How long can one man lament about a shitty crop?
As long as he damn well pleased.
Had it not been in the throes and thralls of winter, he probably could’ve admired the fertile grounds of King’s End. Instead, he spat and kicked at the edges of the snow, nose turned up, squat, chubby body huffing and puffing along the fringes. He’d wandered from the Hollowed Grounds by sheer force of will and irritation, and while the sweat was beading down the length of his face, down his neck, and underneath his patched-up coat, he was far from done. “Spooky bastard,” he mumbled, only glancing upward to find another, maybe older than him, some distance away.
“Oi!” He shouted at the top of his lungs, hands cupped around his mouth. “Ain’t you from the Grounds?” He’d seen him before, maybe. Probably.
As long as he damn well pleased.
Had it not been in the throes and thralls of winter, he probably could’ve admired the fertile grounds of King’s End. Instead, he spat and kicked at the edges of the snow, nose turned up, squat, chubby body huffing and puffing along the fringes. He’d wandered from the Hollowed Grounds by sheer force of will and irritation, and while the sweat was beading down the length of his face, down his neck, and underneath his patched-up coat, he was far from done. “Spooky bastard,” he mumbled, only glancing upward to find another, maybe older than him, some distance away.
“Oi!” He shouted at the top of his lungs, hands cupped around his mouth. “Ain’t you from the Grounds?” He’d seen him before, maybe. Probably.
