Lazy bastards, every last one of them. Lazy and unseasoned, even though their bluster would have you believe that they are the Aesir themselves, walking in the realm of Midgard.
Fools, young fools full of piss and nothing more. The old man sighs at the younger men’s latest outburst of whining. True, the sun is already beating down on them despite the early morning hour, and the unseasonable heat refuses to abate even though it is late September, but still. He remembers a time when a man’s work was a thing of pride, no matter how menial the chore or task put to him. The men of this younger generation seemed to have lost that premise, or worse, were never taught it in the first place. The old man wipes the sweat off his brow and then readjusts the leather cord holding his hair back. Both hair and beard are wet and clinging, mostly grey and white with only the slightest remnants of his youthful hazel streaked at the tips. He has been growing both for so long that it is hard to tell where his hair ends and his beard begins. Removing his hand axe from its belt loop, he turns the cutting edge skyward and uses the flat back of the head to continue hammering his stake into the ground. A dozen or so feet away one of the younger men works on his part of the palisade, but with obviously less vigor. Behind them both, another three sit on the ground circled around a sparse cook fire, their pittance of a breakfast stew slowly coming to bubble in a small pot.
Fever Dreams 