Wooden mugs loosed a dulled clink as Li and Old Thane cheered for the end of their planting. They sat at the field's edge where the grass grew thick enough to use like a makeshift cushion. Their shirts, thickly woven and patched over with countless repairs, were littered with dirt stains.
Dirt seemed to cling everywhere, to every little iota of their being, caking under their fingernails, gathering in the furrows of their fingerprints and in the lines of their palms, and staining across their faces.
But such was the farming life, and to Li, the dirt was proof that he was truly living.
The demon hound lay between them, his shaggy black chest heaving up and down. Beside Zagan, the Myrmeke's antennae raised above the ground, enjoying everyone's company. The wyrm, however, stood a few meters away, anxiously pacing about.
