The door slammed shut, rattling in its poorly fitted frame. Grumbleson was gone, presumably scurrying back to the village council armed with the 'knowledge' that I, Bob, was performing vital 'structural enchantments' involving a rusty hammer and a piece of crooked tin.
Structural enchantments. Right.
I lowered the hammer slowly. Its head wobbled precariously. If this was an enchanted artifact, it was clearly from the bargain bin of arcane implements. Probably cursed to only hit thumbs or create more problems than it solved.
The sheer, unadulterated stupidity of it all washed over me. Not anger. Not frustration. Just a profound, soul-deep weariness. A weariness that stretched across millennia and countless dimensions, only to culminate here, in a dusty shack on a backwater planet, being mistaken for a magical handyman because I plugged a leak in my own damned roof.
They didn't just misinterpret. They actively invented layers of significance. They saw mundane actions through a filter of superstition and desperation, twisting reality into a shape that comforted their primitive anxieties. Fixing a roof became warding off atmospheric intrusions. Offering basic advice about pig feed became dispensing profound life metaphors. Suggesting a blacksmith check loose armor became commissioning a legendary goblin-repelling horseshoe.
That last one was particularly galling. A horseshoe. For repelling goblins. What possible mechanism could they even imagine? Did goblins suffer from intense equine phobia? Were their rudimentary nervous systems susceptible to specific metallic resonances found only in improperly forged iron alloys shaped like a 'U'? Or was it just the sheer, unadulterated randomness of superstition latching onto the nearest available explanation for the goblins' sudden departure? (Which, I reminded myself with a flicker of irritation, was due to olfactory manipulation, not metallurgy.)
The logic chains here weren't just flawed; they were fundamentally broken, looping back on themselves in spirals of escalating nonsense. Finnian needed armor help. I sent him to Borin. Borin, likely annoyed by the interruption and my deflection, probably made some sarcastic remark about forging a magic horseshoe instead. Finnian, lacking the cognitive tools to detect sarcasm, took it literally. Whispered it to someone. It reached Grumbleson's perpetually panicked ears. And poof. Legendary artifact rumour generated. Faster than lightspeed communication, almost as nonsensical.
And now Grumbleson would report back to the council. "Good news! Bob isn't ignoring us! He's performing vital structural enchantments! Addressing the foundations! Metaphorically!"
The horror. The council, a collection of individuals likely chosen for their ability to worry loudly rather than govern effectively, would seize upon this. They'd expect results. They might task me with metaphorically enchanting the leaky village well next. Or perhaps mystically reinforcing the perpetually collapsing bridge over the creek. My quiet retirement was rapidly morphing into unpaid, involuntary mystical infrastructure consultation.
I looked down at the mess on the floor. Dust. Displaced silverfish twitching in indignant confusion. The damp patch from the drip, slowly starting to dry but leaving a noticeable stain. The rusty hammer still clutched in my hand.
This was my kingdom. A kingdom of dirt, decay, and escalating misunderstandings.
With another sigh – the sigh of galaxies imploding quietly in resignation – I carefully placed the treacherous hammer back into the warped wooden crate that served as my toolbox. It landed with a dull thud. Better contained than wielded.
I kicked vaguely at the displaced ledgers, nudging them back towards their original pile. Tidying felt pointless, but leaving the evidence of my 'structural enchantment' session strewn about seemed… unwise. Might encourage further mystical interpretations. "Look! He disturbed the Sacred Ledgers of Commerce! A powerful ritual indeed!"
The three-legged stool beckoned. I slumped onto it, ignoring its customary wobble. Stared at the opposite wall. The dust motes danced, oblivious. Mocking me with their carefree chaos.
What now? Wait for the next delegation? The Council Committee for Metaphorical Maintenance? Or perhaps Finnian, returning bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, demanding I explain the precise forging techniques for his legendary anti-goblin equine footwear?
The quiet stretched. Longer than usual. No immediate footsteps. No frantic knocking. Just the gentle creak of settling timber and the distant, persistent background noise of Oakhaven life – a barking dog, a clanging from Borin's forge (he was back at it, apparently unmoved by legendary horseshoe rumors), the faint strains of that tortured lute.
Maybe Grumbleson's announcement had bought me time? Maybe the council was now locked in a furious debate about the meaning of structural enchantments instead of actually bothering me? Plausible. Bureaucratic inefficiency could be a powerful shield, sometimes.
I considered attempting another cup of the Dragon's Leaf. The pouch felt worryingly light earlier. Should conserve it. Treat it like the precious, overpriced font of marginal adequacy it was. Make it last. Enduring this dimension uncaffeinated seemed increasingly unbearable.
A noise. Not a scrabble this time. Not a drip. Not a knock. A hesitant scrape at the door. Like someone dragging a fingernail across the wood. Uncertainly.
Oh, stars and singularities, now what? Was it a ghost? A particularly tentative zombie? A salesperson specializing in door-to-door existential dread?
Reluctantly, I pushed myself up from the stool. The effort felt monumental. Shuffled to the door. Prepared for the worst. Or at least, the uniquely annoying Aerthosian equivalent of the worst.
Pulled the door open a crack.
Finnian. Of course. The Young Adventurer™ himself. Looking significantly less confident than before. He shifted nervously from foot to foot, clutching the hilt of his reasonably sized sword like a security blanket. He avoided eye contact initially, focusing instead on a loose floorboard near my feet.
"Uh… Shopkeeper Bob?" he mumbled, his voice barely audible.
"Still here," I confirmed drily. Waiting. Let him articulate the stupidity himself.
He took a breath. Looked up, eyes wide and earnest, but laced with confusion now. "Master Stonehand… Borin… he, uh, he fixed my pauldron."
Progress. Minimal, practical progress. Good for him. Not my problem. "Excellent," I said, preparing to close the door.
"But… he said something else," Finnian rushed on, stopping the door's movement. "When I asked him about the… the horseshoe." He lowered his voice, glancing around as if uttering forbidden words. "The goblin-repelling one you apparently commissioned?"
Here we go. Direct confirmation of the idiocy chain.
"Never commissioned a horseshoe," I stated flatly. "Legendary or otherwise. Goblin-repelling or otherwise."
Finnian frowned, clearly wrestling with cognitive dissonance. A painful process for the inexperienced. "But… Master Stonehand said… he said something like, 'Oh, that horseshoe. Yeah, the one Bob needs for… nailing things up? Keeps the nasty little goblins from… bothering his structural enchantments?' He looked kinda… smiley when he said it. But not a nice smiley."
Sarcasm. Borin Stonehand possessed sarcasm. A flicker of something almost resembling respect sparked within me for the blacksmith. Quickly extinguished, of course. Respect leads to complications. But his deflection… crude, but effective. And deliciously layered with digs at both Finnian's gullibility and my own newly minted reputation as a magical roofer.
Finnian continued, utterly lost. "So… is it for nailing things? Does nailing things up ward off goblins? Or is it for the enchantments? Are enchantments goblin-proof? Master Stonehand wasn't very clear. He just told me to ask you about proper… uh… 'metaphorical hammering techniques'."
He looked at me expectantly. Awaiting clarification. Awaiting arcane knowledge about anti-goblin carpentry or metaphorical blacksmithing. His expression was a perfect blend of hope and utter bafflement.
I stared back. Blankly. Let the silence hang. Let the sheer, unadulterated absurdity of his question echo in the dusty air between us.
"Finnian," I said finally, my voice devoid of inflection. "It's a roof patch. Made of tin. To stop a leak." I pointed vaguely upwards towards my handiwork. "Requires nails. And a hammer. Preferably one whose head doesn't threaten to fly off."
I paused. Let that sink in. Or bounce off his conviction, whichever came first.
"There are no structural enchantments," I continued, patiently, like explaining orbital mechanics to a sea slug. "There is no legendary horseshoe. Goblins left because they smelled something more interesting than chickens. End of story."
Finnian blinked. Once. Twice. His brow furrowed deeply. He looked up at the roof patch, then back at me. The gears in his young, naive brain were grinding audibly, trying to reconcile the mundane reality I presented with the fantastical narrative woven by rumor, sarcasm, and misinterpreted panic.
"But… the metaphors?" he whispered, clinging to the last shred of mystical significance. "The bruised apples? The structural foundations?"
"Pigs sometimes like apples," I said. "Roofs need fixing. Sometimes people say stupid things when they panic." Like Mayor Grumbleson. "That's it. No metaphors. No magic. Just… life. On Aerthos." A frequently disappointing and irritating proposition.
The hopeful light in Finnian's eyes dimmed considerably. Replaced by dawning comprehension. And embarrassment. He flushed slightly. Looked down at his boots.
"Oh," he mumbled. "Right. Just… fixing the roof." He shuffled his feet again. "Sorry to bother you, Shopkeeper Bob."
"Indeed," I agreed, pulling the door closed, firmly this time. The click of the latch felt marginally more final.
Back in the silence. The Dragon's Leaf caffeine had completely dissipated now, leaving behind only the familiar residue of weary cynicism.
Had I gotten through to him? Shattered the illusion? Possibly. Maybe one less person spreading rumours about my mystical home repair skills. A minor victory in the relentless war against Aerthosian stupidity.
Or maybe he'd just incorporate this new data into an even more convoluted theory. "The Silent Guardian works in mysterious ways! He pretends his enchantments are mere roof repairs to test our faith!"
Knowing my luck on this planet, the latter seemed depressingly plausible.
I needed more tea. And possibly stronger walls. A moat might be nice. Filled with something caustic. Preferably something that dissolved misplaced enthusiasm and equine superstitions on contact. Yes. A moat. Retirement Plan 7.5 was starting to take shape.