"They're here? What do you mean?" Agatha gasped, her question riddled with a rising panic that seemed to echo the fear in her eldest son’s eyes. Garrick saw Basil’s pupils dilate, then the young man’s eyes darted once more to the cart.

 

Hmm, Garrick thought to himself. Whatever this is, it’s got them spooked pretty badly. But if the boy is thinking it would be best to hitch up the wagon and high-tail it out of here, he's going to find some displeasure with the results. He thought, based on his experience with the family so far, that he might have a handle on at least part of what they were up against.

 

Garrick raised his hand in a placating gesture.

 

"We need to remain calm," he explained, his voice steady, betraying none of the alarm that his words might have sparked. His gaze wandered back to the campfire.

 

Jeromie, in a display of what Garrick might call ‘classic older cousin antics,’ was holding the stew ladle just beyond Sam's eager reach. The little boy's futile leaps for a taste drew a brief chuckle from the old man—despite the situation.

 

Ember, deciding she'd seen enough, chose that moment to leap onto Jeromie's shoulder and stare directly at him. The sudden weight of his new, fluffy burden and her disapproving gaze froze Jeromie mid-laugh. For a moment, he looked terrified and then he slowly brought the ladle up for her inspection. The vulpid sniffed the stew and then, apparently satisfied with the pause she'd caused, curled up right there, declaring it a good time to take a nap.

 

Jeromie, now a live statue of patience and a perch for slumbering vulpids, slowly turned his attention back to his younger cousin. With a dignity that only someone wearing a fox like a shoulder pad could muster, he carefully offered Sam the ladle, his movements cautious to not disturb his sleeping sentinel. It was a charming and innocent display.

 

And worth protecting, Garrick thought.

 

“It won’t do to have the little ones scared,” Garrick said, turning back to an obviously panicked Agatha and Basil. “So, if you’ll pardon my rudeness on the request for the backstory of your flight, any information you can provide would be helpful.”

 

The two before him said nothing still, they seemed petrified of the consequences of their discovery. Garrick didn’t blame them. The average person—even fleeing from danger—did not typically know how they would handle the stress of a situation like this until it was upon them.

 

I’ve seen reactions worse than this one, he thought. At least they’re not gathering the children up and screeching through the trees. I’ll take this over that any day.

 

“How about this, then?” Garrick began gently. “I suspect, Agatha, that you and your family are fleeing from an order or a cult, is that close enough?”

 

Agatha’s panic suddenly hardened into suspicion. “What? What gives you that idea?!” she hissed. Garrick was thankful that though she was terse in her words, she kept her volume at nearly a whisper.

 

So, she at least has the presence of mind to avoid disturbing the children. That’s good.

 

Garrick offered a small, understanding smile, not unkindly.

 

"I've had some...encounters with cults in the past," he admitted. "There are signs, patterns of behavior, that aren't easy to miss once you know what to look for."

 

He paused, considering how to articulate his observations without causing further distress.

 

"Your family's…mannerisms—the structured way you interact—it speaks of a hierarchical system, a strict order that's hard to shake off. Especially in your interactions with them, Agatha, there's a...ritualistic quality to it. It's subtle, but it's there. This implies a strict adherence to tradition and religious rites, even if it's not consciously acknowledged. More is in the way Sam and Lucy approach the world around them; they don't show the usual caution a child might have. They're curious, yes, but not wary. Like when they approached Ember without hesitation, or how they were captivated by the simple act of making stew."

 

Garrick's gaze lingered on Agatha, watching for a clue in her reaction.

 

"It suggests isolation, a life cloistered away from the broader world."

 

He shifted slightly, leaning on a more analytical approach.

 

"Then there's the tangible evidence—the pendants the children wear, the identical pewter cups in your cart that I'll assume are for communion, and Jeromie's dagger. He mentioned it was his father's, didn't he? It's clearly ceremonial, used in specific rites, I'd wager. All these pieces come together to paint a picture of a life lived within the confines of an organization with rigid rules and conduct, one where religious ceremonies necessitate such items. That is why I believe it to be a cult, and your family, escaping persecution of some variety."

 

Garrick fell silent, giving Agatha a moment to digest his words, to speak if she chose to. But she just stared at him, shocked, and with something akin to dawning realization in her eyes.

 

“Who…are you?” she wondered.

 

Garrick chuckled.

 

“Just an old man with too much time on his hands—now,” he gestured to the campsite around them. “What can we expect? I promise that, no matter what happens, you and your family will be just fine. I am not asking you to tell me what you did—that is no business of mine—only what can be guessed at as to who will be marching through these trees in just a few minutes.”

 

Which doesn’t give them time to hide, he thought. Were it the case, it would make things much easier.

 

Basil was the one who broke the silence.

 

"Kroll the Finder," he said, his tone carrying the weight of a name that seemed to hold more fear than reverence. Garrick's attention didn't waver, encouraging Basil to continue.

 

"We were...we were supposed to do something, a truly awful thing…" Basil's voice trailed off, his eyes briefly meeting Garrick's before flicking back towards the fire, where the others were.

 

Garrick nodded, his expression neutral, giving nothing away.

 

Agatha took a shaking breath.

 

“But we couldn’t—that is, who could do something so vile? Refusal is not a luxury available to those of us who dwell in the Vine Cove. So we ran.”

 

"I see," Garrick murmured, though his mind worked at the meaning.

 

Vine Cove. He thought he knew of it: an old ruin outside the city of Ossis to the west. It was quite a journey from there to here, more than a week’s travel at the very least. There were a few sects Garrick knew roamed around Ossis, but no names he could pin on them. Primarily it was an area dominated by worship to Ukuz, goddess of Death and Dying. Ukuz was a lackadaisical deity, more interested in meandering and relaxation, but her followers tended toward…more zealous natures.

 

I haven't been back near that way since I last visited the Necromancer of the Bleak, Garrick remembered. I imagine the Necromancer’s feelin’ pretty pleased these last two decades since I helped take out the number one competition. It would make sense if cult activity had grown a stronger ambition trying to fill the void. I should look into that…

 

He stopped that train of thought, admonishing himself.

 

That’s not the life for me any longer. Let younger men deal with the things that go bump in the night.

 

Look at that. Twenty years of quiet retirement, then he gets one job offer and suddenly he’s thinking like an adventurer again.

 

No, that won’t do. Better to focus on this current task so I can grab the Rapturous Bell and get back to Respite.

 

After righting his mind, he returned to the previous conversation.

 

“So, this Kroll chap is going to be the one to show up, you think?” Garrick asked.

 

Basil nodded.

 

“Doesn’t matter how disgusting a thing they ask you to do, if you don’t agree…well, we escaped, and that’s worse in their eyes.”

 

A task so despicable they couldn't bear it—Garrick's gaze followed Basil's to the campfire, to Jeromie, the only one who wasn’t an immediate family member—who clearly had parents, as he’d mentioned his father—and the one with the manifested mantle. It was clear now; whatever they were running from, it was intimately tied to Jeromie and his abilities.

 

Agatha, taking a deep breath as if steeling herself, added, "We had to leave. So we took the Finder's carriage—it was the only one we could access unnoticed. But Garrick, you don't understand. Kroll is very dangerous."

 

Garrick's nod was slow, his mind already piecing together their predicament with the scraps he'd been given.

 

"I don't doubt Kroll's danger," he said softly. "But I sensed something else. There’re eight humanoids—” he paused momentarily because Agatha looked as though she was going to faint, “but there’s a larger creature along. If it’s Kroll, as you suspect, then what is the beast traveling with him?”

 

Agatha seemed on the verge of objecting, of keeping that particular card close to her chest, but the resignation in her sigh told Garrick she knew it was futile to withhold information now.

 

"It's a thrennal," she admitted, the name of the beast carrying a weight of its own.

 

"A thrennal," Garrick repeated, nodding as if the pieces were falling into place. "Their sense of smell is nearly unparalleled. I assume that's how Kroll got his name, then."

 

Garrick turned back to Jeromie, watching as the boy dutifully stirred the contents of the stew, Ember still resting upon his shoulder. He concentrated on the boy’s aura a little more, trying to pick up on what could possibly—

 

He suddenly caught it, woven into his Sphere like a spiderweb. A Marked Sigil.

 

It called from within the child's mantle, teasingly, invisible to any who wouldn’t know where to look, but Garrick had more experience than most. It had now become clear why this child, in particular, was being hunted. Marked Sigils were pure manifestations of talents, often believed to be gifts of the deities themselves—though Garrick knew better. They offered abilities outside of the usual things astara was capable of, or enhanced already existing strengths.

 

Still, receiving one, especially as a boy, meant that there was a lot of untapped potential in Jeromie. It also meant that if these cultists were pursuing him so doggedly, they likely meant to sacrifice him. There were many that believed—mistakenly—that those types of gifts were meant to be returned to the gods, and that those who completed such a dire duty would be favored.

 

Despicable, indeed.

 

“This thrennal is what is usually transported in the carriage, then, I take it?” Garrick asked, recalling the pinion hook markings he’d noticed on the ride.

 

“Yes. We hoped we’d slow it down if they couldn’t transport it the usual way. We even thought to mask our scent by changing our clothes and staying off the main throughways to confuse the thrennal, but…” Basil trailed off again.

 

“Ah,” Garrick said, conscious that time was wasting on this situation and unfortunately, Agatha and her son now seemed quite keen to spill the beans on everything they were experiencing. Healthy to get it off the chest, unhealthy when time was of the essence.

 

“Smart tactics, but, unfortunately, that would never have worked,” the old man continued. “Few things are as perceptive as a thrennal’s senses. You’d likely have been better off sticking to the usual routes and hope the myriad scents bought you time—out here, it's easier to track something that doesn’t smell like forest. That’s the beast’s natural domain, and pursuing you through this wilderness makes it far easier to hide a thrennal than keeping to populated areas.”

 

Seeing their look he held up his hand kindly again.

 

“But even then, you would have bought yourself perhaps a few extra hours. What matters now is that we know what’s coming here, and because of that, we can take care of it.”

 

“What do you propose?” Agatha asked. “If there’s a group, as you say, how are we expected to do anything?”

 

Garrick nodded, hearing her out, and then gestured to the cookfire and the children gathered around it. He smiled.

 

“Why...with stew, of course.”