The Elara-shaped vacuum in the shop was… noticeable. Palpable. Blessedly quiet. No cheerful humming. No enthusiastic rearrangement of entropy. No misinterpretations of my desire for solitude as cryptic zen lessons. Just the familiar dusty silence, the creak of settling timbers, and the accusatory stare of the Hero Cushion.
It was almost peaceful. Except for the low-level background hum of anxiety generated by pulsing crystal moss, potentially technologically advanced gnome-things leaving clues, a blacksmith who was entirely too perceptive, and the small matter of my dwindling tea supply (Operation Procurement Mark III pending).
And the shovel. Can't forget the shovel. The magically significant, possibly energized, currently goblin-pilfered gardening tool causing trouble out by the Whispering Woods.
Farmer Hemlock's panicked report echoed in my mind. Strange lights. Unnatural sounds. Blighted plants. All emanating from the general direction the Compost Pilgrims had headed, carrying their glowing 'relic'.
This wasn't just village gossip anymore. This sounded like tangible environmental effects. Side effects, most likely, of whatever energy the shovel had absorbed or been imbued with (thanks, indirectly, to my initial compost/goblin intervention, the irony wasn't lost on me). An unstable artifact leaking chaotic energy into a potentially sensitive ecosystem? That had 'escalate into a major multiversal incident requiring tedious cleanup' written all over it.
Ignoring the pulsing crystal moss near Meadowsweet's shed felt like procrastination. Annoying, but potentially manageable if it remained localized. Ignoring a mobile source of anomalous energy wielded by religious fanatics heading into notoriously spooky woods? That felt like actively inviting catastrophe to knock on my door, probably accompanied by spectral timber wolves and demanding compensation for reality contamination.
Dammit. Dammit all to the irrelevant pocket dimension where forgotten socks accumulate.
My reluctant conclusion from yesterday – that I might actually have to do something about the shovel – solidified into grim certainty. Minimal intervention, naturally. Maximum deniability essential. But intervention nonetheless.
Plan A remained 'Hope the goblins trip, drop the shovel into a bottomless bog, and forget about it'. Plan B, unfortunately, was looking increasingly necessary. Which involved… ugh… effort. Investigation. Possibly confrontation. Involving woods. And goblins.
First step: Confirm Hemlock's report wasn't just typical Oakhaven hyperbole amplified by Gregor's narratives. Were things really getting weird out there? The 'reconnaissance by grudging proxy' technique (manipulating villagers into gossiping near my shop) had yielded vague confirmation, but lacked specifics.
Maybe… a slightly more direct approach? Still avoiding personal exertion, of course.
Widow Meadowsweet. She lived closest to the woods' edge. She had an uncanny knack for knowing things. And I now possessed a sachet of her dubious herbs ("good for settling disturbed earth energies," she'd said, with that infuriatingly knowing look). Perhaps returning the herbs could be a pretext for… subtle inquiry?
The thought of interacting with her cryptic vagueness again was almost physically painful. But potentially less painful than personally trekking into goblin-infested, reality-warping woods. Marginally.
Decision made. Operation: Return Useless Herbs and Fish for Non-Metaphorical Information initiated.
Clutching the small, dusty pouch of probably ineffective plant matter, I ventured out once more. The village seemed… calmer today. Post-festival lethargy had set in. Fewer people milling about. Gregor was likely sleeping off his performance (or counting his earnings). Borin's forge was silent for now. A good time for potentially less observed movement.
I shuffled towards Meadowsweet's cottage at the edge of the village, near the path leading towards the woods. Her small garden looked slightly more overgrown and chaotic than usual. Nettles thrived with aggressive abandon. Gnarled roots clawed at the path. Fitting ambiance for a purveyor of cryptic folk wisdom.
She was outside, naturally. Crouched down, examining something intently near her crumbling shed wall – disturbingly close to where Elara had spotted the pulsing crystal moss. My internal alarms flared momentarily, but she seemed focused on a clump of ordinary-looking mushrooms, not glowing anomalies.
"Widow Meadowsweet," I greeted, my voice carefully neutral. Minimal inflection. Maximum desire to conclude this interaction swiftly.
She looked up slowly, her wrinkled face impassive, ancient eyes sharp. A slow smile crinkled the corners of her eyes. "Bob the Guardian. Come to consult the earth spirits again?"
"Returning these," I said curtly, holding out the pouch of herbs. "Found I had no… disturbed earth… requiring settling." A weak excuse, but hopefully mundane enough.
She took the pouch, her gnarled fingers brushing mine briefly (unpleasant, felt slightly like touching dry leaves and secrets). Sniffed the contents. "Ah, Groundwort and Silence-Thistle. Good strong batch." She tucked it back into some hidden pocket in her layers of ragged clothing. "Sometimes the earth settles itself, if you listen close enough." Cryptic. As expected.
Time for the probe. "Heard some… odd talk," I began casually, looking vaguely towards the Whispering Woods looming in the distance. "About lights. And sounds. From the woods."
Meadowsweet followed my gaze. Her smile faded slightly, replaced by that familiar, unreadable knowingness. "The woods whisper," she stated simply. "Always have. But the whispers have an edge to 'em lately. Sharp. Like cracked ice."
Cracked ice. Interesting metaphor. Possibly indicative of energy discharge? Or just typical crone poetry?
"Farmer Hemlock seemed agitated," I prompted gently. "Mentioned… a tool?"
Meadowsweet nodded slowly. "Aye. The greenskins' trophy." She spat dismissively onto a nearby dandelion. "Shiny thing now, ain't it? Shouldn't take shiny things where ancient roots sleep deep."
Okay, confirmation. She knew about the glowing shovel. Knew the goblins took it into the woods. And possessed a suitably superstitious dread regarding its presence there ('ancient roots sleeping deep'). Progress? Sort of?
"Shiny things," I echoed neutrally. "Causing... trouble?"
She cocked her head. Looked at me shrewdly. "Trouble finds its own way, Guardian. Sometimes it's loud, like badger squabbles." (She knew about that too? Of course she did). "Sometimes it's quiet, like a pulse under the moss." (She definitely knew about the anomaly near her shed). "Sometimes," she looked back towards the woods, "it shines bright and wakes things best left slumbering."
Pulse under the moss. Waking slumbering things. This was getting worryingly close to specific information, albeit wrapped in layers of folk metaphor. Was she warning me? Testing me? Sharing genuine concern based on her own observations and interpretations?
"And the lights Hemlock mentioned?" I pressed slightly. "Hunters' tales?"
"More than tales," Meadowsweet rasped. "Flickers. Wrong colours. Seen from the ridge path at moonrise. And the beasts… they're keeping shy of the deep woods now. Even the spiders seem… twitchy."
Wrong coloured lights. Animals avoiding the area. Tangible effects. Consistent with Hemlock's report and my own suspicions about leaking anomalous energy. The situation was definitely deteriorating.
"Best hope," Meadowsweet added, her gaze sharp on me again, "that the shiny toy doesn't disturb the heart of the wood. Or find its way back 'ere." A clear implication: if it did cause real trouble, or head back towards the village, someone (me) would be expected to deal with it.
I'd gotten what I came for. Confirmation, laced with cryptic warnings and unsettling levels of implied knowledge on her part about other anomalies. Time to disengage before she offered me tea brewed from phosphorescent fungus or asked me to interpret squirrel entrails.
"Interesting perspective," I mumbled noncommittally. "Must be going. Shop requires… dusting." My standard exit line.
Meadowsweet just smiled that infuriatingly knowing smile again. "Mind the roots, Guardian," she murmured as I turned to leave.
Roots. Right. Both literal and metaphorical, probably. Everything with her was metaphorical. Except, maybe, the pulsing anomaly right next to her shed, which felt alarmingly literal.
Back towards the shop. My reluctant mission had yielded results. Worrying results. The glowing shovel wasn't just a rumour; it was actively perturbing the Whispering Woods ecosystem. The longer it remained active, the higher the chance of unpredictable consequences. Consequences that might ripple outwards. Consequences that might require significant, non-subtle intervention later.
Plan A (Ignore it) was now officially defunct regarding the shovel. Plan B (Minimal, Deniable Intervention) was activated. Objective: Locate the Compost Pilgrims and neutralize or retrieve the anomalous gardening tool. Method: Preferably without direct confrontation, extensive hiking, combat, conversation, or revealing any abilities whatsoever.
How? Track them? Use divination (risky, energy signature might attract attention)? Send Finnian after them with deliberately bad advice designed to make him accidentally retrieve it? (Tempting, but ethically dubious and high probability of catastrophic failure).
Maybe… lure them out? What did Compost Pilgrims desire above all else? Besides glowing shovels, apparently? The object of their original pilgrimage: The source of the divine sausage stench. My initial olfactory manipulation near Hemlock's compost heap.
Could I… replicate it? Remotely? Near the edge of the woods? Create a powerful olfactory beacon that would draw the shovel-wielding fanatics out into a more accessible, less magically volatile location? Where the shovel could be dealt with more easily?
It was technologically feasible (for me, using subtle subconscious reality tweaks). Ethically questionable (manipulating religious fanatics, again). Required effort (projecting a precise scent signature over distance). But potentially less effort, and definitely less direct exposure, than trekking into the woods myself.
It was the least worst option. Operation: Lure Goblins With Fake Sausage Stench (Mark II) was tentatively greenlit in my mental project queue.
Just needed… planning. Timing. Precision. And ideally, another cup of tea first. Which meant Operation: Dragon's Leaf Procurement (Mark III) was now top priority again. My retirement was less contemplation, more relentless operational planning for increasingly absurd scenarios. The universe truly hated me. Or was just profoundly bored. Possibly both.