Early Spring

871 F.L.

(53 years ago)

 

Under the dense canopy of the ancient forest, Garrick treaded softly, his boots sinking silently into the mossy earth. His eyes were wide, darting from one shadow to the next, tracing the faint but distinct tracks that marred the otherwise undisturbed undergrowth. The forest around him seemed to breathe a quiet, watchful life of its own, its gnarled trees terrifying and unknown to him.

 

Clasped in his grasp was a map, its edges curling and ink blurring into the parchment. With annoyance, he glanced down at it. The thing was less a navigational tool and more a collection of hastily scribbled lines and curves, offered by a villager with a skeptical frown and wary gaze.

 

"Goblins are sly, dangerous," the villager had muttered, his cautious words resounding in Garrick's mind. “Being careful isn’t good enough, lad. You’ll need to be perfect.”

 

“Sure, he said that,” Garrick grumbled. “Then he gives me this piece of trash—how am I supposed to learn anything from this?”

 

He turned it upside down, hoping that might give him some clarity, but instead, all it offered were more question marks. Garrick sighed.

 

The pack the monsters had taken was everything—his meager stash of food, and more importantly, the amulet. The small trinket, with intricate patterns etched into its surface, lay somewhere ahead, hopefully still nestled among his belongings. This was a bitter thought. He’d earned the amulet from killing that deadly…was it a hawk-monster? In any case, he’d been planning to sell it until the goblins showed up. It was supposed to be his key to a soft bed and a warm meal, a brief respite from the relentless chaos of the wilderness. Now it was in their grubby possession, and if he wanted it back, he was going to have to do something unpleasant.

 

Pausing, Garrick crouched low, his fingers brushing over the fresh, irregular imprints in the mud. Goblins…he was pretty sure. To be fair, he’d never been much of a tracker, and this world was strange enough that he might’ve been peering down at raccoon prints. His heart skipped a beat, a cocktail of adrenaline and apprehension coursing through his veins. His only weapon, a hatchet meant for wood, felt clumsy and inadequate in his grip.

 

The advice of the villager replayed in his head, a haunting portent of warning. Yet here he stood, at the precipice of danger, propelled by a stubborn streak that overruled his inexperience.

 

He inhaled deeply, the forest air cool and sharp in his lungs. At that moment, he was nobody. He was just Garrick, a stranger in a strange land, chasing after his only meal ticket. Folding the map with a resolve that belied his trembling hands, he pushed forward. He needed to do this, or he might die.

 

No, not might, he thought. I will die if I don’t do this. Then again, I might die if I do actually try this…so, not great options.

 

Not for the first time, he cursed his bad luck in stumbling into this world. It had just been misstep after misstep since he’d arrived. First, the issue with the quicksand, afterward was that bog witch who’d tried to non-consensually marry him, then escaping that cult that tricked him into thinking they were just a friendly band of traveling musicians, then the actual band of traveling musicians—he shuddered—then the hawk-monster. Now…this. He sighed. This place was a nightmare and if he couldn’t survive long enough to get a good night’s rest, how would he ever live long enough to make it back home?

 

Garrick's plan was simple, or so he thought. He had heard once, in some half-remembered story from back home, that goblins were creatures of the night—which meant they were sluggish and drowsy by day. So, the idea was to sneak into their camp while the sun was high, grab his pack, and disappear before they knew what hit ‘em. A foolproof plan, he assured himself, even as a small voice in the back of his mind whispered doubts.

 

As he neared the suspected goblin camp, hidden just beyond a thicket of brambles, he crouched behind a large tree, peering out with cautious hope. The camp was in disarray, something he imagined was typical of goblin-kind. Discarded bones and tattered scraps of clothing were strewn about. Most of the goblins, true to his expectations, were sprawled in haphazard heaps, snoring in a cacophony that reminded Garrick of a sawmill.

 

“Easy in, easy out,” Garrick muttered to himself, inching forward. He didn’t truly believe it would be that uncomplicated, merely trying to convince himself to make sure he didn’t piss his pants. Still, he was here now, and there was nothing else for it: he had to get his belongings back.

 

But as he stepped on a seemingly innocuous pile of leaves, a branch cracked underfoot like a gunshot in the still air. He froze, a wave of panic washing over him.

 

From the corner of his eye, he saw movement. One of the goblins, a scrappy thing with wiry limbs and ears like daggers, was wide awake, sharpening a jagged blade. It locked eyes with Garrick, and in that moment, he knew his plan had unraveled.

 

“Shit…” Garrick hissed.

 

With a guttural shout, the goblin leaped up, alerting the others. Goblins, now stirring and snarling, quickly converged on him from all sides. Garrick's heart raced as he clumsily swung his hatchet, the tool feeling more like a toy in his untrained hands.

 

"Perfect plan, Garrick," he scolded himself as he parried a swipe from one goblin and dodged a thrown rock from another. "Really top-notch thinking there."

 

But self-reproach would have to wait. Right now, he was in a fight for his life, desperately hoping to survive long enough to regret his poorly thought-out scheme.

 

The goblins swarmed him like a wave of malice, their crude weapons clashing against Garrick's hatchet with a clang that sent shivers down his spine. He swung wildly, each strike fueled more by panic than skill. The hatchet, a tool meant for chopping wood, was laughably inadequate against the snarling horde.

 

A particularly bold goblin lunged at him with a jagged, pointy trowel, the metal glinting in the sunlight. Garrick sidestepped, more out of instinct than combat prowess, and swung his hatchet in a clumsy arc. The blade connected with a thud, sending the goblin tumbling to the ground. But there was no time to celebrate; more were on him in an instant, their grubby hands grabbing and weapons slashing.

 

He suddenly felt a sharp pain in his side as one of the little monsters connected with a rusted shiv, the slash likely shallow, but no less painful because of it.

 

This is it, Garrick thought, gritting his teeth. I'm going to die over a stupid amulet and a few scraps of food.

 

But even as despair threatened to take hold, Garrick's survival instinct roared to life. He pushed back against the goblins with renewed vigor, his swings growing more desperate and wild. He wasn't a seasoned warrior; he was a man cornered, fighting with the ferocity of one who had everything to lose.

 

In the thick of the chaos, Garrick caught a glimpse of the goblin with the jagged trowel, now back on its feet and sneering at him. It charged again, and Garrick braced himself. This time, he thought, he wouldn't be so lucky.

 

Just as the goblin's blade was about to strike true, a whirlwind of motion erupted at the edge of the clearing. An arrow thunked right into the goblin’s head, mid-swing. His eyes rolled up and he crashed to the ground in a lifeless heap. Garrick, startled, nearly fell backward. He shot a glance to where he’d seen movement.

 

A group of adventurers, like a storm unleashed, burst into the fray. Leading them was a striking figure, a woman clad in armor that gleamed like moonlight on water and carrying a monstrous sword as tall as she was—and twice as wide. Garrick wondered briefly how it was possible that a woman of her stature could even attempt to wield a weapon that size—but his doubts faded instantly as he watched her work, carving a path through the melee like a demon. Her hair, the color of seafoam, was pulled back, the braid swaying with each movement. She also had an eyepatch, which Garrick thought should make her look a bit like a pirate, but it somehow worked.

 

She moved with an elegance that was strangely…feral within the maelstrom-like chaos, the massive sword she wielded was a brutal extension of her will, slicing through the air with lethal grace. Each of her strikes, appearing wild at first glance, found each target with a deceptive precision. Her companions, he witnessed in awe, were equally skilled. The group mowed through the goblins with an ease Garrick guessed was born of countless battles, their weapons—a mix of bows, axes, and swift daggers—finding their marks with deadly efficiency.

 

The goblins, overwhelmed by this sudden and formidable onslaught, quickly faltered. Their savage aggression turned to desperation as they were methodically cut down by their wily foes.

 

Garrick, gasping for breath and clutching his side, watched in relieved awe. The pain from his wound was sharp, but the realization that he was alive, that he had been mere moments away from death, was even sharper. He looked up at the woman, her presence commanding even in the stillness following the battle. Her visible eye, a piercing shade of violet, met his, and Garrick couldn’t help but shudder at the intensity of her gaze.

 

“Hello,” the woman said, “I’m Beatrix.”

—

 

Somrstad 5th, 924 F.L.

(Present)

 

Garrick gently woke to find he was in his chair on his porch, his dream fading like mist in the morning sun. He must’ve dozed off at some point.

 

"Well…that was something…" he muttered, squinting as he waited for his body to join his mind in waking up.

 

It had been many years since he'd dreamt about the past, and now, in just a few weeks, he'd done it thrice. Something was definitely developing—and it wasn't just what he saw cultivating along the horizon. No, once was happenstance; twice was a coincidence. Three times? Well, that was a warning.

 

Garrick glanced at the cup of tea next to him on the small table. It was half gone and no longer steaming.

 

A shame, he thought. Wasting good tea is an affront to Jolskar, himself.

 

Though, he doubted the god of brewing and steeping would care overly much in this particular instance. Garrick was resolved to ask him about it the next time he encountered him.

 

With that thought, Garrick leaned back in his chair, and took another few minutes to appreciate the scenery. Afterall, he wouldn’t have many more afternoons to enjoy before he had to leave.