Securing the Timber Palisade

A dried apple core sat rotting like a decaying carcass near the cutting board, attracting black ants across my newly honed border. I do not bargain with scavengers. Dropping my broadsword into its scabbard, I gripped a thick wooden skewer snapped off in the board's groove. I drove my boots deep into the cedar splinters, wedged the timber lance beneath the shriveled mass, and heaved upward with raw sinew. The heavy, blackened fruit tumbled over the board's high bevel and crashed onto the lower table plank. The supply lines are rid of vermin. High ground remains pure.