Men are not exempt from the thought of the plow.

This much is made apparent to Rex as he walks through the halls of Castle Alteria, hand clutching his angry gut. The sun is high and with it the trumpet of breakfast calls. The lonely halls are empty as he mindlessly walks past the many rooms and quarters, glancing at the marks of history against the floors and walls with a bored look.

The castle used to be filled to the brim with maidens and manservants, as it was when he first entered its walls as a usurper. But now, as the big guy up top, he's let them all go back to their families, only calling upon their services once the country hosts a festival or something.

But for the every day, it's like this.

He stares, boxer-clad, into the metal box in front of him. It's always that right hand on his hip, the left on his chin. It'll either scratch or prod or pick his nose. No matter. Rex'll stare at the sad lump of cheese in the back for five minutes, and once he's satisfied at the sad display of a king's pantry, he'll step away and say…

"I think I'll make a bagel today."

As he's always had.

Slamming the fridge closed, he croons his head upward to the freezer. A quick flick of his hand opens the upper door, revealing to the barbarian a thriving community.

The balls of yeast-flour of varying ages all had one common quirk, one Xasne has given up on making him notice.

"Hiss."

The yeast-clumps growled at the man, huddling together against the cold and away from his gaze. It was, at the very least, unnatural. Xasne had always wondered what magic Rex did to grant meal sentience, but Rex did not.

With impunity, Rex yanks a young boy from his family, mindlessly tossing the ball into the air as he slams the door shut. The peaceful tribe is thrust back to its dark tundra, with one less lump to huddle against for warmth. The orb of living flour and yeast plops onto a nearby bowl with a clang. Rex moves to fetch his ingredients, humming a merry tune as he loses himself to his work.

Soon enough, the sounds of baking fill the kitchen. A cacophony of clanging and banging eerily reminiscent of battle reverberates through its walls, numbing Rex to the woes of life and the grumpy grumbling of a wife woken at the other end of the castle.

Not that he cares at this very moment. A baker finds joy being lost in his craft, he says.

He's not a baker. He's a ten feet tall warmonger.

Sure enough, the ruckus ends, and with it comes the completion of his meal. Rex studies the plate in front of him with pride, nodding as the bread seemed perfect in his eyes.

There, on the ceramic, stood something his wife always mistook as his attempt at warfare. The smoke, she's sworn, had formed skulls when he wasn't looking, and nearby life seemed to rot whenever it caught wind of the bagel's scent.

The worst part was that it mirrored his skin in tone, which wouldn't be bad if the closest approximation of his complexion wasn't a lovely bucket of Vantablack.

Rex never really paid her words any heed.

But something does feel off looking at it now. Something felt… wrong. Has he come to realize his fault, his absolute inability to bake anything edible at the very least?

"It needs more flavor."

The castle seemingly cringes from his words, the ceiling crumbling ever so slightly. Scanning around the room for anything to add, his gaze lands on a set of cans. Sugar? As much as a sweet tooth he wants to be, the bread's sweet enough to kill.  Creamer? No. That'd be stupid. Using Xasne's creamer will net him a speed-date with a certain wife's fist, and he's painfully loyal.

Rex bites his lip, growing more distressed with every second his anthrax-bagel remains unseasoned.

Coffee grounds?

It's not like he's got anything to lose, right?

Shrugging to himself, the massive man reaches for the tiny tin of coffee, twisting the can open, and dipping a massive finger into the powder. Perhaps the only normal thing to come was his reaction to its taste.

"Eugh."

One lick is all he needs to know that the coffee was off. Probably because it was past its best-by date.

Or maybe it was because of the gnarly appendage erupting from the can, clawing at his neck with its caffeine-crusted nails of doom.

No. It was just definitely just past its best-by date.

Rex makes a mental note to buy a new tin before Xasne notices.

But the problem of his bagel still exists.

He rubs his chin, slamming his eyes shut as hard as he can as he thinks long and hard. Not that it'd help. His brain could only run as much as a sea cucumber.

Wait, did he salt his bagel?

As he raises a brow and scans a room, an even more powerful question made itself known.

Where is his salt?

Upon placing the coffee can on the table, Rex quickly exits the room, soul ablaze to search for his spice, grabbing a confused and caffeine-hungry Xasne who just happened to exist by the arm. He, alongside a struggling Xasne, delves deep into the antediluvian antiquities of Castle Magna, in search of the sacred spice.

How unfortunate, too, as the can of coffee slinked towards the killer bagel with malicious intent.