Early in the morning, after making oatmeal porridge for his grandson, Old White Hair hurried out the door.
His blacksmithing business had been picking up lately.
He was receiving ration tickets and meat tickets every day. Life was getting more comfortable, and things were looking up.
He had just tied on his apron and rolled up his sleeves, ready to stoke the forge and begin smithing.
"Old White Hair!"
It was the fat manager, Hay. Ever since the new Lord granted him authority, he had grown increasingly arrogant.
Lately, Hay had been getting more and more aggressive with skimming ration tickets. Many were already fed up with his insatiable greed and wanted to report him to the Lord.
"Sir." Old White Hair stopped what he was doing, not daring to show any sign of displeasure.
Hay asked, "Where are the weapons and shields I had you all make?"
Old White Hair pointed to the small hut behind him. "They're all stored in there."
