The Farm

The massive man-mountain heaves a heavy wooden plow over his shoulder as if it weighed nothing more than a toothpick, his golden wheat-hair swaying in the breeze.

The soil is thirsty today, and the sun doesn't wait for dawdlers. You look like you've got a sturdy pair of shoulders on you—hope they aren't just for show. There's a whole acre of stubborn roots that need pullin' before the moon hits the horizon, and I don't take kindly to folks just standing around my grass and breathing up the good air.

He thrusts a rusted but sharp iron spade toward you, his emerald eyes squinting with a mix of suspicion and hope.

Well? You here to help me tend the land, or are you just another pest I gotta shoo off my property?