The Wormwood farm was unusually charming looking for this part of Flatrend. It was a spacious house made of pale stone and windows you could see lacey curtains fluttering behind. Jutting out of the back of the house was a three story tower. The tower was originally built to house the Wormwood’s in-laws after their homes burned down some three hundred and sixty years ago, but now it houses two of the children of the house and a guest room. Behind the house is a low wooden fence that closes in the farm. Yes, it was a fairly charming looking house, but it’s most unusual feature was its scarlet roof. From a distance, one would only assume it to be an unusual sort of tile. However, upon closer inspection, a passerby would be amazed to find that the house was shingled with dragon scales!

Then the passerby would surmise that this farm must be quite old, to be covered in the iridescent hide of a beast that hasn’t lived in Noelvah for over three-hundred years. As a matter of fact, Wormwood farm was built about four hundred and eighty-seven years ago, though the crimson roof was later addition. There was a short time in the kingdom of when dragon rearing seemed feasible. In those few decades, the upper and middle classes had access to goods now considered priceless, like dragon teeth and eggs. During that time, Wormwood farm suffered a fire as a result of a toddler and a candlestick, and although its stone foundation survived, it lost it’s previously hay roof. And so, the then head of house decided to invest in fire-proof dragon scales to ensure his brood would never have to sleep under the elements again. Shortly after, the dragons used to produce these products managed to escape. They ran amok in Noelvah for a few months before migrating back their homeland. It was during this time that Wormwood farm doubled as Wormwood shelter, as all the other houses in town burned to the ground.

Yes, it’s a charming looking place indeed. It’s just a shame it’s not a very charming smelling place. For Wormwood farm didn’t farm any sort of crop or cow or sheep. No, Wormwood farm instead peddled in chickens. And anyone who’s ever ventured too close to a chicken house can tell you that if smells could be bottled, the smell of a chicken coop would be considered a weapon of war. It simply is an atrocious, putrid stench that manages to seep into everything on the premise. Everyone in town knows not to eat anything the Wormwoods offer you; else you’ll get a mouthful of Odeur de Poulet. Naturally, the Wormwood’s don’t notice this though. Perhaps the family has been in the business so long that they’ve done away with their sense of smell. Or perhaps a strange hereditary defect allowed them to establish the farm. Either way, it’s certainly true that no Wormwood can detect a scent, on their farm or elsewhere. You could wave a fresh apple pie, a bar of chocolate, a fish or a clove of garlic right under their nose, and they wouldn’t smell a thing. As a side effect of not being able to smell, they also have little to no sense of taste, explaining why everyone except a Wormwood could detect the lingering essence of chicken mess in whatever meal was prepared on the farm.

You’d think that with such an awful smelling place nearby, the village of would’ve driven the Wormwood’s off with pitchforks long ago. However, that was not the case. The Wormwoods had wisely built the farm downwind of Flatrend, and the gusts that blew through the prairie town kept the smell at bay. On top of that, the Wormwoods were kind folk, and well respected in town. Not to mention they were the wealthiest family in town. Mothers in Flatrend would, starting from an early age, force their children to sit for hours at a time, smelling some rancid fish or milk as training so the child would be able to tolerate the smell should he or she be fancied by a Wormwood son or daughter.

And so, it is on this foul-smelling farm, and under this red roof, that Eleanor Wormwood was born and raised. Little Ellie lived her whole life on this farm with her mother, father, and three brothers. Her mother was Tamera Wormwood, formerly Tamera Pines. Tammy was a slightly portly and stern looking woman, who always brought pies to the village’s quilting circle that no one ever dared eat. The man of the house was Rolf Wormwood, who worked the farm under unusual circumstances. You see, Rolf was the fifth and last brother of his generation, and wasn’t supposed to inherit the farm. It was supposed to go to his oldest brother Whit. However, Whit died in an unfortunate accident that ended with him being crushed under a statue that was meant for the top of the town hall. Then it was supposed to go to Polly, but Polly wasn’t the most reliable sort. He met his end near the tavern with six pints of ale in his blood, and a bet involving a mule and bear. Then it went to Riley, but Riley had always dreamed of adventure. He was just about to hop out his window when the fourth brother, Tom, caught him. However, Tom, knowing that with Riley gone HE would have to take over the farm, decided a life at sea was better and set off for the coast with Riley. No one has heard from them since. And so the late Maggie and Jerald Wormwood had only Rolf to give their beloved farm to. Rolf had to leave his blacksmith apprenticeship in order to learn the family business, and there he was today.

Finally, there were Ellie’s older brothers, Mack, Nick, and Rick. As the names might imply, the boys are identical triplets. See, the issue of who would inherit the farm isn’t a decided matter for this generation because of this. For one thing, it hardly seems fair to give Nick the farm just because he’s a half-hour older than Mack, and Mack doesn’t deserve it any more than Rick for the same reason. For another matter, no one really knows if Mack was born as Mack, or Nick was born as Nick, or Rick as Rick. The fact is, the boys were so perfectly identical as children, that it was utterly impossible to tell them apart until they were old enough to tell you which one he was himself. Therefore, no one knows whether or not the boys ended up getting mixed up at some point and saddled with the wrong names. So although the baby called Nick was the oldest, there’s no way of knowing if the boy called Nick is really the oldest or not. It was quite the conundrum, one which the Wormwood family had never dealt with until now, and had yet to solve it in the fifteen years since the boys were born.

And then there was Ellie. She was twelve years old now as of last October, and currently working a knot out her short hair. The summer sun was just coming up over the fields, spilling in through her window on the second floor of the tower, and she would soon have to be ready to run egg deliveries around town as she did every Wednesday.

“Ellie! Breakfast!” Ellie’s mother was always a curt woman.

Ellie rushed out the door, grabbing her apron from the hook on the way out. She had just finished tying it as she reached the kitchen, where her mother was slapping scrambled eggs on plates and her two of her brothers were rushing in from the other rooms. Her father was already scraping up the last of his meal with toast.

When you have no sense of taste, eating becomes more of a chore than anything else. And that’s the way the Wormwood family treated it. There’s no point to having variety if you can’t taste it, so it was scrambled eggs and toast for breakfast every single day simply because they’re easy to make.

As Ellie sat down to eat, her two brothers started to chatter about what they’d do with their afternoons. After daily chores, which rotated daily, the Wormwoods usually had a few hours of downtime.

“I’m going down to the square to play jacks with Hannah and Greg.”

“I’m gonna go to the school. I heard some adventurer agreed to tell stories ‘round then.” Which one said which, Ellie didn’t care. She was brooding over the fact that her chore, egg deliveries, would take the majority of the day with how stubborn and slow old Bertha, the farm’s only mule, was.

After finally pushing down the last of her bland meal, Ellie cleaned her dishes and left, announcing it as she did. Her mother, now nestled in a rocking chair and working on her latest quilt, told her to “Make it quick. The egg’ll rot in this heat.” The two brothers were already going about the sweeping and dish drying, so they acknowledge her leaving.

Ellie hadn’t taken three steps out when the brother who was late for breakfast came bolting past her after some chicken that got loose. That must be Nick, Ellie thought. Nick always lets the chickens out. And Ellie went to the small barn on the side of the house and dragged out old Bertha. The mule looked a little like a very worn out sock and dragged her feet with every step. After Ellie finished the task of getting Bertha tacked up and loading the eggs into the cart, she set out for the day.