"Oh. Well... This isn't quite what I was expecting." All that was missing from the scene before Michael Dalton was the lone tumbleweed, rolling across the barren landscape. A slight breeze kicked up a small cloud of dust. Which, as it happened, looked to be the healthiest thing on the farm. The field was dead and looked like it was mostly dried-up dirt and gravel, the top of it littered with all sorts of debris. The trees looked like they'd been hit by a storm. Even the farmhouse looked like it would collapse in on itself if somebody blew on it in the wrong way. Needless to say, Michael could see that he had his work cut out for him. However, he wasn't so foolish as to start immediately. He was an alchemist, not a rancher or a farmer - he had the tools to do his work, not someone else's. He needed time and patience, a multitude of samples, and he needed to set up his equipment precisely how he needed it. Cleaning up the farm enough to do any of it would require the use of tools he hadn't brought with him. So, unable to do anything more than weeding - a pointless endeavour, without weedkiller - he sat down on a tree stump, and began whistling idly to himself.