Chirp. Chirp.
Kuckdokoooo…
The dawn chorus rolled across the village—bright, insistent birdsong threading through the deeper, ragged crowing of roosters. The sound pried open sleepy eyes and drew forth groans, curses muttered into straw pallets.
The sky had not yet fully surrendered the night. Violet clung to the edges of the world, a soft bruise of color, while only the thinnest thread of orange had begun to burn along the eastern horizon. Yet the roosters bellowed as though midday sun already scorched the rooftops.
Skarn was, of course among the cursers.
He dragged himself upright with a low, gravelly groan, joints stiff from the cold earth floor. Pushing through the low doorway of his small hut, he met the morning chill head-on.
It licked across his thin goblin skin, raising faint gooseflesh along his narrow arms and bony shoulders. He shivered once, sharply, then straightened.
No time to linger.
Bare feet slapped the packed dirt as he crossed the yard to the well. The wooden handle felt damp and smooth under his callused palms.
He braced his slight frame, leaned his weight into the crank, and hauled. Muscles burned in his thin arms; the rope creaked; the bucket rose slowly, sloshing, until it broke the stone lip with a wet thud.
Water glittered darkly in the half-light—cold enough to sting.
He plunged both hands in, scooped, and dashed the first icy shock across his face. Breath hissed between his sharp teeth. Another double handful followed, then another, sluicing over his neck, down the knobs of his spine, over the lean cage of his ribs.
Droplets clung to the faint greenish cast of his skin, catching the violet sky like scattered amethysts before they fell.
His Master and Madam still slept within the sturdy mud walls of the main house.
As his Master was no mere farmer—but a renowned blacksmith whose name carried weight in towns beyond the village's crooked lanes.
And, since Skarn had come to them, the household turned more slowly in the mornings. Madam rose only after the day's water stood ready: jars and pots lined up beside the hearth, brimming with the well's cold gift.
Skarn turned back to the task.
Water still trickled from his chin and the tips of his pointed ears as he gripped the rope once more.
With a flick of his narrow wrists he let the bucket drop. It plummeted past the stone rim—well above his eye level—and vanished into the dark throat below. A heartbeat later came the satisfying thump, followed by the softer, liquid glug as wood met water.
He couldn't see the impact, but his sharp goblin ears caught every nuance: the muffled slap, the brief gurgle, the settling sigh of the rope.
A strong tug rippled up the line—the familiar signal that the bucket had filled and now hung heavy. Skarn braced his feet in the dirt, small hands wrapping tight around the coarse fibers. He pulled.
The wheel above groaned in protest, a low wooden moan that carried across the quiet yard, but the pulley turned smoothly enough to ease the burden.
Hand over hand he drew the rope in, shoulders working in steady rhythm, breath fogging faintly in the chill air. Water sloshed inside the rising bucket, a restless, musical sound that grew louder with every crank.
When the rim finally caught the stone lip, he hooked it secure and lifted. Cold droplets sprayed his forearms as he tilted the bucket and poured. The first clay jar drank deeply, the water rushing in with a hollow, echoing gurgle that deepened as the level rose.
He moved to the next pot, then the next—methodical, unhurried now that the hardest pull was done—filling each one until the clay sides gleamed wet and the household's needs for the day stood met.
The violet sky had begun to pale at the edges. Somewhere nearby a rooster crowed again, more distant this time, almost resigned.
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The labor dragged on for a full thirty minutes before it finally ground to a halt. By then, Skarn was already panting, his narrow chest heaving in ragged bursts, as the thought flickered through his mind:
Haah, this is just so tiring.
Even his above-average stamina couldn't stave off the bone-deep weariness that settled into his limbs.
It wasn't just the sheer grind of the work that wore him down, but the cruel irony of his small goblin stature: the compact frame that granted him agility in shadows but cursed him with leaner muscles, diminished strength, making every pull and lift a quiet battle against his own limits.
Still, time slipped away like water through cracked clay—he couldn't afford to waste a drop. With the pots filled, the next duty beckoned: watering the plants scattered across the yard.
His Master and Madam dwelled alone in this quiet corner now, their daughter long since wed to a prosperous merchant in the bustling town beyond the village's edge, and with no son to share the hearth or burdens.
Madam filled her idle hours either trading whispers and laughter with the village women or tending the soil, coaxing life from the earth.
The yard brimmed with her efforts—a lush patchwork of vibrant greens unfurling broad leaves toward the light, and sturdy rooted crops swelling beneath the dirt, their earthy scents mingling with the morning dew.
Skarn dipped the bucket once more, hauling it up with a final, echoing slosh. Then he began the careful ritual: dousing each plant with measured splashes, just small amounts as Madam had instructed, the water beading like jewels on leaves before sinking into the thirsty ground.
In that very moment, the door to his Master's hut—the same one he had marked the night before with the sticky evidence of his release—creaked open on its hinges.
Madam stepped into the light, clad in her familiar dress that draped softly over her curves. She yawned lightly, a sleepy stretch that sent a subtle ripple through her ample, swelling breasts.
Skarn's gaze caught on the graceful line of her smooth neck, on the intimate sway of the scene—and he couldn't suppress the sudden twitch stirring at his length, a warm flush creeping through him. He averted his eyes in haste, the cool air suddenly sharper against his heated skin.
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