Logan found the excursion into the town’s farms a fascinating adventure. For generations upon generations, the people of Anzu had developed a complex system through trial and failure, rather than through the use of the Citadel’s scholars. Though their conclusions were often misguided, they were correct. The concept of the fungal “roots” sleeping or being awake was an absurdity, but the atmospheric conditions meant that the different partitions of the farms were more useful during other parts of the twenty-four day-night-cycle.
The atmosphere was thick with dust; a problem that only worsened as the day went on. When he chewed, he could feel particles of stone crunch between his teeth and, unsurprisingly, the old were wheezing and coughing like coal miners. The lack of ventilation, it seemed, was beginning to have adverse effects, not only on the produce but on the people who had been tasked with the production.
He knew of Anza’s role - this was the primary job for the mountain home. Before the Purge, when the lowlands were still inaccessible, Anza and a few other towns had been along a supply line known for its safe, but lengthy travels. The mushrooms would be produced in these towns and transported back to the Citadel and, in return, Anza would be given ammunition, fuel, clothing, and the like. But judging by the state of the town, Logan imagined that this bilateral agreement had long since tipped heavily towards the Citadel, leaving little for the Anzans to maintain their equipment and clothe their young.
“How about this one, Overseer?” Logan questioned whom he had thought to be the Overseer, but who was, in fact, just a one-eyed man with an authoritative aura about him. In his arms, the Ghast carried a grow bed; a feat that usually took between three to four men, which not only greatly unnerved his colleagues but also served to inspire some jealousy in the young men seeking to impress with their strength.
The day had passed by in a flash, during which he had been constantly questioning this Overseer to the point he seemed as exhausted from talking as others were from carrying. But Logan, be it due to the mask or his lack of features altogether, seemed not the least bit tired and they thought it likely he could go on for days on end.
“S-Sir… Just put it down over there. I ain’t no overseer, I told you, my name’s John.” Logan put the box next to the others, satisfied he had begun to understand the system. Now that the sun stood high in the air outside, the climate in the middle partition of the caves had changed to be warmer, but not hot by any means.
As the fungus seemed to be dependent on a specific range of humidity, it was important to leave even spacings between the beds and when the women stopped rearranging the beds he had put down, he was satisfied that he had learned this skill - at least to the point of a novice.
“Sorry, Overseer John. Say…” Logan stretched and yawned before turning to point at the creek leading down into the depths of the facility.
“That stream… is it there every day?” The old man blanked his one eye and turned to look at the creek of condensation.
“Ever since I was a young boy, yeah. S-Sir… are we in trouble? Are the Hellspawn coming here?” Behind his mask, Logan raised an inquisitive eyebrow, momentarily forgetting he was wearing the porcelain.
“God, I hope not. Say, how many fans do you have running down there?” The old man swallowed, his mouth parched with terror. But deciding that having the ghastly figure around was their safest bet, he complied with his request for information: “Twenty-six, Sir. But don’t ask me how they work, I ain’t got a clue. I’d say about most our power goes to running ‘em.” Logan scratched his chin, sensing that there was an experiment to be had - one that could either be highly successful or a massive waste of his time.
The dignified hound’s massive paws lay crossed beneath him. His straight neck stood to attention where he lay atop his bed of hay. One might’ve mistaken his long, sleek build for malnourishment, but in stroking the long, straight, fiery fur, his impressive musculature was easy to identify. Mrs. Wellwater had never seen a creature like Zeke - so regal and awe-inspiring. With gentle movements, her comb had made a small mountain of the shed, tangled fur next to her round bottom. She sat on her knees, captivated by his avoidant, big, brown eyes, and would startle every time he huffed from the pleasure of her attention.
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Marcel and Michael stood on either side of him, stroking his fur with starry eyes of amazement while Abraham chatted with the Wellwater widow of all things not concerning her husband, as his training had instilled.
“He’s not at all what I imagined, walking up here.” She said after a long moment’s pause. Zeke turned his head to the left, allowing her to care for his lengthy ear - a silent order she was all too happy to comply with.
“You can say that again.” Michael chuckled and tapped the beast just above the tail - exactly where he liked it.
“Bit like his partner, right?” Marcel chimed in. Even the fresh widow laughed. All had heard the stories of the heroes of the Purge - the great cleansing of Cradle and the many heroes that had arisen in those bloody years. But none had expected them to be so ‘human’ as Abraham had put it.
“Let’s not forget he’s not alone, brothers…” Abraham muttered, reminding the pair of the mission they had received from the snarky, nasal, grinning mask. A silence befell the tending crowd; a silence the hound filled with another huff.
“I’m not sure what he meant, though. Where’d the mushrooms go? Who’d even want more?” To their delight, the Wellwater widow sounded a warm, melodious giggle and brushed her long hair over her shoulder.
“You can’t tell me you can’t smell it, boys? Not all mushrooms are eaten, you know. There’s good sugar in ‘em for making homebrew.” Abraham covered his mouth to gasp, his cheeks suddenly pale.
“Devil drink, Madame Wellwater? But that’s illegal - it’s heresy! We’ve got heretics in Anza!?” This time, she laughed louder at his childlike innocence - even Zeke seemed to smile at the priest.
“If you’d call Ethel Carver a heretic, sure. Come on, you know the old gal - it’s just a bit of harmless fun. You shouldn’t be so quick to judge, Abby. I’m sure she’d give you a swig if you stopped by.” Zeke turned his head to look at the priest, giving the Wellwater widow access to her neck.
Abraham was no less pale than he had been a moment previous, but the twins seemed relieved to have found their culprit already - and solved the misunderstanding. Michael wiped his brow and smiled: “I’m glad we’ve got that one settled. I’m sure the Ghast thought someone was stealing-”
Michael fell silent as the Ghast with the mask of wrath appeared up the stairs, his hands folded behind his back. Sure enough, the rest of the crowd followed his gaze, only to see the less-than-frightening form wave back at them and approach to stare at Zeke, who seemed intent not to meet his gaze.
“You can act as offended as you want to, but I can see that tail wag.- he’s a sucker for attention, this one.” The tail ceased wagging and the beast huffed as if it took great strength to hold it still.
Abraham helped the wellwater widow up, unbeknownst of the wistful gaze of their red-furred comrade, and bowed in the direction of the Ghast.
“S-Sir. Did you get bored of the farms? There’s not really much else to do here.” The pleasant priest-in-training spoke.
“Not at all. But we’ve finished the morning rounds and I’ve some time on my hands before the beds need to be shifted. I want to run an experiment tomorrow, but I’ll need some supplies from out in the woods. How about it, Zeke? Go for a run?” The wagging resumed, as did the beast’s hard-to-get stare into the stable wall.
Mrs. Wellwater held her belly as she took a step closer to signal her disbelief at the claim. “You’re done shifting already? That’s-... that’s too early. Even with the rest of us roused up, it shouldn’t be done yet.” The Ghast shrugged and turned to porcelain mask towards her.
“The Overseer did a good job. But what do you mean, ‘rest of you roused’?” Her eyes darted to the cobbled ground and she bit down on her lip as if questioning the sanity of relaying some information.
“The other Ghast… he ordered us to work this morning. The entire town’s working from morning to evening - we’re trying to make up for the lost quotas. He says we need to be more effective.” Logan tipped his head back to look up at the blue skies. Wherever he went, it seemed he heard of this other Ghast, but he had yet to meet the man. He made a note of doing so when his work was finished.
“I understand. Well, if he attempts to order you around again, tell him that I’ve ordered your rest.” She’d like to imagine he was smiling, but it was hard to do so with the flecked teeth etched into his porcelain mask.
“And if he doesn’t care, Sir Ghast? He seemed quite determined. He seems like the kind of guy who wouldn’t take no for an answer” She asked with the same hesitation.
“Oh, I’m sure he won’t.”