The Stonker's Delight sat congealing in its mug. A silent, swampy accusation against good taste and effective stimulants everywhere. Step one of reclaiming my sanity (or what passed for it in this dimension): Dispose of the evidence.
Pouring it onto the floor remained tempting. It might even blend in with the existing stains. But the thought of adding more unidentifiable organic residue to the already questionable ecosystem of my shop floor gave me pause. There were limits, even to apathy.
The back door beckoned again. The path to the eternally complaining pump and, beyond it, a patch of particularly desolate weeds that probably wouldn't notice, or care about, an infusion of vile herbal sludge. Minimal ecological impact. Acceptable disposal vector.
Mug in hand, I embarked on the arduous journey across the ten feet of creaking floorboards. Another sigh escaped my borrowed lungs. The sheer effort involved in basic existence here was exhausting. In some timelines, I could reshape nebulae with less psychic strain than it took to walk across this room without tripping over misplaced history.
Outside, the weeds regarded me with stoic indifference. Good. I tipped the foul brew onto them. The murky liquid soaked into the dry earth, leaving behind a damp patch that smelled faintly of peat bog and broken dreams. The weeds didn't immediately wither or mutate into sentient carnivorous plants. Small blessings.
Rinsing the mug under the protesting pump felt like performing last rites for my hopes of a decent beverage. The brownish water cleared the worst of the swamp sludge, leaving only the lingering ghost of disappointment.
Back inside, the silence felt… heavy. Oppressive. The silence of unmet expectations. The silence of a retirement plan actively imploding under the weight of minor inconveniences and unwanted attention.
What does a retired cosmic entity do when their primary goal (absolute inertia) is constantly thwarted?
I surveyed the shop. Dust motes continued their infernal, chaotic ballet in the slivers of light. Piles of junk slumped against dusty walls. Broken pottery whispered tales of butterfingered ancestors. Rusty tools dreamed of agricultural tasks long forgotten.
Maybe… tidying? A low-level organizational task. Might provide a temporary illusion of control over my immediate environment. A futile gesture against entropy, perhaps, but less demanding than, say, re-calibrating the local laws of physics to be less annoying.
I picked up a chipped ceramic jug. It had a handle. Mostly. And several hairline fractures suggesting imminent structural failure. Its purpose? Unknown. Its value? Negative, probably, factoring in the disposal effort required when it finally crumbled to dust.
Where did it belong? On a shelf? In a box? Hurled through the nearest dimensional rift? The latter held appeal but violated the 'minimal interaction' prime directive.
I placed it arbitrarily on a different shelf, next to a collection of bent spoons. Progress? No. Merely rearranging the chaos. Like shuffling deck chairs on a sinking ship made of existential angst and poorly maintained timber.
Next item: A leather-bound book. Promising? Possibly. Could contain ancient secrets, forbidden lore, maybe even a decent recipe for something that wasn't turnip-based. I opened it. The pages were brittle, smelling of decay and time. The script was cramped, looping, barely legible.
"...and on the third day of Sowtide," I deciphered slowly, "Agnes's prize sow didst consume the fallen pears, resulting in much flatulence and displeasure..."
A farmer's diary. Recording porcine indigestion. Thrilling. The literary heights of Aerthos were truly staggering. I snapped the book shut, sending a small cloud of dust and disappointment into the air. Added it to the 'Read Later (Likely Never)' pile.
This tidying exercise was achieving the opposite of its intended effect. Instead of providing a sense of accomplishment, it was merely highlighting the overwhelming futility of it all. Every object whispered of neglect, failure, and the slow, grinding passage of pointless time.
My internal monologue shifted gears from detached snark to active grumbling. Why this dimension? Out of all the backwater, low-interaction zones in the multiverse, why pick the one apparently operating on Murphy's Law amplified by a factor of ten? The one where goblins develop compost fetishes? Where blacksmiths play detective? Where the tea tastes like sadness?
CLANG. CLANG. CLANG.
The rhythmic, heavy sound of metal striking metal echoed from outside. Borin Stonehand, back at his forge. Hammering out horseshoes, or swords, or perhaps just venting his frustrations with the universe by hitting inanimate objects. A sentiment I could understand.
The sound was intrusive. Grating. Another layer of noise pollution disrupting the fragile quiet I craved. Each strike seemed to punctuate the failure of my retirement. Clang (You're noticed). Clang (They're suspicious). Clang (You can't escape).
I considered subconsciously dampening the sound waves emanating from his forge. Tricky. Required precise manipulation of localized atmospheric pressure. Potential side effects: freak miniature tornadoes, localized zones of absolute silence that would be more suspicious, spontaneously shattering his anvil due to acoustic resonance overload. Risks outweighed benefits. Annoying, but tolerable. Barely.
I abandoned the tidying farce. Slumped onto a three-legged stool that wobbled precariously (structural integrity: questionable, pending inevitable collapse). Stared at the opposite wall. Contemplated the nature of boredom. True boredom wasn't just the absence of stimulation. It was the presence of low-level, persistent irritation without adequate distraction. Oakhaven specialized in it.
The forge hammering stopped. Abruptly.
Replaced by heavy footsteps. Approaching. My shop. Again.
Seriously? Had I painted an invisible target on the door labelled "Annoy the Grumpy Recluse Here"?
I braced myself. Considered feigning sleep. Or sudden catastrophic disintegration. Neither felt convincing.
The door creaked open without the courtesy of a knock this time. Borin Stonehand filled the frame, wiping grime from his hands onto a leather apron. His expression was... unreadable. A careful neutral mask that likely concealed active suspicion and possibly irritation.
"Bob," he greeted, his voice flat. Not accusatory, not friendly. Just… watchful.
I responded with my traditional grunt of minimal acknowledgement. Saved energy. Maintained mystique (apparently).
Borin stepped inside, his presence seeming to suck the remaining dim light out of the room. He looked around, his gaze sharp, taking in the disordered shelves, the dust, the general air of curated neglect. Unlike Grumbleson or Elara, he didn't seem charmed or bewildered. He looked like a man evaluating structural weaknesses. Both literal and metaphorical.
"Had a visitor earlier," Borin stated, leaning against the doorframe. Casual posture. Non-casual intensity. "Young lad. Finnian. Said you sent him."
Ah. The repercussions. Arriving faster than anticipated.
"Seeking guidance," I mumbled, focusing on a particularly interesting cobweb in the corner. Complex geometry. Likely harbouring arachnids far more interesting than the local bipeds.
"Guidance on a sunken city," Borin continued, his eyes fixed on me. "Said you mentioned I might... help."
"Needed armor checked," I offered vaguely. "You're the blacksmith." Logical connection. Plausible deflection. Hopefully.
Borin chuckled, a low, rumbling sound devoid of actual humor. "Funny thing, that. He mentioned you seemed wise. Said you spoke of dangerous waters. Didn't mention you suggested I fix his pauldrons until I pointed out they were looser than a drunkard's morals."
He folded his thick arms across his chest. The pose radiated 'I am not buying your nonsense'.
"He also mentioned Farmer Hemlock thinks you're either cursed or blessed. Something about goblins and compost. And Elara thinks you're some sort of quiet sage dealing in... ancient relics." Borin's gaze swept the shop again. "Looks like old junk to me."
Finally. Someone with functional eyesight. A small, cynical part of me felt a flicker of... not camaraderie, perish the thought. More like... relief that someone wasn't immediately buying into the 'Mystic Bob' narrative.
"It is junk," I confirmed. "People discard things. I store them. Sometimes, idiots buy them." The shopkeeping model, stripped bare of romanticism.
"Uh-huh." Borin pushed off the doorframe, taking a step closer. "And sometimes, goblins who are minutes away from looting the village suddenly decide to go worship fertilizer down by the creek?"
He wasn't letting it go. Persistent. Annoying.
"Coincidence," I repeated, sticking to the party line. Consistency, even in absurdity, was key.
"Lot of 'coincidences' since you arrived, Bob," Borin countered. "Place feels... different. Jittery. Like the air itself is waiting for something."
He wasn't entirely wrong. My mere presence, even in its dampened, memory-wiped state, probably did subtly warp local probability. Leak reality-stabilization energy. Make things… weird. Like static electricity building up before a lightning strike. Unintentional. Unavoidable. And deeply, profoundly irritating.
"Maybe you're imagining things," I suggested mildly. Gaslighting the local blacksmith. A new low? Possibly. Did I care? Not particularly.
Borin stared at me for a long moment. His expression was hard to read. Suspicion, yes. Confusion? Possibly. A grudging respect for my unwavering commitment to saying absolutely nothing useful? Maybe a hint of that too.
"Maybe," he conceded slowly, surprisingly. "Or maybe," he leaned in slightly, lowering his voice, "you're more than just a grumpy recluse selling rusty nails and chipped pots."
He held my gaze. Challenging. Waiting for a reaction. A flicker of confirmation. Anything.
I gave him nothing. Blank expression. Dead eyes. The simulated emotional state of a particularly boring rock. Let him project whatever theories he wanted onto the void.
After another stretched silence, punctuated only by the distant bleating of a disgruntled sheep, Borin straightened up. He ran a hand through his short-cropped hair.
"Right," he said, his tone shifting back towards weary resignation. "Just… try not to have any more 'coincidences' that involve terrified livestock or panicked adventurers needing gear adjustments, alright? Some of us have actual work to do."
He turned and left, pulling the door shut behind him with a solid thud.
The silence rushed back in, thicker than before. Heavy with unspoken questions and the lingering weight of Borin's scrutiny.
He knew. Well, he didn't know, not really. But he suspected. He wasn't fooled by the grumpy shopkeeper act. He sensed the underlying… otherness.
This was bad. Suspicion from the sensible, observant local craftsman was far more dangerous than the superstitious ramblings of farmers or the hero-worship of naive youths. Borin was grounded. Practical. He dealt in physical realities, cause and effect. He wouldn't be easily dismissed with prophecies or fortunate smells.
My carefully constructed wall of non-involvement was developing cracks. Significant ones.
Retirement Plan 7.4 needed an upgrade. Priority One: Dealing with Borin Stonehand's inconvenient perceptiveness. Priority Two: Finding drinkable tea.
Both seemed equally challenging. And equally vital for preventing my retirement from collapsing into precisely the kind of complicated mess I'd journeyed across dimensions to avoid.
I looked at the mug, still damp from its rinse. Maybe Stonker's Delight wasn't that bad?
No. No, it definitely was. Some lines, even a profoundly bored cosmic entity wouldn't cross. Compromising on tea quality was one of them.