Having tucked the writhing Fiend embryo safely—or as safely as one could—into his Satchel of Infinite Slots, Garrick turned back to the matter at hand. The hobgoblins, eyes wide and jittery, watched him approach, the yarn binding them rustling softly.

"Right. What to do with you lot, hm?" he mused aloud, more to himself than to the group bound before him. The rest of his companions stood a little ways off, giving him the floor.

Thoughts of Albright bubbled into his mind again, and a pang of sadness hit him. The hobgoblin had taught him much about his people's complexity, values, and honor codes.

Garrick cleared his throat, addressing the captive hobgoblins with a stern but fair tone.

"I'm invoking Grassaga," he announced. "Choose one of your number to come along with us. The rest of you are to head back to wherever you came from. Stay away from ruins, dubious hat-wearing men, suspicious rolls of parchment, and mighty ladies—or anyone else offering glory and power, for that matter. Do we have an agreement?"

The hobgoblins nodded eagerly, relief washing over their grimy faces.

With the matter of the hobgoblins settled Garrick turned his attention back to the rest of the group.

"Dashiell?"

"Wait," Kerd said, scratching his chin.

The others turned to him.

"We just fit to pretend we all know what 'Grab'n'go' means?"

"Ah, it is 'Grassaga,'" Garrick corrected.

"'S'what I meant, sir," Kerd said. "Besides the point—I'm a Warden, and while I don't claim to be the most worldly sort, I'm not precisely ignorant—"

Georgina snorted.

"—despite some contrary anecdotes," Kerd continued. "I mean no disrespect; I just ain't ever heard of it. You lot know what it is? Fran?"

"I…do not," Fran admitted.

Georgina shrugged. Tad shook his head. Dashiell looked embarrassed. Kufko polished his claws.

"So…" Kerd began, considering. "Nobody knows what it means, save for our venerable…sir, uh, Garrick, here."

He glanced cautiously at the old man, the kind laden with respect yet tinged with the awkwardness of a pupil tiptoeing around a teacher's authority, eager for clarity yet wary of seeming insolent.

"I don't think it's anything nefarious or the like—I just want to round out my knowledge before acting on anything."

Garrick nodded, a sensation of pride bubbling up in him.

Very good, Kerd, he thought. Always clarify, and never be satisfied just because someone seems confident.

"I'm glad to hear it," Garrick said, smiling. "I appreciate your thirst for lucidity, Kerd—"

"Aye, I don't know that word either," Kerd chuckled, trying to break his own tension.

"Oi, you're an inconsistent git, innit?" Georgina wondered. "Knowin' some thousand-trice words and blanking on the small change."

"Vocabulary is a journey," Tad offered with a big grin.

"Bet yours is a perilous' un then, eh?" Georgina returned.

Alright, this is getting dangerously close to a tangent, Garrick thought. Better refocus.

"Very well, Kerd," Garrick continued, gesturing to the collection of hobgoblins still—for the moment—on the dais. "Grassaga is, I'll assume you've contextualized, a hobgoblin word. Though its meaning isn't precisely simple. It is more of an understanding among their tribes. Grassaga means 'gift,' but of a specific concept. And is a gift, indeed—of passage or mercy given to those who find themselves at a disadvantage. It's a tradition of granting an enemy a chance to leave unharmed after capture."

Garrick gestured to Kerd.

"Similar to the Hantorza detention rules…though, the name escapes me," he said.

Kerd nodded.

"Vlyka dren," he said in his native tongue. "Fair enough. So, we're letting 'em go after all this trouble and taking one for the road?"

"Despite them tryin' to kill us?" Georgina wondered.

"Well, if we're splitting hairs," Tad started, rubbing the sides of his head where the plane devourer had nearly wrenched him into squishy remains, "we tried to kill them right back, didn't we?"

"Point to you, ya great bruised peach," Georgina said. "Suppose it's all the better—killin' captured prisoners sits bad with me—hobs' r otherwise. Merely taking stock of the temperature. So…is that what we're doing?"

Garrick was about to speak but then paused.

I suppose I shouldn't overstep, he caught himself, realizing he was falling into an old habit of doing whatever he thought was the correct action.

"Young Montrose?" he asked, turning to their leader. "I'll defer to you."

Dashiell considered this seriously, and Garrick watched as he let his eyes drift along each of the hobgoblin's faces. After glancing back at Garrick, then to Fran, and finally Kerd, he nodded.

"It's a sound idea," he said. "If we consider this matter strategically, keeping one hobgoblin for further questioning while releasing the others under…Grassaga makes sense," he began, his voice steady and reasoned. "We're not barbarians—killing them could simply inflame their kin and lead to further conflicts. We can still glean valuable insights from the one who stays, potentially more about their operations and the figures involved in this 'Marvelous Ritual.'"

He turned to Garrick then, his brow furrowed.

"Sir," he began. "This Grassaga sounds noble enough; however, are the terms absolutely watertight? Can they wriggle free from it somehow?"

Garrick chuckled, his eyes twinkling with the kind of mirth that comes from seeing a young mind at work.

"Ah, Mr. Montrose, an excellent question. Grassaga is as binding as the roots of the oldest yew tree. To violate this pact is to forfeit the gift of life itself. It's considered a supreme betrayal, punishable by nothing less than death. Quite dramatic, really."

"Then," Dashiell began. "One might assume that releasing the others under such a well-respected hobgoblin tradition not only ensures they spread the word about our mercy and fairness but also binds them to a code. If they break it, their own laws condemn them, not just our actions."

Garrick nodded appreciatively, impressed by Dashiell's grasp of tactics and diplomacy's subtler arts.

"Exactly," he agreed. "It also leaves the door open for future cooperation or at least non-aggression should we encounter any later. We establish ourselves not as enemies but as formidable, honorable folks who respect their customs."

Dashiell's expression lightened with understanding, and he gave a short nod.

"Very well, that settles it then. If it is a tradition with such weight, we shall honor it. Let us hope they do the same."

With the group's consensus tacitly reached through nods and the occasional grunt of approval, Garrick felt another warm surge of pride—not just for the peace they'd brokered but for the leadership Dashiell was growing into.

Good on you, Young Montrose.

Dashiell clapped his hands, ready to take charge.

"Right then, let's sweep the area. Kufko and Georgina take the east tunnel, Kerd and Fran the west. I'll take the north with Tad."

Garrick nodded.

"Would you mind if I headed back up top, then? Want to make sure Ember is quite alright."

Dashiell beamed.

"Of course, sir," he said. "And thank you. Will you escort the hobgoblin we're bringing along?"

Garrick looked back at the creatures still yarned to the dickens, save for their leader, who'd done all the talking. He turned back to Dashiell.

"As you wish, Mr. Montrose—the one with the earring, then?"

"Seems the best option," he said.

The team dispersed to their respective duties while Garrick, hobgoblin trudging behind, ambled past the ogre Kerd had transformed into a slumbering mound of muscle and regret through the liberal application of knuckle sandwiches. The ogre was stretched out on the cavern floor, snores booming like a sleepy thunderstorm.

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A chuckle escaped him as he continued past the two other ogres at the entrance. They, too, were asleep, bundled up in yarn nets, looking for all the world like a pair of grumpy, oversized naptime caterpillars.

Emerging into the evening air, Garrick took a deep breath, the scent of the wild scrubland sweeping away the last of the cavern's musty embrace. He relished the return to the surface, where the horizon was already preparing its nightly blaze of colors.

Guess we'd been in there longer than I realized, he thought.

He wandered back to the large boulder where he'd left Ember and their belongings. As he rounded the stone, the sight that greeted him brought an involuntary smile to his face. There, amidst the remnants of their hastily abandoned lunch and assortment of bags, was Ember. The little fox was sprawled out, one ear cocked towards any potential intruders, the other pressed flat against her head in relaxation, yet her eyes snapped open at his approach.

At the sight of Garrick, Ember's demeanor shifted from guardian to jubilant pet. She bounded up, tumbling over herself in her eagerness to greet him, rolling around at his feet in a display of joyful acrobatics. Garrick laughed, the sound echoing lightly against the stone, and scooped her up, settling her comfortably on his shoulder.

"Seems our things have been made safe," he said, scratching under her chin.

However, he noticed that her eyes had found the newcomer, the hobgoblin with the earring, and she was peering at him as though he was a bizarre curiosity.

"Ember," he said. "I know I've told you it's impolite to stare."

He shifted in place to draw her attention somewhere else. Still, even when he turned one-hundred-eighty degrees, she pivoted as well, her gaze upon the stranger unyielding.

Well, better to deploy a different tactic, he thought, sighing.

"This," he said to Ember, nodding towards the hobgoblin, "is what we might call an unintentional friend."

Ember blinked at the creature but did not show signs of fear or aggression, which Garrick reasoned was always good. He considered Ember quite perceptive, which lent some weight to the idea that the hobgoblin was likely not as sinister as one might've assumed.

The hobgoblin gave a cautious nod in response. Garrick's curiosity piqued; he realized he hadn't yet asked for the hobgoblin's name.

"Ah, how rude of me," Garrick began, "I haven't made true introductions, my friend. I am Garrick, and this little gal is Ember. And you? What are you call—"

But his words were cut short as he caught sight of something on the horizon—a flash, perhaps, or a shift in the light.

"Apologies," he said, his attention now fixed on a distant point beyond the rolling hills. "Hold that thought."

What now? He thought, a familiar itch of curiosity settling upon him.

The movement solidified into the silhouette of a figure on the crest of the nearest hill, distinct against the fading light of the sunset.

Ever attuned to the whims of fate and the peculiar tick of happenstance, Garrick muttered to himself, "Of course, just when you think you can catch your breath, the world decides you're too idle."

He glanced at Ember, who was still perched attentively on his shoulder, then down at the hobgoblin, who seemed to be absorbing his new perspective with a stoic resignation.

"Ember," he addressed the fox softly, "could you look after our guest briefly? I promise this won't take long."

Ember responded with a tilt of her head and a gentle puff of air from her nostrils. An affectionate snort that Garrick took to mean she'd accepted her duty.

Satisfied, or as much as one could be in such bizarre circumstances, Garrick gently set Ember down on the grass. Her tail gave a few brisk wags as she positioned herself between the hobgoblin and the path Garrick intended to take.

He then reached into the collar of his shirt, fingers brushing against the cool surface of the tortoiseshell talisman hidden there. He pushed his intent into the object, and suddenly, the landscape around him blurred—the colors of dusk stretching and bending in ways that would have startled anyone less accustomed to the oddities of such a remarkable object.

In a heartbeat, Garrick found himself standing atop the hill he had just been observing from afar, some half-mile away from where he'd been moments ago. The air here was cooler, the wind carrying whispers of nightfall and the rustle of grass underfoot.

As he stood there, taking in the breeze that swept over the hill, his gaze locked onto the figure before him. Taller than himself, with a willowy frame that seemed to blend into the surroundings as if she were a part of them. Her attire, layers of sheer materials, fluttered with each movement, creating an effect akin to ink swirling gracefully in water. Her hair, long and honey-colored, was artfully bound with an assortment of baubles and metal beads that caught the last dying light of the day, twinkling like distant stars.

But her face arrested Garrick the most—transcending the ordinary limits of features to become something beyond this world. She wasn't so much beautiful as she was beauty. Her features were a perfect symphony of elegance, and her eyes—deep pools of violet with hints of blue and green—seemed to hold entire universes within them. Though they had met many times before, each encounter with her felt like a rediscovery of something extraordinary. Indeed, Garrick suspected that even if this had been their first encounter, he would have known her origins immediately.

She was a goddess.

"Rozmera," Garrick greeted her with an easy smile. "To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?"

This better not be about Vash…

Rozmera returned his smile with one of her own, which seemed to hold a tranquility so profound it could still the world around them. When she spoke, her voice was as calm and ageless as the earth itself.

"Garrick, it is always where the fabric of our plane wrinkles that my interest peaks," she began, her gaze piercing yet soft.

Garrick nodded, his assumption confirmed.

"I take it then that this has to do with the plane devourer's almost-introduction into this world?"

"Why yes," she said. "Though, I would not need to approach for such a mundane misadventure. The events within those ruins have caught more than just my attention."

Garrick did not like the sound of that.

This seems like something leading up to quite the headache.

"So," he said slowly, choosing his words carefully. "It's not just the creature itself but those who set these events into motion, as well as the...guest currently residing in my satchel?"

His hand subconsciously touched the part of his satchel where the Fiend embryo was safely tucked away.

Rozmera laughed, a sound as melodious as it was filled with a gentle warmth.

"Indeed."

"Do you know where it came from, then?" Garrick asked. "The embryo, I mean to say. Doesn't seem like something that could just slip through the gate between worlds unnoticed."

Rozmera seemed to consider this—or perhaps, more likely, considering what she was willing to reveal. After a moment, she sighed.

"I must confess to you, the great W—"

She paused.

"…apologies, I sometimes forget how these things work. Garrick," she corrected, and the old man felt a knot relax in his stomach. "The genesis of that particular embryo is as much a mystery to me as to you. I would have been aware if it had arrived through the usual channels."

Her eyes briefly flitted towards the direction of the boulder where Ember and the hobgoblin awaited, her smile tinged with a hint of something solemn.

"Sadly, not all that transpires within this plane falls within my gaze."

Garrick waited a moment before asking, "Then why appear to me now?"

She turned back to him.

"I am sorry. What do you mean, Garrick?"

Garrick snorted, shaking his head.

"Don't tell me Felrathor is rubbing off on you," he teased. "The last thing we need is someone turning into him—a carbon copy of the god of invention and snarky comments. I know you aren't a deity that likes to pretend your motives are too smart for mere mortals to comprehend, Rozmera. So, if you're chatting with me now, you want something."

Rather than look offended, Rozemera seemed altogether pleased. She even winked at him.

"What would you ask of me, Rozmera? I am, as you know, retired. And surely far too old to be mucking about on the gods' behalf again."

Her laughter rang out again, light and clear.

"Oh, Garrick, are you not already on a quest this very moment?" She gestured subtly toward the valley below, where his companions were likely still managing the aftermath of their encounter.

He shrugged, a half-smile forming.

"I'd call it more of an 'extended errand,' really."

Rozmera's expression softened, and she stepped closer, her presence as commanding as it was serene.

"Sometimes, it is the smallest errands that lead us on the greatest journeys, old friend. Do remember that."

He snorted.

"Does that usually work on other folks? Dropping cryptic gems of wisdom like 'even the mightiest feasts begin with a messy kitchen,' or, 'a pebble in the boot is worth two in the brook?'"

He raised an eyebrow playfully.

"It does sound profound, I'll grant you that. But Rozmera, if we're starting to trade in platitudes, I'll assume you're just here for a bother."

Rozmera laughed, a sound rich and full.

"Garrick, I fear you have been spending far too much time with Vashlord," she said, eliciting a groan from the old man. "Some appreciate the nudge wrapped in an enigma. But for you, I'll strive for straightforwardness. How's that?"

"It is appreciated," he said. "So, what is it?"

Rozmera's gaze, unflinching yet filled with ancient wisdom, met Garrick's as she detailed her request.

"I have, as you have surmised, a task for you—a short but significant endeavor," she said, her voice carrying the gentle but firm tone of one accustomed to being both heard and heeded. "I need you to gather information from the hobgoblin in your care. Discover what you can about those who empowered them to summon a plane devourer. We must understand who is pulling the strings behind such dangerous manipulations."

She paused, allowing her words to sink in before continuing.

"Furthermore, I want you to investigate the origin of the scroll they used. Where did it come from, and how did it come into their possession?"

"So, you want me to play the scribe and spy, gathering tales from a hobgoblin?" Garrick asked, his tone tinged with mock exasperation but underlined by genuine intrigue.

"Precisely," Rozmera confirmed with a nod, her expression earnest. "The details he knows about those who empowered him could unveil much about the forces at play here."

Garrick scratched his chin, mulling over the thought.

"And the scroll—the one with all the pomp and unfortunate circumstance—why not just take a peek yourself? You're a goddess, after all. Can't you just…astara at it with the flick of a wrist?"

Rozmera smiled, a graceful shrug accompanying her response.

"Once more, you know as well as I do, Garrick. My role as a planar steward restricts me from interfering directly. Physical interactions, especially with artifacts of power, could skew the path they're meant to take. Especially when it might muddy the cultivated efforts of another power."

"Ah, you think another deity's hand might be stirring this pot?" Garrick arched an eyebrow, assuming he was catching her drift.

"Perhaps. The seal on that scroll carries a symbol—one you should find most curious," she hinted, her eyes glinting with a knowing spark. "So…will you accept this qu—"

She caught herself.

"…task from me, ye old Garrick?"

With a theatrical sigh, Garrick bowed slightly.

"Don't much like the 'ye old' bit—fairly certain I'm essentially an egg compared to…" he trailed off as he saw her look, the closest thing to a warning gaze he'd ever received from her. Instead, he said, "What I mean to say is...anything for the Goddess Who Guards The Plane."

Rozmera's laugh was light, like the chime of distant bells.

"Thank you, Garrick. Your efforts are more helpful than you might guess. I shall await your findings with bated breath."

She raised an eyebrow.

"Before I forget," she said. "Give Vashlord my best."

That's a worrisome missive, Garrick thought.

"I, uh…will do, Rozmera. Thank you."

With a final nod and a smile that seemed to linger in the air even as her form faded, Rozmera disappeared, leaving Garrick alone on the hilltop with the wind as his only companion.

After a moment's pause to enjoy the solitude—a rare luxury of late—Garrick's mind circled back to Rozmera's mention of a symbol. Curiosity, that ever-persistent gnaw at his sense of peace, guided his hands to the bag where he'd stashed the scroll. He withdrew it, handling the aged parchment with a reverence borne of both respect and a well-honed habit of caution.

Unfurling the scroll just enough to expose the seal, Garrick's eyes narrowed as he took in the familiar emblem embedded in the wax.

A cold shiver ran down his spine, not from the evening chill but from recognizing what this symbol implied.

He should have noticed it earlier; should have been more observant. This oversight wasn't just a lapse; it was a missed warning.

And I might've been better off to see the Young Montrose's reaction, as well…

The symbol depicted a coffin—a simple, unadorned representation of the eternal rest, yet unmistakably the insignia of the Necromancer of the Bleak.

"Well, that's two times," he said to himself. "One more, and I'll start worrying."

Though, despite what he said, Garrick had started to worry. Started to worry a whole lot.