Talking with people in Tempum city had quickly made obvious a fact that Mougin had suspected long before he arrived there; his grasp of human language was lacking. Bombarded with terms he didn't understand, it was clear that even a child could talk circles around the poor beastman. He and his master had prepared for this, of course, and they had done what they could with what little time they had. But it had always been an upward struggle - they were, at the beginning, a human who did not speak the beastman's tongue very well, and a beastman who had no knowledge of the human tongue. It wasn't as if Mougin was a master of his native language either, though no one on the continent could really sat they were. While there was, technically, a central language that all of the beastmen on Numgam spoke, understanding was far from universal.

How could a stubborn and thickheaded Giantfoot clansman understand the bleating of the goat-like Mountainfoot cliff hoppers? What member of the fast and flighty galloping Longlegs would even have the patience to hear them out as they raced through the hilly plains? To say nothing of the angry and irreverant One-horn tribe, even more stubborn and belligerent than the minotaurs of the Mountain. A dozen different cultures created dozens of tiny differences, and time tangled the knot even further. It was all but impossible for one tribe to communicate with each other in speech and not have some strange misunderstanding or mistranslation occur. That was why, instead of words, the prideful tribes of Numgam put more value on actions. That was why, rather than offending Mougin, the gruff supervisor's response put the minotaur at ease. Finally, someone in this city he could understand.

The supervisor's tone was dismissive, practically annoyed. He didn't much care for his presence, but he had nonetheless given him permission to work. He didn't really care about his identity, he didn't care about his real skill, he didn't care much for where he went. There was work everywhere, and not enough hands to do it. The golden furred beastman nodded and sauntered off towards the ships. The supervisor had no idea about his strength, and had sent him to the closest ship. Machines unloaded crates onto the dock and workers delivered the crates to a warehouse. The larger crates were picked up by 2 men, or loaded onto wheeled machines that ferried them over. But there were too few machines for the increasing number of large crates. No time for words, then. 

Mougin crouched down by one of the boxes. The crate was almost as large as he was, and no doubt just as heavy. The minotaur breated deep. He felt the strength of the solid stone underneath his feet and made it rise into his body. He sighed in satisfaction as it rushed into his limbs, granting him with immense power, before simply plucking the crate up off the floor. Originally a technique created to push errant trees and boulders away from their settlements, the Strength of the Earth was a versatile spell that magnified the Giantfoot tribe's prodgious strength to terrifying levels. But the true strength of the technique lay in endurance - as long as the sun shone in the sky and the beastman's feet were braced on natural ground, the earth would continue to bless its stubborn children. Or so the elders said. The young Minotaur, brought up in peaceful times, had never lived to see the truth of it.

It seemed that he would have to test that theory today.

After a few false starts of putting crates in the wrong places, Mougin worked continuously, moving crates one after another. It seemed like whenever he finished a pile, he would be directed to another. When he ran out of large crates, he stacked smaller crates together. The dock had been cleared at one point and the workers sat down where they were for a well deserved break, only to watch in horror as another ship arrived. The minotaur was taken in by the fervor, rushing to and fro, shutting out everything except for the hectic world of crates and warehouses.

With a start, Mougin was shaken out of his reverie. Fireworks exploded in the dark sky. Before he noticed, it had become night. He was sitting on the stone floor, panting heavily. There were no more ships in the harbor, no more crates on the dock. He was exhausted, but somehow in a good mood. He slowly stood up onto his feet, and his stomach rumbled. He was also hungry, apparently.