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10/12/11(Wed)04:11 No.30494792>>30494170
It was the third day of the second month of the winter season, and the chill in the air was bitter, and harsh. Pinkamena trotted along slowly, stilted by the bitter cold. She didn't even consider asking for a reprieve from the weather inside: there was no talking. She was miserable, but it was life. And nothing else was known to her.
They were working the north field that day, and the clouds hid any ray of light from the sun. They did not know when it arose: The darkness of the mountains and overcast weather was so all-encompassing, it could have been before sun-up, though she knew it wasn't, as they had toiled for hours.
She dug a hoof into the stiff, unrelenting soil, and dragged it back, revealing a cache of small rocks, still forming in ground. A type of sandstone. Formed under low pressure. Low quality, but easy to farm. It was not an easy life. She brushed her hoof back over the still-developing rocks, allowing the sand-laden dirt to cover the pebbles, and began to ram her hoof into the ground, compacting the ground, and encouraging the formation of rock. The process continued for hours in this way. Stomping the soil to compact it, moving slightly to the side, and continuing again. It was not long before Pinkamenia had lost all track of time in her work. She wasn't distracted, but merely droning on: a mindless automaton. The heavens were now alit with a vague glow, which signaled high noon as approaching. Even on the worst of days, the cloudy sky brightened a bit, given the right lighting.
She was unfazed by the crackle of thunder in the distance: no heed for loud sounds, but when a single drop of water fell on her snout, she paused, and looked to the skies above. |
