Cy: The King of Burden, The Savior of The Famished
In one hand, the old man clutched a rusty and well-worn sickle, its curved blade gleaming with the fresh, fragrant residue of cut grass. The tool bore the scars of countless hours spent in the fields, a faithful companion to a man who had wrestled his livelihood from the unforgiving earth. The sickle's wooden handle was polished from years of use, the grooves worn smooth by the grip of his weathered fingers.
Despite the toil etched into his very being, the old man's steps were slow but deliberate, carrying with him the scent of freshly cut grass, a fragrance that stood in stark contrast to his own worn appearance. He moved with the weight of time upon his shoulders, a living embodiment of a life well-lived and bitterly remembered.
Clunk