 'til dinner," Bentle promised, as if the meal would somehow surpass the current spectacle.
Garrick did not understand what in the world that could possibly imply—but he was more than a little intrigued to find out.
There was one thought, though, that gnawed at his mind. Dashiell had mentioned that there was someone else from another world. Were any of these the individual in question? He had a slight desire to ask but didn't want to pry. Garrick wouldn't be disrespectful, though. If whoever happened to catch a ride to Dova was the type that wanted privacy, he'd be more than happy to oblige.
Gods know I was secretive about it long enough.
He considered it a little ironic, as he was pulling a similar stunt right now—-trying to keep a low profile on his true nature, which he hadn't had to do for a long, long time. Still, it was unique enough that it had him moderately intrigued.
Perhaps I'll be able to tell by sight alone?
The yurt's relative calm was suddenly disturbed by the entrance of a figure so large he seemed to temporarily displace the very air within the space. As the doorway flapped closed behind him, Kerd's massive shape eclipsed the light, casting imposing shadows across the room's interior. His eyes, squinting as they adjusted from the bright sunshine to the dimmer inside scanned the room until they landed on Garrick. A grin broke across his face, transforming his features from intimidating to warm and familiar.
"Garrick! Didn't expect ya, but then again, I did!" Kerd's greeting boomed across the yurt like thunder rolling over the mountains, his face lighting up with the delight of a child spotting the first star of the evening.
Garrick couldn't help but return the smile, stepping forward to meet the giant of a man halfway.
"Kerd, always a pleasure to surprise and be surprised," he replied, clapping the huge man on the arm.
Hardly had the echoes of their greeting died away when Fran and Dashiell appeared through the yurt's entrance. With a nod that matched the brevity and silence of Kufko's earlier acknowledgment, Fran offered Garrick a cool but respectful recognition.
Two peas in a pod, Garrick thought, his eyes flicking to the feleuk.
Kerd, seemingly oblivious to the cramped space his presence commanded, settled himself near Garrick with the grace of a bear finding its favored spot in a meadow. Fran took a moment to scan the room before choosing where she could lean against a support beam, her eyes casually sweeping over the group in a silent vigil. Her warrior's poise, as ever, spoke volumes more than words could. Dashiell, trailing a few steps behind Fran, entered with an almost palpable cloud of nervous energy surrounding him, his mantle agitated. His greeting was a juxtaposition to Fran's nod, charged with an undercurrent of anxiety.
"Sir! Good to see you made it," Dashiell said, his voice betraying a hint of relief as if Garrick's presence had somehow anchored the swirling thoughts in his head. "I see you've met the others—excellent."
Garrick leaned forward, his curiosity getting the better of him. Dashiell seemed more befuddled than usual.
"All is well, I hope, Mr. Montrose?" he asked, smiling.
Dashiell's look of surprise was very telling—as though he hadn't been prepared to exchange mild pleasantries. Something was clearly bothering him.
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"Oh, erm, well, yes, sir," he said. "Just getting settled. We've only just arrived, and we've already got our first orders for the day."
"Oh?" Garrick asked. "Does that 'we' involve all of us in the tent?"
"Yes," Dashiell said. "We're all considered a single Guardian unit, hence why we have been gathered together under one…roof."
He looked up at the ceiling of the yurt as if questioning the accuracy of his own words, but then his eyes found Garrick's again, and he shrugged.
"And just how many Guardian units do we have here on the project?" Garrick wondered.
"Eleven," Bentle answered helpfully. "Each with a special designation for coordination. For instance, you lot are the Golden Lion unit—"
"—And…just to dig this out at the root," Dashiell interjected. "I would like to emphasize that none of us had any part in the naming process—that was Arcturus the Rostermaster."
"Well, he's got a flair for…" Garrick couldn't quite find the word—it reminded him of pee-wee sports teams from back before. "...branding," he finally finished.
"Oi, but there's loads more," Bentle continued undeterred. "Silver Wolf…Sable Mustang…Crimson Raptor…all with distinct purposes and specialties."
"Is that so?" Garrick offered. "What is our specialty, then?"
This is a development I'm very interested in understanding.
"Vanguard," Fran answered, inclining her head.
"Scouts, then?" Garrick wondered. "I take it that's due to your involvement?"
He gestured at the gloam elf and the gigantic man digging into his ear canal with a pinky.
"Yes," she said. "We set out first and ensure that there will not be any immediate threats or significant disruptions to the project's progression."
That might be as many words as I've heard her speak.
Dashiell picked up the thread, his eyes flicking between Garrick and the others.
"Exactly, and as we discussed yesterday, it is not just about fending off bandits or clearing the path. We are here to ensure that anything and everything that might impact our construction is as minimal as possible."
Garrick raised an eyebrow.
"A noble pursuit. And how exactly do we intend to do that?"
Fran's gaze was steady.
"Through negotiation, relocation of endangered species, and, when necessary, a more direct approach to those seeking to harm or exploit."
Kerd, having successfully excavated whatever treasure he'd been mining for in his ear, chimed in.
"We talk, we move, we protect. Easy."
Garrick chuckled.
"I suspect you're simplifying the nuance, and there's a bit more to it than that, but I appreciate the summary, Kerd."
"Simple's my specialty," Kerd said with a nod.
"Mr. Bentle," Garrick said, turning to the young guard. "Would I be correct in my assumption that Gylus and yourself are also in a unit, then?"
They are guards, after all. It would be a terrible snub to leave them out.
"We are indeed!" Bentle exclaimed proudly. "The Beige Slug!"
Garrick blinked at him. Dashiell let out a sigh.
"Uh-huh," Garrick finally said. "Is that a…large group?"
"Not at all," Bentle said. "Specialty unit, in fact. Just me and Gylus."
Garrick nodded sagely.
"Seems like the most exclusive group of the bunch," he said, and Bentle beamed. Then Garrick turned to Dashiell.
"So, who, pray tell, directs this company of Guardians? Is there a commander of some variety?"
Dashiell shifted uncomfortably, a shadow of apprehension flickering across his features.
"Well, that would fall to my training instructor, Albert Callifery."
"Surgemaster?" Garrick said, remembering the conversation from the Sizzling Skillet.
"The very same," Dashiell confirmed, his voice barely more than a whisper, as if speaking the name louder might summon the man himself. "He accepted the appointment partly to continue with my instruction."
Observing the young Montrose's pained expression, Garrick nodded, filing away the information.
"Ah," Garrick mused, "then it's diligence and discipline for us. A strong hand steering the ship can ensure smooth sailing, though I imagine it might chafe at times."
Dashiell nodded, relief in his gaze at being understood without further explanation.
"Precisely. I just hope we can weather any potential storms."
I've encountered moody and regimented commanders before, Garrick thought, but I'm not sure how to truly take Dashiell's reaction. It is clear there's something particularly distressing about this training instructor—poor Dashiell is beside himself with worry. I'll have to keep an eye on that.
Garrick stood, patting Dashiell on the shoulder kindly.
"Worry not, young Montrose. A bit of rigor is good for the spirit from time to time. It sounds like we're in for an educational experience."
"Not that he'd be able to teach you much, sir," Kerd said, smiling. "You've been around a time or two, haven't you? Probably end up being the one to educate Surgemaster."
"Ah, I appreciate the vote of confidence, Mr. Kerd," Garrick said, shaking his head. "But there's something to be learned from just about anyone—regardless of their experience level. Besides, who's to say the old dog can't learn a few new tricks?" he added with a wink, the corners of his mouth twitching into a smile.
Kerd chuckled and relaxed a little. It seemed as though the group was waiting for something. Moreover, the dynamics within the yurt had shifted with the arrival of these three.
Georgina paused her frenetic knitting for the first time since Garrick had arrived and looked up, apparently only just realizing there were others present, a gleam of mischief in her eyes.
"Oi, Kerd! You're back—looking unmolested as well. Not got wedged in any coaches this journey, then?"
Kerd's laughter rumbled through the space, sounding like a jovial landslide.
"Ah, Georgie, always quick to remind me of my more... dimensional challenges," he said, offering a wink to Garrick.
Garrick, who considered himself quite the aficionado of a good story, couldn't resist.
"That sounds like quite a tale," he said.
"Oh, it is," Georgina said, looking toward Kufko, perhaps for confirmation, but the aloof feleuk wasn't looking her way. She shrugged.
"I'll admit to being a bit curious," Garrick said, turning back to Kerd, "given the exuberance of Miss Georgina here."
"Well," Kerd started, scratching his head as if the very act might unearth more details from the depths of his memory, "on the return from the, uh, inaugural leg of the project, we took a carriage—"
"A dubious choice," Fran interjected.
"—yes, dubi-less indeed," Kerd agreed. "No sooner had we set out than I found myself in a…uh, sticky situation. That is, partially inside the carriage, partially...not."
Garrick raised an eyebrow.
"You mean to say you got stuck?"
"Suppose it could be seen that way…" Kerd said. "If you wanted to be technical. I just found I'm a bit ample for what might be considered usual fare."
Georgina snorted, a ball of yarn tumbling from her lap.
"The look on that driver's face—like he'd spied a wolf trying to eat his gran!" she exclaimed, wiping a tear from her eye. "O' course, then we had to unstick him—and that was a trial. Five of us, plus a bewildered driver, in a desperate play to wrest this behemoth from his doom."
"A learning experience," Kerd offered. "That's all."
"Yeah, and what didja learn?" Georgina asked.
Kerd stood tall, a hand placed thoughtfully on his chin.
"That I suspect my future in travel lies strictly in open-air models. Perhaps a nice sturdy wagon. Or, failing that, the tried and true method of one foot in front of the other."
"Too big for a horse," Fran muttered.
"The carriage company's sending their regards, by the way," Georgina added. "Said something about instituting a 'Kerd Clause' for all future designs. 'For the wider traveler,' they said."
She cackled.
"Now you're just making things up," Kerd said. "At least, I hope so."
Garrick couldn't help but chuckle at the makeshift reunion in the crowded yurt. However, feeling as though the one-sided heckling of the poor giant would continue if he didn't change subjects, he cleared his throat.
"So, we're all bunking here, then?" he asked, eyeing the space—or the lack thereof.
Kerd might be better off having a tent all to himself, Garrick considered.
Then the big man stretched, his arms slapping hard into the canopy ceiling, nearly taking the whole thing down. Fran gave him a withering glare, and the giant man, eyes wide from his miscalculation, suddenly burst into embarrassed laughter.
Maybe two tents…just to be safe.
Dashiell, mistaking Garrick's question for concern, quickly chimed in,
"Oh, we can make it work, sir if you're alright with it?"
Garrick waved off the formality with a smile.
"Of course, it's fine by me. This yurt doesn't come with a 'Garrick decides' policy, does it?"
Garrick said, then cast a sidelong look at the massive man next to him. "I'm just wondering where we're going to put Kerd's feet."
Kerd chuckled, his laugh a deep rumble that seemed to vibrate the very fabric of the yurt.
"I'll sleep standing if I have to," he joked, flexing his arms as though preparing for a night propped against a post.
Fran added softly, "Like a horse does."
The comment drew a round of chuckles.
Dashiell looked apologetically at Garrick, the lines of concern creasing his forehead.
"Truly, though, sir. I am sorry about the tight quarters. It was really my—erm, Lord Montrose's directive. Wanted us all together, I suppose."
Garrick mulled this over, finding it curious that Dashiell, of all people, didn't command his own space—much like his father's lavish setup. Yet, he quickly shelved the thought, recognizing the young Montrose's likely desire to avoid the appearance of favoritism.
"No worries, there. Makes for a warmer night, doesn't it?"
Meanwhile, Kufko, seemingly detached from the warmth of this homecoming, had settled on the ground, pulling a long, bronze object from his bag.
Unable to place the item (and wanting to make a connection of some sort with the feleuk) Garrick asked, "What's that you've got there, Mr. Kufko?"
Kufko simply shrugged, his attention fixed on the object in his hands.
Kerd leaned closer to Garrick, lowering his voice as though sharing a secret.
"That's a Telisean Puzzle Stick, there. Supposed to be impossible to solve."
As Kufko meticulously examined the intricate bronze puzzle stick, Garrick leaned in for a closer look. The object was adorned with symbols and patterns weaving around the length of it. Garrick observed as the feleuk turned it in his hands as if he'd done it hundreds of times before, sliding latches and twisting ends. That was when Garrick spotted a marking he recognized. A serpent, one that formed a circle by consuming its own tail, cleverly integrated with an hourglass at its center. The engraved creature's body twisted around the chronometer, its scales detailed so that they appeared to be part of the serpent and the falling sands within.
The Ouroboros Hourglass
A smile crept across his face, but he kept his realization to himself.
I see she's still up to her games. Well, I won't ruin the surprise for him, then. I'm certain this Kufko chap will figure it out before too long.
Turning back to the group, Garrick's curiosity found a new target.
"So, we've discussed the commander of the Guardians, but does each unit have its own specific leader?"
Dashiell nodded, his posture straightening with an air of undeniable confidence that seemed to radiate from him.
"Yes. That would be me."
Garrick had suspected as much. Watching Dashiell's mantle shift from nervous energy to calm authority had been telling. There was a confident assurance in how the young Montrose held himself in that moment, a leader's certainty that hadn't been as apparent.
"And what is our first order of business?" Garrick inquired.
Dashiell's mantle flickered with a hint of hesitation before he replied, "I'll explain more in detail, but ultimately, orders will be issued once our eighth member arrives."
Garrick nodded. A part of him had been wondering about the composition of their unit. He'd almost feared Ember, who had been conspicuously quiet and out of mind, was considered part of the count. The thought made him feel a tad guilty for not considering her until now. With a gentle motion, he reached into his pack, finding Ember curled up asleep among his belongings. Carefully, he set his pack down next to the open bunk he assumed was his, making sure Ember had a soft landing.
Wonder who this eighth member could be? Garrick mused. And are they going to be as curious as some of these individuals.
Garrick's eyes found Quell's still-covered form for another lingering moment, pondering the astaran specialist's reasons for remaining hidden. The silence from that corner of the room was almost as loud as Kerd's booming voice.
"Well, that's my cue to make m'self scarce," Bentle said, raising his hands as if he was in danger of being attacked. "Let Golden Lion business be just that."
"Thank you again for your assistance, Mr. Bentle," Garrick said, inclining his head.
"Oi, see ya 'round, Bent," Georgina said, clacking away at her yarn fabrication.
Bentle saluted—likely making the whole space feel a bit awkward—and then, with one final obvious wink to Garrick, ducked out of the yurt.
"Well, in the meantime," Kerd said, drawing himself up and yanking a handful of what appeared to be bone-hewn dice from the pouch at his waist. "Any of you fancy losing a game of—"
BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM!
A sudden explosion, tremendously loud and close, sent powerful vibrations through the ground. The force of the blast was such that the very fabric of the yurt rippled like the surface of a disturbed pond, its entire structure shaking and shuddering. Garrick, who had seen his fair share of everything on the spectrum—from casual to cataclysmic, couldn't help but be a tad impressed at how quickly the room turned into a whirlwind of action.
"To arms!" Dashiell commanded, but his words were swallowed up by the already-moving team inside the tent.
Fran was a blur, her movements as smooth as butter on a hot skillet, wielding her warhammer gracefully as she bounded toward the opening. Kufko zipped out so fast Garrick half-wondered if he'd imagined him being there in the first place. Kerd decided the yurt needed a new door right then and there, showcasing a brute's solution to architectural constraints by ripping a hole in the side, creating his own exit without a second thought, and charging through. Georgina…
Impressive.
Georgina was already gone, seemingly evaporated from her perch on the cot, leaving behind a pile of half-creations and yarn. Garrick hadn't felt anything from her.
Very tight control over her astara, he reminded himself.
Less than a second later, Garrick was alone.
He sighed, a gesture carrying more a fondness of reflection than resignation. His new companions had reacted without a moment's hesitation—which was a good sign and would bode well for the future of this endeavor. Yet he stood momentarily sidelined here, not by indecision but by a seasoned understanding of predicaments.
Not everything is worth reacting to immediately, he considered.
There'd been no aural flare, no hint of mantle in the moments before the explosion, yet a subtle hint of astaran energy lingered—Garrick could smell the pungency of ozone that accompanied anything Chant-related. The shouts outside, too, though filled with surprise, lacked the intensity of fear or pain. All of which suggested to Garrick that the explosion wasn't an immediate threat. It was a conclusion drawn not just from what was there but from what was absent. Chiefly, a void of a certain tension in the air that often accompanied actual danger.
Had myself a lifetime of jumping at shadows and laughing about it later, he thought. Whatever this is, it's likely more bark than bite.
What did concern him was ensuring Ember wasn't frightened by such an event. However, upon inspection, he found the little fox undisturbed by the commotion, continuing her slumber in his pack, a picture of perfect peace. He smiled.
Suppose I should go out there, in any case, he considered, picking himself up from the bed. Don't want to look like I'm heartless—just slow.
He'd been a bit more 'leap-before-looking' when he was younger, but that was a habit for the hearty and hale. Besides, it could get exhausting. It was better to take stock and act once you had a better picture of things.
He chuckled to himself. Here he was, the long-serving veteran traveler, and now he found himself easing into the role of the calm elder.
Just like all the stories, he thought. Suppose it was bound to happen sooner or later.
It was a tedious kettle of fish, but someone had to do it.
However, on his way to the opening (the original one), he paused, looking back toward the rear of the yurt.
Oh.
Apparently, he hadn't been the only one to stay behind.
The clothy lump that was Quell had remained behind as well. Still snug as a bug under the blankets, not moving an inch.
"Look after the place while we're gone, will you, Quell?" Garrick offered jokingly, not expecting a response. However, as if only to muddy up his expectations, the teapot nearby gave a soft 'hoot.'
Curious, Garrick mused, smiling. We've got some interesting ones in this bunch, don't we?
"Maybe there will be a food vendor eager to take advantage of the chaos?" Garrick wondered as he stepped out of the tent. "I could go for something grilled right about now."