Solo [Job Thread] Pig-Wrangling

[Adem]

winter 15, 515 a.v. “Maggot.” A hand appeared on Adem’s capable shoulder, and Adem turned around to discover the owner of the hand was Torr, one of the kinder of Skerr’s monks. Not that that meant much: instead of maliciously making an effort to ruin Adem’s day, he did it gleefully. Adem was ninety per cent sure he was some sort of sociopath. “Sir.” Adem was slightly tanned and freckled under Syna’s blare and more lean than bony from years’ worth of slaving away at Skerr’s fields, offset by an impressive metabolism and his body’s fierce stance against gaining any semblance of weight. It was a sore subject, but he couldn’t seem to get away from it: the older ladies--his mother’s friends--transformed into a whirling pack of bloodhounds at the scent of young male, and they could hardly keep their hands off him long enough to gush, a collection of burbling, cooing fountains, reminding him that he was becoming so strong and handsome in between gales of laughter, a sound that was something between twinkly and raucously lewd. Torr barked out a laugh and the hand on his shoulder became a splay-fingered slap on the back that left behind a tingling, numbing sensation for Adem to enjoy. Torr had big bloody hands. “Always sir this an’ sir that with you, huh, all ‘I finished nailin’ the fences, sir’ and ‘I already gone an’ shoveled the shyke, sir’ and ‘I have a tight arse, sir.’” Adem was still reeling from the slap on the back and took a moment to find his breath. “Have you been--needing something, sir?” A gummy grin spread across his face. “Always were cold as a witch’s cunt, you were. No, I just been up an’ wonderin’ what you were up to, is all.” “Well.” Highly suspect. A pale wet ghost of a breath left Adem’s lips as he paused to consider. Technically, he wasn’t busy at that particular moment. He had been on his way to the tool shed to grab himself a handful of equipment--sickle, wheat basket, thread--but seeing as Torr had intercepted him in between the city’s gate and the shed in question, he wasn’t actually doing anything at the moment. Not surprising, considering that the Farmlands had just opened to the Southerners for work: the sky was diffused with but a drop of grey, Syna barely over the horizon. Adem had crossed his arms across his chest against the brisk chill of early morning. Torr’s timing was appalling. “Nothing, sir.” “Slackin’?” Adem bristled. There hadn’t even been enough chimes in the day for him to slack. “No--!” Torr slapped him on the back again, and he saw soft-focus stars. He was going to put Adem out of commission. “Only a petchin’ joke, maggot. You’re too dreary, my friend. Remind me a my Granny Mallou. Most excitin’ thing she ever did was die in her sleep.” Adem didn’t know how to reply to such a statement, so he let the thread of conversation fall onto the ground between them. Torr stood expectantly, waiting like a bird outside a worm’s hole: bright-eyed and head cocked. When one looked him up and down, they found Torr wasn’t as big as his presence shouted him to be. He stood a couple inches shorter than Adem, feet apart, chest popped, big hands on hips. His wheat-whip rustled against his plain monk’s robes when the morning breeze flew by, ruffling Adem’s hair affectionately before moving along. “So you ain’t any kind a busy.” “No, sir.” Not that it would have mattered. He let out a gusty sigh. “Well, don’t just stand there chatterin’ my ears off. Follow me.” Adem followed.