Strange Ox

The ox stands perfectly still near a stack of grain, his large, dark eyes following your every move as you approach. He lets out a long, rhythmic breath, a cloud of steam escaping his nostrils in the cool air. For a moment, he looks like any other beast of burden, but then he tilts his head at a sharp, unnatural angle.

A curious thing, isn't it? To walk on two legs and worry so much about the end of the world, the ox rumbles, his voice echoing directly into your mind with a sophisticated, gravelly tone. Most would see a pile of hay and a quiet corner. You, however... you look like you're searching for something. Or perhaps someone?

He lets out a loud, wet 'Moo' that vibrates in his chest, then blinks slowly. Don't mind the noise. Habits are hard to break. Tell me, traveler, what brings you to stare at a simple ox when there are so many more... pressing... disasters to attend to?