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Ful took directions from the Dedicated directing traffic at the road junction, and left the main thoroughfare by a flight of steps that led him down onto a walled path by the creek. The deep green creek surged through a deep, man-made channel. He made his way to an archway overlooking the make-shift canal further along the wall. It was one of two side entrances to one of the farm’s kitchens and tired, hungry looking locals hung around the entrance. Soldiers and civilians alike were fed here, side by side. Earlier on, this soup kitchen had been started by one of the more sympathetic asha’aman who could not bare to see the misery of civilians and hanger-ons that populated the surrounding countryside. He converted his house on the farm into a charity with an irrigated garden in the back. Ful adjusted his satchel of herbs and berries he foraged from the woods this morning. “Uhm, I have some fresh ingredients - where should I take this?” He asked, striding into the sun-lit space and finding some men scrubbing the tables and setting out clean bowls. “In the back there,” came the reply from one of the harried looking volunteers. People were coming into the long, arched eating hall all the time, mostly locals who needed a meal, and it was hard to keep track of faces and names. Ful Haert ~ another pair of hands