As the sea breeze tickles his nostrils and dampens his chimeric fur, the stallion allows himself to smile and tilts his head upwards to breathe in the fresh air.

The morning is a fairly windy one, churning up the ocean's waves and sending foam-sprays onto the shore where the antlered pirate stands, his docked tail flicking away the more determined of the spring flies that insist on persecuting him even here, in his domain. It is cloudy, with only a few rays of sun darting through the thick grey covering of the sky, but that doesn't stop Bartholomeo standing in awe of the ocean that stretches off to the distant dull horizon. The sea is always beautiful, whether the sun is reflecting off it or whether a raging storm is throwing it into a frenzy. Like the most loyal, curvaceous and lusty of women, the sea is always there, waiting to welcome the stag with open arms and a warm bosom.

He has not come here just to stare at the scenery, though. There is work to be done! Kisamoa has set the task, and the stag automatically carries it out by virtue of the fact that Kisamoa is of the ocean. That makes him trustworthy in Bartholomeo's eyes, and he doesn't think twice about following his commands. There's a large pile of driftwood on the shoreline that's crushing some plant life beneath it, leaving a small section of the ecosystem where the sun cannot penetrate. The stallion targets this pile as one that needs dealing with, so he reluctantly tears his gaze away from the sea and eyeballs the offending driftwood instead. "To work," he says to himself in his hearty accented baritone.

The sand makes a pleasant crunching noise beneath his formidable weight as he saunters over to the driftwood, scrutinising it with a tilted head to decide how best to shift it. The pirate is a strong, well-built man, his pure Warlander blood creating hard muscle and his rogue's lifestyle helping to maintain it, but he knows it will be no easy task to move so much wood. He finds himself longing for his swords, which could have been commanded by a single thread of his old magic to help chop the wood into smaller, more manageable pieces. As it is, he's forced to make do and mend, but he doesn't object to hard work and sets about his task with gusto.

Using his antlers and the weight of his powerfully-arched neck, Bartholomeo manages to dislodge the topmost piece of driftwood. It topples down with a loud crash, and he rolls it away onto the sand with a series of grunts and huffs before returning back to the pile to begin it all again. He's soon sweating, a healthy dose of foam lathering his neck, groin and flanks, but with the sea crashing in his ears and the salty tang upon his tongue, he's never felt more at home.