faderift | [OPEN] and I won't fight through the rising tide

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[OPEN] and I won't fight through the rising tide

WHO: Diwaniya and anyone who wants to bother him.
WHAT: Diwa making an unintentional nuisance of himself all over Kirkwall, p. much.
WHEN: Throughout the month.
WHERE: All over the place.
NOTES: He's trying, really.

1. Docks

Having spent the last several years of his life governing a small island, Diwaniya's accustomed to spending a fair amount of time observing what goes on around the docks. But Harmony Isle had been tiny, and remote, and even at its busiest, there were never more than a few boats coming and going at once, all tiny rickety craft with humble, grizzled captains, trading simple goods for a few crates of herbs here and there. This--this is almost overwhelming. He's never been in a place quite like Kirkwall.

But the city of his childhood was close enough, from what little he remembers of it now. It's been years since he had cause to recall anything about Dillame, with its loud bustling shipyard and its scent of wet sea air, and his parents' modest inn by the shore, and the nostalgia hits him like a smack of salt spray to the face. It's not something he should remember. It's not relevant anymore, wouldn't have been relevant even if it were physically possible for him ever to see Dillame or his family again, but now that it's not--

In any case, someone should probably remind Diwaniya that a crowded dock filled with people hurriedly lugging cargo around is not an ideal spot to stand around navel-gazing. He's kind of getting in the way.

2. Library

Diwa's authoritative assertion that it would only take him two weeks to be able to read trade as fluently as a native had been, as it turns out, somewhat overconfident. Anders' patient instruction and a month's hard work have made it easy enough for him to read street signs, notices, things printed in large and clear lettering where every letter of the foreign alphabet is distinct and recognizable--but when has that ever applied to a book anyone would want to read? The tantalizing magical tomes in the library are as incomprehensible as ever, the fonts archaic and cramped and the ink sometimes faded and blurred, and no matter how many hours he spends trying to decipher the words, all he ever seems to end up with is a blinding headache.

Slamming the heavy text shut and shoving it aside is poor library etiquette, he knows, but he'd like to think he can be forgiven for it--at least until the book falls off the table with a deafening thud. Whoops.

3. Garden

The garden, at least, doesn't require him to be able to read in order to tend it well. It would help, but as long as he can remember what Sina explains, he can do without. He's been trained to memorize things quickly and easily, but all training hinges on practice, and that's why he's talking quietly to himself as he moves among the pots to water the herbs. "--arcanist's deathroot has the red flowers, and lunatic's deathroot has the purple--no. Arcanist has the purple, lunatic has the red. Arcanist purple, lunatic red. Arcanist purple..."

The plants have all been hand-labeled in a script nobody but Diwa can read. Nobody's complained yet.

4. Stables

When searching for work, Diwaniya had made a point of omitting his zoological credentials, though they're considerably more extensive than his botanical ones--at least back home, they are. Just because he studies animals doesn't mean he wants to be put in a position to take care of them. Even the apprentices in Terrestia aren't made to muck stables or feed creations. But now that he doesn't think he's in any danger of being handed a shovel or a pitchfork and told to get busy, he's brought a pen and paper to come make some observations of all the strange foreign fauna Thedas has to offer. Horses? What are those? This shit is crazy.

He sits down on a hay bale to sketch one, eagerly glancing up to take in new details and make notes in the margins of the drawing.

5. Wildcard!

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"There's a system," Sina moans, clawing her hands in tiny futile frustration as she watches this occur. "You can't just-- put them wherever!"

The soil in the garden has been lacking considerably, and she's at her wit's end with everything not working. And now there's these.. things... everywhere, and she can't read the writing on them, and he is just making it worse!

Visibly flustered and tired, she is perhaps not being entirely rational at the moment.

Whatever Diwaniya may think about the existing system of organization in the garden--and he has made his opinions haughtily clear before, along with a checklist of improvements he thinks should be made--he hasn't actually done anything to compromise it. The pots are all still exactly where Sina left them; they've all just acquired a bit of extra flair in the form of his attached notations.

"Put what wherever?" he snaps, never one to de-escalate an argument if he can help it. "Pieces of paper? How is that disturbing anything? If your 'system' worked better, I wouldn't even need them."

She could probably have been reminded that the pots are her own doing, and would have sighed, laughed wearily, and left it alone. But instead this is happening, and she stares at Diwaniya, her eyes wide and her mouth slightly agape, giving the vague impression that he just slapped her and that she's outraged by it.

"My system," she says too softly, her eyes flashing, "is fine."

The system is fine, despite whatever nitpicky complaints he may have about it. Without it, he wouldn't have learned nearly as much as he already has, and he only wants to supplement his studies with notes to help him keep it all straight. But it's difficult, if not impossible, to shake off seventeen years of strict conditioning that admitting fault constitutes weakness.

"Then it should be able to survive if I leave my notes out."

What he said wasn't even that harsh. But Sina is frustrated, the garden is being a piece of shit, and she doesn't have the emotional energy to handle an arrogant shem'len to talk down to her. Her anger was already beginning to come out, and with the sudden increase in emotion, Sina expresses it by... bursting into tears. She actually glares at Diwaniya for a moment, her eyes red and streaming, then puts her hands over her face and turns around, because this is no way to pull rank on someone.

That's...not the reaction Diwaniya was going for. It's not a reaction he generally hopes to elicit from anyone, but particularly not from people he has no problem with outside the context of a small and unnecessary little quarrel. People who are very tiny, and very delicate, and who are making him feel like the world's biggest douche for having caused this. It is not a feeling to which he is accustomed.

"Don't do that," he says, in a tone that would be curt if he didn't sound quite so troubled. "There's...there's no reason for that. Come now. I'm sure we can work out some kind of agreement about the notes--it's not worth an argument, surely--"

"Just get out," Sina whimpers into her hands, not even authoritative enough to yell it properly. She can't continue the conversation right now, and if he doesn't leave she will.

Prompto's not used to horses either. They're funny looking, funny smelling, and just all around weird. But he knows he has to get used to them, so he goes to the stable for about an hour a week or more and familiarizes himself with the animals. Despite their strange appearance, they seem nice enough, for the most part. Like any other animal, they have their own personalities.

He's petting one when he notices someone else in the stable with him. Figuring him a stable hand, he opens his mouth to explain himself, but stops when he notices just what the guy is doing. Prompto tilts his head, curious. "You an artist?"

It's not their personalities Diwaniya's concerned with, really. His people think it's bad enough to have too much respect for other humans--animals are right out. Not that he wants to harm the beasts, of course, or see them treated inhumanely, but he views the horses he's sketching right now as a bunch of particularly interesting organic appliances.

He's been absorbed enough in his work that he doesn't quite realize he isn't alone in the stable, and looks up at Prompto with some surprise. "Me? No, of course not. I'm only observing them for research purposes."

There's no reason for that 'of course,' except that there's not a great deal of value placed on the arts where Diwa comes from. He is perfectly oblivious to any offense this may cause.

"Fascinating creatures, aren't they? Would you happen to know what they're called?"

The "of course not" sounds a bit presumptuous to Prompto, admittedly, but he's not so forward in that regard that he's gonna confront the guy over it. Maybe he's just the diehard academic type.

"They're called horses. You don't have them where you're from?" That surprises him. Maybe he's a Rifter, like Prompto? He was under the impression horses were native to Thedas, so everyone from this world knew about them.

"No," he says, carefully transliterating 'horses' into his own script and writing it down for future reference. As he writes, the shard in his hand catches the light.

"We have beasts of burden, engineered from what looks like similar base stock, but ours are sturdier. They're made for eating, more than anything. These don't look like they were created for that. They seem almost...fragile, for how large they are. I can see at least four glaring design flaws just from where I'm sitting." He tilts his head to examine the horse more critically.

"But they do have a real aesthetic appeal. I can see why an artist might like them. Are you one?"

Edited 2017-07-19 01:07 (UTC)

He catches that glint in the light. Yep, fellow Rifter. Prompto finds himself relaxing a bit more. He likes the natives well enough, but there's something comforting about talking to another Rifter. The mutual feeling of perhaps being just as lost and confused might have something to do with it.

"I think they're made just for riding, for the most part. I've seen some pretty big horses, though, too. Though, if you think these guys look fragile, you should see a chocobo. They're big birds, essentially. Not that you'll find one around here." To Prompto's perpetual disappointment. Sigh. He misses chocobos.

An artist? Well, he supposes in a sense... "Sort of. Not the drawing or painting kind, though."

And that loud thump? Gets a squeak of surprise from one person seated down the way. A young woman in Grey Warden armor, who looks up with startled brown eyes, then over at the stack of the books. One corner of her mouth lifts, revealing one dimple as she states with much quiet solemnity. Yes, it's Bethany Darton nee Hawke.

"Good day, Serah Diwaniya. What has the book done, to be treated such?"

It's taken Diwaniya a few weeks of careful observation to get the hang of how titles work in the Free Marches, and he doesn't quite have the right of it yet. He's aware that Bethany is being polite, but he still finds it hard to wrap his mind around the notion that it can be considered polite to address someone by a title that, from what he can tell, specifically denotes their social inferiority to you. 'Serah' is a far cry from 'Shaper Master.'

Still. It's the intent that matters. Just for that, he'll do his best not to scowl so hard. "I might know that, if I could make sense of it," he gripes. "I doubt even one of your best scholars could read that print. Not that I meant for it to end up on the floor, of course, but it's doing just as much good down there as it would anywhere else."

Edited 2017-07-07 08:46 (UTC)

Bethany has no clue what the other man is, truly, or she would call him the proper title. As it was, in Kirkwall? Serah was a high honor - something you would call nobility, or a man or woman of great character. Her sister had been Serah Hawke, with all due respect.

She smiles, softly, before she gets up to pick up the book that he is reading. Opens it a few pages, to look at the print, "I can lend you my seeing glass, if you like? It should help you with the size of the print."

Diwaniya has no business being upset or resentful that nobody calls him 'Shaper' anymore, when he doesn't mention it here--he has no real right to the title in a place like this. Without it, he has no real ambition, no hopes for social climbing. He could aspire to work his way up from 'Serah' to 'Messere' someday, like this Champion he's vaguely heard of--but in true Diwaniya fashion, he merely sulks instead. It's easier.

But the suggestion does lift him a little ways out of that funk, because it might just work. He's not sure of it, but--it can't hurt, in any case.

"That's--very kind of you, Warden," he says, softening a little. "I think it would do some good. Thank you."

"Oh, it is no trouble at all. I find it is better to use it in poor light, anyways." She brings out a rounded piece of glass from her satchel, and brings it over to him. She picks up the book, and carefully dusts it off with her hand. All bits of knowledge are precious, in her opinion.

She smiles, and then puts the book before him on the table. "So what section were you having problems with?"

He opens the book--The Four Schools: A Treatise, by Josephus--to the chapter subheading "Blood Magic, and Other Forbidden Practices."

The rise of the Chant of Light and the subsequent fall of the old Imperium has led to blood magic being all but stamped out—as it should be, for it poses nearly as great a danger to those who would practice it as to the world at large.

"I can make out something about 'Chant of Light,' and something about 'Imperium,' and something about 'stamped out,' and that word is either 'danger' or 'stranger.' All I wanted to understand was why your people have such an aversion to using actual, tangible resources in your magic, and what I need to do to work around it."

The blood drained from Bethany's face as she read the subset, before she cleared her throat and put the glass down on the script so he could read it properly. She leaned back, folding her hands in front of her.

"Mostly ... because blood magic was horribly abused by the Tevinter Imperium - I am not sure if you have heard of them, they are a country to the west. Ruled by magisters - mages of extreme power. They ... conducted a great many blood rituals, to excess, to make horrors and the like."

Her hands, clutched tight, seem almost white around the edges.

Araceli clears her throat politely from where she and a runner are overlooking a ledger together, dockhands unloading supplies for the Inquisition she's come to check on. "They'll go right through if you don't take care," she says when she's done signing her name against the goods, the list handed over to the taller woman next to her so she can depart back to the Gallows to get things moving without Araceli having to run back and forth all the time.

It feels odd, having people who'll do things for her when she needs them to or at least in Thedas it feels strange but she can't deny that she really does need them around.

"Are you looking for something? Someone? I know the docks, I'm willing to assist." Araceli doesn't look entirely like she belongs to Kirkwall but like she does belong around the sailors, comfortable with them if he's ever seen her coming or going during his observations.

Diwaniya doesn't look like he belongs here at all, whether 'here' is meant in the sense of the docks, or Kirkwall, or Thedas in general, and the glow of the shard in his palm is only a part of that out-of-place vibe. Still, at least he knows enough to get out of the way when addressed directly. That much is pretty standard anywhere.

He tries not to look quite so embarrassed or purposeless. "Ah, no. Nothing in particular. I'm just trying to get the lay of the city. I thought it would be useful to familiarize myself with all the available ways of leaving it."

Well you could always try telling people what you were doing with that hand which can earn you a chorus of laughter, free drinks, and break the ice with the right crowd or it can absolutely kill the mood if you judge the room wrong. Araceli's had it go both ways. Why didn't the Inquisition move to Rivain? People were pretty relaxed about it when she met them there, but then she was hanging out with the spirit healers, mages, all that crowd.

"If you have the skill, I would recommend that the best way for it with the way they've built Kirkwall is to do it via the rooftops, I've looked at a map or two and really, it worked out better for me after a few jaunts." Araceli smiles as if that's just a normal thing to do, climb up one building then traverse all the rest by their roofs, isn't everyone doing it these days? "A sensible plan, knowing the quickest way in and out of a place though you'd need to stash yourself or get in good with the crew and captains to pull off leaving this way."

Diwaniya's ice is not easily broken, as a rule, and making him laugh is a Herculean endeavor for which whoever manages it should be richly and justly rewarded, but he's burningly curious about how the other rifters came to be here and why. He'd want to hear that story just to analyze every detail.

He hadn't envisioned having to leave the city in a hurry, exactly, or while pursued, but--well. Given the predicament he'd been in when the rift had handily rescued him from certain execution, maybe he ought to consider it. Just in case. He looks dubious and troubled at the prospect of having to pull off such a feat of dexterity himself, though. Diwaniya doesn't get a lot of exercise.

"I suppose I could offer my services as a deckhand, if it came to that," he says, "but if getting down here in the first place would take rooftop acrobatics, I think I'd be better off finding a different plan altogether. It's not a skill I've ever practiced. Or thought of."

Somehow, despite all the times Araceli's told the story of her coming to Thedas, she's never told it the same way twice. And obviously she's never told the entire truth. Korrin probably embellishes too but Araceli doesn't go asking after what her partner tells friends or acquaintances about her, and Araceli's way of shading things is either outright lie daring someone to call her on it or so close to the truth you can't tell unless you know how to spot liars. (How has it almost been two years, even thinking that can leave her breathless and dizzy in less than pleasant ways.)

Araceli watches steadily, shakes her head to get her hair out of her face that also gives her a quick and easy way of getting a little glance around at anyone milling around or anyone staring. Because Kirkwall is good for that in a way Skyhold wasn't. Kirkwall is a living breathing city after all.

"You'd need to have the hands of a deck hand," her comment is mild but she's not talking about the matching green mark shared by anyone pulled here without a say in matters; even taking care of them, Araceli doesn't have the maintained hands of a lady. "We learn new skills as we must, and it's never too late to learn something new. And it does teach you how to think three moves ahead, a few back and a couple to either side when you don't know which way you'll run out of roof. How do you find Kirkwall? Many stairs, no?"

Again Morrigan comes with a supply of her own, carried once again out of the Wilds and beyond; long has she travelled the world since she left her home and it's a poor witch that doesn't learn to take what she can and carry it with her for the day she might have a need of it. Many of her plants that grew in Skyhold fared poorly on the journey, she didn't expect them to be cared for well even with her instructions but she had plenty of vials of seeds on her person and in what she had sent ahead to await her here.

Kieran hurries ahead of her, eager to be freed from more dull lessons for the practical, sleeves rolled up to start planting happily even if there aren't the abundance of toads and frogs in Kirkwall that there were in Skyhold.

So it's Morrigan, returned from fetching more water that overhears, pauses. "Talking to oneself can be taken for a sign of madness, or once. Tis Kirkwall we stand in after," she tells him with no small measure of amusement.

Diwaniya looks up in time to catch the little boy darting past, nonplussed and wondering for a moment if he's supposed to provide some kind of supervision for the child--ah, no, there's another adult, whom he presumes to be the boy's mother. Crisis averted.

The prospect of new, unfamiliar plants is an exciting one, and he tilts his head in a futile attempt to see what kinds of seeds she might have. The teasing he can handle, in a way. He might take offense, in another world, but, well. Forget it, Jake. It's Kirkwall.

"You've got that right. If my going over my notes is the strangest thing you run into today, I wish I had your luck."

Considering that Kieran's a witch's son, he could supervise some of the adults here because at least he knows how to listen to instructions. Unlike all the people who just go charging off and almost get themselves killed time and time again.

"Kirkwall is where the Veil has ever been thin, spirits press close to observe as they ever have in such places. Bloodshed called them and far worse, and violence is a recent memory, you might have cause to take care." Rifters are known with the Inquisition and she's still not-so-privately fascinated with their origins, with their knowledge but Kirkwall has possibly had quite enough of new arrivals in their city.

She kneels by one pot, opening one vial to tap out a few seeds. "What misfortunes have you suffered this day that trouble you so?"

A kid after Diwaniya's own heart, truly. He considers listening and caution to be tragically underrated skills, their usage in severe decline.

All of this Veil business bothers him with its intangibility. He doesn't have time for this absurd Fade business. Dreams aren't real. You can't measure a dream, or use it as a reliable resource. Spirits are just petty nuisances. He hasn't run afoul of any yet, and until he does, he adamantly refuses to believe they're important or dangerous. Perhaps he shouldn't be considering himself a champion of safety precautions after all.

"Today? Nothing but the garden keeper throwing an inexplicable fit at me. I doubt that has anything to do with the Veil or the spirits, though."

At least until bathtime.

As for dreams, wait until you become trapped in one where something tries to pretend that it's your mother then get back to her about real. Or when your magic is drawn from it, when there are things that prowl not only your dreams but the dreams of your son that still give him nightmares that he wakes from with terrified eyes in the small hours. Already in Sundermount she's had to dispatch far more than she would have believed but then that's what happens when ancient horrors cannot rest when all who summoned them have been laid to rest themselves.

"I was unaware the garden had a keeper or that the Inquisition funds stretched so far." Or: Morrigan doesn't really care if the garden has a keeper so she hasn't bothered to keep on top of appointments that don't particularly concern how she lives her life. "What did you do to cause him or her to lose their temper?"

Being around horses is nothing unusual for Jamie. They've been a part of his life for as long as he can remember, and even though he's come from a world that's different from this one, one of the things that are decidedly not different are the horses.

Well, for the most part, anyway. The bog unicorn's a different story, but that thing gives him the willies, and he's more than happy to give that particular beastie a wide berth. Not so the regular horses. While some of the other members of Inquisition that've been sorted into Forces aren't particularly keen on stable duty, it's one of the chores that Jamie doesn't really mind all that much, even the mucking out stables part of things

Right at the moment, however, there's no mucking required, leaving him free to take care of some of the other chores. This time around, it's making sure the horses get their share of exercise, and he's in the process of leading one back to its stall when he spots the man doing...something with a piece of paper. Jamie's not quite close enough to see what from his current vantage point, but it piques his curiosity enough then rather than go about his business, he winds up raising his voice just enough to call over to the other man instead.

"Can I help you with something?"

Diwaniya hasn't even noticed the bog unicorn yet! That's going to be a treat. Just now, however, the ordinary horses are exotic enough. Even more so, oddly, than the dracolisks, and equally as strange as the nuggalopes. There's no end of fascinating zoological study to be made.

Until he's distracted, anyway, and Diwaniya looks up at Jamie with an air of annoyance that would be rather more appropriate if he weren't the one intruding on the stables. One month in Thedas isn't quite sufficient to overcome years of entitlement to walk into any place he pleased as if he owned it.

"No," he says, "if I needed a research assistant, I would have sought one out, but thank you."

Diwaniya can have the bog unicorn and be welcome to it, as far as he's concerned, but Jamie's never been fond of the entitled sort. At the words his face takes on a somewhat irritated expression, his lips pressing together as his mouth tugs off to one side. Still, he takes a moment to finish leading the horse back into its stall - and to start removing the bridle and other bits of tack, as well. He's not about to make the horse wait to have that done, no matter how annoyed the other man is by having someone else in his relative vicinity.

"If I'd been looking to be someone's research assistant, I'd find someone who's actually doing some research and not someone who's just wasting paper. What's your business here?"

Diwaniya clenches his fist around the pencil hard enough to pose a threat to its structural integrity, in a fit of pique both at the disturbance of his observation and the tone Jamie takes, but he has gotten a little better at controlling his temper now that he's at this much of a distance from his homeland. He can find another horse to sketch.

"Really? I'd think you would make an ideal assistant, seeing as you're already such an expert on my work that you can tell me whether it's valid or not. I shouldn't have to explain anything at all, at this rate."

Jamie casts a narrow eyed look at the other man, noting the grip with a tiny bit of satisfaction. Looks like he might have hit a nerve - which only serves to reinforce his opinion that the man's not here for any legitimate reason, and he lets out a brief snort before giving the saddle and girth a quick once over to take care of the most obvious dirt that's gotten on it. He'll give it a proper going over later on, but doing that small bit now'll save him some time in the end, and that makes it worth it.

Once that's done, he turns his attention to grooming the horse, making sure not only to sponge down the area where the saddle normally sits but to check for any rubbing or chafing that might have taken place. That doesn't stop him from glancing up at that comment, fixing Diwaniya with an expression that shows his mouth still is firmly tugged off to one side.

"Oh, shouldn't you? Well, if that's the case, I'll be glad to save you the trouble, but I don't think you'll much care for what I have to say."

"I don't see why you had to say anything at all." He's made a show of ignoring the horse grooming and turning back to his notes, writing down his observations now that he's been prevented from drawing them. There's no need to let himself be interrupted by the sort of person who has to clean up after animals for a living, he tells himself.

"One wonders why a man with such authority over the stables is doing all the labor in them on his own. Surely a policy-maker as lofty as yourself has people to groom the beasts for him."

The horse's legs feel fine, and a quick check of the shoes satisfies him that they're still in good condition, with only a minimum of picking needed. It's something he's able to do in short order - and only then does he bother responding, setting down the hoof pick firmly enough that there's an audible clunk as it hits the wood of the small shelf it's normally kept on.

"Because I'm not the one who's trespassing here. You are," Jamie points out, stepping out of the stall. He's had just about enough of this, and he doesn't hesitate in crossing the room to stand in front of where Diwaniya is sitting, not caring if the attempt to block the man's line of sight means he winds up in the man's personal space. "And if you don't start answering my questions, I might just have to do something about that."

Sometimes Kattrin came here to care for the animals or simply because the fennec darted in here. Today it was a mixture of both. She was watching the little creature shyly look around at the animals inside before she noticed his interest in... Oh. She'd met him before.

The fennec slipped over and started to sniff the man's foot, having been asleep during the last time he'd been around him. She followed and nodded her head in greeting.

"He is curious about you," she said, referring to the little creature sniffing him.

The fennec is a sweet little thing, and he remembers it, as he would any novel specimen, before he recalls exactly who its companion is. It only takes him a moment to remember her, though--the peculiar woman who manages to be a foreigner and a Thedosian native at the same time, nearly as unfamiliar with Kirkwall custom as he is, but lacking the inconvenient tether of a shard.

"And mutually so," he says, reaching down and offering his hand to let the fennec judge the scent of bare skin, and taking the opportunity to note fur texture and markings. "What sort of creature is he?"

"He is known as a fennec. They are rather common in this world."

She watched as the fennec moved back a step before shyly moving forward again to sniff at his hand. Large ears lifted up again as he determined the man wasn't going to bring him harm. Finally he sat down to watch him, like he was studying him as much as the man was studying him in return.

"I healed him after an injury and he has chosen to remain with me since."

Though it might be known for being a place of quiet, Hermione knows that that only makes the louder noises that much more prominent, especially when those louder noises are borne of frustration. So when she enters the library and sees someone essentially slam a book down, she debates whether or not it's entirely wise to engage. Still, the book had fallen far too close to her feet for her to simply pretend not to have seen it, and so she bends over, picking it up and gently placing it on the unfamiliar man's table.

"I find that taking out your aggression on the poor books seldom does anything to actually help matters. They haven't done anything wrong, you see."

"Hey, stop being such a bully!"

Kirk clucked his tongue as he stepped into the stables, a massive dappled horse following behind him. For all Kirk's talk of being a bully, the animal seemed happy enough to follow, coat dark from what looked like a quick bath. Kirk led him to the cross-ties near Diwanyia for the simple fact they were closest, patting the horse' side and giving Diwanyia a nod of greeting.

"Afternoon," he greeted before stumbling forward when Atlas bumped his rear with his nose. "What, did I say about bullying?" Kirk huffed, lightly swatting at the horse. "You get your treat when you're in your stall, not before."

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[OPEN] and I won't fight through the rising tide

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