In the grand scheme of things, the sudden disappearance and reappearance of Garrick, Kilbourn, Tad, and Ember might have seemed like a relatively insignificant event. After all, in a world filled with wildly disparate astaran gifts, people popping in and out of existence was hardly a cause for concern. However, for Dashiell Montrose and Surith the hobgoblin, it was the sort of thing that made one question the reliability of one's companions.

You see, Dashiell had been teaching Surith the game of Pockets, a pastime that combined strategic elements and sheer luck, creating a game that was both utterly pointless and strangely addictive. It was the sort of game that could make one forget about the world's troubles, like the fact that one's friends had vanished into thin air or that one was, in fact, a hobgoblin in a world that wasn't particularly fond of hobgoblins.

So, when Garrick and company materialized in the middle of Kilbourn's office, looking as if they had just returned from a particularly eventful brunch, Dashiell and Surith were understandably startled. In fact, Dashiell's shot had gone wide, the small 'pilot' disc clattering off the side of the makeshift table.

"Well, that was unexpected," Dashiell said, straightening up and looking at the newly arrived group. "Sir. Master Kilbourn. You have returned."

Kilbourn squinted at the game setup, then focused on the scroll on the armchair.

"I see you've made yourselves comfortable," he remarked dryly.

"We, erm, had some time to kill," Dashiell replied, his eyes flicking to the scroll.

Garrick, taking in the scene, raised an eyebrow.

Pockets, eh?

To him, Pockets had always seemed like a strange mash-up of billiards and the game of quarters, designed by someone who had never played either.

"…Did we miss anything exciting?" he asked.

"Exciting?" Dashiell wondered. "You vanished into thin air without so much as a 'be back soon,' leaving us here to…to…"

He trailed off, realizing that he and Surith had, in fact, not done much besides play Pockets and engage in a bit of light bribery.

Kilbourn, who looked as if he had aged a century in the span of an hour, waved a dismissive hand.

"Yes, yes, we apologize for the abrupt departure. But there were matters of great importance that required our immediate attention."

"Well, considering the scroll—" Dashiell began, but Kilbourn cut him off.

He'd taken the scroll from the armchair, inspecting it closely.

"Did you figure anything out?" he asked.

"I remembered after you'd left that Surith and his companions had been able to seemingly read the scroll before, so I conferred with him on how that might be possible," Dashiell said, glancing at the hobgoblin. "Apparently, it is not meant to be read in the traditional sense. They memorized the words. It works as long as the scroll is open and the words are recited."

Kilbourn looked intrigued.

"Interesting. Basic, but still…very interesting. I imagined it might be something like that."

He turned to Surith.

"And you remember these words?"

Surith nodded slowly.

"…Reward."

"Reward? Is that the word?"

"He is requesting a reward," Dashiell clarified. "For the information."

Kilbourn let out a sigh that could have powered a small windmill.

"Always a catch, isn't there?"

Garrick, feeling a sudden urge to play devil's advocate (which, in this world, was a legitimate career path), noted, "Well, to be fair, he is here against his will. Maybe we could—"

"Yes, yes," Kilbourn interrupted, waving his hand as if he were trying to dismiss an invisible orchestra, "and whose fault is that, eh? Not mine. What kind of undeserved boon are you after, then?"

He clutched his frog tome from the Plane of Treasures tighter as if it were a winning lottery ticket in a room full of pickpockets.

Garrick, observing this, thought to himself, I think your treasures are safe, Kilbourn.

Meanwhile, Tad, who had the curiosity of a cat and the survival instincts of an intoxicated capybara, was busy getting dangerously close to objects he shouldn't have been. Ember, who had somehow ended up on the floor again (Garrick was beginning to suspect she had a secret trapdoor), was swishing about, the shiny bauble she'd annexed from the treasure hoard earlier now proudly displayed at the base of her tail like a trophy for mischief.

How did she manage that? Garrick wondered.

He reached out with his senses, attempting to identify the bauble, which bore a striking resemblance to a bracelet—a simple, unadorned circle of hammered copper. He relaxed, his metaphysical investigation revealing that it was just a plain old piece of jewelry as far as he could tell.

Well, if it keeps her entertained and out of trouble, who am I to judge?

"Don't touch anything!" Kilbourn barked at Tad, who quickly retracted his hand just as it was about to make contact with a bottle of glowing orange lightning.

"Sorry, sorry!" Tad exclaimed.

The old librarian then scowled at Surith.

"Now, what would you like as your... reward?" Kilbourn asked, his tone suggesting that the word left a taste in his mouth akin to a mouthful of lemon-flavored thumbtacks.

Surith, after a moment of contemplation, finally spoke.

"Make stronger," he said.

His brevity rivals a stop sign, Garrick thought.

"Stronger? Easy peasy," Kilbourn scoffed. "Just pick up something heavy and put it back down. Rinse and repeat. Now, about those special words..."

"For goodness sake, Kilbourn," Garrick interjected.

He turned to Surith, his eyebrow raised.

"You want to become stronger, Mr. Surith? In what way, exactly?"

"Astara," Surith replied, his eyes gleaming with the intensity of a hobgoblin on a hob-mission. "Make big power. Defend self. Destroy enemies."

"Well, that's a charming bit of bloodlust," Kilbourn remarked dryly. "I'm starting to like him."

Garrick, ignoring Kilbourn's commentary, pressed on.

"To be clear, you want to grow in the Sphere Realms? Walk the path of power?"

This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

"Yes," Surith confirmed, his eyes shining. "Make strong."

"Right, well, let's maybe put a pin in the whole 'destroy enemies' thing for now," Garrick suggested. "But getting you to a point where you can defend yourself? That's doable."

He reached out with his senses, examining Surith's mantle.

Low Foundation. Unfixed Discipline. He's new to this sort of thing.

"Well, you're definitely fresh to astara business," Garrick said, his smile hopefully reassuring. "But that's a good thing. It means you haven't picked up any bad habits yet—or at least none that can't be unlearned. And with your Discipline still up in the air, that's probably where we should start."

Garrick clapped his hands, the sound as jarring as a gunshot (if more than half of them knew what that was.)

"Alright, I think we can work with this. Let's get you on the trail."

Surith, to his credit, managed to look somewhat excited at the prospect, his expression like that of a dog who had just been told he was going for a walk.

"Ooh, I can teach him portal stuff!" Tad exclaimed, holding up an object he most definitely should not have been touching.

"Put. That. Down." Kilbourn hissed, his tone suggesting he was one mishandled artifact away from a full-blown conniption.

Tad hastily returned the smoking vial of purple...something or other to its shelf.

"Right, well, portals might not be his cup of tea," Garrick explained. "But Discipline's are tricky at the best of times. We'll need to figure that part out. But that's beside the point. First things first..."

He glanced at the scroll, its presence impossible to ignore.

"It's time to let slip your secret password, Mr. Surith. Then we can start your training in earnest."

"And who, pray tell, will be training him?" Kilbourn demanded sourly. "Certainly not me. I'm far too busy."

Garrick sighed, the sound carrying the weight of a thousand exasperated old men.

"Killy, when was the last time you took on a student?"

"Oh, I don't know... twenty years, give or take?"

"Well then, sounds like you're overdue for a new pupil," Garrick said, his tone flat. "But if you think I'm better suited for the job..."

"I didn't say that at all," Kilbourn said, glaring at the other old man. "You're not slick, Garrick. I know you're trying to rile me up."

"All I'm saying," Garrick began. "Is that if you're suggesting I'm better equipped to train him because you're too old...well. I'll understand."

Kilbourn's eyes narrowed, his pride clearly pricked by Garrick's not-so-subtle goading.

"Too old? I could train circles around you, even now!"

Garrick grinned, knowing he'd struck the right nerve.

"Alright, old man, you win. You can train him."

"Wha...no, I didn't..." Kilbourn started, but Garrick interrupted.

"Mr. Surith, you're in good hands."

Surith nodded slowly, looking somewhat dazed by the sudden turn of events.

"Will do best."

"You'll...? Hm. Well...good lad, I suppose," Kilbourn mumbled, his tone slightly softer now. "We'll...start your training tomorrow, I guess. For now, let's get those secret words and see what this scroll reveals."

Surith took a deep breath.

Well, let's see what mysteries are about to be uncovered.

"Murukilun sz—"

The scroll started to glow faintly.

Kilbourn's eyes widened in alarm.

"Shut up!" he barked, raising his hand and casting a quick Chant. A thick, sticky goo materialized and slapped over Surith's mouth, silencing him. With his other hand, he snapped his fingers, causing the scroll to vanish, like to a safe location.

"Do you have any idea what you've done?" Kilbourn demanded, pointing an accusatory finger at Surith. "That word is from the language of the Death Plane!"

Garrick took a long breath. Ember curled against his leg, clearly attempting to distance herself from the screeching old coot.

This...could be better.

"The language of the Death Plane?" Dashiell wondered.

"Yes!" Kilbourn said. "One of the most deadly tongues to utter on this plane!"

To Surith he said, "Gods! You could've triggered an explosive rift for all we know!"

Surith's eyes were wide, but he was clearly unable to defend himself through the gooey gag. Garrick stepped forward, holding up his hands.

"Easy, Kilbourn. Let's figure this out without resorting to suffocating our friend here."

Kilbourn huffed, clearly not placated.

"That language is dangerous, Garrick. Do you realize what kind of disaster we could have unleashed? If that's the language that has obscured the scroll, we've got some serious damn issues. And even worse—we don't even know if there's an Observer in our midst."

Surith mumbled something through the goo, his eyes wide with confusion and terror.

"What is an Observ—" Dashiell began but was interrupted.

"Alright, alright," Garrick said. "Let's just calm down a moment and think this through. Mr. Surith, if we remove the Gelatinous Muzzle, do you promise not to say any more words in that language unless we ask you to?"

Surith nodded fervently.

Kilbourn muttered something but waved his hand, dissolving the goo. Surith gasped for breath, looking thoroughly chastised.

"Apology," he said quickly. "Didn't know was bad word."

Kilbourn took a deep breath, the kind of breath a man takes to convince himself not to set fire to everything in sight. His temper, simmering like a pot of angry stew, threatened to boil over and scald anyone unfortunate enough to be nearby. He closed his eyes, his face contorting into a grimace that looked like he'd just bitten into sandpaper.

"The Death Plane," he started, "is not just some dark corner of the many universes. It's a realm of unimaginable horrors where the laws of reality are twisted and corrupted. To even utter a word from its language can have catastrophic consequences on the material plane."

Dashiell and Surith exchanged uneasy glances, clearly shaken by the librarian's words.

Kilbourn continued, his tone taking on a lecturing cadence.

"The Death Plane is ruled by beings so ancient and powerful that they make our most fearsome deities look like children playing with sticks. They are often referred to as Death Lords—though we don't even know if they have any sort of organization, hierarchy, or gentry. What we do know, is that they have an insatiable hunger for the life force of other beings. They send their minions, the Observers, into this plane to...well, you can probably guess."

He paused, letting the gravity of his words sink in.

"When you spoke that word, Surith, you didn't just activate an astaran effect. You likely signaled the Death Plane, alerting its denizens to our presence. I know it's not technically your fault...but, well, I'm furious not at you, but who put you up to this in the first place. For Elloelle's sake! An Observer could be watching us right now, waiting for an opportunity to breach our defenses."

"But…the hobgoblins already spoke the words in the ruins," Dashiell said. "Would that not mean—"

"The language of the Death Plane is insidious," Kilbourn interjected. "It's designed to corrupt and consume. Even a single word can unravel the fabric of our reality like an interdimensional can opener, creating rifts through which these malevolent beings can enter. It may have been fine to utter it once, to reveal the nature of the scroll—though we have no way of knowing."

He took a breath.

"But it could also have been designed to deploy another feature were something like this exact instance to happen. I have no doubt the person, or persons clever enough to set this up in the first place, wouldn't anticipate someone stumbling in and trying to redo the recital…"

Dashiell's eyes widened with realization.

"So, this scroll is not just a scroll. It is a trap."

"Precisely," Kilbourn said with a nod. "Well, at least—it's safe to assume so. A lure to draw us in and weaken our world like a siren song for apocalyptic annihilation. We need to be incredibly careful with how we proceed. Any mistake could doom us all."

The old librarian collapsed back into his chair in a huff.

"You just had to get me involved in this, didn't you?" he said, directing cold menace toward Garrick. "Couldn't leave me be. Nope, not Garrick, the mighty Beacon, shining his light of chaos into every dark corner of the realms. Has to involve others in his schemes."

I said something incredibly similar to Vash recently.

Garrick crossed his arms, his expression thoughtful.

"We need to discover who created this scroll and why they want to unleash such horrors."

"This," Kilbourn said, his voice tight with barely contained frustration, like a pressure cooker full of angry bees, "complicates things. We're definitely going to have to get the Guild involved now. And let me tell you, that's about as appealing as shoving reed splinters under my fingernails."

Garrick sighed.

"I suppose you're right," he said. "Don't you worry your decrepit old head, though—I'll go. And I'll take Dashiell, Tadanius, and the scroll along with me. But it's probably safer now, considering the Death Plane language has been uttered by Mr. Surith, to leave him in your care for the time being. And by 'safer,' I mean 'marginally less likely to result in the end of the world as we know it.'"

Kilbourn sighed as well, though his was more resigned.

"Don't you start whining," he said, "you know how well I get along with the Guild. I'd rather tie a bell to a wasp."

"Which Guild is this?" Dashiell pressed, "You never explained before when you mentioned them."

A long, weary gaze accompanied Kilbourn's next words.

"The Guild of Discordant Scriveners."

He paused, letting the name sink in like a stone in a pond, if the pond was filled with quicksand and the stone was made of pure, concentrated awkwardness. No one spoke for a moment, digesting the name.

"…Who?" Tad asked, finally breaking the tension.

"…The Guild of Discorda—have you all never heard of it?" Kilbourn demanded incredulously.

Surith, Tad, and Dashiell all shook their heads.

"Hell to buttons, what are they teaching these kids?" Kilbourn shook his head.

"What you need to know," Garrick interjected, "is that they're a group of cloistered…well, let's call them scholars, who spend all their time fielding letters between the provinces and writing missives. Among other things, like arguing about the proper use of semicolons and debating the existential implications of cover letter font."

Dashiell nodded thoughtfully.

"They sound important," he said with a sort of naive optimism. "I am surprised I have not heard of them before."

"Important?" Kilbourn snorted. "I'm sure they'd like you to think so. That's hardly the case. Half of them are probably drunk or fixing to put themselves that way, like a bunch of literary lushes with a penchant for purple prose. But you'll see when you get there. It'll be like walking into a den of iniquity if iniquity had a fondness for obscure metaphors and stupid hats."

Dashiell looked at Garrick, clearly trying to confirm the truthfulness of Kilbourn's statements.

The hermit simply shook his head with a grin.

"Trust me," he said, "it's going to get weird."