Dawn. Or what passed for it in Oakhaven – a grey, reluctant illumination filtering through the ever-present haze of woodsmoke and existential mediocrity. Festival Day. The climax of agricultural celebration and communal delusion. My personal nadir of unwilling participation.
I greeted the morning from my established position on the floor, having forgone even the idea of sleep. Gregor's booming voice, recounting my fabricated exploits, seemed to echo still in the dusty silence of the shop. Badger Lords vanquished by mental command. Signs silenced by forbidden syllables. Compost heaps repurposed as strategic anti-goblin ordnance. The sheer weight of unearned heroism was crushing.
My remaining stash of Dragon's Leaf was pitifully small. Barely enough for one, maybe one and a half, truly weak infusions. I prepared it with the grim solemnity of a condemned man taking his last meal. This meagre caffeine dose would have to sustain me through hours of enforced jollity, turnip admiration, inevitable further misinterpretations, and the grand finale of predictable pyrotechnic disaster. It wasn't nearly enough. Nothing short of a direct infusion of pure cosmic energy (strictly against retirement protocols) would be enough.
The village outside was already buzzing. Louder than usual. A frantic energy overlaying the normal background hum. The sounds of last-minute preparations: frantic hammering (probably reinforcing the 'Largest Turnip' display platform), argumentative shouts regarding pie placement, the discordant tuning of the Tortured Lute Quartet (apparently they'd recruited reinforcements for the occasion, multiplying the horror).
There was no avoiding it. Staying barricaded inside would only lead to another delegation, another 'vital consultation', another instance of Grumbleson beaming about my 'wise solitude'. Minimum Effort Path, however galling, involved showing up. Appearing. Enduring. Minimizing interaction where possible, but being physically present to nominally fulfil the role of 'Guardian' they had so relentlessly thrust upon me.
With the sigh of a black hole contemplating the pointlessness of accretion disks, I unfolded myself from the floor. Donned my usual attire of 'drab tunic and existential apathy'. Ignored the Hero Cushion, which seemed to possess a smug aura today. Pocketed the tiny wooden gnome-gear (a constant, irritating reminder of lurking weirdness). Opened the door. Faced the day.
The village square was… transformed. In the worst possible way.
Bunting. Everywhere. Red and blue ribbons sagged limply between buildings, occasionally supplemented by strings of dried gourds or slightly wilted flowers. Some banners bore crude drawings of plump turnips or smiling (terrifyingly anthropomorphic) suns. Mixed in, horrifyingly, were the 'loyalty ribbons' salvaged from the Metaphor Bridge, now repurposed as general festive decor, their structural inadequacy apparently forgotten in favour of symbolic unity.
The air smelled strongly of roasting pig (a rare village luxury), baking bread (Martha's, hopefully less leaky today), spilled ale, and underlying desperation. Stalls lined the square, selling everything from dubious lucky charms (likely supplied by Gregor) to misshapen pottery to actual produce grudgingly offered up for communal judgment.
In the centre, the 'Largest Turnip' contestants were displayed on a shaky wooden platform. Several truly enormous root vegetables sat there, looking vaguely obscene in their oversized blandness. Villagers milled around, comparing sizes, arguing genealogies ("Mine's descended from Old Man Hemlock's legendary 'King Root'!"), occasionally prodding the contenders suspiciously.
The noise level was significant. Laughter (often forced), shouting, the aforementioned lute torture, occasional pig squeals, and underlying it all, the low hum of Gregor the Gregarious holding court near the tavern, likely already retelling yesterday's Oration with fresh embellishments.
My strategy: Find a corner. Blend in. Become functionally invisible. Observe the chaos with detached amusement bordering on despair. Wait for it to be over.
Too late. Elara spotted me. Her eyes lit up like signal flares. She waved frantically, detaching herself from a group admiring a particularly lumpy turnip.
"Mr. Bob! You came!" She bounced over, radiating enough energy to power a small nebula. "Isn't it wonderful? The festival spirit!"
"Overwhelming," I muttered, scanning for escape routes. Blocked by Morris dancers assembling near the well. Trapped.
"Oh, look!" Elara exclaimed, grabbing my arm (unsolicited contact, again!) and pointing towards a makeshift stall I hadn't noticed. It was covered in parchment scrolls. Moss maps. Dozens of them. Arranged by village quadrant. Meticulously detailed. My pointless busywork quest, elevated to a public exhibition. "My preliminary findings! The Moss Matrix of Oakhaven!"
Villagers were actually peering at the maps, murmuring thoughtfully. Grumbleson stood beside the stall, beaming proudly, occasionally explaining the 'deep significance' of certain lichen placements to confused onlookers. My stomach churned. My passive-aggressive diversion tactic had become a central feature of the Harvest Festival. Because of course it had.
"Mayor Grumbleson says it offers profound insights into the village's spiritual health!" Elara confided proudly. "He thinks the 'disgruntled tavern moss' might require a special blessing!"
Blessing disgruntled moss. Adding it to the list of potential future tasks I would absolutely refuse to perform.
Before I could formulate a suitably discouraging grunt, Grumbleson himself bustled over, clapping Elara on the shoulder. "Guardian Bob! Admiring young Elara's vital work? Commissioned by yourself, I understand! Such foresight! Mapping the very soul-skin of our community!"
Soul-skin. That was a new one. My headache intensified.
"And speaking of recognizing vital contributions," Grumbleson announced grandly, pulling something from within his mayoral robes. "The Council, in consultation with the Ladies' Sewing Circle and acknowledging the sentiment echoed by Gregor's inspiring tales, has decreed that Oakhaven's Guardian must bear a symbol of his office!"
He held it up. It glinted dully in the weak sunlight. A badge. Crudely hammered from what looked like slightly thicker tin than my roof patch. Roughly shaped like… maybe a shield? Or possibly a lopsided potato? Scratched onto its surface was an unidentifiable symbol – maybe a hammer, maybe a daisy, maybe just random dents – surrounded by clumsy radiating lines intended, presumably, to indicate 'power' or 'awe'.
"The Guardian's Badge!" Grumbleson declared, puffing out his chest. "To be worn with pride! A symbol of your protection! Your wisdom! Your… uh… badger-repelling capabilities!"
He stepped forward, clearly intending to pin this monstrosity onto my tunic. Horror surged through me. Wearing this? This piece of badly formed tin, commemorating my fabricated legend and involuntary pest control services? Unthinkable.
I reacted instinctively. Took a half-step back. Held up a hand. "Unnecessary," I stated, my voice colder than usual.
Grumbleson faltered, badge held aloft. Elara looked momentarily crestfallen. A few nearby villagers murmured, confused.
"But… Guardian!" Grumbleson protested. "A token! Of esteem!"
"My… guarding… requires no badge," I said slowly, carefully choosing words that might be misinterpreted as humility rather than sheer revulsion. "My work is… subtle. Unseen." (Mostly because I tried desperately not to do any). "A badge would only… distract."
My refusal hung in the air. Would they interpret it as humility? Or defiance? Or another cryptic test?
Gregor the Gregarious, smoothly detaching himself from his storytelling circle, approached. "Ah! The Guardian's humility!" he boomed, instantly providing the officially sanctioned interpretation. "He shuns the symbols of power! Seeking no glory! Content to protect from the shadows! Truly, a lesson for us all!"
The crowd relaxed, nodding sagely. Crisis averted. Humility it was. Grumbleson, slightly deflated but accepting the narrative, nodded vigorously. "Yes! Of course! Humility! Understandable!" He discreetly tucked the badge away, though I suspected it might reappear later, perhaps nailed to my shop door as a 'surprise tribute'.
Elara beamed again, her admiration apparently doubled by my display of fabricated modesty.
I just wanted to disappear. Or find Borin. At least his scrutiny felt marginally less cloying than this suffocating wave of hero worship based entirely on lies and lucky coincidences.
Speaking of Borin, I scanned the crowd. Saw him near the edge, observing the turnip judging with an air of detached amusement. He caught my eye. Gave a minuscule nod, almost imperceptible. Acknowledging my escape from the Badge of Idiocy? Or simply noting my continued presence in the unfolding farce? Impossible to say. Always impossible to say.
The day wore on. A torturous procession of enforced jollity. I endured the turnip awards (King Root's descendant won, sparking accusations of biased badger judging). I avoided the Morris dancers (whose bells seemed aggressively cheerful). I politely refused offers of greasy meat pies and lukewarm ale. I observed Elara earnestly explaining moss moisture gradients to anyone who would listen. I kept a wary distance from Gregor's ongoing performances.
As dusk began to gather, the energy shifted. A nervous excitement rippled through the crowd. Torches were lit. People began drifting towards the centre of the square, where the truly enormous bonfire pile stood waiting. Built too high. Too close to the buildings. Packed with dry timber and, according to rumour, 'spiritually significant' (read: unusually flammable) bundles of herbs contributed by Widow Meadowsweet.
It looked less like a festive bonfire and more like a pyre eagerly awaiting its first sacrifice. Or a poorly planned demolition project.
Grumbleson took his place near the pile, torch in hand, ready to officiate. Elara stood beside him, eyes shining. Gregor climbed onto his nearby platform, preparing for his fiery predictions. Borin melted into the shadows nearby, his position offering a clear view of both the bonfire and, annoyingly, me.
The moment approached. The culmination of the Festival of Futility. The bonfire, built on misinterpreted warnings, ready to be lit. Gregor, ready to spout nonsense based on my sarcastic prophecies. Borin, ready to watch. Me, ready for disaster.
Grumbleson raised his torch. Cleared his throat. "People of Oakhaven!" he bellowed. "Let the cleansing fire commence! Let the sparks fly! Let the thatch be… receptive!"
He plunged the torch into the base of the pile.
For a moment, nothing happened. Then, a small flicker. A curl of smoke. A growing orange glow.
The fire caught.