Printemps 1st, 878 F.L.
(46 years ago)
Garrick, Vash, Claudette, and the elf, Dolorian—who appeared to have mistaken a muscle-building potion for his morning tea—scrambled out of a crater vast enough to host its own postal code. They emerged covered in soot and singed around the edges, looking like toast scraps from a giant's breakfast. The air around them was a cocktail of smoke and dust, causing them to cough and sputter with each breath—a chorus of hacking that intermittently punctuated the silence.
Their clothes, charred and frayed, fluttered like tattered flags of defeat, yet their spirits remained unbroken, if a bit wheezy. As they stumbled away from the epicenter, the ground beneath them still vibrated with residual astara tickling the soles of their smoke-blackened boots and making their steps wobble like newborn goats.
As they stood, regaining their bearings, a thunderous roar echoed from the depths of the crater. They turned just in time to witness a colossal astaran explosion—blue and purple light spiraled skyward in a vivid tornadic column. Garrick, despite the ordeal they'd just been manhandled by, couldn't help but think it reminiscent of old videos of nuclear explosions he had seen once in school.
They shielded their eyes as the light flared, casting their long, heroic shadows behind them like dark promises. When the spectacle subsided, leaving only the smoke and a ringing silence, they turned to each other.
Claudette, her golden hair mussed into a standing position, clutched a sack that bulged with mysterious, possibly perilous contents. Vash attempted to dust off his cloak to no avail—his gestures grand and futile, like a maestro trying to conduct a symphony in a sandstorm.
"That was...one hell of a battle," Garrick observed, the understatement hanging in the air almost as thick as the smoke from their skirmish.
They then turned to Dolorian who stood head and shoulders above them—a towering figure with jet-black hair who loomed menacingly.
Garrick gestured towards the elf and asked, "What should we do with him?"
"Perhaps we should kill him?" Vash suggested with a shrug.
Garrick wrinkled his nose at the suggestion.
"I don't think we should kill prisoners of war," he said, his voice tinged with moral fatigue. "Pretty sure that's frowned upon."
"Ah, but, Garrick, my friend—since this was technically only a battle and not a full-scale war," Vash countered, unable to resist a dramatic pause, "maybe we could just kill him a little?"
"He is the whole reason we're in this mess, Garrickle-spickle," Claudette explained, hefting her sack.
"Well, yeah…" Garrick began, at a loss with these two. "But…doesn't that mean we should take him before a…I dunno, a tribunal or something?"
Vash glanced around the crater's vast, desolate expanse with an exaggerated squint, as if expecting a courthouse to materialize from the rubble.
"Tribunal, you say? My dear Garrick, unless you're hiding a barrister under that rather smoky skirt of yours, I'm afraid we're fresh out of legal counsel. And let us not forget—we are in Zotto. More specifically, the wilds of Zotto, where the most formal assembly we might encounter is a gathering of opinionated rocks."
Garrick opened his mouth to object, the outline of a well-reasoned argument forming, but Claudette cut in with the nonchalance of someone commenting on the weather.
"He's getting away."
They all turned as one. Sure enough, the muscular elf, taking full advantage of their philosophical diversions, was sprinting for his life across the barren landscape, his overdeveloped muscles glistening with a mix of sweat and residual astara.
"Well, that's unhelpful," Garrick muttered, watching the elf disappear into a cloud of dust.
"He won't get far," Vash said with a tilt of his head. "He used up the last of his astara when he summoned that queen vulpid back, and if he's from Fable—as the wanted poster explained, then I don't think he's prepared for the climate."
He squinted after the man.
"Ah. I think he stopped to catch his breath."
Then he turned to Claudette.
"My lovely Claudette," he said. "What is in your fine sack?"
"I stole her eggs," the elf woman said.
"Whose?"
"Keshveminy," she declared, using the monstrous fox's name.
"Vulpids lay eggs?" Vash wondered, clearly stunned. "My word. What are you going to do with them? Breakfast?"
"Sell 'em, maybe," she said with a shrug. "Haven't decided yet. I'm sure they'll net a pretty sum of trices, though, whatever I fix to do. These things are quite rare."
Garrick sighed.
"Guess I'm the one who has to retrieve our captive?"
Vash and Claudette looked at him and then back at one another.
"You're the one who wants him alive," Claudette said.
"Wait, aren't you both elfish?" Garrick wondered. "Wouldn't killing him be, like, not cool to do to family?"
"Ha!" she sputtered. "Listen to you, Garrick. I thought you were more worldly than that! Family, he says. He's an ash elf."
Garrick blinked at her.
"How…t-truly? You don't know the difference?" she demanded. "I'm a bloom elf, you sooty little speciesist. We're no more related than you and Vashlord."
"A charming thought," Vash said, looking Garrick up-and-down disdainfully.
Garrick sighed again, and looked out to where he'd last seen Dolorian. Sure enough, he was bent over, hands on knees—a smoky silhouette struggling to draw air into his lungs. Garrick rolled his eyes at his two companions and activated Flicker Jump. In less than a moment, he was standing next to the heaving tower of elfish muscle.
"Alright," he said. "You made a valiant escape…attempt—but you've still got to come with us, man."
"I've…nothin' to offer…the likes of you, human," he spat, still attempting to catch his breath.
"That's not true," Garrick said. "You'll offer a lot of people back in Bastion and Fable peace of mind when you're thrown in a dungeon for your crimes. Plus, you still haven't told us how you were able to control Keshveminy—I can think of a lot of folk who'd be interested in that particular detail."
His friend Kilbourn's face bubbled up into his mind.
He'd be salivating at learning even a morsel of knowledge about that—especially if it was some kind of Chant.
Dolorian froze, then slowly looked up at Garrick. Disturbingly, he was smiling—and Garrick regretted saying anything to him. Then he started to laugh. Loud and booming, he wheezed as he did so, shaking his head.
"Something funny, Mr. Captured?" Garrick asked.
Dolorian's laughter tapered into a manic grin as he straightened up to his full imposing height, towering over Garrick. The smile did not reach his eyes, which glinted with what Garrick had to believe was pretend madness.
"Your choice of words, human," he said, his tone mocking, yet oddly intrigued.
Garrick, unmoved by the theatrics, merely stood his ground.
"What are you talking about?" Garrick said, his tone flat.
Dolorian shook his head slowly, as if explaining something painfully obvious to a particularly slow child.
"No one can control a vulpid," he declared with a dismissive snort. "I served Keshveminy. And I delighted in my thralldom. Even with her being vanquished—which was only achieved because you caught her in the midst of her weakest moment—she can never truly die."
"Is that so?" Garrick wondered. "Well, can you tell me why you served this vulpid? Did she ask you to perform all of the chaos you enacted on her behalf?"
Dolorian nodded, still grinning.
"I would do anything she asked of me. For her intellect is far greater and more vast than you could ever hope to understand. Vulpids are more intelligent than any of the foolish creatures that call themselves humanoids. More cunning than death dragons."
He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, even as his expression remained theatrically grand.
"A vulpid does precisely what it wants. The rest of the world must simply bow to its will."
---
Somrstad 13th, 924 F.L.
(Present)
"Perhaps we should all take a beat and look at this issue more closely."
Ember, displaying a commendable mastery of the art of snarling, faced off against Sir Callifery. In truth, Garrick had never seen her like this before. It was an uncomfortable and (if he was really delving deep into himself) worrisome reaction. In the tension-filled space of the tent, Ember's stance had escalated from merely protective to downright formidable. Her tail was now more rigidly arched, her fur bristled as if electrified, and her fangs were so fiercely bared they could have scratched the air itself. The illusory flames that swirled around her had intensified, their red and blue hues merging into a mesmerizing, almost hypnotic dance of light and shadow that played ominously against the tent walls. The growl that rumbled from her throat was deeper, more resonant than before; it didn't just fill the yurt, it seemed to shake its very foundations.
Garrick, observing this, felt a knot tighten in his chest. Ember's display, while spectacular and full of primal fury, was also a clear signal that the situation was teetering on the edge of something disastrous. Her protective instincts were now pushing towards a threshold that could only create more issues.
If he didn't intervene now, he could see this possibly leading to irreversible consequences.
Surgemaster's scowl lingered ominously, as if it were an unwanted guest that had decided to overstay its welcome. He only observed Ember for a moment longer and then, thankfully, the man turned around. As the former vice-captain pivoted to Garrick, his facial expressions waltzed through surprise, recognition, and then settled into a frown so deep it could have doubled as a trench.
"You," he uttered, injecting a lifetime of disdain into a single syllable as though it were a particularly distasteful curse.
Garrick caught the quick spark of recognition in Sir Callifery's eyes and tilted his head slightly, a silent, quizzical gesture towards Dashiell, who appeared as if he might prefer being anywhere else in the realm than here.
"Sir Callifery," Garrick ventured, "might we put a temporary pause on this delightful exchange with the young Montrose? I'd cherish a moment of your time."
He paused.
"…Privately."
Callifery, gearing up to object, found himself preempted by Garrick’s calm, authoritative interruption.
"Ember, could you please escort Surith outside and wait for me?" he asked, as though he were asking her to pass the salt rather than escort a terrified hobgoblin out of a tent.
Surgemaster clamped his mouth shut, his eyes darting from Garrick to the hobgoblin and back again, as if recalculating his approach.
Garrick added soothingly, "Just for a moment, of course."
It was as though light had suddenly broken through stormy clouds. Ember's countenance suddenly shifted, the snarl dispersing, her astaran flame going out instantly. Suddenly, she was once more the plucky—though far less dangerous—vulpid from moments before.
She and I are going to have to discuss this, Garrick thought.
Dashiell, with a look that smacked of terrified relief, made himself scarce, slipping out of the tent after Ember and Surith, who was being gently prodded along by Ember’s insistent nipping. Garrick observed the welt on Dashiell's face again, holding back the blossom of anger that began to grow in the pit of his stomach.
Easy, now, he thought to himself. Let's get information first. I need to get all my ducks in a row and not embroil myself in things further than I have.
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Once the tent flap fluttered shut, sealing them in a cocoon of awkward solitude, Garrick noted the undisturbed pile of blankets that was Quell.
Seems nothing can really drag him out from under those, can it? Garrick thought.
Now alone with Surgemaster, Garrick turned to face him fully. Sir Callifery's sneer settled back into place as quickly as it had been briefly dislodged by surprise. He chuckled—a dry, humorless sound that echoed slightly off the canvas walls of the tent.
"Think you can just commandeer this tent, eh? Demand things?" he queried, his tone dripping with condescension.
Garrick, unfazed, merely adjusted his stance slightly, the picture of politeness in a rather impolite situation.
"I did ask respectfully, Sir Callifery," he reminded him with a lightness that bordered on cheerfulness. "And as acting commander of this outfit, you are, of course, entirely within your rights to dress me down as you see fit for my insubordination."
At this, Callifery's snarl reminded him of Ember's from mere moments ago. He straightened up as if to remind the empty room (and perhaps himself) of his full imposing height. Garrick felt it as suddenly, Callifery began to project his mantle around the yurt, letting it stretch and swell in a clear attempt to intimidate. The energy filled the space, and Garrick caught the weave of deep orange with splashes of red—High Tower Sphere Realm.
Impressive, Garrick thought wryly. Callifery is on a fast track to becoming quite a formidable pup someday.
Garrick chose not to react outwardly. Instead, he allowed Surgemaster's mantle to wash over him, crashing against the old man's steadfastness—like a fresh wavelet at low tide against an ancient rocky cliff face—before pooling at his feet like a puddle of unwanted threat.
"I know who you are," Callifery declared, his voice thick with implication.
Garrick raised an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth twitching upward in what might have been the beginning of a smirk.
"Oh?" he responded, drawing the word out slightly.
Let's see where this dance leads us, Sir Albert Callifery, he thought. I do know the steps quite well.
"Yeah," Surgemaster said. "And I know that you probably think yourself some big, ferocious presence in this camp."
"Quite the opposite, Sir Callifery," Garrick said. "I'd like nothing more than to be a backdrop character. Scene dressing, if you will."
Sir Callifery's sneer deepened as he leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a biting whisper that was almost theatrical in its contempt.
"Heard of your exploits," he said, his eyelids narrowing to slits as he scrutinized Garrick with a squint of accusation. "Always muddying up the waters, interloping where you aren't wanted, flexing what remains of your supposed abilities."
He straightened, allowing his mantle to swell further, as if trying to physically overshadow Garrick with his presence.
"I feel as though that caricature is a little unkind, actu—"
"The old guard," Surgemaster spat the words as if it left a foul taste in his mouth. "You lot think yourselves beyond reproach, don't you? Spent the last few decades gallivanting around the realms, meddling in affairs that are well beyond your grasp, under the guise of some grandiose, self-appointed mission."
Garrick hadn't heard the term 'old guard' in quite some time. It had a connotation to it—out-dated adventurers from back in the Age of Beacons.
This new crop are committing the same sins they accuse us of, he thought, and we did the same to our predecessors. Generations never change, do they?
Surgemaster's voice grew louder, more fervent, as if he were addressing a crowd rather than a single man.
"You wrap yourselves in cloaks of righteousness, believing yourselves to be the saviors of our times. But what are you really? Just relics of a bygone era, clinging to outdated ideals and powers that have no place in the modern world."
Callifery paced a few steps.
"You mossbacks disrupt the delicate balance we true Beacons strive so hard to maintain, instigating chaos under the pretense of 'greater good.' But let's be clear," he turned sharply, his eyes piercing, "all you really do is complicate things for those of us Beacons who actually hold real responsibility."
He paused, as though allowing his words to sink in, or perhaps simply savoring the sharpness of his own rhetoric.
"Mossback?" Garrick chuckled. "That's a new one. I am forever amused by the inventiveness of the younger folk."
Garrick bit his lip apologetically.
"Ah, sorry to interrupt you, Sir Callifery—you were in the midst of my tongue lashing. Pardon the interruption; please continue."
"You think you're untouchable," Callifery continued, apparently unable to help himself from doing so, "that you can just waltz in and out of situations, leaving a trail of upheaval in your wake. But I see right through that. You're not the hero you believe yourself to be. You're just another problem I eventually have to clean up. Your lot…you left untold damage in your campaign to dampen the darkness—and we've inherited the trouble. Trouble we're still attempting to sort to this day while the rest of you rustblades kick back or die off."
As he finished his tirade, Callifery seemed almost to deflate slightly, his initial burst of energy giving way to a cold, simmering anger. He watched Garrick closely, as if gauging his reaction.
"Well, you don't sound very patriotic," Garrick suggested.
"I'm for realm and rule," Surgemaster said automatically—as he probably had thousands of times in his career. He paused then, his eyes finding the spot on Garrick's chest where his scar was hidden.
Ah, so that's it, Garrick considered. He thinks he knows my story.
"And I also know what the Fiend Lord—"
"Imperial Fiend Lord," Garrick corrected with a smile. "There is an important distinct—"
"Yes, well, I know what the Fiend did to your astara," Sir Callifery said. "Ripped away your source, didn't he? Brought you down a peg or two—even if it killed him."
Garrick placed a few fingers on his shirt above the wound.
"Ah. You have a point, Sir Callifery," he said softly, intentionally, his eyes never leaving the younger Beacon. "And I'd do it again—even if it means getting the business end of your wrathful lecture. We're better off, now, with Rasterion destroyed. I think even you could agree with that."
"Oh, don't mistake it," Callifery said with a raspy laugh. "I'm grateful to any of those who rid the world of that piss stain. That creature and its legions tore my hometown—Dameshall—to ribbons. But I also know how you relics tend to be with persons of authority…"
Dameshall… Garrick thought. That's a tiny hamlet. And I know only one other person from… Ah. I see.
"You clearly have me sized-up, Sir Callifery," Garrick said dryly. "You know…"
Garrick spread his arms out.
"I've only encountered one other Dameshaller," he said. "Sir Adario Kingsley. Did you know him?"
Sir Albert Callifery, Surgemaster, former vice-captain of the Viceroy's personal guard at Highcrown, suddenly took on a scornful expression, his face twisting into pure rage.
"What has he got to do with anything?" he hissed.
"Conversational icebreaker," Garrick said with a shrug. "I remember fighting alongside him at Torabin City. Of course, that was before the whole dastardly business. I'm sure I don't have to tell you, as you'd likely remember seeing as he was from your village."
Sir Kingsley had been a great and noble Beacon—one of the best as far as Garrick was concerned. His virtue and integrity were heralded far and wide and he was considered one of the "great hopes" of Dova. That was, of course, before he was found to be a traitor who'd—for reasons inexplicable—defected to the open arms of Rasterion the Imperial Fiend Lord.
Nearly lost us the Zealot Wars, Garrick recalled. Let's see how Sir Callifery reacts to this mention.
Surgemaster appeared to be beyond livid. He sputtered, his face pure scarlet as he forced air from his nostrils.
Badly, it seems.
"How dare you speak that bastard's name in my presence," Surgemaster growled. The man's mantle was a sudden bundle of chaos and Garrick could feel the increase in pressure—however irrelevant to himself—against his own will.
"Ah, apologies once more, Sir Callifery," Garrick began, as though he truly felt he'd bumbled his way into a mistake. "I was unaware of the sore wound saying anything would—"
Callifery was stomping toward the old man in a flash.
Is he going to attempt to hit me? Garrick wondered. That'll likely cause a very severe and painful end to his day.
Garrick was only barely contained himself, the mark on Dashiell's face still fresh in his mind. However, Surgemaster pulled himself up short right before Garrick and gestured accusatorily at the old man.
"How did you know?!" he demanded.
Garrick blinked.
"Know?" he asked, truly baffled by the question. "Know what, Sir Callifery?"
"Don't play the fool," Surgemaster spat, his brows furrowed into a steep, narrow fissure. "I know better than that. You know he was my half-brother, and you're attempting to unbalance me."
Half-brother? Well, he's half-right, Garrick mused, the inspiration of understanding dawning on him. I was absolutely trying to rattle his cage a bit, but I could only guess as to their connection.
Garrick regarded Sir Callifery with a calm, almost clinical detachment, as if he were observing the behavior of a particularly interesting species of bird.
"Curiosity, Sir Callifery, not chicanery," he finally clarified amiably, though his mind ticked through several less diplomatic responses that he kept to himself.
Sir Callifery, apparently, was not to be placated by such explanations, his mistrust seemingly as deeply ingrained as the lines that stress had etched into his face.
"Bullshite," he scoffed, dismissing Garrick's words with a wave as though to swat away the very notion of innocence. "Interlopers like you always have an angle. Always poking around where you're least wanted."
Garrick sighed softly, taking a single step back, his movements measured, as if retreating physically could somehow deescalate the expanding aura of contention.
"If I could offer some advice—you might benefit from easing your own stresses, Sir," Garrick suggested, a part of his mind genuinely concerned that the man might indeed give himself a stroke if he continued at this intensity.
"Ease my—"
"In any case," Garrick interrupted. He'd decided it was time to steer their dialogue to more productive shores.
"That's all beside the point, though," he said, adopting a tone of reasoned argument. "Your previous anger with the young Montrose was misplaced. It was my suggestion that the Golden Lion free the hobgoblins in the ruins after ensuring the grassaga—a term from their own lexicon, meaning they'd be released as valiant warriors who'd been defeated, never to bother us again."
Garrick paused, letting the information sink in before he continued.
"And furthermore, it was I who proposed we bring Surith, their leader, back to the project. As a demonstration of good faith and to glean any information about other settlements or ventures his kind might be involved in that could potentially delay our construction efforts. Any blame is to be placed squarely upon my moss-covered shoulders."
He watched Callifery closely, gauging his reaction to this new information, ready to defend his actions but hoping that the man might at least understand the strategic thinking behind them.
"Dashiell knows the rules," he said. "You may have suggested it, but I've place him in command of your unit. The blade falls on his neck for any malfeasance."
"Yes, but to be fair," Garrick said with a smile. "I am, as you say, a member of the old guard. How could one such as young Mr. Montrose—even with his elevated station—hope to withstand my wily nature? He's an impressionable youth, and I'm a surly and overbearing elder."
Garrick clapped his hands and it gave him no small amount of amusement that this caused Surgemaster to startle—if only slightly.
"If the truth needs to be known," he lied. "I strong-armed Mr. Montrose into the decision. So there you have it, Sir Callifery. I am your focal point for ire. I accept whatever punishment should come my way."
"You—"
Surgemaster had made to speak, but Garrick interrupted him once more, finally allowing a bit of the anger he'd felt before to surface. Rather than with his words, this interjection came from a sudden and aggressive dissolution of Sir Callifery's mantle, as Garrick dismissed it—batting it away like a pesky bug.
My astara may be gone to me, he thought. But my own mantle is still under my control.
Watching Sir Callifery's reaction to his dismissal of the mantle was akin to observing a candle suddenly snuffed out in a breezy room. The moment the imposing aura was pushed back into Surgemaster, Garrick could see the change. It was an awful sensation, having one's own mantle recoiled so abruptly and it was not to be done lightly. But sometimes, a point needed to be made.
Sir Callifery's face paled as if he had been struck by a sudden illness, a ghostly shade washing over his features as his own Sphere Realm's power was dominated and retracted. The visible confusion, the abruptness of the action, it all played out across his expression like a tragic play.
Then, as quickly as it had started, Garrick ceased his interference. The color returned to Callifery's face, and the man visibly slumped, catching himself on the wall out of a lingering sense of decorum, no doubt. Garrick fixed him with a stern gaze, the kind that said he was serious, but not without sympathy for the discomfort he'd caused.
"You…seek to punish me?" Callifery demanded, though his voice was raw and shaky. "To demonstrate some contest of wills?"
"This isn't about punishment, Sir Callifery," Garrick began, his voice calm but firm. "Nor any vain attempts to prop myself up. It's about understanding and perhaps recalibrating the approach to leadership and conflict."
He paused, allowing a moment for his words to sink in.
"Having one's mantle shoved back is unpleasant, I know. I've been on the receiving end more times than I care to count. It feels isolating, cold... as though one's very spirit has been dimmed. I did not do this to discipline you, but to show you the impact of your own forcefulness. You wield your power like a hammer, but not every situation is a nail."
Garrick's tone did not soften, however. His anger had been building and it was all he could do to control it.
"We are, all of us, navigating difficult waters. The young Montrose, the hobgoblins, even we seasoned folk," he continued, "we must all be aware of how our actions and energies affect others. It's not just about maintaining control or asserting dominance. It's about stewardship, guidance, and sometimes, knowing when to lead gently."
Sir Callifery, still regaining his composure, forced out a scoff.
"Ah, yes, let's hear your lecture old man. Tell me of your great gentleness when you've just skull-punched my mantle back into me. How very generous of you."
"You," Garrick said and he saw Surgemaster's body go rigid with the force of the word, "would do well to learn that those beneath your command are not to be commanded with a physical blow."
Then something strange happened. Surgemaster's eyes went wide—as one might when accused of wiping oneself with the monogramed hand towels after using the toilet. He screwed up his face indignantly.
"What?!" he demanded. "Physical blow? The only strikes any of my subordinates receive are in the training yard—and even then, I would never lower myself as to use enough strength to wound them."
Garrick, sensing that something was truly off with his understanding of the situation, felt the anger leaving him.
His mantle isn't showing he's lying. Either he's telling the truth or he's far more talented with his own mantle control than I gave him credit for.
Garrick was suddenly concerned that he'd jumped the gun with his assumptions.
What have you missed, you old fool? he admonished himself.
"The welt," he said. "The one on young Montrose's face. I recognize what a fist-created mark looks like, Sir Callifery. You're saying that was not you? There were only…"
He paused, remembering Quell's presence and choosing to dismiss that mention.
"…three of you in the room. Are you saying Surith struck him?"
"No," Surgemaster said severely.
"Then, I'm afraid I don't understand."
Sir Callifery sighed, gesturing to the spot where Dashiell had stood just a few minutes before.
"Dashiell is…an earnest young man," he began, appearing to choose his words carefully. "I do not know what you've gleaned from your interactions with him, but he has a curious…quirk."
Is he talking about the Marked Sigil? Garrick wondered.
"At times, and often with no warning," Surgemaster continued, "a rage overtakes Dashiell. It's a kind of fury-trance, as I've come to call it," Surgemaster explained, his voice tinged with both frustration and concern. "After skirmishes or heightened altercations, it can take all I have in me to pull him back from the brink. It’s not an everyday occurrence, but it’s frequent enough to be worrisome."
Garrick’s mind raced as he considered this. He recalled the recent events—Dashiell’s involvement in the brawl outside the Sizzling Skillet, and just yesterday, the confrontation with the hobgoblins and the plane devourer in the ruins. Each incident could potentially have triggered such a state.
Surgemaster continued, his gaze distant as if replaying each incident in his mind.
"Most of the time, Dashiell can catch himself and put a stop to it. But there are times when it takes... more drastic measures."
Garrick frowned.
"Then who hit him?" he asked pointedly, needing to understand the full scope.
Surgemaster’s expression shifted to something almost sad.
"Dashiell reacted poorly to my initial reprisal. Feeling himself slipping into that state—as I have witnessed dozens of times—he…struck himself. It's his way of trying to snap out of it."
A chill washed over Garrick, like ice water drenching his senses. If this was true, then he had misjudged the situation entirely, seeing the signs but interpreting them through his own biases.
"I see," he murmured, his voice low.
Yet, something still nagged at him, a piece of the puzzle that didn't quite fit.
"But when I arrived, you were once more chastising him for his actions. If what you say is true, weren't you concerned that it might provoke another episode?" he asked, genuinely curious about the logic behind Surgemaster’s approach.
Surgemaster nodded.
"Once the moment passes, Dashiell is typically stable again for days, sometimes weeks. It's unpredictable, but I've learned to read the signs. And while it's true that he was…riled up, it doesn’t mean he’s exempt from reprimand. That, old man, would be dereliction of my duties as his instructor and mentor. He needs to learn, to understand the consequences of his actions, regardless of his... condition."
Garrick considered this.
"It’s a delicate balance you’re trying to maintain," he finally said, his tone more understanding.
"Yes," Surgemaster agreed, a weary affirmation. "Not so damn simple, is it?"
"Rarely so," Garrick conceded, his mind still turning over the revelations. "Rarely so."
But there was more to this than even Surgemaster seemed to know. Garrick knew this Marked Sigil intimately. The Avatar of War was indeed a dangerous affliction to be saddled with. It could be incredibly powerful but also…deadly. At least if Dashiell did not get the proper training he required.
Looks like I'm going to have to take matters into my own hands, Garrick thought. And try to not make myself look like such an ass in the process.