Chapter 1: A Common Thought of the Deprived Soul
The morning sun beat down on me with an intense heat; burning my skin and causing sweat beads to appear on my forehead. My back ached beneath the heavy load I had, slung over my shoulder. My feet slowly blistered in my old leather shoes and every step was filled with pain.
Why I went through this torture everyday I knew not. It was sheer stupidity on my part, for taking on farming. It was a cruel joke made for a sadistic mind. Only a fool would participate in such tasks this job required. Caring for all sorts of farm animals; horses, cows, sheep, and pig. Maintaining the utilities and structures, whenever the need arose. Planting and gardening and hoeing the vegetables in the fields. And what was currently taking place, lagging heavy loads of corn and seed, from the rusted shed, to the stables of horses. It was no easy job. I spent hours working here; from when the sun rose up above the hills to when it was settled high into the sky. But it was a necessity. For in return for my hard labor I received a home. You could even say a family. Almost.
Manuel Stone and his wife Genevieve rented out there house to drifters, people passing through the town, and provided them with the essentials; bed, bath, and food. As long as they met the demands they were allowed to stay for how ever long they pleased. The demands you ask? Well for one, the nomad had to be in good physical condition, and not to mention healthy enough to endure the hours.
They also had to be decent. For the Stone family included two young girls; Adela and Isabel, the latter being the eldest at the age of 9. Adela was 4 years her junior. They were two blonde hair beauties, both with pearly green eyes. So anybody staying at their home had to be proven safe. You were practically interrogated. The protective parents sat you down on one of there over-cushioned chairs and stood over you, asking you anything and everything; criminal records, violent histories, religious matters.
I was surprised that I myself passed the test. The final key to being accepted was simply on your person. They observed manners and politeness, how well you behaved. You were mostly judged by your actions, and only slightly by your looks. It helped to be cleaned and spiffed up; to make a good impression.
Overall it was rather difficult to get in, but not impossible, and there were others besides me. Norman Black, a large bearded man with, ironically, pitch black hair. He was rosy cheeked and smelled of pine. It was probable that he had once been a woodsman. Even more because he was excellent with tools and such. He had a hand for it, as if he was born knowing how to saw and hammer. And let us not forget Verven. Tall and thin, he reminded me of a weasel. He had greasy blonde hair that reached just past his shoulders and glazed eyes; I would have thought him blind if not for his ability to move so precisely. He could look you directly in the eyes when speaking and knew where objects lay about the house. So therefore my theory had been disproving. Verven always wore the same attire, consisting of a long black robe, grey tunic and breeches, with thick soled boots. He was very quite, rarely speaking, and secluded from the others and myself. I wondered how he had passed the expectations of the Stones. I never sensed danger when in his presence but just uneasiness. Verven was almost intimidating in a sense.
But I never let him worry me. I was usually too preoccupied to even think, much rather cower about. My duties were just as heinous as the two men. This was reasonably fair considering my capabilities. The strength of my own muscle could be compared to that of grown men, and my speed was unmatched. I could run over vast distances without stopping once for breathe. Still, the work here was harsh. Norman agreed with me completely; I hadn't bothered asking Verven.
The house was massive from a commoner's perspective. There was a room for each guest and even two washtubs. They had a spacious fireplace where they baked bread, and roasted meat. Attached to this room is a cellar where produce was stored. It was always cool down there, an escape from the outdoors. They even had a living area with comfy couches and chairs. Genevieve kept her home spotless and always smelling pleasant. She had no job but to mother her children and so was around often. Her husband owned a market store in Bree where his supply was sold. They were a very wealthy family and I owe them much for their hospitality. And to think that all rich men were evil. I guess it's just a common thought of the deprived soul.
AN: More to come!!