The Sorghum Monon
4 October 2025 09:47![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
baskfell_recordsAutumn has arrived in the Kingdom of Nellimia, and with the cool air drifting in comes the time of harvest. As farmers yoke their beasts of burden and rakes are propped up against barn walls, they speculate on whose field Sorghum Monon will choose to labor on.
He comes during the late sunrise: a scrawny human man with dark stubble on a cleft chin, and frayed blond hair dotted with bugs and bits of chaff. The smell of toasted grain is overwhelming the closer you walk near him. But before you see or smell Monon, the sunlight glints off of the shiny long blade of his scythe looming over the fields of grain. He does not talk to anyone, - in fact he gets quite hostile if he is bothered too often - never changes the steely look of determination as he walks briskly down the dirt roads of the nellimian villages. Then suddenly, he pivots to a seemingly random field and begins to shear the stalks, tie them into bundles, all without taking a single break. And then, without so much as a goodbye, he walks back onto the road and disappears until next year's harvest.
Peasants, priests, and recorders of folklore have speculated on who he really is and the reason he picks a single random field over all the others. 'Perhaps he is an ancient nature spirit,' the folk teller says. 'gifting the farmer with free labor in gratitude for his humble and dutiful care of the land.'
A knight of Romót would say, 'He's a lost soul, taken from his mortal coil before he could even touch his crop. There's a fog that comes upon you at the time of death - makes you forget things. He likely doesn't remember which field was his, and so he wanders…'
Regardless, he is respected amongst the common folk, who have a custom of leaving out a pack of bread and a single coin at the end of the field in the case he decides to take a reward for his work.
He comes during the late sunrise: a scrawny human man with dark stubble on a cleft chin, and frayed blond hair dotted with bugs and bits of chaff. The smell of toasted grain is overwhelming the closer you walk near him. But before you see or smell Monon, the sunlight glints off of the shiny long blade of his scythe looming over the fields of grain. He does not talk to anyone, - in fact he gets quite hostile if he is bothered too often - never changes the steely look of determination as he walks briskly down the dirt roads of the nellimian villages. Then suddenly, he pivots to a seemingly random field and begins to shear the stalks, tie them into bundles, all without taking a single break. And then, without so much as a goodbye, he walks back onto the road and disappears until next year's harvest.
Peasants, priests, and recorders of folklore have speculated on who he really is and the reason he picks a single random field over all the others. 'Perhaps he is an ancient nature spirit,' the folk teller says. 'gifting the farmer with free labor in gratitude for his humble and dutiful care of the land.'
A knight of Romót would say, 'He's a lost soul, taken from his mortal coil before he could even touch his crop. There's a fog that comes upon you at the time of death - makes you forget things. He likely doesn't remember which field was his, and so he wanders…'
Regardless, he is respected amongst the common folk, who have a custom of leaving out a pack of bread and a single coin at the end of the field in the case he decides to take a reward for his work.