Outside, chaos reigned. Garrick moved forward, noting overt shock on some faces and thinly veiled surprise on others. The source of the furor was impressively evident, even from where he currently meandered: a large cloud of smoke curling upward and serving as the centerpiece to an impromptu gathering. A crowd had formed around the lazy black pillar, drawing all eyes to it like a part-timer to a tavern tankard. Garrick couldn’t help but feel, as he strolled through the din, that it was the type of hubbub that would likely blossom into speculation and rumor, further feeding on itself until the original incident was all but lost.

Such is the nature of life, he mused.

However, in his mind, it wasn’t a bad thing. Garrick enjoyed retellings of events—even those he’d attended. It was a reminder of the varied perspectives of everyfolk and sometimes enhanced the experience even more.

I’ll have to ask for Kerd’s take on this later. That should be entertaining.

Among the throng, he could see the Golden Lion unit. Kerd, himself, stood near the center of the hurly-burly activity, flanked on either side by Fran and Dashiell (but Garrick could only identify them by the tops of their heads.) The trio were standing defensively, ready, it seemed, for anything.

Kufko was near Garrick, leaning back against the wall of a building with his arms crossed.

Seems he’s realized the danger might not need his attention, the old man considered.

Kufko’s gaze drifted toward him momentarily and Garrick thought he saw the vaguest intimation of a nod. He smiled, offering a big wave to the feleuk, who then winced at what was apparently a very disagreeable and unsubtle greeting.

Ah, well, Garrick thought. This is who I am. I’m too old to be trying to look cool.

Atop a roof, Georgina was perched, observing the goings-on. Inexplicably, she was clacking away on another yarny project. Garrick chuckled at this sight.

If she’s back to that, then there is truly no real threat, is there?

But the Gold Lion notwithstanding, Garrick was keen to notice others that fit his personal stereotype of what he suspected were additional Guardians—likely from other units. Each were adorned with an array of weapons and armor and some that looked to have been chosen more for intimidation than practicality. He saw tall wide-brimmed hats indicating some of the astaran-leaning folk, painted armor that heralded warrior-types, others in the trappings of stealth or quickness. The variety of defensive wear ranged from the sublime to the ridiculous, giving Garrick the impression of a convention of costumed fans, rather than an assembly of adventurers.

Some things never change, Garrick mused, Peacocking and swagger—all of them attempting to look more impressive than the person next to them. Ah, to be so intrepidly confident again.

Brandishing a smile, Garrick began gently pushing closer to the nexus of the nonsense.

One figure in particular stood out to him. Not just for his commanding presence, but for the distinctive attire that marked him as someone of importance—or at least someone who very much wanted to be seen as such. A tall human man, his age difficult to pin down but with the hard-earned look of someone who had faced more battles than birthdays. His hair was shaved near to the skin on the sides yet allowed freedom in a braided knot at the top, as if it had made a desperate bid for escape but had been caught just in time.

A military man-bun, Garrick noted, though he knew it was technically called a ‘service toplock.’

A chiseled jaw set firm, and eyes that had seen too much and perhaps enjoyed too little, gave the man a look of determined authority. A burn scar, a memento from an unfriendly fire, perhaps, traversed his face from forehead to chin. He was clad in silver-blue painted armor that shone in the morning light, and the flowing green cloak he wore was not just a fashion statement but bore the emblem of Highcrown—a golden crown surrounded by sunlike rays.

Dollars to donuts, that’s Surgemaster, Garrick thought, then he paused. Well, I’ve done it—gone and made myself hungry. I wonder if there’s a bakery nearby?

The man’s demeanor, that of someone who not only expected to be in charge but had never considered any alternative, seemed to confirm Garrick’s suspicion. He watched the Surgemaster move through the crowd with the assurance of a man walking through his own home.

He’s clearly no stranger to crisis management.

“What in the hells is going on?!” the man roared. “Out of the way, now, you blithering fools! Or I’ll have you all mopping up the latrine!”

"Looks like class is in session," Garrick murmured to himself.

The sea of people parted to make way for Albert Callifery, and Garrick slipped into the man’s wake, if only to let his curiosity off-leash for a moment.

The epicenter of the commotion, it turned out, was the charred and splintered remains of a chest at the back of a wagon, from which the smoke proudly billowed. This chest, Garrick recognized, was identical to the ones he'd seen earlier, into which the Saurixian Arcanosmiths had been diligently placing those peculiar glowing rocks. There was a slew of animated discussions, as several of the lizard-like individuals were fervently chattering in their mother tongue, their clawed fingers pointed accusatorily at a man who stood before the destroyed chest.

Interesting getup, Garrick mused, eyeing the man who seemed to have been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Be willing to bet he’s feeling a bit embarrassed.

This man, clad in a brilliantly-tailored black robe that seemed too pristine for the chaos around him, wore a black half-mask that covered the top portion of his face, the bottom part featuring a very wide smile. Long white hair—Garrick had to assume it was a wig of some sort—cascaded down his shoulders and he held some type of scepter in his left hand. The man opened his mouth to speak, and it was clear he’d already been desperately trying to placate the visibly irate Saurixians.

"Really, now—this is all just a bit more than the bother I was expecting, chaps. I was simply conducting a bit of an impromptu experiment," he said. "You see, there it was, this chest, looking all mysterious and inscrutable—calling to me—begging for a bit of scholarly inquiry, as it were. And I thought to myself, 'What's the harm in a tiny, inconsequential prod?' After all, it's not every day one stumbles upon something so majestic and…glowy.”

He paused, his smile widening as if he found the situation increasingly amusing rather than concerning.

Guess he’s not bashful about it at all, Garrick thought. He should be, though.

This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

“Who in blazes are you?!” Surgemaster demanded, marching forward until he was within swinging distance. “And what have you done?!”

“My, I’d imagine that’s a lot of interrobangs,” the masked man muttered, before addressing Surgemaster directly. "I was just explaining to this lovely bunch here that I’d surmised that perhaps there was something hidden within the depths of that chest there—or rather, was there. In any case, I was curious, wondering if it, perchance, held a treasure or a particularly surly badger within.”

“What are you—” Surgemaster began, but the man interjected.

“Oh, but that isn’t the point, is it?”

Surgemaster’s face grew red, but the man continued on, either unaware or uncaring.

“The point is, curiosity is the hallmark of the learned mind."

Before the simmering Guardian commander could respond, and with a flourish of his hands, the half-masked man continued, facing the Saurixians once again.

"And so, with the delicate touch of a master locksmith, I gave it a gentle nudge. A nudge, mind you, born of scientific inquiry and optimism."

The Saurixians assembled before him looked at one another, before rattling off in their language. Half-mask sighed, shaking his head in disappointment.

“Who could have anticipated such a volatile reaction from an inanimate object? Not I—that is for sure. Clearly, this chest was more...temperamental than your average storage solution.”

“You will identify yourself, now,” Surgemaster declared, his gloved fists clenching. “Or there will be very, very dire circumstances.”

“Could I borrow a wet cloth to wipe myself with?” Half-mask asked, looking past Surgemaster and to the gathered crowd. “Dreadfully dirty business, spelunking the innards of a trapped chest.”

But as Garrick listened, a sinking feeling began to settle in. There was no mantle on this masked man, no astaran signature to speak of—just a voice wrapped in layers of unfathomable audacity. A familiar one.

"In any case," the man concluded, "I believe we've all learned something today. Namely, that some chests are better left unprodded. Consider the risk assessed. You are all welcome.”

And then the man's eyes found Garrick in the crowd. He pointed directly at him, his awkward smile widening.

Garrick sighed deeply, a sound born of countless such encounters, each more baffling than the last. Recognition dawned, along with a sense of resigned frustration.

"Of course," Garrick muttered under his breath.

“Ah!” the man exclaimed, his index finger pointing directly at him.

“Garrick! Good to see you, old chum! Glad to see you’ve made it!”

As one, everyone in the crowd turned to look at the old man with interest.

Despite the absurd outfit, Garrick’s intuition didn't fail him; the familiar antics, the voice unmistakable beneath the mask, the brazen disregard for anyone else around him, all pointed to one individual: Vash.

I’d known he’d be showing himself…but not like this.

Surgemaster’s command held thinly veiled irritation, piercing the tense air.

“Who are you to cause such disruption? Identify yourself immediately!”

His stance, rigid and imposing, left little room for ambiguity regarding the seriousness of his demand. Garrick frowned, looking back and forth between the former sub-commander of the Viceroy's guard and his ridiculously-disguised companion. The scene teetered on the brink of becoming a full-blown confrontation.

Dashiell, attempting to diffuse the tension, stepped forward.

"If I could, Master Callifery,” the young man said, his voice filled with hesitation. He glanced at the masked man before returning his gaze to the authority figure towering over them. “This is ‘Old Shvar,’ a…special advisor to my father, Lord Montrose.”

Surgemaster's scowl deepened, his gaze flitting from Dashiell to 'Old Shvar' with palpable skepticism, clearly unimpressed by this sudden introduction.

Vash, undeterred by the scrutiny, responded with a grin that somehow managed to convey both innocence and impudence.

"Indeed, a starring guest in this theatre, one might say," he explained. “The surprise at the bottom of a Luvian ice cake: unforeseen, perhaps, but undeniably delightful upon discovery.”

His voice, though light, carried an undercurrent of warmth and familiarity, aimed as much at Garrick as it was at the bewildered audience.

However, Garrick, unamused, strode forward.

"You," he addressed Vash directly, "With me. Now."

Vash, recognizing the non-negotiable tone in Garrick’s voice, offered no resistance.

“Ah, yes, as you will, then,” he marched forward.

As they turned to leave, Surgemaster’s voice rang out once more, authoritative yet slightly less heated.

“Ensure this ‘advisor’ doesn’t turn our operation into a farce, Montrose.”

“Y-yes, sir,” Dashiell responded.

The crowd, sensing the end of the distraction, gradually dispersed, their whispers and speculations trailing behind them like the last leaves of autumn. Garrick noticed that the Arcanosmiths had begun clearing away the debris of the exploded chest with no small amount of irritation.

What kind of stones are they putting in there? Garrick wondered.

Dashiell, left standing amidst the dissipating crowd, offered Garrick a grateful nod for his intervention. Garrick returned it with a smile.

As they moved to a quieter locale, away from the prying eyes and ears, he relaxed a little, stopping when they were far enough away to not be overheard.

“I must say, Garrick,” Vash began, “I am quite adept at making an entrance, but you, my old friend, have the rare prestige of always knowing how to make an exit memorable.”

Garrick found that the levity of his words was ruined by the resigned tilt of his shoulders.

"What was that spectacle about?" Garrick asked.

"Ah, my dear Garrick, where's the fun in revealing all my secrets at once?”

Garrick leveled a cool gaze on him, and Vash shrugged.

“You really are no fun, you know that?”

“I’m more than happy to be ‘fun’ when you’re more than arm’s length away from where it’s going to be happening,” Garrick said. “You said you’d meet me here, but why the show? Is this ‘Old Shvar’ character you’re performing some kind of bumbling idiot?”

Vash had the decency to look embarrassed now.

“That, uh…wasn’t an act,” Vash said. “I really just couldn’t resist the temptation of an unopened chest.”

Garrick let out a long-suffering sigh.

“So, nothing has changed? Everything is still—”

“Oh, you worry too much, Garrick,” Vash admonished, letting his hand drift through the air. “All is going according to plan.”

“You know you sound like a villain when you say things like that,” Garrick said.

“Oh, yes, I know,” Vash winked.

“Well, if that’s all, I think I have to get back to the tent—my unit is going to be heading out soon.”

“Ah, listen to you,” Vash mused, slugging Garrick playfully on the arm. “You sound like a proper soldier.”

“Alright, well, good to see you—I’ll talk to you again when we’re closer to Argos Falls—”

“There may be one additional item,” Vash interrupted.

Garrick blinked at him.

Here it is, he grumbled internally. The famous Vash switcheroo.

“There is, is there?”

“Yes,” Vash said, nodding several times. “Just a tiny, insignificant, nearly unnoticeable little thing. Hardly even worth mention—”

“Vash…” Garrick warned.

“Right, right,” Vash said. “Apologies, I always forget your exceptional grumpiness and impatience.”

He sighed dramatically.

“Garrick,” he said, suddenly adopting a serious tone. “I…am dying.”

Oh, this ought to be good, Garrick thought.