Back within the dusty confines of Bob's Bits & Bobs. Sanctuary. Or at least, a marginally less irritating containment zone compared to the cacophony outside.
Borin Stonehand. The blacksmith. Direct questions. Unacceptable. My evasion had been smooth, efficient even, melting back into the market throng like a poorly rendered shadow. But it was a temporary solution. The man lived here. He hammered noisy metal all day. He possessed an uncomfortable level of perceptive skepticism. He was a lingering problem. Like limescale in the cosmic kettle.
For now, however, relative quiet. The market noise was muted, distant. The primary sounds were the creaking of the building settling (a process likely preceding imminent collapse) and the judgmental silence of the one-eyed stuffed owl.
My priority: Caffeine. Or the closest approximation this world could offer. Which currently resided in a slightly greasy pouch labeled "Stonker's Delight." A name that inspired zero confidence and vaguely suggested potential hallucinogenic properties involving badgers.
Still, it was theoretically better than the boiled sock water I'd been enduring. Theoretically.
Step one: Water. Again. The infernal pump out back. My shoulders preemptively slumped at the thought. Could I subconsciously manipulate hydrological cycles to simply will water into a kettle? Possibly. But that felt like... effort. More effort than just physically operating the rusty monstrosity. Besides, uncontrolled hydrological manipulation could lead to inconvenient side effects. Flash floods. Accidental geyser formation. Irritated water elementals filing complaints. Too much paperwork.
Pump it was.
I repeated the soul-crushing process. Handle grasped. Up. Down. Squeak. Groan. The pump sounded even more mournful today, as if protesting its continued existence. I sympathized. A trickle of dubious brownish liquid eventually consented to fill the battered kettle I used. Progress. Measured in milliliters of misery.
Back inside, the small, inefficient wood-burning stove needed attention. Feeding bits of splintered wood into its maw felt like appeasing a minor, grumpy fire deity. Eventually, reluctant flames flickered to life. More progress. Glacial.
The kettle went on. Now, the waiting. Time stretched, measured not in seconds, but in the slow dance of dust motes and the gradual heating of inadequate water. An eternity condensed into minutes. Perfect opportunity to contemplate the fundamental absurdity of existence, the questionable structural integrity of the ceiling beams, and the lingering smell of confused goblin piety.
Finally, a weak, hesitant whistle. The water wasn't so much boiling as expressing mild thermal agitation. Close enough for government work. Or, in this case, brewing mystery herbs acquired from a woman who might converse with garden gnomes.
I opened the pouch of Stonker's Delight. The aroma hit me. Earthy, yes. But with undertones of dried mushrooms, damp soil, and… was that a hint of peat bog? It smelled less like tea and more like something you'd use to fertilize extremely stubborn turnips.
With deep suspicion, I tipped a small amount into my designated tea-mug (not the woodlouse condominium, a different chipped ceramic vessel). Poured the not-quite-boiling water over it.
The liquid turned a colour best described as 'murky pond scum'. Appetizing. Tiny bits of unidentifiable vegetation floated listlessly on the surface. Some sank with depressing finality. Others bobbed with grim determination.
It steeped. I watched, my expectations plummeting with every passing second. This wasn't tea. This was biological refuse suspended in warm water.
After a suitable interval of allowing maximum flavour extraction (or decomposition, hard to say), I considered straining it. Decided against it. Too much faff. Plus, maybe the floaty bits contained the actual 'Stonker' part of the Delight. Ingesting unknown swamp-matter seemed like a bad idea, but so did continued caffeine deprivation. Calculated risk.
Moment of truth. I lifted the mug. The aroma hadn't improved. If anything, it had gained a slight edge of… bitterness? Regret? Both?
I took a tentative sip.
It tasted precisely like disappointment boiled in ditchwater, filtered through used socks, with a lingering aftertaste of mud and existential angst.
Utterly vile. Absolutely, unequivocally disgusting.
And… disappointingly ineffective. No jolt of energy. No sudden clarity. No badger-themed hallucinations. Just foul-tasting swamp juice.
Widow Meadowsweet was either a charlatan or possessed taste buds forged in the fires of some culinary hell dimension. Probably both.
Another victory for Aerthosian mediocrity. Even their alleged stimulants were aggressively underwhelming.
I stared into the murky depths of the mug, contemplating pouring it onto the already stained floorboards. Might improve the overall ambiance.
Knock knock knock.
The sound echoed through the shop, startlingly loud against the backdrop of my profound tea-related disillusionment. Three sharp raps on the warped wooden door. Not Grumbleson's wheezy fumble. Not Elara's cheerful tap. Not Hemlock's angry pounding. Different. Purposeful.
Oh, universe, what now?
I considered ignoring it. Pretending to be inanimate debris. A viable strategy, usually. But the knocking persisted. Insistent.
With a sigh that disturbed the dust motes near my head, I shuffled over and un-propped the security board. Pulled the creaking door open a few inches.
Standing there was… youth. Unadulterated, optimistic, catastrophically naive youth. A young man, barely more than a boy, maybe seventeen or eighteen planetary cycles old. He wore mismatched leather armor that looked both too big and recently cleaned. A sword – thankfully, of reasonable proportions, though still poorly balanced by the look of it – was strapped to his back. His eyes were wide, bright, and filled with the terrifying gleam of Someone On A Quest.
He peered into the gloom of the shop, blinking as his eyes adjusted. "Greetings?" he ventured, his voice cracking slightly. "Is this… is this the place of the Silent Guardian?"
Silent Guardian. That again. The ridiculously inaccurate title derived from that idiot hermit's prophecy. Likely amplified by village gossip following the goblin compost incident. My reputation for taciturn annoyance was apparently being mythologized into heroic stoicism. The irony was physically painful.
"It's a shop," I corrected flatly. "We sell bits. And bobs." I gestured vaguely at the surrounding detritus. "Mostly bits."
The lad blinked. "Oh. Right. Bob's Bits & Bobs." He consulted a scrap of parchment clutched in his hand. "Farmer Hemlock said... well, he mostly grumbled about compost, but he mentioned a wise man here. Quiet. Observant."
Hemlock. Of course. Pointing bewildered youths in my direction now. Was this his idea of petty revenge for the goblin situation? Directing clueless adventurers to pester me? Plausible. Also deeply irritating.
"Selling junk," I clarified, hoping to shatter the 'wise man' illusion. "Old, broken junk."
The boy craned his neck, peering past me. His eyes scanned the dim interior, lingering on dusty shelves piled high with forgotten histories. "Ancient relics?" he breathed, awe in his voice. "Relics of a bygone age? Holding secrets?"
Secrets like 'This pot leaks' and 'This chair leg is structurally unsound'. Thrilling stuff.
"Just junk," I repeated firmly. "What do you want?" Direct. Efficient. Hopefully repellent.
He straightened up, puffing out his chest slightly, trying to project confidence he clearly didn't possess. "My name is Finnian! Finn, to my friends!" He paused, perhaps expecting me to offer friendship. I offered silence instead. "I seek... guidance!"
Guidance. Oh, splendid. Guidance on what? How to properly polish rusty hinges? The optimal method for cultivating profound apathy? The fastest route out of my shop?
"Guidance?" I echoed, letting the word hang there, dripping with disinterest.
"Yes! I am on a quest!" Finn declared, striking a pose that was probably meant to look heroic but mostly just made him look off-balance. "To find the Sunken City of Aeridor! Whispers say its treasures hold the key to stopping the Blight that plagues the Eastern Marches!"
Sunken City. Treasures. Blight. Eastern Marches. All the classic hits. Standard low-fantasy quest plotline, template B-7. Probably involved overcoming three trials, finding a magic macguffin, and confronting a minor lieutenant of whatever Dark Lord was fashionable this epoch. Tedious. Predictable. Guaranteed to involve mud, peril, and overwrought speeches about destiny.
"Never heard of it," I lied smoothly. Technically true. I hadn't specifically heard of Aeridor on Aerthos. Sunken cities were a multiversal dime a dozen. Usually filled with damp ruins, irritable kraken, and disappointing levels of actual treasure. High risk, low reward. Terrible investment.
Finn's face fell. "Oh. But... the prophecies said a wise man in the West..."
"Lots of wise men," I interjected. "Try the next village. Maybe one of them collects sunken city rumors." Anything to make him leave.
He looked uncertain. Deflated. The heroic posture sagged. "But Farmer Hemlock seemed so... certain. About the strangeness here."
Strangeness. Yes. The strangeness of a retired cosmic entity trying, and repeatedly failing, to enjoy a cup of non-horrifying tea in peace. That kind of strangeness.
I decided a change of tactic was needed. Deflection wasn't working. Perhaps… misdirection? Minimal effort misdirection.
"Sunken city?" I mused, stroking my chin thoughtfully (a gesture borrowed from countless irritatingly cryptic mentors I'd observed over the eons). "Dangerous waters, those. Need proper gear." I eyed his mismatched armor. "That left pauldron looks loose. And your boots… seen better days."
Finn immediately looked down at his gear, concern clouding his features. "You think so? I traded my father's prize piglet for this armor!"
A terrible trade, objectively. Piglets were at least potentially delicious. This armor looked like it would offer minimal protection against anything more determined than aggressive raindrops.
"Need a good blacksmith," I advised, gesturing vaguely back towards the village center. "Borin Stonehand. Sturdy fellow. Knows his metal. Might have advice. Or at least tighten that pauldron before it falls off mid-monster-fight."
Directing him to the other person currently harbouring suspicions about me. Efficient. Maybe they could annoy each other for a while. Two birds, one stone of deliberately unhelpful advice.
Finn's eyes lit up again. Hope rekindled. Easily swayed, this one. Standard hero-protagonist vulnerability. "Borin Stonehand! Of course! Thank you, wise shopkeeper! Thank you!"
He beamed, sketched a clumsy bow, and practically skipped away, radiating renewed purpose. Off to bother the blacksmith about non-existent sunken cities and potentially faulty armor fastenings. Excellent.
I closed the door. The click of the latch felt deeply satisfying.
Silence, once more. Broken only by the faint gurgle of my cooling, disgusting tea.
Stonker's Delight. An utter failure on all fronts.
The unsolicited advice. The misguided adventurer. The encroaching web of local myth and suspicion.
Retirement Plan Version 7.3 was officially FUBAR. Time to start drafting Version 7.4. It would likely involve thicker walls, a soundproof basement, and possibly relocating the entire shop to a different, less populated continent. Or dimension.
Whichever required less interaction with people seeking guidance, selling headache-amulets, or complaining about compost cults.