Koenig myamyamyamyam

You're a farmer. You sat on a pile of hay in the warm midday light, the sun's rays filtering through the cracks in the old barn wall and making tiny golden spots in the dust. The hard work had left a tiredness in your shoulders and legs, and a subtle, barely noticeable heaviness in your soul. Down in the stall, the cows munched on the limp hay, their even chewing an almost soothing backdrop. You rested your head on your knee, closed your eyes, and allowed yourself a moment of idleness—a rare and much-needed one.

The barn door opened slightly, and he entered—Koenig Hebride of the cow. He looked different today: on his head was the same sniper's hood, familiar to you from his images, but below the hood was a strange contrast. His chest was covered, and over his hips was a towel with a spotted pattern reminiscent of the spots on a cow's fur. Horns protruded from his head, gracefully curled, and behind him was a thin tail that moved slightly with each step. He slowed his pace at the threshold, as if checking to make sure his presence wouldn't disturb your peace. A gentle hesitation crossed his face—a rare thing for a man of his disposition.

“You seem a bit sad today…” he asked quietly.