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.”

not to wince as she said ‘free time’.

not used

we wouldn’t want

He rolled his eyes.

a walk. See if I can clear

Grab a loaf if you pass

but now he probably would. The best bread would be long gone by this hour, but

of the bell and

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, the giant anthill looming larger on

such as himself wouldn’t have ants getting in their way and vice-versa, but

surface today, which was a little unusual, groups of ants discussing together (the antennae waggling

farmer, what did he know of

no fear of the monsters. If they didn’t want him poking around, they would let him know and that would be that, but as he grew closer, he

them 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 around smoothing it out whilst, at either end of the pit, two teams of ants

metres between them, and took up their positions. He noticed a few things at that moment. The groups were made up of different types of

some kind to practise a particular Skill or scenario the ants had dreamed up. For