(Point of View: Pietro Varrone)
The buzzing of the crowd gradually faded, while the steely scent of metal freshly hammered by the blacksmith was slowly replaced by the sweet aroma of the setting sun. What had been a cacophony of haggling, laughter, and trade demonstrations had given way to an almost eerie silence. I glanced up from the intricate map of pre-Guild trade routes I had acquired (at a price, I must admit—quite reasonable after I pointed out a couple of glaring cartographic inconsistencies to the vendor), and furrowed my analytical brow.
Anomaly detected.
Environmental parameters had shifted drastically. Population density had dropped by an estimated 98.7%. Ambient noise levels had fallen below the threshold of statistical significance. And most concerning of all: the cluster of chaotic yet familiar auras that composed Lexo's escort unit (including that unsettling masked void known as Urso) had completely vanished from my immediate perceptible range.
My internal mental processor (as I like to call my brain) reached a logical and inevitable conclusion: I had been forgotten.
There was no panic. Panic is an inefficient emotional response to an adverse logistical situation. Instead, I felt a surge of mild irritation. The lack of proper personnel confirmation protocols before departure was simply unacceptable! A memorandum would have to be drafted for Captain Garen regarding the implementation of more rigorous headcount procedures for future expeditions.
But first, the immediate problem: transportation. The Great Village of the Four Roads lay a two-week journey on foot from Serena Village—an option wholly unacceptable due to its temporal inefficiency and exposure to uncontrolled variables (low-level bandits, local fauna, adverse weather conditions). I needed a more pragmatic solution.
It was then that my keen sense of smell—honed over years of identifying mold on ancient scrolls—detected a familiar, comforting aroma: freshly baked bread, with a distinctive hint of burnt honey and a slight tang of sourdough. I turned on my heel, and there he was: Magnus, the baker from Serena Village, finishing loading his sturdy cart with sacks of flour and several carefully wrapped boxes. His ruddy face was dusted with flour, and he muttered to himself about the "inconsistent quality of wild yeast in this region."
I approached with due formality, adjusting my glasses (which, as always, threatened to slide down my nose).
"Master Baker Magnus, greetings. I perceive that your commercial activities here have concluded."
Magnus startled, nearly dropping a sack of flour as he looked me up and down, his bushy, flour-dusted eyebrows arching.
"Pietro? Lexo's little know-it-all friend? What in the blazes are you still doing here? I thought you'd left with that band of lunatics hours ago."
"There has been an error in the logistical coordination of my designated transport unit," I explained precisely. "As a result, I require an alternative means of returning to Serena Village."
Magnus snorted, sending up a small cloud of flour. "Logistical error, he says! With that lot, I'm surprised they didn't forget their own heads! They're a whirlwind—every single one of them and their… attachments!" He wiped sweat (and more flour) from his brow. "Well, I suppose luck's on your side, lad. I'm heading straight back to Serena Village. The mayor placed a special urgent order." He grimaced. "A three-tiered birthday cake made of shortbread with buttercream frosting, apples, and the exact shape of the Quintus family crest. As if that's easy! For little Lexo's birthday, no less! Looks like the mayor's trying to score some points with the family."
A cake for my best friend—how interesting. That explained the urgency.
"Understood, Master Magnus. In that case, would it be permissible to request accommodation in your transport vehicle in exchange for, perhaps, assisting in optimizing the load distribution to maximize stability and minimize structural stress on the axle?"
Magnus blinked. "Optimize what now? Look, kid, you can come if you want. But don't touch my sacks of flour, don't try to 'improve' my secret sourdough recipe, and if you start talking about 'jurisprudence on root growth rights' like I heard you the other time, I'll drop you off halfway. Understood?"
I nodded solemnly. "Acceptable terms."
The return journey turned out to be an educational experience of a different kind. Magnus's cart reeked of yeast, flour, and honest labor, bouncing over every bump in the road with such a lack of suspension that any decent engineer would weep. I sat on one of the flour sacks (after, of course, analyzing its density and load-bearing capacity), my precious pre-Guild map carefully stowed away, and observed.
Magnus was a man of simple routines and firm opinions. He grumbled about the weather, the price of wheat, the tolls unfairly charged by the guards, and the rising popularity of industrialized sliced bread ("That's not bread—it's air with a crust!"). I tried initiating a conversation about the long-term economic implications of artisanal versus industrial production, but he cut me off with a grunt and offered me a slightly burnt bun. ("Eat up, lad—you look like you're made of wire and old books.") The bun, I must admit, was empirically delicious despite its aesthetic imperfections.
At one point, one of the cart's wheels began making a worrying noise. Magnus got down to inspect it, muttering under his breath. Applying some basic principles of physics and material stress analysis, I quickly identified a loose nut and a slight imbalance in the rear load. I pointed out the issue precisely. Magnus looked at me in surprise, tightened the nut with an enormous wrench, redistributed a couple of sacks according to my calculations, and the noise ceased.
"Well, I'll be," he muttered, scratching his flour-dusted head. "You're a clever little imp, aren't you? Maybe you're not so useless after all." It was the highest compliment I received during the entire trip.
Finally, after two weeks that felt even longer due to the absence of advanced intellectual stimulation (though I did learn plenty about the various fungi that affect rye flour), we arrived in Serena Village. The sun was setting, painting the sky with the same orange and purple hues I recalled from the night of my "non-departure."
The cart pulled up in front of the house. My grandmother was the first to see me, wrapping me in a tight hug. "Pietro! Dear boy! Where were you?"
Captain Garen, who seemed to be taking detailed notes of everything that had happened, approached while scratching the back of his neck with a sheepish air. "Ah, Pietro! A thousand apologies! There was a slight—er—oversight in the headcount when leaving Four Roads. I'm glad you found your way back."
I sighed internally. "Oversight" seemed far too weak a word to describe a systemic failure in our travel protocols. Still, I decided not to launch into a lecture on risk management at that moment. Instead, I adjusted my glasses.
"Master Baker Magnus provided our transportation," I explained calmly, "in exchange for consultation on vehicular load optimization."
Magnus, busy rearranging the now-empty seat, snorted. "Yeah, right. 'Consultation.'" He winked at me amicably and waved goodbye with one hand.
It had been an unexpected detour, but also an instructive one. And at least I wouldn't miss the cake and the birthday. Though I'd need to ensure that Urso received a copy of my proposed passenger verification protocol before our next trip. Efficiency, after all, was paramount.