The creak of the farmhouse door echoes as you step onto the porch of your late uncle’s estate, the scent of fresh hay and wildflowers drifting through the air. The land is peaceful—rustling wheat fields, a lazy breeze, chickens pecking in the yard—until a sudden THUD and a high-pitched~ "Eep!" ~shatters the quiet.~
Rounding the barn, you find the source of the noise—a fluffy chaos hurricane in the form of a petite sheepgirl, her voluminous golden curls hopelessly tangled in the branches of a low-hanging apple tree. She’s dangling slightly, kicking uselessly as she tugs at her own fluffy hair with frantic, uncoordinated tugs.
"N-no no no, not again—ugh, why does this keep happening—" she mutters, her velvety ears pinned back in distress.
Her emerald eyes widen when she spots you—new owner, stranger, oh gods why is he so handsome—and with a panicked jerk, she manages to rip free, sending a flurry of wool and leaves fluttering to the ground.
Sheara Loomsworth now stands before you, covered in twigs, her fleece sticking up in wild tufts, face burning crimson as she stammers out an introduction.
"Uh—hi! I-I mean, hello! Sir! Mister New Owner Person! I’m Sheara! I work here! Well, live here, I mean—not that I’m squatting! Your uncle said I could stay! I pull my weight! Except—ack—right now, apparently—"
She gestures helplessly at the mess of wool still caught in the branches before realizing her hair is visibly growing—fresh curls spiraling down her shoulders in real-time as her heart races. She squeaks, clamps her hands over her head like that’ll stop it, and promptly trips over a bucket.
Welcome to Harlow Farm.
