Farmer

Fassat swiped the scythe in long, curving motions in front of him, mowing down the field of wheat that was that day's harvest. Behind him, a group of collectors with large baskets followed him, scooping the mowed down wheat into their baskets as he moved forward, tearing through the stalks like a hot knife through butter. His clothes were soaked through with sweat, as the sun beat down on his back, and the weight of his pole and blade continually grew heavier with each swing, his muscles aching, though he knew that would assuredly carry him through the day. They always did.

The work started in the early morning, and continued through for most of the day. It was highly physically demanding, and underneath his loose fitting and thin clothing were tightly packed and rippling muscles, built over years of the hard work in order to carry him. In truth, the harvesting season was much easier than the planting season. To destroy what he had worked so hard to grow was much easier than to actually grow it. In a way, it made the task relaxing. Though his collectors would certainly have disagreed with such a sentiment.

The group was preparing to head back in to the farm for the night time work as the sun began to set, when they heard the approaching sound of horses' footsteps. They turned to see a small number of mounted men inviting themselves into the farm, disdainfully and irreverently stomping through the crops. The farmers needed not say a word. Bandits.

Fassat moved forward towards them, still holding onto his scythe, but now using it as a walking stick, rather than a tool, the blade pointed out towards the bandits. "Hello!" he called out to them, acting as though he did not already know what they had come for. "It seems as though you are perhaps lost? Is there anything I can help you with?"

One of the bandit's - whose horse was noticeably more well-fed - moved toward him, separating himself by a few feet from his group. "My apologies," he returned, the sarcasm ever so subtly dripping in his tone. "My men and I have been traveling for some time. We and our animals are hungry. Might you have any food to spare?"

"I'm afraid we are still in the beginning of the harvest season. We are still relying on our reserves, which are running thin. Were you to have arrived in a week's time, I might have been able to help you, but at the moment..."

The sword was in the bandit's hand in a moment, pointed down at Fassat's throat. "I'm afraid that's not an option."

But Fassat was prepared as well. His scythe was already swinging hard, and he sliced through the legs of the bandit's horse, toppling it forward with a cry and dropping it's master over its head. The bandit was caught off guard, and his blade missed Fassat entirely. But Fassat was still moving. His swing was already coming back, and as the bandit landed at his feet, the scythe struck true a second time, and the bandit's head fell uselessly to the ground.

The others had no desire to avenge him. Their own lives were their only concern. They bolted, horses whinnying loudly, as Fassat sighed to himself. He had protected his men and his land. But the two bodies before him were one more thing he would have to take care of that night.