From where Garrick, Tad, Dashiell, and Ember stood atop the rugged slope, the small fishing village of Angler's Point unfolded beneath them like a quaint, hand-painted portrait. Nestled snugly between two towering cliffs, the village appeared almost dwarfed by the sheer scale of the natural behemoths flanking it. The cliffs rose majestically on either side, their rocky faces etched with time and the relentless forces of nature, giving the impression of ancient sentinels standing guard over the tranquil settlement below.
The mid-afternoon sun cast a warm, golden glow over everything, illuminating the simple, whitewashed cottages with their thatched roofs and small, neatly tended plots. Weathered sea stones had been laid out to act as cobblestones, the paths meandering through the village like gentle rivers, leading down to the harbor where fishing boats bobbed lazily on the shimmering water. The crafts, with their brightly colored sails and sturdy hulls, drifted in and out of the distance in a serene waltz on the bay's surface.
Near the docks stood a statue that seemed to have been erected by a committee who couldn't quite decide if they were commemorating a hero or setting up an elaborate scarecrow. It was tall, in the way that all statues aspiring to importance must be, and weathered in a manner that suggested it had been arguing with the sea air for quite some time now and losing.
The figure it depicted was dressed in what could charitably be called 'basic clothing.' It faced the sea with its back to the village, a pose that could be interpreted as either noble vigilance or a rather pointed comment on the sculptor's opinion of local politics. One arm was raised in a perpetual wave, frozen in a gesture that might have been a farewell to departing sailors or maybe hailing a water taxi. The statue's humble appearance and relaxed posture gave it a welcoming air as it stood there, day in and day out, apparently providing the seagulls with both a convenient perch and an appreciative audience for their more experimental droppings.
All in all, it was the kind of statue that made visitors pause, tilt their heads slightly, and mutter, "Well, I suppose it's art," before hurrying on to find somewhere that sold baked treats.
Well, that's new, he thought. Now they're off erecting sculptures, I guess. However, it does look nice.
Though, the last time he'd been here, it had been a wreck. He'd meant to return, especially considering the dire straits they'd been in, but he'd…well, gotten distracted. For several decades.
"Woah," Tad breathed, his eyes wide with wonder. "It's like something out of a dream."
Garrick nodded appreciatively.
"Yep. Angler's Point is about as charming as you can get. The kind of place people like to retire to.”
“Explains all the old people,” Tad said. “Man, Garrick, you’d probably love it here!”
Garrick shook his head.
He knows not what he does. No reason to shove him into the sea.
However, there was some truth to his words. He'd spent quite a bit of time here once. There was even a period when Garrick had actually considered settling down in Angler's Point, but when he found the place that was now Respite…well, that seemed like a sign of some sort.
Equally captivated by the view, Dashiell took a deep breath of the salty air. He was still clearly feeling the effects of the Rejuvenation potion, considering his eyes were wide, and he spoke in a pattern uncharacteristic to him: hurried and full of contractions.
"It's hard to imagine a more peaceful place, isn't it? The cliffs, the sea! Goodness! It's all so vast."
Ember, perched comfortably on Garrick's shoulder, seemed to share the sentiment, her little eyes reflecting the sun's golden light.
“Well, I'd wager you haven’t seen anything yet,” Garrick said. “We’re going to be traveling out there—” he pointed beyond the two guardian cliff faces, “and if you haven’t seen the sea from that perspective before, well…you’re in for a treat.”
Dashiell nodded several times in succession.
“Right, right, right. I've only ever seen the Peridot Sea,” he said, eyes still bouncing along the azure horizon. “And even then, only from Vine Cove. Still, I remember it being considerably more crowded looking.”
“Yeah,” Garrick agreed. “The Peridot has its own majesty, to be sure, dotted with all those islands as it is. Vine Cove, especially, considering it's thick with commercial ships at all hours. But this is the Dreamwood Sea. It is something else entirely.’
Dashiell didn’t respond, which Garrick took for agreement. Tad, however, had questions.
“How many seas does this place have?”
Garrick blinked.
“That’s, uh, well…” he paused, pondering how best to answer the question. “I am hoping you mean Bastion and not…well, the world on the whole. One of those is much easier to answer than the other.”
“Sure,” Tad said with a shrug. “Bastion, I guess.”
“Well, there’re three. The Dreamwood, here,” Garrick said, “which, technically, what we’re looking at is only the bay the Dreamwood presses into—called the Bay of Lords. It’s on the northwest end of Bastion. There’s the Peridot—which Dashiell mentioned, to the southeast. Then there’s the Everalorn Sea, to the northeast, touching both Bastion and Fable.”
“Oh,” Tad said, nodding. “I like bodies of water. Love an ocean, love a lake, love a river town.’
“You’ll get a lot of those here,” Garrick said. “Though not nearly as many as Fable—it’s something of a notorious spot for ponds, lakes, tributaries—even bogs and other wetlands. A bit storybook, really.”
Tad’s eyes widened.
“Really?” he shook his head sadly. “Man, maybe I should have landed there instead.”
Garrick regarded him quietly.
Did he get a choice? He wondered. I’ll have to grill him over that when there’s time.
“Well, Bastion is quite nice for its own reasons,” Garrick said. “I’ve made my home here for decades, and I've traveled all over. There seems to be something special about it.”
Dashiell smiled, his cheek twitching with the movement.
“Glad to know Bastion's found itself a hero like yourself, sir,” he said, almost as though he thought himself something of an ambassador. "You've done so much good for it."
Garrick waved him away dismissively.
“No need to get sentimental, Mr. Montrose,” he chuckled. “Just an old man picking a place because it’s what he knows—change is scary.”
Dashiell's mouth fell open.
“I didn’t think you were afraid of anything,” he exclaimed. “At least, based on what you’ve been noted for achieving. You're famous for your valor and courageous bearing.”
He inexplicably held a smooth pebble in his fingers and kept transferring it back and forth between them in a frantic tumble.
“Well, I don’t know about all that,” Garrick said. “Honestly, the tales of my deeds are far too generous and not nearly accurate enough for my liking.”
“How so, sir?” Dashiell asked, almost before his answer was all the way out.
“Well, for one…” Garrick started, pausing to see if the energized young man would interrupt him before continuing. “...I was scared out of my wits nearly the entire time.”
“You?!” the young Montrose practically accused. “Sincerely?”
“You better believe it,” Garrick chuckled, patting Ember. She nipped his finger playfully. “Don’t let the bardic nonsense twist you up—most Beacons are bundles of nerves and curse words wrapped in thin veils of duty. I’ve seen more of these mighty heroes than I can count bawling their eyes out because they had to face off against near-impossible odds. I mean, have you ever seen what a Fiend looks like? It would scare the starch out of your best pants.”
“But you have faced impossible odds many times,” Dashiell protested. “Surely you become accustomed to the perils?”
“Well, that's where you're a bit wrong, Mr. Montrose,” Garrick said. “I didn’t face impossible odds. I faced near-impossible ones. Impossible ones are just that: impossible. Anyone that faces impossible odds either escapes until it’s safe or ends up stupidly dying trying to outkick their coverage.”
Dashiell opened his mouth to say something else but paused and seemed to think better of it. Garrick thought it might be best to leave it at that, and he just nodded.
The group began their descent, the path winding down the slope toward the village. As they drew closer, the sounds of daily life in Angler's Point grew more distinct. The calls of fishermen preparing their nets, the chatter of villagers greeting each other, and the distant cries of seabirds—all lively and soothing. It was a flurry of activity, with people bustling about their morning chores. Women hung laundry out to dry, the colorful fabrics fluttering in the breeze like flags of contentment. Men mended nets and prepared boats for the day's work, their hands moving with practiced efficiency. Children were…well, they were largely not present. He thought he spotted a child at one point, but it turned out to be a dog wearing a handkerchief around its neck.
Has it really gotten this bad?
Angler's Point had always been a bit...mature as far as populations go. A sleepy village on a brilliant coast, tucked back and away from anything close to another town (save for Jarkholm, but they were just as predisposed to isolation.) Remote living added to an aged community was a recipe for complications.
Can't be good for the longevity of the place.
As they entered the village, the group was greeted with curious glances and friendly nods. It was clear that visitors were a rare but welcome sight in Angler's Point. The villagers' faces were warm and inviting, their smiles genuine. Garrick thought he recognized some of them, but they could also be descendants of people he'd known. Regardless, he understood their fervor. After all, strangers meant new stories, and new stories were worth their weight in trices in a place where the most thrilling event of the past few decades had been Old Miss Sprig’s prize-winning lavender plant growing to a size that some swore was "downright witchery."
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"Welcome to Angler's Point," a voice called out in a cheerful, rustic cant. A woman in her fifties approached them with a broad smile and a basket of freshly caught fish. "We loves to see new faces, we does. Oi'm Constance, an'—wait a tick...Garrick?"
Garrick's face went through a series of expressions, his brain trying to decide between ‘charming smile’ and ‘immediate teleportation.’ He could tell from the simmer in her eyes that he may have made a slight miscalculation in returning here the way he had.
"Hullo, Connie," he managed, with all the enthusiasm of a man greeting his public execution. "Long time no—"
“Ye rat bastard!” She roared, suddenly hurling one of the fish at him. Garrick was only just able to duck out of the way when another fish soared in his direction, smacking him right in the face.
“Oof! What is the—” he started, but Constance was on him instantly, wagging her finger in his face like a weapon of mass accusation.
"You left us!" she exclaimed, her voice a cocktail of anger, hurt, and what sounded suspiciously like two decades of carefully rehearsed outrage. "You left us after the battle with that villainous Fiend Lord! We thought you was dead, you great lumberin' fool!!"
Garrick blinked owlishly, still trying to remove bits of grouper from his beard.
"I-I didn't die... I had to…" he stammered, "The, uh, battle, it took—"
Constance's eyes blazed with fury.
"I, I, I," she echoed mockingly (though from her tumbling sea brogue, it sounded like 'oi, oi, oi.') "Always 'bout you, ain't it, you old scallywag. An' wot about us? The ones who looked up to you? We rebuilt without you, by the by."
Garrick started to protest.
"It looks like you've done just fine in my absence, Con—"
"We mourned you!" She suddenly erupted again.
She jabbed a finger at the tall statue down near the dock with enough force to suggest she was seriously considering using it as her next projectile.
"There's a memorial, for Pelathiam's sake, you great buffoon!"
Finally looking at the statue properly, Garrick realized with a sinking feeling that it was, in fact, a depiction of him. Moreso, they'd captured the back of his neck with an accuracy that bordered on the uncanny. He wondered if he should be flattered or terrified that someone had spent that much time staring at his nape.
Taking a deep breath and looking for all the world like a man who'd just realized he'd brought a sardine to a shark fight, Garrick mustered what little dignity he had left (which, at this point, could have fit comfortably in a thimble).
"I'm sorry, Connie," he said.
Constance's anger seemed to deflate slightly.
"We lost good folk, we did, Garrick. Friends, family...others we cared about, aye. An' you...you was our 'ope, you was. You was supposed to be our 'ero, you great lump."
Wide-eyed Tad and Dashiell, seeming to realize the situation's awkwardness, finally took a few steps back.
"This seems like something we shouldn't bear witness to," Dashiell gulped. He was fidgeting semi-nervously.
"I had larger issues to attend to," Garrick said softly to the accusatory Connie. "I'm sorry for the delayed return. I should have sent word."
As Garrick stood there, he couldn't help but reflect that perhaps facing down Fiend Lords and battling unending horrors was, in many ways, far less terrifying than confronting the consequences of what appeared to be a rather spectacular failure in post-saving-the-world communication. He made a mental note to consider adding "Remember to tell people you're not dead" to his list of heroic retirement duties.
There was a long, incredibly uncomfortable silence.
"Well," Constance finally said softly. "You missed yore own funeral, you mug. Battarick played a sad tune on the rock whistle. Nary a dry, really. The vittles was good, though."
"I'd expect nothing less," Garrick replied. "It's good to see you, in any case."
"You absolute knob..." Constance breathed, shaking her head. "Oi'm glad you're alive, though. An' you was right, for wot it's worth."
"About what?" Garrick wondered.
"About that Maxeus chap sendin' reinforcements," she said. "We didn't even 'ave to worry 'bout the storm at all—just the aftermath o' Rasterion's fall, we did."
"Well, I'm not surprised," Garrick said. "Maxeus has a vested interest in keeping this place safe."
"So you said way back when. Oi assumes you're 'ere, then, not to check in on us poor folk," Constance said, eyeing him suspiciously.
"Well, it's not…not the reason…" Garrick mumbled.
"Enuff o' that," Constance said. "No need to tell fibs on moi account. It's to use the Dreamwood Tide, ain't it? Honestly, few things surprise me anymore with you Beacons—always another mountain to climb an' a mystery to unravel. Come on," Constance gestured down toward the glittering water of the dock, "This way, you great lummox."
The old man shot an apologetic look at his companions, who seemed entirely baffled about this turn of events.
As they ambled through the heart of Angler's Point, a tide of memories washed over the old man, as powerful and unstoppable as the sea itself.
The tang of salt spray danced with the warm, yeasty aroma of fresh-baked loaves wafting from one of the larger buildings he didn't recognize.
"'Tis a smell to make a folk's mouth water and her stomach grumble with anticipation, aye," Constance said to Tad and Dashiell. Then, to Garrick, she said, "Many a fine meal you'd enjoyed in this place, eh?"
"Indeed," he replied.
Garrick's ears cued into the merry babble of noise. From the weavers' cottages came the steady clack-clack-clack of looms, a rhythm as familiar and comforting as a mother's lullaby. How many evenings had he spent that winter by the fireside, listening to that very sound?
Constance's eyes darted between Tad and Dashiell, a curious glint in her eye. She turned to Garrick again, her voice lowered conspiratorially.
"Say, you old seadog, who might these two young'uns be? Don't tell me you've been hidin' away some sons all these seasons? They've got your measure about 'em, they do. Though, mercifully, seems they've escaped your fashion sense."
Garrick froze in place, not because of the poke at his style nor the preposterous suggestion that Tad and Dashiell were his, but rather the sudden, guilty realization that he had, in fact, never introduced his actual son, Skylark, to this place. The boy had already been born during the winter Garrick had fostered himself here. But at the time, it hadn't been safe—and dragging a young child into harm's way had always seemed to Garrick like a questionable parenting decision.
"No, just some companions of mine," Garrick finally said.
"You been trainin' 'em, then?" Constance asked, squinting between the three. "Yore mantles are mixed up a bit, in any case."
Already? Garrick wondered. That's strange. Usually there needs to be a stronger bond for that type of mingling to—
"Ha! Dad? He's old enough to be my great-great grandpa or something," Tad laughed, shaking his head. "Maybe even greater. I'm Tadanius, but you can call me Tad. I'm not from around here."
Tad thrust out his hand, which Constance took with the cautious air of someone being offered a live eel. Then she gave Garrick a look that seemed to say, 'Great-great grandpa?' Garrick just shrugged, rolling his eyes so magnificently it threatened to sprain something.
Skylark… Garrick thought—the mention of fathers and sons had brought his actual progeny back to the forefront of his mind. It's been nearly a day since I've even thought about him or Twyla. These constant distractions really derail my purpose…though I suppose that's the nature of these sorts of things—quests and the like—isn't it?
He mentally tabulated the number of times he'd been late to a general function simply because someone had needed help with something.
I have got to get organized someday.
"Dashiell Montrose," the other young man introduced himself with a polite (though repeated) nod. "Pleasure to make your acquaintance…Constance, was it?"
Constance seemed to get agitated over this introduction.
"Oi, begging yore pardon, Lord Montrose!" she exclaimed, "Oi didn't know our Garrick would be travellin' with such esteemed company! Oi'm Constance, an' Oi'm the council 'eadwoman of Angler's Point. Please, anythin' you need, you just say the word. We're a bit short on sugared plums and silk cushions, but we've got plenty o' fish and slightly damp seating options."
She turned to Garrick with a look that suggested he might have forgotten to mention he was accompanying royalty. Or possibly that he'd forgotten to put on pants. It was hard to tell. Garrick actually checked to make sure he had, indeed, not forgotten to wear his breeches again.
Safe for another day.
"A Montrose!" Constance exclaimed redundantly. "The roadbuilders, they are!"
Dashiell, looking slightly pained, shook his head.
"Ah, Lord Montrose is my father," he said. "Please, call me Dashiell."
"You bringin' a road this way, then, Dashiell?" Constance asked, her eyes twinkling with curiosity.
"I am…unsure," Dashiell admitted. "I can inquire if there are any plans for such a thing and if not, I can put in a request—"
"Oh, no, no, no!" Constance interrupted, waving her hands as if shooing away the very idea. "Speakin' on behalf o' the whole Point—we'd prefer a road to miss us, if that's the case. Like a bit of an out-of-the-way jaunt to reach us, we do. Keeps things more excitin' when someone actually turns up, it does."
She winked at him, a mischievous grin spreading across her face.
Eventually, after a bit more banter, the group continued on.
The great golden orb hanging in the cloudless sky bathed the village in its warm embrace. Garrick felt its gentle caress on his face while a playful sea breeze ruffled his gray-white hair, carrying with it the unmistakable scent of brine.
Here was a place where land and sea met perfectly, where fisherfolk and craftsmen lived and worked side by side. The soul of Angler's Point seeped into Garrick's very bones.
As they walked on, Garrick found himself lost in reverie, his mind awash with images of days gone by. Old friends, the taste of a hearty fish stew, the feel of sand and pebbles between his toes—all these memories and more swirled around him like the tides, pulling him back to a time when Angler's Point had been more than just another village. It had nearly been a home.
Dashiell and Tad eagerly took in their surroundings. The young Montrose seemed enthralled by the peacefulness, while Tad, with his usual exuberance, pointed out details that even Garrick had missed after so many years. They passed the small market, where wares were displayed in a hasty fashion that suggested the villagers had seen them coming and thought to make some quick trices. Amongst the yield were freshly caught fish, handwoven baskets, and bright sea glass jewelry that sparkled in the afternoon sun.
Finally, they reached the docks, and Garrick’s footsteps slowed. He felt absolutely foolish now; the figure, carved in weathered stone, was unmistakably him: a taller version, with his features set in a serene, outstretched wave. The face was calm, almost joyful. Tad, ever curious, wandered closer, his eyes wide with fascination.
"Look there," Garrick said, pointing to the open sea. "If you look hard enough, you’ll see that distant island. Off to one side, you'll notice a thin stem jutting up."
Dashiell squinted, his eyes narrowing as he focused on the horizon. After a moment, his face broke into a wide smile.
"I see it. Is that a lighthouse?"
Garrick nodded.
"Indeed, young Mr. Montrose. It’s the Dreamwood Tide. That’s where we’re heading. It's the fastest way to get to the Guild."
"A lighthouse?" Dashiell wondered. "How does that work? Teleportation of some kind?"
"Not exactly," Garrick said. "It's actually—"
He was interrupted by Tad, who had apparently been storing up exclamation points for just such an occasion.
"Garrick!" the otherworlder shouted, jabbing a thumb at the statue with enough enthusiasm to potentially chip the stone. "It's you!"
Garrick sighed and then nodded.
"Yep! Or so I hear."
"We put it up after the Fiend Lord fell," Constance said, raising an eyebrow at the old man.
"You really didn't have to go to all that trouble, Connie," Garrick said.
"Well, to be fair," Constance said, "we thought you was dead. Didn't think you'd be back to criticize it."
Garrick chuckled.
"Fair enough."
However, Tad was now staring at the feet of the Garrick statue, his brow furrowed in concentration.
"Mr. Tadanius?" Garrick wondered. "Something wrong?"
Tad shook his head.
"No…" he said. "I'm just having a tough time reading this language—I still haven't learned all the letters of Bastion Common."
"Letters?" Garrick wondered. "What letters?"
"Aye, a plaque," Constance said. "You know, as commemoration. For the dead."
She shook her head with a sigh.
"Though I s'pose we'll 'ave to change it now, seein' as you're not as dead as we thought."
Garrick shook his head, the horror dawning on him that he'd been immortalized not just in stone but in prose.
"Really, Connie, you put a pla—"
Tad cleared his throat with the solemnity of a man about to recite an ancient and mystical prophecy, interrupting Garrick's rebuttal.
"Erected in honor and memory," he began, speaking slowly as he finally deciphered the ornate script, "The Hero of Angler's Point, Vanquisher of the Imperial Fiend Lord, and One-Time Winner of the Village's Annual Fish-Throwing Contest."
Garrick winced at this last part, muttering something about "beginner's luck" and "slippery hands."
Tad continued, growing more confident with each word: "With valor as vast as the sea and a heart as true as Myldur's Star, he stood against the darkness when others faltered. Though he fell in battle, his spirit lives on in the courage of our people and the stories we tell our children. He was not from here, but we believe he loved this place as a home. With salt and sea, we remember ye, Garrick, known to the realms as…the…the…"
He trailed off, apparently struggling with the last bit.
"Well," Dashiell said, his voice filled with awe, "that is quite... something."
"Aye," Constance agreed, beaming with pride. "We wanted to make sure everyone knew what a hero you were. Or are. Time tenses get a bit muddled when the dead start walking about."
Garrick cleared his throat, looking as uncomfortable as a man wearing chainmail underwear.
"Yes, well, we should be moving along. The Dreamwood Tide awaits."
As they moved away, Tad lingered, squinting at the plaque.
"Mr. Tadanius?" Garrick asked.
"…Garrick, known to the realms as…the…Wa…" he said, trying hard to sound it out, then he smiled. "Got it! I can read it!"
He turned back to the group.
"Known to the realms," he said confidently, "as the Waking War."