Chapter 2

As the sun climbed higher in the sky, Endwar's rhythmic work in the family's fields continued unabated. With each swing of the hoe, he meticulously tended the soil, ensuring every inch was properly tilled and prepared for the upcoming planting season. It was a task that demanded his full focus and dedication, but Endwar welcomed the challenge, taking great pride in the fruits of his labor.

Yet, trying as he might to immerse himself in his duties, Endwar found his thoughts constantly drawn back to his earlier encounter with the drunken Drunkole. The old man's words, though spoken in a haze of inebriation, had struck a chord within the young Windmen boy, stirring a faint sense of unease.

"There's more to life than toiling in the fields like a common laborer," Drunkole had declared, his voice dripping with condescension. Endwar frowned, his grip tightening on the wooden handle of the hoe. How could the old drunkard dare to belittle the honest work that sustained their community? Didn't he understand the dignity and purpose that came from contributing to the collective well-being of the village?

Endwar shook his head, banishing the lingering doubts from his mind. He knew where his priorities lay – with his family, his neighbors, and the responsibilities entrusted to him by his father, the esteemed Mayor Windmen. Nothing, not even the drunken ramblings of a man who had forsaken such virtues, could sway him from the path he had chosen.

As if summoned by Endwar's resolute thoughts, the familiar figure of Drunkole once again appeared in the young man's periphery. This time, the old drunkard was carrying a small jug, its contents sloshing with each unsteady step.

"Ah, young Endwar!" Drunkole called out, his voice slurred and his gait uneven. "I see you're still hard at work, toiling away in the dirt like a common laborer. Why don't you take a break and join me for a bit of refreshment?"

Endwar paused in his work, turning to face the approaching Drunkole with a measured expression. "I thank you for the offer, Mr. Barrington," he replied evenly, "but I'm afraid I must decline. There is much work to be done, and I cannot afford to squander my time on idle indulgences."

Drunkole tsked and shook his head, his watery eyes narrowing as he took a long swig from the jug. "Indulgences?" he scoffed, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Is that what you call the simple pleasures of life? A good meal, a sip of fine ale – these are the things that make our toil worthwhile, boy."

Endwar's jaw tightened, and he straightened his posture, leveling a stern gaze at the older man. "I find my greatest pleasure in the satisfaction of a job well done," he said firmly. "The Mayor has entrusted me with responsibilities, and I take them seriously. I won't squander my time on drunken revelry when there is work to be done."

Drunkole let out a raspy laugh, his bony shoulders shaking with mirth. "Ah, the fire of youth," he mused, taking another long pull from the jug. "You think you know better than your elders, don't you, Endwar? But mark my words, one day you'll realize that there's more to life than being a dutiful little worker bee."

Endwar felt a flash of frustration at the old man's condescending tone, but he refused to let it show. Instead, he met Drunkole's gaze with unwavering resolve.

"I'm quite content with the life I lead, Mr. Barrington," he said evenly. "The work I do here, in service to my family and community, brings me a deeper sense of fulfillment than any amount of drink or idle indulgence ever could. Perhaps it is you who has forgotten the true meaning of a life well-lived."

For a moment, Drunkole seemed taken aback by Endwar's firm response. The old man's brow furrowed, and his grip on the jug tightened, as if he were grasping for a retort. But then, his expression softened, and he let out a long, weary sigh.

"Ah, well, you're a stubborn one, aren't you, Endwar?" he murmured, shaking his head. "I suppose there's no convincing you to see the error of your ways." With that, Drunkole turned and resumed his meandering, unsteady path down the village street, leaving Endwar to watch him go with a mixture of pity and resolve.

As the old drunkard disappeared from view, Endwar returned to his work, his hands moving with renewed purpose. The encounter had only strengthened his conviction – he would not be swayed from the path of industry and civic duty, no matter how tempting Drunkole's siren call of idle indulgence might be. For Endwar knew that the true measure of a life well-lived was not found in the bottom of a bottle, but in the pride and satisfaction of a job well done.