The walk back from the now-inert root cellar was punctuated by the awestruck whispers of the villagers trailing behind me like confused ducklings following a particularly grumpy heron.
"Silent power..."
"...didn't even flinch!"
"...calmed the resonance..."
"...stronger than ever!"
Gregor the Gregarious was practically skipping alongside Mayor Grumbleson, likely outlining the dramatic embellishments for his next performance. "Chapter the Seventh: The Guardian and the Geode of Ghastly Groaning!" Or something equally alliterative and inaccurate.
I ignored them all. Blocked out the fawning gratitude, the hushed reverence, the impending explosion of new myths surrounding my latest act of reluctant reality maintenance. My focus was singular: reaching the dubious sanctuary of my shop, barring the flimsy door, and contemplating the rapidly deteriorating state of my 'retirement'.
Someone had deliberately set up that energy device. The pattern, the placement, the unstable resonance – it wasn't accidental. That creepy gnome-like entity was the prime suspect. Why? To test me? To cause chaos? To harness energy for some nefarious (or possibly just bizarrely mundane) gnome-thing purpose? Unknown. Annoying. Requires investigation I absolutely did not want to conduct.
My quiet life of contemplating dust motes and catalogueing junk had been well and truly derailed. Now I had active, potentially malicious weirdness to deal with, on top of the usual baseline level of Oakhaven absurdity. And Borin's watchful eyes. And Elara's inevitable return from her Moss Quest, armed with maps and likely convinced I communed with lichens.
This dimension was actively trying to give me an ulcer. Or the local equivalent thereof. Probably involved turnips.
Finally, the blessed doorway of Bob's Bits & Bobs. I practically fell inside, slamming the door shut and ramming the warped security board into place. Silence. Blessed, if temporary, silence. Devoid of humming energies, panicked mayors, or speculative storytellers.
The air still smelled faintly of mildew and dust, now overlaid with the lingering scent of damp earth and ozone from the cellar incident. My kingdom of decay. At least it was my kingdom. Mostly. Except when apprentices decided to 'attune' it.
I slumped onto the wobbly stool. Ran a hand through my borrowed hair. The headache was back, naturally. A dull throb behind the eyes, fuelled by lack of caffeine, surplus stupidity, and the dawning realization that my attempt at 'Maximum Attainable Inertia' had failed spectacularly.
Maybe I should just leave? Pack up my non-existent bags, dissolve this borrowed body, and find another quiet corner of the multiverse? Somewhere less prone to spontaneous energy fields and gnome-adjacent pests?
Tempting. Very tempting. But problematic. Finding a truly quiet corner was harder than it looked. And abandoning Aerthos now, with strange energy experiments happening and a gnome-thing possibly lurking about… felt irresponsible. Not out of any sense of duty to Oakhaven, gods forbid. But unstable energy fields, even primitive ones, could sometimes have unforeseen cascade effects on local reality stability. And reality instability, however minor, tended to create paperwork down the line. Might even attract auditors from the Temporal Compliance Commission or, worse, the Department of Existential Threat Management. Dealing with them made Oakhaven's idiocy seem positively charming.
So, stuck here. For now. Involuntary paranormal investigator and guardian against reality shenanigans. Fantastic. Just the retirement I dreamed of.
A faint scratching sound at the door. Not frantic. Not demanding. Hesitant. Almost apologetic.
Scratch. Pause. Scratch.
Too tentative for Grumbleson. Too timid for Borin. Lacked the aggressive curiosity of the late, lamented shop rat. That left...
Oh, stellar debris. No. Please, no. Not him. Not now.
Reluctantly, because ignoring it might lead to him sitting dejectedly on my doorstep, attracting even more attention, I dragged myself up. Removed the security board. Opened the door a crack.
Finnian.
Standing there in the faint moonlight filtering through the Oakhaven gloom. Looking… rough. His mismatched armor bore new scratches, a dent in the helm suggesting a close encounter with something hard. His face was smudged with dirt. His eyes, usually wide with naive enthusiasm, were clouded with profound bewilderment.
"Uh… Shopkeeper Bob?" he began, his voice hushed, almost fearful.
"What fresh disaster have you narrowly survived this time, Finnian?" I asked, my voice sandpaper-rough with exhaustion and zero expectation of good news.
Finnian winced. "Well… I tried, Mr. Bob. I really tried to understand the… the context. The literal versus metaphorical thing."
Here we go. Volume two of 'Misadventures in Applied Mundane Advice'.
"Remember you said," Finnian continued, nervously shifting his weight, "'pigs sometimes like apples'? For variety?"
"Vaguely," I admitted. Tied to Farmer Hemlock's perpetually dissatisfied sow, Petunia, if memory served. A low point in my involuntary agricultural consulting career.
"Well," Finnian took a deep breath. "We encountered… a goblin patrol. Near the Whispering Woods. Not like the Compost Pilgrims. These ones looked mean. Armed. Lots of pointy bits."
Standard goblins, then. Not theologically motivated ones. Just the regular kleptomaniac variety.
"And I thought… context! Variety!" Finnian explained earnestly. "Maybe… maybe if I offered them something unexpected? Something different? Break the usual cycle of pointy-object-based interaction?"
Oh dear. I could see where this was going. It involved projectile fruit, didn't it?
"So," Finnian continued, oblivious to my internal grimace, "I happened to have… some apples. Bruised ones. From helping Farmer Hemlock appease Petunia. And I… I offered them to the goblin leader."
He paused, apparently expecting commendation for this act of suicidal cross-species diplomacy.
"And?" I prompted, already dreading the answer.
"He seemed… surprised," Finnian admitted. "He took the apple. Sniffed it. Took a bite."
A brief flicker of hope? Maybe the goblin leader appreciated novelty?
"Then," Finnian sighed, "he threw the half-eaten apple back at my head," he rubbed the dent in his helm, "shouted something that probably translated to 'Tribute Insufficient!', and ordered the attack."
Of course he did. Because goblins, generally speaking, respond to perceived threats with violence, not nuanced appreciation for dietary variety, especially when offered bruised fruit by someone wearing armour. Basic behavioural science. Apparently not covered in Finnian's adventurer training manual (if such a thing even existed).
"Contextually," I said flatly, "goblins are rarely open to peaceful negotiation involving sub-par fruit."
Finnian winced again. "Right. Lesson learned. Violently." He shifted uncomfortably. "But then… remember the other thing? About the roof patch?"
"Vividly," I sighed. The source of the 'structural enchantment' debacle.
"You said," Finnian frowned, concentrating, "'requires nails. And a hammer. Preferably one whose head doesn't threaten to fly off.'"
"Accurate description of my limited tools," I confirmed.
"Well," Finnian looked down at his scuffed boots. "We tracked the goblins back to their camp. A nasty little cave system. And they had prisoners! A couple of trappers from Willow Creek!"
Stock fantasy plot point #7B: Goblin cave with hapless prisoners. Predictable.
"We needed a distraction," Finnian explained. "To sneak in. And I thought… nails! Hammer! Literal application!"
My sense of impending doom intensified.
"There was a loose rock," Finnian elaborated, pointing vaguely towards his dented helmet again, "sort of hanging precariously above the cave entrance guards."
No. He didn't.
"And I found a big stone – like a hammer! And I managed to find a pointy rock – like a nail!" he continued, his eyes regaining a faint spark of misguided ingenuity. "And I climbed up… carefully… and I hammered the pointy rock behind the loose boulder! Just like you said! To secure it!"
He hammered a wedge behind a loose boulder perched above enemy guards?
"And it worked!" Finnian declared, momentarily proud. "The guards didn't notice! But then… well…" His expression fell again.
"Let me guess," I interjected, my voice heavy with weary certainty. "Your 'securing' action actually destabilized the boulder, causing it to fall directly onto the guards?"
Finnian stared at me, mouth agape. "H-how did you know?"
"Because," I explained, rubbing my temples where the headache was now pounding like Borin's forge hammer, "hammering things behind precariously balanced objects rarely 'secures' them. It tends to dislodge them. Basic physics. Also, common sense. Which seems to be in critically short supply."
"Oh." Finnian looked utterly crestfallen. "So… hammering isn't always for securing? Sometimes it's for… un-securing?" He frowned deeply. "This context thing is really complicated."
"It often aligns with observable reality," I suggested dryly.
"Right." He sighed. "Anyway, it caused a huge ruckus. Distracted everyone. We managed to free the trappers in the confusion. So… sort of a success? Accidental success?" He looked hopeful again.
"Accidental success fueled by catastrophic misunderstanding of basic mechanics," I clarified. "Try not to rely on it as a primary strategy."
Finnian slumped. "So… I'm still getting it wrong? The literal versus metaphorical lessons?"
"Spectacularly," I confirmed, deciding brutal honesty was the only recourse left. Maybe. "Finnian, perhaps… perhaps adventuring isn't for you? Have you considered a nice, quiet life in… turnip farming? Basket weaving? Something less likely to involve accidental rockslides or offending goblin war chiefs with bruised fruit?"
He looked horrified. "But… it's my dream! My destiny! To be a hero!"
Of course it was. Destiny. Another primitive concept designed to justify poor life choices.
"Your destiny, currently," I pointed out, "seems to involve surviving your own misguided attempts to apply irrelevant advice. Which, while demonstrating a certain low cunning and remarkable luck, is not generally considered heroic."
Finnian looked like I'd just kicked his puppy. Or perhaps, denied the metaphorical significance of his puppy's favourite chew toy.
"But… your wisdom…?" he whispered.
"Is generally specific to the situation it addresses," I said tiredly. "Advice about pigs applies to pigs. Advice about roof patches applies to roof patches. Trying to apply roof patch advice to goblin warfare via improvised geological sabotage is… unwise."
He absorbed this slowly. Painfully. The cogs turning. Hopefully, this time, meshing correctly.
"So… don't offer goblins apples?" he clarified tentatively.
"Probably a safe baseline assumption," I conceded.
"And don't hammer things behind loose rocks you want to stay put?"
"An excellent guideline for structural stability and avoiding accidental manslaughter," I agreed.
"Right." He took another deep breath. Stood up a little straighter. "Okay. I think… I think I'm starting to get it. Maybe." He offered a weak, uncertain smile. "Thanks, Shopkeeper Bob. Sorry to bother you. Again."
"Try not to require rescuing from your own tactics next time," I advised, already starting to close the door.
"I'll try!" he called, before trudging off into the Oakhaven gloom, hopefully towards a warm bed and away from any further opportunities for literal interpretation.
I bolted the door. Leaned against it. The silence returned.
Finnian. A walking, talking hazard created entirely by good intentions and a complete inability to grasp context. Every interaction left me feeling drained, like I'd just run a marathon through conceptual molasses.
And the root cellar incident. The gnome-thing. Borin's suspicions. Gregor's lies. Elara's impending return with moss charts.
This retirement wasn't just failing. It was actively developing into a full-blown, multi-pronged cluster-fracas of cosmic proportions, albeit played out on a ludicrously small, dusty stage.
I needed that tea. Now more than ever. Probability manipulation for silver pieces was officially upgraded from 'risky indulgence' to 'essential survival mechanism'. The potential consequences seemed almost trivial compared to facing another Oakhaven day entirely uncaffeinated and unprepared for the next inevitable wave of idiocy. First thing tomorrow. Operation Dragon's Leaf Procurement (Mark II) was a go. Assuming the shop wasn't infested with gnome-things by morning. A depressingly plausible concern.