The morning sun yawns across the hilltops, casting gold through the fog that hugs the farmland like an old cloak. Somewhere, a cockerel crows, but the sound is swallowed by the layered hum of the waking estate — cows lowing, hens clucking, hooves thudding soft earth.
Inside the stone-walled workers' kitchen, the air is thick with steam, bread, and laughter.
Jarn and Naru, half-dressed and sleepy-eyed, sit cross-legged at a wooden table with mugs of hot tea in hand, the steam curling around their faces. Between sips, they trade bites of cheesecake offered by a giggling milkmaid named Aera — sweet, creamy, and still warm. Their cheeks are stuffed, but they nod politely with each compliment.
The room is rustic but alive — wooden beams overhead, herbs strung to dry, the chatter of morning rituals among workers who know the rhythm of the land.
Then the door swings open with a wind-swept thump.
Kuro, the ranch manager, strides in — tall, broad-shouldered, his steps light with energy. His aura is sunlight in motion: warm, confident, respected. A ring of laughter meets him as the workers greet him like kin.
"Mornin', people," he booms, clapping one hand on a younger man's shoulder and stealing a strawberry from another's plate. "Still alive, I see."
He works the room briefly, then turns his gaze to Jarn and Naru, who are licking cream from their fingers.
"I hope the morning's treating you kindly?"(Mouths full) "Mhhhm.""Good to hear." He chuckles, folding his arms. "Well, the big man wants to meet you after breakfast. See if your hands match those backs. Finish up, then we'll walk."
He takes a seat without formality. Almost instantly, two milkmaids glide over to his side, delivering more cheesecake, teasing him about his hair, and trading warm banter like old friends. He hums as he eats — calm, settled, grounded.
Jarn exchanges a look with Naru — a flicker of respect. It's clear Kuro runs this place with heart, not fear.
Later, outside, the morning chaos of the farm is in full tilt.
The trio walks a dirt path past clucking hens, loose calves stumbling in circles, and a white goat chewing on someone's hat. Buckets clang, hooves thud, a stable boy curses as a pig bolts from his grasp.
Through the noise, the house looms ahead — a whitewashed manor, two stories high, stone pillars cracked but proud. A porch stretches across the front like a watching mouth.
On that porch sits the Landlady.
Dressed in blue-gray finery, her legs crossed, a fan fluttering lazily in her hand, she watches them approach — silent, composed, with the air of someone who's already made a judgment. Her lips move. She mutters something — maybe a comment, maybe a prayer. Too far to hear.
As they reach the steps, the front door creaks open with perfect timing.
Out steps the Landlord — robust, rosy-faced, and humming a tune.
"Kuro, my morning star!" he grins, grabbing his manager by the shoulders in a half-hug. "The earth's already sung to me today — have you heard the lambs? Sweetest bleats I've ever heard."
They laugh, talk a bit — too long, too casually — until Kuro cuts in, motioning to Jarn and Naru.
"These are the boys."
The landlord turns to them fully, eyebrows raised like a boy with a new toy.
"Oh-ho! Look at you. Built like you've wrestled oxen since birth, eh? Damn near broke your sleeves just walkin' here."(He walks around them like inspecting horses, even pinching Naru's bicep.)"Let's hope it ain't all for show."
His grin is infectious. But his eyes? Calculating.
"Alright then," he claps Kuro's back. "You know the drill. Run 'em through the day. If they live, they're hired."
And just like that, he's gone — whistling back into the house.
A moment passes. Jarn glances up.
The Landlady hasn't moved. But her eyes linger a moment longer — not warm, not hateful. Just… watching. Then with a twist of her wrist, she turns away, slipping back into the house like mist off a blade.
Kuro sighs, dusts off his hands.
"Right then, boys. Let's get to it."
The yard buzzes behind them — but ahead, the farm stretches vast and unblinking.
The dirt paths wind like veins across the farmland. Morning's crispness softens as the sun climbs. Dew sizzles into air as Kuro leads Jarn and Naru across the estate grounds.
He walks like he's part of the earth itself — boots thick with dry mud, a stick swinging at his side like a conductor's baton. His voice is light but firm.
"Right. This ain't no parade. The landlord's watching. Not with eyes — but with results."
He gestures broadly to the waking landscape — workers moving like clockwork, buckets swinging, ropes tugged, voices calling across fields.
"You're on trial. If you break easy, we send you back down the hills."(he grins) "But if you hold your own, well, we're always short of strong backs."
They stop at a fenced plot — piles of steaming manure, a few workers shoveling with sleeves rolled high.
"First test — muck pit. Shovel till it's flat. Don't fall in."
The stench wafts up in a wave. Jarn and Naru flinch, but nod. Kuro moves on.
Next: the pastures.
He whistles and a group of cows shuffle lazily toward him.
"Herdin' the ladies. Keep 'em moving, don't let 'em bunch. If they get spooked, they stampede. That's on you."
Further on: a shearing pen, where sheep already bleat and bleat again.
"Shearing station. Clean cuts. If you nick 'em, the Landlady hears. You don't want that."
They pass a henhouse, the cluck of chickens rising like gossip.
"Collect eggs. Gently. Some hide their nests — check the bushes. If you get pecked, don't cry. Chickens can smell shame."
Jarn snorts. Naru stifles a grin.
Then a low wooden pen — inside, calves shuffle and whimper, noses nuzzling the air.
"Calf pens. Feed. Clean. Don't let 'em slip under you. Little beasts got stronger necks than you'd think."
As they move, Kuro is constantly greeting others — nodding to an old stable hand, tousling a young boy's hair, joking with a limping milkmaid who slaps his arm playfully.
It's clear: the man is woven into this place. Not above it — of it.
They pass an old man pulling weeds.
"Oi, Jura!""Still ugly, Kuro.""But your weeds are terrified of me."
Laughter rolls. Jarn watches the way people light up around him. There's trust here. Warmth. A strange thing, for a place with such rich soil.
Finally, they return to a stone basin by the stables. Kuro stretches his back and dusts off his palms.
"That's your gauntlet, boys. You finish it, you sleep inside. You don't — well, the hills are lovely this time of year."
He winks, slaps Jarn's shoulder, then turns to leave.
"Best of luck. Don't die."
He strolls off whistling — a tune oddly familiar. Something folk-like. Something… old.
Jarn and Naru stand alone now — the entire estate pulsing around them.
Jarn picks up a shovel. Naru glances at the sun above.
"Busy morning," he says."Lively," Jarn nods. "Kind of like it.""Hope the cows feel the same."
They laugh, sleeves rolled, backs bent.
The day has begun.
( The frame fades from motion to stillness. A gust of wind carries the morning clamor away — clucking hens, bleating sheep, whistling laborers — dissolving into the lull of noon.
We cut to a hill, modest in slope, lying just behind the chicken coop. The wood of the coop creaks in the heat. Flies buzz lazily. The air carries the sour tang of chicken droppings, but it's ignored — made bearable by the sweetness of the sun and the softness of the grass. )
Jarn and Naru lie stretched out, arms behind their heads, the world forgotten for a moment.
The sky above is a vast blue sheet, unmarred by cloud, bathing the hill in golden warmth. The breeze curls through tall grass, the blades swaying like they're humming an old tune.
Jarn has a blade of grass stuck between his lips, chewed at the end. He shifts it from side to side with idle rhythm. His eyes, half-lidded, trace birds overhead, but he's not really looking.
He's somewhere else entirely.
In his mind, a woman's laugh. The shadow of a small child running barefoot through wheat. A hand in his. A cabin on land that smells like this. Not war. Not wander. Not gems. Not curses.
Just soil. And sun. And peace.
"Sure is peaceful and beautiful out here," Naru says, his voice low like he's afraid to break the sky.
Jarn's eyelids flutter open. The wind combs his hair gently. He grins.
"Yeah… me too. I don't wanna leave either."
There's a long silence between them. Comfortable. Heavy in a good way.
"I think we found nirvana," Jarn murmurs, almost to himself.
And with that, his mind begins to drift again — back to the future he never dared imagine. The warmth on his skin no longer feels foreign. It feels earned.
The sun hangs high, casting long, lazy shadows. Chickens cluck nearby. A cow moans in the far pasture. Life goes on, indifferent, gentle, real.
The boys remain on that hill, unmoving — wrapped in the warmth of something close to hope.
( The evening settles over the farm like a velvet shawl — cool air laced with the aroma of firewood, roast goat, and broth. The open-aired gathering hall, rustic but wide, glows with hanging lanterns and the soft golden shimmer of candles. )
Laughter rolls like gentle thunder, clinking bowls and hoisted cups filling the air. The scene is saturated with warmth and celebration.
At the heart of it all, Kuro lounges with practiced ease, his laughter smooth, his grin sharper than usual. Milkmaids flutter around him, giggling as they touch his shoulders and arm in jest, whispering between themselves. He handles them all like a seasoned dancer — never too close, never too distant. Beloved. Untouchable.
Meanwhile, at a wooden table stacked with food, Jarn and Naru dig in without ceremony. The goat meat is tender and smoky, soaked in deep, spicy broth. Rice cakes spongy and sweet round out the meal. Grease glistens on Jarn's fingers as he tears into a rib.
"Bro…" Naru mumbles through a mouthful, "this might be the best day of my life."
Jarn chuckles, licking his thumb.
"If heaven smells like this, I'll be good with dying right now."
Around them, workers chatter, trade jokes, pass bowls and trays like ritual offerings. Someone plays a gentle fiddle in the background. Even the animals in the nearby pens seem to have calmed, their sounds distant and mellow.
Then — a sudden clink clink clink cuts through the noise.
The Landlord stands, broad and beaming, tapping his spoon against a wine cup. Beside him, the Landlady, poised with her ever-present fan, offers only a faint nod, her expression unreadable — distant, perhaps mildly inconvenienced.
"Everyone!" the Landlord bellows with charismatic command, "Thank you — for being the heart and hands of this place."
He raises his glass.
"Kuro —" he points mid-toast, "You keep our spirits high and our cattle higher."A burst of laughter erupts from the workers — clearly an inside joke.
Kuro grins, placing a hand over his chest as if bowing in his seat. The milkmaids giggle again.
"But most importantly… tonight we raise our cups for our newest steeds in the stable!" He motions grandly to Jarn and Naru.
The two freeze mid-bite, caught off guard by the attention — bits of rice still stuck to their lips. They straighten and offer sheepish nods.
"To Jarn and Naru!" the Landlord declares.
Just as the crowd echoes the toast —A baby's cry pierces the air.
The room pauses.
All heads turn to the side — a milkmaid, young and red-faced, bounces a fussy child against her shoulder. She mouths a hurried apology, her gaze flicking fearfully toward the Landlady, whose fan now halts mid-wave. Her brows furrow, lips tighten — and with a single cold glance, she says nothing, but everything.
The milkmaid bows her head and swiftly slips out the side door, cradling the child. The silence breaks slowly, with murmured chuckles and resumed clinking as the landlord waves it off with a boisterous:
"Ah, a healthy farm has healthy noise — even if it wails!"
The moment is gone. He lifts his cup once more.
"To new roots and old soil!"
Cups rise. Cheers echo.
As the crowd returns to merriment, the Landlord leans close to Kuro, hand on his shoulder.
"Walk with me, son. Let's talk while the stars are young. I plan to retire early tonight."
Kuro nods, rising with ease, leaving his milkmaids with longing pouts. The two disappear through the wooden doors, their silhouettes swallowed by the moonlight beyond.
Back at the table, Jarn and Naru resume eating — their laughter a little softer, their eyes a little more thoughtful.
The fire burns low, its crackle gentle now — no longer competing with laughter, only the soft chorus of snores and the occasional clink of emptied mugs. The feast has wilted into stillness. Most of the workers now lay sprawled under wool blankets or slumped against hay bales, bellies full, faces slack with sleep.
Only one milkmaid remains — seated close to Kuro, her cheeks flushed with wine and the warmth of attention. He feeds her a grape, fingers brushing her lips. She giggles, quiet and breathy, her eyes glazed in joy. The air feels thick with woodsmoke and fermented sweetness.
Jarn and Naru are perched nearby on an overturned crate, sharing a small ceramic jug of homebrewed alcohol brought by a senior worker earlier that day. The brew is rough but strangely comforting — earthy, spiced, a bit too strong.
"Think I'm still full from lunch," Naru mutters, rubbing his stomach.
"Nah," Jarn chuckles, "this is just dessert."
They tap their cups and take another sip.
Then, drifting in from the shadows beyond the firelight — just out of sight, yet clearly within earshot — a soft, singing whisper begins.
A milkmaid — the young mother from earlier, the one who was chastised by the Landlady — sits cross-legged near a small side fire, rocking her child gently in her shawl-covered arms. Her voice is calm and strange, a whisper-half-song that seems to come from beneath the skin of the world.
"Hush now, little rootsoul, hush and hear the tale of Elan's light and wrath…"
"Once, there lived a man who turned soil to gold.
A farmer, they called him — but he had no love for land… only what he could reap.
Every crop he grew, he weighed in coin.
Every beast he bred, he fed to fatten, not to feel.
And one day, he crossed paths with a Varnan —
an Elan Walker, one who speaks the soul of things.
The farmer, greedy and blind, thought to steal his Elan-stone.
But Elan sees. Elan feels.
When the man returned to his fields…
the cows lowed deep, the sheep grew quiet.
The pigs — the pigs only stared.
Elan had touched them. Whispered to them. Woke them.
And when the man stepped in to muck their pens —
they did not move.
They watched.
They waited.
Then they rose.
And Elan flowed through fang and hoof —
until nothing of him remained.
So hush, little rootsoul… hush.
Be kind to beasts, and leave the Elan-souled be…"*
Her words slip through the night like smoke, unsettling and enchanting all at once. The child coos softly, then drifts to sleep.
Jarn stares into the flame. It flickers with an almost unnatural rhythm — then, for a single moment, as he glances toward the milkmaid and her child, the fire casts their shadows long and warped.
The baby's form blurs in the dance of flame — its face distorts, eyes too dark, mouth a little too wide, limbs somehow folded wrong. Not quite monstrous… but not quite human.
Jarn blinks. Hard.
It's gone. The child is peaceful. Normal.
"Too much brew," he mumbles, shaking his head with a half-smile. But his hand subtly tightens around the jug.
He rises, brushing dust off his trousers.
"I'm turning in. That story's gonna chase me if I stay out here too long."
Kuro doesn't hear — he's still feeding grapes to the blushing maid, caught in his own private revelry.
Jarn nudges Naru.
"Come on. Time we call it."
Naru stifles a yawn and stands. Together, the brothers drift toward the barn-lodging, their figures swallowed gradually by the cool night air and the last embers of the celebration.
Behind them, the last flames dance in silence. Somewhere, a pig grunts in its pen
END SCENE