Challenge Accepted? (
"Ya know, Larry," Harold said, wiping the sweat off his forehead with the sleeve of his tunic, "methinks the nobles in that damn fancy castle over there could pay a bit more attention to our mental health."
Larry grunted non-commitally, his attention taken up by a particularly large weed. He was trying to pull it free for quite a few moments by then, but that dumb thing just wasn't going to let go!
"I mean, don't you see?" He swept his hand, gesturing at the wide, wide field they were supposed to clean of weeds. That's what Larry was seeing; weeds, and in the future, he was foreseeing the wrath of Lord Rostbrock when he came down from the castle to inspect the work done. Or not done, as it may have been. "We do all this work for him, and all he ever calls us is "dirty peasants"! Ain't that horrible for your morale, sense of self-worth, self-esteem? Don't you think your feelings deserve validation, your efforts, recognition? Don't you--"
*snap!*
Larry must've pulled the weed too hard, for it had snapped, and he found himself falling backwards until his behind met the dry, hard earth. One half of the plant hung uselessly in his hand, while the other was still sticking out of the soil, mocking him with just its mere presence.
Cursing, he got up to his feet.
"God's sake, Harold!" He threw his half of the weed away before turning to glare at his companion. "Ain't no love for the good lord in me, but he's right to call you idiot, he is! Now stop spewing s h i t and help me with the f u c k i n g weeds, or God so help me I'll tell Matilda you got drunk again!"
With a heavy sigh, Harold bent down in the grass. They just didn't understand him, no one did. They were all busy with small petty things like crops and game and wood, while he was the only one who could dream big, see the bigger picture.
And yet, as he went home in the evening and was greeted with the smell of a freshly-made stew, a treacherous thought entered his mind - that perhaps the crops and weeds, too, were significant in a way.