The early morning mist had yet to disperse, and the air was damp and cold with the scent of freshly turned soil.
Old Walker leaned on his wooden staff, standing at the highest point of the field's ridges.
Before him stood all the farmers of Newly Town who had claimed a plot of land.
His cloudy eyes swept over the crowd, his voice hoarse yet powerful.
"Next season, we're planting black rye. But black rye is a delicate crop; it requires rich soil. Our land has just been depleted by a harvest of sea salt potatoes, so its fertility has hit rock bottom."
A low murmur rippled through the crowd.
Lord Velin had issued a new decree. For this season's winter crop, each family and group would be responsible for their own plot, and the final harvest would be directly tied to their merit points.
The fertility of the land would directly determine their livelihood and fortune for the coming months!
Old Walker thumped his wooden staff on the ground, drawing everyone's attention back to him.
