As the shadows deepened into the velvety embrace of the evening, the boulder-strewn campsite transformed into a hub of activity, each member of the Golden Lion settling into their respective pre-sleep rituals with the comfort of old habits.

For Garrick, that meant cooking. As such, he was sat in front of his favorite road-worn receptacle (which he'd placed on a crackling fire) preparing the ingredients to make egg flower soup—courtesy of an unexpectedly generous contribution of eggs that Kerd had inexplicably brought along with him. He glanced to his right to see the looming specter of their group's resident non-giant giant.

However, Kerd's idea of cooking was less involved, content to watch Garrick stir the pot with awe and hunger in his eyes.

"Is it ready yet?" he wondered, his gaze fixed.

Garrick chuckled.

"Why, Mr. Kerd, my good man, it hasn't even begun."

This caused a heavy frown to form on the Hantorza tribesman's face.

"Worst part about cookings is the waitings," he said glumly. "Works up my appetite."

Under the watchful gaze of the evening stars, Garrick continued the heartfelt task of preparing the soup.

He's liable to eat the entire pot if I don't hurry it along.

He chuckled at the thought while carefully pouring a clear, savory broth from a well-worn waterskin into the pot.

My special stock of stock, he mused.

As he waited, he looked up to see what the other team members were up to.

In her practical way, Fran was weaving protection Chants around the camp's perimeter, a task that involved her scribbling symbols into the dirt with the seriousness of a provincial tax auditor. Each rune glowed briefly as if checking itself for errors before settling into a faint shimmer. It formed an invisible fence that even the most boorish of night creatures would think twice about crossing.

Nearby, Kufko was deeply engrossed in sorting through the eclectic assortment of items they'd salvaged from the ruins. His collection ranged from rusted armor pieces to curious, unidentifiable gadgets that even Garrick had to admit were puzzling. Each item was examined with a scholar's intensity, occasionally interrupted by the feleuk's astaran scans.

Dashiell sat with his field ledger open on his lap, his pen dancing across the pages as he recorded the day's events. The meticulous detailing of their encounters would no doubt serve as valuable entries in the annals of their adventures—or, at the very least, make for an entertaining read at some dusty tavern.

On the other side of the campfire, Georgina was knitting—her needles clicking rhythmically—while her eyes darted between her yarn and Kerd.

"You lean any closer, and it's singed whiskers for supper," she teased.

Kerd, in response, grinned.

"Least I'd be eating already," he said.

"It is the process that makes the food worthwhile," Garrick said, almost as though he was an instructor making note of the finer points of his craft. "Which can take a bit of time. Though, as far as preparation goes, this is a quicker meal."

"I don't mind bad-tasting eats," Kerd said, shaking his head. "Long as it's edible, I'm satisfied."

"Oi, he'd gulp down a vipertongue if we'd let him," Georgina said to Garrick.

"Gladly," Kerd said. "Vipertongues make for spicy stews. Mind the fangs, though."

Ember sat perched on a nearby rock, her gaze locked on the hobgoblin who had yet to settle into the group's dynamic (which, as one could point out, is difficult to do when your presence is compulsory). The earringed hob, for his part, fidgeted under her scrutiny, clearly unsure what to make of his small, furry bailiff. His discomfort was palpable, a silent dance of glances between the fox, the flames, and what Garrick could only assume was his existential dread occupying the middle distance.

Meanwhile, Tad was absorbed in tuning an instrument that seemed to Garrick to defy easy description. With a body shaped somewhat like a ukulele but strings that hummed with the ethereal twang of a harp, it was a curious, spindly thing. He plunked the strings as he cranked the tuners, trying to match the pitch with his voice while...not succeeding.

With the broth beginning to murmur softly, Garrick reached into his collection of provisions. From a small, neatly tied bundle of cloth, he produced a handful of dried herbs—sprigs of thyme, rosemary, and a few leaves of wild sage, both from his personal stash of emergency seasonings. However, considering they'd just waylaid the doom of the entire plane a short while ago, he thought it was a cause worth celebrating. He didn't mind the contribution—though it got an old song stuck in his head for some reason.

As the herbal fragrance began to meld with the broth, creating a robust and inviting base, Garrick cracked the eggs Kerd had provided—one by one—with a skill that spoke of long mornings spent over similar meals. He whisked them gently in a wooden bowl with a fork before pouring them into the simmering broth in a thin, steady stream. The eggs feathered into the liquid, forming delicate patterns that swirled and twisted like wind paths. Each stir of his spoon through the pot guided the eggs, transforming them into silken ribbons that danced through the golden broth.

The aroma of the egg flower soup, or as Kerd had dubbed it, 'baby chicken brew,' began to waft through the air. Garrick noticed a shift in everyone's demeanor as they caught the scent.

Turning into a pack of starved weasels, he considered. And I watched them all eat only a few hours ago.

As a finishing touch, Garrick added a pinch of salt, a fresh supply he'd picked up in Bellwater harvested from the Eastern Sea Cliffs, and a handful of finely chopped green onions, their scent sharp and inviting. The onions become delectably aromatic as they met the hot broth, their vibrant green slices floating amidst the egg ribbons, like leaves on a gentle stream.

Garrick finally nodded to Kerd.

"Alright, Kerd. The wait is over. You can—"

"SOUPS ON!" Kerd roared, his favorite pewter bowl, which was already in hand and waiting to be filled.

"Pipe down, will ya?" Georgina demanded from the other side of the fire. "Gonna wake all the nasty monsters, and then we'll be fighting 'em off 'til dawn."

"Dinner and a show, then?" Fran offered, returning from her task. She settled on a log beside Kerd, warming her hands by the fire.

"It'll be a right show, indeed," Kerd affirmed, already slurping up his portion of the soup. "Truth upon truth."

Everyone took a turn in front of the cookpot, drawing soup into their various vessels. Garrick waited until the end to have his own portion. When he finally had his first taste, he was delighted to find the soup of excellent quality.

"Ah…" he sighed contentedly.

"Sir Wreath," Kerd said, giving a pointed glance to the hobgoblin—who visibly tensed at being addressed. "You want some vittles?"

"Surith," the hobgoblin corrected.

"What?" Kerd wondered.

"Soo. Reeth," the hob pronounced slowly. "My name. Not what giant say."

This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

The gigantic man blinked. Then he gestured with his empty bowl to their detainee.

"Vittles?" he repeated.

"No good for me," Surith said, shaking his head. "Like meat."

"Ah, well, eggs are meat," Kerd said.

"What?" Georgina said, furrowing her brow and staring into her bowl. "No, they're not."

"Well, they're not a vegetable," Kerd said sagely. "So what else could they be?"

"There's more than just meat and vegetables in the world," Dashiell said, sipping soup from his spoon.

"Not for him, there isn't," Fran said. "The whole of Kerd's world can be divided down the middle between the two."

The gloam elf paused, placing her bowl on her lap and turning to her companion.

"For instance," she began. "Kerd, what would you say milk is?"

"That's an easy one," he said with a grin. "Meat."

"What about strawberries?" Dashiell asked, joining in.

"Vegetable," said Kerd.

"What about swords?" Tad asked, plucking a sour note on his stringed contraption.

Kerd stroked his chin, his brow furrowing in thought.

"That's a tricky one," he mused. "On account of it being both"

Georgina nearly choked on her soup, coughing into her sleeve.

"Both? How in the blazes is a sword both a meat and a vegetable?"

Kerd, unbothered by the disbelief, launched into his explanation confidently.

"See, it's simple, really," Kerd began, gesturing with his bowl and promptly sloshing its contents into the grass. "A sword, now, it's forged in fire—like cooking meat. You heat it up, bash it about, and temper it—tenderize it, right? That's the meat part, 'cause you sort of... cook it."

Dashiell pinched the bridge of his nose, a gesture of patience well practiced.

"And the vegetable?" Tad asked.

"Ah, well, that's the easy bit," Kerd continued, undeterred. "The metal comes from the earth, doesn't it? Mined from the deeps, like a carrot pulled from the ground. And just like vegetables, it starts as part of the earth. Earthy, you know."

Georgina snorted, "So, by that logic, everything on this planet is a vegetable."

"Right you are, Georgie," Kerd said. "…unless it happens to be meat."

"Fascinating…" Dashiell said disbelievingly, shaking his head.

"Blimey, ain't you a Warden?" Georgina breathed. "Your lot's s'posed to be good with nature things."

"Aye, but I leave all the categorizing to Fran," Kerd said. "Keeps things simpler."

"Well, that's a first," Georgina said sarcastically. "Kerd wants something simple."

"Speaking of firsts," Dashiell interjected, clearly attempting to change the subject, "this was our first official sortie as 'The Golden Lion'—at least as a full complement. Not a bad start, wouldn't you say?"

It could have gone better, Garrick considered. But, I suppose it also could have gone much, much worse. They're due a bit of self-congratulations.

A murmur of agreement circled the campfire until Kerd added, "Well, we're not, though. Hardly a full crew yet, aren't we?"

The group quieted a moment.

"Ah, right," Garrick said. "We're still missing Quell."

"Who?" Tad asked, but then a flash of realization crossed his face. "Oh, you mean the bed-bound guy? What's his deal? Didn't see him get up once—not even to use the john."

"Let's hope it stays that way," Georgina continued, her tone half jest, half earnest. "If he's with us, you know it's likely the apocalypse. Can't imagine anything less would drag him out from under those blankets."

"Here's to Quell, then," Garrick raised his bowl with a smile, "May his blankets keep him—and us—from doom."

There was a general clink of agreement amongst the Guardians of the Golden Lion as bowls kissed against one another.

Save for Kerd, who squinted at Tad.

"What's a 'jawn?'"

---

In the murky darkness of the yurt, two figures skulked about like wayward shadows.

"Are you sure this is a good idea?" whispered one, voice quivering slightly.

Pilfering from the tent of actual Guardians seemed less appealing with every stealthy step they took inside.

The other, brasher and evidently more committed to the cause, shrugged off his companion's doubts.

"The Guardians left on some fool mission ages ago. Chances are, they've met some heroic end. Think of this as...salvaging, not stealing."

The hesitant one wasn't convinced, his voice a soft echo in the cloth-walled enclosure.

"I thought they left this morning?"

"Aye, lad—as I said, ages ago," said the other. "Long enough to get gobbled up by whatever's out there. Big lizards, mayhap? Listen—this is just one small part of our master plan, right? Trust me, if they weren't back by supper, they're as good as done for."

"Yeah…" said the nervous thief, taking a deep breath. "Suppose that is quite a while. But, Norman, won't Pickleboy get mad if we're off doing…the gods know what? Goin' rogue, as it were?"

"You start usin' my true name," the daring thief began, "and only the gods will know where I bury you, ya puddin'-headed loudmouth. I told you, call me 'Bonehawk' when we're on the graft."

"Sorry, Bonehawk."

"Right—as for this Pickleboy nonsense…you just let me deal with him if the time comes."

"He's got that big axe, though."

"Aye, and you ever seen him use it?"

"Well, no…but it does have a bit of blood on the blade—intimidating, Pickleboy is."

"He's all mouth, Pickleboy—asides, even if he weren't, he ain't never gonna find out, is he, Weevil? Cuz I ain't gonna tell him. Is you?"

"Suppose not," Weevil admitted.

He was far too frightened of Pickleboy and his chief cronies to ever volunteer information like, 'We stole goods from your territory, boss.'

"…just seems a bit wrong, is all," Weevil continued.

Bonehawk scoffed.

"We're criminals, Weevil—thievin,' killin', breakin' the occasional window—wrong is what we do."

Weevil, however, did not see himself as a criminal—merely a temporarily inconvenienced upstanding citizen. He just needed a few good turns or a sudden spring of good luck and he knew he'd be back on the straight and narrow. Still, he didn't voice this to Norman—or, rather, Bonehawk—as the man was obsessed with whatever score he could muster.

Including this folly.

Their conversation—built from ethical gymnastics and justifications—continued as they rummaged through the Guardians' belongings. Every whisper and shuffle seemed amplified under the yurt's domed ceiling, a conspiracy of sounds against the silence.

"Sure is a lot of yarn," observed Weevil, pushing aside mountains of the stuff.

"Aye, Weevil," Bonehawk said—he was nodding, but it was too dark to know that. "That's on account of their expendable income, innit? Heard these Guardians make loads o' trices a day. They ain't gonna miss a few trinkets, coppers, or odds and ends."

Toooooooot!

"What was that?" Weevil demanded, spinning in place in the darkness.

"What was what, ya fool?"

"That…that…tooting sound? You didn't hear it?"

"Tooting?" Bonehawk wondered. "Like breaking wind? I'll admit, coulda been me. Sally—I mean…Mrs. Bonehawk, made blood sausages for dinner."

"She did? That's a boon, mate. Wish I had your luck. Wife and all that."

"Why you always saying that, Weevil? Havin' a wife is a usual thing."

Aye, but not that wife... Weevil sighed.

Then, attempting to change the subject, he hastily added, "My supper was part of a pomegranate I found in the cemetery."

"Your life is a tragedy, Weevil."

"Why do you think I'm doing this?"

"Fair 'nough. What was all that about tooting, then?"

"Thought I heard a toot, is all. Might've been the wind, though. Or perhaps a distant teapot?"

Just then, Weevil—the nervous thief's—foot nudged something solid under one of the rugged, makeshift beds. He stooped, squinting.

"Hey, what's this?"

Hidden beneath a low bed frame was a medium-sized object, a box of some consequence, its surface adorned with a glossy, intricate coating of the variety that shimmered with an eerie glow. It definitely looked out of place. This was all visible despite there not being much light in the yurt, so late as it was.

"Looks like it's got enchanted preservation paint on it," Bonehawk announced, a note of triumph in his voice as he recognized the sheen.

"Preservation paint?" The skeptical thief frowned, inching closer. "And how would you know that?"

"A pamphlet," he said without elaborating.

"Ah," Weevil intonated. "Whatcha think is in it?"

"Good stuff, got to be," Bonehawk guessed, rapping lightly on the chest with his knuckles. "Quality wood, too. I'd say…aged pine."

He sniffed the air near the chest. His eyes—though nearly invisible—widened.

"From the mountains even! Wandered quite a way from home, eh? What a find! Bet whatever's in it is worth all the hassle."

But Weevil felt a sudden sense of dread. He didn't know why or how, but he knew better than he knew the collection of moles on Mrs. Bonehawk's back that he was in immediate, terrible danger.

We shouldn't be in here…

Despite the feeling, however, the allure of the chest was undeniable. They prepared to pry it open, each aware that they might discover something meant to remain sealed by those far more heroic than themselves. In fact, they were so absorbed in their task that they didn't even notice when a blanket was peeled back from a bed and tossed to the floor.

Suddenly, the eerie stillness shattered. Bonehawk, ever the braver—or perhaps more foolish—of the pair, vanished with a startled yelp that was abruptly cut off as if someone had turned off noise by simply pulling a lever. One moment he was there, the next, gone, leaving behind a void where his husky voice had just filled the air with bravado.

Weevil's heart kicked against his chest like a trapped beast. Panic clawed at his throat as he spun around in the gloom, his eyes straining to see anything in the near-complete darkness.

"B-bonehawk…?" he whispered. "…Norman?"

Silence, thick and unyielding, was his only answer.

Weevil's thoughts raced—should he flee? Could he flee? The darkness around him seemed to thicken, coiling like a tangible force. He stepped back, his mind screaming to run, but his legs were pillars of salt.

Then, it happened. An invisible power, as cold as the space between stars, gripped him. It was an impossible strength, one that bore no hint of physicality yet felt as if an iron band had clamped around him. Weevil gasped, air slicing into his lungs like a knife.

He tried to scream, to call out into the void for anyone, anything, but the sound was smothered as swiftly as it began. His body was not his own to command anymore. The unseen grip tightened, a harbinger of unseen horrors, snuffing out his cries in the blanket of night.

And then, just like that, the world around Weevil went silent, his scream cut off mid-echo, leaving a chilling stillness as his last sensory companion. A bed frame groaned in protest as though something had settled back into it.

Now at rest again, the yurt waited patiently for the dawn, indifferent to the fates decided under its watch.