Her tail flicked, catching an evening beam of light that quickly darted away. She stood up, placing the grapes she’d gathered in her bucket. Her soft, white fur rustled in the eastern wind as the fox Carries the bucket back up to you to wash. You, of course, oblige. Calloused hands running them through the well water. You’re done making those callouses. Much done with the blade that rusts over the hearth.

Kisari: “Thank you. Now, I’m going to teach you how to make a proper grape salad, and not the mush that you made on my sick day.”

She teases you, but you know you wouldn’t hurt a hair on her head. She walks back towards the house, glancing back at you.

Kisari: “You just like seeing me walk away or are you coming, o’ warrior?”

The vineyard rustles peacefully in that sweet, near-fall breeze. Sometimes it all makes you wonder if the wars you were in were worth scarring a land such as this. Staining the prairie with the blood of men, not unlike each other, over a petty squabble.