Oh, damn. A bit late, isn't it?
Well, this is a not-too-special holiday, so perhaps people won't crab on me too much…
Eh, well. Better get on with the story…
Disclaimer: I don't own Diablo, Blizzard does. I make no profit beyond attention and criticism, and I like it that way.
~P~
The setting sun glimmers across a yellow field of wheat, covering it with a resplendent glow. The wind snakes through the thick grasses, and the heads high upon the stalks tilt lazily in response.
Chop.
A wide swath of wheat falls to the earth.
Chop.
More of the fallen grains' brethren join them on the ground.
Chop.
A sliver of cunning metal arcs in the air then swoops down with a keen purpose, cutting through the grassy stalks, sending them downward.
"Speed it up, runt, we don't got all day."
Strangely nimble thick fingers drum on a protrusive gut at the beginning of the field. These fingers belong to the selfsame owner of the nasally grunting voice that is busy griping about the quality of the reaping and the condition of the weather. "Devil's warts, this land's harvest time has the foulest breezes," the irksome man swore, turning to the tall figure next to him.
The other man stands perfectly still, a combination of attentiveness and relaxed discipline. His head turns, arching a wise eyebrow curving up as he meets the gaze of his boisterous neighbor.
The rotund man groans irascibly at this, saying "How can you stand there like that?"
"I do."
"Ugh," the shorter man barks, "I mean, how can you not be bothered by this wind at all? It's gotta be the coldest this season!"
Mildly bothered, the tall man untucks a dark hand from his chest and indicates the empty air away from them. "It's air. It will pass."
With that, he reintroduces his hand and nods slowly, his silvery hair rippling in the eventide air.
The fat man grimaces upon once again noticing the long, even mane belonging to his companion, his own head of sooty black hair only glinting for the glorious bald patch steadily encroaching on his temples. "Well, it ain't passing fast enough. You gotta be wearing more than that robe, that ain't possible to stand there so normal without at least three layers."
The dark man turns to face his diminutive acquaintance. "Although it is true I am wearing more than this adept's robe," his slender fingers pull at the neck of the garment revealing a mesh made of what looked like metal filament, "What I wear is more for functional purposes than comfort."
The strange man paces to a large cairn, taking long, measured steps, and sits on it, only relaxing a fraction. Something that further perturbs the still standing man is that the hem of the robe hiked up when his weird associate sat, revealing bare, muscular shins and strangely adorned feet. Stranger still, the toes of one of the feet are drumming the dirt with a dexterity equal to the fat man's industrious manual digits.
Only just containing himself, he shifts the topic over to more pressing matters. "Your friend-"
"Son," the bizarre man interjects.
"…son… needs to pick up the pace," continues the short man, obviously still a bit suspicious about the story he was given earlier that afternoon, "Twilight's coming on pretty quickly, and it won't be too long before the moon rises after that. The deal is you take care of the harvesting, the whole bit, I might add- cutting, thrushing, and sacking- and I let you take a share. Take more than half a day to do it, and I halve your take. At this rate, you're gonna have a pretty light load…"
The dark man quirks his brow again. "And what say you if my son finishes this task before dark?"
The balding man scratches his head. "It's been pretty long since much of anybody's been that quick to finish, but the deal is that you get double share."
The clever eyes glint with a uncanny mirth. "Then we have a proper accord."
Rising from his improvised stoop, the wise man strides to the beginning of the wheat field, calling to the industrious youth with an unexpectedly great bellow "Lad! If you finish quickly, we'll have more than the original bargain!"
The swiping of the son continues with a steady pace, undisturbed.
"Lad, if you finish before dusk, we will have two times what we came for!"
No reaction from the toiling youth.
"Get moving, and I'll use the extra share for nhang!"
The lad stops. The angular face of the man's son cranes around, green eyes shimmering.
"Hop to it, you lut!"
Without need of further goading, the boy jumps back to his work, felling a wider path than previously observed. Not pausing to swing back, he cuts down another patch, then another, then another.
The balding man gapes as his field begins to resemble his pate in a matter of seconds. "Great Philo, sir, what is he?"
Rajid grins knowingly. "He's my son."
~H~
Sure enough, the job was finished within moments of the sun disappearing behind the Khanduran mountains. Cut, threshed, and sacked, the entire field was stacked right next to the farmhouse.
The farmer, Weston Dealy, had a problem with his back, and his farm hands had gone away to the wars a few seasons back, hence the need for fast help. So, for the past few autumns, he'd been taking them as they came down the path.
However, this was the first time he'd ever seen anyone finish with such speed, such grace, and such fervor- after coming late in the day. Not even his original hands of burly 20-years had done such work, even on their best day.
Deciding to stay for dinner, Rajid had assisted the Missus Dealy at the oven and stove, preparing the standard Dealy supper and some of his own exotic dishes. His son, Agrius, went out to catch some game, primarily rabbits and a couple nice pheasants.
The baked Scorini paccto had just come out of the oven as the lad came haring in with a sack full to bursting. In less than an hour, five rabbits were roasting on two spits over a hotly burning fire as two pheasants and a duck were being cooked in the oven and the other three pheasants and the two quails, five rabbits, and a rather large bird that Rajid identified as an Ensteigan turkey were plucked/skinned and preserved for future dinners.
As soon as those were out of the way, Agrius and Missus Dealy tended to the delicate pastries and the liberally applied garnishes and spices on the various dishes as Weston attended to his children and his now very welcome guests with tales of his youth, back when he was a roustabout at Kingsport, when he was a boxer in Duncraig, and other such stories of wonderful adventure.
Soon enough, the table was set, and the family and their odd company sat down to eat.
~H~
The Missus beams with a cheer that fills the room. "Oh, it has been a while since we have had near such a wonderful feast to enjoy. It is good fortune that the gods have sought to grace us with such charitable company."
The pale guest looks down at his plate, his cheeks becoming rosy with mild shyness. His father smiles at this from across the table. Taking little notice of this, baby Trollo sets to nuzzling his spoon with great interest.
"No need to be embarrassed, dearie, you've done such a fantastic job. I'd say that we're much better off because of your noble efforts. And what would I have done without your splendid father, so helpful with the making of the paccto and the potato pie. Without Markus, who's gone off to make his way in the world, who'd have been here to reach the high shelf with all of the special herbs for my best recipes? Sure not Eduard-" The boy of eleven summers giggles nervously, suddenly finding the crust of the potato pie very engrossing. "Kate's been busy with her sewing up the curtains all day…" The girl of thirteen years glances at Agrius, who's now twiddling his thumbs, still unable to look back at the lady of the household. "…baby Tro has a habit of grabbing only the foxpoint herb." The toddler burbles as he rubs the spoon on his nose, crossing his blue eyes with much enthusiasm. "And my faithful husband always has a queer onset of back pain just when I need him" The Missus, at this point, shoots a surprisingly pointed leer at her spouse, who makes as if he hasn't noticed with a suspiciously practiced ease. "To say the least, your father must be a true saint to come at such a time and be so ready to help those in need."
"It was nothing; I feel it's my duty to do what I can for those I can," the praised man replies. His son sends him a leer of his own. "Oh, come now, I mean it." The impish boy breaks the stare, finally turning to meet Missus Dealy's gaze.
"What we would have done without you, indeed," Weston says, "I'd say your presence here has made our harvest time dinner much more happy, more exciting, and more bountiful than I could have ever expected it to be. On behalf of the family, I'd like to say thank you, for all that you have done."
Rajid grins even wider. "And, on behalf of my own, rather small family, I'd like to thank you for supplying us with food for our travels, a home for the night, much needed company, and experience to carry with us for seasons to come."
The patriarch of the Dealy family returns the smile. "Well said. Let's eat!"
They begin to dish out the various foods, guests being served first, then children, then the Missus and Weston.
As Agrius breaks open a piece of a spiced flatbread. "Me? I'm thankful I can have nhang again." With that, he pops a piece of the puffy treat in his mouth and chews it with relish.
His father smiles earnestly. "Let us all be thankful. For every day we live is a blessing, a divine gift to be enjoyed and spent with the utmost dedication. Thus we should live life, taking nothing for granted and doing what we can with every waking moment."
Agrius grins through a mouthful of his favorite delicacy, which he promptly swallows before saying "So be it."
And so came to be the start of the Dealy family's tradition of giving thanks, one that quickly spread over the seasons as travelers came to work on their farm and have dinner with them. By the tenth autumn since the pair's visit, the tradition had grown to be done in places as far away as Kingsport and Duncraig, and not just on the first supper of the harvest, but every day. And on every harvest moon, children gather to hear of the two Good Workers, a wise man and his able son, assisting all they were able to wherever they went…
~P~
Oh boy. This one's late for sure.
I really need to stop with this habit of putting these things off until twenty one hundred...
Well at least you guys get your Turkey Day special. It's not especially important to get it on a too specific date, come to think of it; it's always the last Thursday of November, so it can't always be the twenty fifth, now can it?
Now I have to get on the first part of the Christmas special, so if you'll excuse my mangy arse, I'll go publish this on the wrong day, then summarily fuck up on getting at least one of my specials on the right damn day…