An evening on the farm
Posted: Mon Oct 05, 2009 6:59 am
Just before dusk a loud clang of a dinner bell perched on a pair of tall scaffold poles rings over a Dalelands farm. The farm, which lays just north of the Cormanthor forest not far south west of Hillsfar, is smaller than just about every other farm in the area, but is teaming with animals. Pigs, cattle, sheep, goats, are all locked up and well feed. A couple of small planted fields of wheat and a garden of assorted vegetables break up the vast hay and corn meal fields, and grazing land that stretch to the ends of the farms boundary.
The bells rope tenses itself to ring the bell and releases all seemingly of its own power. Only as the light grows dimmer is the faint outline of the ropes operator seen.
Dent Jars comes tumbling across the cow pasture while pulling a small cart full of freshly cut wood. AT just 18 years, he already is as husky and brawny as his father was, and his face is weathered a bit more than his years. He waves to his mother who is standing beneath the dinner bell as its final vibrations hum. His mother waves back, looks as if she is looking at a small boy and walks through the kitchen door of the farmhouse.
Dent, eager to get to dinner, dumps the wood in a pile and leaves it in disarray. His hurried motions are abruptly halted as he jerks on the handle of the locked kitchen door. He fumbles for the key, and opens the door to a warm and inviting kitchen. The smell of stew thickens the air.
"Ma you locked me out again...you do that everyday." Dent says.
"Sorry dear, now go get washed up. Tomorrow is tax collection day, and you will have to get to sleep as soon as you finish your dinner" She exclaims.
The house is spotlessly clean in places, and then thickly dust covered in others. The wood stove simmers a pot of thick stew. Utensils, bowls, and napkins seem to float about and land on the table on their own. The visage of Dent's mother warps from completely visible, to incorporeal, to ghostly as she passes by the window and catches a beam from the moon, then back to normal again. Dent either doesn't notice or is unaffected by the strange activity in the house, pays it no mind and moves to another room to wash up. A small chest sits open on a small table in the corner of the kitchen. Two small bags of gold coins rest within the chest.
"I have counted out the tax coin; it sits there in the chest" the ghostly mother points out. "We don't want those collectors getting mad with us again." She says with a motherly sarcasm.
"yes, ma. Do I give it to them tax collectors tomorrow?" Dent questions.
"yes, tomorrow" His mother answers.
"But that's what you said yesterday and the day before...tax men come tomorrow...that's what you said" Dent continues.
"I have counted out the tax coin; it sits there in the chest. We don't want those collectors getting mad with us again." She repeats the statement exactly as it was said before. Dent enters the kitchen and notices that the bags of coins have formed a layer of dust, but says nothing about it.
"Okay, ma" Dent says as he is sitting down to eat. "Ma, I hear there is a festival for that Chauntea lady...or whatever her name is. You know, the goddess. What god do we follow?" He asked just like he has asked for the last seven years; ever since a group of Red Plumes and a tax collector from Hillsfar killed his father for not having enough for the extra handling tax they were imposing.
The house grew still, cold and lifeless, with the question.
As Dent looks around for his mother, he spots flashes of light out toward the south end of the farm, very near the Cormanthor forest. He snatches up his fathers old adventuring pack and runs out the door to investigate.
Dents mother reappears.
"I will not let that boy find the same fate as you!" She barks toward a grave site out near the road.
The bells rope tenses itself to ring the bell and releases all seemingly of its own power. Only as the light grows dimmer is the faint outline of the ropes operator seen.
Dent Jars comes tumbling across the cow pasture while pulling a small cart full of freshly cut wood. AT just 18 years, he already is as husky and brawny as his father was, and his face is weathered a bit more than his years. He waves to his mother who is standing beneath the dinner bell as its final vibrations hum. His mother waves back, looks as if she is looking at a small boy and walks through the kitchen door of the farmhouse.
Dent, eager to get to dinner, dumps the wood in a pile and leaves it in disarray. His hurried motions are abruptly halted as he jerks on the handle of the locked kitchen door. He fumbles for the key, and opens the door to a warm and inviting kitchen. The smell of stew thickens the air.
"Ma you locked me out again...you do that everyday." Dent says.
"Sorry dear, now go get washed up. Tomorrow is tax collection day, and you will have to get to sleep as soon as you finish your dinner" She exclaims.
The house is spotlessly clean in places, and then thickly dust covered in others. The wood stove simmers a pot of thick stew. Utensils, bowls, and napkins seem to float about and land on the table on their own. The visage of Dent's mother warps from completely visible, to incorporeal, to ghostly as she passes by the window and catches a beam from the moon, then back to normal again. Dent either doesn't notice or is unaffected by the strange activity in the house, pays it no mind and moves to another room to wash up. A small chest sits open on a small table in the corner of the kitchen. Two small bags of gold coins rest within the chest.
"I have counted out the tax coin; it sits there in the chest" the ghostly mother points out. "We don't want those collectors getting mad with us again." She says with a motherly sarcasm.
"yes, ma. Do I give it to them tax collectors tomorrow?" Dent questions.
"yes, tomorrow" His mother answers.
"But that's what you said yesterday and the day before...tax men come tomorrow...that's what you said" Dent continues.
"I have counted out the tax coin; it sits there in the chest. We don't want those collectors getting mad with us again." She repeats the statement exactly as it was said before. Dent enters the kitchen and notices that the bags of coins have formed a layer of dust, but says nothing about it.
"Okay, ma" Dent says as he is sitting down to eat. "Ma, I hear there is a festival for that Chauntea lady...or whatever her name is. You know, the goddess. What god do we follow?" He asked just like he has asked for the last seven years; ever since a group of Red Plumes and a tax collector from Hillsfar killed his father for not having enough for the extra handling tax they were imposing.
The house grew still, cold and lifeless, with the question.
As Dent looks around for his mother, he spots flashes of light out toward the south end of the farm, very near the Cormanthor forest. He snatches up his fathers old adventuring pack and runs out the door to investigate.
Dents mother reappears.
"I will not let that boy find the same fate as you!" She barks toward a grave site out near the road.