chapter 7:Stones, Spoons, and Sir Stringsworth’s Fury

Liam led the adventurers through the creaking hallway of Eldric's home, a half-burned candle in one hand like he was guiding lost royalty through a crumbling castle.

"Behold," he announced, pushing open a wooden door with dramatic flair, "your quarters, noble guests. May your backs not be broken by the beds, and may the rats be only mildly territorial."

The room was plain—three cots, a narrow window with a cracked shutter, and a small washbasin with water that may or may not have been from this century.

Ryden eyed the room with a tired sigh. "This'll do."

Liam gave a sweeping bow. "I, Sir Stringsworth, retire from my duties as gracious host. Sleep well, brave wanderers, and try not to die in your dreams—it's very bad for breakfast moods."

He left with a flourish, closing the door behind him.

The candlelight faded.

A while later, Eldric stood on the back porch, pipe unlit in his fingers, staring out at the tree line. His robe rustled slightly in the breeze. Behind him, the door creaked.

Gram—taller than Eldric but with the same sharp eyes—stepped outside. His tunic was stained with dirt and oil, and he wiped his hands with an old rag.

"You alright, old man?" Gram asked gently.

Eldric didn't turn. "Funny thing, boy. When your knees scream louder than your thoughts, folk start thinkin' your brain's leakin' through your ears."

Gram chuckled. "Just checking you haven't wandered into the woods trying to debate a bear again."

At that, Eldric finally turned. His face was calm, his voice suddenly... clear.

"No wandering. I was talking to the adventurers. They're decent enough. Tired. Smart where it counts. And that Ryden fellow? Keeps his eyes on the shadows. Like a soldier without the flag."

Gram exhaled, settling into the creaky wooden chair beside the hearth. "Much better when you talk like this," he said. "Less... interpretive dance, more conversation."

Eldric frowned, genuinely puzzled. "What do you mean? I always talk like this."

Gram hesitated, pressing his lips into a tight line. They had circled this conversation before—many times. And it always ended the same way.

"I mean…" he began, then gave up with a sigh. "Never mind. Let's not do this tonight."

Eldric raised a brow. "Do what?"

"Exactly," Gram muttered under his breath.

He leaned back, folding his arms, and stared into the low flames. There was no point explaining. Every attempt to confront Eldric about his confusing speech patterns always turned into a verbal maze—one that Gram never managed to navigate. The old man had a way of sidestepping logic and cornering arguments like a fox in a henhouse.

Once, long ago, Gram had come prepared—notes, examples, even a witness.

And still lost.

But then there was Liam.

A small smirk tugged at the corners of Gram's mouth.

The only time Eldric had ever been properly stumped was when Liam, barely four years old at the time, had clambered onto a table mid-conversation, looked his grandfather square in the eye, and declared, "That sentence had three verbs and no subject. You need to go lie down."

Eldric had gone silent for a full minute. A full minute.

That was a record.

Gram glanced toward the window, the faint glow of the orchard beyond just visible. "Funny," he murmured. "You only seem to go full cryptic when Liam's around."

Eldric grunted, either in acknowledgment or in defiance—it was hard to tell.

"Coincidence," he said flatly. Then, after a pause, "Or maybe the boy's brain is so sharp, it makes mine vibrate wrong."

Gram snorted. "More like your nonsense gets louder just to keep up with his."

Eldric waved a dismissive hand. "Bah. If a man can't invent a little nonsense now and then, what's the point of growing old?"

Gram shook his head, smiling despite himself. "You don't invent nonsense. You weaponize it."

He stepped down from the porch, standing beside his son.

"They came here for a reason, Gram. Said monsters are moving too close. Bigger, smarter ones. 

Gram frowned. "So what do we do?"

Eldric looked at him for a long moment, then placed a hand on his shoulder.

"You do. That's the plan. You take over."

Gram stiffened. "What?"

"I'm tired. And this village don't need a brittle bookworm with a thesaurus for a spine. It needs someone who can work, decide, lead. Starting tomorrow, I tell them you're the one they'll be dealing with."

Gram said nothing. His eyes were fixed on the darkened woods in the distance.

"Consider the monster problem your first test," Eldric added, walking back toward the house. "Just try not to let Liam write any laws in the meantime."

Later that night, the adventurers sat in their cots, armor stripped, boots kicked into a corner. Merys rubbed oil into a sore shoulder while Harlan examined a dented dagger. Ryden stared at the ceiling, arms folded behind his head.

Silence sat comfortably between them—until Ryden broke it.

"That conversation felt like fishing with a blunt stick."

Harlan snorted. "You mean the old man who speaks in riddles, bread metaphors, and occasional weather patterns?"

Ryden sat up. "There was no decision. No plan. No 'we'll do this' or 'let's form a defense.' Just stew, sarcasm, and a lot of dodging."

Merys pulled the blanket tighter around her legs. "Not everything gets decided in one sitting. We got good food, warm beds, and a roof. After days of eating jerky and sleeping on damp moss, I'm calling today a win."

"Tomorrow," Harlan said, stretching out with a yawn, "we talk again. If they still hedge, we move without them. The monsters won't wait for village politics."

Ryden didn't respond right away. Then: "Let's just hope this village has something left worth protecting."

The fire in the small hearth popped. Outside, the wind picked up again.

The morning sun crept through the cracked shutters of the guest room, casting golden light across the worn cots. Merys groaned and rolled onto her back. Harlan was already up, adjusting the straps on his chestplate. Ryden stood near the window, cinching his gauntlets with quiet precision.

"Sleep well?" Ryden asked without turning.

Merys sat up, rubbing her eyes. "Like a rock. In a gravel pit. But better than tree roots."

They left the room fully equipped, boots heavy on the creaking floorboards. As they made their way toward the common room, they expected Eldric's gravelly riddles.

Instead, they found someone new waiting by the hearth.

A man—young, maybe late twenties, early thirties. Broad in the shoulders, lean in the waist, arms sun-browned and marked by years of labor. He wore a simple tunic under a well-worn leather vest and carried the air of someone used to getting things done with his hands. His eyes, though, were sharp and tired—too knowing for someone so young.

"You're not Eldric," Ryden said.

"No," the man replied, extending a hand. "Name's Gram. Eldric's son. As of this morning, you'll be dealing with me."

Ryden took the handshake, firm but measured. "We've heard of you."

Gram smirked. "All lies, probably. Let's talk business."

They sat around the old table, now cleared of its breakfast mess. A map was rolled out, with hand-sketched markers of the village perimeter and forest boundaries.

"Three paths lead into the village from the east," Gram said, pointing. "Two are too narrow for anything big, but the north route? That's where something smart might come through. You said the creature was using cover?"

Ryden nodded. "Moved like it knew how to avoid detection. Smart. Possibly sentient."

"We'll post scouts here and here." Gram circled two trees marked on the edge. "We use high ground, signal mirrors if needed. If anything moves that looks too big for a badger, we trap it or warn the village. You three work with our two best woodsmen. We've got hunters, trackers—not trained soldiers, but they can hit a moving squirrel at forty feet."

"Fallback plan?" Merys asked.

"Main barn's got stone walls and good locks. If we ring the bell three times, everyone inside. We hold from there."

"We don't have a militia," Gram said plainly. "Most of our weapons are old tools. We've got four pitchforks, a wood axe with a wobbly handle, and two bows that haven't been restrung since last harvest."

Ryden frowned. "Any armor?"

"Couple of dented helms from the last monster scare. No one knows where the straps are. Might've turned into a chicken perch."

Harlan rubbed the back of his neck. "So… what do we have?"

Gram grinned. "Rocks."

Merys blinked. "Rocks?"

"Slingshots," Gram clarified. "Half the village has one. Kids use them to chase off crows. Adults use them when they're pretending they're not just big kids. Accuracy's surprisingly decent."

He pointed to a thin, wiry man loitering outside the window, holding a mug and chatting with a goat.

"That's Ferrin. Champion marble shooter, three years running. You line up ten marbles and he'll hit the one you don't expect."

Ryden leaned back and crossed his arms. "It's not ideal. But if they're accurate and motivated, it's something."

"Motivated doesn't begin to cover it," Gram said. "These people have seen monsters before. They've buried neighbors, patched homes, and kept going. They'll fight with spoons if they have to."

Merys cracked a smile. "Let's hope it doesn't come to that."

Behind the half-draped curtain near the pantry, a small figure slowly backed away—quiet as a breath, shadowed like guilt.

Liam had heard enough.

And he didn't like it one bit.

 ..........................

Later that day, in the orchard, Liam stormed through rows of fruit trees like a miniature whirlwind of indignation. His destination was the family home—and specifically, his mother.

Inside the kitchen, Avelyn was elbow-deep in dough, humming to herself. Her auburn hair was tied back, and flour dusted her cheeks. She didn't even look up as Liam burst through the back door.

"Mother!"

"Yes, dear?" she said, kneading calmly.

"That plan is a mess! They're making assumptions without confirmed data. There's no contingency if the scouts go silent. And who reports if Gram is injured? Who replaces command?"

"Mm," Avelyn murmured, folding the dough.

"It's dangerously unstructured! And I, Sir Stringsworth, demand to speak to Eldric immediately to present my—"

"No."

Liam blinked. "But—!"

Avelyn finally looked up. Her gaze was warm, but firm. "Sweetheart, I know you're passionate. And smart. Smarter than most grown men I've met. But right now? You're five."

"Five and a half!" Liam snapped.

"And still not old enough to command a village defense force."

"But the plan—"

"—has flaws, yes," Avelyn said gently. "But Gram is capable. And the adventurers have fought things you can't even name. They'll adjust as needed."

Liam crossed his arms, fuming. "I could help. If they'd listen."

Avelyn wiped her hands, knelt to meet his eyes. "And one day, they might. But not because you shout the loudest or have the most laws memorized. Change takes time, Liam. And influence isn't something you declare. It's something you earn."

Liam looked away, jaw clenched. "That's not fair."

"I know," she whispered, brushing hair from his forehead. "But it's the truth."

He stayed quiet for a long moment.

Then: "Can I at least give them a risk assessment document?"

Avelyn smiled. "You can write one. I'll even deliver it—after supper."

Liam sighed heavily. "Fine. But if this plan falls apart, I'm saying 'I told you so' in all capital letters."

She kissed the top of his head. "That's my boy."

He turned and stormed off again, muttering about amateur strategies saying "This village deserves better. That barn's gonna collapse under one confused raccoon…"