“Oi, young man! Ya’ ain’t from here are ya’?” The gruff voice called from the golden wheat crops surrounding a wooden wagon as I was travelling across the vast farm land.

Intrigued I turned towards the source, parting the crops to reveal a man wearing a big straw hat. “How can you tell?” I asked.

“Yo’ hair, it’s that of the northern brutes,” the farmer muttered with a hint of disgust, emerging from the crops. He eyed me, narrowing his eyes as he placed his belongings onto the wagon.

“Ya’ don’t seem like one of those pigs from up there. Watcha doin’ here?” he inquired, releasing tension from his eyes, scratching his chin.

“As I stood upon that mountain I noticed a small village in this direction. I am looking for a place to stay the night.” I explained, gazing at the setting sun.

The farmer smirked and put down his hat. “Ya’ know, young man, I have the same color of hair as ya’ but that’s because of my age,” the old man chuckled as he started collecting his belongings.

“Come, lad. I’ll show ya’ to the village.” he said, smiling. “Ya’ know what?”

“I’ll give ya’ a roof if you help this old man with this old junk!” he exclaimed, proud of his idea as he started climbing onto the wagon.

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I sighed, tossing my bag to old man. “Must be hard work with the leg of yours,” I said, grabbing the handles and started pulling.

“What do ya’ know, young man? Ya’ will understand when ya’ worked as many years as I have,” he mumbled under his breath, sitting away from my back and preparing his wooden pipe.

I smiled bitterly under the breath of me pulling the weight.

“Ya’ know it’s a wheel of life young man! The wheat, the bread, the sun, the rain. Ya’ have to work to keep the wheel going,” he said puffing on his pipe.

“But what do ya’ know, young man, you have years to work ahead of ya’.” he muttered, looking up towards the mountains and the sky away from the village.

“How did you know old man? That I am not one of northern people?” I asked, piercing the noise of the wheels hitting rocks.

“Ya’ lack muscles, clothes of an aristocrat, earrings of a southerner. Not like those barbarians,” he mocked me.

“North needs people who don’t fight as well,” I argued.

“Scar,” he responded swiftly, closing his eyes.

“What about it? We all have scars.” I said sadly, remembering my past.

“Honor of northerners,“ he sighted. “If northerner had nasty scar on neck like ya’ have, they would be dead. They take pride in war. They would be happy to die in war.”

As he blew another cloud from the pipe, he muttered, “If only there were more of them that died in the war.”

I smiled, appreciating the old man's insight. “You know quite a lot of things as a farmer,” I said.

The old man’s eyes held a distant sadness.

“I’ve seen things ya’ wouldn’t want to, young man. The wider the wheel, the harder it is to stop it.”