Bragi dismounted nimbly, and frowned as he inspected Galahad's shoe — Galahad being a very handsome black horse he'd purchased last year upon arrival in the country. "Poor fellow. And you didn't even complain once", the youth murmured to his equine friend, giving him a pat. A sizeable chunk of the shoe had been chipped off by something or other. Bragi wouldn't have noticed, but Galahad had started to trot a little strangely.

The young horseman sighed, and looked around, running a hand through his windswept orange hair. They were slap bang in the middle of nowhere, and the sun was fleeing faster than a hare from a fox. Darn.

But he recognised the area, and fidgeted nervously with his lower lip upon realising his options. Sterling Stables was just to the West of the hillock ahead. He'd found Benedict Sterling to be blooming wonderful, yes, but also quite intimidating. Regardless... Galahad's comfort was at risk, and the horse had been born there. It was a friendly place. And Mr Sterling wouldn't be at home anyway. There would be a stable hand to help.

With a determined nod, Bragi led Galahad up the hillock and West, and the lights of the house were immediately visible — the lights in the stable were lit as well, which meant a stable hand was in attendance. Feeling better already, the Dane and his steed approached.

A fateful gust of Winter wind heralded him, blowing open the ajar barn door to reveal — what? Mr Sterling. In a heated embrace with... well with what had to be his lady wife. In the world Bragi Holm lived in, there was no other option. It was ingrained in Bragi that a man could not kiss another man; ingrained more than the idea that a woman could not be so tall, rugged and bearded. The appearance of Mr Sterling's companion became entirely abstract in Bragi's befuddled brain as he took a hurried step backwards — and stumbled over Galahad's leg. "I am so... so sorry", the boy gasped from the dirt.