In the early light of dawn, the villagers of Jarksholm began their day with the rhythmic rustle of their harvest, the air filled with the gentle hum of contented work. They were gathering riverweed, known locally as maricloth, that grew in the serene, slow-moving waters of the Songmist River.

Men and women wearing simple, sturdy clothes in muted earth tones, their faces weathered by the sun and wind, moved with practiced grace along the riverbanks. From the vantage on the hill, they appeared like industrious little beetles, meandering to and fro. Wading into the calm, clear waters, they used long, forked poles to gently lift the maricloth from the riverbed. The riverweed, with its deep green, almost bluish hue, shimmered like emeralds in the early light, its tendrils swaying gracefully in the current.

With their years of experience, the older villagers deftly guided the younger ones, passing on the knowledge of generations. The already-gathered maricloth was carefully laid on woven reed mats to dry while the workers continued their labor in the dawn.

Children, too young to join in the full labor, danced along the water's edge, their laughter mingling with the soft murmur of the river. They mimicked the motions of their elders, tiny hands gripping makeshift poles, their imaginations likely transfiguring the task into some grand adventure.

Elder Fallon, a stout man with a silver beard that matched the morning mist, oversaw the harvest with a watchful eye and a kind smile. Though softened by age, his voice carried the authority of one who had spent a lifetime by the river.

"One more push, and it's breakfast!" he called, and there was a general hubbub of agreement amongst those gathered.

The smell of fresh maricloth filled the air, sharing air with the scent of dew-kissed grass and wildflowers. Birds chirped from the trees, their morning songs a harmonious counterpoint to the villagers' steady work.

To Garrick, the whole scene was a dance of life, a lovely story of the enduring relationship between the people and their river. From where he was on the hilltop, he sipped a steaming cup of tea brewed from the very same maricloth the villagers labored over, the warmth of the cup comforting in the cool morning air. He watched the villagers serenely, the rhythmic dance of their harvest a soothing sight. Ember lay curled beside him in the dewy grass, her tiny chest rising and falling in peaceful slumber.

Garrick appreciated these moments of tranquility, the quiet hours where the world seemed to hold its breath before the bustle of the day began.

Footsteps approached, barely a whisper on the wet grass. Ember's ears perked up, and her little shining eyes opened. Dashiell had joined them, speaking softly as people often did in the hours just after dawn.

"It is remarkable, isn't it?" Dashiell murmured, his gaze fixed on the villagers below. "Such diligence."

Garrick chuckled softly, matching Dashiell's muted volume.

"Indeed. I enjoy seeing people doing what they do best. There's a kind of ritual mysticism in it."

Dashiell nodded, his eyes still on the scene below.

"What are they harvesting?"

"Maricloth," Garrick explained. "Have you heard of it?"

Dashiell shook his head.

"Well," Garrick explained. "It's a riverweed, a varietal of seaweed from saltwater tributaries like the Songmist, used for various purposes. The people here weave it into durable textiles, create medicinal salves, and most importantly—make delicious and flavorful teas."

He raised his cup for emphasis before taking another sip.

Dashiell watched silently, seemingly absorbing the scene with as much longing as the old man. Garrick reached for another cup he'd brought, already prepared for this quiet companionship. He'd had a feeling he wouldn't be without company for long. He poured boiling water from the teapot, the steam curling gently into the air.

"Tea?" Garrick offered.

Dashiell accepted it with a grateful nod, settling down in the grass beside Garrick. They sat together, sipping the maricloth tea, as they watched for a bit longer.

After some time, Garrick asked, "You're up early. Where's Mr. Tadanius?"

"Still sleeping," Dashiell explained, his eyes never wavering from the work below. "I was unsure how long it would be before we set out again, and we got to Jarksholm at such a late hour last evening that I dared not wake him until we were ready to set out again."

Garrick nodded.

"And you don't need more sleep, yourself?"

They'd left from Kilbourn's library (and Bellwater) immediately the day before, heading northwest toward Angler's Point—the only true information Garrick had been forthright in divulging as to the location of the Guild of Discordant Scriveners. Dashiell had left a note with Penny to deliver to his father and Sir Callifery, requesting a further extension of their leave by an additional day. It would take them until the afternoon to reach Angler's Point, where they would set out on the second portion of their journey.

Hopefully, it will take us only a short time to get the information we need, Garrick thought. Otherwise, catching up with the project's movements will be more complicated.

Dashiell shook his head again.

"No, I thought to rise early and practice with my sarissa before the day grew too hot."

"Yet here you are drinking tea with a dawdling old fogey," Garrick mused.

"Yes, well," Dashiell began. "I was on my way to find a good clearing away from the village and spotted you."

The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

He shrugged before continuing.

"Considering how you tend to a habit of finding interesting pastimes, sir, I thought I might climb up here and see what it was you had discovered."

Garrick chuckled and scratched Ember behind the ears.

"You've got me pegged, for sure," he said. "Though, I've been here many times, so…"

He scooped Ember up as he stood, placing her on his shoulder.

"What say you to allowing me to observe your training?"

Dashiell seemed taken aback.

"Sir?"

"Take pity on an old bear, and let me see what Surgemaster has been teaching you."

Dashiell, it appeared, could hardly contain his excitement.

"You would…offer pointers?!"

Garrick smiled.

"Only if there's anything I see that needs pointering," he said.

"I would be honored, sir, truly," Dashiell breathed.

"Good," Garrick said. "You should feel quite exalted indeed to swing that spear of yours around to dazzle an old man."

Dashiell frowned.

"I'm only joking, Mr. Montrose," Garrick said. "Now…"

He gestured to the cup and teapot on the ground.

"A hand, if you would," he made a show of wincing and putting a hand on his back. "Creaky old spine, you know."

--

In a clearing just outside the village, where the trees had taken a break from their usual business of being everywhere, Dashiell Montrose found himself slumped on a log. His chest heaved like a blacksmith's bellows, and sweat glistened on his brow. His sarissa, having decided that discretion was the better part of not being dropped, had vanished into thin air.

Not far away, as distances go in clearings, sat Garrick and Ember. They were perched on another log. It hadn't taken long for Garrick to indeed offer some pointers, and in fact, had commandeered the morning training, seeing a few…minor areas needing improvement.

However, Garrick was currently chomping on a bacon and lettuce sandwich with the dedication of a man who believed that if he didn't finish it, the sandwich might get ideas about escaping. Ember, meanwhile, was gnawing on a piece of dried beef.

"Excellent work, Mr. Montrose!" Garrick called out, his words slightly muffled by the food staging a last stand in his mouth.

Dashiell managed a weak wave, the sort of gesture that suggested his arm was seriously considering secession from the rest of his body. His other hand was busy bringing a waterskin to his lips as if trying to drown the exhaustion out of his system.

Garrick chuckled.

"That was a fantastic warm-up!"

Dashiell nearly inhaled his waterskin.

"W-warm up?!" he sputtered.

Garrick nodded, taking another bite of his sandwich.

"Indeed. You're well on your way to being limbered up for a real practice session."

Dashiell exhaled sharply, producing a sound not unlike a deflating dirigible.

"This...this would be considered an exhaustive training session by Sir Callifery's standards."

Garrick's face contorted into an expression that suggested he'd just discovered his favorite tavern had not only run out of ale but had also decided to serve nothing but lukewarm goat's milk.

"Really?"

Before Dashiell could muster a response, the sound of approaching footsteps heralded the arrival of Tad, looking bedraggled in that 'I'm disheveled, but on purpose' sort of way, yawning and stretching as he approached.

"Mornin,' all," Tad said, his joints creating a symphony of pops and cracks. "What'd I miss?"

"Training..." Dashiell wheezed dourly.

"A warm-up, Mr. Montrose," Garrick corrected, finishing his sandwich with a flourish. "Just a warm-up."

"Ooh, I want a go," Tad exclaimed, energetically bounding into the center of the clearing. "Dash, should we do weapons or no weapons?"

"I am...going to need a moment..." Dashiell gasped, his lungs apparently still on strike.

"Sure thing!" Tad chirped, beginning to stretch as if preparing to run a 100-meter dash.

"Hold…on a moment. How...did you...find us, Tad?" Dashiell managed between gasps.

"Oh," Tad said, pausing mid-stretch. "I have a Map ability."

"Map ability?" Dashiell echoed.

"Yeah," Tad replied, with all the clarifying power of mud. "It's...an ability. For maps."

He shrugged as if this was explanation enough.

"Anyway, I saw you guys were over here and thought I'd better see what the dealio was."

Garrick, meanwhile, had been rummaging in his satchel. He finally produced a stoppered bottle of purple liquid and crossed the clearing to hand it to Dashiell.

"What's this, sir?" Dashiell asked, eyeing the bottle as if it might sprout fangs.

"Rejuvenation potion," Garrick replied with a casual air.

"Rejuvenation potion?" Dashiell repeated, accepting the bottle and peering at it as if it held some secret.

"You're full of echoes today, eh, Mr. Montrose?" Garrick observed. "Yes, a Rejuvenation potion. Brewed it myself, in fact. You should drink it."

Dashiell nodded, steeling himself.

"Yes, well, alright then," he muttered, unstoppering the bottle and downing its contents bravely—as if thinking whatever happens, it couldn't possibly be worse than how he currently felt.

As the purple liquid coursed through Dashiell's system, Garrick watched as a transformation occurred that was nothing short of miraculous. It was as if every cell in his body had suddenly remembered it was supposed to be in tip-top shape and hastily got its act together. His eyes widened, his posture straightened, and a grin spread across his face that suggested he'd just discovered the secret to eternal youth—which, in a way, he had.

"Great galloping gargoyles!" Dashiell exclaimed, leaping to his feet. "I feel incredible! Is this how you feel all the time, Tad? No wonder you're so chipper!"

Tad, who had been in the middle of a particularly elaborate stretch that made him look like a pretzel trying to untangle itself, blinked in surprise.

"Uh, maybe…? I just eat a big breakfast."

Dashiell began bouncing on the balls of his feet, his eyes darting around the clearing as if searching for something to challenge.

"Tad, my good man, I believe I am ready for that sparring session now. In fact, I don't know why, but I feel as though I could take on an entire army of rock giants!"

Tad's face lit up like a child who'd just been told that every day was now officially dessert day.

"Yes! Let's gooo!"

The two were just about to square off, Dashiell's sarissa materializing in his hand with a flourish while Tad assumed a fighting stance that looked suspiciously like a dance move when Garrick's voice cut across like a hot knife through enthusiasm.

"Hold it right there," the old man said. "As much as I'd love to see Mr. Montrose put his newfound energy to use, we have pressing matters to attend to. The Guild of Discordant Scriveners awaits. We've still got quite the trek ahead of us, and we should get going."

Tad's face fell faster than a soufflé in an earthquake.

"But...but...the sparring!" he whined.

Dashiell, on the other hand, seemed to have instantly redirected his manic energy towards their upcoming task.

"Right you are, sir! Let's go give those Scriveners what for!"

Maybe I should have made the potion a little weaker…

"I promise, we'll have time for more…tomfoolery once we reach the Bay of Lords," Garrick said. "For now, though, we should grab our belongings from the inn and set out."

Garrick watched Dashiell bounce away from the clearing, racing toward Jarksholm again. The older man couldn't help but smile, his mind wandering to his own early days of traversing the Sphere Realms.

If only I'd had access to Rejuvenation potions back then, he mused. Might have saved me from quite a few embarrassing face-plants and ill-timed naps.

He patted his satchel, mentally noting that only one more purple concoction remained.

I'll need to track down an alchemist soon. Garrick continued. I'm sure I can make more with the proper tools, as I've got plenty of Rapturous Bell along for the ride. Perhaps I should consider brewing a batch for the entire Golden Lion team. Stabilizing their growth could be crucial in the challenges ahead. After all, one can never have too many manic, overly energetic companions when facing the perils of Dova.

With that thought, Garrick chuckled and quickened his pace to keep up with Dashiell, who was now marching ahead as if he intended to reach the Guild before lunch.