“Like I said before,” Handy said, growling, “I am. Really. Sick. Of your shit.” He dropped the useless tray. The gruel that had been sitting upon it spread across the room in an arc, splattering across cold stone, wood, and pony alike. When his eyes stopped rolling in his head, Warm Night snorted, his eyes becoming pinpricks as fury overtook rational thought, and he charged at Handy, catching him in the chest and knocking him onto one of the tables, causing the ponies to scatter. The dogs howled in approval as chains rattled. Warm Night raised his hooves and decked the human repeatedly in the chest and head. Handy held up his arms to protect himself as best he could.