Harald wiped the day's work from his brow. Orcs may come and go, but the fields still needed to be planted and the fences needed mended. He looked across the river valley toward road that cut the region in half. A figure on the horizon approached the field with a slow, methodical gait. Harald squinted and saw that it was a rider drawing a cart or some sort of sled.
“Traveler coming, lads,” he said aloud to the goats who were grazing around him. “Moving too slow to be foul.”
Harald continued removing stones from the field, placing the stones in a row along the side of the road. The work was hard, but honest, and honest work passes time quickly. Harald looked again to the road to see the rider was now within yelling distance. The rider was dressed well, adorned in a bright red surcoat over hauberk. Harald, a man of peace, could not help but notice the large sword attached to the barding of the rider's horse. He thought it best not to get in the rider's way.
The farmer glanced at the man's face seeing discipline and age. The rider's face moved little, squinting only in the light of the afternoon sun. The rider took notice of Harald and nodded politely to the farmer. Harald's eyes followed the rider as he passed, having not seen a man in such garb for some time. The rider was a foreigner to be sure.
The creak of the wheels and axle of the cart stole his attention from the rider. The cargo the rider was hauling was longer than it was wide, wrapped in dry linens and covered with prairie flowers. Harald took off his hat in respect and uttered a small wish of goodwill to the rider. For then, it had become clear to him that the man was taking his dead to be buried.
Harald shook his head and returned to his work, exhuming rocks from the field and placing them in an orderly row. “Perhaps I have enough to build a wall,” he thought to himself, letting the vision of the rider and his cart become a fading memory.
