Floor-sitting. It had a certain minimalist appeal. Reduced the risk of furniture-related humiliation and subsequent mystical interpretation. Increased proximity to dust bunnies and stray silverfish, true, but they were blessedly predictable company compared to the average Oakhaven villager. They rarely asked for turnip blessings or misinterpreted structural failures.
I sat cross-legged on the grimy floorboards, back against a reassuringly solid (for now) section of wall. Sipped the last dregs of my latest, painfully procured tea infusion. It was lukewarm, weak, and tasted faintly of existential resignation. Still better than nothing. Marginally.
The Hero Cushion lay accusingly on the counter, its embroidered visage a constant reminder of my unwilling entanglement in this dimension's low-budget fantasy narrative. I tried to ignore it. Focused instead on the hypnotic dance of dust motes in the single beam of sunlight piercing the gloom. Tried to achieve a state of pure, unadulterated apathy. Near-impossible, given recent events, but the effort itself was a form of resistance.
Resisting the urge to investigate the pulsing crystal moss. Resisting the urge to track down the gnome-thing and demand answers (or just vaporize its annoying wooden gear). Resisting the urge to find Borin and preemptively deny any knowledge of temporally resonant alloys. Resisting the urge to calculate the exact structural failure point of the Metaphor Bridge and place bets on when Finnian would finally test it fatally.
Resistance was exhausting. Maybe acceptance was the key? Accept the absurdity. Accept the role of misunderstood hermit-wizard-handyman-guardian. Start levitating ostentatiously. Turn Gregor into a newt (still appealing). Issue cryptic prophecies that were actually cryptic, rather than just misinterpreted practical advice?
No. Required too much effort. Too much deviation from the primary goal: Maximum Attainable Inertia. A goal I was failing at spectacularly, but abandoning it felt like... surrender. And surrendering to Aerthosian stupidity felt like the ultimate defeat.
Screeeeech!
A sound from outside. High-pitched. Angry. Not human. Not goblin. Definitely not the tortured lute.
Snarl! Hiss! CRASH! Followed by panicked shouting.
Oh, stellar refuse heaps. What now? Had the Metaphor Bridge finally collapsed mid-donkey-crossing? Had Petunia the Picky Pig decided to enforce her bruised-apple diet with extreme prejudice? Had the 'stool deconstruction ritual' accidentally summoned something unpleasant from the Dimension of Poorly Assembled Furniture?
More shouting. Closer this time. Running feet. The distinct clang of improvised weaponry (frying pan versus pitchfork acoustics were surprisingly recognizable).
"Rabid!"
"Huge!"
"Eyes of fire!"
"Badgers! An army of badgers!"
Badgers. Right. Not interdimensional horrors. Not spectral entities. Not even goblins. Just… badgers. Probably disgruntled about something. Possibly turf warfare over prime dumpster locations. Or maybe just inherently vicious weasel-adjacent mammals expressing their displeasure with existence in general. I could relate.
But 'eyes of fire'? An 'army'? Highly improbable. Likely threat inflation, fuelled by rural panic and, undoubtedly, Gregor's recent heroic narratives probably featuring battles against flame-eyed dire badgers commanded by the resurrected spirit of the Goblin King riding a skeletal turnip.
Bang bang bang! On the door. Frantic. Desperate.
"Guardian Bob! Help us! The Badger Lords are upon us!"
Badger Lords? Now they had nobility? This village's ability to instantly mythologize mundane inconveniences was truly breathtaking.
Reluctantly, because the noise was interfering with my floor-based contemplation, and because panicked villagers waving pitchforks tended to cause accidental property damage, I unfolded myself from the floor. Opened the door a crack.
Pandemonium. Or the Oakhaven equivalent. Several villagers huddled near my doorstep, armed with aforementioned farming implements. Mayor Grumbleson was hyperventilating behind the relative safety of the frying-pan wielder. Further down the street, vague shapes darted through the twilight, accompanied by snarling, screeching, and the occasional overturned bucket.
"Bob!" Grumbleson gasped, spotting me. "The prophecy! The beasts! Gregor said they'd come! Creatures of rage, drawn by the… the… uh… residual goblin energy!" Or maybe just attracted by improperly secured rubbish bins. Minor detail. "You must repel them! Your glare! Your sigh! Your… badger-vanquishing aura!"
My aura was currently projecting 'intense desire for this nonsense to cease'. Unlikely to deter actual badgers, who generally responded poorly to passive aggression.
"They're just badgers, Grumbleson," I sighed, the sound heavy with the weight of infinite stupidity.
"Just badgers?" squawked a villager. "Did you see the teeth? Long as daggers! And the eyes! Burning like coals!"
Hyperbole. Fear Goggles (Mark I) actively distorting perception. They were probably moderately sized badgers, possibly slightly mangy, definitely bad-tempered, likely fighting over scraps or territory. Annoying? Yes. Dangerous if cornered? Probably. Apocalyptic horde led by Badger Lords with flaming eyes? Highly doubtful.
"We need the Guardian's power!" Grumbleson insisted, seemingly regaining some composure through sheer panic. "As you calmed the Resonance! As you pacified the Sign! So too must you pacify the Mustelid Menace!"
Mustelid Menace. Points for alliteration, minus several million for accuracy.
Arguing was futile. Explaining badger behaviour patterns was pointless. They needed a 'magical' solution because they believed the problem was magical (or at least, heroically significant). Fine. Minimum Effort Magical Solution it was.
"Stay back," I commanded curtly. Stepped out past the huddle of terrified villagers. Focused my attention down the street towards the epicentre of the badger-based chaos.
They were visible now. Half a dozen or so striped, snuffling creatures, significantly smaller than 'ten feet tall', squabbling aggressively over something near the baker's overflowing refuse bin. Their eyes reflected the torchlight, maybe appearing reddish, but definitely not 'burning like coals'. Their teeth were badger-sized, not dagger-sized. It was just… agitated wildlife being noisy and disruptive.
Plan A: Disperse them with minimal fuss and zero collateral damage. No glares required. No sighs needed. Just subtle, targeted sensory manipulation.
I focused my intent. Reached out with a sliver of my awareness, not physically, but… psychically? Subconsciously? The distinctions blurred when operating on irritation-fueled autopilot.
Targeted their olfactory receptors. Badgers have a keen sense of smell. What do badgers universally hate the smell of? According to fragmented residual data from a minor intervention involving genetically engineered badger-analogues in Sector Gamma-9 (long story, involved truffle theft on a planetary scale)... they detested the precise scent signature of synthesized celestial polecat musk. Don't ask. Cosmic bureaucracy has strange requirements sometimes.
I projected that specific olfactory hallucination. Concentrated it around the bakery's rubbish bin. Not overwhelmingly strong. Just… present. Unmistakable. Deeply offensive to the badger nervous system.
The effect was instantaneous. The snarling stopped mid-snarl. Badger heads snapped up. Noses twitched violently. Expressions of pure, unadulterated disgust crossed their furry faces (if badgers can look disgusted, these ones definitely did).
One particularly large specimen let out a panicked screech, turned tail, and bolted away from the offending odour, crashing through a pile of empty sacks in its haste. The others followed suit immediately, scrambling, stumbling over each other, driven by an primal, instinctual need to get away from that terrible smell.
Within seconds, the 'Badger Apocalypse' had evaporated. The street was empty, save for overturned buckets, scattered rubbish, and bewildered villagers lowering their pitchforks. Silence descended, broken only by the distant sound of rapidly retreating badger claws scrabbling on dirt.
Problem solved. Quiet restored. Achieved via imaginary space-polecat stink. Mundane? Yes. Effective? Absolutely. Interpreted correctly? Not a chance in this reality.
I turned back towards the villagers. Their faces were illuminated by torchlight and utter, dumbfounded awe.
"They… they just… left!" stammered the frying-pan wielder.
"He didn't even do anything!" whispered another. "Just… stood there!"
"Silent power!" breathed Grumbleson, clutching his mayoral chain. "He commanded them! With his mind! Banished the Badger Lords back to their fiery burrows!"
Gregor the Gregarious, who had predictably appeared during the climax, was scribbling furiously in a small notebook. "Chapter the Tenth: The Guardian's Gaze Quells the Mustelid Horde!" he muttered gleefully under his breath.
I said nothing. Offered no explanation about olfactory hallucinations or synthesized polecat musk. Let them believe whatever fabricated nonsense made them feel safer. It required less effort than attempting to inject sanity into the proceedings.
Pushed past them. Ignored their renewed thanks, their reverent whispers, their offers of slightly chewed turnips as tribute. Retreated back into my shop. Bolted the door.
Leaned against it. Closed my eyes. My aura of 'Badger-Vanquishing Mental Command' presumably radiated profound weariness and a desperate need for caffeine.
My reputation had just levelled up again. From mystical handyman to silent controller of resonant horrors to commander of psychic pest control. What next? Was I going to be asked to mentally adjust the rainfall? Telepathically encourage better turnip yields? Exorcise melancholy spirits from depressed pigs?
Given the trajectory of Oakhaven's collective imagination, all seemed depressingly plausible.
At least the badgers were gone. The actual badgers, anyway. The metaphorical ones, residing in the villagers' fear-addled brains and Gregor's lurid tales, seemed poised to multiply indefinitely.
Floor felt good right now. Solid. Unassuming. Unlikely to develop sentience or demand mystical reinforcement. Maybe I'd just stay down here for a while. Until the Harvest Festival, at least. Which was tomorrow. And promised its own unique vintage of spectacular, flammable, potentially badger-adjacent disaster. Joy. Unfettered, sarcastic joy.