Early Spring
871 F.L.
(53 years ago)
Garrick's first few hours in the new world were, to put it mildly, less than ideal.
A young man, barely out of his teens, spirited from his mundane life to a place where the laws of physics seemed more like polite suggestions. It had been an incredibly harrowing morning, to say the least. Now, he was desperately making his way to the only semblance of civilization he could see: a village. However, his arrival was not heralded by trumpets or a welcoming committee but by a frantic sprint through the dense forest, pursued by what he could only describe as a particularly vindictive bog witch—a story involving an apple, a seemingly harmless cup of tea, and a serious misunderstanding about the local customs regarding witch property rights.
As Garrick stumbled into the small, quaint village, his appearance could best be described as 'chaotic entrant.' His clothes were torn, his breath was ragged, and his expression was one of bewildered terror. The villagers, amid their daily tasks, could only pause and stare at this unexpected spectacle. Children clutched their mothers' skirts, dogs tilted their heads in confusion, and a particularly fearless cat hissed, likely taking offense at Garrick's lack of decorum.
Garrick, sensing he had perhaps a moment's respite from his relentless matrimonial nemesis, took the opportunity to catch his breath and assess his situation. He was surrounded by curious faces, none of which seemed particularly threatening. Then again, he'd thought the same about the apple.
"Bog witch..." he managed to gasp out. The villagers exchanged glances, conversation passing between them that clearly involved words like 'outsider,' 'madman,' and 'possibly contagious.'
And then, as if his body had decided it had endured enough excitement for one day, Garrick's legs gave out, and he crumpled to the ground in a less-than-dignified heap. His last conscious thought before drifting off was a fervent hope that the bog witch would be kind enough to wait until he regained consciousness to exact her undoubtedly creative revenge.
---
Garrick awoke to the unfamiliar sensation of a soft mattress beneath him, starkly contrasting the rough embrace of the village dirt he last remembered. Confusion reigned supreme as his senses slowly came back online. His eyes, traitors to the cause of clarity, refused to adjust quickly to the dimly lit surroundings, presenting him with a blurry smudge of vision that his imagination promptly filled with the worst possible occupant: the bog witch.
The sound of clinking and clattering from what his muddled brain assumed was the kitchen sent a jolt of panic through him.
This is it, he thought, She's going to stew me. Probably add carrots. I always knew I'd end up as a side dish to root vegetables.
As his eyes begrudgingly cooperated, the room's details began to sharpen, revealing not the dank den of a witch he'd envisioned but a quaint, somewhat cozy one-room cottage. The panic that had seized him began to ebb, replaced by a cautious curiosity.
Witches don't do quaint, he reasoned, remembering the dark, dank den he'd been tricked into.
Not for nothing, this specification did a fantastic job of bolstering his spirits. The logic, at least, felt sound, given the circumstances.
The figure in the kitchen area moved with a purpose, the silhouette too solid and mundane to belong to the spectral menace of his fears. As Garrick's vision finally cleared, he realized with relieved embarrassment that the supposed bog witch was actually a young woman. As she turned to face him, he noticed that she was very, very pretty.
Well, I suppose this world isn't so bad… he considered. The woman had honey-colored hair that fell in coils beneath a wide-brimmed sun hat, covering her ears and part of her brow.
Odd to wear indoors, he thought to himself.
However, the rest of her outfit seemed to be just eclectic. She wore a sleeveless shirt adorned with buttons, each one seemingly from a different set, olive green pants that looked both comfortable and oddly formal, and riding boots that seemed well-worn.
Something else caught his eye: an array of tattoos that covered her arms and peeked from her neckline—each one telling a story he was suddenly very curious about.
Seeing his interest, the woman raised an eyebrow and smirked.
"Welcome back to the waking world," she said, and her voice had a warm quality to it that was hard to describe exactly how, but made Garrick feel like it did to run through a meadow in the summer. An odd sensation.
"Oh, um…thank you?" Garrick said.
"How do you feel?" the woman asked, turning to lift something from a nearby table in the cramped little cottage.
He managed a slight thumbs up, but she scowled at the gesture.
Do they not know what that means here? Then Garrick panicked. What if that's an offensive symbol here?
“Oh…um! A little groggy, I suppose. Ho-how, um, long have I been out?” Garrick asked, his voice sounding strange to his own ears. He braced himself for the revelation that days had passed while he lay unconscious.
“About twenty minutes,” the woman replied with a nonchalant shrug. “You collapsed at the village gates. Made quite the entrance.”
"Guh!? Twenty minutes?" Garrick's cheeks warmed with a sheepish flush realizing the sound he'd made. “Sorry about the trouble. I thought…well, you see…um, there was a…bog witch…?”
“Calm down,” she interjected, her tone light but firm. She handed him a mug filled with a steaming brew that smelled of herbs and something Garrick couldn’t quite place. “Drink this."
Garrick blinked.
"W-what is it?"
The woman snorted.
"It’s just tea. No bog witches involved, I promise.”
Garrick eyed the mug hesitantly, memories of his last encounter with tea—leading to his unceremonious arrival in this village—flashing through his mind. Could bog witches use tea as a medium for transformation? Was this how they lured in their unsuspecting victims? His gaze shifted from the mug to the woman's amused expression.
She caught his wary look and laughed—a sound that seemed too genuine to belong to any creature of the dark marshes he'd feared mere moments ago.
“Should I be insulted?" she asked. "You look as though you find me suspect."
As if to emphasize the point, Garrick squinted at her.
"I'm not a bog witch, if that's what you're thinking," the woman said. "Trust me, if I were, you’d be in a pot by now, not lying on my guest bed. Besides, everyone knows bog witches prefer mint tea.”
She winked at him.
The absurdity of the situation, her joke, and the realization that he was probably safe—for now—coaxed a reluctant chuckle out of Garrick. He took a cautious sip of the tea, finding it surprisingly pleasant and grounding.
Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.
"Cinnamon?" he asked.
"And honey," she said, sitting down in a chair opposite the bed. She crossed her legs, taking a sip of the tea and looking him over.
So, they don't have thumbs up…but, they have both of those ingredients here, Garrick considered thoughtfully. Good to know.
“So,” he ventured, trying to grasp at any semblance of normalcy, “if you’re not a bog witch, then who are you?”
"Juliane," she said. "Juliane Nightbloom. And how about you? What's your name, handsome?"
Handsome? Garrick wondered. I've never been called that before. Is this some kind of scam?
He took a breath.
Right, I've got a different name now. Better to go with that until I truly figure out what's going on.
"Garrick…" he said, still unsure of how it sounded to say out loud. Kind of silly, really.
"That it?" she wondered, smirking. "No surname? Just…Garrick?"
"Guh…I mean, yeah," he said, wincing. "Guess so."
"Alright, then, Garrick," she said. "Well, why don't you tell me what happened to you?" She paused, looking him up and down. "I mean, what happened to you after you arrived in this world."
"What?!" Garrick shouted, spilling his tea.
---
Somrstad 12th, 924 F.L.
(Present)
(Early afternoon)
"This is it," Dashiell said, leaning down after peeking out behind a bush. "The ruins."
Dashiell's announcement hung in the air, his nervousness barely contained as he crouched behind the foliage. The group, hidden behind a large boulder, exchanged wary glances, understanding the gravity of the situation. Two Marrow Ogres guarding an entrance was no minor detail, Garrick knew—it suggested something valuable or dangerous, possibly both, hidden within those ancient stones.
They'd been asked to investigate the happenings within these ruins - nameless and forgotten by most, it seemed - as part of their first assignment as a fully-staffed Guardian unit. There'd been little information, according to Dashiell, about what precisely they were to come up against, though Garrick found the mystery of it quite refreshing.
Nothing like a puzzle to start off a new job, he mused. He adjusted his pack, ensuring the sleeping Ember was still within, and took a quick stock of his new companions. Everyone was there, save for Quell. The unknown individual between the sheets had remained behind, which was its own mystery.
Perhaps he's only around for nighttime excursions?
Kerd cracked his knuckles with a grin.
"Two Marrows? Sounds like a warm-up exercise."
Fran, however, was quick to temper his enthusiasm.
"Marrow Ogres aren't strategic," she said solemnly.
Dashiell nodded.
"That is true enough," he said, his eyes wandering back over the bush to the ruins. "If they're guarding the ruins, it means someone—or something—else is likely pulling the strings. But what?"
"Hobgoblins?" Fran offered. "They're cunning enough for this sort of task."
Dashiell's gaze found Garrick, as if hoping to quietly confirm the information.
Doesn't want to look incompetent on his first outing as unit leader, I suppose, the old man considered. Fair enough. I won't let you look a fool, young Montrose.
His years of experience (and gentle mantle nudging) informed him that Fran's assessment was spot on, so Garrick nodded ever-so-slightly in agreement. Dashiell looked relieved.
"Hobgoblins it is, then," the young man said.
"Hobgoblins do enjoy their schemes," Kerd said. "And Marrows? Well, they're just the brawn to the hobgoblins' brains."
"Like you and Fran!" Georgina said, smirking. "'Cept Fran's both the mind and the muscle, ain't she?"
Kerd chuckled.
"Aye, and I'm the eye candy!" he said, flexing a colossal bicep.
Dashiell, absorbing the insights of his more seasoned companions—and Kerd—looked thoughtful.
"So, we're potentially dealing with a small army," he said. "Ogres at the front, hobgoblins orchestrating from the shadows. Any suggestions on how we approach this?"
"Chop 'em down?" Kerd offered. "Direct route."
Fran shook her head, but before she could say anything, Garrick, who'd been leaning against the boulder, spoke.
"If I may make a suggestion?"
The others nodded, eager to hear what the old man recommended.
"Stealth might be our best initial approach," he explained. "Ogres aren't known for their keen senses, but hobgoblins? They're a different tale. We'll need to be quiet and quick."
Garrick could feel all of the mantles present within the radius of the ruin, and knew there were precisely eleven creatures inside. Three Marrow Ogres, seven hobgoblins and one…something-or-other that registered as hardly even Foundation Sphere. However, none of the others seemed to have been able to tell.
It won't do to just tell them that, Garrick thought, casting a glance at Dashiell. They're still developing in their own right. Better to guide gently. Stealth is always the option when you don't have the information you need yet.
Beatrix's face appeared in his mind's eye, and he smiled.
Georgina, who had been quietly knitting what appeared to be a remarkably sturdy piece of tactical gear, piped up.
"I could set up a few distractions. My knit 'plosives have never failed to cause a bit of chaos."
Dashiell's eyes widened.
"Knit…plosives?"
"Never underestimate the element of surprise," she replied with a wink.
"I do not know if…chaos is precisely what we're aiming to achieve, Georgina…"
Dashiell hesitated, glancing towards Garrick for guidance. The old man subtly shook his head, signaling a preference against the use of Georgina's unique arsenal for this operation. Understanding the silent counsel, Dashiell turned back to the group, his resolve firmed.
"If Garrick suggests stealth, then stealth it shall be," he declared. Georgina shrugged.
"Suit y'self, Dash."
Then she turned to Garrick.
"Oi, geezer, how do you know so much about ogres and that?" she asked.
Garrick chuckled, his eyes twinkling with the mirth of countless untold stories.
"When you get as old as me, you tend to pick up a thing or two about the less savory characters of the world. Plus, I've had my fair share of run-ins with both ogres and hobgoblins. Let's just say, it's always better to sneak past a sleeping giant than to wake it up for a chat."
Georgina seemed baffled by this, and Garrick had to admit, the metaphor was a bit loose, but altogether, he thought it might have the appearance of sound sagedom.
Dashiell nodded, apparently appreciating the wisdom in Garrick's words.
"It is imperative that we dispatch an individual to clandestinely survey the ruins," he began. "The objective is twofold: ascertain the number of individuals within and discern the purpose behind their occupancy. Given that the road is to be built within two miles of this location, the presence of hobgoblin and Marrow Ogre activities in close proximity would be problematic. This remains true even in the eventuality that their intentions may prove to be benign."
"Benign?" Kerd wondered.
"Means 'harmless,'" Georgina said.
"Aye, I know that," Kerd said. "Just confused considering the subject matter."
"Whatcha mean, Kerd?" Georgina asked.
"He means to say that rarely are ogre or hobgoblin activities 'harmless,'" Fran explained.
"Yeah," Kerd said, nodding. "That."
Dashiell nodded in agreement as well.
"True, both ogrekind and hobgoblinkind tend toward maliciousness, but it is our job to gather facts first, regardless."
Garrick felt a swell of pride at Dashiell's mature approach.
"Well, if we need someone to sneak in…" Kerd started, letting it hang in the air.
The group then turned their attention to the eighth member of the Golden Lion, who had been unusually quiet. Standing a few yards away, his gaze fixed on an invisible spot in space, his hands waving through the air as if scrolling through an unseen interface, was a strikingly handsome man. His attire, while mirroring that of his companions with its blend of leather and cloth, carried a peculiar touch. Tweaks and refinements that were largely inconsequential to their function. His overcoat was cinched asymmetrically, his boots polished to a shine uncommon outside of ceremonial guards and the original brown laces replaced by yellow and green. His hair, though cut short for practicality, bore an unintentional tousle, as if a concoction of some kind had been worked through it to achieve that perfectly disheveled look—a rogue's charm that was both out of place and striking. On his wrist, he wore a simple leather strap, seemingly decorative, though worn very specifically, as if to suggest some greater purpose.
"Tadanius!" Dashiell hiss-whispered. However, this man, with his unique mode of style, apparently did not hear him as there was no reaction.
Dashiell sighed.
"Tadanius!" he tried again, louder but still cautious of their need for silence. The group exchanged confused glances as seconds ticked by in silence.
Suddenly, Kufko was next to the distracted member, gently nudging him. Blinking away his confusion, the man seemed to snap back to reality. He turned, his face breaking into a broad grin, and aimed finger guns at the group.
Well, if his bizarre ensemble wasn't enough of a giveaway, Garrick thought. That definitely is.
In fact, upon meeting Tadanius, who had inexplicably earned the byname of Riftwalker, inside the yurt, the first thing he had done in greeting Garrick was unload several imaginary bullets from said digit projectiles. This had solidified his status, at least to Garrick, of his genesis from a previous world.
Fortunately, Tadanius—or 'Tad' as he'd encouraged others to refer to him—seemed blissfully unaware of the faux pas he was enacting simply by misunderstanding the world around him. In Garrick's estimation (of which he'd had little time to formulate due to only knowing him a few short hours) Tad was a well-meaning and disarmingly charming soul, though, not given to the quickest of wits. However, Garrick found that so far, he'd shown that he was rich in heart.
"Oi, ya beautiful dolt," Georgina barked. "Joining us on this plane anytime soon?"
"Ah, dang, caught me in the middle of...well, never mind that," Tad chuckled, shaking off his preoccupation. "What's the plan, team?"
Dashiell, momentarily thrown off by the abrupt shift in focus, quickly gathered his thoughts.
"We're going with a stealth approach, Tad. We need to get a lay of the ruins and understand our enemy's numbers and intentions. Can you take point?"
The grin on Tad's face widened.
"Stealth, huh? That's my middle name."
Instantly, Tad lifted a hand and disappeared from sight. Garrick felt the rush of astara as this happened, and couldn't help but smirk.
Well, suppose there's no time like the present.
"Alright, time for sneaking!" Tad said, entirely invisible. "You guys just leave it to me!"