Green Fingers, 78th Winter, 514AV
The Mithryn Outpost had become an oasis for Jeremy. He had visited the farming community several times since his arrival into the walled city, enjoying the company of the farmers who appreciated Caiyha's domain almost as much as he did. Even better, they welcomed him warmly; a Phylonurist would surely ease their struggles to bring about a decent winter harvest. Of course, Jeremy's abilities to do this was somewhat limited. He could communicate with their plants and animals, convey their feelings to the farmers, but do little else. And sometimes, this was not enough. The second time he had visited the Outpost, an angry farmer's wife had cornered him and demanded why her husband's patch of turnips had failed, even after he had covered them with cloth like Jeremy had suggested. The Kelvic had stammered out a nervous reply, claiming that such events were sometimes unavoidable, but he knew that he had already damaged his reputation as one of Caiyha's witches.
Other than that brief conflict, however, his aid had been generally appreciated. Some of the farmers still expected too much, though, and despite Jeremy's tentative comments that he was not a miracle worker, one or two farmers still expected as much.
Today, he was visiting a young farmer by the name of Ralph. His family was one of farmers, with his father, grandfather, and so on, all having worked at the Outpost. As the second born son, Ralph had not expected to continue this lineage, but when his older brother had died the job had forced itself upon him.
Unlike his father and brother, Ralph lacked the instinct of a natural farmer. He fared better with the animals, but since his father's death in the Summer, the families' share of the crops had struggled. This had not gone unnoticed by the Syliras authorities, who were apparently now paying close attention to Ralph's winter turnover.
The farmer met Jeremy outside his home, and greeted him with a firm handshake and rue smile. It was obvious that Ralph's pride was bruised at having to ask for help, at already failing his paternal heritage. Jeremy tried to be brisk, but kind as he followed Ralpha through the fields to his designated area. "How has the season been treating you so far"
Ralph grumbled, throwing a dark look to the Phylonurist as if the answer was obvious. "Not bloody well. I wouldn't have asked for help otherwise."
No more conversation followed. As Jeremy plodded after the farmer, he observed the fields around them. Most were bare, dormant and waiting for the worse of the winter to pass before they could be ploughed and seeds sown. The few fields that were in use housed winter greens, cabbages, parsnips, turnips; all hardy vegetables that should easily grow in less than favourable conditions. But this year had been strangely cruel, and more than once Jeremy saw brown leaves and rotting plants.
He stooped down briefly to touch the dying leaves of a cabbage. The plant conveyed exhaustion, coldness. It had been sewn too late, after the autumn season had begun to cool into winter.
With a sad shaking of his head, Jeremy stood and continued to follow Ralph, who seemed to be in the middle of telling the Kelvic his life story:
"-anyways, m'dad was marked by Bala, so he always managed to cultivate a good harvest. I took after m'man. When Rupert died, I was only a boy and never realised what it meant until m'dad got older." The regret in his voice was unavoidable. Jeremy felt a pang of pity, but it was subsided when Ralph stopped and swept a hand around the half-acre around them. "Anyway. Here we are."
Other than that brief conflict, however, his aid had been generally appreciated. Some of the farmers still expected too much, though, and despite Jeremy's tentative comments that he was not a miracle worker, one or two farmers still expected as much.
Today, he was visiting a young farmer by the name of Ralph. His family was one of farmers, with his father, grandfather, and so on, all having worked at the Outpost. As the second born son, Ralph had not expected to continue this lineage, but when his older brother had died the job had forced itself upon him.
Unlike his father and brother, Ralph lacked the instinct of a natural farmer. He fared better with the animals, but since his father's death in the Summer, the families' share of the crops had struggled. This had not gone unnoticed by the Syliras authorities, who were apparently now paying close attention to Ralph's winter turnover.
The farmer met Jeremy outside his home, and greeted him with a firm handshake and rue smile. It was obvious that Ralph's pride was bruised at having to ask for help, at already failing his paternal heritage. Jeremy tried to be brisk, but kind as he followed Ralpha through the fields to his designated area. "How has the season been treating you so far"
Ralph grumbled, throwing a dark look to the Phylonurist as if the answer was obvious. "Not bloody well. I wouldn't have asked for help otherwise."
No more conversation followed. As Jeremy plodded after the farmer, he observed the fields around them. Most were bare, dormant and waiting for the worse of the winter to pass before they could be ploughed and seeds sown. The few fields that were in use housed winter greens, cabbages, parsnips, turnips; all hardy vegetables that should easily grow in less than favourable conditions. But this year had been strangely cruel, and more than once Jeremy saw brown leaves and rotting plants.
He stooped down briefly to touch the dying leaves of a cabbage. The plant conveyed exhaustion, coldness. It had been sewn too late, after the autumn season had begun to cool into winter.
With a sad shaking of his head, Jeremy stood and continued to follow Ralph, who seemed to be in the middle of telling the Kelvic his life story:
"-anyways, m'dad was marked by Bala, so he always managed to cultivate a good harvest. I took after m'man. When Rupert died, I was only a boy and never realised what it meant until m'dad got older." The regret in his voice was unavoidable. Jeremy felt a pang of pity, but it was subsided when Ralph stopped and swept a hand around the half-acre around them. "Anyway. Here we are."
