Heron Lake Plateau Troy, this is Midsomer

Aaa!  That's a phone post?! You've got way more patience than me that's for sure, haha.  Though maybe I should try, I may have gotten a little too lost in Qui's head here. -- And since I typed that, it got longer.

Quixote had issues.  Maybe a couple of subscriptions, but at least not a bookshop or a library.  He had Opinions™ on everything -- leadership, diplomacy, war, faith, and countless others -- and despite those, he was usually a guy who would grumble and just keep the status quo.  And yet, things had finally brought him to a tipping point.  Then, somehow stepping up to the plate didn't make him feel better.  Maybe he should just learn to be apathetic again.  Exploration and the birds were just a distraction -- a very temporary one at that before he started thinking again.

As he turned away from the water he spotted Raven, who'd likely seen him a few moments prior.  It seemed to startle him that she'd appeared -- they were far enough apart that she really shouldn't have.  Though...  Quixote wagged his tail, no further pause before he headed towards her.  The irritation and annoyance at himself and the world seemed to have been dumped in the lake.

Raven had been sort of a mystery to him, always around in the background -- from his perspective at least -- healing folks and recently fussing over Finley from what he could tell from the scents around the now-abandoned den back at the caldera.  At the end of the war, he'd probably been among the least injured of the pack and slipped away rather than causing a fuss.  And now because of that it'd be a few seasons before he was sure if the scar on his muzzle was going to stick around or if it'd melt into the black like the rest of its kin.  

Raven had always be there and he'd been too much of a coward to talk to her for fear of making things awkward and the thought that somehow that'd snowball into getting himself kicked out of the pack.  Subscriptions, remember?  Speaking to strangers was easy in comparison.  Honestly, when she'd stepped up and agreed with him at the spat and everything then went to hell, Quixote had kind of hoped to come out (more badly?) wounded -- it would have been a nice excuse to actually meet her and probably not stick a paw in his mouth while trying to be cool.  But here she was and Quixote was without such a convenient script.  And he hadn't noticed that what little left of the draft was already starting to smear from something beyond his control, something he had yet to pin down.  

Awkward to begin with for anything outside of a fight, there was no way it was going to make him any more suave, even as he tried to joke about recent events, Hey, peacekeeper.  Attempted peacekeeper?  He'd started off confident then ended up sounding rather perplexed -- his brain caught up with it, it sounded dumb as heck. Quixote shook his head.  Kind of lost the plot, so he moved on, Glad I wasn't the only one to speak up about that disaster.  Thanks for that.  It hadn't gone the way they'd wanted, but it was over now, right?  Now he could go back to trying to build the life he wanted that was ripped out of some sort of storybook.  All the rest was just garbage.  Now was the time to live it up, take chances with -- no, wait, that wasn't right.  Why -- wait.  Oh.  Hm.  That put a new spin on things.