The scene unfolding in the village square, viewed through the distorting lens of my knothole peephole, was a tableau of pure Aerthosian idiocy reaching its logical conclusion. Angry youths. Ineffectual shovels waved menacingly. A cornered storyteller sputtering excuses. Bystanders gathering, eager for drama. The potential for comedic violence and escalating stupidity was immense.
And I, apparently the only being in this dimension with a vested interest in minimizing chaotic public disturbances (purely for selfish reasons, naturally), was going to have to wade into it.
Why me? Why was my fabricated legend the catalyst for this particular brand of shovel-related mob justice? Couldn't they have gotten angry about Gregor's lies concerning, say, the aerodynamic properties of flying pigs? Or the alleged romantic entanglements of the mayor's prize turnip? No, it had to be about my mythical 'compost-based vanquishing technique'. Because of course it did. My life was cursed with thematic consistency. Annoying, poorly written thematic consistency.
Deep breath. Filter out the lingering scent of despair and inadequacy. Prepare for interaction. Maximum brevity. Minimum engagement. Maximum projection of 'I am significantly older than your entire species and profoundly unimpressed by your current shenanigans'.
I opened the door. Stepped outside. The sudden cessation of shouting indicated my presence had been noted. All eyes turned towards me. The youths lowered their shovels slightly, looking uncertain now, caught between indignation and awe. Gregor visibly relaxed, puffing himself up slightly, clearly expecting rescue by the very subject of his fabrications. The surrounding villagers whispered excitedly.
Perfect. Centre stage again. Exactly where I didn't want to be.
"Problem?" I asked, my voice deliberately flat, pitched just loud enough to carry over the murmuring crowd. One word. Minimal commitment. Places the onus on them to explain their ridiculous behaviour.
Young Thom, apparently the ringleader of the Shovel Brigade, stepped forward nervously. "Guardian Bob! This… this liar!" He jabbed a muddy finger towards Gregor. "He told us tales! Said you used… secret compost methods! To defeat foes!"
"We tried!" piped up another youth, thinner, possibly Thom's less intelligent cousin. "On Hemlock's other pile! The one the goblins didn't fancy! Didn't work! Just smelled bad!"
Gregor puffed out his chest. "Artistic interpretation, my boy! Metaphor! The compost represents… uh… inner fortitude! The power of the earth!" He improvised badly. Clearly, his talents lay in embellishing existing narratives, not creating plausible excuses on the fly.
The youths weren't buying it. Muttering resumed. Shovels were hefted slightly again.
I needed to shut this down. Quickly. Before someone actually took a swing and I had to deal with rudimentary first aid or mediate a shovel-based blood feud.
"Compost," I stated, letting the word hang there with the weight of cosmic boredom, "is decomposing organic matter. Primarily useful for enriching soil." I paused. Let the sheer, unadulterated mundanity sink in. "Its offensive capabilities are negligible. Unless," I added, glancing pointedly at the youths' muddy hands, "applied directly to one's person. Then it merely results in poor hygiene and social ostracization."
Silence. The youths looked confused. This wasn't the heroic validation or arcane explanation they expected. It was just… practical. Boring. Slightly insulting regarding their hygiene.
Gregor seized the opportunity. "See! The Guardian speaks plainly! Mundane matters for mundane minds! The true meaning, the metaphor, is deeper!"
Before the youths could process this fresh wave of sophistry, I cut him off. "There is no metaphor," I said, fixing Gregor with a flat, empty stare. "There are no secret techniques. Just soil enrichment. And fabricated stories." I shifted my gaze slightly, encompassing the youths and Gregor. "Find more productive uses for your time. And your shovels."
The dismissal was absolute. Deflating. It offered no room for interpretation, no hidden layers. Just blunt, boring reality.
The youths looked utterly bewildered now. Their righteous anger seemed to fizzle out, replaced by confusion and vague embarrassment. They lowered their shovels completely. Thom mumbled something incoherent. They shuffled awkwardly, then, as one, turned and drifted away, leaving Gregor standing alone, looking indignant but vastly relieved.
The surrounding villagers also began to disperse, muttering amongst themselves, likely trying to reconcile my mundane explanation with Gregor's heroic tales. More fuel for the rumour mill, probably. ("Bob denies his own power! Such humility! Or perhaps the Compost Technique is too sacred for unworthy ears!")
Crisis averted. Minimal effort. Maximum deflation of drama. Satisfactory.
I turned to retreat back into my sanctuary. And nearly collided with Borin Stonehand.
He hadn't been in the initial crowd I saw. He must have approached silently from the side while I was dealing with the Shovel Brigade. He stood there, arms crossed, leaning against the wall of my shop, an unreadable expression on his face. He'd observed the entire exchange. Of course he had.
"Interesting technique," Borin remarked quietly, his voice neutral but his eyes sharp. "Deflating heroic narratives with applied agricultural science. Didn't know you were an expert on soil enrichment, Bob."
Sarcasm. Dry. Understated. Annoying. "Basic knowledge," I grunted, trying to sidle past him towards my door.
"Right," Borin pushed off the wall, blocking my path slightly. Not aggressively, just… incidentally. "Speaking of basic knowledge…" He reached into a pouch at his belt. "Found something down by the forge. Never seen the like. Thought maybe, with all the… bits and bobs… you handle, you might recognize it."
He held out his hand. Palm up. Resting on his calloused palm was… an object. Small. Metallic. Intricately made. A series of interlocking gears, fashioned from a strange, faintly iridescent metal I didn't recognize as native to this planet. It looked like a component. Part of a larger mechanism. One gear tooth was subtly broken.
My internal alarms didn't just ring; they screamed. This wasn't ordinary scrap. The alloy felt… wrong. Non-standard atomic structure, emitting faint temporal resonance consistent with poorly shielded micro-chroniton displacement. A piece of off-world technology? Or something constructed using principles far beyond Aerthos's understanding?
It looked remarkably similar to the tiny, carved wooden gear I'd found near the alcove, the one I suspected the gnome-thing had dropped. Only this was metal. And more complex.
Borin watched my face intently as I looked at the object. He wasn't just asking for identification. This was it. The escalation. The subtle trap sprung.
How would a simple hermit react? Confusion? Ignorance? Mild curiosity followed by dismissal?
How would a being with suppressed knowledge of advanced technology and cosmic mechanics react? Perhaps with a flicker of recognition? A moment of unguarded analysis? A subconscious energy signature spike as deeper senses probed the unfamiliar alloy?
This was Borin's test. More refined than the puzzle box or strange metal fragment idea I'd anticipated. He was presenting genuine anomalous data and observing my reaction.
Think. React normally. What is normal for Bob? Grumpy indifference. Minimal knowledge.
"Odd," I grunted, glancing at the object briefly before looking away, focusing instead on a loose cobblestone near Borin's foot. Feigned lack of interest. "Never seen metal like that. Probably just some fancy lordling's broken clockwork toy. Useless now." Dismissed it. Provided a mundane (if unlikely) explanation.
Borin didn't react immediately. He continued watching me, holding the intricate gear steady. Waiting. Testing my resolve.
My subconscious screamed at me. Analyze it! Determine its origin! Assess the temporal displacement signature! Identify potential threat levels!
I ruthlessly suppressed the urge. Kept my gaze fixed on the cobblestone. Projected profound, unshakeable boredom. Let the silence stretch.
"Huh," Borin said finally, his voice still neutral. He slowly closed his hand around the gear. "Thought maybe it was important. Felt… strange." He tucked it back into his pouch. "Well. If you say it's just a broken toy…" He shrugged, a gesture that didn't quite match the intensity in his eyes.
He hadn't bought my dismissal entirely. My lack of reaction might have been as informative as a flicker of recognition would have been. A truly ignorant hermit might have shown more curiosity. Picked it up. Asked more questions. My instant dismissal, my feigned lack of interest in something genuinely peculiar… might have confirmed for him that I knew it wasn't ordinary. That I was deliberately hiding something.
Damn. Clever trap. Subtly sprung. Yielded ambiguous results, perhaps, but results nonetheless. He hadn't proven what I was, but he'd likely reinforced his certainty that I wasn't what I seemed.
"Right," Borin said again. "Best get back to the forge. Festival preparations." He stepped aside, clearing my path to the door. But his eyes followed me as I moved.
I slipped inside the shop, bolting the door more firmly than necessary. Leaned against it. My borrowed heart was beating slightly faster than usual. Not from fear. From annoyance. And the mental effort of suppressing millennia of analytical instinct.
He knew. He didn't have proof. He didn't have details. But the blacksmith knew I was hiding something significant. His patient observation, his subtle tests… they were working. Slowly stripping away the camouflage of mundane grumpiness.
And that gear. Iridescent metal. Temporal resonance. Interlocking complexity. Where did it come from? Was it gnome-tech? If so, their technological level was far beyond simple energy-field manipulation. Or was it something else entirely? Debris from another reality? A deliberately planted clue?
The questions piled up, unwanted, unanswered, profoundly irritating.
My quiet retirement was a shambles. Invaded by mystics, rumour-mongers, well-meaning pests, skeptical blacksmiths wielding anomalous artifacts, and potentially technologically advanced gnome-things.
Maybe the shovel-wielding youths had the right idea. Maybe hitting things was the answer. Not Gregor. Not myself. But perhaps… that irritatingly complex, temporally resonant gear Borin now possessed? A swift application of cosmic disassembly might solve at least one lingering mystery.
Tempting. Very tempting. But unwise. For now.
First, tea. Always tea. Then, perhaps, contemplate the dubious merits of preventative artifact destruction versus the escalating annoyance of being patiently, intelligently investigated. Neither option seemed particularly restful.