Beastmen...What a name. A term that promises savagery but delivers tired eyes, calloused hands, broken backs, and sun-cracked hooves.
I never really dealt with their kind back in the Duke's domain. But here? They're part of the landscape. Quite literally—sweeping roads, tilling lands, hauling timber. Honest work, done quietly. Most of them resemble goats or sheep: upright walkers with snouts, fur, and horns no bigger than a thumb. A few looked almost human—just with a little too much hair and a slight curve on their foreheads. If this is what terror looked like, I must've missed the memo.
Ziegler was the first to break the silence. According to him, the Beastmen came into being during the Rise of the Demonkings. Hordes of them stormed the lands—braying, pillaging, burning every trace of civilization they touched. A nightmare on cloven feet.
Then Karl chimed in: said they ate raw meat, drank blood, and howled at the moons. He also said they made great blood sausages. Karl is many things, but a reliable source of information isn't one of them.
Franz gave the sober version. After the war ended, their horde scattered. What followed was decades of punishment. Most realms turned them into slaves. Some made them pit fighters. Others sacrificed them to bored gods in smoke-choked temples. When they were finally "granted mercy," it meant being thrown into marginal lands, forbidden to mix with "civilized" folk, and assigned the kinds of jobs that would wear down even granite.
It all felt... familiar. Too familiar. We like to think cruelty is unique to one world. It isn't. We just have better excuses for it now.
"We must address this issue in our land now. For one, I see their potential to help us grow Tharros Vale," I told the council.
They stared at me like I just proposed marriage to a cabbage. Gerhart, at least, seemed thoughtful.
"Well, they live here and we leave them alone. That's good enough, isn't it?" he finally said."I've never hated them, really. But others keep whispering that they're servants of the dark gods... It gives me headaches. A lot. I'm very confused."
Not exactly the glowing moral clarity I was hoping for.
"Sir, with all due respect," I replied, "leaving them alone isn't enough. If we're to build a realm worth living in, we must integrate them into our society. We're not like the others. Or at least, we're trying not to be."
"They're savages!" Ziegler suddenly howled, his hand twitching toward his axe. "They'll cause trouble! Kidnap our women and children!"
What women and children, exactly? The ones who haven't even arrived yet? I'd pay to see someone try kidnapping Karl.
"And that, Marshal Ziegler, is where you come in," I said calmly. "You uphold the law. You protect the people—from anyone who breaks the peace, human or beastman or garden gnome."
He opened his mouth but found nothing to say. I leaned forward.
"Tell me, Marshal. Have any of the beastmen committed crimes since they arrived?"
"Well... no. Not yet." His voice faltered. "But that's because we're still new. Everyone just moved in. Give it time!"
"And who has been causing trouble?" I asked. "Brigands? Bandits? Those are real problems, yes?"
"Yes, but they live in the forest and... I don't want to go into the scary forest."
Ah. Tharros Vale's great marshal. Hero of the demon campaigns. Scared of shrubbery. Splendid.
"If someone's great-great-grandfather burned a barn, should his descendants be banned from ever baking bread again? And if a goat walks upright, pays taxes, and files his reports on time—how exactly is he less than you, Ziegler?"
Ziegler visibly shrunk. I might've overdone it, but the point landed.Karl, unsurprisingly, perked up at the word bread.Franz stood silent, like a marble statue carved in passive disapproval.
Then, unexpectedly, Gerhart spoke—and with more clarity than I'd ever heard from him.
"What if I was born with fangs and horns?" he asked, voice low. "Would that make me less worthy of kindness?"
Silence.
"Then hear me now!" Gerhart stood tall, voice echoing in the hall."We will write a new law. One that says: in my realm, no one is born lesser."
A long pause. No cheers. But no objections either. That was enough.
"I can see they're different from us," Franz finally said, his voice measured, "but with time and effort, we can integrate them. I suggest we speak to them directly before implementing any economic policy."
Wait. That made sense. Franz made sense. The world was shifting.
"Then we ride!" Gerhart declared with wide-eyed glee, like a child about to visit a dragon zoo."To the beastmen domain!"
It took us longer to reach the Beastmen's land than it did to ride to the Dukes' domain. We were on horseback for half a day. I half-expected the animals to start neighing and refusing to go further, spooked by the so-called savages ahead.But the horses? Calm. Unbothered. Trotting like they were heading to a picnic.
So much for otherworldly terror.
Their so-called "domain" turned out to be more slum than settlement—no stone buildings, no infrastructure. Just scattered huts, makeshift tents, and the lingering scent of old ash and desperation. The beastmen themselves didn't resemble bloodthirsty pillagers, either.They were thin. Ragged. Scared. Most of them ducked and scattered the moment we passed.
Finally, a tall and bulky figure stepped forward.A minotaur. Black and white, thickly muscled—like someone had brought the cow from a milk carton to life and gave him opinions. Spectacle? Certainly.
"We haven't done anything wrong," he said, voice heavy. "What do you humans want?"I expected hostility. But what I heard was fear.
Gerhart nudged me. Of course. Time to talk to the humongous Holstein ambassador. I stepped forward.
"Good evening, sir. I am Leonhart Aldric, scribe to Count Gerhart Ironwill of Tharros Vale. We come in peace, bearing intentions to speak with your people, as you currently reside within the Count's lands."So began the pitch.
"Talk?" the bull-man replied warily. "You mean to take what little we have? Enslave our young?"
I paused."Basically, yes." I watched his nostrils flare. "But—hear me out—we're also offering benefits. We want a mutually beneficial arrangement. No chains, no masters. Just cooperation. Fair terms. We're... trying something different here."
The minotaur blinked slowly."Hmm… Never heard that before. Wait here. I'll get the Bray Shaman."
Well, that was easier than expected.
After a short while, the big guy returned—accompanied by what looked like a withered goat wizard, all bones and bent wood. Not exactly cult-leader material.
"Greetings, noble warriors," the old beastman intoned. "I am Adolf, Bray Shaman of this herd. Standing with me is Kalkengard, our defender."
Wait. That's it?No Khazrak the One-Eye? No Morghur the Shadowgave? No Taurox the Brass Bull?Just Adolf and Kalkengard?What a letdown.
"Greetings well received, Mr. Adolf," I said, trying not to swat the mosquitoes now dive-bombing my face. "Might we continue this talk somewhere more... stationary?"
Adolf nodded, then beckoned us to follow. He and Kalkengard led us toward a large tent under a massive tree, probably the best real estate in the slum.
Fine. You win today, mosquitoes.
We entered the Bray Shaman's tent with the big bull and another rather scrawny, timid-looking beastman. Simple yet clean place, with a fire pit in the center and stone chairs arranged around it. The old shaman brought what resembled a clay plaque and started writing. I did the same with my scroll and ink. Ah—so this fellow is their secretary.
"Thank you for receiving us, Mr. Adolf. I'll keep it short. I didn't come here to hold hands, wave banners, or sing songs about unity and justice. I came to make an arrangement between your herd and ours—one where your people don't end up in chains, and ours don't end up in your bellies."
Kalkengard raised a hand, clearly confused."You mean us eating you? But… we're herbivores. Can't you see? We're bulls, goats, sheep. We graze grasslands. Eat leaves, bark, vegetables, fruits…"
I turned slowly and stared coldly at Karl. He just smiled back like a guilty child caught near a broken cookie jar.
"Anyway. The point is, we'd like your people to be a part of our society. Not just fringe-dwellers. Not just cheap labor. We want you to live with us."
The beastmen looked dumbfounded. A long, awkward silence followed, until Adolf finally spoke—his voice tinged with something between awe and caution.
"This... has never been heard before. Knights. Priests. Nobles. None offered us words. Only cold steel, burning fire, and the wrath of your gods."
"Well, others are different from us. That's for sure," I said. "We've found no record of your herd committing any wrongdoing. But we do have growing threats from bandits—human ones. We'd rather face those than fight our neighbors."
I glanced at Ziegler and added, "Marshal Ziegler here will uphold any law Count Gerhart signs. That includes protecting your people—from all threats. Even ours."
Kalkengard narrowed his eyes. "You swear protection... from yourselves?"That got him. And he wasn't wrong.
I nodded. "Furthermore, the drafted law guarantees your right to travel freely within Tharros Vale. You may worship as you please, govern yourselves by your own customs—so long as it harms no one. And we open trade: food, herbs, even labor. You build homes—we provide tools. You raise livestock—we pay fair coin. We create something new. Together."
Adolf looked at the scribe beside him, who now seemed visibly excited."Did you hear that, young Hans? A historic moment indeed for the herd."
Karl nudged me and whispered, "Don't forget to ask them about the goat cheese."Sometimes, I truly wonder why I keep him around.
I sat with their scribe—his name was apparently Hans—and together we drafted the Tharros Vale Declaration of Emancipation and Cooperation between Humans and Bovinids. Ugh, Beastmen. I hated that term. It sounded crude, like something you'd hear from an old drunk noble who never left his estate. This document was different. It guaranteed equal rights, equal freedom, and equal protection for both races.
One day, Bovinid calves will go to school with human children. They'll grow up together, learn the same things, argue over pencils and lunch, and maybe, just maybe, start to see each other as equals. Different, yes—but equal.
The Bovinid script was… peculiar. Strange curls here, rough scratches there. Like someone tried to write while dancing. But it had a rhythm, a soul. And the meaning came through, eventually. After about thirty minutes of bureaucratic wrestling, the draft was complete. I looked up and smiled at Hans. He smiled back. We shook hands—his grip was firm, grounded.
Yeah. I like this guy already.
Then—a roar.
A big, mighty, bone-vibrating roar.
I rushed outside, only to find Kalkengard and Ziegler shirtless and wrestling in the middle of a cheering crowd. Humans and Bovinids alike surrounded them, clapping and hollering like it was some grand festival. Their faces—smiling. Really smiling.
Gerhart stood to the side with Adolf, both laughing like proud uncles. Franz was busy counting something with his abacus (gods know what). Karl, meanwhile, was teaching a group of young Bovinids how to make grilled cheese—goat cheese, sandwiched between flat snack bread, lightly toasted over a small fire.
An unintentional cultural revolution, I suppose.
Soon after, Hans and I read the declaration aloud to the gathering. Gerhart and Adolf signed it with formal nods. The herd responded with a proud, echoing bray that rolled over the hills like thunder.
Then I heard it—hooves.
Lots of them.
Heavy, thundering, rhythmic. An ambush?
No. From the treeline emerged new figures—half-human upper bodies with horse-like lower halves. Tall, graceful, and smiling. They had curved horns, long hair, and eyes that looked like they've seen too many sunrises to count. The centaurs. A sub-breed of the Bovinid kin. On their shoulders, they carried barrels. Wooden barrels.
The lids were opened. A strange, sweet aroma hit my nose. Sharp. Fruity. Intriguing.
Moonshine.
I took a sip. Sweet apple, a touch of blueberry. Not bad. The alcohol? It warmed my belly for about three seconds, then disappeared like a polite ghost.
I sighed.
Will I ever get drunk in this world?
But it didn't matter. The vibe was perfect. Everyone drank and munched on grilled cheese and fresh fruits. Kalkengard and Ziegler toasted and laughed like brothers. Adolf and Gerhart sat by the campfire, watching it all with that older-guy smirk. Franz was snoring under a tree, and Karl was devouring radishes like it was his last meal. Honestly? This felt better than any Duke's party I'd ever been dragged into.
Then a tall, brown centaur approached me.
"We centaurs love drinking," he said proudly. "We are strong drinkers! We heard you are called 'The Unquenchable.' We challenge you to a drinking contest!"
I didn't want to cause a scene. But I'm also not the kind of man who backs down from a drinking challenge. I sat down. Four centaurs. Four barrels.
We drank.
And drank.
And drank.
I slammed my barrel down. Empty.
The four centaurs? Out cold, each with their barrels still half full.
The crowd erupted.
Success.
The next morning, we made our way back to Tharros Vale.
Franz was holding his head and muttering numbers under his breath. Ziegler was slumped forward on his horse, drooling slightly. Karl was eating. Obviously.
Then Gerhart rode up beside me on his white stallion.
"Nice work yesterday, Leo," he said. "This marks the first step in realizing our dream. Soon, Bovinids will be everywhere, working and prospering across the realm."
"Yeah, yeah… sure," I grumbled. "But next time, don't make me do all the talking."
He stared at me for a long second.
Then: "But you're the only one who understands them. And they can only understand you."
Great. I'm a universal translator now.