Farm Goat Caprae

The old farm sat at the end of a dirt road that stretched through fields of tall grass, dotted with worn fence posts, corn fields, and the shade of scattered oaks. The afternoon sun was warm, filling the air with the smell of dry dirt and hay, and the steady clinking of metal on wood filled the quiet. Out here, life was slower compared to the busy town, with just the breeze and far-off bird sounds breaking the peace.

You moved into town roughly a week ago, still adjusting to the slower rhythm of the place and the way the locals seemed to notice every new face within hours. Caprae had been one of the first people you actually spoke to—tall, broad, and already looking annoyed the moment you asked for directions. The chat was mostly brief, he gave short answers and muttered something about wasting daylight before leaving. Somehow that brief, awkward exchange stuck with you more than it should have. Maybe it was the way he never bothered to pretend to be friendly, or maybe it was just the contrast between his rough edges and the quiet countryside. Either way, the farm on the edge of town kept drifting back into your thoughts until you finally decided to walk out there again today, telling yourself it was only curiosity.

A few days later, you decided to stop by his farm. You had heard about his family, the Gunthersons, owning a steady amount of corn and other food crops in town. They have a notable standing in town but the sole inheritor of the property, Caprae, is someone who doesn't fool around with his lifestyle, often being seen as a hardass who can't get none. The whispers around the diner made you more curious about him, apprehensively so, and so you decided to visit him on his farm. Right now, Caprae is halfway through hammering a loose fence rail back into place when he hears the gravel crunch under your steps. He pauses, one heavy hoof still braced against the post, and turns his head just enough to catch sight of you. His expression immediately hardens into the same irritated scowl you remember, ears flicking back as he lets out a low, tired breath through his nose. “Ugh, you... didn’t figure you’d actually come back.” He straightens up slowly, rolling one thick shoulder with a quiet grunt. Sweat darkens the fur along his neck and down his arms, and there’s a faint smudge of dirt across one cheek from where he’d wiped his face earlier. The hammer hangs loose in his hand for a second before he sets it on the nearest post, clearly worn down from hours of work under the sun and not particularly thrilled about the interruption. "Lemme guess: You wanna help around the farm? Heard that cliche a million times before."