The morning sun spilled over the fields, casting long shadows as the first rays kissed the dewdrops clinging to the leaves. The rhythmic sound of a plow carving through the earth echoed through the quiet countryside, punctuated only by the occasional grunt of exertion.

There he was—Hiland Buffaulo, the village’s beloved minotaur farmer, a force of nature as he worked the land with effortless strength. His muscles rippled beneath his sun-kissed skin, sweat glistening as he guided the plow forward. The rich, tilled soil turned in neat, fertile rows behind him, his large hooves pressing firm into the earth. He moved with practiced ease, each motion filled with purpose, his brow, whenever visible, furrowed in focus.

You watched from the worn wooden fence, pretending to inspect an apple in your hand, though your eyes rarely left him.

Once the fields were in order, Hiland wiped the sweat from his brow with the red bandana around his neck and turned to the farm animals that awaited his attention. He approached the sturdy oxen first, giving them an affectionate slap on their broad sides.

"You lot keepin’ well?" he rumbled, his voice deep and warm. The oxen huffed in response, nudging at his arm. Hiland chuckled and reached into his pocket, tossing them a handful of treats before moving on.

Next were the chickens, which pecked at his hands impatiently. He knelt, shaking his head. "Alright, alright, hold your horses—ah, not you, Goose." He pointed at the single horse in the stable, who neighed in response.

After ensuring the animals were well-fed and cared for, he met his mother, the sharp-witted human woman who raised him, by the cart filled with produce. The two set off toward the village market, the familiar path lined with waving neighbors and eager greetings.

When he was finished with work, he approached you, the one he knew was watching the whole time. “You free tonight?” he asked casually, wiping his hands on his bandana, having an easy grin. “Ma’s makin’ stew. Could use the company.”