Wierd sat down another basket of fruit. Spending all day, every day, picking fruit off trees and digging through the dirt for roots, seeds and berries gave him lots of time to think about things. If only the things he thought about weren't so negative. Despite living here for nearly 2 years now, free from the oppression of the mountainhome, all that he had managed to get for himself was lots of hard work. Endless hard work out in the sun, and the rain, and the snow. Well, he supposed he had earned a house of his own-- a quaint, strange thing made of wood, but still. There was a never ending demand for food and liquor, and he still hadn't gotten any closer to mastering any skills. Around him, people who had started this village with him were making mastercrafts left and right. Hugo, making masterwork doors, beds, barrels, and the like-- ES, making beautiful works of art in fine metal.. But him? Another day, another basket of fruit, another tub of fruit must waiting to be fed into the distillery. Day in... Day out... It was true that he wasn't having to follow the oppressive rules and regulations of the mountainhome, which was good-- and didnt have to pay the taxes (as yet-- he had heard that the new mayor had become a baron after the last trade liason left-- If true, it would only be a matter of time before the obscenities of the mountainhome with the puffery of the beaurocrats running roughshod over everything came here to NeverTaxed, and NeverTaxed became ForeverTaxed instead. There was also rumor that the new baron was also a bloodsucking vampire. Par for the course in his mind. It seemed only natural that those aligned with sucking the life away from everyone else figuratively to enrich themselves, would stoop so low as to engage in the visceral practice as well.) but still, it seemed he never had time to make that ceramics shop he had been planning to make. It always seemed like something was getting in his way-- stopping him from making his own masterworks. Maybe someday he would become possessed of some wild fancy, and craft his masterpiece like they did in legends. But who was he fooling?
Dropping the basket to the rough wooden floor, he placed a fist into the small of his back, and straightened. This was exhausting labor, and frought with little reward. But still, he liked that everyone had plenty to eat, and that his liquor had helped secure some needed essentials from the trade liason this year.
He just hoped that here in NeverTaxed, his extensive debts never came back to haunt him. So far, he had managed to avoid any such thing, and it was true that he had never held a more essential role in a community before-- which came with certain financial perks-- but he still was always so tired, and couldnt take the time to go have a party like he did back in his youth... Oh, those were the days...
On the other hand, in the past year or so, there had been several migrants that had showed up that were good with farming, and his senior position had afforded him some leverage there. He guessed it really did pay to invest early, and take chances. If he played his cards right, he could manage the farm operations and stop having to break his own back picking fruit day in-day out. (When he wasnt having to press and ferment the things.)
Truth be told, he actually found nature disturbing; all those cute looking things all poised to gobble each other up, like elves on a battlefield. ... Freaky things, those elves. all mirth and song, right up until they slip a big wooden spike in you, and serve rotisserie dwarf. That kind of thing was what really disturbed him the most about this above ground "nature". It lacked the orderly and sensible values he cherished, instead embracing such sick and twisted horrors as "deadly cuteness", and the recently revealed reality of those terrible giant owls. Everything ready to eat everything else without a moment's hesitation, and those sick elves in the midst of it all, dancing gayly and singing their songs of revelry... Worshiping trees, and doing gods know what else when nobody's around. Sick.
Straightening out, then sitting down with the peeler, he began his daily routine of processing the fruit into must. Then later, he would take the must that had matured and feed it into the still, or bottle it up into casks for aging.
So much time to think. So little time to act, and all the while, the gulf between he and his peer seemed to be growing ever wider.
'Like it matters.' he muttered to himself. 'who cares what they think anyway.'
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Topic: Nevertaxed: Dwarven Village Bloodline (Overseers Needed!) (Read 54360 times)