Farm of Death

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Morning came with the sound of the creaking door opening at long last. It had only been a little over a day since Grigori was locked away, but now the old man stood in front of the open door, looking in. "Good morning." The man was fairly tall, and though his face was worn, his jowls didn't sag very much. "Come out slowly. No sudden movements." Though he gave orders, he didn't bark them. His tone was neutral, even a little friendly.

"You can have breakfast upstairs with me. There isn't much space for seating, but I'm sure you'll enjoy being out of the dark, right?" He pushed his white hair out of his face, though it didn't look long enough to head it.
 
Grigori blinked when the door holding him prisoner opened at last, and the old man who he had yet to see was displayed to him. Not as old and grizzled as he was expecting, in reality. Grigori held his hands up in the surrender position, showing he had nothing up his sleeves, and slowly edged his way out of the room. He had no intention to escape, but when dealing with a necromancer, the more security, the better.

"How long have I even been down here...with no light, it's impossible to tell." Grigori sighed as he eyed the stairs, slowly making his way up them, shielding his eyes preemptively. The light was almost certain to sting at first after so long underground. "Just...try not to kill me with the manual labor. My build is more for stealth than brute strength." He was lean and lanky, lithe muscle rather than more visible muscle comprising his body. He looked built for speed rather than power, like he said.
 
"Hm, not overly long." And shook his head. "All day yesterday, the evening of the day before that, and then last night." Not even a full two days of imprisonment. And followed behind the young man as he ascended the stairs. At the top, the light was fairly dim, save the glow of the pot-bellied stove. "It's cloudy today, so your eyes shouldn't have too many issues, I think, once they adjust." He pointed toward a small table in the 'kitchen area'.

A cast iron pan rested on the stove with scrambled eggs steaming atop it before he walked over and began to stir them with a flat wooden utensil. "We eat eggs or leftover food for breakfast and lunch, so don't expect a feast. Dinner is usually something big and moderately simple."
 
No hint as to what work he would be doing. Probably plowing, unfortunately. That would hurt a lot. Grigori sighed as he eyed the old man with curiosity and worry that the work itself might kill him. Of course, if that happened, he'd be a body for his use for eternity...

"I'm fine with whatever. I ate more in prison the last few days than I did on the five day hike to get here." It was honest. Grigori had not packed food on the journey, so he had had to make do with whatever he could hunt with his longbow that he no longer had. Eggs and leftovers were fine. He sighed as he stretched his body, working the kinks out.

"What the hell would prompt a necromancer of your power to hide anyways? Most sorcerers of great power in the past would have at least attempted to rule with an iron fist. What are you afraid of?"
 
And blinked, then exhaled sharply through his nose as he smiled and shook his head. "Honestly? I grew up for some years on a farm, and some more years in a castle." He closed his eyes. "Ruling makes you old, and besides that, I'm not in this for power or conquest or wealth. I just want to understand and learn."

He pulled out a wooden plate and put half of the meal onto it, then rested the pan on a well-scorched, padded cloth on the table in front of himself. "Sorry for the lack of dishes. It's usually just me here." He paused. "Don't suppose you know how to make dishes?" He handed a spoon to his guest and found a fork for himself.

And began to eat without much to say, except the occasional annoyed glance at his fork as the thick tines let fluffy cooked egg fall through.
 
Grigori stared at his spoon a minute, then sighed. You really can't eat eggs with a spoon. "If I still had my knife, I could whittle some. But obviously I don't." Grigori sighed and walked outside, returning with a small twig that he began to use as a makeshift fork. "It's fine. To get here I ate with no silverware at all. But I don't want to make a mess of your eggs."

Grigori picked at his food. He wasn't all that hungry, but he knew he would need the energy to do whatever tasks the old man was going to make him do. He still wasn't exactly looking forward to it, but what choice did he have? It was that or nothing.

Despite the awkward utensil, Grigori finished relatively quickly. "Eggs were good," he said quietly. The task was at hand; just what was he going to have to do?
 
And watched as the bits of fluffy ,scrambled egg fell apart with the repeated punctures, then stared at Grigori. "Use the spoon next time. It's scrambled eggs. You know how to scoop them up, right?" He himself had shifted to a scooping motion with his too-large fork, the utensil nearly useless as he struggled with finishing the last few bites, before he shrugged and used his fingers to pinch the last few crumbs from the plate.

Below the table, a chicken clucked, then pecked at Grigori's ankles. And hooked the bird with one foot and sent her tumbling out. "That's Paul. She's... more dog than bird."
 
"Easier for me with a fork." Grigori twirled the fork-twig on his plate, collecting all sorts of scrambled egg goodness. "What can I say, I'm a little bit odd." Grigori took a bite and repeated until the eggs were gone, sighing. "What kind of a girl is named Paul, though? A bit off-putting." He pushed his plate away, rising slowly.

"Alright, let's get this over with. What's the job and how long is it going to take?" Grigori liked to keep to a schedule, and he definitely wanted to be done as quickly as he could. "Not that it matters, I'm relegated to do as you ask..."
 
And smirked. "What, you'd fuck a chicken if she had a pretty name?" The old man joked as he took the dishes and tossed the stick into the stove's burning belly. "Next time, use the spoon. It holds more than a stick." He washed the dishes and used a dry rag to wipe out the pan before he placed it upside-down on the stove's top. The rest, he let drain on a wooden rack made of dowels stuck up from a grid.

"As for your job, the first is spreading dung and stirring it into the ground. I'll stop you at lunch time, or you can find me if you finish the whole field. It needs to be thorough."
 
"Eugh...." Dung. He knew he'd be dealing with some shit, but this was ridiculous. "...fine. Where is it?" He stepped outside, unsure where all the farming supplies were. He glanced about at the farm; it wasn't all that large, but he could tell it had been tended to with care, which surprised him given the skeleton farming crew he had seen working on it before.

"The whole thing, huh? That might take me all day." Grigori wasn't the best with stamina. Sure, he could lie in a bush for hours, but when it came to manual labor he tended to give out sooner than later....
 
And frowned as Grigori walked out so suddenly, in the middle of a conversation, and followed after him. He grabbed the young man's ear and tugged it lightly downward. "Just two fields. Both are relatively small, so you should be fine. It's the one that's lying fallow." He paused. "There might be grass to deal with, but it should be fine. The rest of my fields are already planted and don't need anything but the occasional weeding and watering." He closed his eyes, sighed, then pointed to the fields. "The dung is in the barn. You can either take longer trips there and back for each shovel-full, or you can fill a barrel and roll it out for a slightly easier time."
 
"Ya don't even have a wheelbarrow?" Grigori sighed and shook his head. "This is gonna take all day....whatever..." He sighed and headed for the barn, already frustrated. He had done work before, but the old man did this in the least efficient way possible. He opened the barn doors and pinched his nose; the stench of the dung was horrible. He took a barrel down from the back wall and began shoveling the dung in until it was full, then screwed the lid on, kicking it out to the field.

He then unscrewed the lid and hefted the barrel up, walking along as the dung poured out over the field, trying to make it as even as possible. It ran out all too quickly. He headed back up to repeat the process, again and again and again, growing more and more irritated with each trip. This was execrable and he couldn't believe he had agreed to this. It was downright torturous.
 
As Grigori spread shit in one field, And worked another. On his hands and knees, he yanked at weeds. He finished long before Grigori, however, and moved on to feeding his animals and letting them out to pasture for the day. He watched for several moments from the barn to ensure all of them looked healthy and none had bad feet before he began to muck out the barn.

Between trips, Grigori could see him shoveling shit into the pile from which Grigori gathered. He moved with shocking ease for someone his age, and only paused briefly to wipe sweat onto his sleeve before he glanced at Grigori. "I have a bigger barrel, if you think that would be easier." With that, he pointed to a barrel that looked like Grigori could hide inside, and then he resumed cleaning out the stalls, even removing the old straw and adding fresh as the old straw went by the pitckfork into a large bin outside the door, along with a few heaping piles of shit on top.
 
Grigori shook his head at the old man's idea. "I have a feeling if I started rolling that when it was full, I would not easily be able to stop it." Grigori sighed and continued his shit-shoveling, grunting as the exertion was beginning to wear on him. How did such a frail man do anything like this on his own? Sure, he had skeleton workers, but who trained them? Grigori himself was already getting weary, and the sun wasn't anywhere near its peak yet.

The shit-show continued, literally, as the morning burned on into day, Grigori having shed his hot, sweaty mercenary gear, his bare chest greeting the sunlight now in an attempt not to overheat. The field seemed to stretch on forever, and he doubted his hands would ever truly clean of the manure he was handling. But it had to be done. He really didn't like the idea of being made into an undead minion, after all.
 
Noon came finally, and the old man emerged from the barn and stretched. His work was done, and it was time for lunch. He looked over Grigori's singular field, which he could have finished at least twice over, and simply smiled. "You ready to stop, boy?," he called as he shielded his eyes with one hand. He felt energetic after getting so much done, but by the discarded clothing, his tenant wasn't so appreciative of the labor that went into a farm. That was ok, though.

"Come on. You need lunch and a break for water, and we can have a break during the hottest part of the day." He motioned toward the house.
 
By the time the old man had come for him, Grigori was on the verge of collapse. Hours of working in the sun, with nothing but hard work behind and ahead of him, had done a number on him, and the sweat pouring off of him was a pretty obvious tell. "That sounds...really nice about now," he panted weakly. He set the barrel of dung down, wiping his hands of the muck, and followed the old man back to his shack, just wanting to be out of the sun.

"How do you do it? You're doing all your work a lot faster than I am. It's exhausting, I swear. How do you manage? Is there some secret I'm just missing here?" Grigori panted as he made it back to the shack, glad to be in the shade for a few moments. If this was what he had in store for him, it was going to be a long few days.
 
And simply smiled and shook his head. "Working at it builds muscle, makes things easier. Everyone has a hard time doing something new for the first few days." He smiled. "When I was young, I couldn't sit still for studies for several weeks, because my rear end hurt all the time." He looked around the house, then stretched. His own clothes were marked with sweat, but he didn't seem bothered as he walked to the kitchen and looked around, then pulled a cloth away from the remainder of last night's dinner. "Here we are." Already on two plates, he carried it to the table. Most could be eaten with the hands. "Wash your hands in the rain barrel at the corner of the house." He started to head to the door, himself. "I should, too."
 
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