The orc pulled the weed out of his garden, careful not to disturb the seedlings next to it as they might be all that would feed him this winter. The ground beneath his fingers vibrated with approaching wargs, heavily laden. Again, so soon? He stood with a creak of his stick-leg and replaced the barrel with no bottom over the seedlings. A slight angle made it look more like the war salvage it was, rather like himself.
Back to the hoeing in the grain field, he looked up sideways. The orcs had left the main road and come onto his plot, sliding off their mounts. His injury meant they felt no need to encircle him in the ring of power that he had taught them.
"You there! Master's having a feast end of the week. You're helping provide." The wargs fanned out. Continuing to hoe, the orc farmer chewed one end of a small stalk to prevent himself from saying anything. Each warg came back with a struggling creature: a rabbit whose cage would need repair, a chicken with a piece of the coop still hanging off one side of the warg's mouth, a squealing piglet that had taken muddy revenge on the fur.
"We expect that grain brought in soon as it's ready. No leaving it out to mold a bit first. You hear?
He spat the bit of stalk into the grain field. "Yep."
As they remounted, the head orc called to the others, "Take those to the mess hall for the master's celebration feast. After all, we won!"
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