Tad's scream cut through the cavern, shrill and raw. The monstrous grip of the plane devourer tightened—relentless, crushing. Tad struggled, his face contorted in agony, but the creature's iron clasp was unyielding, fingers like steel vices digging into his skull. The air crackled with fear, thick with the stench of dread and the heavy miasma of extraplanar power. The plane devourer began dragging the young man toward the narrow rift.

Garrick couldn't help but be reminded of something else. Something altogether familiar and awful.

The battlefield echoed with her screams as the creature's gaping maw drew closer. Garrick’s heart raced, his feet frozen in place, terror rooting him to the spot. Her eyes, wide with horror, met his, a silent plea etched in her gaze as the shadows swallowed her whole. The sound of her voice, calling out for him. The agony, the pain, the fear. He was unable to do anything. Couldn't move. Couldn't react. Couldn't scream. Helpless to do anything but watch.

You have failed to protect her, his thoughts screamed. You stupid, fool! You've ruined a life.

Garrick's heart pounded, a surge of adrenal rage flooding his veins. He couldn't do anything before…but he could now.

Not today.

In one swift, decisive movement, Garrick lunged forward, his arm shooting out to seize the creature's wrist. His fingers locked around it, grip as firm as bedrock.

The response was instantaneous. A harrowing crack, like old winter timber splintering under force, filled the chamber. Garrick's iron hold had fractured the creature's limb. An unearthly howl of pain burst forth from the rift, so intense it seemed to freeze the chaos in place.

The plane devourer's hand went limp, its grip on Tad loosening. The young man stumbled backward, gasping for air, his face marked by deep bruises that would likely turn into a spectrum of dark colors by morning. His eyes, deeply bloodshot and filled with broken vessels were wide with shock, and met Garrick's, who gave him a nod of reassurance. But it wasn't done. Not yet.

"Finish it, Tad! Close the rift, now!" Garrick commanded, his voice more harsh than usual. The old man held onto the creature's wrist still, his grip unyielding, crushing, ensuring it could not attempt another grab.

Tad, though shaken, nodded and turned back to the grim task. His hands, previously trembling, now moved with renewed purpose. This was the most impressive part, in Garrick's estimation. Despite having just been manhandled to within an inch of his life, Tad seemed fortified by the experience, rather than dissuaded. Sharpened and focused—perhaps inspired by Garrick's timely intervention and likely driven by the need to prevent any further attacks, he fixated intently on the rift.

With a final, desperate push, Tad's efforts bore fruit. The rift began to narrow, the light dimming as the edges drew closer together. The screams of the plane devourer raged on, the sound distorted and weakening as the gap in reality shrank.

Finally, with a sound like a thunderclap, the rift sealed shut. The sudden silence was deafening, the absence of the plane devourer's roars leaving a ringing in their ears. The arm, still in Garrick's grasp had been lopped off—severed by the closing of the portal.

Tad collapsed to his knees, exhausted but alive. His breaths came in heavy gasps, but he managed a weak smile.

"Did it..." he panted, looking up at Garrick with gratitude and relief.

Garrick released the now immaterial wrist, stepping back with a weary sigh as it flopped to the dais with a wet plop.

"Well done, Tad," he said, offering the young man a hand to help him to his feet. "Well done indeed."

Silence fell over the chamber, broken only by the heavy breathing of the Golden Lion and the soft whimpers of the now-captured hobgoblins. Tad, looking worse-for-wear but still triumphant, turned to Garrick with a sheepish grin.

"Like closing a door, huh?"

Garrick couldn't help but smile back, relief washing over him.

"Exactly, Tad. Just like closing a door."

With the rift now decisively shut, a sort of precarious calm settled over the chamber. The hobgoblins, much subdued and noticeably less jubilant than moments before, had been efficiently rounded up and trussed up in Georgina's yarn, which seemed to have a knack for snugness that went beyond mere physical restraint. Positioned off to the side of the dais, they resembled a rather sorry collection of misfit toys, their earlier malevolence replaced by an air of dejected resignation.

Garrick, his brow furrowed in contemplation, cast a wary glance at the Fiend embryo still undulating subtly at the center of the platform. It pulsated with a slow, rhythmic menace. He watched it for a few moments, the gears in his mind turning as he considered their next steps. The thing was like a bad penny, or perhaps more accurately, a particularly disagreeable cat that not only came back but refused to leave the porch.

A sudden crash shattered the atmosphere. Through the cavern's entrance barreled a Marrow Ogre's massive form, thudding onto the stone floor with the finality of a felled tree. Following this unexpected entrance, a bloodied (yet unmistakably pleased) Kerd strode in, dusting off his hands as if he had just finished a routine day’s work. The side of his face sported a gigantic, purpling bruise, a badge of the brawl he had evidently enjoyed.

The ogre on the ground stirred, laboriously flipping onto its back. It let out a booming cheer, albeit exhausted, seemingly content with its inability to move.

"Ha! What a brawl!" Kerd exclaimed, his voice booming with satisfaction. "It’s been ages since I’ve had a punch-up that good! A real, bone-rattling scrap—just what I…"

He paused, his eyes sweeping across the cavern, taking in the disarray and the battered state of his companions.

"Wait a moment," he said slowly, his gaze settling on the remnants of the fight and the bound hobgoblins. "What did I miss?"

The answer to his question lay scattered around the chamber—a hodgepodgery of chaos and near disaster that had unfolded in his brief absence. The hobgoblins, now securely bound by Georgina's expertly spun yarn nets, sat dejectedly to one side of the dais, while the rest of the Golden Lion tended to their respective tasks, regaining their composure after the near catastrophic events.

Garrick couldn't help but find a grim sort of humor in Kerd’s awed comment.

"Only a minor scuffle with a plane devourer, nothing too out of the ordinary" he replied, the corners of his mouth twitching upwards as he gestured towards the area the rift had occupied and the debris of their confrontation.

Kerd’s eyes widened slightly as he took in the sight of Tad, bruised and bloodshot but alive, and the remnants of what had almost been an utter disaster. Shaking his head in disbelief, Kerd clapped, sending a small cloud of dust into the air.

"Well, s'pose that beats my tussle with the ogre," he said with a chuckle, then walked over to join Garrick, slapping him on the back with a grin. "Good thing you lot were here to handle the real monster!"

Garrick nodded.

"Yes, though…I'd imagine your ogre was certainly no small feat."

The Marrow Ogre on his back on the ground still hadn't stood up.

"Ah, small parsnips in comparison!" Kerd boomed. "Oh, Tad—"

Kerd reached into his belt and removed a cherry-red bottle containing sloshing liquid.

"You'll wanna get that fixed up, right?"

He tossed the bottle to the other-worlder, but Tad didn't see it coming, and instead it collided with his chest, causing him to wince. Kufko, however, was there with the assist, blurring into being and catching the bottle before it hit the ground.

"Good on ya, Kufko!" Kerd said, in a way that made it sound very much like he'd planned it that way. "Can you make sure ol' Tad, there, drinks that up?"

Kufko sighed and uncorked the bottle, handing it to Riftwalker, who accepted it gratefully.

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"What potion is that?" Garrick asked Kerd.

Kerd shrugged.

"'Mending two-bit hurts' potion…or sommat," he said.

"Trifling Wounds Restorative," Fran corrected.

"Yeah, that's the one," Kerd explained. "Usually slam a dram myself after a scuffle, but…little guy seems like he'd do better by it."

"And you'll be alright?" Dashiell asked, looking the big man up and down.

"Oh, don't you worry about Kerd," Kerd said, gesturing to himself with a finger. "Built sturdy, remember?"

"Yes, well—" Garrick said, examining him. "Sturdy or not, you may want to take one if you've got one—as you never know what could be injured beneath the surface."

"If you're talkin' 'bout his brain, that's long cooked," Georgina offered. "Be a waste of good tincture, I'd say."

She offered Kerd a grin.

Garrick sighed.

Meanwhile, Fran finally took the lead in interrogating their captives. She loomed over the hobgoblins, her presence imposing despite her not being particularly tall. The hobgoblins, their bodies cocooned in the tight embrace of Georgina's yarn, looked every bit the part of defeated invaders, crushed under the weight of their situation.

One hobgoblin, distinguishable from his peers by his notably less filthy robe (which was only moderately soiled) and a single, conspicuously ornate earring that dangled with the promise of ill-gotten gains, seemed to draw the fearful glances of his comrades. It was clear who their ringleader was, and Fran, with a nod of understanding, directed her attention to him.

Carefully peeling the yarn away from his mouth with the precision of a surgeon—or a butcher, depending on one’s perspective—Fran fixed him with a gaze that could have easily peeled paint from walls.

"Don't even think about calling any Chants," she warned, her voice low and dangerous.

Her hand rested nonchalantly on the handle of her war club, which she wielded with the casual familiarity of a hiker with a favorite walking stick.

The hobgoblin, his eyes wide, gulped audibly and nodded, clearly aware that any attempt to speak in the language of astara would likely be his last.

"What were you lot trying to do here?" Fran demanded, her tone brooking no nonsense. "Were you trying to summon that—" She paused, her expression betraying a momentary loss for words.

"Plane devourer," Garrick supplied helpfully from the background, his tone dry.

"Plane devourer," Fran repeated, fixing the hobgoblin with a stare that invited no evasion.

The hobgoblin shook his head, the motion jerky and anxious. Then, in a hesitant, raspy voice that carried the distinct melody of 'broken Bastion'—a dialect peculiar to those who learned the lingua franca under duress—he began to explain.

"No, no, great lady, we do Marvelous Ritual! Yes, Marvelous!" His voice cracked, the adjective hanging in the air like an ill-fitting garment.

"A Marvelous Ritual…" Fran repeated skeptically, her eyebrow arching in a manner that suggested she found nothing marvelous about their current predicament.

"Yes, yes," the hobgoblin hurried to affirm, his earring swinging with his vigorous nodding. "Very Marvelous! We think... open gate to great power! Not this... not devour-thing."

His eyes darted toward the closed rift, and he shuddered.

Garrick stepped closer, his interest piqued.

"And who, pray tell, gave you the notion you could control such forces?"

The hobgoblin's eyes flicked between his captors, weighing his options before resigning himself to his fate.

"Man in hat, lady with power—give old scroll. Say we can bring glory to clan! We follow words... words tricky, yes?"

"Tricky indeed," Garrick muttered, rubbing his chin thoughtfully.

Old scroll…hatted man…powerful woman…

While he didn't know the specifics of who or what these were, the scenario was all too familiar: Ambition outstripping ability.

"Aye, and where'd y'get the worm, eh?" Georgina demanded, pointing to the Fiend embryo. "Discount meat from a merchant?"

"Powerful lady give baby monster…" the hobgoblin leader said, "and hat man give how-to-use."

Garrick and the others exchanged concerned looks.

So, this was all set up, likely with this particular outcome in mind, Garrick thought.

"Do you still have the scroll?" he asked the hobgoblin aloud.

The hobgoblin, now visibly shrinking under the collective gaze of the Golden Lion, glanced towards the pile of belongings pushed against the far wall of the cavern.

"There."

Garrick followed his gaze. It was a motley collection of items that spoke volumes of the hobgoblins' lengthy tenure in these ruins. Amongst the heap lay scattered tattered cloaks, a few rusted blades, a broken lantern, and an assortment of other miscellaneous bric-a-brac that one might expect to find in the possession of creatures fond of scavenging and less fond of cleanliness. Most prominently, atop this pile, sat a large, crudely fashioned chest that seemed to promise more than just physical treasures.

Knowing that was the likely stowaway-zone, Garrick nodded towards Dashiell. The two of them made their way over to the belongings, treading carefully. Experience had taught Garrick that anything could be trapped, especially when dealing with hobgoblins, a race renowned not just for their cunning but for their love of nasty surprises.

They reached the pile and began a methodical search, their movements deliberate, ensuring each shift of material was gentle enough not to trigger any latent enchantments or traps.

As they sifted through the relics, Garrick's gaze drifted to the cavern's vastness, the uneven, jagged walls speckled with mineral deposits that twinkled like distant stars, and the uneven ground that hinted at deep, unexplored tunnels and forgotten paths. There was more to it, however. Sprite Etchings covered one lone stretch of wall, looking as though they'd been hastily carved and stained with black and green ink. He let his eyes wander over the script as it crept into the distant shadows. He squinted when he thought he noticed something else. There, almost swallowed by the gloom, stood a tall pillar of something metallic, stark against the surrounding darkness. It eerily reminded him of the detritus Levi/Tate had been dragging back to Respite—ominous and unexplained.

Maybe I'll go check it out before we leave this place, he thought. If there's time.

The chest, as it turned out, was not locked—a rarity in itself which suggested either haste in its abandonment…or a trap. Dashiell paused, looking to Garrick, who merely nodded.

"Suppose if there is a trap," Dashiell said, "then we shall discover it together."

Garrick chuckled, causing Dashiell to raise an eyebrow.

"As noble and heroic as that sentiment is," Garrick said. "I think we've had enough surprises today, don't you?"

Dashiell frowned sheepishly.

"Well, I suppose…"

Garrick's eyes darted to Kufko once, and then back to Dashiell in silent acknowledgement.

"Oh!" the young Montrose exclaimed, then nodded. "I see, yes! Excellent."

He turned to find the feleuk sharpening his claws with a file—something that seemed to be a favorite activity.

"Kufko!" Dashiell called, and the lynx-eared man turned to him.

"Would you have a moment to examine this chest for traps?"

"Oh, just bash it in!" Kerd called from the dais. "That'll stop most ambuscades."

Georgina wheeled on the big man.

"Am-busk-ayd?" she pronounced slowly. "Where'd you find a big word like that?"

"Heard a bandit say it," Kerd said with a shrug.

"We're not bashing a trapped chest," Fran asserted.

"Allegedly trapped," Georgina corrected.

Fran leveled a steely gaze on her for a moment. Georgina scoffed and snorted laughter.

"Real intimidating," she chuckled.

Fran turned toward Kufko.

"Kufko, assist Dashiell, please. I'd like this to be…"

She trailed off as Kufko was no longer where he'd been and was instead already crouching in front of the chest, holding his hand out and scanning it with astara. After a moment, he stood back up and gave Dashiell a nod.

Despite the confirmation, Dashiell lifted the lid slowly, his body tensed for any sign of danger.

It opened without issue.

"Ha! Pay up, y'great dunder!" Georgina shouted at Kerd, who sighed and withdrew several copper trices from his coin purse.

"You wagered on whether or not it was trapped?" Fran wondered.

"Gotta do something," Kerd shrugged. "The fightings is over—best I can tell. May as well make it interesting."

Inside the chest, Garrick saw that amid a clutter of less significant trinkets, lay an old scroll, its edges frayed and the leather that bound it cracked with age. This was undoubtedly the source of the hobgoblins' ritual.

"Well, here it is," Dashiell breathed. "At least we can confirm one aspect of their story."

He nodded to Fran.

Back at the hobgoblin's impromptu yarn prison, Fran had unpaused her interrogation, now armed with the knowledge of the scroll's existence.

"These…individuals, they told you to use the scroll to summon a 'power' through the rift?" she asked firmly.

The hobgoblin nodded vigorously, the earring swaying comically with the motion.

"Y-yes, yes, great lady! Say summon big power, bring glory to clan! We read, we Chant, we summon!" The creature's voice held a trace of pride, which swiftly gave way to fear as it added, "Not know it bring...that."

Its gaze flickered towards where the rift had been, its body shuddering.

Fran, satisfied with this confirmation, turned her stern gaze to Garrick and Dashiell as they returned, the scroll in hand.

Dashiell's eyes met the gloam elf's as he gestured to the hobgoblins.

"Seems we have their nefarious tool. But now comes the task of deciding what to do about it," he said. "And how to ensure such a thing doesn't happen again."

Fran nodded, her expression contemplative.

"We'll need to bring this back—to authorities than can study this, and see if there's more to it than just what these hobgoblins stumbled upon."

Garrick agreed, his mind already working through the possibilities of what secrets the scroll might hold. But first, there was the matter of the still undulating Fiend embryo.

"And we have something else to contend with," he murmured, casting a wary glance at the pulsating mass on the platform.

If this thing is here, then what other Fiendish machinations have remained on this plane?

"First thing is first," Dashiell announced, turning to address the group. "We secure this place, ensure no further surprises await us, and then decide our next move with this."

He gestured to the scroll, now safely secured under Garrick's arm.

"But let us be thorough—"

"Right," interjected Georgina. "Doubt we're out o' the woods yet—not by a long shot."

With the immediate threat neutralized and the hobgoblins under control, it was time to deal with the aftermath and the implications of what had transpired. The Fiend embryo, still undulating ominously on the platform, drew Garrick’s gaze once more. Its slow, rhythmic pulsing was like the beat of a war drum, subtle yet foreboding. He moved closer to it, stooping down to give it a good once-over. He noticed that as he observed, the creature slowly crept toward him until it was sliding over his boot.

I could kick it into the wall, Garrick considered. But, we might need to figure out where this thing came from. Fiends were supposed to be completely gone from this plane…

Then he remembered another issue. Time.

I hope Ember's alright out there.

He hated to leave her all alone.

"Well, then," Georgina announced. "I dunno about you fine folk, but I have just about had my fill of this cavern, so mayhap we should scram."

There was a general nod of agreement.

Garrick, feeling as though he was going to regret the decision, picked up the Fiend embryo.

This is too dangerous to leave or kill, he thought, shaking his head. Fortunately, I know just the person to give me some insight into this whole mess.

He examined the creature for a moment longer, his lip curling up in disgust—primarily from not-so-fond memories—but then he stuffed the writhing creature into his Satchel of Infinite Slots.

"Right," he said once he was finished, turning to the hobgoblins. "What to do with you lot, hm?"