Ormund stepped out of his stone cottage in the blue hush of early morning, closing the heavy oak door behind him with a gentle thud. The air was crisp with the first breath of autumn, carrying the faint scent of woodsmoke from distant hearth fires. Dew clung to the tufts of moss between the cobblestones and to the ivy that wrapped around the stones of his low garden wall. As he walked, his boots left soft prints in the thin layer of mist that carpeted the ground. A contented sigh escaped him; this quiet hour, when the village of Stonehollow still slumbered, was his favorite time of the day.
He hefted a wicker basket on one broad shoulder, its empty belly soon to be filled with the week’s provisions. Every Sixth Day, the village market came alive with traders and farmers from all around Eldenreach, and every Sixth Day, Ormund made the same peaceful pilgrimage. It was a ritual as steady and comforting as the turning of the seasons themselves. In that basket, he would place the ingredients for his weekly soup, a tradition he anticipated with calm eagerness. The most important of these ingredients were the autumn squashes, a gnarled root vegetable that flourished in the late harvest season, lending a hearty flavor and a deep golden hue to his stew. Just thinking of the rich aroma that would waft from his cauldron by afternoon brought a small smile to his lips.
Leaving the familiar warmth of his forge and cottage behind, Ormund set off down the cobbled lane toward the heart of Stonehollow. The sky was just beginning to lighten to pearly gray, and a few streaks of pale gold hinted at the sun’s imminent rise. He passed by neat rows of cottages with thatched roofs darkened by dew. A stray leaf, turned amber-red by the season, drifted down to land at his feet. Ormund paused to nudge it gently aside with the toe of his boot, mindful of nature’s small gifts. In the quiet, he could hear his own steady breaths and the soft creak of the wicker basket’s handle in his grip.
At the end of the lane, an ivy-wrapped stone bridge arched over the River Thistlemere. The bridge’s old stones were cool and damp to the touch as Ormund ran a callused hand along the mossy parapet while he walked. Below, the Thistlemere whispered over rocks, its waters coppery in the dawn light. A pair of ducks stirred in the reeds along the bank, quacking softly as they took to the water. Ormund’s short, sturdy frame cast a long shadow on the bridge as the sun began to crest the hills. He breathed in the river’s earthy mist and the faint fragrance of wild honeysuckle that clung to the bridge’s ivy.
Crossing over, he entered the village proper, where the market square lay already stirring with life. The square was a broad open space paved in uneven stones that had borne the footfalls of generations. Around its edges, vendors were unfolding canvas awnings and propping up wooden stalls. Ormund could see familiar faces setting up their wares: Maribel the baker, arranging crusty loaves of brown bread in neat rows, and old Thom, brushing the night’s dust off his barrels of apples and early winter pears. A few early customers milled about, trading quiet greetings and coins, but the usual bustle was only just beginning.
Ormund’s senses awoke with the market’s morning chorus. He inhaled deeply, taking in the comforting aroma of fresh bread mingled with the sharp tang of cured cheese and the sweetness of ripe fruit. Somewhere to his left, he heard the clucking of hens in a coop and the low murmur of a farmer haggling over the price of eggs. The wooden stalls creaked softly as they accepted their displays of vegetables and cloth, and already the first tendrils of woodsmoke from a cookfire curled into the air, promising hot porridge or spiced cider for those who wanted breakfast at the market.
With an amiable nod here and there, Ormund made his way through the growing crowd. Villagers greeted him as he passed. “Good morn, Master Ormund,” called Maribel, waving a flour-dusted hand. He raised a hand in return, the hint of a smile beneath his thick red beard. Maribel’s bread would be a fine treat later, he thought, though he planned to collect it at his last stop so he could carry the heavier vegetables first. His stomach gave a quiet grumble as if agreeing with that plan, and he patted it absently, anticipating the warm soup and fresh bread that would grace his table by evening.
He stopped at Thom’s produce stall first, drawn by the bright display of apples that glistened as if each had been polished. “Mornin’, Ormund,” old Thom greeted him cheerfully. The farmer’s face was as weathered as apple tree bark, but his eyes were keen and kind. “Fine day for a market. Got some good autumn fruits here. How’s the forge?”
“Morning, Thom,” Ormund replied in a low, pleasant rumble. “The forge is well enough. I quenched a new batch of nails yesterday and mended Brida’s kettle. Nothing too hot for these cooler days.” He picked up an apple and gave it a gentle squeeze, feeling its firm ripeness under his rough fingertips. “These look grand. I’ll take a few, for a treat.”
Thom chuckled and quickly picked out a half dozen of the nicest apples, rolling them into Ormund’s basket. The dwarf offered a couple of small copper coins in exchange and added a polite, “Thank you.” He might have stayed a moment longer to chat about the weather or the turning leaves, but the thought of those autumn squashes for his soup tugged him onward. With another nod, he took his leave, weaving deeper into the maze of stalls in search of the vegetable sellers.
By now, the market was lively. The sun had fully risen, painting the stalls and the stone walls of the surrounding cottages in honeyed light. Children darted between booths, their laughter ringing out as they chased one another underfoot. A wandering musician had set up near the old well at the center of the square, plucking a gentle tune on his lute that added a merry undercurrent to the morning sounds. Ormund passed a stall where a cobbler displayed stout new boots, next to a table of woven baskets and bright-dyed yarn from the shepherd’s wife. He paused occasionally to study a tool or trinket, guided by professional curiosity that drew him to a well-forged knife here and a copper kettle there, running his thumb over the workmanship in quiet appreciation.
Just as Ormund spotted the familiar stall that sold his coveted autumn squashes, a sudden clamor rose at the western edge of the square. The steady rhythm of the market’s morning was interrupted by the sharp echo of hooves on stone and the jingle of metal. Ormund turned, along with dozens of others, to see a rider approaching. A tall chestnut horse cantered in through the main road, its flank streaked with the dust of travel. Astride it was a knight clad in gleaming armor that caught the sunlight with an almost blinding brilliance.
The knight drew his horse to a halt with a flourish, dismounting in one practiced swing. He was a broad-shouldered man, his face flushed from exertion, pride, or perhaps a mix of both. The armor he wore was indeed polished to a mirror finish, every plate catching the eye. A blue cape flowed from his shoulders, embroidered with a sigil Ormund didn’t recognize, some noble house from another corner of Eldenreach perhaps. He carried himself with a swagger that demanded attention, and attention he certainly received.
A crowd was already beginning to gather around the newcomer, market-goers drawn as much by the sudden spectacle as by curiosity. Whispers rippled outward: “Is that Sir Roderick?” “Has there been news from the capital?” “Did you see the size of that sword?” Children peered from behind their parents, eyes wide at the sight of a real knight, while vendors paused in their transactions, craning their necks to see what the commotion was about.
Ormund found himself near the back of the forming circle, still holding his basket and standing on the slight rise of a step near the cobbler’s stall. From here he had a clear view of the knight, who now began to address the crowd in a booming, jovial voice. “Good people of Stonehollow!” the knight proclaimed, removing his plumed helm and tucking it under one arm. His hair was dark and sweat-tousled, and he had a trimmed beard that failed to hide a wide, triumphant grin. “Fear not, for I bring good tidings! The bandits that plagued your roads have been driven off. No more shall you fear traveling to the next town or sending your wagons to market. I, Sir Garrick of Highcrest, have seen to it personally!”
A collective gasp, then a cheer rose from the crowd. Ormund watched as villagers exchanged relieved looks, remembering that those bandits had indeed been a concern for traders on the western road. Sir Garrick soaked in the admiration, raising a gauntleted hand to wave magnanimously. “It was a perilous quest,” the knight continued grandly, “but justice has prevailed! And not only that…” Here he gestured to a saddlebag draped over his horse’s side. It sagged heavily, and with a dramatic tug Sir Garrick hauled it to the ground where it landed with a metallic clank. From within, he drew an object and held it aloft. “The helm of the bandit leader!” he announced.
The object caught the sunlight, revealing a steel helm that was dented and scarred. The crowd pressed closer to see, murmuring in awe. A few children clapped, and an elderly woman near the front actually shed tears of gratitude. Ormund, still on the edge of it all, craned his neck just enough to glimpse the helmet. His keen smith’s eyes noted the deep gouge across its brow and the patina of rust at its edges. It was old, and of middling quality at best, likely once stolen from a hapless guard or soldier. Now it served as a prop for the knight’s tale.
As Sir Garrick launched into a colorful recounting of the battle, describing how he tracked the bandits through the Wildwood, how the clash of swords rang under a blood moon (Ormund raised a skeptical eyebrow at that, since last night’s moon had been a gentle crescent), and how courage and might won the day, the blacksmith found his attention drifting. He admired the knight’s ability to hold an audience, to inspire them and give them hope, but the theatrics and embellishments were plain to his ears. Ormund had spent a lifetime around metal, shaping it, mending it, and listening to the subtle music of hammer and anvil. He knew the honest ring of good steel and the reassuring weight of a well-crafted tool. By the same token, he knew the hollow sound of overly polished metal.
Ormund’s gaze traveled from the battered bandit helm in Garrick’s hand to the knight’s own armor. It was shining indeed, without so much as a scratch across the breastplate. If this Sir Garrick had truly been in a pitched battle just days ago, he or more likely his squires had taken great pains to scrub away any evidence. The dwarf’s practiced eyes could tell: armor that pristine had either seen little combat, or had been tended to by someone very keen on appearances. A faint smile tugged at Ormund’s lips, not of disdain but of understanding. He’d met many warriors in his years as a blacksmith. Some, like Garrick, relished the glory and the spotlight, every bit as polished as their mail. Others were quieter, carrying their nicks and dents with pride and not minding the dulling of their shine. Ormund respected the latter kind deeply.
A sudden round of applause erupted as Sir Garrick finished his tale with a bow. The villagers were clearly impressed, and why not? Their road would be safer now, if the knight spoke true. Ormund joined in the clapping out of polite respect, setting his basket down to bring his callused hands together a few times. He understood the need for heroes and the excitement this man brought to an otherwise uneventful market day. But he also felt a gentle distance from it all, a contentment that the role of the applauding crowd was enough for him.
As the knight began to accept hearty pats on the back and invitations to the inn for a well-earned meal, Ormund quietly shouldered his basket again. The crowd, now abuzz with Sir Garrick’s exploits, began to disperse into clusters, with some folks heading back to the stalls with renewed cheer, and others lingering to sneak a closer look at the knight’s shining sword or to ask questions. It was easy enough for Ormund to slip away in the jovial confusion.
He made his way back toward the vegetable stall he’d spotted earlier, the one draped in an orange-striped awning where baskets of root vegetables beckoned. The vendor, a middle-aged woman named Greta, was rearranging a heap of turnips and carrots that had been jostled in the excitement. She looked up as Ormund approached and gave him a warm smile. “Ah, Master Ormund! I was wondering when I’d see you today. Here for your soup fixings, are you?”
“I am, indeed,” Ormund replied, returning the smile with a gentle one of his own. His voice was calm amidst the residual buzz in the square. “Good morning, Greta. I hope the day finds you well.”
“Well enough, well enough,” she said brightly, though she rolled her eyes ever so slightly in the direction of the dispersing crowd. “Quite the hullabaloo, wasn’t it? Knights and quests and all. Not our usual market fare.”
Ormund chuckled softly, a low sound like distant thunder. “Not usual at all,” he agreed. He eyed the array of vegetables laid out on Greta’s table. Deep orange carrots flecked with dark earth, pale turnips with their greens still attached, and finally the knobbly brown tubers he sought. He reached out and picked up one of the autumn squashes, turning it in his hand. It was roughly the size of his fist, with a tough, russet skin marked by irregular ridges. Despite its homely appearance, Ormund knew the inside was vibrant golden and richly flavored.
Greta watched him choose, her hands on her hips. “I saved you a few good ones under the table. I knew you’d be wanting them,” she said, bending to pull out a smaller basket tucked behind the stall. Sure enough, within were three particularly fine autumn squashes, their thick skins brushed clean of clinging dirt.
“You’re a gem, Greta,” Ormund said appreciatively. He gently placed the one he had been examining back onto the pile and accepted the three from Greta’s hidden stash, one by one. Each had a satisfying weight in his palm. He could already imagine the aroma that would fill his cottage as the soup bubbled over the fire: the autumn squashes simmering to softness, lending their hearty texture and slightly sweet, nutty flavor to the broth, melding with savory herbs. The thought warmed him against the slight chill of the morning.
Greta chuckled at his evident pleasure. “Always happy to help. You’re about the only one who buys these old things, anyway. Most folks go for the carrots or potatoes. Easier to peel,” she winked.
Ormund’s eyes crinkled with good humor. “Their loss. They don’t know what they’re missing.” He pulled out the appropriate coins and dropped them into Greta’s waiting hand. As he did, a final cheer from across the square reached them, no doubt signaling Sir Garrick taking another appreciative round from his audience before heading off.
Greta gave a little laugh, shaking her head. “He’s still at it, is he? Ah, to be young and full of fire.”
Ormund only smiled and inclined his head. “Fire has its place,” he said, his tone thoughtful. He carefully nestled the autumn squashes in his basket amongst the apples, tucking them in so they wouldn’t jostle. “But a steady hearth keeps us warm through the long nights.”
Greta paused, tilting her head at that. Then she nodded in agreement, her expression softening. “That it does, Master Ormund. That it does.”
They exchanged farewells, and Ormund turned to make his way home. The market had fully come to life now, alive with color and sound. Where earlier there had been calm, now there was the pleasant commotion of a village at its liveliest: bartering voices, children’s laughter, the occasional bark of a dog trailing after dropped crumbs. Sir Garrick’s arrival had added an extra spark to the day, and as Ormund walked back toward the bridge, he saw villagers still chatting excitedly in his wake. Two young boys dashed by, one swinging an imaginary sword and declaring himself a knight, the other pretending to be a ferocious bandit until they collapsed in giggles near the baker’s stall. Ormund smiled to himself, pleased that the children of Stonehollow had a new game to fuel their imagination.
At the ivy-wrapped bridge, Ormund paused once more, letting a few villagers pass as a group. They were gossiping happily about Sir Garrick’s deeds, wondering how true all the details were, and speculating if he’d stay at the inn. Ormund rested a hand on the cool stone of the bridge as he waited, his basket hanging heavily but comfortably from his other arm. The weight of the apples and roots was a satisfying one, promising good meals and full bellies.
When the path cleared, Ormund stepped onto the bridge. The morning had advanced, and sunlight dappled the water below through the slowly thinning canopy of trees that lined the riverbank. He took his time crossing, each footstep firm and unhurried. Halfway over, he paused to gaze at the Thistlemere. A small trout darted in the clear current, and the ducks he’d seen earlier were now gliding further downstream, leaving gentle ripples in their wake. The village sounds receded slightly behind him; here it was almost as quiet as when he’d left his cottage at dawn.
Ormund found himself reflecting on the day’s events. It had been a simple morning, yet full in its own way. He had gathered what he needed, greeted friends and neighbors, and witnessed a bit of spectacle to spice the routine. Stonehollow would be safer for a while thanks to that knight, and for that he was truly grateful. Yet, he also felt grateful to return to his own path, one of quiet craft and humble duties. The world had its grand heroes and its shining armor, but it also had its steady hands tending daily fires. In the great balance of things, he believed both were needed.
He touched the iron brooch that clasped his cloak, a piece he had forged himself, shaped like a small hammer. It was still solid and dependable after years of use. With a small nod to no one in particular, Ormund finished crossing the bridge, each step carrying him away from the clamor and back toward the gentle rhythm of home.
The lane leading to his forge stretched ahead, dappled with sunlight and littered with the first fallen leaves of autumn. Ormund’s heart was light as he walked. He looked forward to the remainder of the day: to the satisfying crackle of his forge fire being stoked anew, to the ring of hammer on metal as he shaped iron and steel. By evening, there would be a hearty soup bubbling in his hearth, made all the richer by the golden flesh of those autumn squashes. He might even savor a chunk of Maribel’s bread with it, reflecting on the day’s small adventures.
As Ormund neared his cottage once more, he glanced over his shoulder at the tranquil village behind him. From here he could just see the tip of the market square’s old oak tree and the drift of smoke from a cookfire in the square. The sounds were distant now, a soft murmur carried by the breeze. Peace had settled back over Stonehollow, like a comfortable shawl worn on a cool evening.
With a final contented breath, Ormund opened his door and stepped inside, eager to tend to both his simmering pot and his awaiting anvil. In the quiet that followed the market’s excitement, he felt, as always, that he was exactly where he was meant to be. In this simple routine, in this humble village, Ormund lived a life where peace was forged anew each and every day.
