Silence. Glorious, unadulterated, Elara-free silence. It coated the dusty interior of the shop like a layer of fresh, undisturbed snow. Except, you know, less cold and significantly less likely to melt into inconvenient puddles.
The nap had been... adequate. Not restorative in any deep, cosmic sense, but blessedly uninterrupted. No humming. No misplaced enthusiasm rearranging my carefully curated detritus. No philosophical discussions stemming from pig diets. Just the gentle creak of settling timbers and the soft sigh of dust motes engaging in their endless, pointless thermodynamic dance.
Perhaps, just perhaps, my plan had worked. The Moss Mapping Expedition might actually provide a buffer zone. A period of relative tranquility where I could focus on important retirement activities like staring blankly at walls, contemplating the futility of existence, and mourning the demise of my Dragon's Leaf tea supply.
Life was almost… tolerable. A dangerous state. Tolerability often precedes disaster in low-resolution fantasy dimensions. Like the ominous calm before a troll learns basic siege tactics.
My borrowed ears twitched. A faint sound. Not inside the shop. Outside. High-pitched. Intermittent. Carried on the breeze.
Squeak… creak.
No. It couldn't be.
Squeak... wobble… creak.
The sign. The malevolent, attention-seeking rectangle of wood bearing the tragically mundane legend "Bob's Bits & Bobs." The one I'd supposedly 'pacified' with my advanced 'structural enchantment' technique (read: hitting it vaguely with a wobbly hammer until the noise momentarily stopped).
It was doing it again.
The auditory assault was subtle at first. Just a background irritation beneath the usual Oakhaven ambiance of distant hammering and generic villager chatter. But it was there. Persistent. Grating. Like a tiny, infinitely patient insect drilling directly into my auditory cortex.
Why? Had the wind shifted? Had my 'fix' been so utterly incompetent that it failed after mere hours? (Plausible). Or was the sign actively taunting me? Developing sentience purely out of a spiteful desire to maximize my annoyance levels? Also plausible, given the general trend of this dimension's reality.
I ignored it. Tried to. Focused on the intricate patterns of grime on the windowpane. Calculated the approximate tensile strength of a cobweb spanning the rafters. Recited, internally, the first ten thousand digits of Pi in base seventeen (a soothing, pointless exercise).
Squeak… CREAK… wobble… SQUEAK!
It was getting worse. Louder. More insistent. Each oscillation seemed perfectly timed to coincide with a momentary lapse in my concentration.
Fine. Ignoring it wasn't working. The sound was burrowing under my carefully constructed wall of apathy. Annoyance levels, previously idling at 'background hum', were escalating towards 'considering minor reality adjustments'.
Another repair attempt was necessary. The indignity. The sheer, repetitive pointlessness of maintaining dilapidated infrastructure using inadequate tools while surrounded by people determined to misunderstand my every action.
Gloves? No. Mask? Unnecessary, probably. Wobbly hammer? The only option. Maybe a longer stick this time? Less chance of falling off the precarious chest-platform. I found a relatively straight broom handle, snapped off the brushy bit (which disintegrated into dust and disappointment), leaving me with a vaguely functional prodding implement.
Armed with minimal enthusiasm and maximum irritation, I prepared for Round Two against the Tyranny of the Squeaky Signboard.
Opened the door. Stepped outside. Looked up.
The sign hung there, swinging slightly in the breeze, emitting its infernal symphony of creaks and squeaks. It looked smug. If a piece of painted wood could look smug, this one definitely was. Mocking my previous failed attempt. Daring me to try again.
Now, the challenge wasn't just stopping the noise. It was stopping it without being observed. After Grumbleson's 'structural enchantment' interpretation, any further interaction with the sign would likely be scrutinised, analysed, and incorporated into the growing 'Legend of Bob the Mystic Handyman'. I needed stealth. Invisibility would be ideal, but again, violated Rule #1 (Don't Attract Attention, Especially Via Blatant Magic).
A quick scan of the immediate vicinity. Market square still moderately busy, but thinning out as evening approached. No sign of Grumbleson, thank the voids. No Elara (presumably deep in moss territory). No Borin (forge seemed quiet now). Farmer Hemlock visible in the distance, arguing with a turnip. Potential witnesses: a couple of chickens pecking listlessly near the well, and Widow Meadowsweet, who seemed to be perpetually lurking near the edge of the square, ostensibly gathering weeds but probably monitoring everything with uncanny perceptiveness.
Widow Meadowsweet was the primary threat vector for observation and subsequent rumour amplification. Could I wait until she left? Risky. The squeaking might drive me to actual reality warping before then. Better to act quickly, decisively, and mundanely. Make it look like clumsy fumbling, not precise intervention.
Plan: Use the broom handle. Prod the offending hook. Try to wedge it tighter into the wood. Maybe dislodge whatever particle of rust or dirt was causing the friction. Minimal fuss. Minimal visible effort. Look annoyed and slightly incompetent throughout.
I raised the broom handle. Took aim at the squeaky hook. The angle was awkward. Required reaching up, stretching slightly.
Poke. Missed. Hit the wood beside the hook. Thud.
Poke. Connected this time. Jiggled the hook slightly. The squeaking paused. Then resumed, possibly louder, definitely more irregular and grating. Helpful.
Okay, new approach. Maybe a sharp tap? Force it into silence? I adjusted my grip, aimed again. Applied slightly more force.
Tap-thwack!
The hook shifted. The squeaking stopped. Abruptly. Completely.
Success? Maybe?
But the tap had dislodged something. A small shower of reddish-brown particles – rust flakes, powdered wood, general accumulated grime – drifted down from the sign attachment point. Some landed on my shoulder. Some dusted the ground at my feet. Insignificant detritus.
I lowered the pole quickly. Brushed the dust off my shoulder with deliberate casualness. Looked around again, feigning nonchalance.
Widow Meadowsweet. Still there. Dang it. Her back was mostly turned, but her head was cocked slightly, as if listening. Had she seen? Heard the tap? Noticed the sudden silence? Impossible to tell from this distance. Her wrinkled face was perpetually neutral, revealing nothing. Like a swamp grandmother Mona Lisa.
Chickens remained oblivious. Turnip argument continued unabated.
Maybe I'd gotten away with it. Maybe the fix would hold for more than an hour this time. Maybe I could finally retreat back into my dusty sanctuary and attempt to meditate on the virtues of silence (or at least, the absence of squeaking).
I turned to go back inside. And froze.
Standing a few feet away, previously unnoticed, half-hidden by the shadow of the neighbouring building (a perpetually collapsing structure that housed something involving questionable sausages), was a figure. Small. Thin. Draped in layers of ragged cloth that might have once been colourful. Peering at me intently with eyes that seemed far too old and knowing for the creature they belonged to.
It wasn't human. Definitely not goblin. Not like anything commonly seen staggering around Oakhaven. Pointed ears peeked through lank, greasy hair. Skin had a faint, unhealthy greenish tinge. Looked vaguely like a malnourished, particularly unpleasant garden gnome who'd lost a fight with a puddle of mud.
The creature watched me, unblinking. Then, its gaze drifted upwards towards the now-silent sign. Then back down to the small scatter of rust and sawdust at my feet.
A slow, creepy smile spread across its thin lips, revealing surprisingly numerous, needle-sharp teeth. It lifted one clawed, dirt-encrusted hand. Pointed towards the dust. Then towards me. Then gave a slow, deliberate nod, as if confirming something only it could perceive.
Before I could react – before I could even properly categorize this new annoyance on the spectrum of 'Ignore It' to 'Subtly Vaporize It' – the creature melted back into the shadows and vanished. Like a bad smell finally dispersing. Or a hallucination brought on by excessive exposure to village stupidity and inadequate tea.
What in the seven hells of collapsing multiverses was that?
A hallucination? Possible. My borrowed human senses weren't infallible. Stress, caffeine withdrawal, proximity to Mayor Grumbleson – all potential hallucinogenic triggers.
A new type of local pest? Also possible. Aerthos seemed capable of spawning annoyances in endless, depressing variety.
Something… else? Something drawn by the 'weirdness' Borin had mentioned? Something attracted by the minor reality ripples my presence inevitably created? The pointing, the nodding, the creepy smile… it felt less random encounter, more… observation with intent. Sinister intent? Or just bizarre, inscrutable gnome-like intent?
My headache, previously dormant, returned with a vengeance.
I looked at the silent sign. Looked at the innocuous dust on the ground. Looked at the empty space where the gnome-thing had stood.
Had it seen the 'repair'? Had it misinterpreted the falling dust as something significant? Magical residue, perhaps? Essence of 'Sign Pacification'? Was it now going to start spreading rumours? Adding 'Gnome-Whisperer' or 'Master of Arcane Dust Bunnies' to my already ridiculous list of titles?
And more importantly, what was it? And would it be back?
I quickly retreated inside, bolting the flimsy door behind me. Leaned against it, suddenly feeling distinctly uneasy. Not threatened, exactly. More… cosmically irritated on a deeper level.
This dimension wasn't just passively annoying anymore. It felt like it might be actively starting to poke back. First Borin's skepticism, now cryptic gnome-things observing my mundane maintenance tasks.
The fragile peace achieved by the Moss Mapping Expedition felt suddenly, irrevocably shattered. My retirement wasn't just being interrupted; it felt like it might be developing an actual, unforeseen plot.
A plot involving mystical interpretations of home repair, overly enthusiastic apprentices, perceptive blacksmiths, compost cults, legendary horseshoes, wobbly bridges, and now, apparently, creepy, lurking, possibly-supernatural garden pests.
This was not the quiet inertia I signed up for. Not even close.
Maybe I should have just stayed in multiverse management. At least the paperwork, tedious as it was, usually made some kind of logical sense. Unlike literally anything that happened on Aerthos.