[centre][color=78d15a][h1]A Sour Harvest[/h1][/color][hr]Location: Isle du Mirabeau[hr]

[i]'You reap what you sow' is a phrase that exists purely in the minds of downtrodden men. For history rarely ever reflects such things.[/i][/centre]

The man woke up to the first rays of sunlight creeping in through the curtains. The birdsong was summoning him to begin the day. After a routine groan, he turned over toward the other side of the bed to caress his wife’s hip. His hand met nothing but the cold bottom sheet. He properly opened his eyes to confirm that the bed was empty aside from himself. The man looked around in panic for a moment before the faint smell of freshly cooked porridge met his nose. Oh right, she needed to feed the beast. They [i]used[/i] to wake up together; he missed that. He sat up out of bed and let out another groan, this one was not routine.

The man had always imagined something greater for his life. He was the long-forgotten, oldest bastard of King Rouis, or at least that's what his mother told him. While he accepted long ago that it wouldn’t result in any kind of inheritance or recognition, he always liked to imagine that something more would come of his life if he had king’s blood pumping through his veins. But that never happened. Instead of wielding a sword and conquering lands for Perrence, he was wielding a hoe and tilling them.

Stepping into the kitchen space, he could see his wife at the stove stirring breakfast and the demon sitting at the dining table staring at him. It was his wife that wanted a child. He wanted to wait, he wanted the time to do… well, something else before that. But accidents happen and, before he knew it, he had a very happy and very pregnant wife on his hands. What could he really say against it? Get rid of it? He wasn’t a monster and he loved the woman. But if he knew it was going to turn out like this, he would have been more insistent.

His wife practically pirouetted on the spot with a hot pot of porridge. She was first to serve their son, dotting on him with a freshly poured bowl. The boy looked about four years old now and returned to staring at the man after thanking his mother. Those staring eyes were the same ones the man met when he was born a week ago.

The priestess called it a miracle of Oraff. She said that the baby may have been stillborn if it wasn’t for the god's blessing. His wife was over the moon with the news. But the man wasn’t so sure. His wife hadn’t seen the baby staring at [i]her[/i] the second it greeted fresh air, it was unsettling more than it was blessed. On top of the baby’s rapid growth and the dull glare it had come out of the womb with, it was also deformed. Its ears were pointy and its skin was a sickly, pale green that only darkened as the days had passed.

They had bought a wardrobe full of baby clothes in preparation for the day. But in a matter of 48 hours, he had outgrown them. They needed to find quick replacements. They asked neighbours, asked tailors in town, and then begged the same neighbours again. They were even forced to barter with some travelling Mycormish fences. The yasoi vagrants had jumped the border to find a wealthier market for their stolen goods and shit they dredged from the bogs. There was a brown coat in their inventory, it was filthy and tattered, but at least it was child-sized.

[color=78d15a]“Hey, Dad?”[/color]

[color=7ea7d8]“Yes?”[/color]

[color=78d15a]“When do you think the war will start?”[/color]

The man was taken aback by the question.

[color=7ea7d8]“Who’s been talking to you about that?”[/color]

[color=78d15a]“People.”[/color]

[color=7ea7d8]“Well… tell those ‘people’ to keep their words to themselves.”[/color]

They continued to their meal.

[color=78d15a]“Hey, Dad?”[/color]

[color=7ea7d8]“Yes, Vert?”[/color]

[color=78d15a]“I think we should go to the casino and I think we should play blackjack.”[/color]


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