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Kirtok's return to the Last Hill Inn was met with no great ceremony as he limped into the building and headed downstairs. Grasping the door handle at the bottom of the steps, the minotaur pushed his way into the basement. Conor was already going over some paper work, as was usual for the guild master. Kirtok rarely saw the man leave the inn, except to run an errand or two that he didn't feel like leaving up to one of his Wolves. Conor was also getting on in years from what Kirtok guessed, and he had long ago retired from active duty.

Conor looked up and grinned when he saw the minotaur. He interlocked his fingers behind his head and leaned back in his chair as it creaked beneath him.

"Well well, look who's back. What did the healer say?" Conor asked.

Kirtok moved as though the cut he'd suffered was little more than a rolled ankle. "I'll be moving around normally in a couple days at worst."

"I'm surprised that he could patch you up at all, considering those buggers in Mullead couldn't properly treat it."

Kirtok grunted, letting the remark slide. He'd spent a week in Mullead's infirmary to make sure the cut from the gnoll's sword didn't get infected, and had it sutured shut. There was no magical healing to be found in such a small village, but the doctor did the best he could with what he had. Once Kirtok found a wagon headed back to Swifthaven though, he left to find a proper healer.

He was glad to finally be rid of the crutch he'd been using to support himself.

"Did you speak with the caravan leader?"

"Aye, that I did. You did a bang up job. Only a couple people dead but what can you expect with only one body guard? Gnolls must've been desperate to strike so close to town." Conor dug into one of his vest pockets and produced a jingling, leather sack. He tossed it towards Kirtok and said, "That's your share of the pay from the job. Pretty good for a first time, eh?"

The minotaur gingerly held the small string that cinched the pouch closed, and pulled it open. Inside was a small pile of silver coins. The job had only been a couple weeks long, and he earned almost a farmer's entire month of earnings from it, and that was even after Conor took his cut and paid for the healer. Being a mercenary was looking to be far more lucrative than being a farmer.

If I save up enough gold, maybe I can buy my land back. Kirtok thought. He tucked the pouch into the satchel he wore over his kilt.But would it even be my home anymore?

"By the way, you should have told me you were a mage," Conor said, breaking Kirtok from his thoughts. Before the minotaur could respond, the guild master added, "Gonna boost our guild's worth now with you around. Pantheon knows we been needing one. You're scary enough as you are, but imagine what people will pay to hire Kirtok the Magical Minotaur."

Kirtok frowned at Conor's excitement. He snorted, feeling as though he was being made fun of. He didn't want to tell him that he had no idea where his power came from. Instead of entertaining the money-hungry guild master, Kirtok said, "I'm going to take a couple days off to heal before I take any more work."

"Aye, fine by me. More than earned it with this job."

Kirtok headed upstairs, careful not to put too much weight on his right leg as he climbed up. The bar upstairs was filled with a handful of Ebonwolves, taking part in some early evening entertainment. The thunk of a dart hitting a corkboard attracted Kirtok's attention for a brief moment as a group of three men were playing a game. Their table had a large pitcher of ale that the minotaur noted looked mostly empty.

Another group sat in a darkened corner talking animatedly to each other and sharing a couple laughs. Opposite of them on the other side of the room sat a woman and two men who were dealing out a deck of cards.

"Were you hungry?" Jenna asked as Kirtok walked by. "I could have something brought up to your room."

"No. I bought dinner in the market earlier," Kirtok replied, heading straight for the stairs.

From the card table, one of the men called over to him, "Hey Kirtok, join us for a game, would ya?"

The minotaur looked in his direction, trying to remember who the ashen haired man was. Cale or Caleb or something. Kirtok didn't care to learn people's names. Other than this man's invitation to their table, no one paid much attention to him since he arrived. They seemed sore with him, considering how much he'd thrown the lot of them around during his training.

The rest of the guild regarded him with fear, rather than respect. Conor and Doren were the only two who seemed to offer him any level of deference. They didn't ask questions about where he went or what he did, save for when it pertained to his job, and they left him alone when he wanted.

Kirtok looked around, and noticed that a few people were staring back in his direction. When they realized he was aware of their stares, they went back to their conversations, though their voices were noticeably more hushed than before.

Just like back home. Guess not everything changes, Kirtok thought, feeling his tail sway side to side of its own accord. Even in Swifthaven he couldn't get away from the gossip and suspicion, except here, it was because he was an oddity, because he wasn't human. His scar itched, and he resisted the urge to scratch at it.

"We're about to deal a hand of Skirmish," Cale said, and motioned towards an open seat across from his friend. He was oblivious to the fact that the chair was far too small to support someone of Kirtok's size. "You've played before right? It's more interesting with more people. Do you want in? We're only betting with copper pieces today."

The woman scoffed at him. "Only because you insisted and you're the one who owns the deck."

"My game, my rules," Cale shot back, grinning. He looked back to Kirtok. "You in?"

"No thanks." Kirtok gave a huff, prompting a puff of smoke to float from his mouth. He hoped no one noticed, but he was certainly aware of it as the burn in his chest and throat became more incessant.

As he curved up to the second floor, he could hear a few remarks from behind him.

"What's his problem?"

"You should just leave him alone. Last thing I want is to piss off someone that big."

"What does he _do_up there anyways?"

They thought they were being quiet, but Kirtok could still hear them. Minotaur were not known for their sense of hearing, not like other species of beastman, but he imagined it was better than what humans were capable of. Perhaps they weren't trying to be quiet, and meant for him to hear those things. Whatever the case was, the minotaur wasn't going to give them the satisfaction of reacting to their gossip.

The urge to punch a hole in a nearby wall intensified, but he was able to hold himself back until he could calm down. He shuffled into his room, locking the door behind him.

As far as comforts went, the room was well furnished. For a human tenant. The bed was small, and a second one had been brought into the room so that Kirtok could sleep comfortably across them. This took up most of the room, leaving little space for a chair and some shelving that was installed into one of the walls. Several books sat haphazardly stacked on the shelf. He moved to look at them, running a thick finger along the spines as he read the titles. They ranged from novels to books on horticulture.

Jenna must have brought them up, Kirtok thought. He remembered talking to her a bit before leaving with the convoy, and she promised to get him a few books to read. He was surprised to see a horticultural book in the pile. He didn't recall telling her about his previous life as a farmer, but being that she worked and lived in the Last Hill, she likely overheard him telling someone.

Kirtok crossed the room and opened the window, allowing the cool evening air to flood in. The snow would melt in a couple weeks, and it was getting warmer by the day. It was comfortable enough for someone with his thick hide to be able to endure the cold without heavy clothing on.

Something about his room felt lacking though, and he couldn't quite place what it was. He tried to think about what his room back home had been like, but the memories were too painful to bear. They were still fresh in his mind, as though the accident had only happened a month ago. As far as he felt, it was when he considered that he'd been in a coma in the infirmary for ages.

Wanting to get his mind off it, Kirtok grabbed one of the smaller novels off the shield, his fingers brushing against the horticulture text as he reached past it, before laying in his bed to read. The sun crawled towards the horizon, turning the room from a light orange to a dark purple as the light it cast faded away.

The next morning, Kirtok awoke as robins chirped in a tree outside his window. He stretched across the bedding, tapping the wall with his hooves. He took a deep breath, and sighed in disappointment. It wasn't the same as he remembered growing up. He'd lived in the same house for the first chunk of his life, and now he'd been suddenly thrust into something completely new and unfamiliar.

The town smelled different, and he couldn't hear the sounds of pigs or chickens that he'd grown up around. The Last Hill wasn't home, and he laid in bed for a while, thinking about what else was missing.

His arm brushed against something and he looked over at his side where the book he was reading last night sat. It was a long time since he fell asleep reading a story after a busy day. He climbed out of bed and returned the novel to its shelf, right next to the almanac. Kirtok paused, stared at the books arrayed on the shelf, then shrugged. There was an idea forming in the back of his mind, but it slipped away as soon as he tried to focus on it. He felt frustrated and the taste of ash tickled his tongue.

Dressing in his kilt and sash, Kirtok left the inn and went to the market. Now that he had some money, he was itching to spend it on something, though he wasn't sure what. He passed a few shops as he casually strolled down the street, peeking inside the windows to see what they offered. The selection of goods, from fine clothes to furniture made his home town look like a slum. It was nothing that he was interested in buying though, and he kept going, stopping only briefly at a vendor who was outside cooking some food.

Giving the man a few copper, he picked up a kebab skewered rabbit that had been slow cooked and seasoned over a fire. Though a bit gamey, it was much more preferable to beef, which was the only other option the man had. Kirtok had never eaten cow before, and he didn't plan on doing so any time soon. Minotaur were not cows, of course, but there was something unnerving about the very idea.

A collection of vases and pots in a store window caught his attention and he paused. The store, called Pottery Palace, had a host of various clay and terracotta goods. Among them were a number of planters that looked like the one's his mother used to plant her tomatoes in to get a head start on the garden. Seeing them in the window gave him an idea.

I know exactly what my room is missing, Kirtok thought as he stepped inside, leaving only once he'd purchased three identical clay planters.

After dropping his new possessions off in the Last Hill, he rushed around town to locate the other things he needed, including a tin watering can, a handful of seeds, and some soil. The people in town were friendly, if a bit wary when he approached them to ask for directions. After several hours, he managed to find everything he needed.

The Wolves gave him some curious looks when he returned carrying a bag full of his goods. He headed straight upstairs and got to work planting his seeds, ignoring their inquisitive questions. They would end up making fun of him for such a simple hobby anyways. They didn't need to know about it.

Kirtok sat down on his bed when he was finished his work, dusting off the dried soil that blackened his finger tips. The air smelled of moist dirt, and he nodded with satisfaction at how much more familiar it was compared to the smells of the city. Being a farmer was in his blood, and he couldn't live without such a simple yet fulfilling existence. It would be months before anything would be ready to harvest, but tending to his small window garden would satisfy a part of him that had been neglected ever since the fire.

Once a farmer, always a farmer, he thought. His father used to say that often when he'd talk of distant relatives who tried to give it up and would always return to their family farms. The Freehorn were always meant to be keepers of the land. It was like instinct that was ingrained into them after generations. No matter how scattered their tribe was, they would always have this single thing in common.

Kirtok eased himself down onto the bed, resting his head on the pillow. With his fingers interlocked and resting on his chest, he closed his eyes and relaxed. With no one around to bother him, he felt content and at peace, thinking about all the things he wanted to grow and raise once he got his farmland back. He wondered how long he would be with the Ebonwolves.

I'll get my land back one day. He dug out a coin from his satchel and held it up between two fingers. It glistened in the light. I'll be able to return to that peaceful life once more. One silver at a time.