Post by Lev on Sept 23, 2015 17:40:40 GMT
The Farmhand
Name: Gareth T. Shepard
Age: 25
Gender: Male
Race: Human
Height: 6'0"
Weight: 160 lbs
Rank: Citizen, Farmhand
BASIC APPEARANCE:
Gromm took a long swig of his grainy Poorman's mead, then plunked it clumsily back onto the round wooden table that his gut hid beneath. His beady eyes scanned the beaten pig-field while thick, hairy hands pillaged through the gaps in his teeth, trying to find a grain. Across the table sat his equally lazy, but significantly more presentable friend, Bolm. The skinnier man watched Gromm fish through his gums with a tired, disgusted expression. He'd grown tired of saying anything after all of these years; the pig never listened to him anyway.
"Check," Bolm said. Gromm didn't seem to listen. "Check!"
"Qui' yowlin'!" Some strange gurgling sound bubbled up from Gromm's throat as he readjusted to look at the board.
Bolm watched watched the fields this time, catching a glimpse of the young man striding too-and-fro across the property. He was tall, large in the chest, and carried his weight on two long legs. Sweat was soaking the back of his dirty linen tunic. It made Bolm curious, watching him. He'd never remembered hearing the boy speak. He'd been under Gromm's order for a couple of years without a word, in such a way that painted him as a fixture of the fields. A scarecrow or another animal.
"Gromm."
"Wah?"
"Why don't that farm boy speak?"
"Shuddup. I'm thinkin'."
"He a mute? I heard babes talk more than that boy," Bolm continued without consideration, which made Gromm angry.
Another ugly sound rattled around between the fat man's meaty cheeks. "Nah, he ain' gonna talk. Mute n' dum as mah big toh," Gromm answered confidently. "Some lil' gurl had t'beg me for 'is job. Damn idyut can't e'en ask nuthin. All he can do s'take orders."
Bolm couldn't bring himself to agree. Something about the way he moved reminded him of a solider - not to say that a soldier couldn't be dumb, but.. It didn't matter. Bolm noticed that Gromm had lounged back into his chair, draping his elbow over the back of it without a care. The farmer's move wasn't that impressive, truthfully. Gromm wasn't the sharpest rake in the barn and hardly a challenge when it came to chess, but he adored wasting time.
"Where'd he come from?"
"Den's fire if'aye know. Fool prolly don'member imself. Jus' showed up wif tha'lil gurl."
"He just started working? Already knew what to do?"
"Gurl tol' me he allray knew," Gromm spat out, feeling unjustly interrogated. He hadn't done anything wrong. The boy was there on his own accord, came to work everyday with his own two feet, and worked without force. The lanky man across the table could sense this and stopped, returning his eyes to the board.
"Alright. Check, mate."
"Eat piss!" The iron bottom of the mug slapped against the table, spilling backwash onto its grainy surface. Bolm quickly seized the chess board and started to collect the pieces, scoffing.
"Don't be bothered. Ya never win, Gromm."
"Foul git," the large man grumbled. "Oy! Farmboy! I'm ina rite foul way, so feed dos fuggin pigs fo' me!"
The young man turned to face the unmistakable voice like a soldier turning to attention. Blond hair clung to his damp cheeks while the rest blew in the light but constant breeze. He sucked in his full lips for a moment, knowing that handling the pigs was a chore that would lengthen his day by another hour or two. Still, he nodded and continued working. Gromm smiled pridefully, feeling control slip back into his hands. Bolm rolled his eyes.
"If anyone can understand your garbled mouth they can't be that dumb.."