A few hours had elapsed since his early morning encounter with the spectral visitor at the windmill. Now, in the early afternoon, he had just finished repairing the door to the woodshed—a task necessitated by the creature's inexplicable ravaging of the hinges both on the door and the frame. The way the damage had been inflicted suggested an odd method of destruction, almost as if someone had hung all their weight on the door and swung from it. Repeatedly.
Garrick had spent nearly an hour carving new holes, reshaping the hinges from their wrenched state, fixing the latest pieces in place, and then reattaching the door. Yet, despite his efforts, he remained unconvinced of its stability. Reforging the fastens would have been the better choice, but without a forge at hand, he had to make do with what he had.
Should I build a forge? He pondered, mulling over the idea. As he did so, a stiff breeze picked up. Oh, here’s the moment of truth!
Garrick held his breath in anticipation of the door's response.
It creaked once. Twice.
The breeze picked up further.
Thrice.
The door held firm.
“Yes!” he exhaled contentedly and turned to Ember, observing him quietly.
"Would you look at that, Ember? It held! Hot diggity-dog! How about some celebratory sandwiches?" he proposed, his voice hopeful.
Ember's eyes lit up at the mention of food, her tail wagging in excitement.
However, just as Garrick began to relax into the moment, a loud snap echoed through the air.
He turned in horror to see the entire door jamb crack apart, causing the door to violently sag and then fall off its hinges, landing with a dull thump in the grass.
There was a long pause as the fox and the old man stared incredulously at the fallen door. Finally, Garrick sighed deeply, then turned to Ember, who looked up at him with an expectant gaze.
"Well…how about sandwiches of mourning?" he suggested. One way or another, they would be having sandwiches.
Ember, perhaps unable to understand the nuance of the situation but always ready for food, simply wagged her tail more vigorously in response.
Resigned to the fact that there would need to be a more permanent solution, Garrick picked up the fallen door, leaning it against the shed as a temporary measure until he could address it properly.
"Maybe sandwiches first, then I'll think about that forge," he decided, walking back toward the cabin with Ember at his heels, both ready for a much-needed break.
As Garrick and Ember returned to the cabin, the promise of a good meal floated repeatedly from Garrick’s excited lips.
“That will be just the thing to sort this day out,” he said delightedly. “Yes—there are few things in the world more divine than a good, hearty loaf of bread. And slicing it up and placing more food between the pieces? Well, the gods themselves couldn't have crafted a finer miracle.”
However, upon entering the kitchen and rummaging through his cupboard for the necessary ingredients, Garrick was met with an unwelcome realization—he hadn't baked any bread.
"Of course, why not?" he mumbled under his breath, his stomach offering a grumbling agreement. “I was planning to have lunch in Maretown today—so I hadn’t thought to make any.”
Being hungry tended to put the old man in a less-than-affable mood.
However, not one to be deterred by the whims of fate or an empty bread bin, Garrick's eyes fell upon a small lump of leftover dough from the baking misadventure several days ago. Garrick had an idea.
"If the mountain will not come to me," Garrick declared, quoting the old idiom and rolling up his sleeves with a dramatic flourish, "then I must... make a burrito."
Transforming the dough into a flatbread was both an art and a necessity. Garrick took the dough, sprinkled a little flour on the wooden countertop to prevent sticking, and flattened it with a rolling pin. The pin, a sturdy oak affair, made short work of the dough, pressing it into a thin, round shape.
With the flatbread shaped to satisfaction, Garrick preheated his flat iron—a hefty metal slab that served as his all-purpose grilling utensil. He placed it over the open flame of his hearth, the iron heating with a welcoming sizzle. Once hot, he carefully laid the dough on it, the heat instantly setting to work, little bubbles forming on the surface as it cooked.
This is going to be good, Garrick hummed, tearing a sneaky piece from the edge and popping it into his mouth. I was right. It was good.
The dough began to crisp and brown at the edges, the yeasty aroma filling the kitchen. Garrick flipped the bread with a practiced flick of the wrist, the other side cooking to golden perfection.
As the flatbread cooked, Garrick's mind wandered to eggs. They would make the perfect filling.
“I know it’s a little late in the day for a breakfast version,” Garrick said to Ember with a wink. “But I won’t tell if you don’t.”
Ember simply blinked at him.
“Ha, alright, it’s a deal!” Garrick said.
He moved across the cabin and opened his icebox, a marvel of enchanted cooling that kept his perishables fresh, only for his happy hum to die in his throat. There were no eggs. He’d planned to pick them up on his run to the Maretown market.
"No bread, no eggs," he sighed, the day's tally of culinary disappointments growing. "This shopping trip can't come soon enough."
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Yet, Garrick was nothing if not resourceful. Turning his disappointment into determination, he decided on a vegetarian burrito instead. But…a quick glance at his pantry confirmed his next challenge: due to his recent adventures, he hadn't had the chance to pick any vegetables from his garden and stock his stores.
Garrick considered himself to have a relatively high boiling point, but even he was having trouble not cursing. He looked mournfully out the kitchen window at his garden, the lush greenery waving in the breeze as if mocking his unpreparedness. Usually, the prospect of gathering fresh produce was a joy, an intimate connection with the earth and its bounty. Now, driven by hunger and thwarted plans, it felt like an odyssey too far.
“Beatrix would be so cross with me right about now,” he thought, thinking of how his mentor had once made him run the six miles back to the previous settlement because he’d forgotten his hat at a tavern. If she’d been there in his kitchen, she’d likely have made him run laps up and down the mountain.
He sighed, steeling himself for the task ahead.
"Right, then. To the garden it is."
—
Sitting on his porch with the finished product, Garrick eyed his creation with pride and hunger. Most of the fruits and vegetables hadn’t been in a state to be used, so he’d had to improvise. Now he was staring down the barrel of a carrot-and-tomato burrito—but desperate times, as they say. He’d considered adding some onion from what he still had left over from the bag he’d traded for but had erred on the side of caution. He didn’t yet know what he’d be doing for dinner, and he might want to use one for that.
Ember, her own meal finished, looked on with interest, perhaps wondering if there might be more to come.
"A perfect meal, by any metric," Garrick said, lifting the burrito for the first bite.
He bit down, the crunch of the carrots mixing with the slight sourness of the tomatoes, and for a moment, all was right in the world. That was until the dark shapes on the horizon caught his eye. One small, one very large.
"Nope, nope, nope," he mumbled through a mouthful, devouring the rest of the burrito with a speed born of impending interruption. The raven and the spectral mystery had returned, and he had a feeling that if he’d waited, he might not get to eat until midnight.
He watched as Tate (was that the name he'd settled on?) and the raven separated, the bird looking utterly defeated by whatever ordeal it had just endured.
As the spectral creature landed, Garrick swallowed the last of his meal, a satisfied smile on his face.
Ha, I did it!
The tall figure approached, floating down in a slightly spooky fashion and far too dramatic for the old man’s sensibilities. He wiped his hands on his pants, standing to greet his unexpected and uninvited guest.
"So, back from your delving, I see," he called out, his voice carrying a lighthearted note. "And just in time: lunch is over.”
The creature's response was immediate and tinged with a distinct air of frustration.
"Your so-called 'easy to find' ruins were about as straightforward to locate as the crooked door on your little tool house. And might I add, your directions left much to be desired."
Garrick raised an eyebrow, intrigued despite the apparent failure.
"Oh? And what happened?"
"I found the green rocks you mentioned and had the misfortune of engaging in a very long and very stupid discussion with a creature calling itself Elkriver," the creature continued, its voice dripping with disdain. "Covered head to toe in furs and leaves, rambling on about the spiritual significance of moss. Moss! As if I'd venture all that way to discuss ground foliage."
Garrick couldn't help but chuckle at the creature's apparent distaste for druidic musings. Clearly, this entity hadn’t listened to his directions at all.
Elkriver means well, but yeah, he can talk.
"Sounds like you had quite the day,” Garrick said. “So, you didn't find the ruins, then?"
"Oh, I found them, eventually," the creature said. "But by that time, my energy was nearly depleted, and I longed for the sweet embrace of sleep. I wanted to ensure I returned before nightfall, lest you decide to renegotiate our agreement from under me."
“Renegotiate?” Garrick asked.
“Yes,” the creature said, leaning down so his glowing white-blue eyes aligned with Garrick’s. “Double-cross me.”
Garrick snorted.
“Now, why would I do that?”
The creature eyed him warily.
"Because, according to this…Elkriver, deceit and subterfuge are as natural to humans as breathing. And considering my encounter with him, I believe there is a grain of truth to his ramblings.”
Garrick sighed. Elkriver, while being a human himself, loved to gab endlessly, concocting sprawling dissertations about the world's woes and why it was doomed. The old man considered that, for a druid, Elkriver was actually quite a cynic.
“Well…rest assured, you may have use of the upper level of the windmill—I’m not going back on my word,” he said.
“And the walking path!” the creature declared.
Garrick raised an eyebrow.
“Oh?”
“What?” the creature demanded. “It is a pleasant walking path, and I require some time for reflection—preferably while exercising my use of a nice strollway.”
“So…” Garrick began. “Let me make sure I have the right of this—my windmill is ugly, but you think the walking path is pleasant?”
“See, you get it,” the creature said, standing back to its full height. “Do we have a deal?”
“Fine,” Garrick said, sitting back down in his chair. “The windmill and the walking path.”
Though, I’m not sure what I’m getting out of this deal, he thought privately. I have really got to stop agreeing to allow people to invite themselves to Respite.
His thoughts traveled back again to Vash’s extended stay, locking himself in the bathroom for hours at a time, indulging in splash-fests and delivering blaring renditions of songs in a manner so off-key, it was as if he was aiming to summon a horde of goats. The worst part was that Garrick had heard the man sing in earnest before, and he had a surprisingly good voice—which likely meant he was only doing that to enact psychological warfare on Garrick.
After a moment’s consideration, Garrick decided that…no, the actual worst part was that there hadn’t even been a lock on the door in the first place—Vash had installed it himself.
If he was being honest, though… It wasn't bad—having some company around now and again. If nothing else, it made him appreciate the quiet even more once they’d left again. Ember was terrific company, to be sure. Still, sometimes, it was nice to have a conversation that wasn’t so one-sided. Perhaps that was why he was more agreeable to letting people encroach on his little paradise? Wonder was an experience best shared.
Feeling a little bad for even thinking that, he looked down at Ember, sleeping beside his chair.
Sorry, Ember. You’re an absolutely perfect presence, and don’t you ever think otherwise.
The little fox let out a soft snort in her sleep.
“In any case,” the creature began again, turning toward the windmill, “if you are not going to withdraw like a filthy human from the compact I so cleverly devised—er, established, then I suppose I returned with unnecessary haste.”
“I’d say so,” Garrick said, thinking about how the wolfed-down burrito was sitting uncomfortably in his stomach—it felt like a rock.
Gods, I’m going to be dealing with heartburn all night.
“So, you didn’t find anything in the ruin?” asked Garrick.
I took Skylark to those crags once, he recalled, smiling.
Those early days at Respite were a time of new beginnings. If he remembered correctly, his son was just a wide-eyed lad of eight at the time. Skylark, fueled by tales of ancient lore and the boundless optimism of youth, was sure they'd stumble upon a hidden dragon's hoard. To feed his son's appetite for adventure, Garrick had obliged, leading them through the rugged terrain in search of mythical riches. While they didn't uncover a trove of gold and jewels, a Sprite Etching was carved into one of the walls—a sure sign that something steeped in astara had once graced the area. Sprites were not known to leave their etchings lightly; their marks were always significant, imbued with the essence of the land's ancient energy. Garrick just never had the occasion to unearth what that was.
Though, I’d tried going back at least once with his mother…
“It’s pretty sparse in there,” Garrick continued, clearing his throat. “I’ve…uh, explored it myself a time or two but didn’t find much to write home about.”
The spectral creature shook its head.
“If I were to write home, it would only be to complain about how unseemly you make your buildings. It would make my family very happy—they would laugh and laugh at your expense.”
Then, the creature paused.
“But, no—I found nothing of note. Just lots of garbage. Though, you would likely be very pleased by those findings.”
“Alright, this dynamic is starting to get a little stale,” Garrick said. “If you’re going to be staying on my property, you’ll have to start being a little more polite.”
“I am plenty polite,” the creature said. “My behavior is acceptable where I’m from.”
“And where is that, exactly?” Garrick wondered. The creature didn’t match any description of any beasts he knew about—astaran or otherwise.
“Elsewhere,” the creature said coyly, then suddenly lifted off from the ground. “Now! I will be going back to the winged tower. Do not disturb me, as I will be making loud noises and studying. Yes, it will be quite the—”
“You won’t have to worry about that,” Garrick interjected, leaning back in his chair. He’d just let the entity do its thing as long as it didn’t cause too much trouble and—
“Oh! I almost forgot,” the creature said, floating back toward Garrick. The old man had a distinct sense of deja vu from when the specter admitted to manhandling his tool shed.
“What now?” he breathed, shaking his head. “You break something else, and I’m going to make you pay for it.”
“Do not be ridiculous, ancient human man,” the creature said. “I do not have any money.”
Garrick snorted.
That’s not a surprise.
“Well, then, what is it?”
The creature suddenly held something out to Garrick.
“I found this in the crag—you can have it. It is worthless, but it is not as much garbage as the rest of the garbage. Perhaps you can sell it and buy yourself a candy, or perhaps a new little tool house that is not so easy to break during horseplay.”
Garrick accepted it, examining the object in his palm. It was small and circular, with something shiny beneath the layers of grime and dust. When Garrick realized what it was, his eyes went wide.
“You—you found this in the crags?” Garrick was not easily surprised, but now…well, he was stunned.
“You do not listen very well,” the specter admonished, tsking. “Such is the tragedy of being an elderly. But, yes, it is from the decidedly mundane and frankly unimpressive crags. If it holds any value, then consider it compensation for my lodging. If it is not worth anything, then I will not be paying you at all. A fair trade, I would say. Farewell.”
Without waiting for a response, Tate, or Levi, or whoever it was, floated up and away, heading back toward the windmill, but not before shouting, “Bird! To me! Stand guard over this poorly-made hovel while I attend to my business!”
Garrick hardly registered this, however. He was too enraptured by the sight of the item in his hand to notice much of anything else. It was covered in muck and dross, so he scraped away some of the detritus, the shine revealed beneath reflected back in his eyes. His mouth was dry, and he cleared his throat before his lips curved into a grin.
“Well,” he whispered. “It may have taken a few years, my love. But…it seems your missing ring has finally returned to Respite.”