I wasn't born with enough middle fingers

Not the five feet of water to your chin It is, of course, only a matter of time until the sound of hooves is heard, squelching in the mud. Laying in the murk and mire, I don’t even bother looking at whoever it is when they come, half way hoping they won’t notice me. I forget, of course, that I’ve got a great big, bronze shoulder plate, and gold markings, to boot. Blending into the ground probably isn’t all that possible when you have glaringly obvious markers. Duir, well, he reacts, like he always does; moving behind the ridge of my back, as if I’m keen on doing more than just laying here, he radiates worry that the stranger is malevolent. All the trust in the world which had been garnered in the safety of the Basin was probably blasted into bits with the mountain, I guess. He’s back to not trusting anyone, even pretty ladies who are clearly as wary as he is. "It was the whatever it was, not me," I remark from the damp, assuming she means the shriek of the creature I’d struck with my magic; Duir quietly appears in my mind. You did too. Sighing, I don’t ask if it was womanly, like the creature’s. Duir just answers. Not sharp, like animal. No worry. Just the pee. The sigh I’d been unleashing becomes a groan, my head somehow managing to sink all the further into the mud as I flatly state: "I’m fine." but the inch above the tip of your nose.