Taro heard the gossip and tales that had been weaving themselves about the tribe. One of the priestesses apparently was grabbed during a harvesting outing by some cultists of the Fell Dragon. Taro spit at the dirt between the ghurain rows. A bunch of looncap snuffing hooligans those ones were, trying to prove themselves to dead beast. They got what was coming to them if the rumors were true.
The old farmer wiped his cracked lips, a chill had hung from the night before causing the irritant. Taro shivered, not often does a night’s mark hang about so far into the summer dawn. He turned back to his basket, and rubbed his eyes. In his age his sight had begun to leave him, the healers said they could help but Taro wasn’t one for magic curatives of any sort.
“Just not natural for regular folk to muck about with Mila’s work,” the old farmer said to no one. Out here beyond the shade of the Sentinel Bones and the Tree was the only place to get enough light to grow the hardy ghurain. Folks don’t come out here often, only to bring what was needed back to give old Taro his due.
Taro shook his head and reached down for his waterskin at his belt. He felt at the oiled leather and found the stopper undone and water absent.
“Old Bones take my eyes!” He growled in a dry voice matching his crop of choice,” Must ‘ave come undone out ‘ere sometime.” He clicked his tongue and licked his lips. No use doing work on a dry gob. Resigning himself to return to refill it and drop off what he had gathered so far, Taro hooked his sickle to the back of his belt.
“Now where did my shawl….ah! There it is!” he exclaims to himself. When he had gotten too warm from his work he had hung the woolen thing from the scarecrow. His late wife Kiva had made him the cover on their wedding night. Closing his eyes, he remembered the natural warmth of the Aqshy ram wool and its coarse feel. He smiles at the memories of sharing it with her out on the porch watching Hysh drop below the treeline, his tanned wrinkled face softening at the thought. Grabbing at it his felt wet wool and flimsy dried needles squirm between his fingers. His features immediately soured.
“Must’ve sweated right through to it, gonna take days for it to dry through.” he swung the wet shawl over his shoulder. The soaked wool slapped against his leafweave, liquid warmth running down his back. At least it was still warm. He glanced back at the scarecrow, narrowing his dusty blue eyes. He didn’t remember dressing them in purple, must’ve been Haru taking it upon himself to fix them up. Taro lacked the strength to do so these days, so he felt a tinge of thankfulness for the care of his grandson.
Taro looked about him, try to catch which way the wind was blowing. It had been taking short spats of stillness as of late, and now was no different. Lifting his wet hand above him, the wind always blew even when faint back towards his home away from the tree line. Holding it there, he glances at his shadow. Dawn’s light always painted ones shadow long against the ghurain. His hand looked long and needlethin in the morning glow, even his ears stretched to points.
He felt a brisk scrape at his hand and grinned to himself at his cleverness. Never fails, he thought proudly. Heaving his basket over his opposite shoulder, annoyed at how empty the basket is. He begins the high stepped hike back home.
The trek home took its normal toll on old Taro, a couple miles back up the slight hill was something he used to enjoy. Now instead of returning to the pristine home Kiva and him kept, he had to feel his way home to the blurry homestead that was empty except for himself and Haru’s occasional visit.
To his surprise, Haru must’ve taken it upon himself to repaint the little farmhouse. Gleaming in the sunlight the same bright red hue that Kiva had chosen herself when they first built their home. Coming up to its squeaky porch, he ran a finger along railing as some of the sticky paint came off. Must’ve just gotten done, as well. He’d have to treat the lad to a good meal, this was a lot of work to get done in a few hours.
He hung the shawl and basket onto the usual hooks. Taro pants heavily, the walk must’ve taken more out of him then he thought. Dropping himself into his stuffed chair, he decides to himself that he’d settle in and wait for Haru to pop back in. The boy had a tendency to forget every tool and only remember them one at a time. As his bony frame sank into the chair, he let himself drift off returning to those nights with Kiva once more.
“GRAMPS!”
Taro woke with a start, his back cracking at the sudden movement. “What in the feral groin of Ghur!” Hysh’s light had gone past the treeline already, he had to have slept the whole day.
“Are you okay?” Haru’s voice cracked once more and the old farmer felt soft hands poke and prod as his weathered face.
“Of course I’m fine!” he spat back at his grandson, swatting away his hands. Standing up slowly, he began to see the tiny lights of distant torches and lanterns out in his field. “Oi! what y’all doing on my land?”
Haru kneeled next to him, “It’s alright gramps, I came out here with them. Folk in the border farms are all spooked right now. Been seeing shapes out in the rows, wind hasn’t blown at all today, and that’s not the worst of it.” The lad leaned in close to whisper as if he had to hide what he said next.
“Apparently all the scarecrows around the treeline got switched with pine needle stuffed bodies of Fell Dragon cultists.”
Taro’s blood froze in his veins. Even if he could speak, he had no idea what to say.
Haru rose back up and Taro heard his booted step walk over and fetch the shawl from its hook, “Its no wonder I found you here asleep, and such a mess too.” He walked back over and draped the now crusty cover over his grandfather’s lap.
“I’m surprised you painted the whole farmhouse in a day, and this brown looks pretty good too.”
Taro sat sunken in his chair. In a shaking hand he dug at the shawl, picking at the cracks in the wool. He caught something sharp and pulled it free. Bringing to his eyes and nose to take a good look at it, he feels a deep shiver run through his soul.
Green, and scented with pine and blood.
