The overseer trotted by periodically. His mare's chestnut coat was wet with sweat, but he rode on in wide laps around the fields, tugging down his hat and scratching at his badly shaven neck. He had a long whip, standard for his profession, that danced behind him like a waving urban drunk.
Almost all eyes were on the crop, not the man. The shimmery-skinned elves sweated differently from the horse and the overseer: their flesh went from pale luminance to something much more dull with hints of their typical granite-like speckles turning darker. Every slave had their skin transformed by this point in the day. Their hair, incredibly lightly hued, had stuck to their necks and forehead hours ago as the sun blazed overheard, clouds briefly and barely giving them respite. They were short enough to snatch up the cotton, their fingers more slim and delicate than men's to avoid the pain of picking the crop.
But their feet still grew calloused and bled when struck against rocks.
Polish sucked in a harsh breath and doubled over, cursing in his native language. His right hand swiftly went to his big toe, and he stared hazily at the wound. His nail was spread back in one ugly push. The offending rock was wedged in between the rows, mostly covered with thick red clay. He looked between the stone and his foot. His pale blue hair - that everyone teased him about, including his master and his mistress - ducked into his vision, wet and sticking to his speckled cheeks. He slapped it back and winced when he stepped aside, trying to test out his injury.
It expectedly hurt, but not more than the aggravated shout from the overseer which came closer than he thought.
"Boy, whatcha stoppin' for?"
Polish looked up, realizing he probably was wearing a piteous expression, but he was not fast enough to pull it off his face. Elves naturally expressed themselves in almost exaggerated ways: men pointed this out usually in reference to how they were like dogs, big eyes and mouths showing everything.
The overseer, Erick Rowin, stared down at him, mixed in disgust and confusion. Polish couldn't point out his toe, Erick wouldn't be able to see it from his vantage point even on the mare.
He pushed the large bag fluffed with crop to the side and said loudly, so he could be heard, "I stubbed my toe, sir! The nail's gone!"
In that moment, a variety of people heard and understood Polish's call. His fellow elven slaves perked - some of them glancing up, others even stopping their work for a moment, several hearing but not pausing in the slightest. His closest friends remained still as they considered the situation from numerous diverse spots in the fields. One girl started towards him but was firmly rebuked by a nearby older woman, who shot her an expression with her eyes, mouth, and ears that sent the younger slave back to her spot, worrying her lip between her teeth.
Polish's best companion, Royoa, was not too far away and came trampling over before the overseer could even stop him. He didn't disturb the crop, typical of elves in the fields, and kneeled down to assess the wound by the time Erick Rowin finally formulated a command to move back to his spot.
"Course, sir, of course!" Royoa shouted brightly from under the cotton plants, his fingers spreading over Polish's injured foot. The overseer knew when he was being put off, but he valued his authority, so he allowed a few moments for the elf to figure things out before the whip came out of its grip on the saddle.
Royoa glanced up at Polish with excellent, dark eyes that were like sickly puddles after a stormy rain. His white hair was shaved almost all the way off but was slowly returning in a short buzzed style not uncommon for field slaves. He had a faint golden bruise around his left eye from where the other overseer had punched him not long ago for speaking back, but it only accented the few colors in his otherwise bland garments.
His fingers found the snapped toenail and touched it in such a way Polish nearly kicked him. His hand tried to find some control over the situation by touching Royoa's head, but his friend smiled up at him, dark lips curving up with his eyes showing fondness.
In a yank, he removed the toenail.
Polish made a high-pitched sound somewhere between his throat and his lungs, and his fingers came away with tiny bits of white hair from Royoa's head. He shakily stared down at the other elf, whose concentration was now turned utterly to his foot, and then up at Erick, who teetered between being captivated as usual and frustrated as hell. Elves always did this - shit you could barely understand but in the end it was most often best to let them work it out.
It was, of course, another case where the elves could handle it better than the men.
Royoa muttered a few lines in their language, took a small pouch from his pocket, spread the crumbling herbs over the fresh bleeding wound, and leaned down.
Regardless of the filth, the cotton, the clay, Royoa kissed his friend's nailless toe in the field.
He stood up, smiled victoriously at Polish, and was toppling back towards his spot in an instant. He resumed picking cotton before practically anyone else who had stopped did, initiating a mass return to the plants from the now more relaxed field slaves.
Polish nodded at the overseer, Erick, who drawled out in irritation, "You good, boy?"
The elf nodded again in confirmation and grabbed the rock from the clay, the red staining up his already reddened fingers. He tossed it out of the field with a easy, casual throw away from anyone. As his hands touched the white fluffs of cotton, desperate to remain attached, Polish glanced down at his once wound.
The toenail was back, looking cleaner than all the others. However, in a few moments, it was wet and slick and dirty with clay, just like the others, as Polish progressed onwards down the line, picking cotton for a master he likely wouldn't even see that day.
