Chapter 4: Steel, Squeals, and Stories

  I woke up to the scent of fresh, nutty bread still hanging in the air. Warm, sweet, and a little earthy. The kind of smell that made your stomach grumble before your brain fully caught up. I inhaled deep, letting it sink in—this was real, this was happening.

  I’ve always been the “roll-with-the-punches” kind of guy. Never let things dwell too long. But this? This was different. Mages? Summonings? Freaking dwarves with muskets? It was INSANE. And yet, lying there in an actual bed, in an actual inn, with the soft glow of morning filtering through the wooden shutters…I grinned. Because this? This was awesome.

  I wasn’t sure if I’d been transported, reincarnated, or just dropped into someone’s half-finished D&D campaign, but no matter what—this world was mine now. And I was going to enjoy the hell out of it. Just as I was about to stretch and fully enjoy my moment of peace—

  A screeching, unholy wail tore through the morning air. Not a rooster. Not a horn. Not anything even remotely normal. This was a full-throated, gut-churning, banshee-on-fire squeal, rattling the walls and making my teeth vibrate in my skull. A shrill, drawn-out “SKREEEEEEE—”. I bolted upright, eyes wide. What the actual hell—?! And then, just as my brain caught up, the noise ended with a sharp, satisfied snort. It was Bob. Of course it was Bob.

  I ran to the door, shoving my boots on as fast as I could. Whatever the hell that noise was, it sounded urgent—or deadly. Possibly both. When I stepped outside, a crowd had already gathered near where Bob was having a full-blown meltdown. The massive, tusked beast was going in furious circles, stomping and squealing like a vengeful war god. Nearby, Bromm was planted firmly, arms crossed, looking equal parts amused and exhausted. As I got closer, I could finally make out Bromm’s thick voice over the commotion.

  “Now now, Bob, ya’ can’t just leave your things out in the open like that! You know how Tufftails are! They hoard everythin’ they see on the ground!”

  Bob let out another ear-piercing squeal, whipping around like he was about to personally declare war on the universe. I slowed my approach, eyes darting between the towering pig, the laughing onlookers, and Bromm who, at this point, had just noticed me standing there. I exhaled, rubbing my temples.

  "Is this how you guys wake up every morning? I’m used to roosters—not screaming mad pigs.”

  Bromm let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. "Aye. Welcome to the Hollow, lad.”

  Bob finally stopped his tantrum, though his nostrils still flared, and he stomped the ground for good measure just to make sure everyone knew he was still mad. Across from him, a fat, squirrel-like creature with a fluffy tail sat perched atop a crate. So that’s a Tufftail. The animal had reddish-brown fur with big, rounded ears and a small pink nose that sniffed at its prize, its small, rodent-like hands clutching what looked like… an apple. A very familiar apple.

  Bob huffed violently, snorting so hard dust kicked up from the ground. The little creature let out a chirping chitter, nibbling a tiny chunk from the apple’s side before darting off at an impossible speed. Bob let out another ear-piercing squeal, stomping again like he was considering an all-out war, but ultimately didn’t give chase. Probably because he knew he’d never catch the thieving little bastard.

  I shook my head. "Right. So, uh, are we just gonna pretend that was normal?"

  Bromm smirked. "Oh, that was a quiet mornin’, lad. But enough about Bob. We still goin' to see that mage, or are ya havin' second thoughts?"

  I rolled my shoulders, exhaling. "Nah, I need answers. And if this guy knows anything about what may have caused me to get here, then it’s worth the trip."

  Bromm nodded approvingly, then eyed my empty belt. "Then first thin’s first—yer gonna need more than ya’ fists if somethin’ nasty jumps us on the road. Best stop by the blacksmith and see Haldrek before we head out. See what we can scrounge up with the silver ya’ got left."

  I hesitated. My gold was already gone, spent on the room and drinks. All I had left were a few silver pieces and some loose copper.

  I frowned. "Think that'll even be enough to get anything decent?"

  Bromm shrugged. "Dunno. Ain’t much, but it’s better than nothin’. And trust me, lad—ya’ don’t wanna be caught in the wild without a proper weapon."

  I sighed, adjusting my pack. "Alright, let’s see what they’ve got."

  Bromm grunted in approval and turned toward the blacksmith, leading the way with his usual heavy, sure-footed steps. Bob trailed after us, still snorting in residual anger over his stolen breakfast. As we walked through the village, the air gradually shifted—the crisp morning breeze giving way to the thicker, hotter scent of burning coals and scorched metal. Ahead, the blacksmith loomed—a squat, medium-sized stone building, sturdy and well-worn. It had no door, just a wide, open entrance that led straight into the forge, where the loud, rhythmic clang of steel meeting steel echoed through the air. A towering chimney stack stretched skyward, belching out thick, rolling plumes of black smoke.

  The heat hit me instantly as we stepped inside, rolling over my skin like I had walked straight into an oven. The forge itself was a mess of tools, half-finished weapons, and racks of gear, some gleaming new, others rusted and in various states of repair. Several anvils sat around the space, each worn from years of use. And in the center of it all stood Haldrek the Smith.

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  He was a mountain of a man, all corded muscle and soot-streaked skin. His arms were thick, covered in burns and old scars. A long leather apron was strapped over his chest, and a thick, wild beard framed his face. He stood over a heated blade, hammer raised high, before slamming it down with a deafening CLANG. Sparks flared, lighting up the dim space in bursts of fiery orange.

  Bromm cupped his hands around his mouth and bellowed, "HALDREK! YA’ LAZY OX, YA’ STILL ALIVE IN ‘ERE?"

  Haldrek didn’t even flinch.

  Without looking up, he grunted, "Still breathin’….Barely. What the hell do ya’ want, Bromm?"

  Bromm smirked, jerking a thumb at me. "Got a lad here who needs a weapon. Somethin' that won’t break the first time he swings it."

  Haldrek finally looked up, squinting at me through the haze of smoke and heat. His sharp, steel-gray eyes raked over me, lingering on my empty belt, my travel-worn clothes, and my general aura of I have no idea what I’m doing.

  Then, after a long moment, he grunted. "Tell me he’s got more than a handful of coppers."

  Bromm smirked, crossing his arms. "Not much."

  Haldrek sighed deeply, rubbing his face with a soot-covered hand. "Figures—Fine. Let’s see what scraps I got." With that, he turned and stomped toward a rack of old, battered looking weapons.

  I exchanged a glance with Bromm, who just smirked and leaned against a workbench, clearly enjoying the show. After a few moments, Haldrek grunted and turned back around, holding a small, one-handed hatchet axe in one hand and a round, slightly dented buckler shield in the other. He shoved them toward me without ceremony.

  "Here—Best I can do for what you got."

  I took them, weighing them in my hands. The axe was…basic. Single-bladed, short-handled, and worn smooth from use. The edge was sharp, but not freshly honed. The leather-wrapped grip was stiff but fit well in my palm. It wasn’t fancy, but it was functional. The buckler wasn’t much better. Small, round, simple iron, with a few dents along the rim. The leather straps on the back were cracked from age, but they still held firm as I adjusted it onto my forearm. I turned them over, expecting to feel disappointment. But as soon as I gripped the axe properly, something… clicked.

  I didn’t know why, but the weight felt natural. I gave it a slow, testing swing, letting the movement flow instinctively. It felt right. Not perfect—not like I was some kind of hidden warrior prodigy—but right. Like my body already knew how to use it, even if my mind hadn’t caught up yet.

  Weird…

  I tightened my grip on the handle and rolled my wrist with the buckler, getting a feel for how it moved. Light. Maneuverable. Not the best defense, but it was better than bare hands.

  Haldrek grunted. "Well? You just gonna admire ‘em, or ya plannin’ to pay me sometime today?"

  I blinked, then smirked and tossed him a few silver coins. "I’ll take ‘em."

  He snatched the coins out of the air without even looking, shoving them into his apron pocket. "Good. Try not to lose ‘em in your first fight."

  Bromm chuckled. "He won’t, he’s got me watchin’ his back."

  Haldrek snorted. "Oh, aye, because you’re so known for keepin’ folk outta trouble."

  Bromm grinned. "And known for gettin’ them into trouble as well!"

  Haldrek just shook his head, muttering something under his breath before turning back to his forge. I gave the axe one last swing, still feeling that odd familiarity with the motion, then strapped it to my belt. I wasn’t sure what to make of it. Maybe it was just the rush of actually having a weapon. Maybe it was some weird muscle memory I didn’t know I had. Either way, it felt right.

  As our business at the smith concluded and I secured my new axe and shield, I felt a little better about traveling with Bromm into the great unknown. To visit a mage. A freaking mage. The thought alone made me grin. My life had gone from backing up servers to preparing for some mystical consultation with a spell-slinging hermit. It was almost too ridiculous to believe.

  We headed north, but almost immediately after leaving the village proper, Bromm veered off to the right toward a wide, trampled patch of earth just off the main road.

  “C’mon,” he said over his shoulder, veering off toward a wide patch of cleared earth just beyond the edge of the Hollow. “Best get a feel for that gear before we end up needin’ it.”

  The area looked like it had seen some use—scuffed dirt, a few old training dummies made of straw and wood. Maybe not official, but clearly functional. I followed, nerves twisting in my stomach. It sounded reasonable, sure, but I had a feeling this was going to be less of a warm-up and more of a wake-up call.

  Bromm turned to face me, axe in hand, and pointed to mine.

  “Right. Show me your stance. Then swing.”

  I raised a brow. “That’s it?”

  He shrugged. “Can’t fix nothin’ ’til I see what’s broke.”

  What followed was a blur of repetition—stance corrections, grip adjustments, tips on how to keep my weight balanced and not fall flat on my face. He paced slow circles around me while I worked through basic strikes, occasionally reaching out to nudge my elbow or tap the side of my knee with the flat of his axe.

  “Don’t lean so far forward,” he muttered once. “You’ll end up kissin’ the dirt.”

  The axe felt solid in my hands, not heavy, not awkward. Just right. And after a few dozen swings, something started to click. My footing stopped sliding. The motion became familiar—muscle memory forming, bit by bit.

  “Not bad,” Bromm said finally, squinting at me. “You’re swingin’ like someone who’s been in a bar fight or two. That’ll do.”

  I straightened, sweat sliding down my neck. “So I pass?”

  He grunted. “Let’s just say I won’t be buryin’ you today.”

  We packed up and headed out proper this time, following the well-worn dirt path that led north out of the Hollow. The forest opened up around us, quiet and calm in the early light. It didn’t take long before we came up on the creek—the very same one I had wandered down yesterday while trying to make sense of this world.

  I glanced at Bromm as we walked, adjusting the strap on my buckler. “So… what’s the story with Bob?”

  Bromm’s bushy brows lifted slightly, like the question had caught him off guard.

  I smirked. “I mean, it’s kind of a very… basic name, isn’t it?”

  He let out a low chuckle. “Aye… it is.”

  For a moment, he didn’t say anything else. Just kept walking, boots crunching the dirt, his usual smirk fading into something quieter. Then finally, he spoke.

  “He’s named after the one who gave him to me—my old companion, Robert.”

  That caught me off guard.

  Bromm exhaled through his nose. “He joked the piglet’s fury reminded him of me. Said I ought to take in ‘a smaller version of myself.’” His voice was lighter, but there was weight beneath it. “It was one of the last things he ever said to me.”

  He glanced toward Bob, who was trotting a few paces ahead—apparently content now that his apple-thieving nemesis was out of sight.

  Bromm gave a small shrug. “So… here we are.”

  I didn’t say anything right away. It wasn’t much of a story. But at the same time, it was. I looked at Bob—at the way he stomped along like he had somewhere important to be—and suddenly, that ridiculous name didn’t seem so ridiculous anymore.

  “Huh,” I muttered. “Guess Bob’s got a bit of a legacy, then.”

  Bromm grinned, a little softer this time. “Aye. That he does.”