In the old house in the middle of a clearing in the middle of forest, a smell was coming out of a window. The smell of roasted nuts permeated through the field, and inside the house, a very pale man was munching on those very same nuts.
Albert had lived a long life in this kingdom. When he was still alive, he used to be a storyteller and writer. He traveled the distant frontier villages. Ripe with monsters and bandits, it was nonetheless a place for expansion and opportunities.
The magic of this world gave birth to the monsters, creatures and an abominations. Wizards spent time in their towers or sorcery halls honing their skills to manipulate reality with their spells and rituals. Warriors paved their path forward to become their own, from squires and knights, to guardians and paladins and maybe even berserkers. Armed with skill of arms, the best of warriors could fend off beasts that could crush mountains beneath their heel.
These weren't what Albert had chosen though, for he chose book and quill and voice. Growing up to stories of brave knights and wise wizards, he paid attention to something else. Throughout many of their stories, they always had friends near them. But they always had one would have written their tales, their adventures. If there wasn't anyone to see them, to tell them, the untold heroes would truly die and be forgotten.
He did not like the idea of violence or have any ambition to be a hero or sage. His generation grew up on those stories, and he followed his friends that followed their own paths. He shadowed the greater men and women at work, from guards to carpenters of his own small village. There weren't many people, but those who were there were content.
He watched and remembered the faces of craftsmen in their work. He would then go home to tell their stories. The stone faces of blacksmiths, engulfed in flames that licked their body, but did them no harm. Hammers that rose and came down with a rumble as of an earthquake. Artists with their smooth strokes that spilled confidence. Each addition to the painting that of an insensible puzzle that cascaded into an elegant form of expression, an image crafted from mind to canvas. A leather worker's heavy steps, laden with a sharp stench the nose, but nonetheless unhesitant as he moved from station to station, handling each piece of work with ease of experience. Not just them, as there were others as well.
The neighbor's kind smile as he passed him and every other kid a sweet berry once and every week. The merchant's boisterous laughter as he fleeced the adventures that passed of their coin, as more came back to praise the merchant of the quality of his items. His mother's silent song as she moved through the movements she taught to her students in their dance. All of this and more, he regaled his family, and they listened with prideful smiles. His father's scarred face broke into a grin, and his beautiful mother's gentle smile.
All of this, so long ago.
"Alright, that's enough reminiscing" Albert said to himself. Swallowing the rest of the nuts, and making his way out of the house. He moved past the door, and went around to the back of the house and walked to the well right next to his house. He put on the gloves that hung on a nail stuck to the wood that supported the roof of the well. Albert grabbed the bucket connected to a rope that was hung around the horizontal metal bar. He grabbed one end of the rope and slowly lowered the bucket down, eventually reaching the water deep in the well.
He brought the water back up and refilled his watering can. He then went around watering his crops, humming a tune for each one. By the time he was finished, it was noon. Carefully making his way back into his room, he closed his eyes and went back to sleep.