Chrysalis

Peter looked out over the field and realised with a mild sense of surprise that his work for the day was done. The crops were watered and growing well, the weeding and pest control had been done. He eyed his fences askance, no, they were fine too.

He’d been a vegetable farmer for many years, but he couldn’t remember a time when his work was actually done. That wasn’t how farming worked. You spent the day slogging your guts out, elbow deep in filth, and you went home when it got too dark to work any longer and collapsed in a heap, most of your tasks left undone.

The middle-aged, grizzled man reached out a hand and gave his wooden fence a poke, almost as if he didn’t believe it could be as solid as it looked. The pine betrayed him, barely moving as he nudged it.

All he could do was put his hands on his hips and sigh, looking up at the clear blue sky. Things were just so efficient now. The watering happened basically automatically, a complex syphoning system had been installed by the ants, an enchanted system. He barely understood the start of how it worked, but all he had to do to give his plants a drink was pull a lever.

Fence maintenance was a communal effort, the wood provided was far finer than what Peter’s last house had been built from.

“Welcome home, dear,” his wife, Renita, greeted him as the doorbell rang when he came through the entrance. “Back early again?”

Peter sighed again and kissed his wife on the cheek. She merely chuckled at his mood.

“You need to get yourself a hobby,” she advised him patiently, for the hundredth time. “I don’t think this free time is going to go away anytime soon.”

to wince as she said ‘free

he said, “I’m just not used to it. I feel like I’m being

want that,” she

He rolled his eyes.

walk. See if I can clear

Grab a loaf if you pass

he probably would. The best bread would be long

of the bell and

were picturesque. The well cut and beautifully made road cut a straight path through fields, some with budding crops, some with cattle or sheep. He waved to a few of his neighbours as he made his way slowly toward town,

regular folks such as himself wouldn’t have ants getting in their way and vice-versa, but he was certainly close enough

groups of ants discussing together

vegetable farmer, what did he know of Dungeons and monsters and goodness knows

the road, toward the hill and groups of ants clustered around something he couldn’t see. He had no fear of the monsters. If they didn’t want him poking around, they would let him know and that

and found himself looking down into a pit, possibly ten metres deep, a hundred long and fifty wide. The dirt in the bottom was hopelessly churned, and as he watched, a pair of smaller ants, mages he guessed, were moving

up their positions. He noticed a few things at that moment. The groups were made up of different types of ants, for

training exercise of some type, a drill of some kind to practise a particular Skill or scenario the ants had dreamed up. For