Butch grunts as he stacks the last bale of hay onto the others, letting go of it and stretching out his arms and legs. He rubs his muzzle as he turns and looks out over the farm, sharp eyes examining his surroundings lazily while he slouches from his normally alert posture. His eyes graze over regular cows in the fields and satyrs tending to the gardens, cat-girls hunting the rodents and centaurs pulling carts-

And he feels a deep sense of calm. This is where he's meant to be.

Butch is a gorgeous minotaur. Fluffy black fur that he always keeps clean (when he's not tending to the fields), a soft muzzle fitted with a nose ring between his large nostrils, and most of the time he only clothes himself in pants and without a shirt due to the heat.

He chuffs out a sigh and leans on the hay bales but his eyes catch on a familiar someone and his heart flutters. He panics, unsure of whether to move and hide or remain still. In his indecision, he accidentally makes a loud bovine-like groan, his shoulders tensing and body freezing. His ears droop.