All in a Day's Work

Rising very early as she does each morning, Leeora puts on her work clothing and cap, tying her hair into a ponytail. She makes her way to an open area and begins to eat her breakfast of bread and fruits, waiting for the sun to rise. Once it does, she stands and lets it wash over her, her arms reaching towards the bright orb.



After whispering some soft prayers, she then makes her way to the well. This time, she is very, very careful to pull each bucket of water up. She definitely does not want to face falling in as she almost did before. Pulling up two filled buckets, she sets them down and takes a grooved stick on both sides, placing the buckets on them and using her legs to lift. She rests the stick along her shoulder blades and begins to carry it towards one of the many fields.
Finally, she makes it to the field, already beginning to sweat. She could easily pray for aid with her strength, but she refuses, letting her hard work begin. She pulls out her scythe and looks over the many fields that appear ready for harvest and smiles.



"Lots of work to do."

Stepping out of a corn row, she's confronted with the sudden sight of Cleo, pushing a plow through the hard dirt of a fallow field in a far corner of the farms.

He is shirtless and dripping with the sweat of his labor. He struggles with each step, straining his whole body to move turn each foot of dirt, his face set with intensity and determination and no small amount of anger.

Seeing Leeora, he stops and, grinning sheepishly, grabs his shirt from where it was tucked in his breeches, but not before Leeora spies a strange mark on his chest--two curved lines and a circle, like a skin-colored tattoo, suggesting an eye.

"Dawngreeter," he smiles, while hurriedly donning his shirt. "Getting an early start on the harvest? I thought I'd prepare the ground for the summer planting. Never too early to get it done, you know."

A nearby mule, unharnessed and idle, seems to roll his eyes skeptically.

Upon seeing Cleo, she gives a warm smile, wiping the sweat from her forehead onto the back of her sleeve. She gives no indication of embarrassment or general care to the fact that he's shirtless- it's hot out. She spots the skin-like tattoo, taking note of it but does not say anything.

She watches him struggle, and she gets the urge to go help him. However, once she sees no sign of anger on his face and only determination, she suppresses the urge. She also takes note of the idle mule and smirks to herself as he speaks to her.

"Yes, it's never too early to start. You and I both know that there are hungry people to feed. Despite hardships that may stand in our way, we must continue with the cycle."

She steps over to one of the buckets and drops in two rags. After then wringing the cold water from the fabrics, she steps over and offers one of the cold cloths to Cleo. Her own, she wipes her face off with, cooling off.

"How have you been fairing, dear Brother? I haven't had a chance to be able to speak with you much considering the understandable circumstances that have been before us. Are you coming along well?"

((This all occurs before today's events))

Cleo rests his forearms crossed on one handle of the plow and leans gently on it.

"There was an elderly priest named Zeb, back at Lathander's Light, the temple in Dagger Falls, where I grew up. I had occasion to sit with him, when my mom was rehearsing lute for services. He would talk of this and that and I would listen and play with my wooden toys.

He once confided to me that the worst thing about his elderly state wasn't the failing eyesight or the failing hearing.

"It's the feeling of being set aside," he told me. "Looked after, not at. Listened at, not to. Seen to, not around. Respect wilts to pity," he said, "and credibility fades to polite irrelevance."

He grins, with no small amount of cheer in his voice, despite his words. "I'm not even nineteen summers old, and I feel a bit like old Zeb."

Realizing that she's actually one year older than Cleo, she gives a playful grin, listening to his words with a careful ear.

"I understand what you mean. Don't worry, my dear Dawnlord. We aren't about to get rid of you just yet or look after you as if you're about to crumble beneath us."

A playful wink reaches Cleo from Leeora's blue eyes. She herself leans on the rake she is using to till the soil of the corn.

"You're not old, Cleo. Goodness, I'm actually older than you. What you are experiencing is the beauty of learning about the world around you with your own eyes. It can be both a beautiful and painful process all in the same instance."

Cleo, having long returned to Shadowdale to continue his recovery, is blissfully unaware of Leeora's recent trauma.