for those who find reality too hard to believe in.

Barrett · 09-18-2011, 02:44 AM

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It had been a long day and any progress, however impressive, promised more to come. Barrett felt like he'd been going for weeks now, and this sentiment wasn't without reason. His excursion to Freetown in late August had solved a handful of problems while creating a mountain of others--literally. And, contrary to popular experience, time would only bolster this mountain further, not diminish it. He was in a race against the clock... or more specifically, the season. On top any physical demands, all the knowledge and experience he had was being put to the test. Knowing what to do, how to do it, and when to do it was important.

Here was the thing: he had to shovel an appreciable amount of earth before the frosts rendered such work impossible. The loner had long abandoned any fantasies of completing both the stable and a milling pavilion--the latter would simply have to wait until the following spring. Not that it was a major setback; in the week following his return to Nova Scotia, he'd earnestly sought and harvested enough crops for emergency rations for Jøren, seed for the following year, and only a couple trial run batches of vodka. Mass liquor production wasn't on the horizon one way or the other, so a mill to process all of the grain wasn't especially important. Heck, he doubted he would even have enough to trade any customers. He would keep a modest amount for personal enjoyment, but most was promised to Axle and Grit--consequentially, setting up a functional distillery took priority over digging. The mocha hybrid knew he'd be up the creek without a paddle if not for the dogs' bought-over loyalty and assistance. Thus, making good on his promise of a wet winter seemed prudent.

In any case, Barrett knew they'd pull through. With the three of them busting their butts and the draught horse carting away excess dirt, they had managed to knock out just over a third of the excavation today alone. Even now the scent of exposed earth hung heavy in the air, but Barry paid it no mind. Always a fan of the motto "Work hard, play harder," he and the boys had retired early to feast and relax, lest their minds or bodies grow tired of their antics and protest. (How much easier, he rejoiced, it was taking down larger prey as a unit!) But now, the food was done and the other males had gone home to rest. Only Barry sat out behind the garage, tending to a dying fire and watching the soft glow of his Dyakia snails and Jack o'Lantern mushrooms. He was tired, too, but he wanted another smoke before bed. He lit one and the smouldering ember joined the other unnatural lights emanating from the property.

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