- Job Description:
- Job Title: Planting the seeds
Rank: D
Player Requirements: N/A
Solo Word Count: 500 Words
Group Word Count: 1000 Words
Job Location: Hargeon City
Job Description: Just outside of Hargeon city is a farm. However, the farmer has hurt himself and can’t plant his seeds for this year and needs them done soon. He is willing to pay to make sure these seeds get planted.
Enemies: N/A
Reward:
5,000 Jewels
Planting the Seeds
Hargeon town greeted Zachariah with heat and blaring sunlight. The sun smoldered everything beneath, even causing the artisans to sweat in their propped shade. Zachariah passed through the crowded streets, broiling beneath his coat and layers. The town was brimmed with activity; bodies constantly darting across the path and fryers sizzling fish and other seaborn delicacies. Moisture seeped into every crevice of the town, humid as can be. The sun’s reflection off the sea danced on the structures in every corner but were blinding to tall fellows. Disenchanted by the heat and pungent fishy smell, Zachariah was suddenly glad his work was needed outside the town. Though, the quickest route to the farm was through the city, albeit delayed by dense population. Zachariah felt eyes coming from every direction, children staring at his prismatic hair, adults frightened by the scars on his face.
Eventually, he made it out of city limits, where a long stone path lead uphill, guarded by a rusty gate. Zachariah sighed and pushed it open, slowly beginning his trot up the hundred-meter hill. By the time he reached the top, the noontime sun had leapt into full swing; not a single cloud in the sky, not a single breeze in the wind. Zachariah knocked on the door to the farmhouse and a young man on crutches slid it open. “Come in, come in,” he greeted, accent speckled with a country twang. “You must be the Sabertooth mage, correct?”
Zachariah nodded his head. “That’s right,” he replied. “I take it you’re the farmer?”
The man bitterly scoffed and made his way towards the back door. “Follow me. I’ll show you what you need to do.”
The farmer lead Zachariah to a shed in the yard that overlooked a long, endless field. More than half the field was barren and unplowed. A sack of seeds rested against the shed’s wall, filled to the brim and waiting to germinate. “Ever planted something before?” asked the farmer.
Zachariah shrugged and scratched his head. “Uh, I’ve grown a flower or two before,” he replied.
“Perfect, same concept. I’ll be inside if you need water or something.”
“Great,” Zachariah muttered. “Will do.”
The farmer pointed to the shovels and fertilizer with his crutch. “Everything you need is out here,” he explained. “Get on it.” Before he walked away, he turned back to Zach. “I’d take the coat off if I were you.”
Zachariah flushed and unbuttoned his peacoat, wearing only a white shirt underneath. “Of course,” he said and handed it to the farmer.
The farmer gaped at the purple, rootlike scars on Zachariah’s neck and jaw, but quickly closed his mouth. “Don’t feel strange about your marks,” he consoled. “You’re not the only one with scars.”
Zachariah smiled and immediately went to work when the farmer trotted into the house. Even standing at the foot of the plot, he sweat profusely enough to slick his hair back against his head. He took the shovel and fertilizer into the field and overturned the dried soil. The fertilizer smelled of foul wood and clung to his hands when he poured it into each hole. The whole ordeal took him nearly an hour of toiling until his back ached from bending over the dirt. He rolled up his sleeves over his shoulders, exposing them to the sun, and stared at the sack of seeds that still awaited planting. The eyes of the farmer curiously watched him from inside the house. Planting the seeds was much easier than preparing the dirt, just more tedious. Though, the task was still finished much quicker.
When Zachariah headed back to the farmhouse, he found the farmer waiting for him outside, leaning against the wall in the shade. “Done already?”
Zachariah chuckled, “never thought farming would be so tedious.”
“You got that right,” he said, and gestured for Zachariah to join him inside. His payment was on the table, as well as a plate and glass of cold water. Zachariah hesitantly followed, “I could never…”
“I insist. For your hard work,” the farmer said. Zachariah smiled and sat down at the table, joining him for supper before departing.
Eventually, he made it out of city limits, where a long stone path lead uphill, guarded by a rusty gate. Zachariah sighed and pushed it open, slowly beginning his trot up the hundred-meter hill. By the time he reached the top, the noontime sun had leapt into full swing; not a single cloud in the sky, not a single breeze in the wind. Zachariah knocked on the door to the farmhouse and a young man on crutches slid it open. “Come in, come in,” he greeted, accent speckled with a country twang. “You must be the Sabertooth mage, correct?”
Zachariah nodded his head. “That’s right,” he replied. “I take it you’re the farmer?”
The man bitterly scoffed and made his way towards the back door. “Follow me. I’ll show you what you need to do.”
The farmer lead Zachariah to a shed in the yard that overlooked a long, endless field. More than half the field was barren and unplowed. A sack of seeds rested against the shed’s wall, filled to the brim and waiting to germinate. “Ever planted something before?” asked the farmer.
Zachariah shrugged and scratched his head. “Uh, I’ve grown a flower or two before,” he replied.
“Perfect, same concept. I’ll be inside if you need water or something.”
“Great,” Zachariah muttered. “Will do.”
The farmer pointed to the shovels and fertilizer with his crutch. “Everything you need is out here,” he explained. “Get on it.” Before he walked away, he turned back to Zach. “I’d take the coat off if I were you.”
Zachariah flushed and unbuttoned his peacoat, wearing only a white shirt underneath. “Of course,” he said and handed it to the farmer.
The farmer gaped at the purple, rootlike scars on Zachariah’s neck and jaw, but quickly closed his mouth. “Don’t feel strange about your marks,” he consoled. “You’re not the only one with scars.”
Zachariah smiled and immediately went to work when the farmer trotted into the house. Even standing at the foot of the plot, he sweat profusely enough to slick his hair back against his head. He took the shovel and fertilizer into the field and overturned the dried soil. The fertilizer smelled of foul wood and clung to his hands when he poured it into each hole. The whole ordeal took him nearly an hour of toiling until his back ached from bending over the dirt. He rolled up his sleeves over his shoulders, exposing them to the sun, and stared at the sack of seeds that still awaited planting. The eyes of the farmer curiously watched him from inside the house. Planting the seeds was much easier than preparing the dirt, just more tedious. Though, the task was still finished much quicker.
When Zachariah headed back to the farmhouse, he found the farmer waiting for him outside, leaning against the wall in the shade. “Done already?”
Zachariah chuckled, “never thought farming would be so tedious.”
“You got that right,” he said, and gestured for Zachariah to join him inside. His payment was on the table, as well as a plate and glass of cold water. Zachariah hesitantly followed, “I could never…”
“I insist. For your hard work,” the farmer said. Zachariah smiled and sat down at the table, joining him for supper before departing.
Word Count 690/500
