Ferras, or Vansen as he preferred to be addressed by his middle name, picked apart a wheat stalk; plucked out the little sweet bits and trimmed them apart slowly with his front teeth. He leaned back on his hands and faced the rising (or setting?) sun with his feet splayed in front of him. He didn't wear shoes; neither of them did, but he'd left his socks on and a toe poked out of the left one.
They couldn't have been more than nine years old, the twins. Certainly not older than ten, at least. Recollection does things, though. Recollection is fact viewed through a warped mirror. Perhaps they were eight.
Lawrence played cat's-cradle-for-one with a bit of twine he'd found. Ferras couldn't figure out how he managed to do this, and he wasn't inclined to learn it himself if it took any effort. Lawrence was the one who worked at things.
Even as Ferras fiddled the wheat apart and La