#horsebackarcher

Chris could barely keep his eyes open. The soft tapping of rain against the window, the drone of the teacher's voice, not to mention the mental exhaustion of frustrated confusion. It was enough to make anyone need a nap. And yet he fought it, forcing himself to stay awake. Chris didn't know why exactly, but no matter how dull the lesson, he still wanted to show respect to education. Something in the back of his mind nagged him. He rubbed his eyes and looked out the window. He sat up with a start at the sight of a giant black dog staring up at him from the lawn below, the same dog who'd been stalking behind him since he arrived in this strange town. Although it was slightly reassuring to have at least one constant in his chaoitc new life, the dog still made him uneasy. "What do you want with me?" Chris mumbled at the dog. "I want you to sit up and face forward Mr....Haddock!" The teacher, along with the rest of the class were all staring at him. Chris blushed and grabbed his pencil. "Heh heh, sorry ma'am. Guess I umm...was uh, thinking about how the character in our book must be feeling about the umm.. uh villain and stuff." He grinned as muffled laughter filled the room. "Your concern for the character may be sincere, Mr. Haddock, but this is biology. I never knew anyone to feel so much concern for microorganisms." The teacher chuckled at his own joke (although nobody else did) and turned back to the white board. The awkward smile left Chris' face and he went back to staring miserably out at the rain. He heard from behind him another snicker. Chris turned around to see a girl smiling at him from behind a mass of red curls and freckles. Unsure of what to make of her laughter, Chris smiled back.

They were shit, all of them. Hood's appearance would have been more than sport, but entertainment.The sun was too bright and the music was too loud and, as they dropped their heads before him before taking their stance, they were all far too young. Richard slumped lower in his chair, the tips of his nails drumming an impatient tattoo on the armrest, and tried not to look too terribly bored with the poor show. Even his own man, Josef of Rochdale, had failed him miserably. He hadn’t quite decided if scoring the scarlet rather than the gold was a hanging offence just yet, of if he should be annoyingly lenient and simply conscript the man into further compulsory service on the front line of the Third Ogre War, but he was sure the epiphany would hit him eventually.