Daphne had walked a bit ahead of Cece, Chef on the lead in a hurry to get somewhere; she was working on training for her peculiar dog, afraid of spiders, barking at shadows, and refusing to climb down the stairs any direction but backward. She didn't mind the distance, not when she felt herself a stone throw from putting her foot in her mouth and saying something she didn't want to, or thinking of something she'd rather not. Stumbling over a crack in the side walk her hand pushed through a tree coming out sticking with sap, "I hate this," she lamented, "Chef, s'asseoir," she commanded in French, wanting his commands to be something few people could command. The large dane shifted until he sat, his tail twacking the ground as Daphne waited for Cece to catch up, "Every time I get startled I end up going through something," Daphne frowned, and showed sappy fingers to Cece, "Is it dramatic to say this is the worst thing to ever happen to me?"