Svobod the Mule smiled to himself. Things had sure turned for the better. He couldn't help a satisified grunt as he stretched slowly and extended his muzzle into the trough for a breakfast of good oats. These new friends were first rate folks, and he'd decided he'd look after them.
Munching away, his mind turned back to the old witch, one of a long line of cruel, dumb, and selfish "owners" who'd come into his life since the old Poopseller had passed, Bless his soul. The witch was the worst, tying him up in that Barrow while she rummaged for something called the Table service of King Jaques, bah, the gelly cube that ate her did the world a favor.
Why are hoomans so silly anyway? I mean, they take the God's good oats, beat them, crush them up, dry them out, THEN put them back in water, heat them till they boil in an iron pot, THEN put them into yet another bowl, and wait for them to cool off again, and all that takes time and effort,mind you, before they finally eat, which they have to do out of special little magic tableware? what nonsense! Svobod snorted so hard oats flew up his nose.
Well at least these new ones were good fellows, it's nice to spend the night in a warm barn with nice smelling straw, the grooming girl does a good straw rub-down, the other stalls have interesting horses from all over with all kinds of horse-gossip, the oats are first rate...and not a whip or chain in sight. No...these new adventurers were under his protection now... if only they'd stop calling him Francis...a girl's name...so demeaning.
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