Editing Count Joe Kürbisgärtner (section)

==The Cycle of the Land==
A violent gust of wind threw Roggard's short, rotund frame against an oak tree's bark. "Well, if this ain't an eve for demons and monsters, by Bugman's hat." The Halfling got back into stride, putting his hands deeper in the pockets to shelter his plump fingers from the bitter cold. There was a somber air of tranquillity that night -- a gentle moon was irradiating a ghostly pallor onto the fields just on the verge of the forest, making the acres of wheat shine like pearlescent seas of fragmented waves. Roggard stood there for a second, watching the hypnotic undulation of the plants in the night breeze, growing strong even in this unforgiving time of the year. The acres were separated by patches of dry ground. "Typical", he thought "they only cultivate wheat and the land impoverishes".

Slowly, a stronger buffet of air caught him unpleasantly unprepared. Clenching his arms along his side and shrugging his neck in his shoulders, Roggard Tumbleweed forged on. Lanterns were glimmering on the side of the road, put at ground level and sending off regular dots of light that were puncutating the road just meters outside of the woods. The Halfling found it strange - those lanterns must have had a whole lotta oil to burn into this sort of wind. Curious, almost allured by their dancing flame, he scooted off of the woods' protection and started to move towards the road. 

As he took to the main path, the intense gusts seemed to stop altogether. Puzzled, Roggard tried to make sense of it, so he looked around for a bit before proceeding on the path. The wind was still there... somewhere. Of course he could still see the wheat dwindling in the breeze, and the strong oak trees undulated their leafy manes in assonance with the powerful buffets - just not there on the path. The lanterns were shielded by coppery domes with small wooden structures holding them up.
  
All of this was strange. Sure, due to the fires and the tempered breeze on the trail, the Halfling felt a little less cold, but still, he could almost touch the spot on his sternum where a growing sense of uneasiness was welling up. Stepping on the rising path, he made his way between the high fields, walking like a child in a high-ceiling corridor. It took a while for his stubby legs to make the path between the woods and the first two hills, not to mention his knees straining on the steep path, so it was to his most pleasant surprise that Roggard spotted a great farm, with a flapping flag heralding some great house's symbol on its silos.

"There! Maybe I could sleep in their stables tonight!" He started to approach the big farm, when something felt amiss. Maybe  because of the high wheat that he didn't notice sooner, but there were many scarecrows in that field.

A whole awful lot really, all looking in his direction as he crept closer to the farm. 

The breeze was completely absent now. 

With renewed haste, the Halfling strode forward, impatience and dread starting to boil ferociously in his belly. He started to feel very hungry. "Of course..", he thought. That was the whole problem, wasn't it? He always felt hungry. He always took the last bit of bread in the box. He always went in boredom to raid the cupboards of anything edible. He always wanted more of this plate, more of that wine, more of those smoke-herbs... yes, it all went back to hunger. Roggard repressed a bad thought about the past, and forged on clenching the teeth.

"Well, bless the Comet, sure it does not happen every night to encounter a wanderer your size, Halfman. Please, come closer."

The voice came from in front of him, but in the dim light of a pale wintermoon, the little wanderer could not see his interlocutor. Swiftly, he put hand to the sling, and started talking nervously and too loudly. "Sir, or c-creature, wherever a-and wha-a-tever you are, know that I am skilled with my weapon and will reta-a-aliate to any form of violence! I am... er.. Fork-Wielder! And... Terror of Taverns!"

A hearty laugh came from a few feet ahead of him. A tall and lanky shadow was coming forward, only his boots illuminated by the dim lanterns on the road. "... heh, now that's a coincidence, I fancy myself a fork-wielder too. Come closer, friend. I think you are looking for shelter, and while it's not the best settle you can find, I've got space in my house if you have stories to share."

Perplexed, Roggard reflected on those words. Stories? What did this thing thought he was, a bard? The life of a Tumbleweed was already the least interesting thing possible, and after his exile, it hadn't changed much - and for sure he didn't want to tell the tale of that time he escaped the clutches of a slaver by soiling his pantaloons. 

Then the figure appeared. A tall, grizzled man, in simple clothes but with a stern air. A big pitchfork, inlaid with intricate carvings, was lazily dangling on his shoulders. His eyes reflected the light like those of cats. 
"So, you have a story to tell?"

Roggard froze in place. The simple appearance of the tall farmer in that eerie setting was enough to give him the chills, but the tone of his voice was unsettling; he spoke with ease but with the confidence the accent of a well-mannered marshall. 

For Karl Franz knows what reason, Roggard just looked at the fields, and in a shivering voice, he stuttered "D-d-do you give enough rest to your fields?"

Count Joe Kürbisgärtner stopped, perplexed and taken aback by the question. "I ... beg your pardon, little one?"

Shielding his face, Roggard added "I... I asked i-if you give your fields enough rest. M'lord. Sir."

Inquisitive, thevampire crept closer, squinting a little more. "And why do you ask me this?"

Still shielding the plump cheeks, Roggard pointed at the patches of dry ground near the woods and the house. He backed away a bit again, shuddering.

"The.. the plants are competitive, sir. M'lord. They choke the others out if they grow in an acre for too long a time."

The old man smiled, perplexed, then kneeled to meet the eyes of the Halfling "Tell me more, little one..."

Hours later in the night, in the great main room of the farm, fire was crackling in the chimney as the ageless Count and the small halfling were still talking about the finesses of agriculture with such verve and involvement that they were from time to time interrupting each other. Roggard was devouring loaf of bread after loaf of bread with so bright a fury in talking botany that he barely noticed that his incorporeal chef went straight through the pavement with a moaning sound. Of course, the Count had made the little man aware of the nature of the servants he had, but Roggard was busy discussing the seasons of every crop and the ways to make them grow stronger and more nutritious.

"So I should go for rhubarbs, wheat and beans, in this order?" retorted the old Count.

"No, sir, your Highness, it's beans, then rhubarbs, then wheat. Beans give nutrients to the soil and do not require a lot of humours of the land to grow - even if they need a lot of water, and I mean a whole awful lot my lord, sir; then rhubarbs balance the salinity of the terrain and compact it with the roots; only then you put the wheat to grow in the summertime. Even better, after you reap your bountiful harvest of wheat, grow clovers on the land for a month or two."

Laughing heartily, the pallid farmer put on a show of being offended "Clovers? Do I look like cattle to you, little one? My stallions need no fodder, and my flowers need no pest-herb around them."

Roggard staggered, losing his thoughts for a second, then, with renewed push, explained, gesticulating wildly. "No, sir! It's not for the cattle, and it's not for the garden - it's a way to give back to the ground something after you made something rise from it! Equivalent trade, sir, M'lord. Around clovers a whole little world thrives, flourishes and dies - soon enough, your fields will be filled with little creatures pollinating the fields, living, dying and regenerating the ground on which they have spawned - going from one plant to another, crossing the flowers with one another, mixing the green pumpkin patches with the orange ones, making your fields brim with all sort of life. Then when the clover's passed away, send their roots upside down and let their stalks decompose in the ground to make a fertile terrain for the beans who will have a strong base where to grow!"

Making the ground have something back after he had so many things rise from it? Now that was a lesson for him. For many of Count Joe's ilk, really. He found himself thinking that the avarice of men was hiding even in the hearts of those who fancied themselves as rigorous pacifists and noblemen like him. Had he ever left the field to rest for more than one month? Maybe due to his unlife, the concept of time had become a little tricky to the Count... and yes, the only way he knew to enrich the soil was to feed it with corpse remains and horse manure. Giving back something to the ground after making things rise from it...

The Count's eyes widened. He reclined on the big armchair, tapping a finger on the nearby table. "I... I am pleasantly surprised, little one. So many years of unrest walking on the surface of this world and here I am, in school again. Thank you dearly, Roggard. Stay a day, please. I know I haven't give you enough time to rest, and you must be exhausted from your travels."

Smiling for the first time in a long list of months, Roggard nodded, then went back again to talk about the properties of many officinal plants up to the coming of dawn. Then, the two parted ways for their respective beds. The halfling did not see due to tiredness hazing his eyes, but for the first time in a long list of decades the Count was smiling too. 

The next night, the Count awoke to the visage of Roggard patting his shoulders and getting ready to depart once again. Nervously snapping from his state of distraction, Roggard jumped "Oh - heh! Sir, it's a pleasure to see you before I depart again. I have already abused of your hospitality too much, M'lord, and it would not be fair to empty your cupboards even more. You were already too kind a host to this poor wanderer -"

The old farmer waved his hand, smiling. His long canines were visible but his visage was not threatening. "Wise Roggard, you gave me more than you could imagine, and you do not even know what balm to my old soul it was. So don't say you have abused my hospitality, I was barely able to repay you. Go to the next town, find a place where to set up business - make your path, agreed? And make that path come around by this old man sometimes, I will gladly partake of your company."

Roggard smiled nervously, and replied with a hint of doubt. "Sir, M'lord, I am but a son of a farmer, a glutton and an exiled one, I do not deserve such kind words -"

The count kneeled and patted him on the back. "Shhh. You are Fork-Wielder. Just like me." 

And so it was that the Halfling left the acres of Count Joe Kürbisgärtner. Many say that he went back many times to the farm of the old vampire, claims disproved by the Tilean mercenaries who saw him embark for Naggaroth and Lustria searching for new plants and foods, every time seeming to be in a hurry "to bring new gifts to a friend."

But this is a story of the World-That-Was. Now the realms are shattered, far from each other, and many strange things happen in those vast, wild and indomitable lands. Some whisper in Azyr that there are impenetrable Gardens of Toil, where they say that Alarielle herself has forged an uneasy alliance with a mysterious Gardener and his plump attendant. A new eternity of working in the Gardens awaits Nurgle-worshippers who think they are safe from the scourge of unlife in the realm of the Everqueen...
 
[[Category: Warhammer Fantasy]] [[Category: Vampire Counts]] [[Category: Stories]]