The so-called "tea" I possessed was an affront to dried leaves everywhere. It tasted less like Camellia sinensis and more like boiled lawn clippings mixed with despair. It provided neither comfort nor adequate stimulation. It merely occupied space in a cup, much like I was merely occupying space in this low-resolution dimension.
This injustice could not stand. My retirement, fragile as it was, demanded certain minimum standards. Tolerable tea ranked somewhere between "Absence of Spontaneous Combustion" and "Not Being Pestered by Existential Horrors Disguised as Locals." Current status: Failing on multiple fronts.
Therefore, a supply run was necessary. A foray into the chaotic, inefficient, and undoubtedly irritating heart of Oakhaven village. Probably Market Day, knowing my luck. More people. More noise. More opportunities for reality to inconvenience me personally.
Joy. Unfettered, sarcastic joy.
I secured the shop – a loose interpretation involving propping a slightly warped board against the inside of the door – and stepped out. The air, still carrying faint undertones of compost and receding goblin fanaticism, assaulted my borrowed nostrils. Picturesque. If your picture involved mildew and regret.
Oakhaven's "center" was less a planned hub of commerce and more a random scattering of stalls and shouting humans that had achieved critical mass through sheer inertia. Wooden booths displayed goods with aggressive mediocrity. Vegetables that looked suspiciously like yesterday's rejects. Pottery whose structural integrity seemed inversely proportional to the loudness of the potter's sales pitch. Suspiciously gleaming "health potions" in suspiciously sticky-looking bottles.
The ambient noise level was an offense against ordered soundwaves. Hawkers yelling. Children shrieking (presumably for cause, life here seemed fundamentally traumatic). Livestock complaining about their lot in life (can't blame them). And somewhere, faintly, the mournful twanging of what I assumed was a lute being played by someone who hated music, audiences, and possibly themselves.
My internal monologue began its running critique immediately. Inefficient stall layout causing pedestrian bottlenecks. Poor sanitation practices evident near the fishmonger (potential localized outbreak vector). Thatched roofs shedding flammable debris at an alarming rate. And the fashion. Earth tones. So many earth tones. Had color itself not properly evolved on this world? It was visually tedious.
First obstacle: A man whose beard seemed to be actively trying to escape his face thrust a wooden amulet towards me. "Protection from ill winds, traveler! Wards off gloom!"
I eyed the crudely carved piece of wood. Its "warding" properties likely extended only to repelling anyone with functioning aesthetic sense. Plus, the faint energy signature it emitted felt… wrong. Like static cling trying desperately to pretend it was arcane power. It gave me a mild headache just being near it.
"Gloom finds me regardless," I muttered, attempting to sidle past.
"But sir! Only three copper pieces! A bargain for peace of mind!" He waggled the amulet insistently. The headache intensified slightly. Annoying.
Crack.
A thin fracture line appeared down the center of the amulet. The wood split cleanly in two, the pieces tumbling from the man's slackened fingers.
He stared at the broken charm, then at me, aghast. "My… my wares!"
"Faulty craftsmanship," I stated flatly, continuing my trajectory. Probably subconscious structural integrity assessment subconsciously applied. Or maybe I just disliked pushy salesmen with headache-inducing inventory. Details.
I successfully navigated past the Chasm of Broken Amulets and continued my quest for adequate dried leaves. My progress was immediately hampered by a cluster of gossiping villagers near the well (another monument to dubious hygiene standards).
"...told you, Agnes! The goblins just stopped! Mayor Grumbleson says it's the new fellow, Bob! Brought luck to Oakhaven!"
"Luck?" sneered another voice, this one belonging to a woman wrestling a stubborn goat. "Hemlock says his prize compost is attracting goblin pilgrims now! Says Bob's got strange magic, maybe cursed!"
"Cursed? Nonsense! Elara says he's just a quiet, wise man. Gave her a flower, didn't he?"
"A flower? See! Strange! Who gives flowers?"
My ears processed this stream of concentrated idiocy. Luck. Curses. Flower-based intrigue. Compost cult theology. My reputation was apparently fragmenting faster than poorly made magical amulets. And all because I desired a quiet life and occasionally manipulated local olfactory conditions out of sheer irritation. The injustice was palpable. I felt a cosmic sigh brewing.
"Mr. Bob!"
Oh, stellar dust. The source of the floral complication herself. Elara materialized beside me, clutching a small basket filled with… more terrifyingly cheerful yellow flowers. Please, no. Don't offer them. My single tin beaker was already at maximum daisy capacity.
"Isn't Market Day exciting?" she chirped, blissfully unaware of my internal monologue demanding immediate evacuation to a less… folksy dimension.
"Exhausting," I corrected.
"Oh." She looked momentarily crestfallen, then rallied with the terrifying resilience of youth. "Are you looking for something? I know all the best stalls!"
"Tea," I admitted reluctantly. Admitting need was a slippery slope. Next thing you know, you're admitting vulnerability, then forming attachments, then accidentally adopting stray quasars. Best to nip it in the bud. Or the leaf, in this case.
"Ooh! Old Widow Meadowsweet makes the best herbal brews! Her stall is just over there!" Elara pointed past a man selling questionable meat pies and a woman demonstrating the improbable sharpness of a slightly bent knife.
"Herbal," I echoed skeptically. Probably involved ditch weeds and positive thinking. I craved caffeine. Actual theine. The glorious stimulant derived from a properly cultivated tea plant, something unlikely to exist in this turnip-centric economy. But beggars, or rather, grumpy retired cosmic entities seeking minimal interaction, couldn't be choosers.
"Come on!" Elara tugged gently at my sleeve. Physical contact again. I suppressed a shudder. She led me towards a small, unassuming stall draped in dried bunches of plants that smelled vaguely medicinal and faintly ominous.
Widow Meadowsweet, a woman whose face was a roadmap of wrinkles and possibly arcane secrets, peered at me over precarious stacks of bundled herbs. "Looking for a brew, dearie?" she rasped, her voice like dry leaves skittering across pavement.
"Tea," I specified. "Something… bracing."
She cackled, a surprisingly dry sound. "Got just the thing. Knocks the gloom right out of yer bones. Call it 'Stonker's Delight'."
Stonker's Delight. Sounded less like tea and more like a medieval energy drink with potentially lethal side effects.
She proffered a small pouch of dried, indeterminate greenish-brownery. It smelled… earthy. Possibly compost-adjacent, though hopefully lacking the goblin-attracting properties.
I surveyed the other options. "Weary Traveler's Rest" (likely induced coma). "Fairy Ring Dewdrops" (probably just ditchwater). "Grumblebelly Soother" (indicated intestinal distress I preferred not to contemplate).
Stonker's Delight it was. Minimal analysis suggested it contained trace alkaloids that might approximate caffeine if ingested in sufficient quantity. Risk assessment: Tolerable. Potential side effects: Unknown, likely unpleasant. Probability of acquiring actual tea: Approaching zero.
"Fine," I sighed, exchanging a few copper coins – thankfully, I'd subconsciously appropriated a small amount of local currency upon arrival, anticipating such tedious transactions – for the pouch of questionable herbs.
"Enjoy!" Widow Meadowsweet chirped, revealing surprisingly intact teeth. Probably gnawed on rocks for calcium. Or maybe the tea did work.
Elara beamed. "See? Widow Meadowsweet always knows!"
I grunted noncommittally, pocketing the pouch. Mission… achieved? Sort of? I had acquired potential tea. The quality remained highly suspect.
"Well, Mr. Bob," Elara said, fiddling with her basket of death-by-cheerfulness flowers, "I should go help my mother. But…" She leaned in slightly. "See that man over there?" She subtly nodded towards a brooding figure leaning against the wall of the blacksmith's shop. He wore scuffed leather armor, possessed a grim expression, and had a ridiculously oversized sword strapped to his back. Classic adventurer archetype. Annoying. "He looks like he carries a heavy burden. Maybe he needs some of your wisdom?"
My wisdom? My wisdom consisted primarily of 'Leave me alone' and 'Your sword is aerodynamically inefficient and probably compensating for something.' Sharing this profound insight seemed unwise. And, more importantly, required effort.
"Busy," I deflected, already turning to leave. "Shop needs… dusting." A monumental, never-ending task. A perfect excuse.
Just as I began my strategic retreat back towards the relative sanctuary of Bob's Bits & Bobs, a voice cut through the market clamor.
"Hold there! You, the shopkeeper!"
I froze. Didn't turn. Maybe they meant the other gloomy, uncommunicative shopkeeper recently accused of weaponizing compost via floral arrangement. Statistically improbable, but hope springs eternal, even in the cynical, borrowed heart of a retired cosmic entity.
Heavy footsteps approached. A large hand landed on my shoulder. Firmly. The sheer impertinence.
"The name's Borin Stonehand," a gruff voice stated. The blacksmith. Skeptical. Built like a brick outhouse. Probably capable of bending iron bars with his bare hands and asking irritatingly direct questions. "People are saying strange things about you. About goblins, luck, and... fertilizer."
He turned me slightly to face him. His eyes, deep-set under bushy brows, were sharp and missed little. "What exactly happened with those greenskins yesterday?"
Direct question. Demanding an answer. Forcing interaction. Threatening my carefully cultivated state of non-involvement.
This retirement gig was turning into a full-time job in avoiding conversations.
I looked Borin Stonehand squarely in the eye, summoned the most profound aura of boredom I could muster, and offered my most comprehensive explanation to date.
"Coincidence."
Then, before he could formulate a follow-up interrogation, I executed a maneuver perfected over millennia of avoiding bureaucratic entanglements: I abruptly sidestepped and walked away, melting back into the minor chaos of the market crowd, leaving the blacksmith, the gossip, the questionable tea, and the ever-present threat of unsolicited cheerfulness behind me.
Back in the dusty silence of the shop, the pouch of Stonker's Delight felt heavy in my pocket. The silence felt fragile. The peace, nonexistent.
They were noticing. They were talking. They were starting to ask questions.
Maximum Attainable Inertia was proving remarkably difficult to attain. Maybe I needed a new plan. Or a stronger lock. Or possibly, just possibly, significantly better tea.