2.3 Dirt Poor

“Reckon there’ll be no potatoes this year,” Qastael grumbled, a scoop of dirt mixed with chewed leaves and missing bulbs falling between claws. Standing, she wobbled out of balance, irritably adjusting her bra and skirt back into place. Her other hand delicately held the map of Nowhere, flipping it over to notes listing crops by field. Squinting, her eyes barely discerning one letter for every ten, she thought the bottom two fields read potatoes.

Those fields were large and once held thousands of plants. Past tense. Not yet an expert in farming, Qastael had centuries of experience devastating countrysides. A group of somethings charged through and dig up all the nascent crops recently. Big somethings. She remembered battlefields less torn up, dirt broken and flung in massive heaps to extract as many roots as possible. Qastael noticed the fresh tracks stomping up out of Wylo earlier when she hauled and buried the sheep. Now her fears were confirmed and she wondered if these creatures followed her when she stumbled north half a week ago, mostly dead.

“I’m going to have to do something about this, or there won’t be any crops in a month.” Qastael turned her head south, seeing only the brown and red plateaus of Faluss but in her mind hearing the black thunder and enduring the wild thaum of Wylo only a few dozen miles away. Nightmares warped into insanity, no person living knew what devastated the majority of the Bronelle continent millennia ago, ending the great demonic nation and driving their pitiful descendants north into the Cliffs. Inside the heart of that forsaken land, Qastael experienced fear for the first time in her life, and she relived that fear now. She did not want to return to that place.

“Yer bounty said dead or alive. Guess ya ain’t gonna come in alive…”

Closing her eyes, Qastael paused to gather herself. It was another setback, yet the setbacks kept happening and the weight kept growing. No matter how much larger she towered over other common races, a mountain could still crush her. It buried her resolve and awoke old instincts. Even in her weakened and emaciated condition, she had no doubt if she stormed into Farthest From mantled in her power, she could conquer half the town and decimate all others. She would be a queen and the lesser races would know their place. She wasn’t some mortal mote to squalor in dirt! She…

“AAAAAYYYYYRRRR!!”

After stretching her neck into the air and howling loud enough to fill the valley, Qastael returned to herself and remembered the vows she took when abandoning the Kuri’ma, her kin. Like compressing an explosion and stuffing it into a bottle, the woman became herself again and stood resolute. Crying over missing potatoes wasn’t going to feed her child. Itching her chest, she trudged to the irrigation pumps and watered the fields, hoping some of the potatoes could be saved.

“I should probably dig down and find out how much water is sitting there,” Qastael muttered, scooping another large clod of dirt out of the channels in the ruined orchard. Her wings were cramping as she made sure not to unfurl around the tall branches, also keeping her tail held up to avoid disturbing roots. She was likely safe from damaging the roots while walking the wide path, but nearly two hundred tons (164 mt) could do unknown damage to the systems she didn’t quite understand how trees worked. Better safe than lose more of the orchard. Altogether, a long day morning already, the suns arching high and hot, her efforts inspecting the crops devouring hours, mostly spent clearing channels so water flowed evenly in the fields. “Everything needs water around here, won’t do much good if this is the last of it.”

Qastael mentally made a note, going back to the pumps and watering the trees. Or what was left of them. Hundreds of trees were either uprooted, broken in half or completely buried, this section of the farm suffering from a recent mudslide off the nearby plateau. It was going to take days for her to clear it out, but for now there were about a hundred trees still in good condition and likely thirsty. In reality most of the fields needed careful digging, a recent storm pounding the entire valley into mud slurry, then twin suns drying mud into hard clay.

“Will have Thex help with the delicate stuff, maybe save some of the crops.” Qastael was trying for optimistic, but the farm was in a tight spot. Based on what she saw and visual estimates, maybe a third of everything could grow to harvest. “If I knew it was this much work to raise a bit of food, I’d never have taken those contracts against the farms.”

“…we beg of you, do not kill us. We are not soldiers! This isn’t our war!”

Holding her breath, she pushed memories aside. Placing the stone gates into the canals to stop the water, Qastael sighed and cracked her joints, mostly in her neck from stretching it so low to the ground most of the day, then reaching with her hands back to twitch unworking wings. Her body wasn’t used to being upright, this wound keeping her bipedal if she didn’t want another infection. It throbbed, but pain was a good mortal feeling. Worst injury she’d ever suffered, even with centuries fighting armies. Might take fifty years before she was back to herself again. Walking back to the house, her pace stretched more regular than earlier in the week. Only a slight hobble as she tried to prevent stitches from tearing.

“…frack-basted merkin-corkin son-of-a-venereal wang-slapped crusty…”

Qastael smirked, sauntering towards the cold storage mound of grass. What she found was the most adorable tableau, hunching on haunches as quietly as possible to bask.

Thexi was midway up the ramp leading down to the cellar, feet dug into clay and back against a barrel, entire body straining to heave the next few inches. Her pretty emerald dress was stained and torn, a testament to the difficulty of rolling two other barrels onto the dirt outside. The little bunny girl must have gained mystical strength chanting a constant stream of evocative profanity, screaming and gasping in rage against the offending container that likely weighed twice as much as her.

Rabbit feet, though, are better at hopping than pushing barrels. Thexi’s foot slipped in the clay, sliding her down to the bottom of the ramp with a wild scream. Covering her head and expecting to be crushed, when it didn’t happen she peaked around her ears and stood, seeing a grinning toothy maw looming, Qastael holding the barrel in one hand.

“I could have gotten it,” Thexi said, quickly smoothing her corset and unsuccessfully getting the dust out of her fur. “Calepori can be tough, I don’t need help.”

“Well, happy to help anyway.” Qastael was carefully looking over the three barrels and weighing them in her hands - lighter than the corn barrels - shaking them a bit and then carefully running her claws around the edge. “I know I need your help, so don’t worry about proving anything.” Qastael popped the lid open, sniffing the smoked seeds and wondering what they were. “Can I politely ask about Calepori?”

“They’re almonds,” Thexi said dourly in deflection, hopping back inside and coming out with a prybar, going to the barrels and popping them off without ruining the lids. “Have a lot of smoked almonds in here, probably more barrels of almonds than any other food by weight. Hope you like them because they are going to be part of your meals for the next year. All three of these are almonds, figured that will be easy today until you decide how to divvy up the food.”

Qastael understood what wasn’t being said, wisely realizing trust went both ways. Lot of secrets in a woman’s race. “Fair enough. My race is known as the Kuri’ma. Older than the System, the Kuri’ma live exclusively in the pure realms of Kuri’vlaat’mehn, first to take up the vacant Lower Pantheons when the Crafterions abandoned all creation. In practical terms I’m closer to what you would call an elemental than one of the common races. As far as I know, I am the only one of my kind in the mortality of Evma.”

“Does that mean you’re a goddess?” Thexi asked, justifiable fear in her voice.

“No, immortality just means I’ll live a long time until something kills me, no actual divinity here. I don’t have the right Racial or Class Features, and there hasn’t been a Herald on Evma for thousands of years, so unlikely to happen at all.” Qastael noticed Thexi’s blank stare and chuckled, dumping the open barrel into her mouth and chomping away. “Oh, I like these! How many almonds did you say we had? Anyway, I’m related to a number of gods and goddesses, but I’m not actually one. If you want, I can help you navigate your own Status through the System whenever you like, see if you can become a proper monster.”

“I, um…” Thexi sighed, nibbling her lower lip with prominent incisors. “Calepori isn’t really a race. I mean, it is my race, but we were manufactured through thaumian experiments hundreds of years ago. Slave labor for the Geoleum far south of Yrlmuh. Didn’t actually think pastel pink and green is natural, did ya?” The colorful bunny in question forced a laugh and tossed her short hair out of her eyes, though she was now hopping nervously in a circle. “We’re an overly adaptable race. Sounds fantastic until your body decides to adapt the wrong way. Every adaption is random and permanent and cumulative. Say I fall off a horse and break my ankle. Either my body decides I need stronger bones to prevent future breaks, or I need softer bones to break easier. I could go either way. This isn’t a supposition, I have a great aunt with bones like tissue paper. Had. Not a lot of Calepori live past forty.”

Thexi babbled now, words streaming out faster and faster as all the panic and stress spilled into the open. “From the moment I could remember, my mother told me I was broken. That at any moment, I do the wrong thing or eat the wrong food or stand in the wrong place, my entire life could be ruined. I spent two months in a whore house: every moment I’m awake I’m aroused now. This is what it means to be me. I’ll spend the rest of my life horny for no other reason than I was hungry and needed a job. I work here long enough, I’ll probably turn into a radish. I--”

The girl stopped hopping, frozen in place as she spun and collided with Qastael’s snout. The massive Kuri’ma was sprawled on the grass, snaking her body around the knoll as if to protect the diminutive farmhand from herself. Gulping, Thexi stretched around to glimpse into glowing citrine eyes, so deep and filled with mysteries some dumb bunny could never hope to understand. Yet they were compassionate, as if they knew more about suffering than simple transience fathomed. Minutes stretched, both of them caught together, their breathing matching the crisp breeze of the wastes.

“I don’t believe you are broken,” Qastael eventually said, lifting her head back into the air and grabbing the next barrel, emptying it whole and crunching the tiny seeds with distinct pleasure.

Thexi blinked pale blue, unsure about herself and trying to slow her respiration. “I have some of the numbers you wanted, over at the house.” Without waiting, the bunny double-hopped towards the main building, skirts hiked up to give her legs more freedom.

Qastael watched her scamper, grabbing the third barrel and finishing it off, feeling pleasantly full for the first time in decades. Licking her lips, she kept her eyes fixed on Thexi. Still hungry, Qastael was patient. And like her farmhand, she could adapt.