Sweet Fig Farmhouse
Aug. 5th, 2020 03:01 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
sabinetzinSo this was my winning entry for Cantrip Candles's Cantrip Quest competition in March of last year, which was to create something based on the scent of the month. I noticed that it went down, presumably because they stopped doing the contest, so I figured I'd slap it up here for posterity. Plz enjoy a relaxing story about some ladies and some adventurers, and some fruit. No content warnings.
Two women sit in an orchard, not far from an old but well-tended farmhouse. The day is hot and sunny, warm for the season, and the trees around them hang heavy with fruit. The sunlight reflects off the whitewashed clapboards of the house, glinting on it and making it hard to look at straight on. If there's any sort of magic that abets that process, that might keep the wrong sort from looking at it at all, the women pay it no mind.
Sitting in one of two old wooden chairs, the shorter of the two women is slicing a fresh fig with a small, sharp knife, careful of the blade; her feet rest on an upturned bucket, not long enough to reach the ground. The taller of the two fans herself with a wide-brimmed straw hat, seeking more air than the slight breeze that blows through the orchard.
"Are you gonna eat our whole crop?" she asks the other woman; she doesn't sound angry, and her other half doesn't hear anger in it.
"One way or another," the shorter woman says, biting into another slice of fruit. The figs are still warm from the sun, and with each bite, they release their sweet juice, their fine scent.
Not to be outdone, the taller woman reaches into the bowl on the ground at her side; it holds her own choice of fruit, a few just-ripened berries, the first of the season. There is plenty of room for them both to grow, and soon the bushes too will be laden with fruit.
The quiet of the scene is interrupted by voices from the other side of the farmhouse. Both women lean over to look, their chairs positioned in just the right spot to see and not be seen.
"Adventurers," the shorter one says. The other woman makes a noise of agreement, because there is no doubt. The adventurers who come through a town like this all look the same, newly minted and fresh-faced; some will succeed and some will not, but in their beginnings, they are all alike. "What do you reckon?"
The taller one licks a finger, holding it up as if to test the wind, and there is a faint glow visible from underneath her blouse. "I don't get any evil off 'em."
The shorter woman takes a hard look at the small band. "I count two big 'uns, a wizard, and a sneak thief."
"Won't kill us if they pocket a fig or two more than we offer," her companion says. "Small price to pay."
"Suppose you're right," the shorter woman says. She waves her hand over the bushel of figs beside her, and whatever bits of dirt remained on them disappear. She hops off her chair, hoisting the fruit and settling it against her hip. "Let's see if our adventurers have strong backs."
The taller one eats the last of her berries before joining her, following as the shorter woman walks briskly to the front of the farmhouse; it's not hard to catch up with her long stride. The adventurers are green and full of bluster, but they'll do, the fighters picking fruit for the rogue to dice and the wizard to simmer. For their troubles, they'll find a day of peace and a good meal; this place knows only honest work and the respite that follows it.
The women will send them away with a jar of jam and gruff good wishes, and soon, more adventurers will take their place, just as green and eager. And their lives will stretch on like that, harvesting figs and picking berries and tending to their homestead; their adventure is over, and an easy, satisfying life is their reward for completing it.
The scent of cooking jam fills their farmhouse, and there is nothing finer in the world.
Two women sit in an orchard, not far from an old but well-tended farmhouse. The day is hot and sunny, warm for the season, and the trees around them hang heavy with fruit. The sunlight reflects off the whitewashed clapboards of the house, glinting on it and making it hard to look at straight on. If there's any sort of magic that abets that process, that might keep the wrong sort from looking at it at all, the women pay it no mind.
Sitting in one of two old wooden chairs, the shorter of the two women is slicing a fresh fig with a small, sharp knife, careful of the blade; her feet rest on an upturned bucket, not long enough to reach the ground. The taller of the two fans herself with a wide-brimmed straw hat, seeking more air than the slight breeze that blows through the orchard.
"Are you gonna eat our whole crop?" she asks the other woman; she doesn't sound angry, and her other half doesn't hear anger in it.
"One way or another," the shorter woman says, biting into another slice of fruit. The figs are still warm from the sun, and with each bite, they release their sweet juice, their fine scent.
Not to be outdone, the taller woman reaches into the bowl on the ground at her side; it holds her own choice of fruit, a few just-ripened berries, the first of the season. There is plenty of room for them both to grow, and soon the bushes too will be laden with fruit.
The quiet of the scene is interrupted by voices from the other side of the farmhouse. Both women lean over to look, their chairs positioned in just the right spot to see and not be seen.
"Adventurers," the shorter one says. The other woman makes a noise of agreement, because there is no doubt. The adventurers who come through a town like this all look the same, newly minted and fresh-faced; some will succeed and some will not, but in their beginnings, they are all alike. "What do you reckon?"
The taller one licks a finger, holding it up as if to test the wind, and there is a faint glow visible from underneath her blouse. "I don't get any evil off 'em."
The shorter woman takes a hard look at the small band. "I count two big 'uns, a wizard, and a sneak thief."
"Won't kill us if they pocket a fig or two more than we offer," her companion says. "Small price to pay."
"Suppose you're right," the shorter woman says. She waves her hand over the bushel of figs beside her, and whatever bits of dirt remained on them disappear. She hops off her chair, hoisting the fruit and settling it against her hip. "Let's see if our adventurers have strong backs."
The taller one eats the last of her berries before joining her, following as the shorter woman walks briskly to the front of the farmhouse; it's not hard to catch up with her long stride. The adventurers are green and full of bluster, but they'll do, the fighters picking fruit for the rogue to dice and the wizard to simmer. For their troubles, they'll find a day of peace and a good meal; this place knows only honest work and the respite that follows it.
The women will send them away with a jar of jam and gruff good wishes, and soon, more adventurers will take their place, just as green and eager. And their lives will stretch on like that, harvesting figs and picking berries and tending to their homestead; their adventure is over, and an easy, satisfying life is their reward for completing it.
The scent of cooking jam fills their farmhouse, and there is nothing finer in the world.
(no subject)
Date: 2020-08-05 11:28 pm (UTC)Ahhh, their adventure is over, and an easy, satisfying life is their reward for completing it feels so gratifying for this rapidly aging person.