Borin's parting words echoed in the dusty silence long after he'd left. "Keep your eyes open, Bob. We all should." It wasn't just suspicion anymore; it was a heavy implication. A shared burden, unwillingly assigned. He saw the weirdness escalating – the gear, the cold metal egg, the strange happenings – and logically concluded I, the primary anomaly, must be involved or at least informed. He wasn't asking me to confess; he was asking me to act. To handle the encroaching strangeness before it became unmanageable.
The sheer audacity. The monumental unfairness. I came here for peace, quiet, and terminal boredom. Instead, I get haunted root cellars, compost cults, psychic badger repellent duty, misinterpreted roof repairs, cryptic gnome-things, anomalous artifacts turning up at the local forge, and now, a blacksmith subtly implying it's my responsibility to clean up the paranormal mess because I happen to be the weirdest thing in the vicinity.
This retirement was an unmitigated disaster. A cosmic bait-and-switch operation of epic proportions.
I slumped back down onto the floor, ignoring the potential for splinters and silverfish companionship. The cold metal egg Borin had found... what was it? Dense. Sound-absorbent. Thermally abnormal. Felt 'wrong'. Did it relate to the iridescent gear? To the wooden one I'd found? To the pulsing crystal moss? Too many variables. Not enough data. And critically, zero motivation to actively seek out more data.
Except... the anomalies were accumulating. Glowing shovel causing environmental effects in the woods. Pulsing crystal draining life near Meadowsweet's. Strange objects appearing. A pattern, however fragmented and annoying, was emerging. A pattern suggesting deliberate, ongoing activity by something. The gnome-thing remained the prime suspect.
And if the gnome-thing was actively tinkering with reality, potentially destabilizing local energy fields or leaving behind hazardous technological remnants, then ignoring it indefinitely did carry risks. Risks of larger incidents. Incidents that might attract attention from beings far more difficult to handle than suspicious blacksmiths. Auditors. Temporal agents. Existential threat evaluators. Beings who generated actual paperwork.
So, maybe, just maybe, Borin's reluctant nudge wasn't entirely misplaced. Maybe minimal, preventative action was less hassle in the long run than dealing with a full-blown reality contamination event. The thought was deeply, profoundly depressing. Action. Effort. Responsibility. Everything I retired to escape.
But first… assess the most immediate potential vector of complication. Elara. My enthusiastic, misguided apprentice, currently charged with mapping Oakhaven's 'soul-skin'. Last seen heading off to meticulously document disgruntled tavern moss. How long would that task keep her occupied? Days? Hours? Minutes, given her tendency to find profound significance in lichen variations?
As if summoned by my weary contemplation, the shop door burst open again. No knock. Just the chaotic energy signature of unrestrained youthful discovery. Elara. Again.
She looked… slightly less muddy this time, but significantly more vibrant. Eyes sparkling. Cheeks flushed. Clutching a new, smaller scroll of parchment.
"Mr. Bob! Progress!" she announced, radiating enough enthusiasm to power a small starship's inertial dampeners. "The tavern quadrant map is nearly complete! And the moss there! It's fascinating! So much… repressed angst! Especially near the back door where they empty the slop buckets!"
Repressed angst moss. Wonderful. Adding it to the glossary of Aerthosian junk science.
"But that's not the big news!" she continued, practically vibrating. "I finished documenting the tavern moss much faster than I expected – its emotional spectrum is surprisingly limited, mostly 'damp resentment' and 'mildewy melancholy' – so I had some time left this afternoon!"
Oh no. Extra time. Idle hands are the devil's playthings, especially when those hands belong to someone convinced they're apprenticed to a secret wizard and tasked with mystical cartography.
"So," she beamed, "I decided to circle back! To Phase One's most intriguing discovery! For… further, cautious observation! From a distance! As you advised!"
She meant the pulsing crystal moss near Widow Meadowsweet's shed. The one I'd specifically tried to steer her away from by inventing a tedious comparative study miles away. My diversionary tactics were proving about as effective as the Metaphor Bridge's structural integrity.
"And Mr. Bob," her voice dropped to an awed whisper, "it's changed!"
My internal annoyance levels immediately spiked into the red zone. Changed? How? Exploded? Summoned something tentacled? Turned Widow Meadowsweet into a newt? (Slight flicker of hope on that last one, quickly suppressed).
"It's… brighter!" Elara explained breathlessly, unrolling her new, smaller scroll. It was a sketch, surprisingly detailed, of the moss patch. Showing the crystalline structure more clearly now. And definitely depicting a more intense internal glow than her previous drawing. "And the pulsing… it's faster! More rhythmic! Almost like… a heartbeat!"
A heartbeat. Faster pulsing. Brighter glow. All indicators of increasing energy levels. Increasing instability. Excellent. Just what I needed.
"And the withered patches around it?" she continued, pointing at the sketch. "They've spread! Further out! Like it's getting… hungrier!"
Hungrier. Draining life force more actively. Perfect. My policy of 'ignore it and hope it goes away' was clearly yielding spectacular results.
"I didn't touch it!" Elara added quickly, seeing my expression (which likely resembled a thundercloud contemplating smiting something). "Just observed! From behind the nightshade bushes! As instructed! But doesn't it seem… significant? Like it's… waking up?"
Significant wasn't the word I'd use. 'Potentially hazardous energy anomaly showing signs of escalating instability' was closer. But explaining that involved admitting knowledge I shouldn't possess and generating panic I didn't want to manage.
"Elara," I began, my voice strained. "I appreciate your… diligence." (Internal translation: Why can't you just follow simple, pointless instructions?). "But this phenomenon… requires extreme caution. More caution than perhaps… previously emphasized."
Time for Diversion Plan B. More forceful this time. Get her away from the village entirely. Away from the crystal moss. Away from lurking gnome-things. Away from me.
"Your work here in Oakhaven," I continued, improvising rapidly, trying to sound profound and slightly concerned, "has provided a vital baseline. But the patterns… they lack context." I waved a dismissive hand at her detailed moss map. "Localised phenomena can mislead. True understanding," I leaned in slightly, lowering my voice, "requires a broader perspective. A comparative study. Of significantly different environments."
Elara's eyes widened. "Different environments?"
"Indeed," I nodded sagely. "The standing stone circle near the Whispering Woods was a good start. But insufficient." (Thank the voids she hadn't actually reached it yet, apparently). "I need… data. From further afield. From a place known for its… unique geological and atmospheric properties. A place where the very earth resonates differently."
Where could I send her? Somewhere remote? Relatively safe? Time-consuming to reach?
"The Dragon's Tooth Peaks," I declared, pulling a suitably impressive-sounding location from some forgotten memory fragment of Aerthosian geography. "Miles to the north. Harsh climate. Strange rock formations. They say," I added, layering on the mystique, "the mosses there whisper secrets on the wind, utterly different from our valley growth. Map them, Elara. Catalogue their whispers. Compare their energy signatures – from a distance, naturally – to Oakhaven's. This," I concluded, hoping the sheer scale of the task would sink in, "is the true Phase Two. A journey of understanding."
A multi-week journey, hopefully. North. Far north. Away from pulsing crystals and strange gears.
Elara stared at me, momentarily stunned by the grandeur of the assignment. Dragon's Tooth Peaks! Mapping whispering mosses! Comparative energy analysis! This wasn't just apprenticeship; this was an epic quest!
Her initial shock quickly morphed into incandescent enthusiasm. "The Dragon's Tooth Peaks!" she breathed. "Of course! Compare the resonant frequencies! Understand the macro-patterns! Master Bob, you're right! Just mapping Oakhaven is too limiting!" She clutched her small scroll. "When should I leave?"
"Immediately," I said, perhaps a touch too quickly. "The atmospheric conditions are optimal for… resonant observation… this time of year." Complete fabrication, but sounded vaguely plausible. "Pack supplies. Inform your parents. Be cautious."
"I will!" she practically vibrated with excitement. "Oh, thank you, Master Bob! This is the most important work!" She gathered her scrolls, beaming with purpose. "I'll send reports! Via pigeon! About the whispering mosses!"
"Excellent," I muttered, already dreading the arrival of pigeon-delivered scrolls filled with lichen poetry and misinterpretations of wind patterns. Small price to pay for her absence.
She paused at the door. "But… what about the crystal moss? Should I… leave a warning? For Widow Meadowsweet?"
"No," I said firmly. "Unnecessary alarm. I will… monitor the situation. Subtly." (Translation: Continue ignoring it while hoping it doesn't explode until I'm forced to deal with it). "Your focus must be on the Peaks."
"Understood!" She gave a determined nod, squared her shoulders, and hurried out, presumably to pack jerky and extra charcoal, off to conduct Comparative Auric Bryology in the distant mountains.
Silence. She was gone. Really gone this time. For potentially weeks.
Relief washed over me, so potent it almost felt like happiness. Almost. The relief was immediately tempered by the lingering knowledge of the pulsing crystal, the glowing shovel, the gnome-thing, the gears, Borin's suspicions…
My plan to buy peace had failed upwards, uncovering actual problems and now requiring me to send my only 'apprentice' on a potentially perilous (if distant) wild goose chase just to keep her safe from the local weirdness.
This retirement was actively trying to make me a responsible adult again. A cosmic joke of the highest, most irritating order.
At least now, perhaps, I could investigate the crystal moss myself. Subtly. Reluctantly. When absolutely necessary. Without an enthusiastic teenager interpreting my every move as mystical fieldwork. Small steps.
But first… find more tea. The floor suddenly felt very hard again. And the silence… disturbingly full of unspoken obligations. Damn it all.