Garrick stood in the doorway, his eyes narrowing as he took in the figure before him.

 

It was a man, one he knew well. His hair, a glossy black waterfall—the top shaggy, falling carelessly over his forehead, while the back flowed into a long tail. It was a mullet, a style Garrick remembered from a world far removed from this one, yet seemed to have taken root here regardless—though the word used around these parts was a ‘thump-cut.’ A meticulously groomed mustache adorned his upper lip, slender as a pencil and elegantly coiled at its tips. Above it, ice-blue eyes shimmered, a hint of concealed amusement dancing within their depths. For all the world, the man that stood before him looked, at most, to be in his late twenties.

 

"Vash," Garrick said, startled and resigned by the man’s appearance. He looked exactly the same as he had when last he saw him—not surprising, but still intriguing to see. "To what do I owe the…” He couldn’t bring himself to say the word pleasure. “...occasion?”

 

"Garrick, my old friend! My chum, my pal! Can't I just drop by to see how you're faring in your hermitage?"

 

Vash took a step forward, but Garrick made no move to let him pass. The brightly-smiling man looked at him confusedly.

 

"...A-are you going to let me into your lovely home?"

 

"I'm still considering."

 

"Well that’s a bit rude. What would Beatrix say if she saw you denying me shelter?"

 

“Probably applaud my efforts,” Garrick said seriously.

 

“Yes, well…” Vash started, his eyes flicking from the older-looking man to the interior of the cottage and back.

 

Garrick sighed, then he stepped out of the way as Vash exploded into his home with a flourish.

 

Garrick frowned. Vash's visits were never just social calls. There was always something brewing beneath the surface—some plan or scheme. And yet, despite his wariness, Garrick knew it wouldn’t be without a reason. Likely a terrible reason, but a reason nonetheless. He crossed his arms, not responding, but waiting. Waiting to hear what brought the trickster to his doorstep.

 

Vash's eyes scanned the cabin, taking in every detail with an almost childlike glee.

 

"You've kept the place just as I remember it! What’s it been, friend? Fifteen years?”

 

“Seventeen,” Garrick corrected. Vash’s last visit had coincided with the Moth Eclipse—when the old swindler had invited himself to Respite to watch the event from, as he called it, a ‘place of untouched majesty.’ He’d also overstayed his welcome in Garrick’s estimation, not leaving for nearly a month afterward and hogging the clawfoot tub the whole length of his stay.

 

The stinkiest month of my life.

 

“Oh, dear,” Vash said, clucking his tongue disapprovingly. “Has it really been that long? Well, I suppose there’s something to be said about keeping with tradition, eh? Though, I must say, this is tumbling out of tradition territory and right into religious dogma.”

 

“Eh?” Garrick wondered. “What are you on about, man?”

 

Vash gestured at the interior of the cabin as if to emphasize his point.

 

“Well, only that it could use a bit of...color."

 

Garrick stared for a long moment at the perfectly acceptable insides of his dwelling before offering, “Color?”

 

“Yes, of course,” Vash said, shaking his head and tsking. “I daresay, it’s awfully…brown in here, don’t you think? Have you ever heard of paint, Garrick? Lovely stuff, really. Makes a difference—would brighten this up whip-quick. Yellow is all the rave in Highcrown this season—or so I hear.”

 

Garrick sighed, rolling his eyes. As Vash sauntered around the room making his critiques, Ember trotted over to him, her tail wagging. She nuzzled against his leg, eliciting a soft chuckle from Vash. He bent down to stroke her fur, and Garrick couldn't help but feel a twinge of annoyance.

 

“Always the charmer, even with beasts," Garrick muttered under his breath. It was true; Vash had a way with animals, a gift that seemed to extend to all creatures, even ones as special as Ember.

 

Vash looked up from his interaction with Ember, his eyes meeting Garrick's.

 

“A vulpid? Really? I thought you would have learned your lesson on creatures like this after…” he gestured to Garrick’s chest—or more specifically, where his old wound sat.

 

“I think there’s quite a difference between her and what we fought.”

 

“Oh, I’m just giving you a hard time, old friend. Where did you get her?”

 

Garrick shrugged, his eyes falling on Ember’s little face, her eyes watching Vash fondly. Despite the focal point of her clear and inexplicably immediate affection, when he had that look, Garrick’s heart melted.

 

“A gift from Claudette,” he said quietly.

 

“Claudette, you say?” Vash's demeanor shifted slightly, a sparkle of genuine interest lighting up his ice-blue eyes. "And how has the old crone been? Still hiding out on the other side of the world?"

 

Garrick nodded, a faint smile crossing his face. "I don’t know if I’d call it hiding out, Vash. But…yes. Last I knew, that was the case. I haven't heard from her since she left a note with Ember, here."

 

He gestured to his fox.

 

“Ember?!” Vash nearly roared, his smile splitting his face as he gestured wildly to Garrick. “You named her Ember? Your creativity truly knows no bounds, my good man. What next? Naming a griffin ‘Windy’ or a basilisk ‘Stone-eyes?”

 

“I didn’t name her,” Garrick said, shaking his head. “Claudette did. Figured there was a purpose to it—even if it was a bit on the nose. You know how she is. Her gifts are always meaningful.”

 

Vash adopted a look of mock offense, his gaze sweeping dramatically over the confines of Garrick's humble abode.

 

"I'm wounded, truly. And here I am, searching high and low, yet I can't seem to find the exquisite gifts I left you. Wherever could they be?"

 

"Ah, do you mean the ‘friendship cactus’ that showed up at my door having been dead for over a month? Or maybe the enchanted goblet? Turned out to be more of a self-emptying one by the time it got here. It leaked all over my table before I figured out it was enchanted to drain rather than fill. Had to repurpose the poor polished wood for kindling once I realized the stains wouldn’t come out."

 

Vash, ever the defender of his questionable contributions, waved a hand dismissively. "A minor miscalculation, I assure you. In the right hands, it's a marvel of astaran innovation!"

 

"Right hands or not, it ended up watering the garden rather than providing endless wine. The grapevines were oddly robust that season, though. It’s still out there…somewhere."

 

“Do you still have that old pendant she gave you—the one with the clamshell?”

 

“It’s a tortoise shell,” Garrick corrected. “And yes, I still have it, why? You need to borrow it for a heist?”

 

“Perish the thought, my old friend,” Vash said dismissively. “In fact, the very opposite—I was asking because it seems to me it might come in handy in your trials to come.”

 

“I’ll be experiencing trials, now?” Garrick wondered, rolling his eyes. “Other than this conversation?”

 

“Don’t be an ass, Garrick,” Vash admonished. “You know the rules—”

 

“Yeah…bring along anything that might be necessary, even if it seems pointless. I remember, Vash. You weren’t the only one Beatrix talked to, you know.”

 

“What?” Vash asked, clearly confused. “I haven’t the foggiest idea what you’re on about—I was referring to the old adage ‘one must always be prepared to liquidate assets. Especially the shiny ones.’”

 

Garrick snorted.

 

"You know, Garrick,” Vash said, his eyes dancing with a look that Garrick knew was something borderlining conspiracy—or even heresy. “I've always admired how well you've settled into this...quaint lifestyle. But, speaking of some of the incredible friends we share, I must say, I do miss our adventures."

 

Garrick leaned against the door frame, arms still crossed.

 

"Ah, so that’s it,” he rumbled. “I've had my fill of your adventures, Vash. What I need now is peace, not the kind of trouble you usually bring."

 

Vash straightened up, his usual irreverence momentarily replaced by a semblance of seriousness. Yet, even this was undercut by the mischievous glimmer dancing in his eyes.

 

"Ah, but Garrick, don’t you miss the call to arms—something outside the confines of this…cozy abode?"

 

Garrick didn’t miss the look of discomfort that accompanied the man’s sentiment. His own eyes narrowed with suspicion, his thoughts momentarily drifting to a recent encounter.

 

"Didn’t you hear? I’ve already signed on for a bit of action. But…of course you knew that.” He sighed again. “However…before we dive into whatever your cockamamy endeavor is, Vash, I have a question.”

 

“Oh?” Vash wondered. “I love questions.”

 

“I’m sure. What's this about you suggesting my name to Montrose Structures?” Garrick asked. “And under a pseudonym, no less?"

 

Vash feigned innocence, his expression one of exaggerated confusion.

 

"Suggesting you? Why, I have no idea what you're talking about. Are you perhaps enjoying too many fermented fruit wines in your geriatric plodding, my old friend? You should really be careful with that—I hear that’s what they say, anyway. Never seemed to bother me much, but clearly, here we see the detrimental side-effects."

 

Garrick let out another sigh, his patience wearing thin. Dealing with Vash had a tendency to exhaust him.

 

"’Old Shvar.’ Really, Vash? An anagram? Did you think I wouldn't figure it out?"

 

Old Shvar…’Vashlord.’ He thought. Not even particularly clever wordplay, especially by his standards.

 

For a moment, Vash appeared to ponder this revelation, then his face lit up with a theatrical 'aha.'

 

"Oh, that! Well, you caught me, Garrick. I thought a little puzzle might keep things interesting."

 

"Interesting for whom?” Garrick asked. “Why are you trying to drag me into a road-building project? What’s your angle, Vash?"

 

Vash's smile wavered, a rare moment of contemplation crossing his face.

 

"Well, my friend, the road—as it were—is merely an avenue—a pun intended in more ways than one. It’s a pathway—yes, another pun—a way forward to something... bigger. And who better to navigate the twists and turns than you and I?"

 

The furrow in Garrick’s brow deepened. Vash was never one for simple endeavors, and his casual demeanor did little to mask the underlying gravity of his words.

 

"You say twists and turns, but I notice you’re not divulging what those twists and turns belong to.”

 

“Oh, Garrick, such a fuddy duddy,” the man said. “Why, that’s the charm of the mystery, don’t you think?”

 

“No, I don’t think. Vash, I'm done with games and quests. The gods know I’ve dealt with enough of that. So, be straight with me. Why come to me with this now? What sort of scheme are you entangled in?"

 

Vash leaned against the wall, mirroring Garrick’s own posture, his smile returning as he looked Garrick over.

 

"Scheme?” His tone was meant to sound offended, but Garrick knew better than that. “When have I ever schemed, Garrick? Plot? Yes. Conspire? A time or two. Connive and machinate? Yes, absolutely. But never scheme. You wound me, old friend. I’d always bragged about how highly-esteemed you find me.”

 

“Call it what you will—” Garrick began, but Vash cut him off.

 

“Let's call it an opportunity.”

 

Garrick remained silent for a moment. Vash had always been good at spinning tales and rousing interest, even in the most reluctant of listeners.

 

"All right, Vash. Fine. Let’s hear it. What are you talking about?"

 

Vash's grin widened, an unfortunate sign that he thought he had Garrick's attention.

 

"Well, if you insist on knowing…" he began, his voice lowering to a conspiratorial whisper, "let me tell you about the forgotten road to the Voided Vale and the secrets it holds."

 

Garrick studied Vash for a long moment, his eyes traveling over the ageless figure standing so nonchalantly in his cabin. With a deep breath, he simply said, "Nope. Not interested."

 

Turning away, he made his way back to his chair, settling into its familiar embrace as the storm outside began to unleash its fury, raindrops pelting against the window panes like a war drum. As he leaned back, Garrick glanced over at Vash and then at the door, a dry tone in his voice.

 

"I hope you brought an umbrella, Vash. Wouldn't want your eternal youth to be washed away by the rain. Thanks for the visit."

 

Vash, momentarily taken aback by Garrick's disinterest, quickly recovered his composure. With a theatrical sigh, he flung himself into a chair opposite Garrick, slinging a leg over the arm in a casual, almost defiant display of relaxation. His expression turned to a playful pout, the corners of his mouth twitching in a barely concealed smile.

 

"Oh, come now, Garrick," Vash cajoled, his voice teasing. "When did you stop being fun? You used to jump at the chance for a good bit of mystery or a sensible slice of danger. Have you really become that surly old man who shouts at children to stop playing in the grass?"

 

Garrick raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. Vash was leading him toward a point, he knew that, but he sure took his time getting to it. Garrick had known the man a long time, and despite the decades, he never seemed to change in that regard, either. He crossed his arms again, his gaze fixed on the man who seemed to embody both chaos and charm.

 

"Age’ll do that, Vash. Something you seem to have avoided quite successfully."

 

Vash chuckled, the sound light and unbothered.

 

"Growing up is overrated, my friend. However, hear me out. This isn't just any request. It's something... unique. And I wouldn't be here if I didn't think it needed your particular brand of grumpiness."

 

Garrick fixed Vash with a pointed look.

 

"I’m usually a pretty affable guy, Vash. But, I've known you long enough to know your schemes—” He stopped himself when he saw the other man planning to interrupt. “Sorry—your opportunities—always serve you first. What's the real reason behind this? Be honest with me."

 

Vash's playful demeanor waned, replaced by a moment of contemplative silence. He sighed dramatically, then leaned forward, his voice taking on a rare note of sincerity.

 

"Alright, Garrick, you got me," he admitted, running a hand through his sleek black hair. "This isn't just about dragging you out of retirement for the thrill of it. There's more at stake, personally."

 

He paused, his eyes narrowing as if peering into a past only he could see.

 

"You know about my... arrangement. The one I made for a bit of extra time and... talents." His voice trailed off as a shadow seemed to pass over his face, a fleeting glimpse of something deeper—the only thing about him worn by time. "Let's just say that such arrangements, especially those of a... darker nature, always come with strings attached."

 

Garrick watched him, reading between the lines. Vash had always been one to dance around the truth, cloaking it in half-words and smirks. He also knew what secret the man kept—at least in this case. Vash’s appearance, along with many of his abilities, were derived from a powerful source—a nefarious and nearly-omniscient source that likely would take umbrage with such a flippant discussion about its nature. Hence the beating around the bush.

 

Vash's gaze returned to the present, meeting Garrick's.

 

"I might have found a way to... rearrange these strings. There's something out there, an…artifact—hidden away. Old. Powerful. It has…possibilities."

 

Garrick raised an eyebrow, his curiosity piqued.

 

"Possibilities to do what, exactly?"

 

Vash leaned back, a wry smile playing on his lips. Garrick noticed that Ember was now curled up in the man’s lap, with the Vashlord absently stroking her fur.

 

"It could change a few things. Make certain burdens a bit lighter. I've been looking into it, you know, old legends, whispers in the wind."

 

Garrick's eyes narrowed.

 

"And you need my help with this?"

 

Vash stopped petting Ember momentarily and spread his hands, a gesture of mock innocence.

 

"Who better? Besides, it could be beneficial for both of us."

 

Garrick considered this, aware there was much Vash wasn't saying, for good reason. An unfortunate side effect of dealing with his brand of curse.

 

“A way out, then?” Garrick wondered, leveling his gaze on the black-haired man.

 

Vash's gaze drifted, lost in memories.

 

"For decades, I've managed to keep my end of the bargain, serving my family's interests, exploiting the powers I gained. But I've grown tired, Garrick. Tired of the…”

 

He paused, and then his eyes found Garrick’s as the storm outside reached a crescendo.

 

“...of the constant shadow hanging over me." He leaned back, his expression one of earnest appeal. "I need your help, Garrick. Not just for your skills, but because you're one of the few people I trust. And, in return, I promise to make it worth your while.”

 

Garrick sighed, but Vash was speaking again before he could object.

 

“Think of it, my old friend—an adventure with stakes again. Ones beyond treasure or glory, beyond petty prestige. One that could change the very essence of a man's fate."

 

“Stakes?”

 

Vash nodded.

 

“Yes—stakes. Something neither of us has encountered in quite a long time, I’d wager. Having skin on the line, or consequences. The very thing to revitalize a tired spirit, if nothing else.”

 

Garrick sat back, absorbing Vash's words. He had to admit that the idea was intriguing, and Vash's plea struck a chord within him. Here was a friend, albeit a complicated one, asking for help in a matter that went beyond mere adventuring—it was a quest for freedom, for redemption. That was a feeling that resonated with him.

 

"I'll consider it, Vash," Garrick finally said. "But I want the full story—no more secrets or games."

 

“When you say secrets…” the man started but Garrick cleared his throat. Vash suddenly nodded urgently, a look of relief washing over him. "Agreed, agreed! No more secrets."

 

“What do you need, then?” Garrick asked.

 

“Oh, nothing much…” Vash said, then his face transformed into a perfect picture of mischief. “Remember that favor you owe me?”