The morning sun had barely crested the horizon when Finn stepped out of the tavern, the echoes of last night's laughter still ringing in his ears. The air in Smudgewick was crisp, carrying the scent of dew-soaked earth and the faint tang of smoke from the blacksmith's forge that had begun its daily rhythm. The village, nestled in a shallow valley surrounded by rolling hills, looked almost picturesque in the soft light—almost. The thatched roofs sagged in places, the wooden fences leaned precariously, and the muddy streets bore the scars of countless boots and cartwheels. It was a far cry from the polished grandeur of Eldoria, but to Finn, it felt like the perfect stage for his new act.
His stomach, still pleasantly full from the barkeep's stew, gurgled as he adjusted the strap of his satchel. The patched robe he wore—a deliberate choice to enhance his "bumbling fool" persona—swished around his ankles, the fabric catching on every stray twig and stone. He'd slept fitfully on a rickety cot in the tavern's loft, the snores of a drunkard named Old Man Hagar keeping him company. Now, with the village stirring to life, Finn felt a surge of anticipation. This was day one of his grand misfit adventure, and he intended to make it memorable—though, given his act, "memorable" might mean a spectacular fall into a pigpen.
The street was slowly filling with activity. A farmer hauled a cart of turnips, muttering curses as a wheel wobbled. A woman hung laundry, her sharp eyes tracking Finn as he passed. Children darted past, their laughter a bright contrast to the gruff voices of men arguing over a broken plow near the blacksmith's. Finn waved cheerfully at them all, his grin wide and unapologetic, though he noted the skeptical glances thrown his way. Word of his expulsion from the Brave Party had clearly traveled fast, and Smudgewick's residents seemed to have already pegged him as the village's newest source of amusement.
As he wandered, Finn's senses attuned to the subtle pulse of magical energy beneath the village. Smudgewick sat atop a minor ley line, a thin but steady stream of power that threaded through the earth like a hidden river. He could feel it now, a faint tingle in his fingertips, and with a practiced ease, he began to draw it in. Unlike the combat-focused adventurers who needed structured rituals or battles to advance, Finn's growth came from this passive absorption, enhancing his life skills—crafting, cooking, healing, navigation—beyond what most could comprehend. He was nearing a threshold, a point where his abilities would leap forward, but for now, he kept it hidden, letting the energy settle into his core as he played the part of the clueless exile.
His first stop was the market square, a modest affair compared to Eldoria's vibrant bazaar. A handful of stalls offered goods—ragged cloth, dented pots, and baskets of overripe fruit. Finn approached a stall run by a wiry man with a patchy beard, who was haggling loudly with a customer over the price of a loaf of bread. The man glanced at Finn, his eyes narrowing.
"You're that fool from the Brave Party, ain't ya?" the stallkeeper grunted, scratching his beard. "Heard they tossed you out like yesterday's slop. What're you after—handouts?"
Finn chuckled, leaning against the stall with a casual air that belied his careful balance. "Handouts? Me? No, sir, I'm here to offer my services! I'm a man of many talents—well, maybe a few talents, if you count tripping over my own feet as a skill!" He demonstrated by shuffling backward, only to catch his heel on a crate and stumble, catching himself just in time with a flourish that sent a basket of apples tumbling. The stallkeeper's customer yelped as an apple rolled into her skirt, and Finn scooped it up with an apologetic grin.
"See? Talent!" he said, tossing the apple back into the basket. "How about I fix that wobbly crate for you? Free of charge, just to prove I'm not entirely useless!"
The stallkeeper snorted, but curiosity piqued, he waved a hand. "Go on, then. If you break it worse, you're paying for the wood."
Finn knelt, pulling a small hammer and a nail from his satchel with exaggerated clumsiness. He tapped the crate's leg, muttering loudly about "tricky angles" and "dodgy craftsmanship," though his movements were precise. Within moments, the crate stood steady, and he stood back with a triumphant, "Ta-da!" The stallkeeper inspected it, grumbling but impressed, and tossed Finn a bruised apple as payment.
"Not bad, clown," the man said. "Don't expect a parade, though. Folks here don't trust fancy Eldoria types."
"Fair enough!" Finn replied, biting into the apple with a crunch. "I'll earn my keep the hard way—one tumble at a time!" He gave a mock salute and moved on, the apple's tartness a small victory as he absorbed a trickle of magical energy from the stall's wooden frame, enchanted long ago to ward off rot.
His next encounter came near the blacksmith's forge, where a burly man with soot-streaked arms was hammering a horseshoe with more enthusiasm than skill. Sparks flew, one singeing the edge of Finn's robe as he approached. He yelped, flapping the fabric with a dramatic, "Oh no, my finest garment!" The blacksmith paused, wiping sweat from his brow, and glared.
"Watch where you're standing, you lanky git!" the man barked. "What do you want? Here to ruin my forge too?"
Finn raised his hands in mock surrender. "Peace, good sir! I'm Finn, the recently expelled, and I come bearing… well, not much, but maybe a hand? That horseshoe looks a bit crooked—mind if I give it a go?"
The blacksmith laughed, a deep, rumbling sound. "You? Fix my work? You'd likely hammer your thumb off! Go on, then—let's see your 'talent'!"
Finn took the hammer, his movements comically hesitant as he tapped the horseshoe, sending it spinning off the anvil. The blacksmith groaned, but Finn caught it mid-air with a grin, then set it back and struck with surprising accuracy, straightening the metal in three clean hits. He handed it back, bowing low. "There you go—good as new, or at least better than my last attempt at blacksmithing, which involved a burnt loaf of bread!"
The blacksmith stared, then chuckled. "Well, I'll be damned. Not bad, exile. Take this." He tossed Finn a small iron ring, likely a scrap, which Finn caught with a flourish. "Don't trip over it on your way out."
"Promise!" Finn called, pocketing the ring and absorbing a faint magical residue from the forge's fire, a byproduct of the blacksmith's crude enchantments. He moved on, his confidence growing as he navigated the village's wary but amused residents.
By mid-morning, Finn's reputation as the "clumsy exile" was spreading. He "accidentally" repaired a leaky roof for a widow, using his crafting skills to patch it with scavenged wood while pretending to fumble with every nail. The widow, a stern woman named Marta, watched with folded arms but softened when the rain stopped dripping into her kitchen. "You're a strange one," she muttered, handing him a stale biscuit. "Don't expect me to coddle you."
"Wouldn't dream of it!" Finn replied, taking a bite and wincing at the biscuit's hardness. He absorbed a sliver of magical energy from the widow's hearth, its warmth a subtle boost to his reserves.
His wanderings led him to the village well, where a group of laborers were struggling with a jammed pulley. Finn offered to help, tripping over a bucket and landing face-first in the mud. The laborers roared with laughter, but he sprang up, mud dripping from his chin, and said, "Perfect lubrication! Watch this!" With a few deft twists—hidden beneath exaggerated grunts—he freed the pulley, and the bucket rose smoothly. The laborers clapped, one tossing him a copper coin.
"You're a riot, exile!" the leader said. "Stick around—might need more laughs!"
Finn pocketed the coin, absorbing a faint magical pulse from the well's ancient stones, and continued his exploration. The village's ley line was stronger here, and he felt it seeping into him, nudging him closer to his next threshold. He kept his expression light, though, waving off praise with, "Just lucky, I swear!"
As noon approached, Finn's antics caught the attention of the innkeeper from the tavern, a stout woman named Greta who'd served him the stew. She emerged from her establishment, hands on hips, and called out, "Oi, exile! You've been making a mess of my village all morning! Get in here—lunch is on, and I've got a job for you!"
Finn trotted over, bowing with a flourish that nearly sent him into a mud puddle. "At your service, fair Greta! What's the task? Polishing spoons? Dancing for tips?"
Greta snorted. "Less of your clowning. My kitchen's a disaster—pots dented, stove acting up. Fix it, and I'll feed you proper. Fail, and you're scrubbing floors till midnight."
"Challenge accepted!" Finn declared, following her inside. The tavern kitchen was indeed a chaos of clanging pots, a sputtering stove, and a pile of unwashed dishes. Greta pointed to a dented cauldron. "Start there. And no funny business!"
Finn approached the cauldron, his movements deliberately clumsy as he tapped it with a spoon, sending it rocking. Greta rolled her eyes, but he quickly steadied it, pulling a small hammer from his satchel. With a few precise strikes—masked by exaggerated grunts—he smoothed the dent, then turned to the stove. He "accidentally" knocked over a jar of spices, creating a cloud that made him cough theatrically, but he adjusted the stove's flue with a hidden flick of his wrist, restoring its heat.
Greta inspected the work, nodding grudgingly. "Not bad, exile. You're still a fool, but a useful one. Sit—lunch is stew and bread."
Finn sat, accepting the steaming bowl with a grin. As he ate, he absorbed magical energy from the kitchen's hearth, its warmth amplifying his cooking skills. Greta watched him, then said, "Heard you're looking for a team. Smudgewick's got its share of oddballs. Might find some here."
"Oddballs are my specialty!" Finn replied, mouth full of stew. "Got any recommendations?"
Greta leaned in, lowering her voice. "There's Lila, the sparkle mage—useless in a fight, but she's got a heart. Bork, the warrior who swings like a drunk ox. Slink, an assassin scared of shadows. And Clara, a priestess who preaches more than she heals. All misfits, like you."
Finn's eyes lit up. "Perfect! Where can I find them?"
"Ask around," Greta said, waving him off. "But don't expect them to trust you easy. They've been burned before."
Finn finished his meal, leaving a tip despite Greta's protests, and stepped back into the street. The afternoon sun was high, casting long shadows, and the village buzzed with its usual chaos. He set off to track down his misfits, his mind buzzing with plans. The ley line's energy pulsed stronger now, and he felt the threshold nearing, but he kept it buried, ready to play the fool for as long as it took to build his team.
His first lead came from a farmer who pointed him toward a ramshackle hut on the village's edge, where Lila, the sparkle mage, was said to live. Finn approached, tripping over a root and landing in a bush, only to emerge with leaves in his hair and a laugh. "Nature's welcome mat!" he called, knocking on the door. The journey to assemble his misfits had truly begun, and Smudgewick's "warm welcome" was shaping up to be a hilarious ride.