Excerpt from Alistair of Brokridges, Herald of the bloody revolution, dairy: 34 BAR

That’s life they say; it’s hard, unfair even or most definitely unfair. and you’re supposed to fail they say. no matter whose cunt you fell out of. Ha, what an optimistic view. Failure is put on a pedestal, “you’ll learn from it” they say with their weak smiles pretending that you can’t understand pretending you won’t see the despair in their hollow eyes, they’ll say they're content with their simple lives. Content, what a horrible word that is, how many have fallen for the trap that is content. Ignorance is bliss as they say and none are more ignorant than the sheep being herded by a hungry shepherd.

Ch.1

This is freedom or as close as I’ll ever get to it at least, ha what a low bar for freedom sitting an unwanted hill in the middle of an unfertile field the hot sun bearing down its joyful gaze or whatever emotion it has while making me sweating like a dammed pig though it would be disingenuous to blame it entirely. But that’s life, well the one that I’ve got at least slightly better than most significantly worse than a few but…

“Luther you worthless brat, get ur arse down here!”

The ever-loving screech of a caring father ringing out to break my grand musings on my existence.

Standing seemed to ache more than usual; my burgeoning muscles burning in anger at the intrusion on their rest. I guess the morning thrashing took more out of me than I thought. Speed, however, did seem to be essential in this situation with that harsh tone the old man appeared to have at least. Wonder what the old fart wants? there shouldn't be much work to do.

Nevertheless, it does seem an extravagant waste of my now, unfortunately, limited energy to rush back down the rocky hill to the house or decrepit shed if you asked someone more well-to-do; no matter how swift father wants me to be, however, as the old man always barks at me “you lazy sack of worthless shit” in the apt, description of my effort put into a majority of physical tasks, before promptly smacking the back of my head with his stick or "practice sword" as he describes it.

With that scary thought now thoroughly wedged into my mind, it would probably be prudent to at least enthusiastically jog back down to the house.

Though being truthful it does feel and likely looks more akin a brisk walk, or maybe even a trot, the distinction probably isn’t important than to a jog of any kind.

The hill although not the steepest thing in the world any kind of help is welcome in this trying time, though the rocks are going to kill my poor feet as my soles beat against the small rocks similar to when pa beat me this fine morning in his so-called “training” angry old drunk.

And with that final thought it seemed, I was in… viewing distance? No that’s not right I could see the house from the hill. Hmm, smelling distance? Yes, that’s better I could smell the horse shit Afterall. Couldn’t do that at the hill.

Though I could, in fact, see the house more clearly; the two-room mud cottage in all of its distinguished glory. My eyes moved across all the lackluster spectacles of my home. The chopping block with an old iron axe, sunken deep into its wooden body, covered in ravine-like scars and gashes in its head, who knows how long Pa has had that. longer than me at least. The thatch roof that would need to be replaced soon, probably by me, was blowing straw everywhere.

It’s better than what the majority of peasants here have, but still, a pigsty compared to the lord’s keep and some of the more well-placed peasants in the village proper.

Though it's never good to compare yourself to your betters as old Marwin says.

As I finally reach the house, my thoughts begin to drift off as they do quite regularly. Not focused on one specific thing constantly shifting between mundane musings like should I cut my hair and staring blankly at the sky. Though a moment of clarity did allow me to remember the fact that I had been called here. By father. Scrunching my face in confusion I begin to crane my neck searching for father. I hope he didn't fall asleep that old foo...

Pain at the back of my head seemed to clear my confusion. “stop daydreaming you shiting brat” It seems I walked right past him. I never understood why he hit so hard. ah, his breath stinks.

Turning fully to get a look my father's bearded face, though calling it a beard is a bit much it was a greasy, scrappy thing, farther seemed to try very hard to make himself look as destitute as possible with his gaunt eyes and unkept long hair like he just woke up in a swamp with two black eyes though that's not entirely unlikely other than the swamp part no swamps in fralisan lands at least as far as I knew. I wasn’t a bastion of geographical knowledge.

Now, although I dreamed of responding with a witty comeback or something along those lines and "beating" father would be satisfying. It would, however, be something that would get me my arse beat... the pain of a second slap once again enlightened me to the reality of fathers irate face, somehow making it more frightful with his rotten teeth-baring for the world to see (ah... I wonder if I look like that it’s no wonder the other kids avoid me), meaning that he expects a response.

“so..rryy pa. I just got lost in my thoughts ya know” It seemed to come out a bit more wimpery than expected.

Not, the most prideful response I've ever put together but an effective one nonetheless if the softening of father's hard features was anything to go off which sometimes they weren’t.

“boy you’re to be a farmer” farther seemed to be constantly reminding me of that lately. “ya need to stop with that constant daydreaming ya hear boy got no need for it”

While it is admirable for a farther to want his son to follow his footsteps, I dream of better things for myself. And its a general rule of thumb I have learned over the twelve years of my life to not follow farther too close in anything, he does smell like shit after all. Well, I do too but more due to circumstances than choice.

“I hear ya pa” in a steadier voice, happy even well as close as my meager acting skill can get it, I even look at the ground letting long hair obscure my eyes like a shy maiden. Great genius I may be, grand dreams I may have, spine I do not possess.

Though the squint in his brown eyes showed he wasn’t buying the bullshit I was selling, never was a great salesman in that I’ve never sold anything in my life.

Looking up the meet fathers’ eyes he sighed; probably in exasperation, and maybe a little knowing disappointment. “now boy I’ve got to go to the manner” announced father

Ah, I couldn’t help but let a sincere grin brake out oh fantastic a day to myself. The naps that I will have will be legendary. my dream is broken quickly.

”And ye is coming” the creasing of his eyes and his shit-eating grin, there might actually be some shit in there, made it seem as if he’d told an amusing improper joke or just won a pound of silver, though it didn’t get to me, the tightening of my face be dammed it’s this cold weather never mind the sun joyfully bearing down above, the sadist.