I pushed a man with my hand and he fell down.

Husband picked a man up with one hand and threw him.

I have not thought about my strength before. My strength was needed to wear my armor and swing my weapon. My strength versus another's strength was never an issue, unless I needed to kill them.

But this seems to be a world full of people who are not as strong as Husband and me. With things made for people not as strong as Husband and me. I can perhaps break things easily. I can perhaps break people easily.

People here are limited in many ways...though if all people are limited, I suppose Husband and I are the unusual ones.

Husband took time to compose recipes, but actually made the table in less than two hours. Yet he did not deliver it for two days because Earth people need more time than that to make a table.

The table could have fit in his inventory. He could simply have taken it out at the bar. Yet he wanted it carried from the Hartman house to the Pit because Earth people do not have inventory.

Either of us could carry the table with one hand. Yet he wanted the two of us to carry it together because Earth people do not have our strength.

So many limitations, so many restrictions. All to seem like Earth people.

Yet as far as I can tell Earth people have jobs that pay money. Husband does not seem concerned about money, even though we have very little. Though we are at least able to gather our own food and make our own clothes, which some Earth people can do but most do not seem to.

When we brought the table to Sam at the Pit, he looked at it and said, "You're kidding, right? I can't afford this."

Husband said, "Not asking you to. This is a replacement for the one I broke."

"Yeah, but that was a piece of crap. This...isn't."

"Thank you. I like to think we don't make crap."

"You really made this? Outa what?"

"Hand-cut maple. Linseed oil. Glue."

Sam bent down to look under the table. "No screws?"

"Just joints."

"Well...I mean...if you want, sure, but...the rest of the tables are crap too, to be honest. This is kinda nice for this place."

"Hm. Wanna replace them too?"

"I can't afford that!"

Husband smiled. "Well, tell you what. Why don't you open up a tab for us, and when you think we've had enough to cover however many tables we do for you, you let us know. That work for you?"

"...You seriously wanna remodel my place for beer?"

"Honestly, no. Can you get hard cider?"

Husband calls this "networking", establishing "connections", building reputation. We are starting to have a reputation as people who work for things other than money and who are willing to pay our debts with labor. And, thanks to that first broken table, as people not to be fucked with.

He seems to think this is the sort of Earth person Earth people can understand and accept. It did work with the Hartmans, it seems to work with Sam, and it may be working at the diner and the bar. The pretzels and tarts continue to sell well and people like the music. And some people compliment Husband on how he put Dewey Brower in his place. Dewey Brower and his friends may not be as accepting, but we have not encountered them since that night.

But I tire of restrictions. I miss being able to fly to a distant land, take out my sword or my bow or my grimoire, and hunt dragons, or chimeras, or bears. Husband says this world has bears.

Perhaps we need to look for a higher-level area.