Five silver coins. Clutched in my hand, they felt simultaneously substantial and deeply insignificant. The physical representation of manipulated probability, cosmic intervention reduced to petty cash. Earned (if 'nudging causality' counts as earning) solely for the purpose of acquiring marginally acceptable dried leaves. My former self, the one who balanced galactic energy budgets and pruned rogue timelines, would weep. Or possibly just file a disdainful internal report on inefficient resource allocation.
But practicality outweighed dignity. Caffeine acquisition was paramount. Before Gregor the Gregarious started spinning tales of how I miraculously materialized silver from moonbeams, or before Hemlock returned complaining that the lack of a glowing shovel was causing his turnips existential angst, I needed to secure the Dragon's Leaf.
Operation Procurement (Mark II) required venturing out. Again. Into the waking village. Into the potential path of rumour-mongers, well-meaning apprentices (still thankfully absent, presumably knee-deep in bryophyte cartography), skeptical blacksmiths, and metaphor-obsessed mayors. A necessary evil.
I pocketed the coins, took a steadying breath (which mostly just inhaled dust), and opened the door.
Early morning in Oakhaven. The air was cool, carrying the scent of woodsmoke, damp earth, and something vaguely resembling burnt porridge from a nearby cottage. Villagers were beginning to stir. Fetching water (likely from the questionable well). Opening shutters. Yelling at chickens. The familiar symphony of primitive existence.
My goal: The general goods stall. The merchant of mediocre wares and overpriced imports. Avoid eye contact. Minimize interaction. Exchange silver for tea. Retreat. Simple.
Too simple for Aerthos, naturally.
Before I'd taken three steps from my own crumbling threshold, disaster intercepted me. A tag-team of doom. Mayor Grumbleson, looking puffed up and important, and Elara, beaming with relentless cheer, materialised seemingly out of the morning mist.
Wait. Elara? Back already? Her Moss Mapping Expedition was supposed to take days. Weeks, preferably. Had she finished? Or worse, gotten bored? My meticulously crafted plan for peaceful solitude, already under threat from gnome-things and glowing shovels, crumbled into dust.
"Bob! Guardian!" Grumbleson boomed, his voice overly hearty. Clearly, the 'structural enchantment' interpretation had solidified into unquestionable fact overnight.
"Mr. Bob!" Elara chirped, practically bouncing on the balls of her feet. She wasn't carrying parchment or charcoal. No sign of moss samples. Worrying. "We were just coming to find you!"
"Found me," I stated flatly, halting my trajectory towards the merchant stall. Escape route blocked by enthusiastic bureaucracy and misplaced apprenticeship. Trapped.
"Indeed!" Grumbleson beamed. "Vital village business, Bob! Utterly vital! The Harvest Festival!"
Ah. The festival. The celebration of agricultural mediocrity and organized pointlessness I'd been subjected to during the initial planning meeting. I thought I'd escaped further involvement by offering incomprehensible technical advice misinterpreted as prophecy. Apparently not.
"We need you, Mr. Bob!" Elara insisted, clasping her hands together. "Your wisdom! Your guidance! Your… protective aura!" She seemed to be borrowing directly from Grumbleson's lexicon of fawning titles now. Wonderful.
"The final planning meeting," Grumbleson elaborated, "is about to convene. At The Soggy Bottom tavern. Naturally." Because all important decisions in primitive societies apparently occur in establishments smelling faintly of stale ale and regret. "Your presence, as Oakhaven's esteemed Guardian, is not merely requested – it is essential!"
Essential. For planning turnip contests and ribbon selections. Right. My millennia of experience were culminating in this pivotal role.
Refusal was tempting. "Busy sorting… metaphorical dust bunnies." Or, "Experiencing a sudden onset of existential apathy preventing tavern attendance." But Grumbleson looked dangerously determined. And Elara's pleading gaze held the terrifying power of earnest expectation. Refusing directly would cause suspicion. Offence. More questions. More hassle than just enduring the meeting in stony silence. Minimum Effort Path, regrettably, involved temporary immersion in maximum stupidity.
"Fine," I sighed, the sound lost somewhere between resignation and despair. Operation Dragon's Leaf was officially on hold. Replaced by Operation Endure Festive Futility.
Grumbleson clapped his hands together. "Excellent! This way, Guardian!" He practically frog-marched me towards the tavern, Elara skipping alongside, occasionally pointing out particularly interesting patches of… moss. ("Look, Mr. Bob! That fuzzy green one on the tavern wall! Type Gamma-Seven, I believe! Thriving in the shade! Doesn't it speak volumes about resilience?")
Apparently, she hadn't finished the mapping, merely taken a break to participate in dragging me to a pointless meeting. Double the disappointment.
The Soggy Bottom smelled exactly as expected. Stale ale. Damp wood. Unidentifiable fried foods. Desperation. The usual suspects were gathered around a large, sticky table: the Council members (mostly asleep or arguing quietly), Farmer Hemlock (looking resigned, probably calculating apple-to-pig ratios), Widow Meadowsweet (knitting something ominous out of what looked like dried nettles), Borin Stonehand (leaning against the back wall, arms crossed, observing everything with unnerving calm), and, occupying a prime position near the perpetually smudged hearth, Gregor the Gregarious, looking smug and well-fed.
My entrance caused a brief lull. All eyes turned towards me. A mixture of awe (from the gullible), suspicion (from Borin), vague fear (from Hemlock), and predatory calculation (from Gregor). I ignored them all, found an unoccupied stool in the darkest corner, slumped onto it, and mentally prepared for maximum boredom.
The meeting commenced. Or rather, devolved immediately into chaos.
Subject: The 'Largest Turnip' Contest. Councilor Willowbrook argued vehemently that measuring by weight favoured waterlogged specimens, proposing circumference as a truer measure of 'turnip essence'. Hemlock countered that circumference was easily manipulated by strategic flattening, advocating for 'overall aesthetic appeal judged by a panel of impartial badgers' (he may have been joking, it was hard to tell). Grumbleson wrung his hands and called for 'metaphorical consensus'.
My internal monologue began composing scathing reviews of primitive agricultural competitions and democratic processes in general. Utterly inefficient. Prone to irrational arguments. Distracted by trivia. A perfectly designed system for achieving nothing of substance.
Subject: Festive Bunting. Heated debate over Red vs. Blue. Red was 'more celebratory'. Blue was 'calmer, reflecting the seriousness of the harvest'. Widow Meadowsweet suggested alternating colours, then knitting protective sigils into each flag using spider silk and moonbeams. Gregor offered to sell them 'genuine dragon-scale bunting' (likely painted fish scales) at a 'special price'. Borin remained silent, watching me.
My contribution: Silent, sustained projection of profound indifference. Hoping my aura of 'I literally couldn't care less if you use puce or chartreuse' might somehow dampen their enthusiasm. It didn't.
Subject: Entertainment. Turnip juggling was confirmed. Morris dancing goblins were proposed again (quickly shot down due to recent compost-related trauma and shovel theft). Gregor offered a dramatic reenactment of 'Bob Versus the Ten-Foot Goblin King', complete with sound effects, for a 'modest' fee. Elara suggested a 'Moss Appreciation Walk' led by herself, showcasing the village's 'silent historians'.
I nearly choked on the watery, lukewarm ale someone had placed in front of me. Moss Appreciation Walk. Led by Elara. Featuring maps based on my pointless busywork quest. The potential for cascading absurdity was infinite.
Finally, inevitably, Grumbleson turned his attention, and the collective gaze of the table, towards my corner. "Guardian Bob! Your wisdom is sought!"
Here we go.
"The grand finale!" Grumbleson declared. "The bonfire! And the fireworks! Young Timmy's father," (presumably Oakhaven's resident amateur pyromaniac), "has promised a spectacular display this year! Bigger and better than ever!"
Fireworks. In a village constructed primarily of dry thatch and questionable timber. Handled by amateurs. Brilliant idea.
"Your thoughts, Guardian?" Grumbleson pressed, leaning forward expectantly. "Any... insights? Any... precautions?"
This was my chance. My previous practical advice had been twisted into metaphor. Maybe… maybe lean into it this time? Offer a vague, ominous-sounding 'prophecy' that might actually scare them into being slightly less reckless?
I took a slow sip of the terrible ale. Let the silence build. Then, spoke, my voice low and flat. "Fire," I stated simply.
They waited. Expectantly. Fire... what? Good? Bad? Metaphorical? Literal?
"It consumes," I continued, vaguely recalling snippets of dramatic pronouncements from various low-grade prophets I'd encountered. "It transforms. Wood becomes ash. Light becomes darkness." I paused. "Sparks fly."
Another pause. Let the meaningless profundity sink in.
"Thatch," I added, meeting Grumbleson's wide-eyed gaze, "is… receptive."
Dead silence descended on the table. Hemlock shifted uneasily. Willowbrook stopped arguing about turnips. Widow Meadowsweet paused her ominous knitting. Even Gregor looked momentarily thoughtful, probably trying to figure out how to incorporate 'receptive thatch' into his heroic narratives.
Elara, naturally, interpreted it differently. "Receptive!" she whispered excitedly to Grumbleson. "Receptive to the spirit of the festival! The sparks are moments of joy! Transformation is renewal! He's saying it will be a powerful, cleansing fire!"
Grumbleson nodded slowly, relief flooding his face. "Ah! Yes! Cleansing! Renewal! Not… not a warning about actual property damage at all! How… reassuring! Thank you, Guardian!"
Borin Stonehand, from his corner, simply raised one skeptical eyebrow. He wasn't buying the 'cleansing fire' interpretation. He'd heard my previous, bluntly technical critique. He likely recognized this as sarcastic doom-mongering misinterpreted, yet again, as mystical reassurance. A faint smirk touched his lips before vanishing.
Defeated. Again. My attempt at subtle, fear-inducing prophecy had been instantly reframed as positive spiritual affirmation by the Elara-Grumbleson Optimism Engine. Trying to communicate caution to these people was like trying to teach astrophysics to particularly stubborn cheese.
The rest of the meeting passed in a blur of further inconsequential decisions and escalating internal despair. I endured. Sipped the awful ale. Projected apathy. Occasionally grunted noncommittally when directly addressed.
Finally, mercifully, it was over. The committee dispersed, buzzing with plans for badger-judged turnips, possibly enchanted bunting, and a 'spiritually receptive' bonfire destined for disaster.
I made my escape before anyone could corner me for further 'wisdom'. Borin gave me a knowing look as I passed. Gregor tipped his hat, a predatory gleam in his eye. Elara beamed, clutching imaginary moss maps.
Back on the street, the general goods stall was still open. Five silver pieces felt heavy in my pocket. The promise of Dragon's Leaf, however stale, however overpriced, beckoned like a lone lighthouse in a fog of pure idiocy.
Operation Procurement (Mark II) was back on. Assuming the merchant hadn't sold out, or started believing Gregor's tales and tripled the price for the 'Guardian's Blend'. Wouldn't put it past him. This whole village ran on escalating absurdity.
Tea first. Then, maybe, contemplate the wisdom of investing in a very large, very metaphorical fire extinguisher. Or just finding a comfortable spot to watch the inevitable bonfire-related chaos unfold. Retirement entertainment, Aerthos style. Grim, predictable, and probably involving flaming turnips.