ludika2323

“Small harvest this year, huh Pate?” I paused halfway up the altar steps to look at the young farmer next to me. He looked back with blue eyes through a mess of dirty blonde hair strewn over his forehead like straw. Who exactly was this simpleton to tell me the harvest was small? If I were to guess, he was the miller’s son, which would explain why the sack of barley on his back was so full. Damned millers. “Yeah,” I answered cautiously. “Pretty dry winter, wasn’t it?” “Whatcha got in that sack, Pate?” “Pears,” I muttered. “Pears?” the straw-headed simpleton’s eyes widened in faux disbelief. “Pears? For the patron bear goddess?” “Yeah.” “But bears don’t eat pears. Everyone knows that, Pate.” “They don’t eat barley either, wise guy.” “My name is Dudley.” “Whatever. These offerings are for the sisterhood of the shrine anyway.