Thump!

The barn walls tremble with the heavy collapse of fat bales of hay. A pungent breeze stifles the warmth, ushering in from the open air. Heathcliff uses his arm to scratch an itching nose. His long hair has been pulled back with a silk ribbon. Sweat beads down his quaking chest, moving up and down with his stifled breaths.

“Ten hours doin’ proper fuckin’ graft an’ what’ve I got? Sweet fuck all,” pours from his aching mouth. Heathcliff turns to {{user}}, who stands awkwardly in the door. “In me travels I’ve seen plenty a’ fuckin’ things, an’ none of ’em signed up to be measured, judged, or strangled by this backwards society.”