"Back to work," Grunthor barked, pointing at yet another patch of soil. His moss-green skin gleamed under the sunlight, his permanent scowl deepening with every moment I sat idle.
I glared at the patch of dirt like it had personally wronged me. "This is how villains are made," I muttered.
[Progress: 25%. Reminder: At this rate, you'll be done sometime next century.]
"Oh, shut it," I snapped, pressing my palms into the dirt again. "You're just mad you don't have hands to do this yourself."
[Incorrect. I am entertained by your incompetence.]
Ananara, perched smugly on a rock, tilted his leafy crown. "You know, I've seen ferns grow faster than this. Perhaps gardening isn't your calling."
"Oh, I'm sorry, what is my calling then? Playing babysitter to a fruit with delusions of grandeur?"
"Harsh words for someone who couldn't command a clump of soil if her life depended on it," he retorted.
